‘United States Marines,’ says Washington, and leaves it at that.
‘You’d be wise not to provoke his temper,’ says Ernest.
Ryland shrugs. ‘Character flaw.’
‘Also fascinating,’ Strang says.
‘You’ll have lots of time now to brush up on your literature,’ Ryland offers. ‘Life is long. And whatever we create from our suffering lies in our own hands.’
‘You think you know me from reading a dossier?’ Strang’s tone is acidic. ‘From reading some bullshit book of Zen? How about you can suck it, Chinaman.’
‘Hmm. Not even close.’
‘Fine, Japan then. You all look the same.’
Ryland motions toward a thick slab of uniformed policeman nearby, then replies without looking at the captive. ‘Wrong hemisphere.’ The sturdy officer grabs Strang by the elbow, guiding him toward a waiting squad car.
The police chief angles his head, taking note of young Dana Wallace. He walks a few paces to the boy, then bends at the knee, placing himself at eye level.
Dana wipes at an orange moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Are you the one who called Superman?’
A smile from Ryland that, to a 5-year-old, makes the world a far less scary place. ‘You are the super man. You were very, very brave.’ He offers his hand, palm up. The boy slaps it, then makes a fist. Ryland punches Dana’s small fist, first down, then up, concluding with a straight-on fist bump. Ernest shakes his head. Washington has known the boy all of five seconds, and already they have a secret handshake. He’s good like that.
Strang, meanwhile, partially twists away from his escort, at least enough so he can shout over his shoulder:
‘You’re protecting the bad guys, Smith!’ Strang laughs, partially in celebration of his own intellect, partially in self-congratulation over beating Police Chief Zen at the game of coining profound phrases. ‘And they’re easy to spot. They all wear suits, Smith!’
Peals of demented laughter can be heard even though the doors of the police cruiser have been closed. Strang screams at the back window, the veins of his brilliant but tortured forehead bulge.
‘The bad guys! They always wear suits!’
Eight
10 months ago
A man in a suit checks his rearview mirror and shouts in delight.
He signals. Brings the silver Toyota Camry to a stop. There. A white hatchback—a Prius or a Honda Insight, he can’t tell them apart—pulls out from its metered parking space. Downtown St. Louis isn’t exactly New York or San Francisco, but in the waning moments just before the onslaught of rush hour on a Thursday afternoon, it’s still plenty hard to find curbside parking. Locating a nearby garage, stopping for the toll gate, navigating two sets of elevators— no time for that. So the man in the dark business suit slams his car in reverse and guns the engine. The car whines, hurtling backward. He gives himself a mental high five as he arrives at the parking spot, beating out a Lexus SUV just now rounding the corner of 14th.
Ernest Smith glances at his watch. He just might make it.
Until, that is, he takes a second look at the space left by the sub-compact, bracketed in front by a Cadillac coupe, and in back by a Ford F250. He decides that perhaps the mental high five was premature. But since when do I back down from a challenge? Ernest wonders. Besides, parallel parking is my other superpower.
When he exits the Camry, he gives his handiwork a quick once-over. Hmm. Maybe that particular superpower is in decline. Nonetheless, Ernest decides to leave well enough alone.
‘Excuse me. Am I going to be able to get out?’
Ernest looks up. Sees the owner of the pickup, a grandmother-aged woman dressed in a flannel shirt, faded jeans, and cowboy boots. She seems to have materialized out of nowhere and is now stepping onto the truck’s running board. He pretends to examine the narrow space between this lady’s car and his own. ‘Uh. Hmm. Should be.’
Grandmother-aged, but hardly grandmotherly. Short, wavy hair that’s still more brown than grey. Probably drives a truck that can haul livestock for a reason. ‘You know, I don’t think I can.’
Ernest taps his watch. ‘Ma’am, I’ve got a, uh, big meeting to get to. Seriously, you should have plenty of room behind you.’
She peers over the hood of her truck. Says nothing.
Ernest glances again at his watch, noting how close the second hand is to the top of the dial. A gust of wind kicks up a hot dog wrapper, possibly detritus from nearby Busch Stadium. Red-blond hair that once would have swayed in the breeze barely moves. Hair product keeps the conservative haircut firmly in place.
Ernest looks around. A smattering of pedestrians. Each seems absorbed in their own business, though. The closest danger: a mother tapping away at her cell phone, about 30 feet away. At her side, a boy of between 7 and 9 years of age. The child is occupied with a tablet. Thank God for electronics.
‘You sure?’ Ernest gestures to the space between his car and hers ‘Do you mind just taking a look.?’
The old woman look peeved, but ducks behind the truck’s front door, momentarily hidden. Ernest reaches under the Camry’s back bumper. Tires whinny as he schootches the car forward. The sedan moves a few feet closer to the curb, and a few feet away from the pickup’s bumper.
Ernest straightens with a satisfied smile.
And sees the kid.
The boy’s mouth is agape. Ernest returns the stare. For a few long seconds, both boy and man discern the cut of the other’s jib. The kid reaches up for his mother’s sleeve.
Ernest pinches his thumb and forefinger, drawing fingers across his lips: zip it.
The boy pauses. His eyes narrow. His hand inches closer to his mother’s arm, fingers brushing fabric. It’s time for Ernest’s weapon of last resort: begging. Slowly, he draws his mouth into a big frown, and folds his hands in prayer: Please, kid. Work with me here.
The boy’s eyes widen. He casts a furtive look at his iPad.
Precious seconds melt away while Ernest pivots to the old woman, who finally arrives to inspect. ‘Oh, hell. Would you look at that.’
‘Not a problem, ma’am.’
‘I am so—’
‘No worries. Really. I’ve got to run, though,’ Ernest says, already on the move. ‘Big interview today. You be safe, now.’
He’s made it all the way to the corner when his pocket trills and vibrates. Ernest fishes his cell phone out, and after identifying the caller on his iPhone screen, he takes the call. ‘Please make it quick.’
The woman of Ernest’s dreams, and the mother of his children, accommodates her husband’s request by questioning his mental recall, time management skills, and attentiveness to detail using the barest economy of words. ‘You are picking up Fergus, yes? You do realize the teacher can’t leave until all the kids have been picked up.’
Ernest lowers the phone, checks his calendar app, then brings the phone back to his ear. He looks up at the green-tinted glass monolith that a stone’s throw from the Scottrade Center. (Although that’s not saying much. Standing in downtown St. Louis, Ernest can throw a stone all the way to Illinois.) On the 20th floor of that office building is an interview that will just have to wait. Ernest exhales.
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ asks his beloved.
Nine
Father and son enter the Smith kitchen, the elder trailing by a few paces.
Ernest slows to a stop as he arrives at the kitchen island. He pivots and leans against a countertop of mottled grey soapstone.
Fergus, meanwhile, bulldozes straight through, a small duffel in hand. He heads for the laundry room, which is nestled between the door leading to the two-car garage to the left, and a half-bathroom to the right. The teen stops just short of kicking down the laundry room door. When he looks inside, his shoulders slump. Eventually, he heaves the duffel against the far wall. For good measure, he strips off his dark purple polo shirt and tosses it in the general vicinity of the washing machine. (Not an actual Polo, Ernest thinks; it has some kind
of fish stitched onto the left breast that Phoebe insists is important if you’re a teen; all Ernest knows is that judging from the receipt, the fish must have been spun from gold.)
Fergus shuts the laundry room door. The sound of his discontent echoes throughout the kitchen’s open floor plan.
‘My soccer shit still isn’t washed,’ Fergus announces, then cuts a straight line to the refrigerator.
‘Oh,’ says Ernest, keeping his voice even. ‘You know, you could start a load, son. I know those washing machines are tough to figure out and all, but—’
‘Dad! I’ve got an ass-load of homework to do tonight, eight games to referee this weekend because you don’t want me to enjoy my life, and on top of it all, you can’t figure out how the Reminders app works. People your age shouldn't even be allowed to technology. Jesus!’
‘Let’s just watch it on the language,’ the father says. ‘And that car you want isn’t free. We’ve covered this a thousand million times.’
Fergus responds with a face that would otherwise indicate severe heartburn, and then opens the fridge to retrieve the nearly empty milk carton along with an oatmeal raisin cookie. Once, at a friend’s 12th birthday party, Fergus was given a homemade ice cream sandwich made with chocolate chip cookies. Upon returning home, he and Ernest began playing catch in the front yard with a football, although father could tell something was still eating at his son. Finally, as Fergus was about to throw a deep post pattern, he suddenly stopped, let the football tumble to the grass, and headed for the front door, uttering the following cryptic words: “It’s not the ice cream, Dad. It’s the cookies.” Once inside, Fergus marched straight to the kitchen and transferred a bag of Chips Ahoy! from pantry to refrigerator. Thus, a proclivity was born.
Regarding kitchen pantries: Phoebe emerges from the walk-in pantry just now, bearing a bag of basmati rice and a jar of something, possibly curry, likely from Trader Joe’s, that can be added to chicken for a meal in under 20 minutes. Ernest is the cook of the household. Phoebe is much more the type to build and plant a garden than to simply follow a recipe every evening.
A planner, that Phoebe. The ego to Ernest’s id in that regard.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ she says. ‘Dinner should be ready soon as I get this rice going.’
‘Great.’ Fergus looks at his mother for a full three seconds, then eats half of the oatmeal cookie with one bite. ‘Except I’m hungry now,’ he says, mouth crammed.
Phoebe shrugs and then heads for the cooktop island. ‘Eh. Suit yourself.’
Meanwhile Ernest watches the shirtless figure with the mouthful of cookie and the gallon of milk make his grand exit. At just a shade under 6 feet tall, Fergus weighs 160 pounds soaking wet, and despite a thrice-weekly workout routine, has the arms and chest muscles to show for it. Ernest was a bit taller in high school, true, but otherwise the height/weight ratio is just about where Ernest’s was at age 17. Unfortunately, Fergus has also inherited his dad’s pasty white flesh. It’ll mean a lifetime of sunscreen and regular mole mapping. On the plus side, just think of all that vitamin D.
Now that Tropical Storm Fergus has finished blowing through the kitchen and is clumping up the staircase, Ernest squats to grab a stockpot from the cabinets below the island. When he emerges, he turns on the tap, testing for hot water with his pinkie finger.
Phoebe sets the bag and jar on the counter. ‘What’s his fizz?’
From the stairs, mockery: ‘What? What’s my fizz?!’
‘Fergus.’ Ernest then glances at his wife and rolls his eyes. ‘I was a little late.’
More mockery from the top of the staircase: ‘30 minutes! Oh my God, how can someone be so obtuse? And hey, the 1890s called. They want their phrases back.’
‘Fergus! Watch it!’ Phoebe shouts toward the staircase.
‘A, I texted. B, I have no control over the traffic!’ Ernest’s alibi chases Phoebe's warning up the stairway. He approaches Phoebe and greets her with a kiss, trying to influence the professional mediator before she renders a decision about his tardiness. Two-thirds of her job sorting out legal disagreements, she has said, lies in the evaluation stage—listening to both parties, pointing out weak points in each argument, then offering her prediction about what a trial outcome might be. She’s proven over the years to be uncannily accurate, and thus highly sought-after by companies facing lawsuits where millions hang in the balance.
Phoebe begins pouring rice from bag to pot.
‘Here,’ Ernest says, opening a drawer, offering a measuring cup.
Phoebe shakes her head and smiles. It’s a decade-old joke, him offering a measuring cup to a woman who can’t be bothered to follow a recipe. But Ernest has double-checked on more than one occasion, worried about under-seasoned chili or overcooked brownies. She’s just as uncannily accurate when estimating cups of rice and water, along with tablespoons of olive oil, as she is when estimating trial outcomes.
‘So. How’d the first interview go?’ she asks.
Ernest retreats and crosses his arms. He does so first to admire his spouse, and second, to give thanks for what he pulled off 18 years ago. At 42 years young, Phoebe Smith—nee Jorgenson—still retains, more or less, the same frame she possessed back in college when they first met. She played soccer at Washington University, where she studied pre-law and made all-conference second team midfielder both her junior and senior years. She was known around the conference for her speed, and for winning 50/50 balls with equal parts leverage and bitter hatred for opponents. Ernest reflects on how appropriate it was that her college mascot was a bear. Ever since he’s known her, Phoebe’s had the essence of a bear wrestler. Yet in her warm brown eyes is the glue that holds the Smith family together.
Those eyes search Ernest’s face for further details about the interview.
‘Well. Hard to tell.’ Ernest turns to test the water again. He pivots to Phoebe and runs a hand down the length of his tie. ‘I mean, I never know what someone’s really thinking.’
‘Because you’re male. If you were a woman, you’d have left that office knowing the lifetime dental payout.’
Ernest shrugs. ‘Then I think it went… good.’
Phoebe finishes studying her husband, having extracted enough information, apparently, on which to base a conclusion. ‘Oh, well. Plenty of jobs in this city.’
‘I said it went well.’
She hauls the pot of rice over to the sink and holds it under the tap. ‘I know.’
Ernest leans against the countertop and folds his arms again. ‘You know, I was also thinking. While driving home with Fergus. Uh, about these analyst jobs and so forth.’
‘What about them?’
Hmm. How to approach this one? Ernest studies his hands, the ones he’s used to catch enemy punches, bend rifle barrels into useless braids of iron, and, when necessary, to crush alien spacecraft (which was surprisingly easy; interstellar travel, as it turns out, relies more on lightweight material than tensile strength). He tries to imagine them tapping out endless emails, memos, white papers. ‘Ryland says he might be able to find me something on the force.’
At this, Phoebe turns off the faucet with a little more force than necessary. Or a lot more. She grabs the pot and turns. ‘Ernest Smith. No.’
‘He says he can find me something behind a desk.’
‘Huh. Then I’ll talk to him.’
‘Actually, he said you might say that. Says he’s happy to.’
Phoebe sets what Ernest knows is exactly two parts water and one part rice on the island cooktop and ignites a burner. She then takes her measure of Ernest. ‘And of course, you’ll just stay behind your desk.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘While reports of crimes come pouring in day after day.’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘And you’d never find yourself getting mixed up in trying to stop an armed robbery. No tagging along on a drug bust, just in case. Purely investigative?’
‘Yep.’
Phoebe opens a utensil
drawer. She retrieves both a wooden spoon, presumably for the rice, and also a fork, presumably for… Ernest has no earthly idea. She then turns to her husband. ‘Honey, let me ask you a quick question.’
‘Fine.’
Phoebe shoves the fork into Ernest’s left pectoral muscle. When she draws it away, she’s left a small hole in his dress shirt, along with small dots of red that slowly expand as the punctured cotton soaks up blood from the punctured flesh.
‘Did that hurt?’
Ernest purses his lips, annoyed. ‘OK, hon. I get it.’
He wants to tell her for the twelfth time that it was a freaking accident! That there was no permanent brain damage, or at least the damage that was permanent affected only his pain receptors. That what happened to him while stopping The Annihilator and his army of robots—and also learning the hard way that The Annihilator had a retractable Death Spike in his shoe—well, that could have happened to anyone. Could have happened to a sous chef while filleting a grouper. Or to a kid running with scissors. It’s just a simple matter of the sharp metal object going into the space between eyeball and socket, then penetrating the brain about an inch, and stopping before it injures major speech or motor areas. Sorta like what happened when The Annihilator aimed a kick at Ernest’s skull. Plus, you’d have to survive. So, see? Could have been anyone. As common as slipping in the bathtub.
‘It didn’t hurt because you’ve given enough, Ernest Smith.’ Phoebe says.
Ernest picks at the tiny hole by the breast pocket.
‘That’s not your best shirt anyway. The off-white washes you out.’ Phoebe crosses the space between kitchen counter and island. Slips her arms around Ernest’s waist. ‘I’m proud of you, hon. It’s tough. I see it every day at work.
‘Most of my cases seem like they’re about business, but they’re really about men in crisis. Desperate men trying everything they can think of to recapture past glory. New businesses, new cars, new girlfriends. Ed Hardy jeans, electronic dance music, guitar lessons, testosterone gel. Powerful men screwing up everything they’ve ever built.’
I, Superhero Page 4
