The Midlife Crisis of Commander Invincible: A Novel (Yellow Shoe Fiction)

by Neil Connelly

  In the middle of the city’s silhouette of skyscrapers, a pillar of fire scorches the dark sky. It’s as wide as an office tower spire and extends up a thousand feet, disappearing in the low clouds. Brilliant yellow and red flames roil, entwine. The things seems angry, almost alive. “Merciful Jesus,” Gypsy says, “that looks like the wrath of God.”

  “Close,” I say. “I think it’s my wife.”

  ELEVEN

  A Wife on Fire. Projectile Wedding Cake. Kid Cyclone Overreacts. Public Perception. The Weight of the Sanctified Christ.

  “This may not be helpful,” Gypsy says from my side as we fly. “But the possibility of capturing Bone Crusher is rapidly diminishing. The spectrum of outcomes collapses as we approach any given moment. Every second the future becomes more certain.”

  “Bone can wait,” I tell her. A mile ahead of us, the column of flame torches the night.

  “The whole plan depends on him,” she says.

  “Debbie could be in trouble,” I answer.

  In my heart, though, I know my wife does not need to be saved. Whatever is causing this fiery display, my guess it that it has little to do with her being in any jeopardy or distress. Clearly, my wife’s abilities have evolved in some way; she’s found a new level of intensity. I wonder how civilians are interpreting this event, if some are thinking it’s a strange natural phenomenon, while others guess it’s some sort of publicity stunt. No doubt many whisper prayers, seeing this as a sign of the end of days. As for me, my greatest fear is a simple one: in the same flat tone that Sheila once used, Debbie will explain that our union has reached its regrettable conclusion. The fire in the sky is an omen of the end of our marriage.

  As we near the pillar, I expect to see it rising from a parking lot or rooftop, but I’m wrong. The column hangs in open space, a hundred feet above the nearest skyscraper. The heat warms my face, even a quartermile out, and I slow down, hover beside Gypsy. The base of the inferno is too bright to look into, white-hot and broiling. Gypsy says, “So now what?”

  I’m thinking of an answer, trying to concoct a strategy, when the whole thing extinguishes, just blinks out like a blown birthday candle, and in the wake of such illumination I’m temporarily blind. But as my vision comes back, I see my wife hanging in midair. She is two hundred feet above me, glowing, her arms spread as if she were being crucified.

  “Stay here,” I tell Gypsy. She starts asking a question, but I don’t listen.

  As I ascend to my wife’s side, she watches me. Her eyes express no emotion and barely register recognition. Clearly, she’s in no danger. I say, “Impressive fireworks.”

  “I have to tell you something,” she says.

  “You must be exhausted. You want to pick a rooftop?”

  “I’m fine, Vincent. I feel strong.”

  “So all that was just to get my attention?”

  “Obviously, I couldn’t call you on the ring.”

  “Right.”

  “Look, the thing is, the truth is out about the zoo. A woman videotaped you and Menagerie. The footage is grainy, but it’s all over the news, along with your drama at that press conference. Nobody’s been able to find you, and people are saying you’ve gone off the deep end. Clyde is furious, says the team needs to divert attention before the news cycle ends.”

  “I don’t care about any of this,” I say. “I want to talk about us. Before, when we talked in bed, I didn’t—”

  “Clyde is going after Bone Crusher. Right now. And he’s not alone. Titan came in, suited up and everything. Plus Bigfoot, Kid Cyclone, Jersey Devil. All of them. It’s a goddamn circus, and Clyde is making noise about calling in some third-stringers. Ecklar and me, we tried to stop them.”

  “You tried to stop them?”

  “When we couldn’t, I didn’t know what else to do, so I just hoped you were somewhere you could see the burn.”

  “Why did you try to stop them?”

  “We’ve got to go, now. There’s still time. That’s Gypsy down there?”

  “Time to do what?”

  “Does she need to be in physical contact with Bone Crusher to read his mind?”

  “Ideally. But if she’s close, it’ll do.”

  “Then come on.” She extends an arm my way, weightless, for me to tow her.

  “Hold on,” I say. I don’t reach for her outstretched hand. “Just wait. Why are you doing this?”

  “There’s no time, Vincent. We’ve got to move.”

  My head is dizzy with the implications of all this. “You could’ve gone with the team. But you’re here.”

  She’s silent for a moment, then another. Her arms cross. “And what does that tell you?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  She looks disgusted. “And somehow my explanation, my words, that’s going to mean more to you than the act itself. I need to spell this out?”

  Behind my wife, the crescent moon seems close enough to touch. I tell her, “I’m tired and confused. I think spelling it out isn’t a bad idea.”

  Something flickers in her eyes, and my neck heats up. “Fine then.” She takes a breath. “You are my husband, and the father of my child, and I love you. I love who you are, I love the man you want to be, and I think the two are a lot closer together than you think. This plan you talked about—you and the original Guardians bringing in Chaos—is insane.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “But I believe in you.”

  My head goes light, and I have to concentrate to keep from tumbling from the sky. She’s said these words with a kind of defiance and anger, like a confession. I can’t imagine anything I would rather hear from her, but hearing them only makes me wonder why she feels this way—why, in the face of everything, she loves me still. Asking her for further explanation now would only bring about the return of the conflagration.

  Gypsy appears at our sides. “I hate to interrupt. But the time stream’s becoming quite firm.”

  I turn to her and say, “What?”

  “Bone Crusher is getting away.”

  “All right then,” Debbie says. She nods at Gypsy. “Let’s go.” She holds out a hand, and I reach for it. Deb can only levitate; she can’t fly on her own. But somehow it feels like she’s the one keeping me up.

  As the three of us approach the Metropolitan, we see the street is blocked off in both directions. On the sidewalk, police barricades hold back a small crowd, and two Guardian hovercars sit parked out front, right where you’d expect the limos to be. There are also a fire truck, three ambulances, and an armored assault vehicle.

  There are no masks outside, so we land close to the entrance and immediately head for the revolving doors. Uniformed police crisscross the lobby. Guests mob the front desk, and paramedics tend to a dozen people sitting against the far wall. Most of the wounded, I notice, are in tuxes or lime-colored gowns. It looks like that wedding party took the brunt of the excitement: the tiny bride holds an ice pack to her swollen face, and the groom’s ripped pants expose his bloody leg. Strange, but he’s wearing a Red Sox cap. A firefighter sits in a high-back chair, ax at his side, reading the newspaper. I grab the elbow of a passing cop. “Who’s in charge around here?”

  “Captain Jennings. But if you’re looking for your pals, try the Mallard Ballroom.” He points to his left.

  Debbie strides ahead and leads us down a hallway, past a series of elevators. Fist-sized char marks spot the wall, burns from All-Star’s starbursts, if I had to guess.

  Bigfoot’s at the doorway in his denim overalls, bulky arms crossed in front of his chest as if he were with the Secret Service or something. On a tripod next to him, a placard displays a plump red heart with the words stacy and Brendan. When Bubba sees us approaching, he looks around, hoping for someone to help him decide what to do. He holds up a calloused hand. “Hang on, now. I probably need some authorization for this.”

  “Authorize this,” I say, and I bump him out of our way with a shoulder. Bubba’s a punk but not stupid,
and clearly he recognizes Gypsy. Everybody in the business knows she can twinkle her fingers and turn someone’s mind to mashed potatoes.

  The ballroom looks, quite literally, as if a tornado struck. Round tables and folding chairs are overturned and scattered everywhere. The carpet is littered with instant cameras, shattered plates and glasses, hunks of food, exotic yellow flowers that I suppose were centerpieces. A group of capes are huddled around the head table; they don’t notice us. As the two of us cross the dance floor, we pass a huge disco ball dead center like a cracked metallic egg.

  Titan’s head lifts, and he steps away from the pack to meet us. “Grace, you shouldn’t be here.”

  Gypsy waves a hand dismissively. “Arthur, you can be so precious.”

  After throwing Bigfoot a dirty look across the ballroom, Clyde locks eyes with me. “This is a restricted area. You’ll have to leave.”

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  All the fight goes out of him. I look at Titan, who turns away, then to the other two capes in the room—the Jersey Devil and Kid Cyclone, who says, “It’s not my fault. The guy threw an ice sculpture at me. What was I supposed to do?”

  Titan can’t hide his disdain. “How about duck?”

  “You’re responsible for all this property damage?” I say. “Not bad for a rookie.”

  “The windstorm only lasted a minute or so,” J.D. explains.

  “Long enough,” Titan says.

  Debbie scans the room, shakes her head. “Tell me I’m wrong, Clyde. Tell me that with half the heroes in Kingdom Town, you didn’t lose one man.”

  Gypsy closes her eyes and tilts her head back slightly. It looks like she is praying.

  Clyde says, “We were diverted from our primary mission. Civilians were in danger.”

  “Right,” I say. “Flying debris. Projectile wedding cake.”

  J.D. gives me the finger. Debbie says, “Grow up.”

  “So why aren’t we in hot pursuit?” I ask.

  Titan shrugs. “He vanished in the chaos. The wedding guests stampeded out all four emergency exits, and he slipped away with the crowd. The Speedstress and the Ice Queen are sweeping the area, but face it, once he hit the street, he was gone. There’s three subway stops within two blocks.”

  Gypsy opens her eyes. “He’s not in this building.”

  “Where is he?” Clyde demands.

  “Gone,” Gypsy says. “Like Arthur said. That’s all I’m sure of.”

  “Shit, guys,” Kid Cyclone says. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Nobody cares,” I tell him.

  “Let me get you home,” Titan says to Gypsy, stretching an arm over her shoulder.

  She sidesteps it and keeps her distance. “My home’s a long way from here,” she says.

  Clyde raises his Danger Ring. “Ecklar, can you give me a ten-twenty on Blue Bloodhound?”

  Ecklar’s voice crackles through. “His taxi is stuck in midtown traffic. Currently at Fifth and Adams.”

  Clyde shakes his head. “Budget cuts are killing us. Titan, could you fly out and pick him up? That trail grows colder every second.”

  Titan hesitates, looks over at me and Gypsy, and I say, “I’ll get him.”

  “Negative,” Clyde says. “You’re no longer affiliated with the Guardians. This operation is not your concern, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave immediately.”

  “He’s so sweet, Arthur,” Gypsy says. “Where’d you find someone who sounds so much like you?”

  I try to stay grounded. “Look, Clyde, let’s put our bullshit to the side and catch the bad guy. You want to meet me after school in the parking lot, that’s fine. But for now, you need my help.”

  “Our help,” Debbie says, and her voice makes me go weak with tenderness. We are a team unto ourselves.

  “What I need,” Clyde says, “is for you to see the big picture. That stunt you pulled with Menagerie is being broadcast all over the country. The civilians already don’t trust us. Now they think we’re running hoaxes to win sympathy with the Tucker Commission. Fair warning, tomorrow I’m putting out a statement that disavows you entirely. I may even call your mental capacity into question. Stay as far away from the Guardians as you can. You’re through, you’re through, you’re through. I officially accept your resignation.”

  I start cataloging all the ways I could inflict bodily harm. Then a hand settles on my shoulder. I turn, and Debbie says, “Come on, we’re done here.”

  Though the idea of leaving with Deb, reunified by our righteous indignation, thrills me, we have to keep someone on the inside. “Stay with the team,” I say. “I’ll see that Gypsy gets back where she belongs.”

  My wife shakes off my suggestion, and she looks a bit betrayed. I tell her, “The people still need the Guardians. And the Guardians need you.”

  Titan steps forward. “I’m sorry about all this, Vincent. I had to do what I thought was best.”

  “Save it for your fans. You’ve always been a glory hound.”

  As I’m walking away with Gypsy, Clyde says, “Any attempt to interfere with the investigation will be considered a criminal act.”

  Just past the crashed disco ball, Gypsy bends and stretches for one of those yellow flowers. But her other hand, close to her body, reaches for a small hunk of ice, something that used to be a sculpted hand or wing. She touches it for an instant, lets her fingers rest on it with her eyes closed, then releases it. At the door, Bigfoot scowls at both of us. She gives him the flower and says, “Lighten up, son. You’ll live longer.”

  As we exit the hotel, I think we’re under attack for a second from the assault of flashbulbs and shouted questions. At least two film crews have begun rolling, and journalists I recognize from CNN aim microphones at me like weapons. Gypsy has a mind-sweeper spell, but these folks are just doing their jobs. She’s actually the one who takes flight first, and I follow, leaving behind an unhappy mix of paparazzi and press. It’s only after we’re in the air that I realize we’re heading north instead of south. I pull up beside her, and she cracks a sly smile. “This way.”

  At every intersection she pauses, closes her eyes, and faces each direction, as if feeling for the sun’s warmth on her cheeks. Then she floats one more block, pauses again. After three or four turns, she says, “I’m surprised I can still do this. Of course, we may end up at the caterer’s for all I know.”

  Just a couple blocks later, she finds herself turning back down the way we just came.

  “Did you lose the trail?” I ask, worried about how strongly an aura imprints on ice.

  But Gypsy shakes her head. “Bone’s here. Somewhere on this street.”

  We descend to the sidewalk and go building to building. At each doorway she hesitates, holds out one open palm, then moves on. We pass a boarded-up brownstone, a two-story Syrian restaurant with harp music floating out, a building with scaffolding rising up its exterior and a sign promising COMING SOON, TRUE BANKING FOR THE PEOPLE! An old stone church with a tall steeple occupies the corner lot, and it’s here that Gypsy stops. We push back the creaking black gate, follow a path through unkempt grass, overgrown bushes. On the message board is the name Church of the Sanctified Christ, and black, blocky letters:

  PRAY FOR REVEREND PITCHFORD

  FOR SALE

  For a minute I think it’s some clever play on words, like “What’s missing from ch——ch?” but then I realize that the place really has been abandoned.

  We climb the dozen stone steps, watched by a larger-than-life statue of Christ directly overhead. He stands in an alcove with His arms raised. One hand holds up two fingers; the other is missing altogether. Above Him is a huge circular window, stained glass. At the double doors, something like you’d expect at a castle, Gypsy points to the fresh wood of the splintered lock. She nods at me once, and I hold up my hand. “Stay,” I mouth. I ease back the door and enter the church.

  The floor is completely dark, as if I’m walking in black space. But along the walls, streetlights leak th
rough the stained glass, illuminating dim, colorful saints in acts of great kindness or torture. The images seem to be projected into the air.

  I wait for my eyes to adjust enough that I’m sure he’s not sitting in the pews or kneeling in front of the statue of Mary. I work my way down the aisle like some timid bride, squinting along the kneelers, eyeing the chandeliers overhead. When I reach the altar, I turn back, scan the choir loft, and stand still. The idea that maybe Gypsy had it wrong drifts through my head. Then I hear a low murmuring off to the side, the hushed whisper of prayer. I turn to the twin curtains of the confessional, twenty feet away.

  “Bone?” I say. And the murmuring stops. “I don’t want to fight in a church. Let’s agree to step outside.”

  The curtain gets yanked back, and Bone emerges. He is wearing his doorman’s outfit, complete with epaulets. He looks like a steroidal bellboy. “Didn’t see you back at the hotel, Commander.”

  “I wasn’t with them. An ambush like that, it’s not my style.”

  “Is everyone all right?” he asks. “There was a wedding party.”

  “I saw a few bloodied heads but no covered bodies.”

  “Thanks be to Jesus.”

  The sincerity in his voice is obvious, and I wonder when he got religion. Like Magus, another ex-villain turned true believer. I move down the pew he’s standing by, so that its scrolled wooden end is all that separates us. “I’m sure God would want you to come peacefully.”

  He gazes into the empty ceiling, waiting perhaps for word from the Almighty. “I don’t think you’re strong enough to make me do that.”

  We take stock of each other, gunfighters in the dusty road. “That’s what we’ll find out, I guess. Out front?”

  “Sure thing. Mind if I finish my prayer first?”

  “What are you praying for?”

  “My kids.”

  “I didn’t know you were a dad.”

  “I got three. Two girls and a son. My boy Clayton is sick, but he’s a fighter. Way tougher than me.” Bone eases back a kneeler and settles down, tips his thick head into his folded hands.