I, Superhero

by David Atchison

  He then passes over the violin. When Flynn notices her father watching her, she wipes the smile off her face. She’s supposed to be playing the role of angsty teen, but has just broken character.

  ‘See? That old pocketknife helps me hear the most beautiful sounds in the world,’ Ernest says. ‘That’s what makes it magic.’

  ---

  Ernest latches Flynn’s bedroom door behind him. After taking a few strides toward his own bedroom, Ernest pauses. The first few bars of Bach’s violin masterwork, Double Concerto, resonate from Flynn’s room.

  A smile melts into Ernest’s cheeks.

  He continues down the hallway.

  Thirty Five

  Fortran approaches the outdoor cafe table bearing a Kyusu teapot.

  Kyusu teapots are easy to spot: no handles. Or at least the handles they have aren’t arced over the top, as is the case with most teapots. Instead, the Kyusu’s thick handle juts from one side. They’re distinctive. Ernest hopes that by wearing sunglasses and a dark navy St. Louis Cardinals hat, he’s less distinctive on this late Saturday morning than the teapot.

  This particular Kyusu is made from matte-finished, charcoal-colored clay, decorated with intricate Japanese characters running lengthwise. A few of the larger characters have jade inlays. As with the bonsai kept behind the counter, this pot is a work of the highest artisanship. What’s more, Ernest knows that the ancient barista reserves this teapot for special occasions.

  ‘Thank you, good friend,’ Ernest says.

  Fortran gives Ernest a deliberate nod. In a steady voice, he says: ‘I think you’ll like that better.’ He takes his leave and nods toward Fergus, who is occupied with the task of pouring tea. The liquid is bright crimson. It also glimmers in the sunlight as it’s transferred from pot to mug, as though it’s flecked with, well… Lord only knows what Fortran flecks his beverages with. It could be gold, or lawn clippings, or fairy dust, or the ground up bones of a dead troll.

  Oh, Ernest then adds without saying a word, looking at the retreating Fortran. That. Liking the fact that my son sits across the table, and not a young, ambitious, and probably narcissistic politician. Better indeed.

  Fergus take his first slurp. He frowns, then opens the Kyusu’s lid. He cautiously sniffs, apparently seeking evidence of a plot to poison St. Louis’ retiring superhero. Along with its newest one.

  Ernest recalls his first encounter with Fortran’s concoctions, and tries to hide a grin. ‘It’s an acquired taste.’

  Both sit in silence for several minutes while they drink, Fergus screwing up his face after each sip, as though the tea were steeped in horse urine. Each considers all the future holds.

  Fergus’s thoughts are filled with excitement and anticipation: Oh, the things I might do with my new powers. Ernest’s are more parental: Oh, the things Fergus might do with new powers.

  After the tea has settled, the moment has arrived.

  ‘So?’

  Fergus shoves his teacup aside and folds his hands. ‘Fireballs.’

  Ernest adjusts the brim of his Cardinals hat. ‘Doable.’

  ‘But from my eyeballs. Or wait.’ Fergus’s eyes narrow as he considers something. ‘What about x-ray vision?’

  ‘You can have either, I suppose. We don’t need to rush to decide.’ Ernest pours Fergus a second mug. ‘Wait. What would you do with x-ray vision?’ Suddenly, he remembers he’s dealing with a 17-year-old male. ‘Actually, don’t answer that. Just drink.’

  Fergus accepts the second helping. He holds his nose and takes another sip.

  Ernest pours himself a half-mug, considering the request. ‘Fire. Man’s first tool. Lots of uses for fire. That’s actually not bad. That might be…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Manageable,’ Ernest says. He sips, then wrinkles his nose despite himself. For all he knows, the stuff they’re drinking might actually be horse urine. All he knows is that the stuff works. Better than any radioactive spider. Or mutated genetic code. Or cosmic rays. He and Jupiter Blackshear stand as living proof that Fortran knows what he’s doing.

  ‘Fire.’ Ernest rubs the stubble on his cheek. ‘Let’s see if we can work with that.’

  ---

  Ernest limps toward the high school track on his injured left leg.

  After about ten minutes of instruction on sprinting technique, he hobbles to the finish line while Fergus takes his place at the 100-yard dash starting mark. Fergus waves at his father and bends into a crouch; a sprinter awaiting the crack of the starter’s pistol.

  Ernest raises his right arm, then brings it down, his thumb pressing the stopwatch’s ‘Start’ button. Fergus springs forward and chugs down the track, arms and legs pumping furiously.

  Ernest watches. And watches. He clicks the stopwatch again over 19 seconds later. World record holder Usain Bolt can cover same distance in less than half the time. (Actually, Ernest has wondered if Bolt just isn’t one of the Powered.)

  Fergus doubles over, hands on knees, gathering his breath.

  Success is a process, Ernest reminds himself, not a destination.

  ---

  The CrossFit gym is a converted garage. In a previous incarnation, it specialized in quick automobile oil changes. It’s now called The Fit Garage, existing now for (relatively) quick human body changes, thanks to an array of heavy ropes, kettlebells, chin-up bars, sledgehammers, plyometric boxes, and tractor tires. On this late Saturday afternoon, long after the 5am bootcamps and weekend warriors have cleared out (not to mention that, via Ryland, the whole space has been privately rented), the huge bay doors are halfway open. Fergus and Ernest are the only two men working out.

  There is one woman there, however.

  The young woman is Flynn Smith, and she’s there to serve as Fergus’s sparring partner. The idea of Flynn sparring instead of Ernest was the brainchild of both Smith women, although which one was more in favor of the idea is a matter of some debate. Phoebe doesn’t want Ernest risking further injury when he’s still healing. Flynn, it seems, just wants a chance to beat up on her older, idiot brother without having her phone taken away. Right now, she’s getting quite a kick out of watching said idiot brother struggle over the act of suiting up. If he thinks this is a pain, she thinks with a wry smile, he should try a cosplay convention.

  ‘Jesus H, Dad! I need help!’

  ‘Stop.’ Ernest admonishes his son, arms crossed. Fergus is trying—unsuccessfully—to tie a pair of boiled leather gauntlets around his forearms. He was able to get the left cuff—originally used by knights and soldiers before the advent of firearms—cinched around his forearm just fine, but the right one has fallen to the ground. Again. Unlike his daughter, Ernest finds little humor over his son’s growing frustration.

  ‘God damn,’ Fergus says. ‘I can’t… how the hell are you supposed to tie this with one hand?’

  ‘You’re just going to have figure it out. There’s no instruction manual, son. For any of this stuff.’

  ‘I’m going to use fire anyway. Not a stupid sword. So I don’t even know why—’ he ends his own sentence by stooping to pick up the fallen gauntlet.

  Ernest senses his daughter standing just behind him. He also senses, correctly, that she’s already figured out how to secure the gauntlets, and thus decides the best way to answer Fergus’s question is with a demonstration.

  Ernest steps aside.

  Fergus stands with the gauntlet in his left hand, and his eyes meet his sister’s. She’s still wearing the same wry smile. And both boiled leather gauntlets. And a wooden katana in her left hand. She switches the practice weapon from her left hand to her right, twirls it once, and then strikes a battle-ready pose.

  Ernest nods.

  The wooden blade whistles through the air and clacks hard against Fergus’s shoulder. Flynn’s smile grows when Fergus drops the gauntlet once more.

  ‘That’s why,’ Ernest tells his son.

  ‘Ahh! That fucking hurt!’

  ‘Language.’

  Ernest no
ds, and Flynn is once again happy to oblige. This time, Fergus gets his gauntleted forearm up just in time, blocking her strike. Flynn twirls, swinging the katana around for another strike, this one aimed at Fergus’s ribcage.

  But Fergus is both quick, and a quick study. Which is why Ernest still has great confidence in his son. He’s driven. He’s willing to learn. And he works his ass off. And stubborn as a Missouri mule. He’ll fight until he gets it right. Just like Ernest did.

  Besides, Ernest thinks, pain is an excellent professor. Fergus pivots and covers his ribcage with his left forearm. Flynn’s second strike clatters harmlessly off the gauntlet.

  Ernest looks on, wearing a satisfied smile.

  ---

  Jupiter Blackshear turns the ship’s wheel.

  He knows from extensive research how this is supposed to work. One thing is sure: his hair is perfectly suited for the part—it was practically born to captain a seafaring vessel. He only wishes he had a full beard to complement the look. But oh, the hair: windswept, waving in the breeze, and now flecked with spray being thrown over the boat’s gunwale, and well, just perfect. Just the way it’s supposed to be while piloting a friend’s speedboat up the Mississippi river. He’s both master and commander, except without the frilly shirt.

  Jupiter squints into the horizon. There, just around a sweeping left-hand bend in the waterway is something that looks innocuous enough: a low ridge of land running parallel to the river for perhaps a half a mile. But it’s upon that ridge that the fate of so many rests; a small, man-made, grass-covered shoulder topped with a white gravel walking path, which is keeping countless billions of cubic feet of water from spilling into new real estate developments in St. Louis County. This, in turn, makes that innocuous ridge worth countless millions of dollars. Jupiter Blackshear is staking much of his plan—and thus his eventual legacy—on that low ridge.

  He motions to his henchman.

  ‘Baab.’ Bob sets about readying the boat’s anchor.

  The engine growls; Jupiter steers the speedboat toward a sandbar at the bottom of the ridge. A few minutes later, he grounds the boat while Bob drops anchor and lowers a gangplank. Jupiter shimmies to dry land. He surveys the length of the levee, and then looks back at the boat.

  Bob emerges topdeck. The man-monster Jupiter has created bears a large, motorized awl he purloined from the housing development, the kind used when the job calls for deep holes in earth. It’s the perfect tool when it’s time to build a deck—or destroy a large section of greater St. Louis.

  The thing must weigh 100 pounds if it weighs an ounce. Bob bears the weight easily.

  Jupiter smiles.

  Yes, this is the place, he thinks.

  Thirty Six

  Ernest waits at the end of the track, twirling his stopwatch.

  Fergus meanders to the 100-yard dash starting line once again as cumulus clouds meander in front of the sun, offering welcome relief from the day’s heat. Ernest glances up and squints. When he looks back, he notices an adjacent field. About twelve young boys are busy with a baseball practice, which is to say that about nine young boys are playing, one is also staring at the clouds, one has his index finger up his nose, and one is squatted over a puffy, white dandelion that’s gone to seed. Meanwhile, two dads try to instill order.

  One of the boys dives headfirst into second base after a pickoff attempt. Ernest smiles as he watches, allowing himself a moment to meditate over the nature of sport. It’s one of man’s best jokes on God, he’s heard it said. God created a universe where every act seems important. All decisions—what berries to eat, whether to live in an area prone to drought, whether to challenge your political foe to a pistol duel à la Burr/Hamilton—can be matters of life and death. Except, since everyone ultimately dies, one can make a case that not much of it matters anyway.

  Meanwhile, man created the universe of sports. It’s a universe where absolutely nothing matters—did the winner of last night’s Cards game truly impact anyone?—yet mankind treats sporting events as matters of life and death. The joke, then, is that God created the heavens and earth, which mean nothing, while man created baseball, which means everything.

  ‘Ready, Dad! Yo! I’m ready!’ Fergus is shouting at his father from the other end of the track. Ernest’s musings on the nature of religion and National League Central standings are interrupted. Ernest double checks the stopwatch—

  Wait.

  Ernest jerks his eyes back to the baseball diamond, and more specifically at the kid in right field. The one turning Ernest’s way right now. The one who’s scattering dandelion seeds to the four winds, when he should be backing up first base on throws from the left side of the infield.

  ‘Dad! I’m growing a beard! Let’s go!’

  ‘Hang on! I’m resetting the thingy,’ Ernest calls back. He is, in fact, setting the stopwatch back to 0.00 with a few clicks of his thumb. But he’s also trying to pinpoint just why, exactly, that kid in right field gives him such a strong sense of déjà vu. Turn around, kid, Ernest thinks. You can worry about groundskeeping later on.

  ‘Dad!’

  Ernest raises his hand. Fergus crouches down. Ernest drops his arm and clicks the stopwatch. He checks the timer to make sure he didn’t mis-click. Hundredths of a second counters race by. He then looks up to monitor Fergus’s progress.

  The teen has crossed the finish line.

  Ernest’s thumb hits the stopwatch button. He tilts his head, looking at Fergus’s right arm, which is still glowing orange from the elbow down like embers in a campfire.

  Fergus turns his palm over. ‘Propulsion. You know, like a rocket.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Ernest says, still considering what to make of this apparent cheating of the training program. Ernest checks the time. 5.43 seconds. He opens his mouth to tell his son—

  He’s got it now. The kid. It’s the boy who witnessed Ernest lift the parked car. Just before his failed job interview. The one who was going to tell his mother.

  Fergus grabs his father’s wrist and looks at the stopwatch. Fergus notes the record time. It’s not just the fastest recorded 100-meter dash for him, of course, but for any human since the dawn of time. Fergus celebrates by pumping his fist. A small fireball leaps from his hand— after long debate, Ernest persuaded his son that, for a host of reasons, fireballs from the hand were superior to fireballs from the eyes.

  A nearby patch of dry grass leaps into flame.

  ‘Probably should go take care of that, Fergus,’ Ernest says, but continues staring at the kid in the outfield.

  While Fergus scurries over to stomp out the fire, the kid in right field stares back. He drops his dandelion. He doesn’t point. He doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t run, scared and crying, for the safety of the dugout. He simply removes his hat and stares.

  Ernest waits, holding his breath.

  ‘Jackson! Jackson! You need to be backing up first base, remember, Jackson?’

  See? Told you so.

  Jackson puts his hand on his hip and continues staring, defiant. Ernest stares back, unflinching, defiant of Jackson’s defiance.

  Ernest draws his thumb and forefinger slowly across his lips: zip it, kid. Zip your lips, and listen to your coach. And quit picking dandelions, for God’s sake. Those things can take over a lawn in no time flat.

  ‘JACKSON!’ the coach screams.

  Jackson turns. He starts running to back up first base.

  Ernest is grateful the kid has a good coach.

  ---

  The humidity is just short of oppressive.

  The Fit Garage’s bay doors are open. The heavy rubber mats are spattered with sweat, most of it belonging to Fergus Smith. The odor should, by all rights, be worse; the mats help by keep it smelling like a large tire wholesaler.

  Fergus has just finished a grueling session using an actual tire (which, in all honesty, only heightens the gym’s aroma). When he’s done wiping sweat out of his eyes, Ernest provides something else for Fergus to focus on: a medicine ball. Except
it’s hard to focus on a medicine ball when the medicine ball in question is being flung with the velocity of a Tom Brady forward pass.

  Fortunately, it’s not one of the heavier models. The black-and-red-striped ball, weighing in at a relatively meager eight pounds, nonetheless slams into Fergus’s midsection with the kinetic energy of a 3-year-old’s temper tantrum. Fergus is knocked flat against the rubber flooring, and there he remains, gasping for breath.

  ‘Good God damn!’ Fergus says once he’s able. He props himself onto his elbows. ‘A little warning would be nice!’

  ‘I agree. It would be nice.’

  Ernest hurls another medicine ball at Fergus. This one is the purple-and-black, which means that this one is packing a bit more density than the eight-pound variety. This time, Fergus reacts.

  A column of flame erupts from between the second and fourth fingers of Fergus’s right hand. Kinetic energy from the ball meets with thermal energy, and the purple medicine ball m x v2’s its way to the nearest wall. When the ball lands harmlessly on the wide rubber tiles, it continues to obey the laws of entropy, burning into a smoldering, noxious, heap.

  Flynn arrives with a fire extinguisher, wearing the bored expression all 16-year-olds seem to have perfected millennia ago. She squeezes the trigger; the medicine ball’s thermal energy is converted once again into potential energy. Circle of life.

  ‘Better,’ says Ernest while Flynn sets the fire extinguisher down with a thump. ‘Remember, Fergus. And you too, Flynn. A villain will attack where and when we are weakest.’

  Fergus nods at his father, all traces of pique now wiped from his face.

  He then wheels to his left, raising his right forearm. The right forearm is covered with a boiled-leather gauntlet, which he was able to get situated without a moment’s fuss this time. The gauntlet serves its purpose when it absorbs a strike from Flynn’s wooden training sword.