Superpowers (21 page)

WEDNESDAY

Someone knocked on the window, and Jack sat up behind the wheel. He blinked and saw Solahuddin standing beside his truck. He rolled the window down.

"Jack," Sol said. "Were you asleep?"

"No," Jack said.

"Have you eaten yet?"

Jack glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Perkins sign. He had driven here without even thinking about it.

"No," he said. "I'm not hungry, actually. I don't know why I came here."

"My friend, you have just finished six routes, if I remember correctly. I hope you will forgive my saying so, but you look terrible. Come inside and eat some of this bland food."

Jack shook his head. "I can't, Sol. Thanks."

Sol put a hand on Jack's shoulder. "I heard of your father, my friend. You grieve for him, of course. Was he ill?"

"He had cancer," Jack said.

Sol said something Jack didn't understand. "It is not right," he went on then, and seemed truly angry. "My heart is clouded. I wish that you did not need to bear this burden, Jack."

"Thank you," Jack said.

"Will you come inside and eat with me?"

Jack shook his head. "Not today, Sol."

"Very well," said Sol. "I understand that it is very soon. But do not let your grief stop you from living. I am sure your father would not want that."

Jack nodded. After a moment Sol removed his hand and waved. "Rest well, my friend. I will see you soon, I hope."

"Yeah." Jack forced himself to look up at Sol. "I'll see you. Good night, Sol," he said as the sun began to rise.

THURSDAY

Prudence wasn't sure whether what Marcus Hatch was doing with his face was a sneer or a leer. It wasn't a look of respect, that much was certain, but she hadn't expected that from him. She'd read a few issues of
What They're Not Telling You
since he'd printed the interview with Green Star, and what was clear on every page was Hatch's contempt for mainstream journalism.

"Ms. Palmeiro," he said. "How nice to meet you. The answer is no." He started to shut the door.

Prudence moved forward, putting her belly in the path of the closing door. "You haven't even heard my offer."

"I've spoken to your producer several times," Hatch said. "The conversations have been getting shorter, he may have told you. I'm considering filing harassment charges."

"Mr. Hatch, what if everyone you interviewed played the harassment card? It's not very sporting of you to make a threat like that."

"Mrs. Palmeiro, there is nothing you and your station can offer me that would entice me into revealing any more than what I've already printed."

"You can't be bought. That's admirable, if unrealistic. I very much doubt that your little rag pays for itself."

"It doesn't have to. Fifteen years ago my adoptive mother sold an improved design for childproof caps to a pharmaceutical company for an amount of money so obscene that I'm not comfortable uttering it in polite company. My parents have more money than the Pentagon, and they like my little rag very much."

"So you're a hypocrite. You are the big money that you rail against."

"On the contrary. I'm an entirely independent entity, beholden to no corporate interests, which is something that must be entirely alien to you. Your station is owned by a holding company that controls forty-seven stations across the country, isn't that correct? Do you know what corporation controls that holding company?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Of course you do. Because you're not allowed to attack that corporation in any way. Even if it's never been made explicit, you know that any story you do that reflects negatively on the parent company might result in your dismissal. Then there are your station's advertisers, many of them local, whose legal troubles and fraudulent sales practices you ignore because their money keeps the station solvent. Not to mention the network, which is part of a conglomerate with more power than any government in the world. You've really got to watch your step in the workplace, don't you?"

The baby was kicking, and Prudence wondered if that meant he wanted to slap Marcus Hatch as much as she did. "What does any of this have to do with the All-Stars? It might be the biggest story of the year. Real superheroes, Marcus."

"Real people, Prudence. It's about them, not about the public's fetishistic fixation on celebrities. The point is that you and the people pulling your strings can't be trusted."

"Marcus, just listen to me for a second, all right? This story is out there, and we can't do anything with it. All we can do is speculate. The only pictures we get are grainy captures off the occasional security camera. The All-Stars don't talk to us. We don't know anything about them."

"That's really not my problem."

"Not your problem, no. But it could be your big break."

"Ah, the devil sweetens the deal for my soul."

"What is it you don't have, Marcus? What is it that your little desktop-published paper will never have?"

"The blood of the proletariat for ink?"

"Visibility, Marcus. You may be number one with a magic bullet in every basement bunker and conspiracist's compound in the country, but it'll never be in the living room of anyone who doesn't already believe what you're telling them. You're preaching to the choir, while the masses are out there just waiting to hear your truth.

"We'll give you airtime, Marcus. We'll give you a half hour, maybe an hour if we can swing it. It'll be late enough to keep the advertisers from getting too nervous, but not so late that nobody's watching. You tell them what you think they need to hear, and we won't say word one about what you can and can't talk about. We'll give it slick production values and a good crew and a commitment of a year, and whether it sinks or swims will depend on you."

"Wow," Marcus said. "I could be like Matt Drudge, only local and Vietnamese and even less respected. I think I'll run right out and buy a fedora and some suspenders.

"Mrs. Palmeiro, I'm going to shut the door now. Please take a step back. I'd hate to have to call the police on a pregnant woman."

Prudence stepped back. "You know, I talked to some people in the police department. They're considering subpoenaing your records in order to find out the identities of the All-Stars."

"I knew you weren't much of a journalist, Prudence, but I'm surprised you haven't heard of the First Amendment."

"That may not protect you, Mr. Hatch."

"I'll get a good lawyer. I'm pretty sure I can afford it."

He shut the door, and Prudence sighed and turned away.

FRIDAY

The hug always came first. Olivia Bishop—now Parker again, and soon to be Morgan—seemed to believe that a hug beforehand made it clear that her criticisms came from a place of love. Instead, over the years, her hugs had become a warning sign for Harriet to bring up her defenses in preparation for a barrage of criticism.

Her mother released her and surveyed the apartment. Her golden silk-detailed dress and pearls clashed with Caroline's Ewan McGregor poster and the empty wine bottles on the shelf behind the couch. Olivia Bishop wrinkled her nose and rummaged through her purse for a handkerchief to cough into. Her coughs were theatrical in their resonance, and her slender frame trembled with each one.

"Harriet, baby," she said when she had ostentatiously caught her breath, "this place is a mess. Don't you girls clean up after yourselves?"

Cardboard boxes were stacked all around the living room and the halls, filled with clothes and books and dishes and things no one had bothered to categorize.

"Mama, we're moving. I told you that on the phone."

"I can see why. When's the last time you vacuumed this carpet?"

The phone rang, and Harriet ran to answer it, grateful for the interruption. But it stopped after one ring, and she had to face her mother again.

"Where's Arthur?" Harriet asked. Arthur Morgan was her mother's fiance of eight months. One reason Arthur and Olivia were here was to get Harriet's help picking out the bridesmaids' dresses. At least, that was how her mother had put it. Harriet knew what it really meant—that she would be forced to try on thirty dresses while Olivia rattled off the ways in which Harriet failed to make them look good. Eventually she would probably settle on a lace-trimmed taffeta number with a pinafore that would make Harriet look like an eight-year old.

"Arthur is looking for a place to park the car. This neighborhood is not safe, you know. They have riots here."

"Mama, that was in the 1970s."

"They had one just five years ago, child. Don't talk to me like I don't know what happens around here."

"I'm not."

"Hmph." Her mother waved a hand in front of her. "Oh, it's so warm. Isn't there someplace to sit down?"

Harriet indicated the couch right next to her mother. "Right here, Mama."

Olivia looked at the couch and then at her daughter. "This is a very expensive dress, Harriet. That couch is stained."

"It's not like they're going to rub off—they're dry," Harriet said.

"I'll stand. So, where are you moving to?"

"Over near the zoo, on Vilas."

"That's a
much
nicer neighborhood. I hope you'll take better care of the new apartment."

Harriet sat down on the couch. Olivia narrowed her eyes but made no move to sit down herself.

"It's been a lovely summer, hasn't it? Have you met any nice young men?"

"Nice segue, Mama."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said, nice in what way, Mama?"

"Now that's a stupid question, Harriet. A nice boy is a nice boy."

Harriet loved her mother, but she was glad she lived in Chicago. Any guilt she felt about getting along better with her father evaporated in her mother's presence.

Happily, at that moment a door opened and Caroline came running out of her room, holding the cordless phone at arm's length. She was in sweatpants, a tank top and bare feet, and she hadn't showered yet. Her mouth was open and her face was pale.

"That was my mother. On the phone," she said.

Olivia gave Harriet a look that said a myriad of uncomplimentary things about Caroline.

Harriet ignored her. "What did she want?"

"Directions." Caroline dropped the phone to her side. "She wanted directions to the house. She's in town. They went too far on University Avenue. She'll be here any minute."

Harriet had never met Caroline's mother. "That's great! You said a few days ago that you tried to call her. Didn't you know she was coming?"

"No idea," Caroline said. "I'm supposed to work tonight. Oh, god, I have to change." She ran to her room.

"You're living with this girl again next year?" Olivia asked.

"Stop right there, Mama. Don't you start talking about my friends."

The bathroom door slammed, and the shower started running. Olivia looked at Harriet, sighed, and sat on the extreme forward edge of the couch. She looked poised for a quick exit.

"How's your father?"

Olivia always asked after Ray, because it was the polite thing to do.

"Dad's fine."

"Say hello to him for me, dear. And where's your other roommate? The one who came down to shop last Christmas?"

"Mary Beth? She's at the hospital. Her boyfriend broke some ribs last week, he had to see the doctor again today."

"He broke some ribs? Fighting, I suppose. This place really isn't safe."

"Mama, it's safe. We've got our own superheroes now, haven't you heard?"

Olivia made a dismissive gesture, but before Harriet could ask her what she meant by it, the front door opened and a trio of people spilled in.

One was Arthur Morgan, Olivia's wealthy fiance. Harriet didn't like Arthur very much, but he was dependable in his stuck-up way, and the fact that he put up with her mother made him a candidate for sainthood. Olivia, in her less guarded moments, called Arthur "Adonis in a three-piece suit," but in truth Arthur was short and chubby and cultivated a patchy beard that made him look like he had a skin disease.

Something was different about Arthur today, however. He was laughing, something that Harriet couldn't recall ever seeing him do except at British sitcoms, and even then he laughed at the parts that weren't funny. Harriet had decided that Arthur had a synesthesia of the funny, so she immediately concluded that Caroline's mother wasn't funny.

Caroline's mother was the second of the three who pushed into the room. Harriet had no doubt of that, because the resemblance was unmistakable. Tall without heels, with hair darker than Caroline's, she was stunningly attractive. She wore gray pants and a blazer over a white blouse. Harriet felt bad for Caroline having to compare herself to her mother while she was growing up.

Caroline's mother was in the midst of a story which she found, if possible, funnier than Arthur did. Between gasps of laughter she forced out sentence fragments that sent them both into ever more violent fits of laughter.

The third person was tall, dark, and handsome, not, as Harriet told herself, in the cliched sense but in the archetypal. His hair was curly and black, his eyes were deep and brown, his jaw was solid and square. He wore a tight long-sleeve T-shirt that revealed his upper body in a way that would have looked deliberate and egotistical on any other man—say, for example, Marcus—but on him looked casual and incidental.

He shut the door behind the three of them and smiled across at Harriet, who realized that she was standing. She felt no less self-conscious about it when she saw that her mother had risen with her.

"Just a minute, Arty," said Caroline's mother. "I'll tell you the rest of it at lunch. You must be Olivia," she said and offered a hand to Harriet's mother. "I'm Jenna Bloom."

"How— It's very nice to meet you," Olivia said, and took Jenna's hand.

"And you must be Harriet!" Jenna pounced on Harriet and swept her into an enthusiastic hug. "Caroline's told me all about you. Where the hell is she?"

"She's in the shower—"

"Caroline!" Jenna Bloom looked around for the bathroom, then walked in without knocking. "Caroline, honey, I'm here!"

Caroline shrieked. "Mom, I'll be out in a minute!"

"I'm not leaving this room until I get a hug. I'll get in that shower with you if I have to."

"She's something," Arthur said.

"It appears so," Olivia said in an unfriendly tone.

"Now, Olivia, don't be like that."

Harriet wasn't sure what her mother would have said to Arthur, because at that moment the dark man stepped forward and took Olivia's hand. He said something none of them understood and raised her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Oh, dear," Olivia said.

"That's Arturo," said Jenna Bloom, coming out of the bathroom with wet spots all over her blazer. "He's gorgeous, but he hardly speaks a word of English. Isn't that right,
mio caro?"
She slapped Arturo on the seat of his pants. "Now, where should we go to lunch?"

"That's a good question." Olivia was smiling. Harriet stared.

"We'll decide in the car," Jenna Bloom declared. "Caroline, get your ass out here!"

"I have to get dressed!" Caroline called from the bathroom.

"Oh, you're beautiful, just throw something on. No, wait, I'll find something for you. Harriet, where's her bedroom?"

"No!" Caroline, wrapped in a towel, stepped out of the bathroom. "Mom, I can pick out my own clothes. Oh, god," she said as she realized there were five people in the living room staring at her. She lowered her head and ran to her bedroom, followed closely by her mother, who shut the door behind her and started chattering.

Suddenly Harriet felt grateful to have the mother she did.

_______

Caroline couldn't remember the last time she'd spent an entire day with her mother. Probably sometime in high school, on a holiday. No wonder the holidays always exhausted her.

The six of them—Harriet, Olivia, Arthur, Caroline, her mother, and her mother's boy toy—had lunch at the Great Dane, where her mother charmed the maitre d' into moving them to the top of a very long list of waiting people, and where she was so busy entertaining Olivia and Arthur that she never touched her food. Caroline had never seen Harriet's mother laugh so much; she had always seemed very serious and reserved.

Caroline was still too stunned to really listen to her mother's stories. She spent the meal picking at her fish and chips, exchanging bewildered looks with Harriet, and becoming increasingly annoyed by her mother's silent but gorgeous companion.

"What happened to Lars?" she asked her mother.

"Lars? You hated Lars," her mother answered.

"I never met Lars."

"You said he sounded like a—what word was it?"

"A poseur. And he did, but at least he spoke English."

"Oh, now, Arturo and I don't need to communicate through the spoken word."

"If you start talking about the international language I'm going to have to leave the table."

"Caroline. Don't be such a prude."

Caroline had certainly never thought of herself as a prude, and the comment shut her up long enough for her mother to launch into another long and highly unlikely story of her life. Caroline knew that most of the stories were exaggerated because she had been there for some of them. She didn't complain about them because her mother invariably expanded Caroline's role and made her seem much more witty and clever than Caroline had ever been in fact. In the stories Caroline and her mother were a team, a dynamic duo, two against the world. That was how Caroline used to see their lives, so she took comfort in the stories.

At one point Harriet's mother elbowed her daughter and between gasps of laughter asked her why she couldn't be more like Caroline, which made Caroline blush and wish that she were the one who could turn invisible.

After lunch—which Arthur paid for, over Jenna Bloom's loud but insincere objections—the six of them walked around the Capitol Square, and Caroline made the mistake of pointing out where she worked. Before she could object her mother had swept into Christos and was charming a smile out of Vincent, who bought them all drinks and gave Caroline the night off.

They went to a movie at the Majestic and ate dinner at a Thai place off Williamson Street and would have driven out to the Ho Chunk Casino if her mother had gotten her way, but Olivia and Arthur were exhausted, and Caroline seized the opportunity to claim she had a headache. Once they were back at the apartment, Jenna Bloom pulled Caroline into the bathroom for a conference.

"How many weeks?" she asked.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Caroline. You call me like that, all upset. I know you're pregnant."

Caroline's mouth fell open. "Mom, I'm not pregnant. What made you think that?"

"Are you lying to me?" Jenna Bloom's jaw was set. She looked ready to uncoil.

"I'm not pregnant, Mom, and I don't know what made you think I was."

"A hysterical phone message, you've put on weight, even though you hardly ate a thing today—"

"Mom! I have not put on weight."

"You certainly have, pregnant or not."

"Compared to what? God, Mom. Thanks for coming and all, sorry I'm not having a baby. I suppose you'll be on the first plane back. It's not like there'd be any other reason to come and see me." Caroline snatched a tissue and blew her nose to hide her tears.

"You see? You're hysterical. Can you blame me for thinking something was wrong?"

"Something is wrong!" Caroline surprised herself by shouting, but instead of telling herself to calm down she got angrier. "You spend all your time wandering around the country, finding new and younger boyfriends, and you hardly ever call and I never see you and I don't even know if you care about me and if you die I don't know what I'll do—"