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“Evan, are you available today?” Cynthia’s gentle voice comes through my cell phone as I balance it between my cheek and shoulder while I type up my new letter for Dr. Sherman. All I have so far is “Dear Evan Hansen,” and nothing else. I’ve kind of been bullshitting them lately, my mind too preoccupied with preparing for when I start college next year, and to get Mom to stop worrying so much about me. I’m fine . Or, at least I think I am. Oh, and of course planning how to get basically everyone to possibly forgive me. Well, Cynthia has, I think. She’s the one I believe I hurt the most, she relied on me the most to be there, to bring her son back. However, for some reason, she’s been so nice to me. Maybe that’s just who she is. Not that I deserve it, anyhow.
“Y-Yeah, sure,” I reply, watching the blinking cursor on the bright white screen. It’s Saturday, so, like, what else do I have to do? I only work Mondays through Fridays, Mom got called in for an emergency, and there’s no one else to be with. So, why not hang out with the mom of the son I lied about being friends with before he killed himself? Could be a blast, right? Mom would want me to get out of the house, anyway.
“Great! Last week, I was going through some stuff in Connor’s closet, and I wanted to pack up his old things, but I couldn’t do it.. I keep putting it off, but I think I can handle it today, especially if you were there. Would you mind helping me box up his stuff?”
“Okay, uh, what time should I come over?” I shift the phone to the other side, feeling the sweat between the glass of my warm phone screen and my skin. ‘Today is going to be a good day because’ I stop there, and delete ‘good.’ Might as well add some extra positivity to make Dr. Sherman happy. ‘Today is going to be a great day because’
She hums on the other line in thought. “Say… maybe in an hour? Is that okay with you?”
“Mmhm. Sounds good.” ‘Today is going to be a great day because you’re going to do something nice and help someone.’ That sounds stupid, like I’m not nice on other days . I get out of bed, and walk over to the window, brushing aside the curtain, gazing outside. Children in costumes squeal excitedly outside, tugging the hands of tired-looking parents. How could I forget? It’s Halloween. The worst holiday of the entire year. I used to love it, getting to hide behind a literal mask, pretending to be someone you’re not, and everyone just goes along with it, never caring who you really are, forgetting the loser who wore the same homemade costume for years, everyone only giving you big smiles and handfuls of candy. Until that one year I got so overwhelmed by the noise, crowds, and the fact that everyone would have better costumes than me, teasing me because mine was homemade, whereas they all had perfect store-bought ones or exquisitely detailed Etsy outfits, that all the candy would be gone before I got there, that I began to cry. I couldn’t handle it, it was all too much, and I begged my mom to take me home. I don’t quite remember much about that night aside from the sobbing. I think I went out once more, then I never wanted to go trick-or-treating again. I close the curtains, blocking out the early wave of kids, and drift back to my bed, sitting cross-legged with my computer balanced on my lap.
“Oh, thank you so much, Evan,” she says, sounding relieved. I guess Larry and Zoe said no, and I was her last resort. No surprise there, I guess, I’m always the second choice.
I add another line: ‘And because maybe you’ll stop being the only person in the entire world who hates Halloween.’ “No problem. I’ll see you soon.”
“Bye!”
Now, everything is silent, and I let out a sigh of relief. God, I hate phone calls. That will never change. I decide to leave my letter like that, at least for now. Sliding into my soft and worn sneakers, I head downstairs, phone in my pocket. It only takes about twenty minutes to get to the Murphy’s, but I figure it might be nice if I make it last a bit longer. Putting on a warm sweater and my jacket, I grab my keys and leave.
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When I get to the house, Cynthia greets me in a cozy-looking knit sweater and offers me a mug of steaming liquid. She looks tired, a dull shine in her eyes, her smile is forced. It makes sense; it’s been about a year and two months since Connor’s passing. The autumn, it’s hard. Her friends all must have kids in college, but not her, she never expected this, to be left with only one child.
“Ah, um, thanks.” I accept the mug of mysterious liquid, and look inside the dark pool, and the scent of apples wafts up into my nose. Hot apple cider . I instinctively shudder. My whole damn lie, based on fucking apples, those apples on the dining table… Is that why she gave me this? As some sort of cruel reminder of how I messed up her life and her family? Again, I do deserve it, though . No, she wouldn’t do that.
I don’t think she notices my discomfort, but she blurts out a flustered apology anyway, like an echo of my own habits. “I’m sorry, I, you probably don’t even like cider, but… Connor, he loves- loved , cider, especially when it was made with apples from the old orchard…”
Politely, I shake my head. “It, it's alright, I like apple cider, thank you.” I don't . Dramatic as it seems, apples have been ruined for me since. I drink some anyway to be nice.
“How've you been?” She asks as she takes my coat, hanging it up on a hook by the door.
“Good,” I lie again. “You?” I carefully take off my shoes, hoping not to spill any of the hot drink.
Cynthia responds with a slight shrug. “I hate the fall,” she whispers, almost to herself.
Feeling awkward, I set down the mug on the dining table, trying my hardest to not look at the decorative bowl of apples. “Um, you said you wanted to, uh, pack away some of Connor’s-”
“Yes!” She exclaims a bit too loudly, snapping out of her daze. “I figured we could go through his clothes, donate some, keep some for my stupid sentimental reasons…” Cynthia gives me a sideways look. “You're about his height, maybe you could keep some of them?”
Wearing a dead man’s clothes, a dead man I didn't really know … how messed up would that be? “Sure,” I mumble.
When we go up to his room, I almost don't recognise it. His bed is stripped bare; the last time I was in his room, it was all carefully preserved, like it was ready and waiting for Connor to return someday. Maybe that's why Cynthia waited so long. Most of his stuff is gone, PlayStation is gone, absurdly large bong is gone, stacks of books all over is gone, even his walls have discoloured rectangle spaces where his posters used to hang. Something feels out of place, and I realise what it is: his sketchbook. It's resting on his bedside table, the only thing in his room that could ever indicate someone once lived there.
Cynthia places a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Zoe told me she saw you looking through it once, so I set it aside. Would you like it?”
I turn around, shocked. “Me? B-but, I mean… well. You know .”
She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “I want you to have it.”
I want to protest, I can’t do this, but I can see it in her eyes, she truly wants me to have it, perhaps she thinks it will make me happy. So, I put it on the end of the bed for me to take before I leave.
The closet door opens with a creak, and there are clothes hanging up, not surprisingly, most of them are in darker shades. There are piles of unfolded clothing beneath is, with shoes tossed haphazardly along with them. It all smells like dust and weed. I reach up, and grab as many hangers as I can, my arms struggling to support the heaviness of it all. I set them down, and Cynthia sits down with her own armful of clothes, then pushes an empty box towards me.
“This box is for donations,” she states, then points to another, “keep for sentimental reasons, which is also just ‘hold on to until I work up the courage’,” another, “sell,” and the last two are: “garbage” and “for Evan.” Cynthia seems to notice my discomfort, and reaches forward, patting my hand. “No matter what, you helped keep his memory alive. And now, with the orchard…” She stops, closing her eyes for a second, and when she opens them, they are shining with tears. “You can have anything you like.”
How can she still treat me kindly? It doesn’t make any sense . I don’t answer, and hold up the first thing I get my hands on. It’s a faded t-shirt, and Cynthia notices it, and chuckles.
“He wore that shirt to bed all the time,” she says softly, and takes it from me. She holds it to her face, breathing it in, then carefully folds it up, placing it gingerly into the box for clothes to keep.
I pick up the next article, a black wool sweater dotted with holes, the fabric eaten away by moths, but looks unworn.
Cynthia reaches for it, and hugs it. “Too big, too itchy,” she says, as if from a memory. “I don’t even know why Connor still has it in his closet. Maybe to make me happy…” It goes in the keep box.
For the next two hours, we go through his clothing. When there’s only a handful of clothes left, I look back over at Cynthia, and notice everything is in the box for clothes to keep, the donate, garbage, and sell boxes only have things I put in there. She doesn’t notice I’m watching her, and reaches into the other boxes, putting them all in the one overflowing box.
“Cynthia, um…” I scoot over to her, biting my lip.
“I know, I know,” she sighs, her shoulders falling. “I’m so scared to let go of him. I thought, I thought it would be easier if I waited a bit longer, but I guess it’s never easy to get rid of the things that once belonged to your own son .” Cynthia sniffles, then turns to me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I shouldn’t be unloading all of this on you. Thank you for helping me today.”
I reach into the box without thinking, and pull out a pair of ripped jeans. I toss them into the donate box. “Only the really important things are to keep,” I say. I know I have no right to be like this, but I just want to help her. Ha, that’s all I ever wanted to do. Help the Murphy’s. However, she nods, and wipes her eyes.
Another hour goes by, and we have everything properly sorted, well, everything but the last few hangers. I get up, wincing as my legs ache. My feet are asleep, so I walk awkwardly to the closet. I take the last few items, and set them down.
My hands land on something rough. It’s the denim jacket I remember he wore on our first day of senior year, when he saw the letter, when he pushed me, the day before he died. I hold it up, then fold it carefully. I place it in the “Evan” box.
“There’s another box,” Cynthia remembers, and stands, stretches, and leaves the room. Moments later, she returns, a large plastic bin of what I assume are clothes from his childhood.
She sets it down with a thump, and peels open the blue plastic lid. “I’m going to keep his baby stuff, but we might as well look through this, it’s the clothes I saved when he grew out of them.”
My fingers find a thick sweatshirt, and I pull it out. It’s a bright blue, something I never thought Connor would ever wear, with little yellow and green triangle spikes on the back and hood, mimicking a dinosaur’s body. It makes me laugh, imagining Connor wearing something like this.
Cynthia gasps happily when she reaches in. “Oh, Evan, look at this!” With a tug, a red and blue blur of fabric comes free from the tangle of clothes, sending some flying and landing in piles on the floor around us.
When she holds it up, I see what it is. A Spider-Man costume. Something inside me tightens when it hits me that I know it- not because it’s Spider-Man, practically everyone knows Spider-Man, but this Spider-Man. Breathlessly, I yank it from her hands, trembling hands fumbling for the legs of the costume. There, clear as day, on the knee of the right side, is a glittery gold star sticker. Or, at least, what remains of one. My throat feels dry suddenly, and I try to swallow, but it’s difficult.
“Evan?”
“I have to go,” I manage, feeling sick, tears forming in my eyes.
Before she can say anything else, I grab the denim jacket, abandoning the sketchbook, and race down the stairs, ignoring her voice calling for me, full of concern and confusion.
I grab my coat, hurriedly putting on my shoes, and I run out of the Murphy house, dizziness overwhelming me.
I have to get out of here .
Running, running, running, past all the fancy homes, I run.
I find myself at the park, where I suppose I always end up, never really knowing why, or intending to. Well, completely consciously, at least.
I’m sobbing by now, my heart clenching into a tight fist, my lungs burning, my whole body burning. I collapse by a tree, clutching that stupid denim jacket to my face.
Spider-Man. Connor. He was Spider-Man. That Halloween night .
My mind flashes back to that night as I lean against the rough bark, shutting my eyes tightly.
I am wearing a homemade Wolverine costume, a badly stitched together suit of yellow and black, painted with blue, cardboard claws and mask, a result of long nights Mom spent on that damn thing. I loved it, but hated it when everyone else mocked it. I wish I could say I didn’t care what anyone thought, but I did, of course I did, I still do. Everyone cares what others think. It’s only human, right? I am clutching my mother’s hand, hiding behind her as she gently nudges me to say ‘Trick or treat!’ and get candy. It’s the first Halloween that Jared isn’t there with me, so I feel naked. I finally muster up the courage to squeak out: “May I, uh, um, have some c-c-candy, please?” The woman gives me an apologetic smile and shows me her empty plastic bowl. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says, then ruffles my hair. When she touched me, that’s when I think I flipped out, I ran back to Mom, crying. Only Mom and Jared could touch me, anyone else was just… it wasn’t right. Even then, Mom and Jared would still have to ask permission sometimes, particularly if I was in a bad mood. “What’s wrong?” Mom had asked, crouching down, wiping my cheeks. “They ran out of candy!” I would explain through tears, to which she would simply respond: “Let’s try the next house, then!” House after house after house, and I ended up with maybe half a dozen pieces; some of the houses ran out of candy, or I was too scared to ask, the kids would push in front of me, and I’d turn around sadly, walking to Mom yet again. At one point, I had gotten separated for her, which sent me into major panic mode. I sat on the curb and cried and cried and cried, tears I thought that would never stop, and the loud children shrieking with delight and all the colours and noise didn’t help, either. That’s when Spider-Man showed up. A boy, slightly smaller than me, plopped himself down next to me and tilted his head. “Are you okay?” He had asked, resting his face in his gloved hands. I shook my head, a crying mess still. He offered me his orange plastic pumpkin candy basket. “Here, take it,” he told me. “You’re sad, and whenever I’m sad, candy makes me feel better. ‘Specially Butterfingers!” “B-Butterfingers?” I wrinkle my nose. “Th-those are gross!” He laughed. “I like your costume, Wolverine!” This time, I was the one to smile, happy beyond words that someone liked it. “I like your Spider-Man costume!” “Yours is cooler,” he says, and I want to believe it was genuine. I looked inside my bag for a way to repay him for his kindness, finding a sheet of stickers that someone a couple of houses back had given me, likely feeling bad for me because there was no more candy. I firmly stick a star onto his knee, which makes him laugh even more. It was a nice laugh. I wanted to say something more, but a distant voice came, calling for me. I had forgotten why I was sad, I was having too much fun with the mysterious masked Spider-Man! Now, though, I was relieved, and stood up, running towards the direction I heard my mom’s voice, calling: “Mommy! Mommy!” I bumped into her, and she picked me up, kissing my cheek. “Oh, I was so worried! Are you okay, Evie?” I nod vigorously, and point in the other direction. “I saw Spider-Man!” “Did you now?” She replied, amused. “Yeah! He let me have his candy-” I stop, and frown. “I forgot to take the candy.” Mom gives me another kiss. “Well, you still have yours, right? Don’t worry, we’ll get you more candy.” I urged her to go back in the direction of where he was, but when I got there, there was nobody, nothing to show that there was anybody there to begin with.
Ever since that day, I had never known the true identity of the boy who was my hero that one Halloween. The next year, I hoped to find him, that he would rescue me again, but he never did, and I’d just suffer more and more panic attacks, without my old best friend, or my Spider-Man. Finally, I gave up, and stopped going out. Mom seemed to understand.
I take off my own coat, and slip on the denim jacket instead, hugging it tightly around me. I can’t believe Connor was my Spider-Man. If only we knew each other, if he knew I was that wailing Wolverine he found on the corner, if I knew he was the generous Spider-Man who made me smile that night… would it have made a difference? I shake the thoughts from my head. How arrogant must I be to think that me being his real friend would have kept him alive? Still… if only I just took off that fucking mask . Maybe my childhood wouldn’t have been so lonely . Or his .
No, the past, the past is in the past, I can’t change anything at all. I make myself stand, breathing deeply until I stop crying, and pick up my coat. When I walk home, I go slowly, and stop at the store, buying some candy with some wrinkled bills I find in my coat pocket.
I get to the door, and there, resting innocently, is a sketchbook, with a folded Spider-Man costume on top of it, with a little white piece of paper tucked in. I bend down, picking up the note. ‘I hope you’re okay. I thought you’d want these. Connor told me about a particular Wolverine he met one night, and I fit the pieces together when I saw your reaction to the sticker he insisted on keeping. Love, Cynthia’ Tears come back to my eyes, and I make a mental note to call her after I do one last thing.
After I go inside, I go to the kitchen, find a bowl, and pour out the candy I bought. With a post-it and pen I find on the kitchen counter, I scribble a little note. ‘For Spider-Man. -Wolverine’ Reaching into a drawer of miscellaneous items by the sink, I pull out a slightly dirty sticker sheet, and add a gold star to the paper. Then another, for good measure. I carry the bowl to my room, placing it on the window sill, leaving the window open halfway, not caring that it causes a cold breeze to come in. My message is visible amongst the yellow-wrapped Butterfingers, facing the window, but it’s stuck in well enough so that it won’t blow away in the wind.
That night, when I go to sleep, there’s a smile hovering in the air, a joyful laugh. Or perhaps that’s just my imagination.
‘Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is going to be a great day and here’s why: you’re going to do something nice and help someone . And because maybe you’ll stop being the only person in the entire world who hates Halloween.
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Today was a great day because I found out that Connor Murphy was the Spider-Man who saved me .
Sincerely,
Wolverine. ’