He decided to steer clear of the chemical supply closet.
Chem had to determine the catalyst. It must have been the benzene-like compound that caused Elijah’s transformation. The question was, how did it get there, and what triggered the manifestation? If he could answer these problems, Chem would be able to not only recreate Elijah Branton, but also control the effects of the serum on the human condition.
The next matter at hand was whether or not he could make designer serums that could create diverse enhancements. Whatever was going on in the body of his new friend, it literally changed his molecular makeup and transformed its substance. In principle, it was reasonable to assume that if some formula of chemical compound could make a superstrong metal man, then it could also make someone supersmart, superfast, or maybe even invisible. Figure out the foundations, and the possibilities could be limitless.
A few minutes into his work, Chem’s concentration was broken by a vibration in his pocket.
A text from Willa.
He’s gone. And pissed. Thinks we’re messing with him.
Chem couldn’t help but smile. Branton was smart, and wholeheartedly committed to empirical evidence. They were just going to have to provide him with some.
Not a problem. I got this.
He stuffed the phone in his pocket, shut down the machines, and turned to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“How could you be so damned stupid, Willa? You operated publicly? Where anyone could see you? For an intelligent young woman, your density is astounding.”
Her grandfather shouted across the table, drops of angry spit landing in their coffees. Willa had hoped that by meeting outside of his private office she could avoid a confrontation like this.
The diner was packed with college students, grabbing a bite before night classes began. A few heads turned, but an oddly animated old man was not uncommon in Oakland.
“What did you expect me to do? Nothing?”
His face grew brighter red than she had ever seen. She half-expected smoke to shoot out of his ears, Yosemite Sam-style. For a brief moment, the magician considered trying a reasoning spell on her grandfather.
She knew it would never work.
“That. Is. Exactly. What. You. Should. Do.” Every word was a dagger. His forehead wrinkled, as his eyebrows scrunched down toward the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been telling you this for as long as you’ve had your powers. Yours came early. Mine didn’t manifest until my PhD program, until I had gained some maturity.” Edwin slouched back in the booth. She had never seen him exhibit poor posture before. “I studied poetry for the love of verse itself, its utility unknown to me. When you demonstrated abilities in your youth, I knew I had to step in—the danger was too great. I didn’t want you to ignore the gift, but I care too much to see you get hurt.” He paused, catching his breath. “And you involved one of your students. He could have been killed. Did you ever consider that?”
Willa’s eyes were focused downward. She thought about Sean and the sight of him being pummeled by the monster. If it weren’t for my spell…
She watched her index finger circle the thick lip of the diner mug. “I know, Grandpa.”
“No, Willa. You don’t. You think you’re informed, wise even,” he said calmly, but with resolve. “But you know nothing. That’s how we all begin.”
She looked up and waited for him to continue.
“All of your life, Willa, you’ve been protected from certain truths. Sheltered. First by your father, then by me. But it is time for you to know. He’ll hate that I am telling you this, but apparently you distrust my warnings. Maybe the truth will grant you caution.”
Willa’s eyes were now glued on her grandfather. “I’m a grown woman.”
“That won’t make this any easier. On either of us.” The old man bit his lip, then took a sip of his tepid brew. “It’s about how your mother died.”
“I know how she died. It was a freak accident.”
Edwin pursed his lips. “Freak, yes. Accident, not at all.
“When I was your age, when all of this was still dark and full,” he swept his hand through his hair and over his beard, “I was a lot like you. I was finishing my dissertation by day, and learning the craft of magic by night. I was good, but I lacked a guide.”
Willa nodded, but she wanted him to just get to the point.
“I lived in an attic apartment over the house of an old couple. What was their name?” He paused for what felt like an eternity. “It escapes me. When the world slept, I would get to work on my true love. I memorized poems and explored their deeper magic. I got very good, very fast.” The man took a sip of coffee. “You’re in that time now. I started asking the questions that you consider most apt. What use was either of the guilds—magic or faculty—if they didn’t make a difference in the world? If I couldn’t help people? The answer I came up with at the ripe old age of twenty-six was: nothing. So, in my infinite wisdom, I started to walk the streets at night, looking to make use of the benign verses swimming in my head.
“I’d love to be able to tell you with a straight face that it was altruistic—that I only want to save the world. But that would be a half-truth. And half-truths are as nefarious as damned lies. The reality of my nighttime escapades was clear to me; I longed for the manifestation of power. Not the power that can be used in an upper room away from the world, but a power that could change it.”
Willa had heard her grandfather speak millions of words during her lifetime. But none of them captured her as much as these.
“I hadn’t yet met your grandmother; I had no other family to speak of. I was unattached—the perfect vigilante. I still remember the first night I used the words and experienced the life of the hero. It was cold, a typical February night in Pittsburgh. I must’ve walked for miles that night, on the lookout for trouble. It wasn’t until a few hours after the third shift that I found it—or it found me. The story was relatively uneventful—a few young mill workers hassling some girls outside of a bar—but it provided the perfect opportunity for me to flex my muscle.
“I’d been rehearsing poems, three poems, which would give me options in a situation such as the one I stumbled into. I approached those guys and told them to go take a hike. They looked at me, a scrawny academic, and laughed. Their inebriation was fully evident. One of them, a barrel-chested brute, spat curses at me that I had never heard before. I asked them again, politely of course, to desist. That’s when one of them took a swing that gave me this charming bend in my nose.”
Edwin removed his glasses to better display his battle scar. Willa had always wondered how he attained that particular imperfection.
“I had warned them twice, and it seemed that I—and maybe these girls—were in danger. That was sufficient justification. I knew exactly which spell to use and I was positive it would work. So I started chanting:
“Do not be testing me as if I were some ineffectual
boy, or a woman, who knows nothing of the works of warfare.
I know well myself how to fight and kill men in battle…”
“Is that from Homer?” Willa asked, ignoring the sexism in her grandfather’s poem.
“Good,” her grandfather said, his eyes smiling. “It was simple, only took three lines. Suffice it to say I paid back their discourtesy, and then some.”
Her grandfather laughed a deep laugh. “It’s what I was made for. Or so I thought.”
Willa enjoyed the story. Rarely had her grandfather spoke so openly about his past. But she was growing impatient; the disturbing truth had yet to reveal itself. “Okay, so what does this have to do with me, with my mom?”
“The context is everything, Willa. That night marked the beginning of the end. I marched home, victorious—a one-man parade. The power was intoxicating. You know that feeling, don’t you? Last night, you felt that sublimity. You want more.”
Willa didn’t break eye contact, nor did she answer. The question was rhetorical. The old man alread
y knew the truth of those words. He was able to see inside of her, though she didn’t know how.
“That night began my righteous crusade to save the city. Sure, it started with a couple of drunk kids outside of a bar, but it escalated quickly. During that time I lived a dual life, teaching during the day, writing papers and poems, but fighting crime at night. Naturally, things got harder when I met your grandmother. It wasn’t long before I shared with her my secret life. She was a practical woman. Your grandmother encouraged me along the path.”
His eyes lost focus—bewitched, for a moment, by sweet nostalgia. But the moment couldn’t last.
“It’s time, Grandpa. Tell me about my mom.”
The old man stared off into an empty corner of the diner. “I thought I was a hero for a long time. The night work came and went, I committed myself to bigger jobs. I stepped out of it as we raised your dad. Family was always important, and I never abandoned my first calling as an academic.
“Maybe there is no true way to make a long story short, but I’ll try. Our kids were out of the house, your mom and dad had gotten married. I was starting to wonder about my purpose in the dusk of my life. I’m not sure if it was to right wrongs, or to feel the power again, but I started researching the city, I plumbed the depths of its ills, and considered what I could do.
“Industry towns breed industry men. And industry men are nothing if not practical. While many believed that Pittsburgh had reached a pinnacle, it was obvious to some of us that the city had lost its soul. As you know, people with powers have a way of finding one another. There was a small group of us, meeting over drinks. Most of us, like you and yours it seems, were faculty members.”
“Why?” Willa asked.
The old man shook his head. “Chicken and the egg. Chicken and the egg. Had we developed powers because of our disciplines, or moved towards disciplines because of our powers?” Edwin threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think I’ll ever really know. But in my day, an inordinate number of champions walked the halls of the Academy.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. A group of us, from different fields, and different ways of life, had come together with a single purpose. Our group of heroes—we even called ourselves that, if you can imagine—looked more like the original University than anything we might find today. Sure, we were specialists, but we were working across the disciplines. Speaking the same language. Our fight against evil in the 80s was a long one. I saw friends die. I myself came close—a few times. Your grandmother made peace with my calling, as did I. To die fighting for what was right, for Pittsburgh, would have been an honorable death. As I said, that’s the mark of the hero. But evil men knew our weakness, our vulnerabilities. I started getting threats that were directed at my family. They knew the way. They had done it many times.”
The old man removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Willa had never seen her grandfather cry; this was likely the closest she would come. “It was some damn thing. Your grandmother, she went to synagogue. She loved her religion. We—the faculty heroes—had an important meeting on the North Side. Your mom needed a little getaway—a night alone. You were a bit of a handful, if you can believe it. Your dad said he would watch you so she could rest, so she made use of the spare key we lent her and came over.” He paused. She could hear him swallow from across the table. “Your mother’s death certainly looked like a freak accident. But the ill intent behind it was evident to me. They made it look like a common burglary gone wrong, but we all knew there was nothing common about that night—about your mother’s murder.”
Edwin cleared his throat. Willa gave him space. It was only then that she realized she wasn’t merely crying, but tears were pouring down her cheeks, making dark splotches on her blue blouse. The moment was surreal, the story made sense of so many things. As the reality of the situation sank in, her heart began to race.
Her entire life was changed.
Murdered. My mom was murdered, she repeated again and again.
The old poet–magician inhaled deeply. “Your dad knew you were in the line. But after that night he rejected me. He took you and left, acquired a safe career in a safe place. We haven’t spoken much since.”
The old man wiped his eyes; the story had taken its toll. “Funny how one can be so damned smart, work at learning all their lives, and never truly be wise. I’ll never forgive myself for my decisions. But, I can atone for my mistakes by saving you. You’re the only thing I have left. That’s why you need to listen to me.”
A pile of damp napkins had gathered in front of Willa. Her red eyes turned up from the table and found her grandfather’s. “You didn’t know.”
A closed mouth grin came over his face. “That’s where you’re wrong. And it’s the worst part of the story. Deep down, I did. And now you know, Willa. What are you going to do with that knowledge?”
He reached across the table and took her hand in his. The single most intimate gesture he’d ever presented. He paused, licked his lips, and said, “Stay in the guild. Love the magic, practice it. Love the words, teach them, and write them. But don’t meddle in the affairs of the world. You’re okay to sacrifice your life for the good of society? Fine. You’re a hero. But are you willing to sacrifice those whom you love?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Steel is one of the biggest problems with studying industry in a place like Western Pennsylvania.”
Elijah Branton never sat to lecture. He’d learned from his mentor that such a posture was unbecoming of a faculty member. Oddly, the historian had given up on nearly every other aspect of teaching excellence except that one. He had refused to teach sitting down, until that day. Every inch of his body ached.
“Western Pennsylvania, thanks to your rivers, became the gathering place of many different industries. Not just our beloved steel.” Elijah looked at the class. It was about half the size as the first day; clearly they had noticed that he never took attendance. “Can anybody name another major industry of 19th century Western Pennsylvania?”
The zombies stared back at him. Elijah was amazed just how much money they paid to take up space in a classroom. Two of his three homeschoolers were still in the front row. One had given up.
“I’ll give anyone here an A if they can just tell me one other major industry.”
Heads popped up, like groundhogs from their holes. A sleeper in the back row raised his hand.
“Yes, Alex.”
“It’s Adam.”
Elijah grimaced. “Whatever.”
“I’ll take a shot. Computers?” It was more of a question than an answer.
Elijah buried his face in his hands. “You do know what the 19th century is, right, Adam?”
Half the class laughed. The other half looked up from their phones.
“One is china,” Elijah said. “Premium china was made in towns surrounding Pittsburgh. If it got much bigger, your beloved football team may have been called the Pittsburgh Potters.” No laughs, though he paused for them. “Just over 30 miles down the Ohio there’s a smaller river called the Beaver River. Up the Beaver sat a china factory in 1870s called Mayor China. The principal potter there was trained at Syracuse University, apprenticed in New Jersey, and eventually made his way to Western PA. The company was initially run by the Harmony Society—a religious group that settled in the area. Does anyone know what the Harmony Society was known for?”
Crickets.
“The Harmonists were committed to celibacy, which is why we don’t find many of them today. Mayor China had quite a following; its cups and dishes and plates can be found all over the world.”
Julie, the girl who gave him a cigarette, raised her hand. Elijah nodded. “So, what does any of this have to do with Research Methods?”
Elijah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. His back was strained, and the girl renewed his craving for tobacco. “Great question, Julie.” He emphasized the name, proud that he had remembered it. “I tell the story of Mayor China because one of the most important th
ings to know in research, particularly research in history, is that the majors distract us from the minors. There are tens of thousands of peer-reviewed papers on the Pittsburgh steel industry. Do you know how many were written about Mayor China?”
Elijah stared at the girl waiting for a guess. She shook her head.
“Two,” the adjunct said. “One of them was written by me.” He smiled. “I’ve written fifty percent of the articles on that company. Next class we’ll talk more about the majors and the minors and why exactly majoring in the minors can get you somewhere. See you on Thursday. I hope you all have an average day.”
****
A cough came from the back end of the Subaru as he turned the key and pressed the gas. It had sat for over a month. Between public transportation and his ride-alongs with Rex, Elijah didn’t have much use for his car. He was happy to let it sit. But he didn’t want to explain his injuries to the oversized driver or listen to sports talk radio.
Traffic was light on I-376 heading out of town. Elijah missed Boston, but he certainly didn’t miss the traffic. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and tapped Jelana Novak’s address into his phone. Novak was the daughter of a man who’s been a steelworker in the early days of the 20th century. Several days’ worth of phone calls to local ethnic clubs finally landed him her information.
The Subaru eased up to the curb in front of a run-down two-story home in Homestead. Elijah leaned his weary body on the railing, as he climbed the three steps toward the porch. He rapped his knuckles on the solid wooden door. While waiting, he took in the neighborhood. It was classic Pittsburgh: tight homes, Steelers flags, and chairs saving on-street parking spots. The sight made him homesick, though he couldn’t determine why.
The door open behind him. The historian turned, surprised to find a beautiful twenty-something standing in the doorway. Elijah looked down at his paper and up at the numbers over the door. “Hi. Um, is Ms. Novak here?”
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