The Death and Life of Superman (33 page)

Mitch tried to put his family out of his head, concentrating instead on his destination. According to what he’d heard on the radio, some relative of Superman’s was supposed to be speaking here in Metropolis at three o’clock. Mitch checked his watch; it was already 2:50, almost 2:55, and he had six blocks to go yet.
Better step on it!

The rain was finally starting to slack off as Mitch crossed his twelfth block. For one awful moment, he was afraid he’d made a wrong turn. But then he saw a crowd gathered under the awning of what looked like a big hotel and a cluster of microphones set up by the building’s entrance. As Mitch got closer, a bank of lights switched on, and he could see several cameramen jockeying for position under the awning. A thin brown-haired woman came out of the hotel and slowly inched her way to the microphones.

“Hello. I want to thank all of you for coming to hear my announcement.”

Mitch was surprised by the woman’s appearance. She reminded him a little of his mother, only his mother was prettier. This woman wore so much makeup that she looked almost cheap. The only really distinctive thing about her was a star-shaped birthmark on her right cheek, and Mitch could swear that it was fake. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this woman wasn’t it.

The woman coughed into her hand, clearing her throat. “There have been a lot of rumors floating around, a lot of malicious gossip, and I felt that I had to come forward and tell my story . . . the story of Superman and me. Though we kept our love a secret all these years, I was—I am—Mrs. Superman.”

She paused, and for a moment all that could be heard was the click of camera shutters and the soft patter of the rain on the canvas awning. Mitch started to notice smirks on the faces of people in the crowd, and a lot of those smirks belonged to reporters and cameramen. They clearly didn’t believe her, and Mitch wasn’t sure what to believe himself. The woman seemed sincere, but there was something strange about the way she stared into the cameras.

“Yes, it’s true. For years, Superman and I lived secretly in a Park Avenue penthouse in New York. He kept our relationship secret from the world to protect me from his enemies.” She clutched the microphone stands and leaned forward, her eyes very wide. “But ours was a life of vacations in Vegas and Paris. It was an endless adventure!”

Mitch was starting to feel uneasy about all this when a voice rang out just a few feet away from him.

“Oh, please! Give me a break!” The skeptic was a tall, attractive woman—much more attractive, noted Mitch, than the woman who claimed to be Mrs. Superman—and appeared to be a reporter. She had a miniature cassette recorder in her hand, but she was switching it off and starting to stick it in her coat pocket. The photographer next to her seemed as surprised as Mitch by her outburst.

“Lois! Why don’t you let the woman finish?”

Lois looked totally exasperated with the young photographer. “Jimmy Olsen, don’t tell me you’re actually buying this line of baloney?! That charlatan is no more Mrs. Superman than . . . than I am!”

Jimmy shrugged. “Well, yeah . . . sure. Anybody can see that she’s lying, but I say we cover the story and pin her to the wall—her and all the other pretenders.”

“No, Jim.” Lois pulled a small, collapsible umbrella from within her coat and began to unfold it. “People are already flocking to Metropolis in droves to visit Superman’s tomb. Most of them are good, earnest souls, but too many of them are morbid leeches like her. Any publicity, even negative publicity, just encourages more of them, and I don’t want to have any part of that.” She put her umbrella up against the rain. “I’ll see you later, Jim. I have some friends to meet.”

“Sure, Lois. Later.” Jimmy stood there for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and staring after Lois.

“Uh, ’scuse me? Mr. . . . Olsen?”

Jimmy turned, startled at hearing a younger voice call him “Mr.”
No wonder Lois always seemed so weirded out when I called her Ms. Lane . . . or Clark, when I called him Mr. Kent.
He found himself looking down into the face of a rain-soaked teenager.
Geez, I can’t be that much older than he is.
“Yeah?”

“That lady you were talking with? The one who just left? Did I hear her say that the other lady”—Mitch pointed toward the microphones—“wasn’t really Mrs. Superman? Is that true? I mean, that the other lady isn’t Superman’s wife?”

“I’m afraid so, pal. ‘Mrs. Superman’ there is just the latest in a long line of frauds to surface in the past week. One con man claimed that he was Superman’s business manager, and another even tried to pass himself off as Superman’s tailor.” Jimmy stopped. There was something oddly familiar about this boy. “Uh—why do you ask?”

Jimmy glanced back toward the mike, but “Mrs. Superman” had virtually disappeared behind a wall of photographers.
She’s probably posing for cheesecake shots by this point.
He looked back at Mitch. “You don’t know her—?”

“Oh . . . no.” Mitch stared down at his feet. “I was just hopin’ to talk to somebody who knew Superman is all. I rode buses all night to get here. I guess I came all this way for nothing.” He looked as though he’d lost his last friend in the world.

“Well, hey,
I
knew Superman.” Jimmy saw the doubting look all too clearly in Mitch’s face.
I can’t blame the kid.
“No, really! I work for the
Daily Planet
. . . I met Superman through working for the paper.” He offered the boy his hand. “The name’s Jimmy Olsen.”

“I’m Mitch Andersen.”

Jimmy studied the boy closely. “I have the darndest feeling I know you, Mitch. Have you been in the news recently?”

“No. Well . . . yeah, sorta. I mean, the house I lived in—in Ohio—was trashed by that big Doomsday monster. Afterwards, the TV guys were all over us. It was a pretty big deal, I guess.”

“That’s it! I must’ve seen your picture on the
Planet’
s photowire. I knew you looked familiar.”

“I do, huh?” Mitch went back to staring at his instep.

Nice going, Olsen. You’ve gone and embarrassed the kid.
“Well, Mitch, I know what it’s like . . . to have been that close to Doomsday. Your family’s okay, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, the house was wrecked, but Mom and my sister Becky are in great shape. We’ve been staying with friends. They’re fine . . . just fine. But Superman—Superman’s dead. He’s dead, and it’s all my fault.”

“Whoa, hold the phone, Mitch!” The boy’s shoulders were shaking, and Jimmy thought he might be crying. The rain had picked up again, and it was hard to tell.
Better change the subject.
“Hey, you look hungry.”
That’s true enough.
“When was the last time you ate?”

“I dunno. Yesterday.”

“What do you say we catch an early dinner? Then we can talk.”

Mitch shrugged. “I’m kinda broke.”

“It’s on me. Come on, I know a place where the food can’t be beat!” Jimmy led Mitch down the block to the nearest subway entrance. He’d paid the boy’s fare and they were well on their way when he realized that he’d never taken a good photo of “Mrs. Superman.”
Oh, well, Lois was probably right. Lois . . . geez, I hope that whoever she was meeting will be able to offer some emotional support. She could use it. We all could.
Jimmy shook his head.
The chances of Clark turning up alive get slimmer every day.

Lois turned onto Clinton Street, retracing the path she had taken so many times to Clark’s apartment building. They’d shared so many happy moments there, but now it stood only as a reminder of her loss. She hadn’t been back since that awful night. She didn’t want to go there now, but she had to. Walking the last block had taken longer than the whole rest of the trip; each step took more and more effort.

Lois nodded slightly to the doorman, trying hard not to cry.
Daddy always said, “Don’t cry.”
It felt odd to be invoking Sam Lane’s advice, but she was grasping at anything that might help her get through this. There was still so much she was keeping bottled up inside, so much the world must never know.

In the elevator, Lois fumbled for the keys Clark had given her after they were engaged. It was only three floors to his apartment, but the elevator ride seemed to be taking even longer than that last block. The doors finally whisked open, and she somehow made her way back down the hall and into his apartment. Lois closed her eyes, trying hard to hold back the tears, but they were flowing anyway.
Dear God,
she prayed,
he’s yours now. He’s never coming back to me. I’m all alone.

“Lois?”

Lois opened her eyes. Martha and Jonathan were emerging from Clark’s kitchen. She rushed into Martha’s embrace, and Jonathan stretched his big arms out around them both. Lois held tight and cried in the way she hadn’t dared cry before her own parents. “Oh, thank God . . . at last . . . I can talk to someone about all this.” They stood there together, just holding on and crying for several minutes.

Lois finally pulled back a little to look at the Kents, as if she couldn’t quite believe they were really there. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I was going to try straightening things up a bit before you arrived.”

“We lucked into an earlier flight.” Jonathan looked a trifle alarmed. “I left a message on your machine. Didn’t you get it?”

“Sorry, I . . . I haven’t been very good about my messages lately.” Mentally, Lois kicked herself.
I had no right to give them one more thing to worry about. Lord, they look so much older than they did the last time I saw them. A total stranger could see the strain in their faces.
“Oh, Martha . . . Jonathan . . . I’m so sorry.”

Martha gently patted Lois’s back. “There, there. Let it all out, dear. We’re here for you.”

“You’re here for me?” Lois wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “What about you? You . . . you couldn’t even attend—!”

Martha stroked Lois’s cheek. “Now, don’t you worry about Jonathan and me. We’re here to help out. And to get Clark’s things . . . in order.”

Jonathan nodded. “Amen to that. My pa always said, ‘Sharing multiplies joy and divides grief.’ It was true in his day, it’s true now, and it always will be true.”

To Lois’s surprise, a young strawberry-blond woman came out of the kitchen. “You’re so right, Jonathan. My Aunt Helen used to say much the same thing.”

“Lana? Lana Lang?”

“Hello, Lois. I came along with Jonathan and Martha—sort of to lend moral support. I hope you’ll let me help.”

“Of course, Lana. Thank you, I . . . I . . .” Lois literally didn’t know what else to say.

A moment’s awkward silence was suddenly broken by the whistle of a teakettle.

“I’ll get that,” said Lana. “We’ll all be able to cope a little better after a cup of tea.”

Lois was genuinely, deeply touched. She’d first met Lana before she and Clark were engaged. And after a slightly strained introduction, they’d gotten along quite well. Lois liked Lana Lang and was sure that the feeling was mutual, but this visit was totally unexpected.
I’ve always thought that in her own way, Lana still loved Clark every bit as much as I did. For her to have made this trip must have been incredibly painful. Could I have done the same, if I were in her shoes?

“Let me help you, Lana.” Lois followed the other woman into the kitchen. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Hiya, Red. How ya doin’?”

Jimmy looked up from a corner booth as Bibbo shouldered his way into the Hob’s Bay Grille. “Hello, Bibbo. I’m getting by. Care to join us?”

“ ’Ey, don’ mind if I do.” Bibbo slid into the booth next to Jimmy and across from a teenage boy who was polishing off a double cheeseburger deluxe and a jumbo order of fries. “Who’s yer li’l buddy there?”

“This is Mitch Andersen, Bib. Mitch, say hello to Bibbo.”

“Hullo.” Mitch already looked considerably less peaked than he’d been an hour before.

Mildred came by, bearing a cup of coffee and a big slab of raspberry pie. “Your usual, Mr. Bibbowski?”

“Yeah, thanks much, Miz Fillmore.”

Mitch looked longingly at the pie Mildred set down before Bibbo, and his stomach gave an impatient growl.

“ ’Ey, Mitch, you hidin’ an animal in yer shirt?”

Mitch’s face turned a bright catsup red, and Bibbo roared. “Aw-haw-haw! Don’ let it bother ya none, kid.” He shoved the pie across the table. “Here, you look like you need this more’n I do. ’S on me!”

Mitch grabbed up a fork and tore into the pie. “Thanks, Mr. Bibbo.”

“It’s just plain Bibbo to you, kid. Any pal o’ Red’s is a pal o’ mine.”

The pie disappeared so quickly that Bibbo ordered another slab for the boy and one more for himself. Jimmy just looked on in amusement, remembering the days not that long ago when he too possessed such a bottomless stomach. Midway through the second slab of pie, Mitch started to slow down, and Jimmy got the boy to talk about himself and Doomsday.

“It was kinda unreal,” said Mitch around bites of pie. “Doomsday just seemed to come outta nowhere. He was tearing through the neighborhood when Superman and the Justice League showed up to save our skins.”

Bibbo felt his throat tightening. “That was Sooperman for ya. Tough as nails, but always helping folks. That’s why he wuz my fav’rit.”