“What?”
She keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Denying him a little brother or sister. You see him with Thomas—the kid loves family. He deserves a sibling that isn’t twelve years older.”
“That’s why you want to have another baby?”
“One of the reasons. You think it’s a bad one?”
“You told me you didn’t want to be done being a mom.”
“That’s true too. Now that I’ve done it once, I know what to expect. I think I’ll be better at it.”
“You couldn’t be better. You’re a great mom.”
She inhales, then sighs. “So great that the idea of getting me pregnant makes you limp.” My wife curls on her side, away from me. The candles on both nightstands extinguish on their own.
During one of our sessions, Dr. Janet explained that when you know you should say something, but aren’t sure what to say, you should start with a simple emotional fact, something that’s nonconfrontational and candid. I think for a minute, then reach over and lay a hand on the blanket covering Deb’s shoulder. “I’m afraid.”
She stirs, but does not turn. “Afraid of what?”
“Of screwing up with Nate like I screwed up with Tommy. Of having another kid to love like hell but not be a good father to. Of retiring from the one thing I know how to do. Of losing you like I lost Sheila. Of being the kind of man who lies to his family to make himself feel good.”
This last one makes her roll over, and I force myself to meet her eyes as I keep going. “I’m talking about this morning,” I say. “There was no Hideous Beast. It was Menagerie. We started fighting before I knew.”
Deb holds her tongue. I say, “The people all were clapping. You should have seen Tommy and Nate.”
I wait for her to react, but there’s nothing. I say, “I know how screwed up this is. I’m sorry.”
“You went to the zoo looking for her,” Deb says, as if she’s posing the answer to a riddle.
“Pretty much,” I say.
“What did you want with her?”
When I don’t answer right away, she cocks her head, and her eyes drill into mine. Sometimes, even when you know you can fly, it’s a scary thing to leap from the top of a building or drop away from the side of a bridge. That childhood fear of falling never quite leaves you. And of course, with my abilities dwindling, one day it might not be there, and I’d simply plummet like a jumper. That’s what grips me now, the sense that I’m on the edge of something, that everything hangs tenuously in the balance, but I know I can’t step back from the ledge.
“I’ve been planning something on the side,” I begin. “Something I was going to tell you about.” As I go through the rough details of my scheme to use Bone Crusher to get to King Chaos, my wife’s eyes narrow. The air in the room grows warmer, and I worry about the threat of spontaneous combustion.
When I stop speaking, she blinks hard and shakes her head. “Unbelievable,” she says. “You’re just unbelievable.”
“It’s a thing I felt I had to do,” I tell her.
“Obviously,” she says. “And how did all this lead to you and Menagerie fighting?”
I take a breath. “That was all a kind of misunderstanding,” I say. “We weren’t really fighting.”
“Right,” Deb says, as if my words make sense.
I start telling her about the part of the plan that involves gathering the original Guardians, but I see no sign that she’s listening. The room is no longer heating up, but for some reason this worries me. Behind her eyes, it looks like she’s coming to some conclusions about the man she married. I can’t think of a thing to say, but the silence is choking me. “I’m sorry,” I try. “For all of this.”
“Yeah. You said that.” She looks into my face for a while as if she’s trying to place just where she knows me from. I don’t know if she’s considering forgiving me or trying to think of another question or wondering why she ever wanted to have a child with me in the first place. At times like this, my wife’s face is a mask I cannot penetrate. I would trade all my powers—the flight, the strength, the not-quite-what-it-used-to-be-invincibility—to be able to read her mind like Gypsy, just once, to truly see what she thinks of me.
“Listen,” she says, and I hold my breath. “I need to get dressed now, and I really want to do that alone.”
This hits me like a punch to the gut, but I nod and try to smile. “OK,” I say. I slip on my pants, grab my shirt, and head for the door. At the threshold I turn. “It feels like everything’s coming undone, Deb. I feel like I’m losing a grip on everything that’s good in my life. Something’s dead inside me.”
I wait for thirty seconds, and she says nothing, so I step out and pull the door shut behind me. I’m grateful when the broken latch catches.
In the bathroom, I bend and run cold water over my face, reach for my towel. I don’t have to be psychic to know that Deb would prefer if I weren’t here when she comes out. Right now I feel the same way. And when Ecklar does return, they’ll be more recriminations and blame. I want to be away from all this. I consider working out, going for a drink, finding a matinee movie, seeking out Gypsy. I even think of flying out to Altoona and visiting Carl. None of these options appeals to me. Everything feels still, and that’s when it calls to me quietly, more a whisper than a shout. I slide open the middle drawer of the vanity, shove my shaving kit to the side, and there’s the pilfered bottle of Xonopexal. I rattle it and estimate there are a half-dozen left. I’ve never taken that many at once before, but it seems as good an idea as any. I start fiddling with the childproof lid, which gives me just enough trouble that I spit, “Motherfucker!” And it’s the curse, the anger in it, the desperation, that makes me look into the mirror at the guy in his boxers, wet faced, who needs a fix this bad.
I set the bottle inside one hand, and when I close my fist, it’s pulverized—the white dial of the top and the brown cylinder and the pills inside, all reduced to fine dust. When I brush my palms together, a little white cloud puffs into the air and settles on the sink top.
I grab one of my spare costumes from the front closet, change, and head for the hangar bay. And yes, that moment comes to me, on the lip of the flight deck, when I peer down on the city and wonder what it would be like to fall to Earth. What Arthur said about my Chaos plan being a death wish, sure, that struck a nerve. Being dead would resolve a lot of my problems. But I didn’t go into the hurricane to kill myself. I’m not suicidal. Yet I can’t deny how I’ve envied Billy all these years, the way people speak the name Sparkplug so reverently. It’s ironic how no one knows but me, and maybe Sheila, why exactly he did what he did. Slick son of a bitch not only stole my wife. He claimed the legend I was supposed to inherit. Dying in combat, giving your life for the good of your friends and loved ones, that’s the highest sacrifice there is.
The act of flight does take willpower. You have to think about it. Maybe if I stepped into the air now and let myself fall, they’d find my body and decide it must have been the Hideous Beast. Ecklar and Debbie would keep my secret. Nate would think I died a hero. For all the decades to come, his last image of me would be in combat, protecting him.
More likely, I’d just drive a crater into the concrete and temporarily break a few bones.
Instead of testing my hypothesis, I stretch out my hands and reach for the air above me, and my body floats up, lifts like it has a thousand times. Call it what you want—the freedom suggested by flight, the liberation of breaking gravity’s hold, running away from my problems—it brings a certain exhilaration. I circle the city I’ve helped save a dozen times, and gradually my head clears. The dark mood that has a hold of me begins to fade. Nothing, essentially, has changed. Everybody forgets your screwups when you do something right. Ecklar and Debbie and Sheila, they’ve all forgiven me before, and they’ll forgive me again. I decide that later I’ll follow Jersey Devil and Bigfoot when they go to relieve Kid Cyclone and the Speedstress. I’ll stake out their stakeout and figure out how to
get to Bone Crusher.
I’m not feeling good, but my sense of hopelessness is diminishing. I decide that maybe the thing to do now is head for the zoo, come clean with Clyde and the rest of my Guardian comrades. Confession is good for the soul, and I want to go into my final mission with a clean conscience. This notion makes me feel even lighter, and I turn toward the sun and let it warm my face. But the sensation, though pleasant, is wrong somehow, and I reach for my cheeks. My fingertips touch skin. In my stupor earlier, I forgot to don my mask. For an instant I feel almost naked, and I think of flying back to the HALO. But then I remember what Titan said about nobody knowing who I am, and I think of all the cellphone shots of me, maskless, facing off against the Hideous Beast. Along with everything else, it seems the time for secret identities is coming to an end.
TEN
Questions from the Press. The Value of a Good Rooftop. Surveillance. The Problems with Accurate Prophecy. Brain Chemistry. Fixing the Future.
Approaching the zoo from the air, I see quite the commotion in the parking lot. There’s a small crowd of people held back by police barricades, four squad cars, a fire engine, and five news vans topped with satellite dishes. One is from KQEP, Sheila’s station back in the day. Everyone’s attention is focused on the entrance, where a gang of about a dozen reporters huddles. They’re all waiting for something, so nobody’s even looking my way when I drop to the asphalt behind them. A single figure emerges from the exit turnstiles, clad in gaudy yellow, and I take cover behind a freestanding porta-potty twenty feet back from the edge of the crowd. The civilians clamor, and the reporters surge forward to surround Clyde. Some snap pictures, while others aim shoulder-mounted cameras. They begin shouting questions, each one trying to drown out the next: “Where did the creature come from?” “Can you guarantee the public that the area is now safe?” “What do you know about the mystery hero?” Clyde holds up a hand to silence the reporters. A boom stick gets dangled just above his face. It looks like a baited hook.
“I have a brief statement, then I’ll entertain questions. Earlier today, a being of unknown origin with unknown but presumably hostile intentions appeared in the city’s skies over the Kingdom Town Zoological Gardens. It was repelled by a registered and licensed paranormal hero acting in close conjunction with—and under the authority of—the Guardians. There were no injuries and no loss of life. At this time our investigation is ongoing, and though we are on Stage Delta alert, there appears to be no immediate cause for concern. We have designated the combatant as the ‘Hideous Beast.’”
As soon as he stops speaking, the questions pour in again.
“What powers does the Hideous Beast possess?”
“Well, it could fly, obviously. We have reports of superstrength and bioenergy discharges.”
“Bioenergy discharges?”
“Laser beams,” Clyde says. “From its eyes. That’s unconfirmed.”
“Is it true it ate an okapi?”
“There was no confirmed loss of life, human or animal.”
“Are you saying the hero was one of the Guardian deputies?” This comes from Hal Hightower, the KQEP reporter who did that exposé on Gypsy at rehab. He included a hazy cellphone photo of her passed out next to a toilet.
Clyde knows the guy’s hostile to our cause. “The hero’s identity is confidential at this time. The Guardians train as a team and act as a team. He was here monitoring unusual energy readings and had tech support directly from the HALO. I want to emphasize that this encounter was not a random intervention but a carefully orchestrated and measured tactical strike. The public should be aware of our continued vigilance against unanticipated threats.”
I’m enjoying Clyde’s performance so much I decide to get in on the act. I step out from behind the porta-potty and start toward the impromptu press conference. Flying in would be more efficient, but I decide instead to walk among my people. I wade into the crowd, excusing myself politely. “That’s him!” a woman shouts when she sees my face. “He’s the one who saved us.”
That turns everyone toward me, and the crowd parts as I move through it. I shake a few hands, give a high five to a dreadlocked teenager. Someone pats me on the back. Even the reporters clear out of my way, and I stride up beside Clyde, whose face sours. I say, “Sorry I’m late, everybody.”
The reporters recognize my costume, and it’s a short woman in front who asks the obvious question: “Commander Invincible, why aren’t you wearing your mask?”
They wait for my answer, and I see the camera lenses aimed at me, feel the energy of the entire focused attention. “When the beast first appeared,” I tell them, “there was no time to change into my costume. Preserving my secret identity would have meant endangering lives. It was no choice at all. In truth, it’s been years since I maintained a civilian life.”
Hal Hightower says, “So this means the two children reported with you at the scene were Thomas and Nathan?”
The tabloid press has long had a fascination with children of superheroes. Sheila sued Weekly News when they published a photo of her nursing a three-day-old Thomas in the hospital. “My boys were with me,” I tell them. “But I’m going to ask you to continue to respect their privacy. I’m the public figure here, not them.”
“But why would you bring your children on a dangerous surveillance mission?”
“I didn’t,” I shoot back. “What kind of father do you think I am? We just came to the zoo today. That’s the kind of thing you do with your kids. It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I wanted to be with my kids.”
“Happy birthday,” the tiny woman says.
But Hal presses immediately. “So you weren’t at the zoo on the trail of the Hideous Beast?”
“No.”
“We just heard from All-Star that you were here on official Guardian business.”
I hesitate, and Clyde shoulders me to the side. He grins. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Commander Invincible and I differ on how much of our Guardian protocol should be made public. It’s a fair difference of opinion. But we both agree that today’s events show the need for continued vigilance, and we hope the Tucker Commission recognizes this.”
A reporter with a pad and pen, dressed in clothes from a different era, says, “Commander, any direct comment on the Tucker Commission?”
I think for a moment, then simply say, “I came up in the old school.”
“Does that mean you advocate rogue and unlicensed paranormal action?”
Clyde raises his hand. “My good friend may have suffered a concussion today as a result of his heroic actions. Frankly, he refused medical treatment simply to be here to answer your questions. His comments do not reflect the official position of the Guardians. This ends our press conference. Thank you for coming.”
Clyde takes my arm and turns to go. I stand where I am. “I don’t have a concussion. My mind is clear as a bell. I’m the picture of health.”
He leans into my ear and whispers, “You’re screwing up royally. Come with me. That’s an order.”
“An order?” I say. “That’s a kind of interesting word.”
Clyde blinks a few times, flashes a forced smile to the wall of reporters. I know he’s right, but he’s so goddamn righteous and smug. I’m done following a man like this. It belittles me. I look up into the clouds and try to pick a direction. Hightower raises a hand and says, “So, Commander, you’ve fully recovered from what happened in Biloxi?”
This brings my attention earthward again, to the mass of reporters and civilian. All of their eyes are tense. “People’s lives were in jeopardy,” I say, though I know it is a lie.
Clyde says, “I remind you that any action Commander Invincible took during Hurricane Juno was not part of his duties as a Guardian. Mississippi falls outside our jurisdiction, and this is not a matter we wish to comment on. I also wish to go on the record as saying that if indeed children were present today, that was without the authorization of the Guardians. We do not advocate child endangerment.”
; The shouted interrogatives come rapid-fire from the reporters, who crowd close around All-Star. But through the buzz of rage and dizziness I can’t decipher either their questions or Clyde’s answers, which register as gibberish. I wish I had my mask on. I know I’m going to fly away, and that this will make everything all the worse. But what I do first comes as a surprise. I pry off my Danger Ring and shove it through the throng of journalists at my fearless leader. “You’re a world-class asshole, Clyde,” I say. “And a shitty hero to boot. I quit.”
As I drift up, I can hear the cameras clicking behind me, but nobody’s asking any more questions.
This is a fine rooftop, here on this warehouse, neither too clean nor too dirty. Six stories up, I’m high enough that no one is likely to look up and see me crouching on the edge, and I feel removed and safe. At the same time, I’m low enough that I can pick up sounds, see the expression on people’s faces. The roof hasn’t been made over with gardens or turned into a fancy patio like all the tops on the north side, where once it was easy for a hero to find a temporary getaway. Graffiti stains the massive air-conditioning units and the concrete walls over by the entrance to the stairwell—huge, puffy letters that are all but unreadable. I can’t tell if the nearest one says die or Pie. A few empty beer cans roll back and forth with the early-evening breeze. There’s the skeleton of a solitary beach chair, the old fold-up kind with fabric strips woven together to form a seat. Beneath it, a pyramid of cigarette butts. I am not the only one who has found sanctuary here. But for now, thankfully, I am alone.
Below me on the street sits the black van that Jersey Devil and Kid Cyclone drove out of the parking garage I tailed them to earlier. When they left the HALO to begin their shift, I was waiting in the sky above them. There wasn’t a lot of cloud cover, and fortune put the setting sun at my back. But neither of them cleared his flanks. Neither one circled back to be sure they weren’t being followed on this supposedly covert operation. And after they picked up the van and arrived here, they honked the horn so that the Speedstress and Bigfoot, or whichever damn Guardian wannabe had the earlier shift, pulled their black van out and gave them the same parking spot. The younger generation has no style, no discipline. I shouldn’t blame them, though. They were raised in peacetime, and their softness makes perfect sense.
The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction) Page 16
