I, Superhero

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I, Superhero Page 10

by David Atchison


  Oh. The girl he seems to be doing this for? Eh. She could be moving to break up the fight, Flynn sees. She could use herself as a shield. Instead, she seems all too happy to be cast in the role of damsel in distress. She cowers, holding her hands in front of her chest, managing to look both mousey and exhilarated.

  Fergus shrugs off his backpack. He steps toward Nixon, arms up, fists clenched. Elbows should be a little closer to his side, Flynn sees, and his chin should be tucked, but not bad.

  ‘Do not fuck with me, Smith,’ Nixon, says. ‘Or I’m gonna beat you senseless with your backpack.’

  Nixon is right-handed, Flynn observes. Just like Kaylee, who, along with Sloane, has become an afterthought. Nixon will lead with a haymaker. Her brother sees it, too.

  ‘Fine. Self defense, mother—’

  Nixon interrupts himself by taking a violent swing.

  With his right arm. Flynn arches an eyebrow of self-congratulation.

  Fergus easily ducks the blow. Using Nixon’s own forward momentum, he swipes his attacker’s arm, nudging it safely out range. In almost the same fluid motion, he launches the heel of his hand into Nixon’s chin.

  Finally, using his own stationary body as a fulcrum, Fergus sticks out a leg and drops to a knee, twisting as he does. Nixon’s body tumbles onto the hallway floor. From the sound alone, Flynn can tell that Trombley has just had the wind knocked out of him.

  Wow, Flynn thinks. Excellent judo move.

  An uproar of appreciative “Ooohs!” and “Daaamns!” from the gathered throng. Then, another voice cuts through the cheering.

  ‘Smith! Trombley! Office!’

  Vice Principal Margaret Nichols is five feet, two inches of prim, life-long high school administrator whose voice is seven feet, two inches of enraged lumberjack.

  From a knee, Fergus glances toward the voice.

  Nixon cuffs him.

  Fergus sprawls to the edge of the hallway, once again at the feet of Kaylee. This time she’s the one helping him.

  ‘Nixon TROMBLEY!’

  Mrs. Nichols strides into the breach. Students who’ve gathered for the show now scatter to the edges of the hallway as surely as a drop of oil does in water.

  ‘And me, too.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Nichols still using her seven foot two voice.

  Flynn brandishes the yellow paper. Nichols snatches it away. She pinches her lips while she reads, her face tracing an arc that begins with confusion, progresses to anger, and concludes with resignation. ‘One less phone call, I guess.’ She snaps her fingers, pointing at Fergus.

  Fergus looks and sees the wet red spreading across his shoulder. Probably a minor scrape received during one of the locker crashes. Flynn notices the location of the injury. Dad will be proud, Flynn thinks. Falling apples and trees and all that.

  ‘You. Nurse,’ Nichols decrees. ‘And you two—’

  Nichols motions with open hand, silently ordering both Flynn and Nixon to the office. The three perps begin their walk.

  After about three steps in, however, Fergus steals a glance over his shoulder.

  Bree’s sparkling eyes follow his every step.

  Flynn catches her brother’s look, and wishes she could communicate via telepathy after all, in which case she’d tell her brother this: You’re pathetic.

  Twenty

  The afternoon is lovely, Ernest thinks. At least there’s that.

  Over the years, Ernest has peered into the darkest pits of human behavior, and hasn’t much enjoyed the view. He’s learned, therefore, to allow small moments of joy to cast light into those recesses whenever he can. Perhaps, in the end, that’s all the difference between hero and villain. The people Ernest has spent the better part of his adult life trying to stop—people capable of unspeakable horror toward their fellow man—don’t seem to consider that a warm, sun-filled, spring afternoon can probably be better spent tending a garden, or walking a dog, or just sitting on a park bench, enjoying the fresh air. How different might his job be, he’s wondered on days like this, if more people would just pause and appreciate how lucky they are to be above ground?

  Ernest pulls the Camry to a stop along the curb of the Benjamin Franklin High School, then focuses only on his breathing. He lets his mind wander. Feels his heart rate subside. He observes temporary classrooms. The fenced-off area where repairs to the main entrance are under way. The scaffolds. The machinery. He tries not to consider what he’ll say to his kids when they emerge from the auxiliary entrance, allowing all thoughts simply to pass through his mind as though he were simply an observer of these ideas, rather than their maker, watching them pool and then trickle through his fingers.

  Peaceful.

  He’s permitting himself this moment—a technique Ryland said helped him greatly whenever he was stuck on a case—because of the foul task at hand. Because Ernest needs to steady his nerves after the phone call he received from Vice Principal Margaret Nichols.

  So in some regards, he should thank his kids. They’re the ones who’ve made his meditation so utterly necessary. After all, had they not decided to spend today behaving like jerkwaffles, he may not have had a chance to appreciate this singular afternoon.

  Ah, here they are now. Charming. Just in time to ruin his Zen.

  Ernest exhales a cleansing breath. He unlocks the car doors.

  Flynn slides in first. Back seat, driver’s side. Fergus gets in next, pulling the door shut by reaching across his body, using his left hand. Ernest spots it right away: the right arm is in a sling. A thick bandage wrapped over Fergus’s shoulder.

  Ernest pivots. Opens his mouth to ask the obvious.

  ‘Dad, it’s nothing,’ Fergus says. ‘The nurse was being paranoid.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Dad. I saw the whole thing,’ Flynn offers.

  Ernest faces forward. He puts the car in gear and pulls away. For a full minute, the three drive in total silence. In the rearview mirror, Ernest watches his offspring, waiting for one to begin. Fergus stares out the window, perhaps counting utility poles. Flynn is the one who looks back, appearing a little sheepish, but a lot defiant.

  Finally, she cracks: ‘They were cheating. On a test, OK? That’s why.’

  ‘That’s why you got in a fight?’ Ernest asks.

  ‘No.’ The two letter word has two syllables in Flynn’s mouth. ‘First, I tried to stop them. I got in a fight because those bitches bum-rushed me in the hallway.’

  ‘Bum rush? I… speak English, please.’

  Flynn exhales a two-syllable word: ‘Ugg-guh.’ Translation: Ernest’s inability to empathize with her experience as a teenage woman knows no bounds. ‘Those two soccer bitches. I caught them cheating in History. And then, I took the blame. And then, they still were all like getting up in my face! And I’m not putting up with that shit.’

  ‘Watch it,’ Ernest commands.

  ‘Well. What?!’

  ‘What do you mean, well, what?’ Ernest’s knuckles over the steering wheel are losing their pink color. ‘Are you the teacher, Flynn? Are you the vice principal now? If someone is cheating, you let an adult know.’

  ‘At least I had a decent reason. I wasn’t just trying to impress some—’

  ‘Hey!’ Fergus shouts, a courtroom attorney protesting an argument. ‘Leave Bree out of this! I got freakin’ attacked! By one of the biggest kids in the whole school. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Trust me, that girl is not worth it.’

  ‘Trust me: why don’t you shut your yapper, Flynn?’

  ‘Trust me: that didn’t make sense. You don’t ask a question after saying “trust—”’

  ‘Both of you: zip it. Now.’ Ernest says, his heart rate back to where it was before he took the moment of curbside meditation. ‘I’ll deal with Fergus. Right now I’m talking to you, Flynn. And I want to know what makes you think you need to take matters into your own hands.’

  She slumps in the Camry’s back seat. Shakes her head in outrage. Offers no response, other than to cast a side
ways glance at her sibling, who at least has the sense to look equally miffed. In the rearview mirror, Ernest sees that Flynn is about to say something, but then swallows it back.

  ‘Huh? Answer me.’

  ‘Dad.’ Flynn begins, turning down the conversation’s volume. ‘Look. I was kinda wondering—‘

  ‘Suspended!’ Ernest shouts at the windshield. ‘I don’t believe this. Both of you. You both now have suspensions on your permanent record. And on the same day. Congratulations! Because that is no small feat.’

  Flynn folds her arms and stares out her window. Judging from the look on her face, it’s evident that she’s not appreciating the gift of colorful blossoms crawling up the branches of each redbud tree in sight. Not appreciating the message contained in each stunning white blossom of the tulip tree: today is a great day to be above ground.

  It’s Flynn who changes the subject.

  ‘Dad. I was wondering. What you were doing up here the other day?’

  Ernest furrows his brow. ‘What other day?’

  ‘At school. The concert. Why were you fighting—’

  ‘Why was I fighting?’

  ‘Uh, should I repeat the quest—’

  ‘It’s called work! That’s my job,’ Ernest says.

  ‘None of the other firemen were getting blown up.’

  Fergus joins in. About time, Flynn thinks. ‘Yeah, Dad, I didn’t see any other firefighters being put in the back of an ambulance.’

  ‘Kids! What happened at Flynn’s concert was a very bad man threatened to do a very bad thing. Period. You don’t have to be a firefighter—you don’t have to be an anything—to try and help out when you see something like that.’

  Flynn clears her throat. Aggressively. And it sounds like a word: ‘hypocrite.’

  ‘Phone. Gone for a week.’ Ernest stares in the mirror, his eyes sending a challenge: further trouble with throat phlegm, young lady, will only lengthen the sentence. Removing a child’s phone privileges, as Ernest and Phoebe have discovered, is the only effective parenting technique at their disposal. ‘And don’t try to change the subject. Your school suspension has nothing to do with my job.’

  Flynn glances at her brother. The look asks him if she’s going to have to do all the heavy lifting herself.

  With an eye roll, Fergus accepts the baton. ‘Your job. As a firefighter.’

  A few molecules of hesitation. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I’m supposed to just walk away, right?’

  ‘Exactly. You to walk away, and you tell someone, Fergus.’

  ‘Like… a firefighter.’

  ‘Phone. One week.’

  Fergus shrugs. ‘Whatever.’

  Ernest impersonates his son. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘So then what about the bad man? And the bad thing? How is this any different? I mean, you haven’t met Nixon Trombley,’ Fergus says. He then channels his inner Holden Caulfield while the Catcher in the Rye protagonist is still fresh in his mind. ‘Or is that all just phony bullshit adults say to kids until they’re old enough to figure out that adults just lie to them all the time?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  Fergus shrugs again. His sister looks at him with a frown of appreciation. Wow. Her brother has joined the cause, after all.

  Ernest lowers his voice this time. ‘It’s different because both of you are too old to get into some nonsense schoolyard fight.’

  Ernest doesn’t even need a view of his rearview mirror. He can sense the look settling over Flynn’s face: Really, Dad? Fergus is too old?

  Ernest tries to divert the waters in that particular river of thought. ‘And Flynn. you’re…’ His voice trails off. It was going to be sage parental advice, until he actually started forming the words. He now wonders if he can reverse the flow of a river.

  ‘I’m what, Dad? Say it.’

  ‘Never mind. We’re through for now.’

  Flynn presses the advantage. ‘No, Dad. Say it.’

  ‘I said we’re through.’ The superhero checks the speed of the Batmobile he’s cleverly disguised as a silver Camry. He checks his surroundings. He doesn’t see any tailgating cars; a good thing. He wishes he could take a moment to point out the hue of the redbuds. Spectacular.

  Regrettably, circumstances dictate otherwise.

  ‘Whatever, Dad.’ Flynn says.

  Ernest slams the brakes. Fergus and Flynn lurch forward and are caught in their seat belts like tuna in a drift net. Now that he’s gotten their attention, Ernest eases off the brake and pulls to the side of the road.

  Once stopped, Ernest spins around to face his offspring. His naïve, headstrong, defiant offspring, the rearing of whom is slowly eating away at both his hairline and sanity. At least they look shocked by Ernest’s maneuver with the sedan.

  ‘Kids, listen to me,’ Ernest commands. ‘First, stop saying whatever. Use your words. Second, I’ve seen plenty of fights during my time. As a firefighter. And I’ve been in my share. Fights don’t solve anything.’ He almost places a verbal period between each word.

  ‘Now. For the rest of the way home, I want you to think. In silence. Let’s call it meditation. And here’s the question you’re meditating on: What’s different now that you got in a fight. Huh? What’s changed? OK? Got me? Great. Fantastic.’

  To his mild surprise, his kids say nothing in return. Ernest puts the car in gear and gently accelerates back into the flow of traffic. He hopes the Camry is not angry for the recent mistreatment. He continues for roughly a quarter a mile, enjoying the white noise offered by the road. He then adds one last item.

  ‘No one wins a fight, kids. One person loses. And the other loses more.’

  In the back seat, Fergus reaches for the bandage covering his shoulder as the words sink in. Both he and Flynn nod.

  Ernest follows suit.

  I love, love, heart, love this Camry, Ernest thinks. Such a fantastic vehicle for reducing road noise. Such a marvel of precision engineering.

  And the redbuds. Sweet Mother of God over all Creation, there are few sights in nature as beautiful this time of year. Their mere presence sends a message: there’s always something worthy of our gratitude, even on our worst days. Even on the days when both of your children have been suspended from school.

  The redbuds are also telling Ernest to settle on a replacement, and soon.

  Twenty One

  Ernest can’t help but notice.

  The file Chief Ryland Washington has entrusted to his care is very similar in color to springtime redbuds.

  From the comfort of his bedroom easy chair, he leafs through several sheets of paper that combine to paint an amazingly detailed view of candidate Jupiter Blackshear’s entire life. Included are his birth certificate (July 5, weighing a rather chunky 9 pounds and 4 ounces), high school (public) and college transcripts (Colgate, where he received academic and athletic scholarships), his most recent credit report (a small balance on one credit card; a gym membership from college reporting a delinquent balance of $294.50), along with his complete driving record. Jupiter is not averse to taking chances on the road, it seems (seven moving violations, all seven bargained down, however, to the non-moving variety). His parents ran a small and struggling farm just a few miles down the road, near the River’s Edge park in Chesterfield. The land now lies fallow.

  Ernest feels a little uncomfortable examining the file. It’s not as though Jupiter Blackshear has volunteered this information, nor did he have to. Most is a matter of public record, awaiting perusal for anyone with an Internet connection and spare time. Fortunately for Jupiter’s prospects of taking over as St. Louis’s guardian protector, there wasn’t anything to find when Ryland sent one of his clerks on a search of the registered sex offenders database. Nor were there accusations of infidelity, porn addiction, or similar airing of dirty laundry available from an ex-wife buried in some divorce filing.

  Ernest finishes his first once-over of the file, then flips back to Jupiter’s college transcript. Something has caught his eye and he wa
nts a closer review.

  ‘Jesus. Remind me not to change careers,’ Phoebe says, passing by the easy chair. Ernest didn’t even hear her enter the room. She’s brought three things with her: a pair of reading glasses, a thick file of her own from a mediation client, no doubt, and a glass of whiskey on the rocks. She sets the latter on the nightstand and sidles into bed, sitting upright, using the headboard as back support.

  ‘This is nothing,’ Ernest briefly looks up from the file. ‘You should see what FBI agents go through.’

  ‘So. Any dirt?’ Phoebe asks, opening her own set of papers.

  ‘Did you know Jupiter was salutatorian of his class at Colgate?’

  ‘He graduated second? I guess that’s nothing to sneeze at.’

  ‘Is that what salutatorian means? I just nodded when Ryland mentioned it.’ Ernest glances up over his own reading magnifiers—only a plus 1.5, thank you very much. What’s more, he muses, the gadget that gives him the power of supersight doesn’t need to be kept in a utility belt.

  ‘Yes. A salutatorian is second in an academic class,’ Phoebe says. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Right. So anyway, he was second,’ Ernest reads further from the Permanent College Record, a thing that, when he was younger and un-Powered, was once Ernest’s most feared nemesis. ‘He also served in the Congressional Page program for Senator Rickards.’

  Phoebe’s mouth pinches in disgust. ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Can you let me finish, please?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Ernest licks a finger and flips to another page. ‘He’s 28 years old.’

  ‘Ugh. Worst possible age. The young and dumb who think they’re world-weary.’

  ‘We got married when we were 28 as I recall.’

  ‘Like I said.’

  ‘And he played college lacrosse. Captain of the debate team. Smart. Athletic. Wants to serve. Cares about society. Did the Africa water thing with Matt Damon. That can’t be all bad, right?’ Ernest asks.

  ‘I’ve heard him talk, Ernest.’

  ‘And?’

  Phoebe sighs. Her mediation file slaps against her thighs, and she stares at the ceiling corner for a few seconds, thinking how best to summarize her opinion of the city councilman. ‘I see his type all the time. Men selling off a company their dad built and passed along in the will. Men who come from privilege, and think they’ve worked for everything they’ve got. Men whose only measure of success is the numbers in a bank account.’

 

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