I, Superhero

by David Atchison

  ‘Then no.’

  The young man nearby is now hitting the backspace key several times. Probably just coincidence.

  ‘Fine.’ Jupiter searches the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Hulking out?’

  ‘Kinda in the dhamphir category. Well, I guess the Hulk is the superpower. But that’s more in the werewolf category.’ Ernest says. ‘Do you want strength? I can teach you strength. Perfectly good superpower.’

  ‘Kinda boring, isn’t it? Like using the default font in a word processor.’

  Ernest stares ahead, not taking the bait.

  ‘So what about… impervious to pain? Like you are.’

  The quick back and forth abruptly stops. Ernest licks his lips and considers this for several long seconds. Takes another sip of his tea before continuing.

  ‘First, I’m not impervious to pain. I just have a very high tolerance. Second, the reason I have a high tolerance…’ Ernest pauses again, his eyes signaling that he’s remembering something he’d prefer to forget. At last, he adds, ‘… is not something we should discuss.’

  Jupiter takes a deep breath, deciding not to pursue the issue for now. ‘Fine. Then I know what superpower I want: unlimited money.’

  Ernest sighs: ‘Not a superpower.’

  ‘Tell that to a billionaire.’

  With an arch of one eyebrow, Ernest concedes the point. ‘You’ll need something else besides Fortran’s tea, then.’

  ‘So it can’t be a whole body transformation like The Thing, and it can’t be huge piles of money, like Batman or Iron Man.’ Jupiter sucks at his teeth. ‘Any other restrictions I need to know about?’

  ‘Just that we’re still governed by laws of space, time, and physics. We’re Powered, but we’re not cartoons. We can bleed and we can die, same as everyone else.’ Ernest shrugs. ‘You know, that old saw.’

  Fortran arrives at a nearby table to serve a couple hovered over textbooks. Fortran’s movements are quiet, like a blanket over darkness. Besides a word of thanks and the clunks of a tea set being placed on a table, the only other sounds in the café right now are the sounds of Jupiter making his decision.

  ‘I’ll have to sleep on it,’ he says at last.

  Ernest nods. ‘It’s a big decision.’ He then pushes away from their table. He grabs his new partner’s mug and saucer, and starts heading for the front counter.

  Jupiter stops him. ‘Hey.’

  Ernest turns. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about a suit?’

  Twenty Four

  Fergus Smith opens the attic door, in search of a suit.

  He pulls a string, turning on a single, bare light bulb. Harsh shadows are thrown against exposed wood beams and silver strips of insulation that line sloped walls of the roof. The air in this space is stale, smelling of musty clothes stored way beyond the point of usefulness. If he had to bet, Fergus would wager that somewhere in these plastic storage bins is a baseball uniform from sixth grade—the twilight of a baseball career that always seemed of greater interest to his dad than to him. Fergus was repeatedly told that he had a quote, Howitzer for a right arm, unquote. That he was a flamethrower. A fireballer, etc.

  But despite his pitching gifts, there was one little thing that prevented Fergus from enjoying a multi-year, multi-million dollar career as a relief pitcher (at least according to Ernest): Fergus hated baseball. The game bored him to tears. Literally. He yawned so frequently while playing the outfield, waiting for his turn to pitch, that he’d come to the dugout in some innings with tears still clinging to eyelids. That, and he just flat out cried one afternoon after learning about the league’s pitch count rules. Phoebe broke the news while the then-11-year-old was pulling on stirrup socks in the back of the pre-Camry family sedan. Fergus had reached the weekly limit, Phoebe explained, and wouldn’t be able to take the mound during either of that weekend’s games.

  ‘They’re trying to protect your arm,’ Phoebe said. But her son wasn’t ready to mediate the issue.

  ‘My arm doesn’t hurt! Baseball sucks!’

  ‘Fergus. Don’t be ridiculous. You can play first base and hit and—’

  ‘I hate hitting!!’ Fergus slammed against the seat backs.

  ‘It’s just until you get to high school. Then you don’t have to hit if you don’t want to, Fergus. OK, pal?’

  Fergus wanted to say that there wouldn’t be a high school team if he was forced to hit for four or five more years. Instead, he folded his arms, clinched his jaw, and stared out the car window, silent tears welling up in his eyes over the injustice visited upon little league relief pitchers everywhere.

  Fergus stops reminiscing about his brief baseball career. Looks down at his right hand. In it: a small flashlight. He’d nearly forgotten. He brought the flashlight because his baseball exploits have given way to something much more thrilling: being a detective.

  Right now, Detective Fergus Smith is searching for evidence.

  Using the flashlight, Fergus sweeps the room until he sees several stacks of opaque plastic bins stacked four and five high in the far corner. About 20 bins in total. Fergus advances, the plywood creaking with every step. He’d rather not advertise the fact he’s up here out of fear of being detained and questioned (were his parents to bring a single metal chair up here, they’d find the space ideal for interrogations), but there’s nothing to be done about it.

  Fergus squats. He sees one of the half-dozen identical turquoise bins marked in black magic marker: “Xmas lights.” Fergus shakes his head.

  Parents.

  Easily the stupidest creatures on the planet.

  Parents being the choosers of the most obvious hiding spots in all of creation. The clever takers of electronics, only to hide them in—get this!—the bottom of dresser drawers, otherwise known as the very first place a teen looks for such contraband. After all, who would ever think an iPad can be hidden under a stack of white t-shirts?

  Every single teen on the planet, that’s who.

  Plus, Fergus thinks, who puts Christmas lights at the very bottom of a tall stack of storage bins? Parents by the name of Ernest and Phoebe Smith, that’s who. (Although, Fergus considers, probably just Ernest.) And finally, Fergus remembers putting lights back in a red storage box with a green lid.

  Parents.

  In any event, it takes a minute or two of shifting and restacking—noise be damned—but eventually the “Xmas lights” have been moved underneath the harsh glare of the light bulb. Fergus lifts the turquoise lid, then removes the flashlight from between his teeth, tucking it into his pocket.

  A few old winter jackets stare back, reminding Fergus of a diver taking a breath of fresh air after being underwater for a long time. Fergus remembers fondly the family ski trip where those jackets were used. Family pictures taken at the summit of Copper Mountain, Fergus’s hair escaping the brim of a stocking cap, still line the Smith stairwell.

  But old jackets with dated quilting aren’t what Fergus seeks.

  Then again, Fergus reminds himself, these jackets aren’t “Xmas lights.” His detective’s sense tells him he’s solved the mystery, even though the suspect hasn’t been apprehended. Yet.

  Carefully, he removes the coats and places them aside.

  There, resting at the bottom of the bin, his prize.

  Fergus removes the article and holds it aloft for a second, admiring the item’s simple beauty. He then rests it, delicately, over the top of the container. He straightens in order to study it further.

  It’s a suit.

  A matte-finished, deep olive-colored supersuit. If pressed to describe it to a friend, he would use the following shorthand: his dad’s supersuit is one part Spiderman tights, two parts Batman’s suit of armor, and three parts just totally fucking kickass.

  Parents.

  Parents who think they can hide things from their teens: lame.

  Parents who have supersuits to hide from their teens: a tiny bit less lame.

  Having been rendered as helpless to manage his curiosity as
he is to manage the side effects of puberty, Fergus picks up his dad’s supersuit. He locates the fastening mechanism—a hidden zipper running down the dorsal side, starting at the armpit and running almost to the knee.

  And just as the old supersuit opens for inspection along its hidden seam, so too does everything else about his father’s secret life as a Super.

  Naturally, both he and Flynn had known for a while. They just couldn’t get Dad (or Mom, for that matter) to ever own up to the fact. But all of the separate puzzle pieces have fallen into place. The long absences during fires, bank hold-ups, and hostage situations. The suspicion first took root when Fergus was 11, and the family road trip to Yellowstone National Park was cut short because Dad was asked to help out with the earthquake in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, a town nestled alongside the New Madrid fault line. It wasn't the earthquake that got young Fergus to wondering. An extra set of hands might come in handy in the wake of a natural disaster, after all. It was the fact that the fire department sent a private, supersonic jet to pick him up in Cheyenne. That was the circle young Fergus couldn’t quite square.

  The teenage Fergus steps into one of the supersuit’s legs, then tucks his head into the side opening, and finally up through the hole cut for the neck. It’s similar to getting on a wetsuit, yet also easier; he doesn’t have to fumble for a zipper running down his back.

  Quite brilliant.

  Fergus shrugs into the arms and then flexes his hands, followed by his triceps. He slips his other leg in and shakes it. The suit’s heavy, but not cumbersome. The fit is a little on the roomy side, but overall not bad.

  He could get quite used to this.

  Fergus locates a skinny, long-forgotten hallway mirror resting against one of the roof’s support beams. He pivots to his side, flexes, then faces forward. He approves of the reflection. Light dances around his shoulders, casts his face in mysterious shadow, and glints off his abdomen. He’s always wondered what actors must feel when suiting up as The Dark Knight. Now he knows. Because in the dim light of the attic, Fergus decides that he looks one part watchful protector, two parts avenging sentinel, and three parts totally fucking kickass.

  Now then: Do I march downstairs and confront Dad while wearing the supersuit? Fergus wonders. Or just with the supersuit in hand?

  A tough call. A tough call indeed.

  ---

  Heavy footfalls tumble down the stairs, then toward the kitchen entryway. Ernest looks up from reading his mystery novel. When the figure enters the kitchen, Ernest frowns. He thus gets the answer to his son’s dilemma in all its dark green glory.

  That child, Ernest thinks, a sudden burst of adrenaline washing through his bloodstream. The fight or flight response is heavily weighted in favor of flight. He hopes against hope that his superstrength can keep his face from betraying surprise.

  ‘Hey, champ.’ Ernest lets out a small chuckle. ‘Where’d you find that thing?’

  Kids.

  No regard for boundaries once they reach a certain age.

  ‘There’s no way you can fit into this anymore,’ Fergus says.

  ‘Well,’ Ernest drawls. ‘Since I don’t even know what that is, or where you found it, how can I know—’

  ‘I hate giving her credit, but Flynn figured it out before I did.’

  Phoebe enters the kitchen and startles at the sight of her son. Ah, perfect timing.

  Now if he can somehow telepathically communicate—

  ‘I see you found Dad’s old Halloween costume,’ says Phoebe.

  Fergus turns. More specifically, he turns just his head, despite the suit of knife-and-perhaps-bullet-deflecting armor. Ernest had long ago solved the head-turning problem Batman struggled against so mightily: don’t wear a damn cowl.

  ‘I thought you didn’t know what it was, Dad.’

  Kids.

  So willing to puncture a hole in a father’s thin cover story.

  Ernest swallows, trying to buy time. ‘I don’t even… oh, yeah!’ Ernest glances at his wife. ‘Now I recognize it. Your mother and I. Dressed up as caped crusaders or something, oh, it’s must have been about 10 years now. Phoebe, hon, do you remember what year—’

  ‘This is how you survived the thing up at school, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?! I survived that with a pair of Levi’s and a lot of luck.’

  Fergus continues the offensive. He crosses his arms; the suit creaks softly. ‘This is why you work with the Chief of Police more than the Fire Marshal. This is why I’ve never actually seen you use a fire hose.’

  ‘I work with the Fire Marshal all the time.’ With her musical background, Flynn would probably know better, but Ernest’s voice has gained half an octave.

  ‘What? What’s this? Who works with the Fire Marshal?’

  Flynn! Perfect timing again.

  Ernest’s daughter enters the kitchen sipping the last drops from a plastic water bottle. She’s headed for the sink when she catches sight of her brother. She stops. The bottle crinkles in on itself. After a pause, Flynn removes the plastic from her lips.

  ‘Nice suit.’ She turns to her dad. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Nothing. I was just telling your brother that I work with the Fire Marshal, like, all the time.’

  ‘Really? What’s his name?’

  ‘The Fire Marshal?’ A full octave higher now.

  ‘Yes. The one you work with all the time.’ Flynn turns the faucet on while Ernest dangles from the rhetorical rope he just offered his daughter.

  ‘You know what?’ Ernest says. ‘I’m not playing this game with you. Either of you. You asked me why we have that, that thing in the attic and—’

  ‘I’d have woven in some carbon fiber,’ Flynn offers. She kills the tap using the end of the bottle and takes a step toward her brother. She runs her hand over the suit’s sleeve. ‘It’s lighter, but more puncture resistant. This,’ she says, knocking on the breastplate, ‘is similar to what cops wear. It’s Kevlar, right?’

  Ernest responds. ‘Well, the breastplate and back are Kevlar-reinforced. I mean, it’s not… it’s a costume! It would be Kevlar if it were something cops use. Honey?’ Ernest turns to Phoebe. ‘You gonna step in here or…’

  Phoebe leaves her husband to stew in his own lameness. She turns to her son. ‘Fergus, take off your father’s supersuit.’

  Ernest: ‘Can we not call it that?’

  Fergus: ‘Can someone try to stab me first?’

  Phoebe: ‘Now.’

  Ernest turns to his wife, eyes pleading.

  ‘Ernest. This is silly,’ Phoebe says. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times—the kids know. They’ve known for a while. They don’t believe in Bigfoot, Leprechauns, or the Kraken. And they don’t believe you’re a fireman.’

  ‘Well. I’ve known for a while,’ Flynn says. She jerks a thumb at Fergus. ‘Dumbass over here—’

  ‘Hey! I’ve suspected. When you’re a detective, you let facts lead to conclusions, not the other way around.’ He taps the breastplate of the suit. ‘Gotta say, this is pretty convincing.’

  Save for breaking into maniacal laughter and running up the stairs, Ernest sees no hope of dodging this particular bullet like he’s dodged so many others throughout his career.

  ‘Some old Halloween costume? You call that conclusive?’

  ‘It’s circumstantial,’ Fergus says. ‘And I said convincing. As are these facts: One, multiple trips to the hospital. Two, countless late night phone calls to do “maintenance” at the “station.”’ Fergus makes air quotes. ‘Three, the time you sprinted after the asshole who backed into Mrs. Campbell’s brand-new Ford Escape, and then tried to drive off without leaving a note.’

  A proud smile sprints across Ernest’s face. ‘You saw that? She had saved up so long for that car, and then someone—’

  ‘Ernest,’ Phoebe says.

  Wives.

  Always redirecting conversation just when their husband is redeeming himself in front of his teenagers.

  ‘Look, kids,’ she s
ays. ‘In most ways, your father is just like anyone else. Like any of your friend’s dads.’

  ‘You mean old?’ Flynn asks.

  Phoebe ignores. ‘And in some ways he’s not. He can do things most people can’t. And those things are a huge help to the people who keep St. Louis safe.’

  ‘Yeah? What kinds of things?’ Fergus asks. Flynn is also looking at her mother, but her focus is somewhere far away.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Because the things he does can be dangerous. Very. And because of that, he’s decided—’

  ‘We’ve decided,’ Ernest says, his tone somber.

  Phoebe nods. ‘Yes. We’ve decided. He’s retiring.’

  A silence. Fergus breaks it. ‘Retiring? Can you even retire from that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Phoebe. ‘He’s switching careers. And he’s finding someone who can take his place.’

  The silence that follows is thick enough to chew. All four consider—or reconsider—these implications.

  ‘Dad,’ Fergus says. ‘I can do this.’

  Ernest pivots toward his eldest born. ‘No, Fergus. Absolutely, absolutely out—’

  ‘Why?’ Fergus unfolds his arms. Expands his chest, as though already inhabiting the role implied by the suit of body armor. ‘Who else is there?’

  Flynn glances at her brother.

  ‘Your father and I will discuss it,’ Phoebe says.

  A stern look from Ernest. ‘No, we won’t. I won’t have you kids on the wrong end of a bullet, or a knife wound, or a school entrance. I want you to live long lives and have kids and grandkids. I want you to have knees and hands that work, not ones that are broken and twisted. Most of all, I want you to not see the things I’ve seen. I don’t want you to see what humans are capable of in their cruelty.’

  Ernest looks from daughter to son. Even though he wears only a simple heather grey t-shirt and jeans, right now it’s the only supersuit he needs. The strength he projects has little to do with broad shoulders, or shouting at the top of one’s lungs, or the ability to pick up refrigerators in one hand.

  Fergus speaks, but the voice is more pleading now; it lacks the conviction of a few moments prior. ‘Dad, come on. I can help. I can stop people from doing some of those things. Just like you.’