The Death and Life of Superman Page 2

  It was an unpleasant realization he had gradually come to accept, much as he’d adjusted to the growth of his superhuman powers throughout early adulthood. The more powerful he became, and the more he tried to do, the more it became apparent that he couldn’t do everything. Still, he’d resisted facing his limits until that hellish week nearly a decade ago . . .

  Superman had been away from the city for three days, helping to put out a forest fire in Northern California, and returned barely five minutes after a jet crashed shortly after takeoff from Metropolis International. The flight crew had done a heroic job of bringing the plane down in a nearby field, but three passengers had died. For days after that, Superman had maintained an almost constant presence in the city’s skies. He’d brooded over those three deaths to the point at which it put a strain on his double life.

  His boss was fit to be tied. “Kent, you were supposed to cover the mayor’s speech. Where the blazes were you?”

  “Sorry, Mr. White.” Clark Kent straightened his glasses. He’d been patrolling the skies, but he couldn’t say that. “I guess I lost track of the time.”

  “Step into my office. Now!” Perry While closed the door behind them. “For the past week, you’ve been walking around the City Room like a zombie—no, more like a ghost. It’s become a rare occasion when you show up! What in blazes is wrong with you, Kent?”

  “It’s . . . personal, Chief.” Clark couldn’t very well tell the managing editor of the Daily Planet that his newest reporter was also Superman. “I’m having to adjust to a lot of things.”

  “Well, adjust faster!” White slammed both palms down hard on his desk top, and Clark could sense the increase in his editor’s blood pressure. “I hired you on the basis of that Superman exclusive you got for the Planet. It was a damn fine piece of reporting, but you can’t coast on one story. Not at this paper!”

  “No, sir.”

  “My reporters work for a living! I won’t put up with any slackers.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t!”

  Clark got up to go.

  “Kent?”

  “Sir?”

  “I meant what I said about that exclusive. It was one of the best-written pieces I’ve seen in twenty-five years of newspaper work.” Perry’s gruff voice softened. “I know it can be tough . . . to suddenly burst on the scene, making a big splash. You’ve made a lot of people jealous. They’re all out there, waiting for you to fall on your face. They think you’re a flash in the pan. Well, I think they’re wrong. I think you have the makings of a great reporter.”

  “Thank you, sir. That means a lot. You—”

  “Aw, I’m just an old beat reporter who got some lucky breaks.” Perry opened a desk drawer. “Cigar?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Oh. That’s right. I forgot.” Perry stuffed a Corona in his vest pocket for later. “Look, Clark, if something’s troubling you—”

  “It really is personal, Mr. White. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Fair enough.” Perry came around from behind his desk. “We all have a life outside these walls, and what you do with yours is none of my damn business . . . as long as it doesn’t reflect badly on the Planet. But I want you to know that my door will always be open to you. If you have a problem, I’ll listen. If you don’t feel like telling me, fine . . .” Perry paused and looked Clark in the eye, “. . . but tell someone, someone you can trust. It doesn’t pay to keep things bottled up inside.”

  It had been good advice. That night Clark had flown home to Kansas and poured his heart out to the two people in this world whom he trusted above all others . . . the couple who had raised him as their own son.

  “Dear, you mustn’t do this to yourself!” Martha Kent’s worry lines became deep furrows in her ivory skin. “Mercy sakes, Superman can’t be everywhere. Even if you’d been in Metropolis at the time, there’s no guarantee you could’ve saved those people.”

  “Your ma has a point, son.” Jonathan Kent pulled an old red bandanna from the right rear pocket of his overalls and began polishing his glasses. It was a contemplative mannerism that Clark had seen so many times before—when his father had sat him down to explain the facts of life, when Aunt Sal had died, when Jon had showed Clark the craft that had brought him to Earth. “From the way you described it, that plane crashed on takeoff, without more’n a few seconds’ warning. Why, you’d have had to been right there at the scene to have done any good. On the other hand, who knows how many lives you saved by putting out that forest fire!”

  “That’s right. You’re able to do so many wonderful things with your powers, Clark, but even you can’t solve all the world’s problems.” He could tell Martha was upset. She had practically twisted the hem of her apron into a knot. “Don’t dwell on what might have been, or you’ll worry yourself into a terrible state! Think of what you’ve already accomplished. You’re just one man . . . and you manage to do so much good. And we’re so very proud of you. Don’t you ever forget that!”

  Superman hadn’t forgotten. He couldn’t forget anything. That’s the blessing and the curse of a good memory, Pa had once said, and his memory was just about perfect. Jonathan and Martha had done their best to set him straight, bless them, and time had proven them right.

  A growing chorus of car horns cut into Superman’s consciousness. Five hundred feet below him, rush-hour traffic was already backing up through the borough of Queensland Park along the Burnley Expressway. A quick scan showed him the problem . . . about three miles away, a late-model sedan sat stalled in the express lane, its emergency lights blinking. As Superman sped to the scene, his ears picked up a high-pitched wail coming from the vehicle.

  “MOMMEEEE!”

  In the driver’s seat, Rosemary Carson kept trying the ignition in a vain hope that the engine would turn over. In the back, strapped into a child seat, was the two-year-old source of the wail.

  “MOMMEEE! I gotta POTTEEE!”

  “Honey, I asked you if you needed to go before we left.”

  “Didn’t need to then.”

  “We’ll get you to day care soon, Benjamin, and then you can go. Okay?”

  “Whennnn?”

  “It won’t be long.” I hope. “First, Mommy has to get the car started.” And later Mommy has to remind Daddy that he didn’t get the car serviced, like he promised.

  “Need to go nowww!”

  Benjamin’s whine was reaching the point where it was just slightly less annoying than the miles of car horns. Rosemary had to grit her teeth. No, don’t yell at him, he’s just a kid. This isn’t his fault. “Try not to think about it, sweetie. Let’s . . . let’s sing a song. What shall we sing?”

  “ ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’ was always one of my favorites, when I was his age!”

  Rosemary sat up with a start at the sound of the rich baritone. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching, but suddenly—there he was, leaning, down to look into her car!

  “Superman! SUPERMAN!” Benjamin had instantly forgotten the pressure on his bladder. The man he’d seen fly on TV was now smiling at him.

  “Hello, Benjamin.”

  Superman knew his name!

  “Don’t worry, we’ll have things taken care of before you know it.”

  Benjamin’s mother just nodded, not quite sure whether to believe this was happening or not. Still, the horn honking seemed to have stopped. Rosemary checked her mirror. Yes, drivers in the cars backed up behind her looked as surprised as she felt. When she looked ahead again, Superman was staring at the front end of her car and stroking his chin. Of course, X-ray vision. He can see right through the hood. Superman came back to her window, and this time she cranked it all the way down.

  “I don’t think I can fix it. At least not right here.”

  “You can’t? I thought you could do anything!”

  “Not quite.” He grinned, perhaps a little self-consciously, and she
realized how intently she was staring at him. She dropped her eyes, a bit embarrassed.

  “Tell you what, how about if I give you and Ben a lift to day care? Then we can call a tow truck.”

  “Sure, I . . .” Her jaw dropped. “How did you know where we were going?”

  Now it was his turn to look embarrassed. She found it charming.

  “I, ah, overheard. We’d probably better get going, if we want to avoid any more emergencies.” Superman glanced pointedly back at the boy.

  “Oh. Yes! Yes, of course.”

  “Who’s your day-care provider?”

  “The Little Pitchers Children’s Center . . . on Melrose.”

  “I know the place. Do either of you suffer from acrophobia?”

  “No.” What an odd thing to ask, thought Rosemary. “In fact, Benjamin loves heights.”

  “Fasten your belts, then. This won’t take a minute.”

  Suddenly Superman literally dropped out of sight. For a second, Rosemary wondered if he’d fallen. But then the car gently began to rise into the air.

  “We’re flying, Mommy! Superman is making the car fly! WHEEEE!”

  “Flying . . . yes, of course.” Rosemary was amazed by the even timbre of her voice. Just the same, she clutched the end of her seat belt and cinched it tighter. No wonder he asked about acrophobia! She turned in her seat to see Benjamin bouncing happily in his car seat and trying to undo its harness. “Don’t do that, Benjamin!”

  “Wanna look out the window! WANNA LOOK OUT THE WINDOW!”

  “No, honey. Superman wants us both to stay buckled up. Just sit still and you’ll see—!”

  “Don’t wanna sit still! DON’T WANNA!”

  “Ben!” The boy froze in the seat as his name echoed through the car. Superman’s voice was deep, much deeper than his father’s. The whole car vibrated with the sound. “Do as your mother says!”

  “I will.” Benjamin’s voice was a bare whisper.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Superman lowered his voice to a more conversational volume. “Your mother wants only what’s best for you . . . it’s important to listen to what your parents say! Understand?”

  “Uh-huh.” The boy nodded almost reverentially.

  Rosemary smiled. They were already descending toward the day-care center. No one at the office will ever believe this, she thought. Not in a million years. “What a baby-sitter he would make!” Her words came out as a wistful sigh, but Superman heard her all the same.

  Coming from a farming family, he knew all about the problems working couples faced in raising their children. The Kents had faced them all, and more. Thank God my powers developed slowly, he thought. Imagine the hell Ma and Pa would have had with a super toddler going through the Terrible Twos! Superman shook his head and smiled. He hoped his folks liked the surprise he’d left for them.

  At that moment, one time zone to the west, Jonathan Kent padded into the kitchen of the old family farmhouse and gave his wife a peck on the cheek as she stood stirring a pot at the stove. “Morning, love. Why’d you let me sleep so late?”

  “It does you good to sleep in, dear. You are supposed to be retired, alter all!”

  “Semiretired, Martha. You ought to know by now that a real farmer never completely retires. I intend to work until I fall over in the field and they plow me under for fertilizer.”

  “Jonathan Kent! What a thing to say!”

  “Well, it makes more sense than pickling a man in formaldehyde and burying him in a box.” He looked down into the pot and made a face. “Oatmeal again?”

  “I thought you liked oatmeal.”

  “I do, but I also like a little variety. Seems like forever since I last had steak and eggs . . . with home fries and biscuits.”

  “Now, you know what Doc Lanning said! You have to be careful with your heart. And it does us both good to eat smarter and cut down on fats.” Martha considered her husband’s sour expression. “I could see about getting some of those egg substitutes at the market.”

  “Can you fry ’em sunny-side up?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll stick with the oatmeal, then. We got any brown sugar and cinnamon to put on it?”

  “There on the table. I bought raisins, too. Raisins are good in oatmeal!”

  “Uh-huh. The morning paper come yet?”

  “I haven’t checked.”

  Jonathan opened the door to the back porch, and a brown-paper-wrapped package toppled in onto the floor. “Jehoshaphat! What’s this?”

  He turned the package over. There were no postal or delivery service markings, but a small envelope had been taped to one side. Jonathan fished out a note.

  “Martha, it’s from our boy! ‘Dear Ma and Pa, I saw this when I was in Tokyo and thought you might like it. Sorry I couldn’t stop in, but I had to get back to the city. All my love, Clark.’ ” Jonathan handed the package to his wife. “Here, you open it!”

  Martha carefully pried loose the package’s sealing tape with the corner of one fingernail and slowly unfolded the brown paper. “Oh, Jonathan, look! It’s a framed watercolor of . . . what’s that mountain?”

  “Mount Fuji, as I live and breathe! I visited it when I was in Japan on leave, back during the war. You remember, I brought back that postcard. Oh, but this is a real beauty!” He looked at his wife, watching her start to tear up. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

  “You’re full of malarkey, Jonny Kent.” But as she said it, she smiled, and in that smile he saw the girl he’d first fallen in love with, all those years ago.

  “And you’re lull of salt water.” He handed her his bandanna. “Here, take this before you rust up on me!” It hasn’t always been an easy life, but it’s been a happy one for the most part, thought Jonathan. I’m glad we’ve shared it. He looked again at the watercolor. And I couldn’t love that son of ours more if he was really our own.

  The memory of the night they’d found him remained one of the most vivid in his recollection.

  It was November, and a big storm was blowing in out of the west. Martha and he had just secured the last of the shutters when it happened. A brilliant, dazzling light had shot across the sky, passing so low over the house that Martha had cried out in alarm. The light disappeared behind the barn, and there followed a low, echoing thud that reminded Jonathan of nothing so much as the impact of an unexploded mortar round.

  “Jonathan, was that—?”

  “A meteor! By gum, it had to be! It must’ve hit somewhere in the back forty! C’mon, Martha, let’s go see!”

  “Now? But the storm—”

  “From the feel of the wind, that storm’s gonna drop snow. If there’s an honest-to-god meteorite on our land, I want to know where before it gets buried. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  But she did, of course. Martha was every bit as curious as her husband, and the two of them jumped into their old pickup and set out across the fields.

  They soon found the source of the mysterious light. In a remote section of their property, in the midst of a surprisingly shallow crater, sat what appeared to be a huge, glistening egg mounted onto a set of smoking metal fins.

  “Jonathan, what in the world is it?”

  “I don’t know. Looks almost as if it’s some kind of little rocket or satellite or something! Better stay clear, Martha.”

  “But . . . look, Jonathan!” Dark as the egg was, it was still translucent, and Martha could see signs of movement. “There’s something inside! Something alive!”

  “You think so? It’s awfully small. Maybe this is some sorta test craft?” Jonathan gingerly reached out to touch the smooth surface of the egg. “That’s funny . . . it’s cool. I read these things were supposed to get hot on reentry an’ . . . what the hey?!”

  The outer surface of the egg seemed to melt away beneath Jonathan’s hand, revealing its precious cargo within.

  “Oh! Ohhh, Jonathan! It’s a baby!” Martha pushed past her amazed husband and gathered the squirmi
ng newborn infant into her arms. “And so small! Those . . . those monsters! They put a poor little baby into a rocket ship! And then they shot him off to the moon or somewheres! What kind of people are they?”

  “Now, you be careful, Martha! We don’t know that this baby came from Earth! He could be some kind of—I don’t know—Martian or something!”

  “Oh, now you hush, Jonathan Kent. You’ve been reading too many of those science-fiction magazines! Just look at him, he’s as human as you or me!” The baby boy seemed to smile up at Martha and then shiver as the cold wind picked up. Martha pulled her coat close around him and headed for the truck. “Well, little one, whoever the monsters were who shot you into space, I’m going to make sure that they never get their hands on you again!”

  “Martha!” Jonathan had to scramble to catch up to his wife. He started to protest, but before he could open his mouth again, she turned and fixed him with a stare.

  “We can’t just leave him here, now can we?”

  Jonathan scratched the back of his neck for a moment, then went around the truck and held open the door for his wife.

  All during the bumpy ride back to the house, Martha kept the infant cradled in her arms, alternately cooing to the child and arguing with her husband. From the moment she’d laid eyes on the boy, Martha had wanted to keep him. She and Jonathan had been trying for eight years to have a child of their own, but after two miscarriages and a stillbirth they had just about given up. Neither of them were regular churchgoers, but Martha believed in destiny, and she felt that this child was meant to be theirs. She was determined to keep him, and Jonathan was hard-pressed to counter her arguments. By the time they got home, they’d already decided to name him Clark, Martha’s maiden name.

  That’s when the storm hit. Actually, it was the first of many storms. A whole series of fronts swept across Kansas that winter, effectively isolating the Kents from friends and relatives in the surrounding area. It was five months before they were again seen in town. Being farmers, they had a full larder and were able to survive in relative comfort, if in solitude, when the phones periodically failed. For his part, the tiny infant thrived under his new parents’ care.