Objects of Worship (6 page)

“Yeah, but they killed more Jews than they did anyone
else. They hated the Jews most of all. And that’s where
Dad’s powers come from.”

I punched him. And it escalated. Mom came in to
break us up, but neither of us would tell her why we were
fighting.

The next morning, on our twelfth birthday of all days,
the argument behind us, Bernard and I had just finished
watching an episode of our favourite cartoon series,
Chuck
Amuck
, and were waiting for
Katgirl & Canary
to come
on, when there was a special news bulletin. The faceless
red mask of the Internationalist — the leader of The
Mighty — appeared on the TV screen. “The Mighty have
come to Montreal in order to meet with Hochelaga on an
urgent matter. We are waiting on the roof of City Hall.
Montrealers, please spread this message to ensure that it
reaches Hochelaga. Thank you for your time. Remember:
help us make the world a better, more tolerant place.” He
repeated the message in French. Then, he stepped back and
raised his famous shield in the air, showing its borderless
world-map coat of arms to the camera.

We ran upstairs to Dad’s study. “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

He met us on the stairs and signalled for us to calm
down. “I know,” he said. “It was on the radio.”

“Take us with you,” we said.

“You know I can’t. It’s too risky. People can’t know that
Hochelaga has twin boys. Do you want a supervillain to
come after you? Or your mom?”

“But it’s The Mighty! We’ll never get another chance
to meet them. They’re the world’s greatest superheroes!”
More than ever, the two of us were talking with one voice.
For all his theories about Nazi science and superheroes,
even Bernard wasn’t immune to fannish excitement when
it came to The Mighty.

Mom came up behind us. “No, they’re not,” she said,
balancing herself on our shoulders and reaching over to
kiss Dad, who bent down to meet her halfway. “What do
you think they want?” she asked him.

“Hell if I know. Maybe the Hegemony of Hate is planning
an attack on the city, and The Mighty need some local help.
Something like that. With the anniversary celebrations,
there’s bound to be some trouble. Terrorism’s not my
specialty, but I’ll do whatever I can.”

Bernard was fuming mad that Dad wouldn’t let us
meet The Mighty. “You have to take us. I want to meet The
Mighty.”

I could see in Mom’s eyes that she was getting angry
with us, but I understood why we couldn’t go, as much as I
wanted to see The Mighty in person. “Bern — you know we
can’t go. Dad’s right.”

“No! I want to go! It’s our birthday! We deserve it! We’ve
been good! We’ve never told anyone! Ever. We’ve been so
good.” Turning toward Dad, he snarled, “Do you know how
hard it is not to brag? But we don’t. We never do. And you
won’t even do this one thing for us!”

Bernard was so angry his entire skin was turning red.
Unable to contain his rage, he screamed and jumped up . . .
and he just stood there in mid-air, defying gravity.
“What — I can . . .?” Then he zipped higher — his face flushed
with panic — and banged his head on the ceiling, knocking
himself out. Dad caught him before he could fall to the
floor.

Dad murmured, “He flew . . .”

Already
Bernard
was
groaning
his
way
back
to
consciousness. He was going to be okay. Mom took Bernard
from Dad and said, “I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry. You
just go. Now! You’re needed.”

Dad looked frightened. He gave me a hug and, without
another word, left to meet The Mighty.

Dad had just about every superpower imaginable —
superstrength, superspeed, invulnerability, invisibility,
shapeshifting,
flight,
teleportation,
transmutation,
telepathy, telekinesis, firebreathing — you name it, he
could do it. There was only one catch. He could access — or
activate, or whatever it was he did — only one power at a
time. While he used his speed or his strength, for example,
he wasn’t invulnerable. He wasn’t automatically immune
from harm: for his invulnerability to work, he had to will
it into function.

His power was like an energy field of some sort. Up to a
point, he could control the extent of the field, so that, for
example, his clothes would also become indestructible, or
invisible, or whatever. So I guess his power was energy, and
he could harness that energy any way he wanted. He didn’t
fully understand it himself. He just used the power as best
he could. If he didn’t appear to age it was because, when
he wasn’t actively doing superhero stuff, he would use that
energy to heal and repair his body. Theoretically, he could
have been immortal.

Although Dad kept his natural, youthful appearance at
home, when he presented Benoit Kurtz to the outside world
he would shapeshift to look older. “Benoit Kurtz” was “Dad.”
But he had other identities, too. In 1976, Dad “retired”
his real identity, the original Benjamin Kurtz, mimicking
death (just another application of Dad’s superpower)
while his “son” was “away overseas.” After the funeral, he
teleported himself back home out of the grave, assuming
“Benoit Kurtz” as his default identity. In 1998, as “Benoit”
grew older, he invented a new “Benjamin Kurtz” — a “grown-up son from a previous marriage in Europe” who was our
“older brother, named in honour of his grandfather.” Dad
was once again in the process of shifting from one identity
to the next.

And he fooled everyone. Well, almost everyone.
Mom, a municipal librarian who knew “both” the “older”
Benjamin and the “younger” Benoit and whom Hochelaga
had once saved from a burning apartment building, figured
out his secret in 1978. She teased him for months, dropping
vague double entendres that could imply she knew Dad was
Hochelaga. It drove him crazy — he could have read her
thoughts if he’d wanted to, but Dad would never invade
someone’s mind without just cause. He’d long ago set limits
on what he would allow himself to do. On what was right,
and what wasn’t. Eventually he broke down and asked
her out to dinner, telling himself it was just to scope out
what she knew. But that night their long flirtation turned
into love. They got married within the next year and had
children in 1980. Us.

As kids we never showed any sign of being superhuman.
Until Bernard suddenly manifested Dad’s powers.

Me . . . I was always just a normal guy.

I have no idea what to do. As much as I hate to admit it, I
feel silly in Dad’s costume. Somehow, Dad managed to pull
off wearing this gaudy outfit and maintain his dignity . . .
but I don’t know how. Maybe it was because he imbued
everything he did with such low-key, charming wit. No
matter how hard I try to emulate him, I know I can never
match his confidence, his presence. I feel ridiculous and self-conscious, and not just because I don’t have superpowers. I
haven’t even stepped outside yet.

But the Herald of Hate is out there, and someone has to
stop him. He thinks he’s killed Hochelaga. Maybe he has,
but I’m hoping that the sight of me in Dad’s costume will
rattle him, allowing me to . . . to . . . What can I do?

Every day after Bernard manifested the power, for
more than a year, I concentrated, tried to activate my own
“latent” powers by force of will. But there was no power
within me. For the first time in years, I try again.

All I accomplish with all this concentration is to get a
nosebleed.

That is so pathetic. I am so pathetic. I have no power.
I have no plan. I should have a plan. The Herald of Hate is
going to slaughter me. But I have to try to take him down.
For Dad. For Mom.

For me.

Bernard fully regained consciousness immediately after
Dad left. At first, he couldn’t control the energy. He became
intangible and sank through the floor. He was gone for
almost a full minute; Mom panicked. But then he came
back up. Trying to rematerialize, he shapeshifted randomly,
taking on the forms of various classmates, Dad, Mom, wild
animals, even furniture. Finally, he became himself again,
with the energy under control. He still had a bump on his
head. I teased him that he could use the power to heal that,
just like Dad always did, but he just grunted and told me
to mind my own business. I felt we were about to quarrel
again — the previous day’s fight wasn’t completely forgotten
after all — so I backed off. We both sulked, while Mom
looked anxious. We all sat in the living room and watched
TV, none of us exchanging a word. I was too annoyed to pay
attention, and I don’t even remember what was on.

Less than an hour later, Dad returned. First thing he
did was fuss over Bernard. I could see Dad was worried, but
Bernard wouldn’t talk to him at all. Mom surreptitiously
shook her head at Dad, and he left my brother alone.

The four of us just sat there, tense and awkwardly silent,
until I couldn’t hold in my questions any longer. “Who was
there? What were they like? What did they want? Did you
help them?”

Dad laughed, and my mood brightened at that familiar,
comforting sound. “Just give me a minute.” He grabbed a
beer from the fridge and plopped down on the couch. We
all gathered around him, even Bernard.

“There were seven of them. The Internationalist, of
course. I liked him. He’s a bit too serious and intense, but
we have the same kind of ideas about the world. I asked him
to visit if he ever had the time so we could grab a beer, relax,
and chew the fat. There was the Weird Witch. A real looker,
that one. A tall, Slavic amazon.” Mom chuckled, and Dad
smiled back at her. “Anyway. The Lion King was there, too.
And Thunderer. Marksman. Metal Man. Webmistress.”

“Who did you fight?” I asked.

“We didn’t fight anybody. They came to ask me to join
The Mighty.”

“You’re going to be one of The Mighty? That’s great!” I
stood up, cheering, and did a little dance around the living
room.

“I didn’t say that, Gordon.”

“What . . .”

“I thanked them for the offer, but I turned them down.
I don’t want to be away from you three more than I have to,
and it’s not like they’re short on members, anyway. I like
the good I do here, in Montreal. Let other heroes fight the
big menaces. For me this is all about the people. That’s what
Hochelaga is. A hero for the people.”

Almost everyone thinks that superheroes are all the
same. That’s not true. I have this theory that, for the most
part, they fall into three categories.

Take The Mighty, they’re
protectors
. They save the world
from catastrophes and invasions and terrorism, that kind
of stuff. They don’t try to find trouble. They react when
threats occur. They’re warriors, always ready to defend.

Then there are
adventurers
, like the Detective of Dreams
or the Preservers. They explore outer space, ocean depths,
mystical dimensions, or any kind of uncharted terrain . . . and
seek out the unknown because they can. They investigate
strange occurrences, just to gain more knowledge about the
universe. They don’t want to fight, but, when they uncover
an unexpected danger, they deal with it.

And there are
crimefighters
. Like Doc Shadow or Blind
Justice. They patrol at night. Foil armed robberies. Break
up organized crime. Fight crazy supervillains. Avenge
murders. That kind of thing.

There’s some overlap, and it’s not all cut-and-dried.
Superheroes, like anybody, don’t always fit into facile
categories.

Dad wasn’t really like any of those. Maybe he fit the
crimefighter profile to some extent, but that’s not what he
was about.

What Dad liked to do most was find lost pets. Or talk to
people who wanted to throw themselves off rooftops. Or
get drunk drivers off the road before they hurt anyone. Or
stop adults from beating on kids, husbands from beating
on their wives. Expose slumlords and sweatshop owners.
Protect the homeless. Be a shoulder to cry on for the
desperately lonely in the middle of the night. Heal accident
victims. Listen to crazy people so that they felt better
about themselves, about being alive, about connecting
with someone. I mean, sure, if he saw a mugging, he’d stop
it. If some supervillains got the mistaken impression that
Montreal would be an easy stomping ground, he’d teach
them a lesson. If a weirdo cult tried to open a gateway to
some demon dimension in the heart of downtown, he’d
make sure they could never try something like that again.
But that’s not where his heart was. Dad had this way with
people. He made them feel like they could talk to him, even
in that crazy superhero getup of his. More often than not, he
didn’t have to throw a punch or get violent in any way. He’d
just show up and defuse the situation by saying exactly the
right thing. There’s a famous newsclip of him partying with
two rival biker gangs, everyone singing together, former
enemies with their arms around each other’s shoulders,
slugging back Molson beers instead of slugging each other.

“I get it, Dad,” I said. “But it’s really cool that they
asked.”

“That’s right.” He took a sip of beer and laughed.

Then Bernard said, “Remember when you first told us
about how you got your powers?” He looked so serious, so
grim. He didn’t look like someone who just found out they
have superpowers. At least, that’s not how I would have
looked if I’d just found out I’d inherited Dad’s abilities.

“You and Mom laughed, said it was an old joke between
the two of you. I want to know what that joke is.” I’d
forgotten that, but it came back to me now that Bernard
mentioned it.

Dad put down his beer. “Sure. It’s no big thing — not
really a joke; more like a deeply satisfying irony. My powers
were created by the Nazis, the most evil villains you could
ever think of, and I’m sure they only intended to use me
as a disposable guinea pig until they could safely create
supersoldiers out of their own men. They meant this power
to be used for evil. For hatred. To hurt people. To kill people.
But fate played a joke on them. Because I’ve got that power,
and I use it for the opposite of everything those monsters
stood for. I use the power to make the world a better place
for everyone. The irony of it makes me laugh. I love it.”