Spider Man 3

by Peter David

  Flint reflexively looked in the direction that Emma was pointing and was startled to see Penny’s limpid eyes peering at him from the narrow opening in the doorframe. He could see that she was clutching the packet of letters to her chest. He could see the recognition dawning in her eyes, and the indisputable look of pleasure upon seeing him.

  Let Emma scream at me. Let her vent. Let her blame me for everything. Ain’t nothing she can say that one smile from fenny can’t turn right around.

  Emma was still yelling at him, but now Flint was ignoring her. Instead he took a step toward the bedroom. Tossing aside hesitation, Penny threw wide the door and her smile broadened. At first Emma didn’t see her, because Marko had stepped into her line of vision as he faced his daughter. Then he knelt down in front of her, like a humble supplicant, and whispered, “Your mother’s got me all wrong. I do care about you.”

  Penny’s smile was incandescent, and Flint felt her press something small into his palm. He looked down at it and was surprised to see a small locket. He was so taken by the gesture that he actually forgot that Emma was in the room, but was reminded harshly enough when she shrieked in fury and came right at him. She was acting as if he were some sort of monster or child molester or anything but what he truly was: a loving father stealing a few seconds of affection from his daughter.

  “You get outta here!” Emma bellowed, and she shoved Flint, hard. Because he was crouched and she was standing over him, she came close to knocking him to the floor. Flint stopped his fall with an outstretched hand and clambered to his feet. Emma aimed a kick at him and missed. Penny looked terrified. The irony was not lost on Marko; here Emma thought she was protecting her daughter and all she was really accomplishing was scaring the crap out of her. “Out of my life, outta my daughter’s life! Always hiding, climbing in ‘n’ out of windows! Look at you, never having the pleasure of knocking on a front door. Now get out!”

  For a fleeting moment, he considered punching her in the face, breaking her teeth. At least that would get her to shut up for a short time so he could have a few seconds to think. But it went against the grain, and besides, it would just alarm Penny. Plus Emma would use that as an example for the rest of Penny’s life as to why her dad was a bad, evil man.

  Then the entire matter of staying became moot when Marko heard the distant sound of a siren. It might not have anything to do with him. Might be a fire or some police activity nearby. On the other hand, it might also be that a neighbor had spotted him and called the cops. He couldn’t take the chance.

  Quickly he headed for the window. He put one leg over the sill, turned, and said in a final endeavor to gain sympathy, “I’m not a bad guy. I just had bad luck.”

  Emma displayed about as much compassion as he had expected—none. “There you go,” she remarked, as if everything she’d just said was supported by his exit. “Out another window.”

  “Pray for me!” he called as he exited the apartment.

  He stood on the fire escape, out of sight of the apartment’s interior. From within, he could hear Emma attempting to console Penny… except, curiously, Penny didn’t sound at all upset. Emma was the one who sounded as if she needed consoling. There was none of the furious bravado or anger that had been present when she’d been talking to him. Instead she just sounded… sad.

  He heard Penny say, “I think he was going to cry, Mama.”

  Perceptive kid. Marko blinked his eyes hard, trying to get the last of the tears out of the way.

  “He always cried,” Emma told her. That much was true as well. He’d cried when they’d married. When Penny was born. When Penny was diagnosed. When he’d been dragged away to prison. Emma had always been the strong one and had resented the hell out of him for that.

  I gotta be strong, he thought grimly. For Emma. For Penny. Hell, for myself. I’ve got to get the job done, because nobody else can and nobody else cares. God… the things fathers do for their kids.

  With that resolve thundering in his thoughts, Flint Marko slid down the fire escape ladder and vanished into the night.

  The small room was alive with the sound of hissing gas. An assortment of Green Goblin masks “looked on” from the wall, watching in mute approval. Their attention, such as it was, was focused on the clear, enclosed chamber at the far end of the room.

  Like a poisonous emerald snake, the green gas continued to fill up the chamber. The swirling gas obscured the naked figure within, which was writhing and twisting in torment.

  For you, Dad. It’s for you… I’m doing it for you… I

  never wanted this … hurts so much… but it’s for you, for you, just please, be proud of me, be proud—

  Then the agony became too much for Harry Osborn. He thought he was going to die, and right at that moment he would have welcomed death’s release.

  Just as he reached his breaking point, the gas began to dissipate. It didn’t register upon Harry at first that it was over… that he had survived. In fact, when the pressure doors whooshed open, it still took him a few minutes to process exactly what had happened.

  Even then he didn’t immediately step forward. Even though he was alone in his father’s lair, Harry felt incredibly suspicious, as if the entire world were lying in wait just outside and preparing to pounce upon him. Then the suspicion started to clear away, to be replaced by a smug, arrogant defiance. Let them be waiting. Let them all be waiting. He would be able to dispose of them with absolutely no problem. Nothing could conceivably pose a serious threat to him. Nothing…

  … except the traitorous bastard who had killed his father.

  Harry Osborn was going to make sure that that didn’t remain a consideration for much longer.

  Deep, deep within his brain, in the small piece of gray matter that was watching the proceedings like a hog-tied passenger shoved into the back of an out-of-control bus, Harry shied away in horror over what he had become, and the forces that had compelled him down the same destructive road that his predecessor had trod.

  The things kids do for their fathers, he thought grimly, and then, for no reason, that suddenly struck him as funny.

  He started to laugh, a maniacal cackle that continued loud and long and out of control.

  And soon Harry Osborn was out of control as well.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  THE BEST-LAID PLANS…

  Peter knew it was an insane time to visit his aunt May. But he also knew what he wanted to do regarding Mary Jane, and he was convinced that if he didn’t discuss it with someone, then his resolve might wither and fade with the coming of the morning sun. If, on the other hand, he discussed it with Aunt May, then he would have voiced the decision that was rattling around his brain. Speaking would give it life that might well outlast the dawn. Besides, how could he be thinking about committing himself fully to Mary Jane if he couldn’t even commit himself fully to the idea to begin with?

  So it was that he rolled up to May Parker’s apartment on his motor scooter at an ungodly hour, when the entire Queens neighborhood was sound asleep. Cautious as ever, certain he was unobserved, he picked up the scooter as if it weighed nothing and carried it through the front entrance of the apartment building. There he rested it against a wall while he found Aunt May’s doorbell on the residents’ list.

  He hated that she’d had to move out of the old house in Forest Hills. Bad enough that, thanks to him, his uncle Ben had been murdered by a two-bit thief that he, Peter, could have stopped well before the fatal incident. Because of that, May had wound up in dire financial straits, forced to sell the place that had been her home for as long as Peter could remember.

  She acted as if it were a blessing. How long was I supposed to putter around in the empty house? she said at the time. It deserves a young family just starting life, not an old woman whose family years are behind her. Peter never answered her, suspecting the question was rhetorical. But he felt a touch of melancholy just the same and sometimes wondered if there was ever going to be an end to the
things over which he felt guilty. Aunt May had forgiven him for his admission that he had had some culpability in his uncle’s violent passing (although naturally he had left out the more “incriminating” aspects of the tale). When was he going to forgive himself?

  He pushed the doorbell of Aunt May’s apartment and silently promised to focus on more positive thoughts for the time being.

  May Parker was startled out of her slumber by the urgent ringing of her apartment buzzer. She squinted in the darkness, disoriented, and was startled to see that the glowing numbers of the digital clock on her nightstand read 2:00 A.M. Her natural assumption was that someone had died. Why else would she be woken up at this hour?

  She got out of bed, tossed on a robe, shoved her feet into the bunny slippers that Peter had gotten her for her last birthday, and made her way to the intercom. She banged one shin on the coffee table as she did so and swore in a way that would have prompted her to scold her nephew fiercely if he had uttered the same word. But she figured that if one had lived as long as she had, one was entitled to a few allowances.

  Nursing her sore leg, she limped the rest of the distance to the intercom and tapped the button. “Who is it?” she asked, fully expecting it to be some drunken idiot pushing the wrong button.

  To her astonishment, a familiar voice said, “Peter.”

  “Peter?”

  Immediately she buzzed him in, then steeled herself for whatever disastrous news he had.

  It had to be simply catastrophic. He was dying. Mary Jane was dying or already dead.

  There was a knock at the door, and although she assumed it was Peter, May still peered quickly through the peephole. There he was, holding his motorcycle helmet and backpack. He looked concerned but determined.

  Prepared for the worst, she threw open the door and waited, holding her breath.

  A grin split Peter’s face. “I’ve decided to marry Mary Jane.”

  May thought she was going to pass out—not from being overwhelmed by Peter’s announcement, but from relief that all her worst-case scenarios were without foundation. Then, ever so briefly, she considered smacking Peter upside the head for scaring the living daylights out of her at two in the morning.

  Out of her boundless love and forgiveness, she did not do so.

  “Oh my,” she managed, and then, when nothing else came to her because her mind was still processing the information (and banishing images of funerals), she fell back onto her default response to any startling news: “This calls for a cup of tea.”

  Any hesitancy or remorse Peter had felt over rousing Aunt May from her slumber instantly dissipated when he saw how genuinely happy she was for him. As he sat at her kitchen table sipping tea, he chatted about how much Mary Jane meant to him. How his life somehow just made more sense when she was a part of it. It wasn’t just for May’s benefit in understanding his elation. It was for his own as well.

  Even now, he was still talking himself into taking the big step, and he figured that if there was any fault in either his logic or emotions, Aunt May would point it out. “You’re too young” or “Are you sure you’ve considered all the ramifications?” or other similar helpful bromides would undoubtedly fall from her lips if she had any concern over Peter’s course.

  If Aunt May sensed Peter’s nagging second thoughts, or if she did really believe it was the wrong move, she said nothing to that effect. Instead she continued to smile and listen attentively. She yawned once or twice, discreetly covering it with the back of her hand. Peter chalked that up to her being so interested in what he was saying that she was making the effort to stay awake. After all, scientifically, that’s what yawning was: the body’s attempt to intake a sizable portion of oxygen all at once to refresh the brain lest fatigue set in. Peter felt that no one should ever be insulted if someone yawned in his or her presence. It’s actually a compliment: it meant one was worth the effort of trying to stay awake for, as opposed to nodding off.

  Peter finally ran out of things to say and realized that he had “presented his case.” He paused, waiting for Aunt May’s opinion.

  She added a bit more hot water to refresh her tea and stirred it thoughtfully, composing her thoughts.

  Then, as if her mind were a million miles away, she looked at the engagement ring on her finger and smiled wistfully. “You know, the day your uncle Ben asked me to marry him, we were both scared and excited and”—she laughed at the recollection—”very young. And I loved him so fiercely.” She added that last with a touch of fiery pride.

  “And you said yes, right?”

  “No,” she replied, which startled Peter. “I wanted to say yes, but I said no. I wasn’t ready. Neither was he. So we took our time. Looked forward to it. Didn’t want to run into something with nothing to count on but love.” She rested a liver-spotted hand atop his and said gently, as if delivering bad news that he wouldn’t want to hear, “Love is not enough, Peter. There’s so much more beyond it that has to be considered.”

  “Come on,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh. “I know that.”

  “When Uncle Ben and I were married, we had a little more security.”

  So that’s what this was about. Here all of his concerns and doubts stemmed from uncertainty over his feelings. Trust Aunt May to approach the question from the most pragmatic aspects. “I have security. I have a job,” he reminded her.

  “You need a steady job. With benefits.”

  He had to admit that much was true. There were wider aspects to consider. If Peter was single, whatever happened to him was really his own lookout. If he was married, then his problems became Mary Jane’s problems. What if he was seriously injured in a battle? A broken limb… a stray bullet that got lucky? Yes, he healed quickly, but you couldn’t heal a bullet. He couldn’t be in need of hospitalization or a doctor’s care and have no medical insurance. Plus what about more everyday considerations? What if they were married and Mary Jane became pregnant? It could happen. Happened every day. The cost of a pregnancy and hospital stay without medical coverage… it could break them. Would break them.

  As all this raced through his mind, Aunt May looked fixedly into his eyes and continued, “A husband has to be understanding and put his wife before himself. Can you do that, Peter?”

  With this question, at least, Peter felt confident. “Of course I can,” he said with utter conviction.

  She smiled. Apparently, as far as Aunt May was concerned, if Peter was on solid ground with that aspect of it, everything else would fall into place. “Then you have my blessing,” she said, and he hadn’t realized until that moment he was actually looking for it. Once she gave it, though, it felt right. It felt good. “And,” she said, “I hope you’ve considered a proper proposal.” Again she looked at her engagement ring, reminiscing, and when she spoke, she could have been describing something that had transpired just yesterday. “Uncle Ben had it all planned. We went for a walk, and he laid me down under a juniper tree, and he said…”

  She paused, then deepened her voice to sound like Ben’s. “Close your eyes and make a wish.” She chuckled and continued, “And I did. And he said, ‘Open them,’ and I did. And he was holding this ring.”

  It wasn’t especially large. Quite the opposite, actually. Then again, May Parker was never the showiest of women and would have considered a large, gleaming rock too gaudy. Plus, that it was given to her by Ben probably made it huge in her eyes. “This ring, dazzling, in front of me. I thought it was the sun.” She looked at it with a trace of sadness. “We’d be married fifty years come August if… if someone hadn’t been…” Her voice dropped, and in a husky tone, clearly trying to compose herself, she sighed, “Oh, God,” as if annoyed with her own weakness. She clenched her hand into a fist, then let out a soft sigh like a cleansing breath. “So,” she said, “make it very special for that lovely girl. Do something she’ll never forget.” She hesitated only for an instant, then she pulled the engagement ring from her finger and held it out to Peter. “And give her this.”r />
  Peter was stunned by the generosity. His instinct was to protest, to say that he couldn’t. How could he possibly take one of her fondest memories of Uncle Ben? Then he realized that, with or without the ring on her finger, the memory would remain intact. Furthermore, if Peter had learned one thing in his life, it was never to argue with May Parker when she had a particular determined look on her face—as she did now.

  Giving in to the inevitable, he took the ring from her with great care and in a hushed tone said, “Thank you, Aunt May.”

  She nodded once, the deal sealed, and then her eyes sagged slightly. She pulled herself back from fatigue and said, “It’s late. You better go on home.”

  Peter gathered up his things as May cleared the china from the kitchen table.

  As he headed for the front door, Peter’s gaze fell upon the old, small upright piano on the near wall. He remembered with great amusement all the times that, in his youth, Aunt May had sat with him and forced him to practice. She had disdained the need for a piano teacher. “Why spend good money to have someone teach him something that I already know,” she had sniffed whenever Ben had suggested someone else be brought in to show Peter the ropes. Peter had come to despise the instrument, far preferring to stay up in his room and read his books since he knew he was good at that. Now, though, as an adult, he had come to appreciate May’s intentions in widening his horizons.

  As a gesture of appreciation, he slid onto the piano bench, sat with his fingers poised over the keys, called up the strains of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” from those long-ago lessons, and started to play.

  It was… uninspiring.

  Frighteningly enough, Peter remembered “Clair de Lune” as one of his stronger pieces, so he shuddered to think what the William Tell overture must have sounded like to adult ears. As it was, he stumbled through the first few bars as best he could. Aunt May kept a smile plastered on her face, but he could see her eyes wincing with every misplayed note, of which there were more than a few.