“Jerome, this was long time ago. Nothing to worry about today.”
“I’m not worried. I—” Jerry put aside the book. His eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just, well . . . if someone really could do magic or summon something or build whatever Aryan creature those men were building . . .” He tilted his head slightly, and the streaming outdoor sun made him look like a little boy. “I don’t know, Pop. Couldn’t it also be done for good instead?”
82
The word Superman comes from
Nietzsche’s Übermensch and George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman.
But it was Hitler, stating he wanted a nation of “supermen,” that gave the term its popularity.
—Maltz Museum brochure
Today
Marina del Rey, California
You look scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I tell Serena as I grip the steering wheel of our rental car, which is parked at the end of the wide cul-de-sac. “I’m just nervous.”
“About this—or you still thinking about your father?”
I pause for a second too long. “About this.”
In the passenger seat, Serena tucks her legs into an Indian-style position, never taking her eyes off me. “If it makes you feel better about it, Cal, your dad—”
“Please don’t give me a Buddha quote right now. Can’t I just worry I’m being too easy on him?”
“Maybe you are,” she admits. “But just remember—”
“I said no Buddha.”
“No Buddha. Just listen: When baby Superman gets rocketed to the planet Earth and his real parents die on Krypton, he lands here and gets two new flawless parents who treat him perfect as can be.”
“So?”
“So that’s just a comic book. Real life has much more complicated endings. And beginnings.”
“And that’s it? Now I’m supposed to feel better? Or just forgive him? Or not second-guess myself for potentially inviting him back into my life?”
She turns to me, her yellow blue eyes trying to absorb whatever pain and regret she thinks I’m feeling. She’s not my girlfriend. I know she’s not. But there’s no denying the fact that throughout this whole mess, she’s the one clear reminder, even with all the hokey self-help quotes, that not everything carries freight with it.
“Cal, the soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”
I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.
“That was Buddha, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Native American. Minquass tribe.”
I nod, still gripping the steering wheel. I fight for my clients every day, and I always will. It’s nice to finally feel someone fighting for me. “Have I thanked you for coming here?”
“Over nine times. You still nervous?”
I stare over her shoulder at our destination: the three-story, beige-and-white apartment building with the odd flock of pelicans nesting on top.
“Terrified,” I tell her.
“That’s why you need to go. Without me. You’re the one who needs to know, Cal.”
She’s right about that.
As I nudge open the car door and step outside, the California sun salutes me. I hear the squawks of pelicans and a boat horn in the distance. We’re not far from the marina.
“Take your time. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Serena calls out, already pulling away. She’s worried if she waits around, I might back out. She’s right.
Behind me, I hear the car take off and disappear.
Following the concrete path and counting door numbers, I make my way to the back of the older, three-story apartment building, where, just past a set of open jalousie windows, there’s a coral-colored door with four different locks. I hear an old Dean Martin song playing inside. Just below the doorbell is the name:
SIEGEL
I study it for a minute, collecting my—
“I see you out there,” an elderly woman’s voice announces. “You here for the air-conditioning?”
It’d be simple to say yes. Or to flash my wallet in front of the eyehole and pretend I’m still a fed. She’s gotta be nearly ninety. She wouldn’t know the difference.
But I would. And this woman—and her family—deserves better.
“I’m—if you can—I was hoping to ask you about your husband,” I tell her.
The door stays shut. “If you’re one of those comic book people, I don’t do interviews. I don’t talk about Superman. I’ve told my stories,” she tells me.
“Ma’am, I don’t care about Superman. I’m here about your husband. Jerry.”
“Then you care about Superman. You think you’re the first yahoo to try that line?”
“Ma’am—”
“I’ve been putting up with people like you since 1948,” she yells through the door.
“I know who murdered Jerry’s father.”
“Nice try. I’ve heard that one, too. Lemme guess: You wanna write a book. Everyone loves a mystery.”
“I know it wasn’t a mystery. And I know Jerry saw it happen.”
There’s a long pause. The pelicans continue to squawk.
“I found these,” I add, pulling the four panels of the old comic strip—with the old Thule symbol—from my pocket and holding it up to the peephole.
There’s another long pause.
Tnnk. Tnnk. Cuunk. Tnnk. The locks come undone.
I’m expecting a frail Miami Beach Golden Girl. Instead, I get an elderly woman with teased reddish brown hair, lively dark eyes, and the most stunning cheekbones I’ve ever seen. According to the brochure from the museum, this woman posed for Jerry and Joe, making her the physical model for Lois Lane. Of course she’s beautiful.
“Why don’t you come inside, Mr. . .”
“Cal Harper,” I say, extending a hand.
“Joanne,” she says, inviting me in without shaking back. “Where’d you find the art?”
“In Jerry’s Cleveland house. In his room,” I say, watching as she stares at the comic panels in my hand. “You didn’t know they were there, did you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leads me into her living room, which is decorated in light pastels and sea-foam green. Just like the prison. There’s a bookcase on our left, but the rest of the walls are filled—absolutely stacked—with picture frame after picture frame of family photos. Pictures of her and Jerry, her and her daughter, her and her grandchildren. There’s not a single one of Superman.
Over by a white Formica credenza, she reaches for the double cassette player and lowers the Dean Martin volume—but doesn’t turn it off. She doesn’t like being alone. Me neither.
She takes a seat on her wicker-and-peach sofa, crossing her ankles like a true lady. “Tell me what you want from us, Mr. Harper.”
“No. No no no. I don’t want anything.”
“Then why’re you here?”
“I’m just— It’s hard to explain.”
She raises a thin eyebrow. “Every single day of my Jerry’s life, someone wanted something: the lawyers, the reporters, the so-called fans, and don’t even start me on the publisher. Before the whole mess went public, when Jerry was in his sixties, y’know he was reduced to sorting mail? The man creates a billion-dollar legend, and he spent his twilight years dropping packages on people’s desks and fighting to get paid for it. Even when they finally wrote the check and tried to make right, everyone eventually wanted something from him, Mr. Harper. So you might as well tell me: Are you doing this for the cash or just for the story?”
“I know this sounds odd, Mrs. Siegel. But I think . . . I think I’m doing this for my father, if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I know, but I was right before, wasn’t I? Jerry did witness his dad’s murder.”
At first, she’s silent, staring off at the family photos that fill the wall. “You need to understand, in the comic book, Superman was the hero, and Clark Kent was the act. But in real life . . . Clark Kent . . . that was Jerry. The awkwardness, the fears, even the slight stammer—he was the little guy that the bully would kick sand at on the beach. But that would all disappear when he was talking about his stories. Then he was a dynamo—excited, energized—able to hold his own with anyone. It was like he had this well of strength inside him that would overflow once you got him in his element. But only when he was in his element. Did you ever meet anyone like that?”