Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  Flash held up his hands. “Look, bookworm, you want to tussle after I say my piece, fine. But I promised a certain blonde I’d do my best to make sure you heard me out. Okay?”

  Flash didn’t seem afraid, but he didn’t look arrogant, either. Still not trusting him enough to let go, Peter narrowed his eyes.

  “So what’re you going to do, ask me to step aside?”

  Thompson nearly laughed. “No! Geez, you’re the smartest guy I know. How can you be so stupid? She was only talking to me because she was worried about you.”

  “Huh?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Not that I was thrilled about it, but she thought I might have an inside track on your gloomy ’tude and disappearing act.”

  Peter scrunched his face. “You? She wanted to talk to you about me?”

  “I know, right?”

  Still dubious, Peter relaxed his grip a little. “Why not someone I get along with, like Harry or MJ? Or a complete stranger for that matter?”

  “That’s what I asked, but Gwendolyn pointed out that the rest of the gang’s only known you two years. You and I go back to middle school. She figured that might give me some extra insight, like maybe you’d been different and I’d seen you change. Best I could do was confirm you were always the same scrawny, sullen nerd.”

  Flash tried to tug Peter’s hand away from the jacket of his uniform. It stayed in place, rigid as steel, until Peter let go. Surprised, Thompson adjusted his clothes, a slight, reluctant admiration in his eyes.

  “Fine, maybe a little less scrawny. Maybe.”

  Peter’s brain churned, trying to make the new information fit with what he’d seen. “There isn’t anything between you?”

  Flash looked him in the eye. “Didn’t you hear the no part? Not that I never tried, but we entered the friend zone ages ago. You don’t have to worry about her, except for the fact that she must be crazy to be so into you.”

  Peter looked down, around, then back at Flash. “Uh…thanks?”

  Thompson awkwardly patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome. Let’s not make it a regular thing, okay?”

  Visibly relieved, Harry rubbed his hands and headed for the kitchen. “Now that we’re all buddies, anyone for espresso?”

  Thompson pulled up a chair. “Don’t make it too strong. The bookworm here could use less caffeine.”

  “Excuse me, guys, I have a call to make.”

  Flash rolled his eyes. “No kidding.”

  Peter raced into his room, closing the door as Flash said, “Hey, Osborn, is that mustache new?”

  Gwen picked up on the first ring. “Peter? Do I know a Peter?”

  “Flash is here, Gwendy. I know you sent him.”

  “No, no, you must be mistaken. The only Peter I know seems to have deleted me from his contacts.”

  “I deserve that! I’m sorry. And I feel like a complete idiot. How soon can I see you to apologize in person?”

  She paused, but not for long. “Well, I’ve always been partial to complete idiots. How about now? I’m at what’s left of the Exhibition Hall. There’s a lecture starting in half an hour, but I’m yours till then.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice.”

  Hanging up, he headed for the door. Harry was working his espresso machine, while Flash sat at the table, hands clasped.

  “No time for java?”

  “Let him go, Harry. Honestly, I like it when Parker disappears.”

  ESU was only 10 blocks away, but an eager Peter ducked into an alley, switched to Spider-Man, swung over, and changed back—all in less than five minutes. He ran across the plaza toward the still-damaged hall, now half-covered in scaffolding.

  Fighting to keep his gait at a normal human speed was tough, especially when he saw Gwen leaning against one the faux columns. As the students streamed in for the lecture, she came forward.

  A few steps below, Peter took her hand and almost felt like proposing.

  Gwen was more pleased than surprised. “How did you get here so fast?”

  Glancing at the crowd, he tugged her off to the side. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk privately.”

  Thanks to the scaffolding, the area behind the columns was even quieter than usual. He took her hands and looked into her eyes for a full minute.

  She looked as if she might blush, but didn’t turn away. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Maybe I finally realized how much I miss you when you’re not around. Or maybe I don’t feel like talking after all.”

  The first kiss seemed to last forever. The second kiss was even longer. As for the third and fourth… well, at some point he had to let her go to class.

  “Pick you up in an hour, or should I just wait here all moony until it’s over?”

  “Your choice, boo. Your choice. As long as you’re here when I come out.”

  “I will be, I swear.” He crossed his finger over his heart. “Hope to die.”

  “See that you don’t, Mr. Parker. I have too many plans for you.”

  She winked and went inside. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the closed door, but it didn’t really matter.

  We do have a future together. What do you know?

  Suddenly, he didn’t have a worry in the world.

  I guess growing up’s not so bad. Given what happened to Silvermane, it sure as hell beats the alternative.

  “Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.”

  — MILES KINGTON, BRITISH JOURNALIST, MUSICIAN, AND BROADCASTER

  PART TWO:

  ADULTHOOD

  TWO YEARS LATER…

  FIFTEEN

  ROUGHLY three million people were buried in the Queens cemetery, more than actually lived in the borough. Here—in the endless field of headstones and crosses, obelisks and mausoleums—all were equal: athletes, entertainers, police, military, criminals, politicians, writers, and more.

  But to Peter Parker, some were more special than others.

  Uncle Ben was buried here. The guilt Peter carried over his death was so old, the memory so worn, that he imagined Ben himself would say, “Enough! How could you have known?”

  Peter’s answer—I should have—was still the same, though.

  Now he stood before Captain Stacy’s headstone. The police captain had died saving a child from falling wreckage, a boy he’d never seen before. Remembering that sacrifice made Peter’s guilt feel petty.

  At least until he looked at the grave he’d come to visit: Gwen’s.

  Then, petty or not, the remorse competed with the pain.

  I should have. I should have known.

  But he hadn’t. He’d been so busy saving the world, so wrapped up in his own worries, that he’d never even noticed the obvious, like Harry’s new mustache—let alone how many pills his roommate was taking, or how quickly that habit became a full-blown addiction.

  Sure, Peter was the one who raced Harry to the hospital when he OD’d, but after that? He’d assumed Harry had learned his lesson. Then he got the call from Gwen telling him Harry had overdosed and experienced a psychotic break. When he was shocked, she called him naïve.

  Funny, Gwen’s last words to me were about Harry. “All his life he’s had whatever he wanted. What could have happened to him to make him so…so desperate?”

  Peter remembered the glazed look in Norman Osborn’s eyes when he blamed Peter for his son’s decline. Guilt aside, it meant the only villain who knew Spider-Man’s identity might recover his memory.

  I should have known.

  But again, he hadn’t known Osborn would revert to the Green Goblin, kidnap Gwen, and take her to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge. Knowing she was Peter’s girlfriend, he waited for Spider-Man to arrive, and then…kicked her off.

  Captain Stacy’s death was a reminder that there were things no one could control. But the image of Gwen, twisting and tumbling through the air, kept playing in his mind.

  Of course, he jumped after her. He’d have leapt into
hell for her. But even Spider-Man couldn’t defy gravity. So he tried a long shot, snagging her ankle with a web before she could hit one of the concrete pylons. He carried her to what he thought was safety—and, for a little while, less than a minute, he thought she was fine.

  But she wasn’t. She was already dead.

  When the numbness wore off and the tears flowed more freely, the questions began to plague him. If he’d twisted one way and not the other—if he’d been faster—could he have saved her? What if he’d stayed with her all day? If he’d been a better friend to Harry? If he’d never been Spider-Man at all? If he’d done this and not done that?

  If I’d known.

  “Enough, already! How could you have known?”

  But I should have.

  Thinking about it had nearly driven him mad. Finally he’d had to accept the truth that yes, with 20-20 hindsight, there were dozens of things, large and small, that he could have done—but it was too late. He didn’t know whether facing that would make him more mature, but the effort definitely made him feel older.

  The spring night was pleasant, the sky clear and welcoming. But rather than swing back to the Village, he took the subway to give himself more time alone and Harry some space. He wanted to be a better friend in case his roommate slipped again, and he definitely didn’t want his own glum mood to add to Harry’s problems. So before entering their apartment, Peter exhaled and took a moment to put on a good face.

  The space was dark, save for a small lamp on the crowded kitchen table. Harry sat half in shadow, hunched over the pile of business papers he’d been forced to deal with since his father’s death.

  Pete waved. “Hey, roomie.”

  He didn’t even look up. “Peter.”

  Peter tossed his jacket on the hanger. “Want to hang out, grab a pizza?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Harry scooped up the contracts, walked into his room, and shut the door.

  The rebuff wasn’t a surprise. Peter’s efforts to approach Harry were stuck in yet another web of lies and irony. Unaware of Norman’s crazed alter ego, Harry blamed Spider-Man for his father’s murder. Peter had encouraged the fiction that he worked with the wall-crawler to get photos, so Harry was angry with Peter by association.

  For once Peter was certain this was a case where telling the truth would only make things worse. Not that part of him hadn’t wanted to kill the Goblin, but circumstance had robbed him of the choice. Desperate and beaten, Osborn had sent his remote-controlled glider careering at Spider-Man’s back, hoping to eviscerate him. Peter’s spider-sense threw him into a last-second leap—and the jet-propelled device hit the Goblin’s chest instead.

  Peter still remembered the exact sound the glider made against the concrete when it, and Norman Osborn, fell.

  He left his own door open in case Harry came back out and decided he wanted to talk. Despite everything that had changed, Peter’s room looked pretty much the same as the day he’d moved in. So much of his life just bumbled on, as if by momentum.

  He was a staff photographer at the Bugle now, but still struggled to pay his bills. He was still trying to graduate ESU, but his college career might be grinding to a halt. There were only so many classes even the brightest student could miss. After he’d failed Advanced Experimental Physics twice due to multiple absences and late work, the deadline-obsessed Prof. Blanton had given him his last, last, last chance.

  Honestly, it would’ve been hard for Peter to care about school at all if not for Aunt May. Though they seldom spoke of their grief, he knew Gwen’s death had hit her nearly as hard as it had him. She’d accepted Gwen as a daughter, thought of her as the future mother of her grandchildren. Now, with Gwen gone, Peter felt even more obligated to graduate, fulfill his potential, and make his only living relative proud.

  No matter how many lives Spider-Man saved, if he broke that sweet, loving woman’s heart, he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again.

  That meant cracking the books, which he did until sleep overtook him. Tonight at least, his slumber was peaceful, dark, deep, and thoughtless.

  At some point a ringtone woke him. A heavy textbook sat half on his face, a folded page stuck to his lip. Trying not to lower the resale value of the pricey tome, he peeled it away carefully and answered his phone.

  “Peter Parker?”

  Not knowing the voice, he assumed the obvious.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not…”

  “May Parker’s nephew?”

  He sat up. A glance at the clock told him it was midnight, too late for a telemarketer. “Yes?”

  “This is Dr. Amelia Fent. Your aunt’s been admitted to Presbyterian Hospital following an incident. She was—”

  “An incident? What kind of incident?”

  “She was unusually disoriented, so her friend Anna brought her in. I just got the results of her blood work, and her liver function isn’t where we’d like it to be. Given her history…”

  The doctor was calm and clear, but the more she spoke, the less he understood.

  “History? What history? Where’s Dr. Bromwell, her regular doctor?”

  “He’s on his way in. She’s in stable condition for now…”

  “For now?”

  “She’s in no immediate danger. But it would probably be best if you came in. Dr. Bromwell can give you the details when you arrive.”

  * * *

  IN THE largest private room of the new ward built by her donations, Vanessa Fisk watched her husband’s chest rise and fall. Like most everything, the ventilator had been built for lesser men. Already the pressure had needed to be raised three times to fill his lungs with enough oxygen. It was a steady movement, but calm—so unlike the quick, sharp panting she was used to. The fire that at times made him part animal was gone.

  The doctors said if she talked to him, he might hear her, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word. Even holding his hand only brought the pained sensation that despite the evidence of the body in the bed, Wilson Fisk wasn’t here at all.

  If you were alive, I could love you. If you were dead, I could mourn you.

  Most days, the antidepressants helped. At times she found herself humming as she wandered their Long Island beach house alone. But whenever she visited here, she felt as though the same abyss that had consumed Wilson would reach out and claim her, as well.

  The newest “expert” to examine him was younger than the last. While polite and professional, his callow eyes held little compassion, as if he were trying to solve a crossword puzzle rather than restore a life. Perhaps it was just as well. Vanessa had hired him for his skills, not his heart.

  “It’s unusual to require a ventilator even in the worst cases of catatonia, but his breathing had slowed to such a dangerous point, we had no choice.”

  “Two years, and not one doctor has the slightest idea how to help him.”

  “I admit, I’m at a loss, too. Brain trauma would explain a coma, but there’s no indication that occurred. Mental disorders can cause catatonia, but he hasn’t responded to benzodiazepine, or any other psychoactive medications. I tried L-Dopa, in case the tests failed to detect encephalitis lethargica, but nothing’s helped. The only thing left is electroconvulsive therapy.”

  She winced at the thought. “I understand the shocks are administered with greater control than in the past. But do you have any sense of whether it might work?”

  “Honestly, no. I have no idea. At this stage, I would argue that it couldn’t hurt.”

  She wanted to give him a withering look, but lacked the energy. “One could say the same of chicken soup.”

  “You’ve said he had a serious emotional shock, but you’ve never explained what it was.”

  “Would it help? It’s a private family matter.”

  “Maybe. I’ve run out of things to try.”

  “You know what the papers say about my husband? You understand why I schedule these consultations so late after hours?”

 
He nodded.

  “What if I told you that knowing what happened to him might put certain people in danger?”

  His sudden fear was palpable. “In that case, maybe it’s best you don’t tell me.”

  The doctor was thinking of himself, but she was thinking of her son. Consumed with remorse over what he’d done to his father, Richard had fled the country. Though it meant she’d lost him as well, that was probably for the best. There were those out there still loyal, if not to the Kingpin, then to the organization he’d left in ruins. Some venal newcomer wanting to make a name for themselves wouldn’t hesitate to track down Richard and harm him.

  “I can tell you that I was there, that I saw the heart ripped from a great man whose love was the only thing fiercer than his anger—so fierce it terrified him. In a single moment, it was ripped away. It was as if he simply lost the will to live.”

  The expert shrugged. “Mrs. Fisk, I wish I could tell you more, but that metaphor is as good a diagnosis as any I can offer. Do you want to consider shock therapy?”

  She put her hand on the rising chest, hoping the feel of his heartbeat might convince her that her husband was still somehow present. It did not.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Of course. Take your time. He’s, uh, not going anywhere.”

  This time she did raise her head to glare at him— but the loud, intrusive squeak of sneakers turned her toward the door.

  A young man was running down the private hall, his handsome face pale with worry. She didn’t think him a threat, but lacking her husband’s instincts in such matters, she wasn’t sure. A security guard immediately appeared to reassure her.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fisk, that guy must have taken a wrong turn. We’ll have him removed.”

  “Be gentle about it. He probably has his own bad news to deal with.”

  * * *

  AFTER speaking with the gray-haired, mustachioed Dr. Bromwell in the lobby, Peter was in such a daze he’d wandered down two wrong halls before finding his aunt. The second bed in the gray semi-private room was empty, but the nurse cautioned she might be getting a roommate at any time.