Isn’t there a haiku about a man who ate a catfish who ate a man? Ryland wonders. If not, perhaps he’ll write one when he returns to his desk. He takes a deep sigh as water continues its slow journey to the ocean.
He turns back to his friends and begins walking.
As the sound of ambulance sirens grow louder from the unmarked gravel road behind them, all three Smiths consider their beloved colleague, and wonder what could be going through his mind. He’s just killed a man, after all, one who could have easily been taken into custody, eventually to stand trial.
Ryland frowns. Nods. Then sums up his afternoon, and his entire existence.
‘Character flaw.’
Fifty Four
Four months later
The imperfect human named Ryland Washington lifts the lid on a plain terracotta teapot and inhales, steam fogging up his glasses. Ryland lets the aromas register across his olfactory nerves, and deems the tea properly steeped. He pours a cup for both himself and the man sitting with one shoe propped on his office desk.
Ryland turns to offer a mug. He clears his throat.
‘Sorry.’ Ernest Smith removes his foot, accepts the tea. ‘I was staring at the bonsai. Has it always bloomed like that?’
‘Just every single spring,’ says Ryland.
‘Huh.’ Judging from the smell, this should prove to be a delicious mug of tea, Ernest thinks. Notes of peach and ginger and jasmine tease his palate. But then again, he’s been misled by the smell of Fortran’s tea before. This could be the brewing opposite of eating a stinkfruit, Ernest supposes: smells good, tastes like crap. But as with Fortran’s concoctions, it’s more than rude to decline a host’s tea when offered. Ernest brings the edge of his mug to his lips and takes a hesitating slurp.
Thank the Buddha! he thinks. At last. A pleasant-tasting pot of tea.
Ryland watches his friend enjoy his ginger-peach-jasmine green tea, contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
‘Well. I guess this all worked out,’ Ernest says. ‘I mean it could have been worse, I guess. A lot worse. Couldn’t it?’
Ryland Washington takes a sip from his own mug. He shrugs his shoulders.
Ernest smiles despite himself. ‘Man, can we just have one single conversation without all the Zen?’
Ryland Washington shrugs once more.
Ernest sets the tea on the spot occupied by his shoe just a moment ago. He shakes his head. ‘I should have known.’
The retired superhero eases back in his chair, wearing the bemused expression of someone who’s just had an epiphany. ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? You knew.’ Ernest’s eyes narrow. ‘You cagey, brilliant, literate, vengeful, mysterious, wise little man from the Far East of Tennessee. You had this all mapped out, didn’t you?’
The clatter and din of Ryland inhaling another nose full of tea.
Ernest raises a finger. Shakes it in the air. ‘Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. When I resisted your idea of passing a superpower to my kids, you suggested Jupiter because you knew it was the only way.’
Ryland cups his tea.
Eventually the police chief speaks: ‘Two men are riding on the same horse. They may have very different intentions about the horse’s destination.’ Ryland then nods, staring at a patch of nothing in particular just over Ernest’s right shoulder.
‘And?’ Ernest asks. ‘Is that the whole thing? It sounds like that one needs an ending.’
Ryland’s eyes return to Ernest’s. ‘For a little while, the two men on the horse share the same direction.’
Ernest stares at a patch of nothing in particular, trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. Or at very least, he’s trying to unravel Ryland’s mysterious stories. ‘I don’t have the foggiest idea what that means. What is that anyway? Like a Buddhist proverb or something?’
‘It’s an old koan.’ Ryland frowns in concentration. ‘But I guess all koans are old, or they wouldn’t be koans.’
Ernest blinks. ‘A what? A koan? I don’t know what that is either—’
The two men who are contemplating two men riding the same horse are interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Ryland motions, indicating that whoever knocked should enter.
Ernest turns around. A wide, proud smile spreads his face.
Fergus Smith steps through the threshold to Washington’s office. He’s immediately picked up in the huge bear hug offered by his father.
‘Easy. All right, easy, Dad.’
After he’s been set down, Fergus reaches for the plastic tag hanging from his coat pocket. Or at least it was hanging. It’s now trapped in the folds of his lapel, and Fergus flips it over so that both his father and everyone else in the station can see the boy’s newly minted credential.
The elephant in the room appears: Fergus adjusts the credential using his prosthetic hand.
Ernest’s eyes dart to the appendage.
In that moment, as in so many others, Ernest thinks that he’d offer anything in this life or the next to take away his son’s suffering. He’d trade places, or make thirty-five Faustian bargains with thirty-five devils, or do or say or trade anything he owns or will own—including his own flesh—in order that Fergus have his own restored. Ernest hopes that his eyes express only the abiding pride he feels at his son’s strength and grit, rather than the pang of grief slicing into him.
‘Dad. Stop. It’s OK.’
Damn. Phoebe is right; He’s so bad at hiding things.
‘There are good days and no-so-good days. Just like any normal life.’
Which is all a father ever wants for a son. ‘Yeah. I was just gonna say it kinda looks like—’
‘Luke Skywalker?’ Fergus offers.
‘Actually, I was gonna say—’
‘Although I guess that makes you Darth, so never mind. Bad analogy.’
‘Ash. From Army of Darkness. Before your time,’ Ernest says. ‘And a really nerdy movie reference. Like the nerdiest movie reference of all time.’
Fergus takes a deep breath, and the elephant in the room saunters out, once and for all. ‘Dad. It’s gonna be fine. It’s a process.’
Fergus then smooths his sports coat against his sides, looking as though he were in the room for a first round of job interviews. He reaches for the ID badge. ‘Let me see that.’ Ernest inspects the unsmiling, stern-looking face pressed up against the laminated enclosure, then glances down at the words below.
SMITH, F. STL PD. MCU.
Ernest, with emphasis on the first word: ‘Major Crime Unit. It suits you.’ He opens his mouth to add something else, but the words catch in his throat, and his eyes mist over, so he just stands there, looking foolish and wounded and bursting at the seams. He grips his son by the shoulders.
Standing behind them, Ryland nods. ‘The child is the father of the man.’
‘De-tect-ive,’ Ernest’s voice cracks mid-word.
For another split second, Ernest stands there, holding his son by the shoulders.
Then he gives Fergus the largest bear hug in history.
‘OK. OK, dad,’ Fergus laughs, barely able to get the words out from beneath the force of the hug. His dad is still superstrong, after all. ‘Careful. It’s just a detective internship. Dad. Come on, put me down. I haven’t even worked a case yet.’
Ernest fulfils the request. Fergus’s shoes hit the ground once again. This time, it’s Ernest who smooths Fergus’s sport coat.
Ryland folds his arms, his stance one of contentment. ‘I predict, Fergus, that you’ll be a very good detective for many, many years to come. You’re smart. Focused. Willing to work hard. And you already have the most important skill for this job.’
‘Which is?’ Ernest asks.
Ryland uncrosses his arms, raises his right hand—and points at his heart.
Fergus blushes.
Ernest gives his son a playful hit on the shoulder. ‘Best listen to Chief Washington. The guy is spot on when it comes to predictions.’
Ryland Washington shrugs. ‘We’ll
see.’
---
After tea and almond cookies and twenty more minutes of stories and conversation between the three men, Ernest and Fergus head out of Ryland’s office, Fergus taking the lead. Ryland sees the two men out, then remains at his doorway, watching father and son proceed down the corridor formed by the arrangement of grey cubicles.
Ryland remembers one last item of business, and calls out. ‘Oh, and Ernest. One more thing.’
Ernest turns. ‘I’ll catch up, son.’
Fergus nods and continues down the corridor, perhaps getting a sense for where he might fit into his new office’s floor plan. After college, of course. Perhaps even after Quantico.
Ryland waits for Ernest to return, fishing through his coat pocket while Ernest closes the distance.
‘What’s up, boss?’
Ryland Washington produces a new iPhone.
Ernest tilts his head to give it a look.
‘Thanks. But you know what? I’m kinda old school. Or at least old. I think I should just hang on to this.’ Ernest fishes out his old flip phone and holds it between thumb and forefinger.
Ryland studies his friend for several seconds.
The police chief glances at the white iPhone resting in the palm of his hand, then back at Ernest, waiting, perhaps, for the superhero to somehow attain the powers of super deduction that, for the most part, have thus far eluded him.
‘It’s not for you,’ Ryland finally says.
A long silence passes between the two men.
A really long silence.
But in that silence, Ryland at last sees that his friend knows what’s being asked. Given the toll recently paid by one of his offspring, his old friend is just afraid, Ryland sees. Ryland decides the best tactic is to try and assuage Ernest’s fears.
‘Flynn has the greatest superpower of all—’
Ernest interrupts. ‘I know. She’s willing to sacrifice.’ His gaze falls to the brand-new phone once again. ‘That’s what scares me.’
Ryland’s lips form a small grin. ‘It should.’
Ernest looks into the wise eyes of his friend. ‘I’ll have to speak to my wife.’
The two part ways. Ernest walks backwards, watching the police chief head back to his office. And it’s because of this retreat that he sees his boss wheel around once he reaches the doorknob.
Ryland raises his voice just a bit to call down the hallway. ‘Oh, and Ernest? That reminds, me. The Jupiter thing?’ Washington asks.
‘Yeah? What about it?’ Ernest calls back.
‘Phoebe.’
Ryland nods. Then turns. As though being cautious about causing injury to the doorframe, he slips into his office and closes the door.
Meanwhile, the mysteries of the universe, at last, start to reveal themselves to one Ernest Smith in all their astonishing, messy, and glorious implications. Chief among these, of course, is the following:
His wife knows what she’s doing.
Fifty Five
Present day
‘So, yeah. My wife,’ Ernest says with a shake of his head.
Megan from HR removes her glasses and wipes her eyes.
‘She actually thought this job would be a bad fit, if you must know. Thinks I need to find something where I can move around. Be outside. Like a Park Ranger, I guess. Work for a tree service. Something like that. I mean what does a man do when he can do almost anything, you know? It’s actually a tough choice.’
Megan has been listening, enraptured, to every word of Ernest’s story, and now looks tired. Surely this interview has gone on longer than most. But she’s the one who asked. And then kept urging for him to continue. When she finally stops rubbing at her bloodshot eyes, Ernest sees dark circles. ‘I think I’ve heard everything I need to hear,’ Megan says.
‘Sorry. I ramble sometimes.’
She stands, and begins walking toward the exit. Although she didn’t really indicate he should leave, Ernest takes her movement as his cue to do likewise. He pushes himself out of the chair.
Yet when Megan arrives at the door to her office, she only looks out into the hallway.
There’s another uncomfortable silence in their conversation, which Ernest tries to fill. ‘I take it you don’t really need to hear about how the city repaired the levee, or the bridge, or what a police chase looks like when it’s on a river? About how Bob went to the hospital for a week and then to a mental health facility for a lot longer? About how Ryland’s men took down Rowe before he made it back to the levee?’
‘No. I think you’ve told me enough,’ Megan says.
Then, instead of offering a handshake or otherwise inviting Ernest to leave, she swings the door shut. ‘I don’t want anyone to see what I’m about to do. It’s kind of a breach of HR protocol.’
Ernest has taken a step toward the door, resigned to his fate at this particular place of employment. He now stops. Purely out of old habit, his right hand curls into a loose fist. Just in case. Just in case there’s something about this Megan woman that wasn’t covered during the initial phone screening.
‘You’re not a supervillain, are you, lady?’
Megan smiles. ‘Not exactly.’
Then she throws her arms around Ernest Smith. He feels a slight tremor in the young woman’s shoulders as she tucks her face into Ernest’s shoulder.
Ernest uncurls his right hand.
The interview just officially got a little awkward.
After deciding not to jam a ballpoint pen in his eye, and actually coming clean about why, exactly, he was seeking this position, a second round of interviews was low on his list of probable outcomes. But even that placed several spots ahead of getting a hug from the HR manager. He doesn’t exactly reciprocate Megan’s hug, but does give her a few gentle pats on her back.
She breaks away from the embrace and sniffles. She wipes away a tear from her right eye using a peculiar gesture—middle and index fingers completely straight. There’s a precision and tidiness in her every move that Ernest decides is perfectly suited for her role in HR. Maybe despite not yet having kids, she’s more like a parent than Ernest originally gave her credit for. After all, she has to deal with human messiness all the time.
‘No, not a supervillain,’ Megan says. ‘I’m a daughter.’
Ernest nods, frowning. Well. Good to know, I suppose.
It’s only then that he notices the gold cross around her neck.
Right in front of me, he thinks. This entire time. You big dummy.
Light bounces off of the moisture in Megan’s eyes. ‘And my parents owned a farm.’
Fifty Six
Three years later
Ernest Smith counts in his head.
For a big dummy, it’s kind of a chore.
At last tally, he muses, there were exactly seventeen living, breathing, actual masters of the universe living in cities and hamlets throughout the globe, doing their level best, as they have for centuries on end, to protect citizens of said cities from the ravages of fire, marauding hordes of barbarians, terrorist plots, cybertheft, shadow cells, alien invasions, angry trolls, giant subterranean worms, nanotechnology gone amok, cold fusion of hydrogen atoms, the Yeti, YA novels featuring vampires, and intergalactic efforts (ongoing, to the best of Ernest’s knowledge), to colonize planet Earth via a giant terraforming machine.
Our powers have their limits, however.
We aren’t pre-cogs. We can’t break the laws of the universe when it comes to time and space. Unless we review clues generally available to any non-powered detective, we’ve no ability to predict when one man will perform an act of evil against his fellow man. We get there when we can, which most times isn’t soon enough. We try to remain anonymous where feasible, although every now and then, our exploits are documented on the evening news. (Remember, for example, that one time where the guy went under the frozen pond and saved that dog? Yep. That was us.)
Most of us lead simple lives. Three are stationed in the Middle East, doing what they can. There�
��s an insurance claims adjustor in Vancouver. A yoga studio owner in Munich. A turquoise jewelry maker in Sedona. A tour guide in Lima, Peru. A literary agent living in New York. One actually lives in Angkor Wat. And one, sadly, is unaccounted for, rumored to have fallen to mental illness (not the first of the Powered to suffer this fate).
Oh, and get this: four of those superheroes are black. Non-Caucasian and everything. Crazy, huh?
We’re a rare lot indeed.
Rarer still: three of these seventeen souls happen to live at the very same residence.
And one of those three is currently trying out a brand-new superpower: edging the sidewalk in front of his suburban home with a weed whacker, making the details of his lush, thick grass look just so.
---
Ernest Smith eases up on the weed whacker’s trigger.
He wipes sweat off his forehead, surveying his handiwork. Grass emerges from the edges of the sidewalk at precise 90-degree angles. Yep. A superpower, no doubt about it; surely no ordinary homeowner’s association member can make their yard look this good.
A car pulls up.
It’s a blue Toyota Corolla. A young man emerges from the driver’s side wearing a plain, white dress shirt, a striped red power tie, and fitted pants. A good look, Ernest thinks. Crisp and authoritative. A serious look for a man with a serious part-time occupation.
A look one might expect on a detective.
From the passenger side, another figure. This one female. Ah ha, Ernest thinks. This must be the girl Fergus keeps mentioning.
This must be Bailey.
The girl who must be Bailey swings around the front of the Corolla and slips her arm around Fergus’s waist. She’s wearing a green-and-blue striped tank top and boyfriend jeans—the former accentuates her athletic build; the latter does nothing to disguise it. And despite the casual dress, there’s something substantial about this young woman Fergus met during his sophomore year at Kansas State (the out-of-state tuition, by the way, is diabolical).
I, Superhero Page 29
