Enhanced

by Cosca, Paul

  He took her and threw her into the alley. One of her heels caught on a sewer grate and she fell. I can see it all. The moments click by one by one, slow enough for me to catch the details. Her heels are blue. The thin heel of the shoe snaps as it catches the grate. Her ankle twists. She’s falling. Her hand reaches out. For safety. For him. For anything. But she comes up empty and cries out as she hits the ground. She says “No”. Says it over and over as he steps closer to her. Her skirt has ridden up almost to her hips.

  My Woman in White, my Elizabeth the second, calls out, and he turns. Before I can react at all, her blade is out. The machete catches the glare from the street light and bounces a reflection onto a brick wall. She is three steps from him. Just out of her reach. His hand flashes and I think at first he’s got a knife, but I hear it roar. Muzzle flash. My Elizabeth the second, my Woman in White, she falls. The man looks at me, then down at the body of my friend. He runs. In that moment, he could have shot me too, and I don’t think I would have cared. The girl in the alley is screaming and I fall to my knees. I know what I’m supposed to do now. She drove it into my head. Told me over and over. She called it “If and When I Fall”. If and when. And now it’s happening and I can’t do it. I can’t and I have to. ...Goddammit.

  She stops for a moment, tears falling on her cheeks. She takes a deep breath.

  I roll her body over. Her hair sticks to her face. Her face is covered in blood. I can see where she was hit. There’s a hole in her eyebrow and her eye is just a bloody mess. I know what I have to do. I know it and I can’t. I can’t, and my fingers are doing it anyway. If and when. If and when. You can never let the world know that the Woman in White is gone. Never. The woman is eternal. You hit her, and she rises. You kill her and she returns. Again and again. She is eternal. So when a Woman dies, you take away everything that made her the Woman in White. You strip her bare and then she’s just another woman. A statistic. And the Woman in White lives on. Always.

  She stops for a long moment and sighs. A shiver runs through her. Then she can smile a little again.

  After Elizabeth died, I tried to go on. But after just a few months, I stopped. I just couldn’t make myself do it. I wasn’t scared, I just wasn’t motivated. Elizabeth...she was my inspiration. She was my sister and my mentor. Without her, I really didn’t know why I was doing it. So I stopped. And for the first time in half a century, there was no Woman in White. And as far as I can tell, it will stay that way. I still help others. I volunteer all over the place. I do my part.

  The look on my face must have given me away.

  What?

  I fish out a newspaper that I’d picked up just that morning. WOMAN IN WHITE RETURNS? screams the headline. The story details half a dozen brutal vigilante assaults of known pimps and drug dealers in the city in the past few months. All male.

  Well, there’s always going to be copycats, right? That’s part of being a hero. You inspire people. You’ll find people who want to be like you. Or who you were, but that’s just not me anymore.

  The front door opens and a girl drops her schoolbag at the door. She is maybe twelve or thirteen, with a pretty face and an unruly mane of red hair. You would instantly call her beautiful except for the burn marks that ripple up her neck and onto her left cheek. Jillian calls her over.

  This is my daughter. See, things are different now. After I stopped doing all that, I spent a lot of time in the shelters, helping women there. Spent time as a foster parent. There are a lot of people out there who need help, and a lot of ways that we can help them. And then, I took this little one in. She came to me as a foster child, and we had such a great connection, I decided to adopt her. I knew right away that we were supposed to find each other. She is part of a legacy. Like I was.

  She gives me a small smile.

  Like all children are.

  The girl smiles. Her face lights up. I ask her what her name is and she turns to face me. I can see the fire in her eyes, so much like Jillian. She says her name: Elizabeth.

  November 6th, 1999

  I’m finishing my third cup of coffee. I made a French press full of tea before midnight, but it’s been three hours since then. I’m exhausted and tired and my nerves are on edge. She should have been back by now. She should have been back hours ago. I know better than to call her phone, so I sit at my desk, staring at old notes and not reading them. As the clock on the wall chimes three, and the channel I have on in the background signs off for the broadcast day, my fingers move toward the phone when I hear keys rattle in the door. She’s home.

  Tonight she’s wearing all black, from her boots to a black knitted cap. We agreed that it would look more suspicious for her to be dressed that way if she was caught, but she’d be more likely not to be caught if she could blend in with the shadows. She hangs up her belt near the door and it clangs against the wall. We’ve equipped her with pepper spray, a stun baton, zip ties, and a flare, and I still don’t think she’s got enough protection. But she wanted to get out on the streets and do something, and I knew it was time.

  Antoinette grabs a bottle of water and settles in on the couch. She looks exhausted after her first night as a superhero.

  ANTOINETTE: If you stay up like this every time I go out, you’re gonna mess up your sleep schedule pretty bad, you know. I can’t go out in the daytime and do this stuff.

  We both know I’ll stay up, and we both know she’d be disappointed if I didn’t.

  I was over on the West side tonight, in Greektown. I was headed to Uptown, but I noticed a lot of cops around. Got some weird looks on the train, but I guess not too weird. On a Saturday night, what I’m wearing almost looks normal. Besides, I’d rather look like this than the college girls in their short skirts and tube tops. Look like prostitutes.

  Anyway, I got down there and found a place to set up, on the roof of a tire shop. I was ready for excitement. Ready to kick ass and...I don’t know. Battle hordes of injustice or something like that. Whatever I was expecting,

  that’s not what I got. What I got was cold from sitting in one spot, watching drunk college kids wander around. I guess that’s a lot of it though, isn’t it? And I should be grateful. If it takes me all night to find one bad thing happening, then it means that people are staying safe. At least where I was watching.

  It was maybe...one-thirty, closer to two. My muscles were sore and I was seriously cold. I was definitely ready to pack it in. But then I see this group of guys come by and I get a feeling. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, so I knew I needed to pay attention.

  There were eight of them. The first thing Silver Sparrow says in his book is that you have to learn as much about your opponents as you can from a distance. Eight men. Five African American, three Caucasian. The biggest one looked to be about 6’2, but it was tough to tell from my position.

  Second thing in the book, you wait for justification. Can’t go in there unless they give you a reason to do it. People do bad stuff all the time. But you can’t get involved in the small stuff, or you’ll miss the big stuff. At first they were just hanging out in front of an electronics store. Just hanging out at first, but one of them started looking real hard at the plate glass window. And I knew it. I knew.

  Third thing in the book, you plan your moves. The roof I was on was just one story. Not too high up. And the nearest one of them was about six feet from the edge. Jumping on him would hurt, but I wouldn’t get hurt, and it would probably be enough to break up the crowd.

  I didn’t have to wait long. One of them looked around, then he pulled something out of his pocket and smashed it against the window. I made my move.

  I’m sure she can see the look on my face.

  I know, I know. Kids breaking windows isn’t exactly a federal offense. But I don’t want to sit out there all night and not do anything, you

  know? That’s...lame. It’s boring. So, I got a running start and landed on the nearest one. He uh...he might have gotten hurt a little worse than I thought he would. I don’t k
now that for sure, but I could feel it.

  The rest of them scattered pretty quick, which is good because my landing sucked. I got to my feet and there was only one still close, so I went after him. He was fast, but I was faster. I took what I’ve been learning in training...pumping the arms, long strides, controlling my breath. I was gaining on him. He went over a fence and I went up right after him, damn near vaulted it. When I landed, I was only a step behind. He was fast, though. Scared, I guess. I guess I would be too. I got out my baton and tripped up his feet. He went down pretty hard.

  I was...excited. I know that’s a weird way to put it, but it’s true. That’s what I came here to do, track down criminals and all that. But I rolled him over and he was just a kid. A kid. Couldn’t have been older than thirteen. My brother’s older than that, you know? Could this have been my brother? I mean...Eli is a good kid, but he’s gotten in trouble once or twice. This kid I had...was this a criminal? Was this some thug, or was this just a kid rollin’ with a bad crowd? Wrong place wrong time, you know? I could tie him up, drag him down to the police station. I could ruin his life.

  Is it bad if I spend a whole night on patrol and everyone gets away? I mean...does that make me bad at the job? I like to think that maybe I put the scare into this kid. And if I scared him enough tonight, maybe he’ll go out tomorrow and make better friends. Get out of the life before it’s too late.

  If there are superheroes around right now, I don’t know about them. So I guess...I guess being a hero today means whatever I want it to mean, right? If it’s all about justice and vengeance, then that’s what it is. But maybe it can be about mercy. Do you think so? Can you go around beating up criminals and still have a heart?

  May 1, 1992

  You could be forgiven for thinking that this humble little building, with its beige siding and slightly withered front yard, is nothing special. It looks just like a lot of the houses on the block. Besides the sign in the front yard, there’s not much indication that it isn’t just another house. But once you step inside, you realize that this is something special. This little bungalow has been transformed into the Caraway Superhero Museum. Nestled in the city of Minneapolis, it’s a hidden little treasure that you just have to see if you get the chance.

  My tour guide is the owner and operator of the museum, Cecil Caraway II. Even now in his 60s, Cecil is most definitely his father’s son. His father’s films may have been a little before my time, but I was a big fan of the Action Man TV show that aired in the late 60s, and seeing Action Man in person is a pretty big thrill. I hide my starstruckness just enough to shake hands and not make a fool of myself.

  Cecil leads me around the museum. He shows me news clippings, old celluloid film, and mementos from what many refer to as the Early Age of superheroes, from 1936 to 1960 or so. We stop in front a small, framed piece of newsprint.

  CECIL: This is what started it all. At least for me. It’s rather...inauspicious. But without this, none of the rest of it would be here.

  I have to lean close to read the slightly smudged print. It looks to be a rather ordinary classified ad from the New York Times. It reads: WANTED: HANDSOME, FIT MAN TO BECOME SUPERHERO. MUST BE 6’6” OR OVER. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. Following that is an address of an office in Manhattan.

  That’s Cyrus Foley in a nutshell. Pragmatic and wily. He needs a superhero, and turns to the classified ads. Did you ever get the chance to meet him?

  I let him know that I was close to Cyrus before his death.

  His passing was really tough for me. For you too, I imagine. He was one hell of a guy. I’m just glad he got the chance to see this stuff before he got too sick. I know it’s not much, but it’s the largest collection of its kind. And I think he was really proud to see it.

  I remember the first time I met Cyrus. I was eight, I think, and he came over to our house to have dinner. I remember he seemed really...slick. His hair was slicked back. His suit matched his hat. His shoes were shiny. Now, this wasn’t too long after the worst of the Depression, so I hadn’t seen a whole lot of folks dressed to the nines like that. I was really impressed, and pretty intimidated too. I didn’t really understand who he was. I just knew I had to comb my hair to see him, which I wasn’t too happy about.

  My dad responded to that classified ad in 1939. He’d been working at a foundry for some time, and picking up odd jobs here and there, but he really wanted out of all that. My dad was fiercely creative. Read everything he could get his hands on. I know a lot of people think he was just a movie star, nothing but a pretty face, but he really was an artist. Even before meeting Cyrus.

  It didn’t hurt that he was a good looking guy. And really, I think that’s what won him the part. He’d never done any acting before, so he didn’t know what to expect with an audition. But I don’t think Cyrus really did either. He needed someone who could look the part and wear the costume. Everything else could be figured out later.

  I remember being very confused when I first heard about it. My dad was going to be American Justice. But wasn’t there already a guy named American Justice? I read the comic books a lot, and I’d seen pictures of him in the paper, too. He wasn’t like the Easter Bunny, who I already knew was fake, or even like Santa Claus, who I had strong suspicions about by then. American Justice was a real, live person. Why was my dad going to be him?

  Now, to my credit, I wasn’t the only one in the dark about it. Most people were. I only vaguely remember my parents talking about the Hindenburg, but it was definitely big news. News that was carried all over the world. But when they listed the names of the dead, no one batted an eye at one average sounding Irish name. Cyrus fought desperately to keep the news of American Justice’s death out of the papers, and I don’t think he would have been able to pull it off if television had really been around. He didn’t know how he was going to fix the problem, but he knew he’d be ruined if people found out about it. And of course he was in mourning, too. I’ve heard people call Cyrus cold...but I’ve never thought that. He loved Patrick like a brother.

  It took a year and a half for Cyrus to get himself back together. The American Justice comic book was in full swing, doing better than ever, and Cyrus explained away AJ’s absence by saying he was running a special operation for the government. Finally, in 1939, he got a plan going.

  We walk over to another display, a framed black and white photo. I can’t help but smile to see a very young Cyrus in what could only by Hollywood. He has his arms around a pretty girl, and they are both standing at the gates of MGM studios.

  Cyrus pulled some strings and got a meeting with David Selznick over at MGM. Selznick had just produced Gone with the Wind, and if anyone could get Cyrus into Hollywood, it was him. Selznick wanted exclusive rights not only to American Justice, but to any other properties Cyrus might develop over the next decade. Cyrus didn’t love that kind of restrictive contract, but if that’s what it took to get him back on top, it’s what he would do. Now he just needed someone to play his old friend. My dad was tall, good looking, and spoke English without an accent. So I guess a star was born.

  Cecil leads me over to the center of the room, to the most impressive display. This is a glass case with a mannequin inside wearing one of the most iconic costumes in both film and superhero history. This version of American Justice certainly looks a lot different than

  the old pictures of the costume. The biggest piece covers from collarbones to hips and proudly displays AJ in white against the red background. There is actually no armor on the legs at all. Other than the chest plate there are forearm guards and gloves, as well as a helmet that stops above the nose.

  You notice there’s no leg plating, right? Totally impractical if you wanted to go out there and really fight crime with it. On the other hand, can you imagine trying to walk around in that big metal suit they originally had? When they did the screen test, dad wore black slacks, and they didn’t stray too far from that. For the first couple films they just put him in tight black pants and called it
a day. Cyrus, of course, hated it. He’d helped refine the original costume, the one that burned up. He told Selznick “What the hell would happen if they shot this guy in the face? He’s only got half a helmet out there like an idiot.” Selznick apparently told him “This is my movie. We don’t shoot heroes in the face.”

  The first American Justice movie premiered in 1940. I remember my friends at school talking about it. And even though I knew it was my dad up there, I was talking about it too, just like it was the real American Justice doing all that on the screen. I guess when you’re a kid, you can look at reality and fiction in a totally different way. They were the kind of films that were pretty short. They’d show cartoons and other stuff, and then you’d get the big American Justice movie, which always ended on a cliffhanger, then you’d come back a few weeks later and see the next one. Kids just gobbled it up, and everyone was making a mint.

  The serials ran until 1944, then Selznick and Cyrus decided to phase them out. The world had changed in those few years. We were at war. If we’d ever had some innocence as a country, it felt lost. American Justice maybe felt a little...naive. When you’ve got hell raining down in Hawaii and nuclear bombs going off, the world is obviously spinning in a different direction. But there was still plenty of patriotism to be found. And Cyrus knew that after the

  war was done, people were going to want something to transition into. So Cyrus went around the country and did five more times what he’d already done once: took normal people and made them into superheroes.

  We walk over to a display on the far end of the room. Here, five mannequins display five iconic costumes. The first wears a white bustier and red skirt along with a blue eye mask. The costume features no weapons.

  Los Angeles. Mild mannered Debra Leeds became the first female superhero, Lady Liberty. The whole idea was to be a real peaceful hero. No weapons. No fighting. And yeah, that might be a little sexist if you’re looking at it with our eyes, but she was very popular with both men and women at the time. Cyrus staged a high profile bank heist for her debut. When the robber ran out, Lady Liberty swooped in and convinced him to put back the money and turn himself in. The press were already on hand to see it, of course. The whole thing was a pretty obvious ruse, but it made Lady Liberty a real darling with the media. And what else matters in Los Angeles?