The Death and Life of Superman (30 page)

Supergirl blushed.
She blushed! All that power,
marveled Hastings,
and she actually blushed.
“Thanks, Lex. I won’t let you down.”

As Hastings followed Supergirl from the room, the phones began to ring again and the flurry of activity resumed. In all the confusion, no one noticed the fury in Luthor’s eyes.
Try as I might,
he thought,
I couldn’t kill Superman—but I’m sure as hell going to bury him.

The television had become a constant presence in the Kent household. Jonathan and Martha would watch until they couldn’t stand to see or hear another word. Then one or the other would turn it off . . . only to turn it back on after a few minutes, when the silence in between became just as unbearable.

Jonathan sat staring into his coffee as a somber network commentator outlined plans for the public ceremonies. “The funeral cortege will roll past the spot where Superman fell defending the city he loved, then continue to Centennial Park, where world leaders will witness the interment.”

Martha nervously picked at the hem of her apron. “They’re gonna put our boy in the ground, Jonathan. They’re gonna put him in the ground, and we’ll never see him again. We should be there in Metropolis.”

“Now, you know that we couldn’t get anywhere near him, Martha. We lost a son, but the world lost a hero . . . and they’re gonna bury that hero with full honors. You heard what they said, only the big shots’ll be allowed in close.”

A silent nod was the only acknowledgment Martha gave her husband. She turned and looked back at the television, a vacant, faraway look in her eyes.

“Martha?” Jonathan slowly got up from his chair and laid his big farmer’s hands on her shoulders. She hardly seemed aware of him. “Martha, you’re staring at that damn set like it’s gonna bring our Clark back. You can’t go on like this. Neither of us can.”

In the silence of the room, the volume of the television seemed to blare. “Live coverage of the funeral will begin tomorrow at eleven o’clock eastern, ten o’clock central time.”

“I can’t take another minute of this.” Fuming, Jonathan strode across the room and, for the fifth time that day, turned off the set. “I just can’t stand it.”

The sun did not come out the next morning in Metropolis. A dense cloud cover had rolled in over the Eastern Seaboard during the night, and the skies outside looked threatening as Jimmy Olsen walked into the
Daily Planet
City Room.

“Hey, Jimbo, great photo!”

Jimmy looked up with a start as Danny Jawarski clapped him on the back. “What? Which photo—?”

“ ‘Which photo?’ he asks!
The
photo, my man!” Jawarski unfolded the memorial edition of the
Planet
and smacked his hand across the picture that covered nearly a third of the front page. It was one of the last shots Jimmy had taken of Superman. “Incredible composition, Olsen. I love the way the shot is framed with Superman sprawled out like that, and the cracked pavement sort of radiating out from his body. It’s like . . . it’s like a Michelangelo, you know? It’s as though you got him just as he was breathing his last.”

“I did.” Jimmy’s voice was so low that the other photographer could barely hear him.

“Yeah? Well, I tell you, Jimbo, you really captured the spirit of the old boy’s death. Man, I wish I’d snapped this one!”

“I wish you had, too. I’m sorry I ever took it.”

Jawarski looked genuinely puzzled. Was Olsen pulling his leg? “Hey, lighten up, guy. That picture’s gonna make you famous. The wire service picked it up—it’s appearing in papers all over the world! After this, you can write your own ticket.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Dan, I’d give it all up—I’d take that ticket and tear it into confetti—if it would bring Superman back.”

“Uh, well, sure. But it couldn’t.” Jawarski coughed nervously into his hand. “Bring him back, I mean. So, you might as well enjoy the glory, right?”

“There’s nothing to enjoy.” Jimmy fixed the other photographer with his most penetrating stare. “You just don’t get it, do you, Dan? The man was my friend. He was everybody’s friend.”

A few feet away, Perry White caught the tail end of the exchange as he paused to straighten his tie. The managing editor just shook his head.
Danny will never get it. He has no heart, and it comes through in his work. That’s why he’ll never be more than a good photographer. But Olsen . . . Olsen has the makings of a great one.
Perry squared his shoulders and walked on; he doubted that Jawarski even knew the meaning of real friendship.

Across the room, Lois stared at the telephone on her desk with something akin to dread. The phone had always been one of the main tools of her trade, but now it seemed like a miniature gargoyle crouched on the corner of the desk, daring her to pick it up. It had been over two days since she’d lost Clark, and she still hadn’t called his parents.
What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I call them?
In addition to all the shock and horror she had endured, Lois now felt overwhelmed with guilt. The more she fretted, the guiltier she felt, and the harder it became to reach for the phone.

“Lois?” Perry leaned across her desk, gently breaking into her thoughts. “You know, I always thought of you as one of Superman’s real friends. You’re the one who should be marching in the funeral procession—the one to be present at the burial, not me. Want to go in my stead?”

“Thanks, Perry, but . . . no.”

“You’re sure?”

Lois shook her head. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

Perry came around the desk and crouched down beside her. “Are you going to be all right? I can send someone else—”

“No.” Lois gave him a halfhearted smile. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Perry saw that she was hurting; she’d lost a close friend and, as far as he knew, perhaps her fiancé as well. He started to say something, then thought better of it. Before he became managing editor, he’d had a good, long career as a reporter, and in that time he’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in mourning. Sooner or later, he knew, everyone needed to weep and wail in the company of friends. But some folks just wished to be alone, at least at first. If that’s what Lois wanted, Perry would respect it. He patted her gently on the shoulder and eased off down the hall.

Lois glanced back at the phone. The superstitious part of her could swear it had moved closer.
Ridiculous. It’s just a trick of the light. Or maybe Perry brushed against it.
Tentatively, she reached out one hand toward the phone. Her fingers were just about to make contact when it rang. Lois nearly jumped out of her chair. In the stillness of the half-deserted City Room, the phone seemed to ring as loud as any fire bell. Heart pounding, she snatched up the handset. “H-hello?”

“Mary?” The voice at the other end sounded confused.

“Excuse me?”

“Is this the
Daily Planet
? I’m looking for Mary Powers.”

“Oh. Yes, this is the
Planet,
but you have the wrong extension. Mary’s number is 0320. I can try to transfer you—”

“Naw, that’s okay. Sorry if I bothered you.” There was a click, and the dial tone began humming in her ear.

Lois set the phone back down and turned away.
I can’t stand to look at that hateful thing anymore.
She pushed away from her desk and headed for the door, grabbing her coat on the way. She paused briefly by the elevators, then shoved open the stairwell door. Almost without realizing what she was doing, Lois started up the stairs, her brisk pace turning into a run. Minutes later, she stood on the metal catwalk within the building’s rooftop globe.

Lois pushed open the cleaning port and stepped out onto the globe’s outer deck. The wind hit her full in the face as she looked out between the giant metal letters—DAILY PLANET—that encircled the globe. A light rain began to fall as she tried to collect her thoughts. A gust suddenly swirled her coat around her, making it flap . . .
just like a cape.
The image startled her, and she suddenly recalled the first time she’d come up there with Clark. Until he’d showed her the way, she’d never even realized the globe had an interior access. Ever since he’d shared his dual identity with her, she’d considered this as their secret place. She had often come to this spot to see him off on missions . . . or to wait for him to return.

Is that why I came up here? To wait for him? Sure, why not? Superman’s gone missing before, but he always comes back, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?!

Lois gripped the side of the big metal D and fought off the feeling of hysteria.
But he’s never been dead before.

From far below came a slow, rhythmic rumble. It took Lois a moment to recognize the sound as the echoing beat of drums. Superman’s funeral cortege was approaching the building. It would be passing by soon on its way uptown.

He won’t be flying back to me this time. I . . . I have to go to him.
Lois shivered and stepped back inside the globe. She bolted down the stairs to the top floor and leaned on the button for the express elevator.
Wait for me, Clark. I’m coming.

The crowds lining the street in front of the
Planet
Building were ten deep by the time Lois made it to the lobby. Pushing her way out through the revolving doors, she began to squeeze through the crush of people on the sidewalk. She was making slow, steady progress until the toe of her boot caught on something and she stumbled into a space along the curb that was clear of people. Though there were no barricades, the crowd was standing back from this area, almost reverentially. In the center of that clearing, freshly set into new pavement stones, was a big brass plaque bearing the pentagonal S-symbol and the words: IN MEMORY OF SUPERMAN. KILLED ON THIS SPOT WHILE DEFENDING METROPOLIS. All around the plaque, people had left flowers.

Lois knelt silently in the drizzle before the plaque. It seemed impossible to her that this was where her lover had died in her arms barely three days before. She looked at the garlands of lilies and dozens of roses piled neatly all around.
So many flowers,
she thought. Many had little notes attached to them; some were formally printed, but most, she noticed, appeared handwritten. One little dandelion had been laid carefully beside the brass S, accompanied by a taped-on scrap of paper. Lois touched the rain-soaked paper gingerly. The childish printing on the paper read simply,
I miss you.

“Lois?”

She looked up, tears in her eyes, into Jimmy Olsen’s worried young face. “They loved him too, Jimmy.”

“Yeah . . .” Jimmy was trying hard to choke back his own tears. “Guess we all did.” He reached down, helping Lois to her feet. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Some of the guys from the sports desk are saving us a place down front. Come on, we have to hurry . . . he’s almost here.”

Jimmy wrapped one arm around Lois’s shoulder as they gently elbowed their way through the crowd. They reached curbside just as the four drummers—one each representing the army, navy, air force, and marines—passed by, beating their mournful rhythm. Slightly out of tempo with the drums came the clip-clop of hoofbeats. And while Lois and Jimmy held one another, two chocolate-brown stallions came abreast, pulling the funeral carriage.

The carriage itself was quite simple in design, its only distinguishing factors being the burnished metal S-medallions affixed to either side. Upon the carriage, covered with the flag of the United States of America, the coffin bearing the Last Son of Krypton was borne through the streets of Metropolis.

Directly behind the carriage came a procession of the most powerful beings who had ever walked the Earth. There were members of the Justice League, past and present, and veteran mystery-men of the Second World War. There were heroes from around the world and beyond the stars. There was Wonder Woman and the Flash, Green Lantern and Captain Marvel, and so many more. There were dozens of them, resplendent in their colorful uniforms, marching along to the slow, staccato drumbeat. Each of them wore a black armband emblazoned with a scarlet S-shield in tribute to the fallen Superman.

As they passed by, those heroes with especially acute senses could not help but catch snatches of conversation from mourners lining the route.

“Mommy, is it true that Superman was from another planet?” A little boy looked up at his mother for the answer.

“I don’t know, honey.” The woman held her son close. “But he was the greatest hero this poor old world has ever seen.”

A tall black man stood with his head bowed as if in prayer. His hair was closely cropped, with a Superman S shaved into one side. As the coffin passed by, he turned to an older Middle Eastern couple who stood nearby. “Dude pulled me out of the wreck when my cab was hit. If he hadn’t been there then, I wouldn’t be here now.”

The old man nodded, brushing tears from his eyes. “Many of us have such stories, my friend. Superman once stopped a thug who had robbed our deli.” He shook his head in sorrow and turned to his wife. “Remember, Mara?”

“I remember, Bashir. When we have been dust a hundred years, I still will remember. He would take no reward. He protected us as if we were his own family—it was plain he cared so much for everyone.”