Spiderman 1 (54 page)

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Peter said. "I know what it's like to lose a father."

"I didn't lose him," Harry corrected him firmly. "He was stolen from me. And one day, Spider-Man will pay." He stopped, turned, and faced Peter. "I swear, on my father's
grave, Spider-Man will pay."

Peter had no idea what to say
 
. . .
 
and so said nothing.

They reached the Bentley, and the chauffeur opened the door for Harry to step in. Harry paused before doing so and said, "Look
 
. . .
 
about M.J.
 
. . .
 
I was just trying to please my dad." He spoke as if admitting to a major felony. "I thought
he'd be impressed
. . .
 
me with such a beautiful woman. I know she was never right for me. I wanted to make him proud, that's all. Now I'll never be able to." He clutched
Peter's hand, shook it firmly. "Thank God for you, my friend.

You're all the family I have left." He pulled Peter toward
him, embraced him once, then climbed into the car.

The chauffeur closed the door behind him, gave Peter a vaguely disdainful glance, then climbed into the front and
drove off.

Peter turned and looked toward M.J. and Aunt May on
the hill by Norman's gravesite. She turned toward him and
smiled.

No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, the ones I
love are always the ones who pay.

He turned away and walked toward another tombstone,
the gravesite of his Uncle Ben.
ben parker, beloved hus
band and uncle,
it read. As if half a dozen words could come close to summing him up.

He stood there, hands folded, head lowered, and drew his
coat closer around him as a chill breeze cut through him.
"Hey." Mary Jane's voice came from behind him. He didn't
turn to look at her, and in a lowered voice she said, "Your aunt thought I'd find you here."

"M.J.'s here, Uncle Ben," he said to the tombstone.

She moved closer to him, putting her arm around his
elbow. "You must miss him so much."

"He was a beautiful guy."

They stood there for a short time, and then she tugged gently on his arm, indicating with a nod of her head that it
was time to leave. He wanted to protest but instead allowed
himself to be pulled along.

Abruptly, she stopped.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you," she
said. "I heard the message you left on my answering ma
chine."

He tried to remember exactly what he'd said. He'd been
so caught up in the panic of the moment—trying to warn her
without tipping his identity—that the words were a blur to
him. "Uh, yeah
 
. . .
 
I uh
 
. . . "

"You didn't finish, but I know what you were going to say,
and I want to say it first. When I was up there, and I was sure
I was going to die, there was only one person I was thinking
of, and it wasn't who I thought it would be.

"It was you." Peter started to tremble inwardly as she con
tinued. "I kept thinking, I hope I make it through this, so I can see Peter Parker's
face
one more time."

"My face
 
. . .
 
?"
Meaning . . .
 
with no mask . . . ? Did she
know . . .
 
? She had to. That had to be what she was dancing
around . . .
 
wasn't it?

"Sometimes," she said softly, "what you want . . .
 
you
have to go to the edge of your life to find out it was right next
door. I've been so stupid for so long. There's only one man
who was ever there for me, who has always been there for
me. Who makes me believe that I'm . . .
 
more than I ever
thought I was. That I'm just me
 
. . .
 
and it's okay. The truth
is
 
. . .
 
I love you. I really love you, Peter."

And he could hear Spider-Man's voice in his head, shout
ing at him,
Tell her you love her . . . tell her who you are. . .

She knew
 
. . .

She had to know
 
. . .

But maybe she didn't . . .
 
and if she didn't, it might
send her running in fright at the risks he had taken, and
would continue to take
 
. . .
 
maybe
 
. . .
 
maybe
 
. . .
 
so many
maybes
 
. . .

When he was in the middle of a fight, he knew what to
do, immediately, instinctively. Faced with one young
woman, he was stymied.

"I
. . .
 
can't . . . " he said.

"You can't what?" she asked, puzzled.

"Tell you everything," and quickly he added, "I mean
 
. . . there's so much to tell."

"Yes. So much to tell . . . "

"To tell the girl next door . . . "

"But isn't that all I am?" she asked.

"Oh, no, no," and he started to laugh, "you're the amaz
ing girl next door. Mary Jane, the amazing, amazing girl,
and I want you to know that I will always be there for you, I
will always be there to take care of you. I promise you that.
I wish I could give you more than that, but you must
know
 
. . .
 
that you will always be safe."

She moved toward him, embraced him, and then kissed
him gently on the lips. Something seemed to build within
him, and he murmured " . . .
 
can't . . . " even as she drew him
close once more. And this time when she kissed him, it was
like that other time, when he'd been upside down and only
the lower half of his face was visible. A kiss filled with pas
sion and intensity and heat that he felt through every nerve
ending in his body. When their lips parted he could still feel
hers on his, like a man who's lost an arm can feel the limb
as if it were still attached.

She pressed her body against his, wanted more
 
. . .

 
. . .
 
more than he was willing to give. More than he dared, for fear of what happened, could happen, to his loved ones.

He pulled away from her. Her eyes went wide. Slowly he shook his head. The wind was kicking up, and he shoved his
hands deep into the pockets of his coat, drawing it closely around him, and walked away as quickly as he could, leaving M. J. standing by the gravesite.

Because he knew it was the right thing to do.

And he couldn't afford to stop doing the right thing
 
. . .
ever again.

Several days later, J. Jonah Jameson sat in his office,
chomping on his ever-present cigar, looking out the window
at the people moving through the streets far below. Robbie was leaning against the doorway.

"Spider-Man. I don't get it," Jameson said in frustration.
"First the town thinks he's trash, and now he's a glamour
boy."

"He's a hero, J. J.," said Robbie, as if it should have been
self-evident.

"Don't give me that line again," Jameson said, stabbing a
finger at him. "I don't trust heroes. They're nothing but criminals in disguise. Hoffman!" he shouted as Hoffman
went past the door, and the nervous little man stopped in his
tracks. "Where's Parker? I want some pictures."

"He just left," said Hoffman.

"Left? He's always leaving."

"He went to cover the hostage story."

Jameson stalked his office, waving his arms in the air as
if the world existed just to be a gross inconvenience to him.
"Sure! Another hostage story! But where is he when the
Green Goblin busted through my window? The Goblin and
Spider-Man in front of our noses! A golden opportunity, and
the photographer went to lunch!" He squinted at an office
boy heading in the other direction, holding an odd bundle. "And what's that?"

The office boy turned, held up a pair of trousers. "Peter
Parker's pants."

"What?"

"They were in the closet."

"Parker's pants?" Jameson said slowly, trying to make
sure he'd heard this right.

"With his shirt and tie and shoes and socks," the office
boy said cheerfully.

"What's going on here?!" demanded an increasingly befuddled Jameson. "Who's he think he is: Tarzan? Where is he, running around the town naked? Or does he think our storage closet is his own personal armoire? And who put
flowers on my desk?!"

Betty Brant stuck her head in. "I did, sir. It is your birth
day."

"What're you looking for, a raise? I don't want flowers, I
want Peter Parker.
Not
his pants!" He grabbed the bouquet

and threw it in the trash. "I want pictures! I want to sell papers! I want Spider-Man!" He thumped repeatedly on his desktop, sending everyone scattering until he was alone in
his office.

Alone.

And he knew that somewhere out there, Spider-Man was
likely speeding to help hostages. To help people.

Helping people. That's what he did.

Jameson glanced at the motto of the
Bugle,
situated in
block lettering beneath the masthead, just as it had been for
decades:
the truth of the matter,
was what it said.

He stared out at the skyline and, as if Spider-Man could hear him, said softly, "That is what you do
 
. . .
 
isn't it. Help
them. Unselfishly. With no thought of compensation. You're
everything I can never be. And if someone like you is con
sidered a hero
 
. . .
 
what does that make me?

"You're everything I aspired to be
. . .
 
and never can
be
 
. . .
 
because I'm too damned weak. And my greatest weakness
 
. . .
 
is that I'm going to continue to try and drag you down, because
 
. . .
 
God help me
 
. . .
 
I'm jealous of you."