by Stone, Naomi
He stopped again, taking care to decelerate gradually as he reached Lyndale Avenue, where he stood for a moment and looked up and down the street. Long past rush hour, the few cars on the road moved at a steady clip. A young woman walked her standard poodle around a corner, leaving no pedestrians in sight. He may as well go all out, see what was capable of at full throttle.
Greg ran down the deserted bike lane at first, but, as he pressed for his top speed, it seemed as if everything moving around him stood still. He ran rings around a cyclist and must have been only a blur to the helmeted rider, like being invisible, like the world belonged to him to do with as he wished–a heady rush of power.
A child dropped a fast food wrapper out the rear window of a family sedan. Littering constituted criminal activity, all right. A chance to apply his superpowers for the greater good. Greg snatched up the crumpled scrap and popped it back in through the passenger window onto the lap of the man seated there and made it halfway down the next block before anyone would have had time to notice his passing.
Ahead, off to the side of the road, under one of the maples lining every street, he spotted movement, a cat twisting in midair. An open-mouthed teenaged girl stood nearby, alarm widening her eyes. Never fear, citizens, Speedy-Greg to the rescue!
Greg hardly paused as he scooped the animal deftly out of the air and deposited it gently on its feet, then ran off before teen or cat reacted. The small act left him with a warm glow. Maybe the cat would have landed on its feet regardless of his intervention, but he’d made sure of its safe landing, and made the day that much better for the teen and the cat alike.
Buildings, cars and people became a blur as he rushed on. He rolled the world away under his pounding-along-at-blurring-speed feet. It had only been a couple minutes since he’d left the alley and he’d already crossed 494 into Richfield.
Amazingly, he wasn’t even breathing hard, but he needed some goggles and his jaw burned from the wind. At this rate, he’d be in Burnsville in another couple minutes. Fascinating. His perceptions must have sped up, too. He couldn’t get over the way the cars on the road seemed to stand still. Incredible. His fingers itched for a notepad to record his observations.
He eased up on his pace, gradually slowing until he ran beside the cars at their own speed. He caught a few looks of surprise from passengers and drivers. He waved to them in passing. Finally, he slowed to a stop at a bus shelter and plopped to a seat on the bench, congratulating himself on stopping without disaster. He needed to find a scrap of paper to use for some notes. He eyed an old flyer taped to the side of the shelter. Still not breathing hard. Wow.
A buzzing sounded in his ear. Greg waved a hand, shooing whatever away. The sound persisted, too steady and mechanical to be an insect. He felt around the ear of his hooded mask, found a small projection and pressed it.
“There you go.”
Her voice, the little old lady, Serafina.
“I forgot to mention the radio connection, young man. I called to let you know there’s a crime in progress. Right now, in Richfield, the backyard at 6699 Bryant.”
“I’ll be right there,” Greg said without thinking, or stopping to remind himself he wasn’t really a hero. Already he moved at top speed, easily dodging the nearly stationary cars, buses, trucks and people dotting his path.
Crime? Since when did he rush to the scene of a crime? What did he think he could do? His doubts echoed in his ears, but he answered them. At this speed, he certainly had the power to do something, and do it before the bad guys even noticed him.
No time to think things over. No time to second-guess himself. It took no time to cover the few miles of side streets lined with small suburban homes as he rushed toward danger. Greg darted past the last garage standing between him and the designated backyard.
Maybe a dozen people filled the yard, men, women and children.
A blonde woman whose strapless dress bared sunburned shoulders stood clutching a toddler and a gangly girl close against her. Her face contorted in a clash of anger and fear, the children gaped, frozen expressions angling toward tears. A man with buzz-cut gray hair and an impressive beer gut sat at the picnic table with men who might be his brothers. He held a barbecued rib halfway to his mouth, fingers greasy, alarmed eyes on the intruders.
Most of the adults sat around the table. The man at the grill held his hands in the air, still wielding a barbecue fork on which perched a skewered brat.
Most of the children huddled nearby, around a slip ‘n slide game. A boy clad in sky blue swim trunks snaked down the slide on his belly. By perceptible inches.
Three men with guns stood positioned around the periphery of the gathering. They wore nylon stocking masks. Two were of medium height and build, one larger, all looked old enough to know better. He scowled at the intruders with an unaccustomed sense of determination locking his jaw. Last summer there’d been news reports of a gang of robbers targeting backyard barbeques. Looks like they’re back.
In moments shaved fine from a second, Greg tore past the masked men. He pulled weapons from their frozen grasps. The largest man held the shotgun with such a determined grip only Greg’s momentum enabled him to tear it free. A glance behind him showed the beginning of their reactions, eyes widening, mouths opening. The snap of breaking fingers didn’t catch up to him until he’d already collected two thirty-eights and the sawed off shotgun. The sickening sound almost slowed him.
The frightened eyes of the children and people at the picnic table firmed Greg’s resolve. He frisked the men for other weapons, found a couple knives and another gun, and then dumped the hardware into a plastic wading pool where a lone yellow ducky bobbed.
It took the work of another instant to unstring the rope from a clothesline at the side of the yard and tie the robbers’ arms and legs. Everything he handled seemed unwieldy. Inertia created more drag at this speed. The clothesline might be an anaconda, the guns cast in lead.
Greg didn’t stop until he’d positioned himself behind a huge oak in the next yard over to make sure the situation stayed under control. The world caught up with him, quickly followed by a couple screams and the thuds of falling bodies as the bound robbers toppled. More screams and shouts.
“Oh my god!”
“What happened?” Several people exclaimed at once.
“Where are their guns?”
“Call the police.”
“Jesus, my hand. My hand!”
“It was a fast man,” A child piped.
“Here they are,” cried another child, “in Dougie’s pool.”
Greg bit his lip to keep from cursing as a six-year-old boy pulled a dripping handgun out of the pool. A woman snatched it away immediately and the boy started crying, adding to the din.
He obviously needed to work on his weapons disposal strategy. What was he thinking? No way would he make this a habit. He’d had fun playing the hero, and had to admit it gave his heart a lift to stop those thugs, to see the kids and families safe and take part in their relief. It made the evening light glow a bit brighter, made him stand taller. But he still needed to grade papers in time to get them back to the professor in the morning. High time he returned to his real, if somewhat duller life.
When he darted out of concealment and down the alley, his earlier urgency had left him, and Greg didn’t go as fast as possible. He went no faster than a car, slow enough to be seen.
He changed course halfway home. If he meant to turn in his costume and superpower when he got home, he still wanted to try one thing while he had the chance. Foolish, maybe, but he’d been a comics fan forever and if he missed this chance to play around with it, he’d kick himself later. It worked for The Flash, so it should work for him. Greg headed for Lake Calhoun.
Approaching the lake, the scene might have been a landscape painting of a June evening, a picture of perfect serenity, calm waters reflecting the clear evening sky, lush trees ringing the water like a green feather boa around the bare shores of the lake. A few sailboats
glided on the lake, and plenty of people walked, skateboarded, biked and picnicked around the shoreline despite the lengthening shadows. Reaching the shore, he pushed himself to full speed.
The physics of it worked in theory. Moving at over a hundred miles an hour, water shouldn’t be able to get out of his way fast enough and would support him as he ran across it, like self-propelled water-skiing.
He crossed the lake in an instant.
Even with his speed-enhanced perceptions, he’d made it across the water before he had a chance to appreciate the experience. Kind of a letdown. He looked back to the lake, wondering how to remedy the problem. A straight course allowed only a fraction of a second on the watery surface, but nobody said he had to take the straight path, not when he had the option of taking the scenic route.
This time Greg started the same full-speed dash across the water, but bent his route into a circular path around the inner curve of the lake. He raced around the circumference, far enough from shore to easily avoid the relatively motionless waders, children splashing in the shallows and the moored boats. This was more like it. He moved further from shore and wove his way around the sailboats.
He reversed direction, jumping the small waves his earlier steps had kicked up. Legs pumping faster than he’d ever have believed possible, the water’s surface lay like rippled stone beneath his feet. The wind burned his face. He sped around the lake like a kid running for the sheer joy of it. Like he’d done with Gloria and the other kids on the block before he’d learned to read and discovered other worlds. He gave a shout as he ran, never stopping, until a renewed buzzing sounded in his ear.
He slapped the button, and startled into a too-sudden halt, tumbled like a skipped stone until he lost momentum and splashed into the drink, sinking like that same stone.
Spirits dashed by the cold dunking, Greg rose splashing and coughing to the surface. “What?” he sputtered, choking back a few words Aggie’d taught him to avoid in polite company.
“Tut, dear. It’s an emergency.”
“What?” Sobered, he spoke more calmly, still treading water.
“There’s a house not far from you. The family’s on vacation. It’s being burgled even now.” She gave him the directions.
Greg treaded water faster and faster, against continually greater resistance, working his way up like a corkscrew emerging from the cork, until he sped across the surface at full speed.
Chapter 3
Gloria stared into the deep shadows along the road and into the reflections on the windshield, watching the passing lights. She should say something before it got awkward.
“So, that went pretty well, don’t you think?” Pete drove as they headed home from the Red Lobster where they’d joined his parents for an early dinner. The homecoming traffic of Memorial Day weekend vacationers had dwindled by now, leaving the streets and highway nearly empty.
“Sure,” Gloria answered with brightness more habitual than related to the topic of discussion.
Her mind strayed to the project she’d left on Aggie’s worktable. She’d retained nothing notable from the dinner conversation. Pete’s parents seemed nice. They’d been pleasant in manner, soft-spoken and dressed straight from the Sears Catalog. His father, Pete Senior, hadn’t spoken much other than to say hello, offer Pete congratulations and agree with his wife.
Pete’s mother, Marion, had talked a lot, mostly about her church groups–people Gloria had never met–and so relentlessly, Gloria hadn’t had any opportunity to comment or question. After the initial greetings, talk of their engagement was cut short when she and Pete admitted they hadn’t set a date and weren’t ready to talk actual plans. Gloria’s mind had wandered away to focus on a better appreciation of her buttery scallops while Marion chatted through the meal.
“Your parents sure seem like nice people.” What more was there to say? She didn’t blame them for being boring. Not everyone could be a brilliant conversationalist. To be fair, she might have seemed dull to them too, if she’d found a chance to talk about the new project that she found so exciting. Not everyone would be interested in her entrepreneurial dreams.
“Yeah. They are. Mom’s real active with the church. Her groups do a lot of good work, help a lot of worthy causes. She’ll probably get you involved once we’re married.”
“Um.” She called on the patience she’d learned through years of dealing with her father, though something in her reared up in defense. Why would he spring this on her so late in the game? “I’m not Episcopalian.” Even if I were, I’ve got plans of my own for how I spend my time. “I thought you weren’t very religious?”
“I’m not. I’ve been putting all my energy into building my career, but I used to go along with the folks on Sundays, and will again when I can.”
She caught his puzzled puppy look and reminded herself you don’t fight with someone while whipping down the highway at 60mph. She consciously relaxed her jaw. This wasn’t a fight. They were both reasonable adults. “I was raised Unitarian, and I’m not planning to convert.”
“Oh.” Like it had never occurred to him someone might object to switching faiths with zero notice. “I guess it’s okay. It doesn’t matter a lot to me. I’m just not sure how Mom will take it.”
“Did she assume I’d change my religion when we got married?” Gloria didn’t usually give much thought to religion, but the idea of someone else dictating her beliefs got her back up like a Halloween cat’s.
“We never talked about it. I never thought to mention it. Maybe she assumes you are Episcopalian. Doesn’t make any difference to me. If this is an issue, why didn’t you bring it up at dinner?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your mother.” It took some effort to keep any snark from her tone, and Gloria set her jaw to keep from saying more. She took a deep breath. “I suppose I might go along sometimes to services at the Episcopalian Church, but it’s not what I believe in.”
“Maybe that would be best. Mom knows you’re not a regular churchgoer. She wouldn’t have to hear about the Unitarian thing.”
The thought of concealing her beliefs didn’t sit any better than having them dictated to her. “If we get a place here in South Minneapolis they won’t expect us to go to their church out in Roseville, will they?”
Pete had his own apartment, his own life here in South Minneapolis. It was sweet how he wanted to stay involved with his parents, but he’d never suggested before that he might want to move back to their neighborhood and go to church with them every Sunday. How much else might Pete still spring on her? She’d spent too many years twisting her dreams to fit around her father’s requirements. She didn’t want someone else’s parents taking over her new life.
“It’s not far by highway.” He took the exit ramp faster than she liked and braked hard at the stop sign at the cross street.
“Pete, c’mon. You don’t have to cross town to go to the same church as your parents do you? You’re a grown up now.”
“Well, I thought it would be better if we got a place in Roseville. I’ve been living near work because it’s cheaper, but we’ll need a bigger place anyway.”
“You know I need to look in on my father. He’s not responsible.”
“We can get professional care services to look after him. He might even be better off in a care facility.”
“He’s an alcoholic, not an invalid.” Obviously, she didn’t know Pete as well as she’d thought. Maybe things were moving too fast. On the other hand, it might be nice to have other people share some of the load of looking after Dad. She hated the quickly buried thought, but sometimes her father seemed like her own personal albatross.
“Maybe what we need is a second car.” Pete pulled up at the curb outside the two-story stucco house where Gloria had lived most of her life. “If we get a place somewhere in between here and Roseville and you have your own car, you can see your father as often as you want and I can go to church with my parents.”
“Oh, Pete.” Her shoulders loosened in r
elief. She hadn’t lost her fond dream of a secure home and future. “Just when I’m starting to think it’s hopeless, you come up with an answer. You’re my hero.”
After turning off the engine, he scooped her close. “Got time for a kiss for your hero?”
She melted into it. Pete’s kiss reassured her. One hand cupped her face, his lips brushing hers, sweet as a familiar face at a party full of strangers. He didn’t press her, just let her enjoy the simple pleasure of the moment.
For a few seconds, and then time to get moving. She had things to do. She swung the door open and jumped out. “Have a good night, you.” Gloria turned back, leaned into the car with one hand braced on the roof. “I’m going to run across to Aggie’s for a while and finish up the prototype I started. Do you want to stop in and see it?”
“Nah. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. You have fun.”
She’d hoped, like a child offering a crayon drawing to the teacher, for a word of praise, but she’d expected none. Guys. He didn’t get the arts and crafts stuff that meant so much to her. To be fair, she had as little interest in the world of golf he’d watch for hours on TV–and maybe she shouldn’t attribute it to his being a guy. She didn’t get Jo’s interest in World of Warcraft either.
The car moved away almost as the door thunked shut behind her. Instead of heading up the walk to the three-bedroom bungalow she shared with her father–who’d have passed out on the couch this late in the evening–she cut across the lawns and around to the back of Aggie’s house. The climbing roses on their trellis and the scent of fresh-mown grass perfumed the mild June evening. Gloria, paused, savoring the quiet darkness. She shivered. The breeze had cooled considerably with the setting of the sun.
All the talk of moving across town was too confusing and troubling. She wouldn’t just be leaving Dad. Face it, escaping the depressive aura he carried with him like a black cloud would be nice, but she’d also be leaving home. She’d be leaving the overgrown back yard where Sooty and Puzzler were buried, where memories both sweet and melancholy stirred every time she noted the spots. She’d be leaving the garden where she’d planted the rose cuttings Aggie had given her. She had the sensation of standing on the deck of a ship, watching the shores of her old life begin to slip away, seeing familiar faces grow smaller. The thought threw a fist-sized ache at her, striking just below the heart.
