I, Superhero

by David Atchison

  Here’s where it really, really pays to have superstrength: when you’re at the bottom of a pool in an unfinished housing development, bound in industrial insulating wrap, and just about to drown.

  Ernest rips the rebar away, which rips a huge incision through the layers of the plastic locking him in place. Another three seconds of struggle, and he’s finally free of his plastic jail. But the struggle has left his oxygen balance even further in the red, and Mother Nature is one righteous bitch of a collection agent when a bill is past due.

  Ernest’s vision darkens even further. Lungs scream. He looks to the surface of the pool for a place he can breach and safely gasp for air. All he sees is flaming wood. The closest section without some roaring inferno taunting him from above the water’s surface is way at the other end—the shallow end—of the pool.

  He’s not going to make it.

  Out of desperation, he kicks away the last of the plastic wrap. Maybe he’ll survive the third degree burns—

  Wait. The plastic wrap.

  Yes.

  Specifically, the bubbles in the wrap. The tiny pockets of air.

  His shackles will be his salvation.

  Ernest grabs a handful of wrapping material. It still floats around him as though it were the gossamer hair of a mermaid. Using his right hand, he jams the knife into one of the air pouches used for padding and insulation. He makes the puncture just a few inches from his face, which is fortunate for two reasons: One, he can no longer see anything but a small circle of light; everything else is lost in shadow. Two, the pouch is that much closer to his mouth.

  Oxygen filters into his sinuses. It reeks of the sharp odor of manufacturing. Probably toxic in the long-term. But it’s oxygen.

  And it will keep him alive.

  The circle of light widens just a bit as molecules of oxygen reach Ernest’s brain. He uses the pocketknife—that glorious, beat-up, pocketknife—to poke another hole in another bubble, and Ernest takes another small sip of air. He repeats the procedure twice more. The darkness retreats.

  ---

  Jupiter Blackshear backs his Mercedes about 20 feet along the curb and rolls down the window. He needs to get a good look at the back yard of the middle house, and specifically the pool. Except he can’t even see the pool. All he can see is a giant pile of rubble where the pool used to be, burning as though it were an inferno set by the hand of God himself.

  Jupiter grips the wheel of his Benz, his super hand resembling an ordinary hand… for now.

  He rolls up the window. With the flickering red of emergency lights starting to bounce along the horizon, Jupiter puts the sleek German sedan in gear. ‘Siri, play me Also Sprach Zarathustra,’ he says in the direction of his dashboard.

  Siri, via the Bluetooth connection, replies that she can’t really understand what Jupiter just said.

  Jupiter turns to his underling. ‘Huh. Maybe I mispronounced it.’

  ‘Baab,’ says Bob.

  ---

  At the shallow end of the pool, Ernest breaks the surface, gasping for air.

  Using the steps, he crawls, sputtering and heaving, to the relative safety of the concrete slab. He flops onto his back and just lies there for several seconds, staring up at the night sky, grateful that the smoke is not too thick here, and actually a bit grateful for the warmth of the fire. He can see the Milky Way galaxy tracing a faint arc overhead, looking like a smear of erased chalk from a blackboard, and he doesn’t know which brings him to tears more quickly: just the simple, breathtaking beauty of the stars, or the thought that he’ll once again be able to look up into the night sky, hand-in-hand with Phoebe Smith, the great love of his life.

  He’s alive. Barely. But that’ll do for now.

  Ernest picks himself off the pool deck and stumbles toward the Camry. He can see and hear emergency vehicles. They’re just down the street.

  He stops just before he arrives at his car.

  Perhaps being dead will do for now.

  Ernest retreats from his car as he sees the first fire truck turn on the same street as the cul-de-sac. He bends at the waist and heads for the cover of night. The police and fire departments pull up, sirens in full throat.

  Ernest runs.

  No superstrength. No super-running. He runs out of the sheer joy of being alive. He runs for the simple thrill of moving quickly through time and space, lungs burning with oxygen that doesn’t have to be sipped from a plastic bubble. He runs while tears stream down his cheeks, mixing with blood and dirt and sweat, all of it eventually calcifying against the pink flesh of his face. He runs, looking up at the stars. He thinks of his two kids, and the third on the way, following an instinct hardwired into all injured creatures: returning home.

  When he arrives at last, he’s winded, and beaten, and down several pints of blood, every fiber of his being exhausted.

  Phoebe opens the door.

  Ernest opens his mouth so he can tell her about the majestic beauty of the Milky Way, and the electric delight of running to the point of exhaustion, and more than anything, how happy he is to see her once again. To have made it back to the place he most longs for.

  He collapses.

  Part Three

  Thirty Three

  J upiter Blackshear wears a dark suit and a mournful frown.

  He rises from his chair, smooths his tie, and fastens the top button of his suit coat. He adjusts the microphone. After clearing his throat, he grips the edge of the podium. The wood squeaks in protest. How easy it would be, he thinks, just to come clean right now. About who he is. And what he’s capable of. His arm could take the shape of a bandsaw or a poleaxe, and he could say something cool and superhero-y, something that might simultaneously lay claim to a new alter-ego. Something like, Yo, I give unto you, citizens of St. Louis, the great MetaMorph!

  But MetaMorph is a terrible superhero name, Jupiter decides, and he’s playing the long game anyway. Blackshear scans City Hall’s wide conference room. For this somber occasion, several rows of high-school-assembly-grade chairs are filled by an audience of police, fire personnel, and elected officials. Another row of attendees stands in the back next to a phalanx of cameras from the local news stations. Dark drapery and the flags of the United States and state of Missouri provide the backdrop. The mayor is to Jupiter’s right, hands folded in his lap. Ryland Washington sits to his left, wearing the look of a Stoic. Jupiter regrets not being able to choose telepathy as his superpower. Someday, he’d like to get a read on the inscrutable Chief.

  His thoughts turn to music. To the music blasting through his car speakers just a few nights ago.

  Also Sprach Zarathustra, as cinephiles know, is most famous (in the 20th century, anyway) for its use in the opening of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Why? The short answer is because Stanley Kubrick was Stanley-genius-IQ-of-200-Kubrick, and knew what the hell he was doing.

  The longer answer: ASZ tells of a god arising from a long slumber into the breaking light of dawn. Sorta like the apes in the opening sequence of 2001 awoke to the presence of a god, who set them on a course that would lead them, eventually, to meet him once again. In space. And God is a black monolith. Which in turn Kubrick probably meant as a Nietzsche-inspired allegory. Nietzsche’s seminal work, published in 1883, was a philosophical tract about the mankind’s journey from man to uber-man. The book was called—wait for it—Also Sprach Zarathustra.

  In any event, that’s why the music in his head is so apt! thinks Jupiter Blackshear. The citizens of St. Louis don’t realize it yet, but he’s about to set them on a new course, one that begins as his day as their superhero. And so he’s offered to speak here, at this press conference, standing alongside the city’s most powerful leaders, to help commemorate the deeds of a man whose day in the sun are no more.

  ‘He was… a great, great man. A super man,’ Jupiter begins. ‘He was a shining beacon of hope. A protector of kids. A steadfast guardian. A real life, super hero for all citizens of this great city on a hill.’

  Jupiter lo
oks up from his rostrum. Tears streak the faces of grown men who’ve made careers out of keeping a stiff upper lip.

  And he hasn’t even gotten to the good part yet.

  ---

  Phoebe Smith, the shining sun of Ernest’s day, watches the speech on television. Her eyes dry. And narrow in anger.

  Earlier this week, she had taken the call from Ryland, and relayed the truth about Ernest’s “death.” She told Ryland to relay the message that the family would not be attending the memorial service, as the family wanted to go through the “grieving process” in private.

  And so right now, rather than dabbing away tears at a televised event, she’s in the upstairs bedroom, helping Ernest dab away blood from his thigh wound. Phoebe peels off the old bandage and examines the damage. The screwdriver puncture is bad enough; it’ll take weeks to heal. The bruising may be even worse, and will likely take even longer.

  ‘He was a loving husband,’ Jupiter says into the teleprompter.

  Ernest speaks up. ‘That is actually a good point—hey, that’s kind of sting-y.’

  Phoebe dabs at the wound with a cotton swab loaded with iodine. ‘Turn this crap down. I can’t listen to it,’ she says.

  Using the remote, Ernest obeys. They can still make out Jupiter’s babbling to the cameras, however, as Flynn and Fergus have the press conference on in in the family room. After all, it’s not every day that you get to listen to your dad eulogized while he’s upstairs getting dressed.

  ‘He was a father of two.’

  Phoebe lifts three fingers and Ernest smiles.

  Jupiter’s voice echoes through the hallway while Ernest and Phoebe continue to watch, lending a sanctuary-full-of-mourners quality to the speech. ‘And he was a friend to all of St. Louis. One who inspired us. Who challenged us. Who among us will take up his legacy? Who now will carry the sword of justice, the shield of refuge, the staff of fairness—’

  Click. Phoebe has the remote now.

  ‘What a cunt.’

  Ernest looks at his wife with a look of amused surprise.

  ‘What? That’s how it works,’ Phoebe says. ‘It’s OK if a woman says it.’ She continues fastening a layer of gauze. ‘Stop, stop.’ She slaps at Ernest’s hands as he offers to take the tape and finish the job himself. ‘Now. How’s your shoulder feeling?’

  ‘Don’t know. Let me see.’

  While the last few lines of Jupiter’s rhetoric echoes in the background, Ernest rises from his seat on the king-size bed. He sinks to his uninjured knee, and maneuvers into a plank position.

  He removes one of the four pegs of the plank, his left arm, and begins a set of eight one-arm pushups. He makes it look rather easy, in fact. No grunts of effort, or tremors of fatigue. Superstrength will do that.

  Ernest stands and swings his arms across his body. Rotates his right one in a wide circle. Nods at Phoebe, who looks on, arms crossed under breasts showing the signs of increased estrogen. ‘Well? You tell me.’

  ‘Huh. Tell you what? My opinion of your shoulder?’

  Ernest swings his elbow behind his back, trying to test the limits of his flexibility, making a small grimace when he finds it. ‘Or whatever. Especially if your opinion is “I told you so.”’

  ‘Honey.’ Phoebe’s shoulders sag. She bridges the distance to her husband. Caresses his cheek. ‘I would never say that.’

  She punches Ernest in the shoulder.

  Ernest reacts once more with amused surprise. ‘Oww.’

  ‘But I’ll remind you to listen to your wife… dummy.’ She slip her arms around his waist, and buries her nose into the fabric of Ernest’s t-shirt. ‘I’ve never been so scared,’ she says in a whisper.

  Ernest kisses his wife on the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Phoebe leans away, keeping her arms locked around Ernest’s waist. ‘I’m not the one you need to apologize to.’

  Ernest glances toward the door. ‘I know. I’ll talk to him. Later.’

  ‘He’s not the one you need to apologize to.’

  It takes a second or two for Ernest to parse her response. He’s more than thankful he didn’t immediately blurt out “Ryland,” the first name to pop into his mind. ‘What? Why do I need to talk to Flynn?’

  Phoebe breaks away from the embrace. Folds her arms. She regards her husband as though he may be the densest human on the planet. ‘You big dummy.’

  Thirty Four

  A metallic scratching from behind Flynn’s bedroom door.

  Ernest approaches, knocks, then lets himself in. The scratching noise is accounted for. He watches his daughter work a sharpening stone over the business side of her katana, her tongue planted firmly in the corner of her mouth. She doesn’t look up, or otherwise acknowledge her dad’s presence. Her body is in St. Louis. Her mind may as well be in St. Petersburg (Florida or Russia; take your pick, Ernest thinks).

  Ernest makes his way over to her double bed. The violin and case take up most of the space atop her rainbow-striped comforter, and Ernest moves each aside so he can sit. Meanwhile, Flynn sets the sharpening stone aside and examines her craftsmanship. Ernest watches, trying not to appear as uncomfortable as he feels, searching for an entry point for the conversation. He’d almost rather be facing down The Blue Assassin. Or Jupiter Blackshear. Or even Phoebe. Facing a 16-year-old daughter is, in most instances, more of a challenge.

  ‘Hey kiddo.’ Ernest swallows. Flynn flicks her thumb against the edge of the blade. ‘So, are you working on—’

  ‘I know why you’re here.’ Flynn gets right to it. Ernest considers it a mercy.

  He frowns, then opens his mouth to speak.

  Flynn interrupts. ‘You’re passing down your superpowers to Fergus.’

  ‘But I haven’t even explained how it works.’

  ‘I don’t care how it works. I just know that however it works, the world gets just what it needs: another white male superhero. And I get jack.’

  ‘Easy. I haven’t officially decided anything.’

  Flynn waves him off. She sets the katana across her lap, her lower jaw set. ‘You wouldn’t be in here if it wasn’t already official. I just want to know if you plan on passing on anything to your daughter.’

  Ernest clears his throat. She’s a tough one, this daughter of his. No daddy’s little girl looking for someone to wipe her tears. In fact, if any tears result from this conversation, they’ll be tears of anger.

  ‘Look, Flynn. It’s not like that.’

  ‘Oh? Well, what’s it like? I’ll tell you: the firstborn son is the golden child. It’s as old as time. Firstborn sons inherit the family estate. Firstborn daughters get to milk the cows. Or sweep the floor. Or whatever the hell they used to do back then.’

  ‘This isn’t… I’m not passing on an estate. I wish it were that simple.’

  Flynn uncrosses her legs and sets the sword point-down into the carpet. Her hand covers the hilt. Her eyes are flinty sparks of intelligence. Of confidence. Of indignation. She looks a bit like a king on a throne. More to the point: she looks like a king who could take her kingdom by force.

  ‘Oh? Then tell me. What do I get from you, Dad? Tell me what second-born daughters get from their fathers.’

  ‘You get my legacy. Both of you get that.’

  ‘But not a superpower.’

  Ernest pauses. A flood of memories of the little girl who is now the young woman sitting across from him wash up over his ankles. ‘Is that all you think there is to get, Flynn?’

  ‘What else is there?’

  ‘These powers aren’t who I am. They’re not what we are.’ The floodwaters of his memory have risen to knee-level now. ‘You get all our trips for ice cream. All the times we went for a walk in the nature preserve and you asked me about the different kinds of trees. You get that recipe for spicy chili, the one with double the meat and half the beans. You get the proper way to throw a spiral.’

  ‘I don’t play football, and no one cares if I can throw a spiral.’

  ‘Boys care
. Trust me on that one.’

  Flynn almost grins, a ghastly outcome when you’re a teenager hell-bent on punishing your parents. She tries to put the clamps on her reaction by driving her tongue into the corner of her mouth.

  ‘You get all my hopes,’ Ernest continues. ‘And all my dreams for what this city and this world might be. That’s my legacy, Flynn.’

  Flynn stares at the ornate, woven hilt of the katana.

  Ernest does likewise. He takes a moment to admire the delicate etchings carved along the length of the blade.

  Of course, he thinks. The blade.

  ‘And you get this.’ Ernest reaches into his back pocket. He produces his beat-up pocketknife, then tosses it over to his daughter. Flynn keeps her left hand on the hilt of the sword, catching the pocketknife in her right. Her eye-hand coordination has always been remarkable. Ernest wonders if it’s too late to discuss the possibility of a softball scholarship.

  ‘Wow. Thanks, Dad.’

  Oh, well. Maybe colleges will start awarding scholarships for sarcasm.

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ Ernest says. ‘What you’re holding isn’t just a pocketknife. It’s a magic sword. It’s my Jedi lightsaber.’

  This time, Flynn successfully prevents a smile creasing her lips, although the same can’t be said about her eyes. She flips out the main blade on the old utility tool, then flicks it closed once again.

  ‘And it’s my most valuable possession.’

  ‘I can see why.’ Flynn deadpans.

  ‘That knife, Flynn, is the reason we’re having this conversation about powers and legacies and throwing spirals.’ There’s some small part of him reluctant to bequeath the knife. Jupiter is still at large, and he hopes for the sake of his current and future family that he won’t ever need that knife again.

  Ernest’s voice nearly catches on the memory of his narrow escape. He clears his throat. ‘Plus, it helps me hear.’

  ‘Helps you hear?’

  ‘Yep. Here. I’ll show you.’

  Ernest reaches for Flynn’s violin, and then holds out his palm. Flynn places what is now her pocketknife into his hand. She then looks on, fascinated, as Ernest folds out the tiny pliers attachment, and uses them to gently turn the fine-tuner knobs just next to the violin’s tailpiece. He plucks each string to double-check: G, D, A, E. All four properly tuned. Ernest tucks away the pliers and hands the pocketknife over.