Spiderman 1 (46 page)

And when Norman Osborn replied, it was with urgent desperation, as if he were trying to convince a stubborn drowning man to take the damned life preserver already.
"Harry, please
 
. . .
 
look at her! You think a woman like that's
sniffing around because she likes your personality?"

M.J.'s jaw dropped in astonishment. Peter and May were
both looking at her, embarrassed on her behalf, astounded
that Osborn would say such things.

"What are you saying, Dad?"

"Your mother was beautiful, too. They're all beautiful,
until they're snarling after your trust fund like ravening
wolves. . . . "

She wanted to crawl under the table, under the carpet.
She wanted to die.

Harry spoke in a stunned, almost hushed voice.
'Dad
 
. . . " he said, and he didn't sound as if he was speaking w
ith a great deal of conviction. "This girl's no
 
. . . "

Osborn interrupted his son. "A word to the not-so-wise
about your little girlfriend. Do what you need to with her
and broom her fast." Then she heard his footsteps retreating
down the hallway and, just like that, he was gone, leaving his
son stammering behind him.

Slowly, like a woman in a trance, Mary Jane rose from

the table. Peter could barely even look at her, and May's expression was one of pity.

That's what she was. An object of pity. She wanted to die,
just crawl away and die.

She headed for the closet just as Harry walked back into
the apartment. He stood there, transfixed, as she grabbed her
coat and headed for the door. "Where are you going?" he
asked, dumbfounded.

The one she really wanted to lash out at was Norman. But
the father was gone, and only the son remained.

"Thanks for sticking up for me, Harry," she said tightly.
"You heard?"

She whirled on him, pointing to the hallway that Norman
had vacated. "Everyone could hear that creep!"

And suddenly Harry's own anger boiled over. Perhaps he,
too, was misplacing it, since his father was gone, but he was
no less vehement in his defense.

"That 'creep' is my
father! All right?
If I'm lucky, I've
got the brains and the guts to become half of what he is, so you keep your goddamn mouth shut about things you don't
understand!"

"Harry Osborn!" said Aunt May, shocked.
"You're acting like somebody's father—mine!" Mary
Jane said. She was so furious, she started to shove the wrong
arm into the sleeve of her coat. She wrestled with it, cha
grined, twisted her torso around, got it to fit properly.

"I'm sorry, Aunt May," she said, and then she stormed out
of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Well, the danger's gone . . .

That was the one bright spot that Peter was able to draw
from the entire debacle. He stood there in stupefied silence
as Mary Jane walked out the door.

"Harry, go after her!" he said finally.

To his astonishment, Harry replied with quiet certainty,
"I don't think so."

He stepped toward his friend, shaking him as if trying to
rouse a dreamer from his sleep. "Harry, come on!"

"No. I can't," he said again, with greater conviction than
before, as if he knew that doing nothing was the right
course. With bitter sarcasm, he turned to Aunt May and said,
"Welcome to an Osborn Thanksgiving."

Then he stormed into his own bedroom, slamming the
door behind him with as much force as M. J. had used on the
front door.

A pall fell over the apartment, and Peter knew he couldn't
just stand by. That he had to do something. The thing was, Harry wasn't going anywhere. Maybe something could still be salvaged of all this.

He had to face facts. He wanted Mary Jane, wanted his
chance at her . . .
 
but not like this. If M. J. and Harry had a
relationship that ran its course and they parted, that was one
thing. But this
 
. . .
 
this was an abortion. A total disaster. He
wasn't out to play Cupid, God knew, but he had to do some
thing to try and stitch some fabric of the relationship back
together, for all their sakes.

"Sorry, Aunt May. It looked great," he assured her, as he
grabbed his jacket from the closet and bolted for the door.

Behind him, Aunt May surveyed the wreckage of good sentiments gone bad and called, just before he was out the
door, "We didn't even get to say grace!"

Peter sped down the stairs, vaulting them four, five at a
time, since no one was around to watch. He made it down to street level, ran out into the cold night air and looked around
frantically to see if he could spot where M. J. had gotten off
to. It turned out not to be one of his greater challenges. M. J.
was seated on the stoop of the next building over, sobbing
piteously. Then the chauffeur-driven Bentley rolled past, and

Peter nearly laughed when M. J. showed enough spunk and presence of mind to flip the luxury car an obscene gesture.

He walked over to her and just stood there, hands folded in front of him. Mary Jane snuffled a bit more, then looked up at him. Her mascara was all over the place. Peter pulled
out a handkerchief and held it out to her. When she hesitated,
just staring at it as if it might be a hand grenade, he waved it
slightly and said, "Take it."

She nodded and took it from him, blowing her nose
loudly into it. Then she looked at him apologetically for hav
ing messed it up. He shrugged. "Keep it," he said with a
ready smile. "It's yours. Got a million of 'em from Aunt
May, a dozen every Christmas."

She laughed through her tears, blew her nose again, and
this time made a very loud and pronounced "honk" that only
provided louder laughter. Then, to Peter's surprise, her
laughter swung back over to crying. Her shoulders trembled,
then sagged, and it was as if every miserable moment in her existence had boiled down to this instant, and she was in the
process of crying out a lifetime of tears.

He sat next to her, put an arm around her, literally giving
her a shoulder to cry on. "That's okay. Good cry."

Between sniffles, she managed to get out, "I'm sorry I
acted like that . . .
 
but . . .
 
but I couldn't stay there. Being treated that way . . .
 
brings back bad stuff. I hate being
thought of as if I'm not worth anything."

"I understand," Peter said with conviction. And that was
no exaggeration. Not with newspapers coming out every day
that questioned his actions, no matter how heroic.

"I know you do," she told him, and there was something in the way she said it that made him wonder. But then her
mind was elsewhere. "Your poor Aunt May," she moaned,
and it was reasonable to feel sorry for her, considering the
amount of work she must have put into making the turkey.
"But I can't go back in there," she said apologetically, frus-

trated over what she no doubt perceived as her own weak
ness.

Peter shrugged. "She'll be okay. She's tough." The stairs
weren't the cushiest place to be, so he shifted to try and make
himself more comfortable. It brought him closer to Mary Jane.
She didn't seem to mind, so he didn't pull away. "I've never
seen Mr. Osborn act like that," he said in bewilderment. "I've
never seen either of them act like that before." He paused and then said the toughest words he knew he was going to have to
say that evening. "But I know Harry really loves you."

"Sometimes I wonder why I ever went out with him in the
first place. I guess because he liked me." She looked down
at her ensemble. "Dumb black dress," she snapped bitterly.

"However, you do look extremely beautiful in it," he as
sured her.

She smiled at him then. "Thank you. You look very hand
some yourself tonight."

She had sounded so tentative when she said it, but it seemed sincere, and now he was extremely aware of just
how close he was to her. He realized that it wouldn't take
much for him to lean over and kiss her. He was more in love
with her than ever. He gazed into her eyes.

And did nothing.

Because he didn't want to pressure her. Because he didn't
want to kick Harry when he was down. Because of a lot of
reasons, really, but ultimately, because he didn't think it
would be right.

She put an arm around his shoulder, and they sat there,
holding each other close, and that was all they did
 
. . .

 
. . .
 
which was more than enough for Harry Osborn, looking down at them from the window of the apartment and
glowering in the night . . .

"This changes everything. . ."

Norman Osborn felt as if his head was splitting in two.

He lay on the floor of his study, curled up, trembling, cowering in a pool of light from the end of the hallway. In his
quivering hands he held the mask he wore as the Green Gob
lin, except he was doing everything within his power at that
moment to convince himself that the Goblin was someone
else entirely
 
. . .
 
not Norman himself . . .

 
. . .
 
not Norman, who was no murderer . . .

 
. . .
 
who wouldn't even consider what the Goblin was
contemplating . . .

"Spider-Man is all but invincible,"
hissed the mask,
"but
Parker. . . Parker is flesh and blood. . . we can destroy

him . . . "

"I can't!" Osborn was gibbering now, saying anything
that came to mind. "I've been like a father to that boy. He's
a good son
 
. . . "

"Which is exactly what he wanted!"
the mask snarled at
him, clearly holding Osborn in contempt. Osborn's entire
body was shaking now, his shirt soaked through with sweat, his lower jaw twitching spasmodically.
"He came to you, the
greedy, open-mouthed scheming little orphan
 
. . . "