The Road To Nowhere

one - eva

It was a formless evening in March when Neil told me his father was dead.

A percussive tap rattled my door. I was spread out on the sofa, the vapid hum of the television echoing through the apartment. Debilitating boredom crushed my bones. I hadn't left the confines of my home in weeks, other than to partake in the mandated banalities of adult life. I don't recall what I'd been watching. It was probably some melodramatic documentary about serial killers. There was a strange abundance of them on television during the late afternoon, and I had developed something of an addiction to them, despite the agitation they instilled in me at late hours of the night.

I didn't sit up for a considerable time upon hearing the knock. I assumed it was a solicitor, or some religious fanatic there to recruit me into their cult. When I finally ambled to the door and opened it, Neil's arrival stunned me. I hadn't seen him since his birthday party a month prior. We hadn't talked in weeks. There was no particular reason for this, aside from our mutual need for solitude.

"Hey," I uttered, smiling softly. I immediately knew something was amiss by the way he was standing.

His slender frame was stiff as a metal pole, jaw rigid and skin like chalk. His hair was lank and gleaming with a veneer of oil, the shadows beneath his eyes forming blurred, purplish crescents. A dark green sweatshirt clung to his lithe frame, far too large for his body.

"Hey," he mumbled. I ushered him inside and told him to sit on the sofa. He meekly accepted. He sat with his shoulders high and his back straight, as if he was trying to take up the least amount of space possible. I was mildly embarrassed by the state of my apartment; my sink was stacked with grimy plates, a basket of my unfolded clothes in the living area beneath his feet.

"Sorry, the place is kind of a mess," I muttered. "Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?"

He didn't respond, studying the beige carpeting below us, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Are you okay?" I said at last, my nerves bubbling over in my stomach.

"My dad's dead, Eva," he said.

I didn't say a word. I'd never heard him speak of his father before. Whenever our conversations veered into the subject of family, he tended to stay silent. All I knew was that he'd grown up in Idaho and his mother passed away when he was three.

"Oh," I said, "oh, I'm sorry. When, when did you find out?"

"This morning. My aunt called me."

I squatted beside him on the couch, leaving a generous distance between us. I thought I should console him somehow, pat him on the shoulder or maybe hug him. I didn't though. I was afraid if I laid a finger on him he'd shatter like a glass figurine that had fallen from a wobbling table. Both of my parents were still alive, and my brain was scrambling to think of something to say to him.

"Do you need anything? Anything you need, I'm here."

He was quiet, a tinge of red appearing in his cheeks. "You know, I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry. I really don't want to bother you, I," he spat his words like spoiled milk. He ripped himself from the couch and stumbled toward the door. I reached for a fistful of his sweatshirt.

"No," I said, "no, you don't have to apologize. I'm glad you came. Stay. Sit down. I'm getting you a glass of water."

It was all I could think to do, really. It wasn't pure pity, or a lie. I was glad he'd come to me. I shuffled into the kitchen, fumbling as I peeled a blue glass from the cupboard. I glanced over my shoulder at Neil as I filled up the glass. He put his face into his palms, raking his fingers through his hair. A faint sigh drifted into the kitchen. He looked like a wilting flower.

I brought him the water, the glass clouded with condensation, and handed it to him. He set it down on the coffee table and leaned back. I eased my hand onto his shoulder. He didn't flinch, so I kept it there.

"Do you," I paused, "want to talk about it?"

"He had a heart attack," he said. "That's all my aunt said. I haven't spoken to him in six years, not since I left for college."

"Oh," I said. His tone was free of any vocal inflection. He wouldn't look in my eyes when he spoke. I didn't ask about their lack of contact. It was probably the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"The funeral is this weekend. In Shirley, where I grew up. I was actually wondering if you would come with me. I might need help sorting through his things and stuff," he said. "Not that he had much."

"Yes," I said without thinking. "I'll go, if that's what you want."

"You don't have to if you're too busy." He stared at the water in front of him.

"I want to go," I assured him. "Whatever you need, I'll help you."

"Thank you," he said.

We sat in silence for a prolonged period of time, five minutes at least. The television and our breathing were the only sounds audible. Neil didn't touch the water the whole time he was there. I offered to make him soup, but he politely refused.

His arms and legs were thinner than the last time I'd seen him, carved out like willow branches. He had to have shed at least five pounds.

"It was strange," Neil said at last, eyes surveying the shapes on the ceiling. "When my aunt told me, I didn't feel anything." I kept my lips sealed, only allowing him to speak. I didn't know what to say. There was nothing I could say to make anything better.