Superman's Cape

by Brian Spangler

  She looked at her husband and grappled with his words and tried to hold the memories of that day behind the wall she’d built up.

  “Chris --” Sara started, “-- it was so painful. It’s still painful. You don’t know what it’s been like.” She directed her eyes to the four corners of the trailer. Chris followed Sara’s gaze. Regret and pain crept over him. Regret for having taken his hands from his boys. He was sorry for all of it. And to see what had become of his family made him regret it even more. He turned back to Sara and said, “I think I’m here because he owes us. I’m here to get Kyle.”

  “Please, just get our boy!” she surrendered, and forfeited the fight to hold back the storm circling her eyes. Sara broke down and finally cried as Chris’s welcome hands fell around her and then were joined by their son Jonnie.

  The sound in the trailer broke, causing each of them to jump. The knocking from the outside was followed by the voice of the Captain.

  “Ms. Connely?” he asked, calling inside.

  “Ms. Connely?”

  Sara let go of Chris and Jonnie and then turned to the door, and replied, “Please … Please, come in.”

  As the Captain opened the door, wet cold air reached into every part of the trailer. It touched the corners and swept the floors and ceilings while gripping Chris, Sara and Jonnie. To Chris, the size of the Captain gave him a second to pause. A memory of the tall man who killed him flashed in front of his eyes. He turned away for a minute and waited for the memory to fade. When the door closed, Chris saw both Captain Saunders and Officer Richards were standing inside.

  The beginnings of a rain storm added its own complement to their clothes. The Captain looked down at his feet to see the water and dirt the two men dragged in. He rolled his eyes and mouthed the word oops and then apologized. Sara waved it off and stood up, leaving Chris and Jonnie. Walking past the men to the kitchen, she pulled a few of the kitchen towels from a drawer and handed them to the men.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Captain Saunders said while mopping the rain from his face.

  “Biz Bop,” Sara replied, looking at the Captain while handing Officer Richards a kitchen towel of his own.

  “Quite right, Ma’am. Thank you,” the Captain said in a crooked smile as he continued to dry his face.

  As Officer Richards did the same, his eyes moved towards Chris and Jonnie on the floor. Chris nodded back to the Officer. But Chris recognized the inquisitiveness and caution he saw in the Officer’s face as both now surveyed what was in front of them.

  Officer Richards stepped around the Captain and towards Chris and Jonnie. “Ma’am, is everything okay? Do you need any help?”

  Sara looked to Chris and her son, then back to the Captain and Officer Richards, “Everything is fine … Mr. Hanson fell ill -- ” she started then turned her eyes to Chris, “ -- his co-workers will be coming back soon to pick him up --”

  “You mean the WJL-TV van?” the Captain interrupted with concern as his eyes darted from Chris back to Sara then to Chris again.

  And as if on cue, the thumping from Jacob began. Jacob tore his knuckles on the door, knocking again and again. Chris could only vaguely understand what it was he was yelling. He heard the names Jill and Steve. He heard the name Andy. He even heard Sara and Kyle’s name. Most of what Chris heard, or felt, was the knocking. It rattled his teeth as he pressed the palm of his hand against his temple with hope of squashing the sound.

  “That’s right,” Chris said in a flat tone -- his voice sounding strange, sounding like Jacob’s.

  “Bitch’s wind,” Captain Saunders said glumly and dabbed the towel against his forehead.

  Sara frowned. Turning back to the Captain, she asked, “I’m sorry?”

  “Apologies -- what I mean is, all the rain from the other day loosened up the soil. Loosened it up bad. And now with the winds from Hurricane Dani, the ground gave out. Wind pushed over one of the bigger trees lining your drive just off the main road.”

  Officer Richards added, “when the tree fell, it landed on the WJL-TV van while the van was coming up the drive.”

  Chris sat up, a strange feeling of concern turned his insides. Unfamiliar faces of people he didn’t know, but whose names he recognized, jumped in front of his eyes.

  “Is everyone all right? Steve and Jill?” he asked raising his voice: Jacob’s voice.

  “We’ve got some folks heading over there now.”

  Sara put a hand to her mouth as she let out a small gasp. “I hope nobody was hurt,” she exclaimed, and walked back to Chris before taking a seat on the couch.

  “There is another problem,” the Officer stated, and then motioned his eyes to the kitchen table and the chairs.

  “Please do,” Sara offered, raising her hand to the table for the men to sit. The men moved inside and as they walked around the kitchen table, the small space of the trailer filled with the smell of the storm’s rain and their wet gear.

  “We’ve started the Governor-ordered evacuation. However, there are still a handful of us left. But with that tree down, and the way the van is locked up with it, we’ve lost our only way to the main road. We won’t be able to leave.”

  Sara and Chris looked at each other. Chris turned to the clock on the wall and back to Sara. He needed her to see the time. He needed her to know that storm or no storm, their son was dying. Kyle was going to die unless he got to his feet and did something now.

  “Bring your people in here -- we’ll wait the storm out together,” Sara interrupted, and caught Jonnie as he dropped himself onto the seat cushion next to her.

  Sara gave Chris a look to acknowledge the time, but then shocked him when she continued, “Captain -- please, what about Kyle?” she started and then rushed what she wanted to say. “I know this is going to sound strange. And I know you don’t have to believe us. But I think there is a good possibility we know where he is.”

  Officer Richards straightened his shoulders and looked to Chris and Sara and then to his Captain, “Ms. Connely, what is it you’re trying to say?”

  Almost immediately, there was tension in the room. A nervous rally became unleashed in Chris’s belly. Sara’s face turned to a look of concern and maybe regret about what she said. These were dangerous grounds the four of them were approaching. His muscles sipped on the adrenaline that was beginning to course through his arms and legs and mind. He knew the questions and answers could go in one of two directions. The first, a question or two with genuine interest and ending in disbelief or maybe even pity. The second, a full set of lengthy questions. These he feared the most. They would kill his son. Chris needed to steer the direction in their favor. No feelings spared. His heart jumped up and down in a nervous flutter. Before he could think of what to say, his mouth was moving.

  “I’m not sure if either of you recognize me from TV? I do the weather?” Chris beckoned with a smile, bringing his hand up and waving it under his face as though presenting a living version of the WJL-TV billboard posted not far from the station. Officer Richards and the Captain turned their eyes to Chris. The two nodded in agreement as the Captain replied, “Sure … but what has that to do with Ms. Connely’s boy?”

  Chris shifted in his seat as sweat beaded his brow. “Well, what isn’t very well known about me is that I,” he started then paused to take a breath. “I can sometimes find people. Missing people, that is,” he finished as his voice trailed away to nothing.

  The men looked at each other, their eyes proposing some consideration as brows rose and agreements suggested.

  “And exactly how do you find missing people?” Officer Richards asked. Chris tried not to smile. He’d baited the hook and felt a bite.

  “I see them,” Chris answered awkwardly, and motioned to the side of his head.

  When the men stared long enough, Chris continued. “In here!” he said louder as he tapped his fingers on his head.

  “Shit’s rain,” the Captain muttered, and stood up and walked to the door of the trailer. Bait taken, Chris con
sidered and held his smile.

  “Well, thank you for that information -- we’ll be sure to call on you if needed,” Officer Richards followed up and then stood to join his Captain at the door.

  “Ma’am, hurricane or not, we’re not giving up on finding Kyle,” the Captain started. Fixing an annoyed glance at Chris, he continued: “we’ve got a pretty good idea of where he is, too.”

  “Will my boy get through this hurricane?” Sara asked, looking first to the Captain and then to Officer Richards before ending with Chris.

  “I am praying for him and I am praying this weather lifts so we can do our job. Off the record, I think a few of us are going to keep working right through this. That being said, we do have a hurricane coming and we are stuck and while not the best scenario, I’d like to ask your permission to fit some folks in here with you. The rest of us will stay in our vehicles when or if it gets to be too dangerous,” Captain Saunders explained.

  “Sure, anything. Whatever you think is going to be safest.”

  Officer Richards nodded and then added, “We’re going to pull all the vehicles together. Side by side. Bumper to bumper. With them gathered tight, we can sit in the middle and stay relatively safe.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Chris offered but received a dismissive glance from the men. They continued their discussion with Sara for a few more minutes before leaving the trailer.

  As the men left, a wave of nausea hit Chris. He doubled over. The sight in front of him swung violently from ceiling to walls to floor. When he tried to stand, his lungs emptied in one breath. He gasped to replace what was missing and knew at once he was running out of time. He could feel the time. It was later than it should be. Too much of it had passed. An urgency compelled him to move. Voluntary or not, he was going to move. Urgency grew stronger the longer he stayed in the trailer. His skin crawled with anxiety. His blood burned and itched from the inside-out. He had to leave now if there was to be any chance of saving Kyle. Outside, I need to be outside, he screamed inside his head. The woods. I have to go to the woods.

  As he got to his feet, the room tilted sideways then righted itself. It was then that he understood how unfamiliar with standing he really was. If standing was this much of an issue, then how would he be able to walk, let alone run or climb or carry his son back to safety?

  “God, give me strength,” he said soft enough for Jonnie to hear. A commotion distracted him. Sara threw her hands up then down and deep into the ‘LUL-LUF’ box, racing through its contents. Her arms disappeared up to her elbows. A moment passed and, like a magician, she pulled one of Chris’s jackets from the box. It was his favorite football jacket. She ran to him, dressing the jacket across his shoulders and helped him thread his hands through the holes of the sleeves. She hurried the task as though the urgency in him were contagious like a flu that now infected her. Before Chris could leave, he turned toward Jonnie tugging on his jacket.

  “Daddy --” he started, and tugged once more “-- it didn’t save you, daddy. But it will save Kyle,” Jonnie finished as he stretched onto the tips of his toes to offer Chris his Superman’s Cape.

  Chris’s heart filled and his knees weakened, “I will. I will take it to him,” he answered and then leaned over to meet Jonnie’s upturned face and kissed him one last time.

  “He’s right! Jonnie is right. It will save Kyle,” Sara followed up, her eyes wide and almost frantic. “Take it – Take it,” she repeated as she helped pull Chris up and shoved the blanket into his jacket.

  “Find my boy!” Sara commanded, then grabbed Chris’s face in her hands and pulled it towards hers. “Find our boy.” Sara landed her mouth on his and kissed him long and hard before helping him to the door to bring Kyle home.

  35

  Kyle was sure Death had his eyes on him. He wondered why Death didn’t take him yet. Maybe he was waiting for something to happen or maybe he was just mean or ill-spirited. In any case, Kyle knew the inevitable and felt Death watching.

  The rattle in his chest was deep and it hurt. He had to shorten his breath to avoid it. Death Rattle, he thought and wondered where he’d heard that phrase. He tried to breathe shallow and turned a corner of his broken mouth. I need air. Can’t catch it, Kyle thought, pressing his hand against his chest. His lungs rattled and punched and clawed like a jagged tickle made up of nails and glass. He wheezed and tried to relax, but his body demanded more. It was all he could do to try and control the pain. And when there was no stopping it, he pulled hard and drank in the chilly taste of air. He inhaled heavy and felt his lungs fill. He pulled it past whatever it was that was building and hurting. Something broke inside and Kyle coughed up the salty remains of a new lung puck to chew on before sending it back down to recycle it. He relaxed. His breathing stretched with more pulls that were deep and far apart.

  Spew, he wondered, trying to think of what his doctor once called it. No, not spew -- sputum was the word. Puke-in … Sputum, he joked to himself and then mumbled a laugh at the name. He laughed past the fever. Past the pain of his broken face and the smell of his infected arm and the rot of his feet. He laughed at the name until he started to cry. He wondered if Death was standing or kneeling next to him and laughing along. Was Death playing jokes with his breathing and laughing while holding a stopwatch and counting the time until it was over. All over. Kyle raised his hands in the air and pranced his fingers up and down in a rhythm to the sound of the name. He repeated the words in a menagerie of rhyme, laughing and crying.

  “Duke-in -- stutum … duke-in -- stutum … duke-in -- stutum,” Kyle sang and laughed and cried some more to the sound of what came out of his mouth.

  “Hey George, ya around, I’n duke-in -- stutum,” he yelled out into the darkness.

  Kyle stopped singing when he heard a branch breaking through the trees. He froze in place and waited. A moment later and he heard the large branch crash to the ground. The sun was gone and the air was wet. Heavy rains had chased the drizzle out of the woods as though strong-arming its way in for an extended stay. They drenched every tree and threatened to flood the grounds if they decided to overstay their welcome. He tried to see the tree tops, but only saw the silhouette of branches and leaves against stormy gray skies. He watched the arguments between the tops of the trees. The winds bullied them into another exchange, ending with a loud thud. It was closer. He thought a large branch might fall on him. And he wondered if that was what Death had in store for him. Something quick. But he doubted it.

  “George – ya around?” he asked, half expecting to see his friend join him on the floor of the woods. He thought in his last hours he might see George’s bobbing head. He half hoped his friend would participate in some philosophical discussion he’d seen his parents enjoy on Saturday nights. He’d see them sipping glasses of wine. Later there might be three or four more glasses before he and Jonnie were shuffled off to bed. He’d hear his parents continue their discussions about the different things grown-ups liked to talk about. And then later, he’d hear them making love. And sometimes he’d giggle, but most times he’d just fall asleep knowing all was right with the world.

  But the only sound he heard was more clashes of tree bark from branches above him. Kyle dragged his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. The pins and needles that hollowed his legs to mere mannequin stumps, shallowed to a dull and empty ache. He pulled his legs in anyway in an attempt to fight the chill that was shaking every part of him.

  “George -- not sure if you’re there, I’n sick … I’n really sick,” Kyle said in a breath that came out in chunks as another lung puck landed on his tongue. Sputum, he thought again and put on a weak smile while he raised his hand and spat the lung puck into the middle of his palm. The glob floated on his hand. Threads of bright red blood ran along the edges like a creek or spring cutting through the woods. He wondered if it would move. He wondered if there were maggots inside it or maybe they were in his lungs. He poked the glob in his palm again as though threatening it, daring
it to poke back, daring it to jump to the floor of the woods and run away from him. Kyle peeked in on the class of maggots in the Boar cut and saw only the vaguest motion of them beneath his skin. The Boar cut was crusting over again, amidst swelled flesh that he could smell. Heck, the forest could smell it.

  “Dang,” he muttered, and knew the infection in his lungs was a bad one. He couldn’t bring himself to eat the lung puck. His heart wasn’t in it. He tossed it to the ground and waited for it to run away from him. But it didn’t. It didn’t do anything.

  “Kinda going green just like ny school,” Kyle told the trees around him, and started to cry again, only he didn’t know why. He didn’t know if it was the fever, or if it was because his lungs hurt or if Death was causing the clouds in his mind that grew gray and dark like the ones above the trees. Kyle thought the infections were spreading into his blood and his brain. He was filling up with infected leftovers that eroded his thoughts. He sobbed.

  Kyle Connely wondered if it was time to roll over and die. “Roll ober and Die,” he mumbled, just like the bullies at school sometimes spat in the cafeteria when stealing your last handful of french fries. Eff off, Roll over and Die, they’d say and laugh while you secretly wished to see them choke on the stolen fries.

  Kyle waited for Death’s hand to lay a bony grip on him. Not just because it was time, but because it was the right thing to do. The merciful thing to do.

  “Dad,” Kyle asked as his lungs revolted and threw a lung puck which he struggled to swallow down.

  “Dad … can you hear ne?”

  “Dad … I’n done,” he mumbled while easing his back onto the pine needle floor. He rolled over and tightened his curl into a fetal position. He opened his eye once and then closed it a final time. He didn’t care that he was wet or cold. He didn’t care that he lay onto his side where the Boar cut pressed against pine needles. Even the hunger, and the pain in his face and arm, seemed to be an old memory that faded like the bumble-bee paint on Beasty. He didn’t care that the rain and the winds grew stronger and that they were pushing down on his body. He ignored the fever in him and the chills that caused him to shake and clench and pee in his pants. He half hoped that the rattle and tickle stabbing his side would throw another lung puck that would get lodged in his windpipe. He thought he’d leave it there. He’d leave the green infected plug where it landed and let everything around him go black just as long as it meant he didn’t have to feel the way he felt anymore.