by Peter David
To his surprise, Mary Jane reached out and took his hand. Hers was warm and delicate in his, and suddenly he felt as if anything were possible. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he was suddenly completely convinced that she was in the same predicament, unable to look away from him. He started to speak, with absolutely no idea what he was going to say.
“Hello.”
That wasn’t even remotely what he’d intended to say. On the other hand, it wasn’t his voice. It was the voice of Harry Osborn, who was standing in the doorway of the hospital room, staring at them with a smile that did not in any way touch his eyes.
Immediately, acting like two people caught at something, they withdrew their hands. But the damage was done, and Peter knew it … knew it all too well.
Harry, who had come in response to a phone message from Peter, remembered almost nothing of his visit to the hospital.
He made small talk, he tried to be polite. But the image of Peter and Mary Jane holding hands seared itself into his mind, obliterating everything else.
Had Peter set him up? Informed him of May Parker’s condition just so he could show up and find the two of them looking at each other, like they were ready to get a room of their own … and he didn’t mean a hospital room … ?
He felt as if he was incapable of containing the fury that welled up within him. He stayed for a few minutes, but quickly made his excuses, and the moment he departed, he expunged everything from his recollection except for that mental snapshot of those hands, those damnable hands.
Harry spent the rest of the day walking, just walking endlessly. And slowly, as the time passed, the anger burned less brightly, for it was impossible to sustain that level of white-hot rage.
But he didn’t want to go back to his apartment and see Peter waiting there, fumbling with excuses, trying to determine what to say and what not to say. So instead he went to the place he’d come to think of simply as his father’s home, even though he himself had lived in the townhouse for as long as he could remember.
It was night when he used the key to let himself in through the front door. A full moon cast its shadow on the doorway. Harry felt he could sympathize with the moon. After all, did it not bask in reflected glory? Same with Harry Osborn, someone who could only trade on the surname built up by his father, or pass classes with the help of a friend who had stolen his girlfriend.
“Dad?” he called out as he stepped into the front hall.
There was no answer, but light was spilling from the staircase that led to the upstairs hall. Harry stood at the bottom of the stairs, and he could faintly hear voices. They were so soft from where he was standing that they were little more than murmurs, but the vehemence and anger in the tones was unmistakeable. There were two men, and he was reasonably sure that one of them was his father. “Dad? Is that you?”
The voices abruptly stopped. A moment later, his father appeared at the top of the stairs. He didn’t move from the spot, though, appearing to his son like a great, dark shadow. “What is it?” he called down.
Harry took a deep breath. He was about to say the most difficult words he had ever uttered, and he wondered if his father would ever have any appreciation over how hard it was for him to say it. “You were right about M. J. You were … you were right about everything. She’s in love with Peter.”
He had no idea how his father was going to react. He expected laughter, perhaps, or sneers, or all manner of unbridled contempt. But instead there was simply a thoughtful pause, and then: “Parker?”
That was all, with no more emotion than a computer being fed a new bit of data.
No, Peter Piper. She’s really into pickled peppers. But he held back the flip response that would be formed more by bitterness than wisdom. “Yeah,” Harry said.
Osborn started to move down the stairs toward him, one leisurely step at a time. As he would walk, one foot would hang off the step a moment, as if even his feet were involved in deep thought, before he would descend to the next step down. “And … how does he feel about her?”
“Are you kidding?” Harry snorted. “He’s loved her since the fourth grade. He just acts like he doesn’t. But there’s nobody Peter cares about more.”
Surprisingly, he heard—of all things—a soft chuckle coming from his father. How in the world could any of this be remotely funny? But then, sounding extremely sincere, Norman Osborn said, “I’m sorry. I … haven’t always been there for you, have I?”
Harry couldn’t believe it. He’d never heard his father sound this sympathetic about … about anything. “Well … you’re busy,” he said. “You’re an important man. I understand that.”
“It’s no excuse,” said Osborn firmly, drawing closer. “I’m proud of you. And I lost sight of that somewhere. But I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to rectify certain … inequities.”
I’m dreaming . . . oh, lord, I’m dreaming. Maybe it’s not my dad, maybe it’s an impostor . . .
The shadowed individual drew into the light, and it was indeed Norman Osborn as he threw his arms around his son and—hugging him so tightly that one would have thought he’d almost lost him—Norman said, “I love you.”
And from that angle, steeped in the joy and wonder of a scene that Harry imagined so many times, he was almost certain he’d lost his mind altogether. Hidden in all of that were eyes that burned with inner dementia, and lips that were pulled back in a wolflike sneer. It was the look of someone who understood love only in the context of the power it gave him over others. Power that he was more than willing to exploit … through whatever means necessary.
It was a pleasant dream Peter was having . . . he was webswinging through the concrete jungles of New York, but he was unmasked. Let the world know who Spider-Man is, because the world is a good and safe place where good people remain good and bad people don’t exist.
Then he heard a voice, calling him from a very great distance, saying, “Peter? Peter . . .”
Peter woke up instantly, looking around in momentary confusion even as he sat up and knocked over the textbooks that had been lying in his lap. They lay on the floor, forgotten. Instead what he was gaping at was Aunt May, this time fully awake and looking far more lucid than she had earlier.
“You’re awake!” he said, cunningly going straight for the obvious. “That’s good! Good. You okay?”
“I’m okay,” she said with certainty, and immediately switched over into overly concerned mother figure. “But I think you should go home and get some sleep.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t like to leave you.” He didn’t want to add, because then I can’t protect you.
“I’m safe here,” she said dismissively.
“I should have been there.”
Aunt May stared at him blankly, unable to determine what he might possibly be talking about. Then, of course, she realized: “there” meaning “with her.” She shook her head. “You didn’t know.” When she saw that he looked no more mollified than before, she took his hand and held it tightly, with surprising strength. “Peter, the struggles we face in life are not ours to question. They’re God’s will.”
“I know, but I could’ve done something… .”
Naturally she had no idea that the conversation was happening on two levels. No idea that her nephew meant that—as Spider-Man—he could have squared off against the Green Goblin, and possibly brought this madness to an end. Instead she chuckled at what she perceived as the pure absurdity of the notion. “Done something? You do too much! College, a job, all this time with me . . . you’re not Superman, you know.”
That comment, of course, prompted an involuntary smile. How could it not? Not realizing the source of the humor, she was encouraged. “A smile! Finally. Haven’t seen one of those on your face since Mary Jane was here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Hey! You were supposed to be asleep. What did you hear?”
Smiling enigmatically, she said, “You know … you were about six years old when her fa
mily moved next door. And when she got out of the car and you saw her for the first time, you grabbed my hand and said, ‘Aunt May! Aunt May! Is that an angel?’ ”
Peter had only heard that story a hundred times. Nevertheless he put on an affected gosh-wow attitude and said, “Gee, Aunt May, did I really say that?”
“You sure did,” she said, missing—deliberately or otherwise—the sarcasm. Then she lowered her voice and told him gently, “She’d like to know that, don’t you think?”
Peter had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Now he stood and turned away, his hands draped behind his back. “Harry’s in love with her. She’s still his girl.”
“Isn’t that up to her?” she asked, blinking owlishly.
“She doesn’t … really know me. She never will.”
Aunt May had been lying back in bed, but now she pulled herself fully to sitting, and she spoke with such vehemence that it surprised him. “Because you won’t let her! You’re so mysterious all the time. More than ever lately.” She blew air out through her lips in irritation as she rearranged the blanket around her legs, apparently quite frustrated with her nephew but not exactly sure where to start in letting him know just exactly how annoyed she was.
“Don’t be so complicated,” she said finally. “And don’t let any more time go by. The one thing Mary Jane needs to know, the only thing she needs to know,” and she waggled a bony finger, “is how you feel. Tell me, Peter … would it be so dangerous to let Mary Jane know how much you care? It’s not as if everyone doesn’t already know you love her.”
He found himself nodding in mute agreement … and that was when the other dime dropped noisily in his head. He’d been so focused on Aunt May and her being targeted by the Goblin, that the full scope, the full horror of the situation hadn’t been evident to him …
… until now.
He forced a smile, trying not to panic. “You know … I think you’re right, Aunt May. I think I’ll … I’ll give her a call right now … tell her … try to, uh … make things right.”
“How nice!” She pointed at the phone near her bed. “You can use that one right th—”
“No, I, uh …” He was stammering, backing toward the door. “There’s a pay phone in the hall … I’ll just, uh … privacy, you know …” and without another word he turned and ran out of the room.
Aunt May smiled, her heart soaring. “Ah, young love,” she said.
Peter, meantime, was in the corridor, near the solarium where nervous family members were waiting to hear about their respective loved ones. He dialed the number, and as he listened to the phone ring, repeatedly, he felt as if he were one of them … except there was no doctor involved. The health of one of his loved ones depended entirely upon the whims of a lunatic.
“Answer the phone, answer it!” he muttered.
There was a click and his heart jumped, but then her answering machine kicked in. “Hi, it’s me! Sing your song at the beep.”
He waited impatiently. She had one of those phones that took ages to get around to the tone, and when it did he spoke so fast and with such urgency that he had to force himself to slow down part way through.
“M. J., it’s Peter. Are you there? Just checking on you. I mean, making sure you’re safe and sound. Give me a call when you get in. I’ll give you an update on Aunt May. Hey, where are you? Okay, then, take care. Don’t go up any dark alleys.” He tried to make it sound light, but he knew there was no way he could leave “You’re in terrible danger from a flying maniac” on a phone message.
Then, just as he was about to hang up, he heard another click on the other end. She’d picked up. “Oh, great, you’re there!”
No answer.
“Hello?” he said tentatively.
And then a demented cackle sounded, and Peter almost crushed the receiver in his hand. All the blood drained from his face as a singsong voice inquired, “Can Spider-Man come out to play?”
“Where is she?” he demanded tersely. Some passing orderlies glanced at him. He half turned and squared his shoulders, so his agitated state would be less conspicuous.
“Be of love a little more careful, Spider-Man,” recited the Goblin.
“I have better things to do than listen to you mangle e. e. cummings,” Peter said, choking back his fury.
“An educated man,” the Goblin laughed again. “Then again, a little knowledge … can be a dangerous thing. But there are so many dangerous things in the world, aren’t there.”
“Where … is … she?”
“She’s having a little bridge work.” And then he laughed again, and his cackling carried and carried, and Peter felt those yellow eyes burning into his soul… .
XXV.
THE CHOICE
It was the cold that caused Mary Jane to waken.
The cold seeped into her bones, needling her awake, and she felt incredibly heavy and clumsy as a result. She didn’t know where the chill was coming from, at first, and then her mind processed the information—thanks to the steady howling—that it was the wind causing her to feel this way. The wind was blowing constantly, and that in and of itself was bad enough, but she also felt some degree of exposure that she couldn’t quite understand. Exposure, vulnerability … perhaps she was dreaming. That could make sense.
She was wrapped in darkness, and then she realized that it was because her eyes were closed. But when she opened them, things didn’t improve. She still couldn’t make out much of anything. It was night, that much was certain.
Slowly she hauled herself to standing, disoriented, holding her head in pain. She remembered walking into her apartment, smelling something sickly sweet, wondering if she’d left the gas on … and then nothing. A haze of confusion had settled over her mind like a cloud.
She took a step backward, and suddenly, for no reason she could understand, she felt as if she were overbalanced. Instinctively she windmilled her arms, yanked herself forward with considerable upper body effort, and looked down.
She gasped as, hundreds of feet below her, headlights from cars became visible as unknowing drivers crossed the span of the Queensboro Bridge.
Years ago, the songwriting team of Simon and Garfunkel had been stuck in traffic on the selfsame bridge, and had used the opportunity to pen a song called “Feelin’ Groovy.” Mary Jane had always liked that song.
At that moment it plummeted to the bottom of her list, and only by falling to her knees did she avoid plummeting, as well, off what she now realized was the western tower of the bridge.
I’m losing my mind, I’m losing my mind, it’s some sort of dream, everything’s going to be okay, she kept telling herself, right up until the point that a familiar whine of an engine informed her that she was a damned sight far away from being “okay.”
The Green Goblin arced past her, turbos roaring, and he tossed off a delirious little wave before angling away. But this wasn’t just a flyby; he was heading somewhere, with a purpose. She watched him as he angled toward the Roosevelt Island tram station, leaving a trail of smoke behind him across the night sky as he headed down, down, toward a red tram that was halfway to the station. It was the cable car that carried passengers from Manhattan to the many apartment complexes on Roosevelt Island, there in the middle of the East River. Even from where she was, on her hands and knees, she could see that it was crammed with kids. The kids and their fathers were pointing at the armored green creature that was zipping toward them, an amber angel of death. She was too far away to hear what they were saying. Were they screaming? Laughing? Yelling at him to stay away?
And that was when a rocket launcher exploded to life from beneath the glider, hurling a missile toward the station. An instant later, the rocket barreled into the tram station, obliterating it in a massive ball of flame and smoke. Huge chunks of debris rained down onto the roadway below her. Cars screeched to a halt, many crashing into one another as the flaming chunks of the station plummeted from the night sky like death-laden stars.
Even from where
she was, Mary Jane could feel the heat rolling over her, and she knew that all the prayers in the world weren’t going to transform this experience into a simple nightmare. She wouldn’t be waking up. This was real, this was happening, and those kids and their dads in the gondola were going to die, and she was going to die, and there was nothing, nothing that anyone could possibly do about it.
And then, in the glow of the fireball that lit up the night like a newly risen sun, she saw the familiar outline of a blue-and-red masked figure, crouched on a rooftop in the distance.
Her heart raced, and she was astounded that the first thing to go through her mind was a mental plea to the costumed hero: Get away from here . . . save yourself . . .
Funny … she’d never thought of herself as selfless before …
Too late. You’re too late again . . .
Watching the carnage from behind the reflective eyes of his mask, Peter pushed that thinking far, far away. He didn’t need to be bogged down by tons of guilt. Instead he fired a web line that hit one of the cables on the bridge, and arced toward the span as fast as he could.
It wasn’t fast enough.
The sound of the first cables snapping was truly horrifying. A whip crack, the cries of terrified children, and suddenly the gondola was dropping like a stone, plummeting toward the water below. There was no way that Spider-Man could possibly get to it in time.
His entire focus was on the tram, even as he reached midswing, so he was startled and confused when he saw the car jerk to a halt. He thought it was a miracle.
He thought wrong.
Mary Jane couldn’t believe it.
Just as the cable car had begun its plummet, the crazed monster that had condemned the tram and its passengers to death swooped down and snagged the trailing wire. The car stopped in midair, dangling from the cables, as the Green Goblin—displaying strength she could only imagine—soared upward effortlessly while holding on to the cable.
