Dead Air

The funeral home was suffocatingly quiet, except for the distant murmur of relatives who hadn't bothered to visit in years. Marcus stared at his iphone, scrolling through messages from coworkers asking if he was coming in tomorrow. The screen reflected in his palm—sweaty despite the air conditioning.

He kept thinking about the summer of '98, when his father had taken him to his first baseball game. The old man had bought him a glove, shown him how to catch a pop fly. That was before the drinking got bad, before the years of silence that now seemed like a cruel joke. His father hadn't been dead long—three days of Marcus living like a zombie, barely sleeping, moving through his apartment like it belonged to someone else.

His cousin Sarah sat beside him, smelling of expensive perfume and morning whiskey. "You okay?" she asked, but Marcus just nodded. What could he say? That he was relieved? That he felt guilty for feeling relieved? That he couldn't remember the last time they'd spoken without shouting?

The minister's voice droned on about redemption and peace, words that felt hollow in a room full of people who'd stopped caring years ago. Marcus's phone buzzed again—his ex, wanting to know if he'd heard about the opening at her firm. He declined the call.

Outside afterward, Sarah pressed a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. "He wasn't always like that," she said. "I remember when you guys were close."

Marcus nodded, watching the palm trees sway in the funeral home parking lot. "Yeah," he said. "Neither do I."