I can’t help but nod, seeing my own reflection in a nearby picture frame. “Every single day.”
“Y’know Hitler banned Superman? Mussolini also. Jerry was flying then. But when he lost the rights to Superman—when they took his name off it—Jerry the dynamo disappeared, too. But even then, even at his lowest, when the electric company said they were shutting our power off, he was still strong inside. Jerry took that beating in front of everyone. And that—I can’t explain it—but I know that strength came from his dad.”
“That him?” I ask, pointing to a gray-tone photo of a young, mustached man in a Russian army uniform. His body is small and thin, barely filling his buttoned tunic. In the photo, he’s posed in front of a railing, as though he’s holding it to stand.
“That’s Mitchell,” she says.
“So Jerry spoke of him often?”
“No. He just . . . he spoke of him differently.”
“But never in public.”
“See, that’s the misconception. Sure, Jerry gave thousands of interviews, but just because he never mentioned his father, people want to see it as a flaw or a controversy—or say that Jerry didn’t want to be pitied as the little boy who lost his parent. But that’s not why Jerry was so quiet about his dad.”
“You think he was protecting him,” I say.
“He was protecting something,” she acknowledges.
“And you know what it is.”
“I never said that, Mr. Harper.”
I shake my head, turning toward the bookcase on my left. The shelves are packed with mostly romance novels and a few random hardbacks, but along the top shelf, there’s a set of tall leather books with the words Superman, Clark Kent, and Lois Lane across their respective spines. “I know about the ashes, Mrs. Siegel.”
For the first time since I’ve been here, Joanne Siegel’s high cheeks fall.
To be fair, it was my father who mentioned the story: of Jerry Siegel splitting his ashes between a copper urn and a set of hollowed-out fake books that his wife was saving for when Cleveland finally builds a true Superman museum. But it wasn’t until Alberto said the magic words that the truth finally hit me. Once people think there are ashes in something, it becomes the one hiding spot no one’ll ever open.
Shazam.
“You’re going to take it away now, aren’t you?” she asks.
“I promised you, ma’am, I don’t want anything.”
I walk toward the shelf. Joanne stays silent.
“Can you at least tell me what it is?” she finally asks.
Glancing over my shoulder, I stare back at Jerry Siegel’s widow. Of course he never told her. The contents inside had already cost his father his life. If his wife knew the truth . . . if they ever came after her . . . No way would Superman ever put Lois in danger.
“You really don’t know?” I ask.
“I have an idea. But not for sure.”
I pull out the fake books and realize there’s one more book attached to the set: a green one that says The Spectre on the spine. “The Spectre?”
“Jerry’s other great creation: A murdered man gets sent back by God to take vengeance on evil sinners,” Joanne explains.
“Sounds pretty biblical.”
“All the best stories are,” she says. “Jerry always said that. Don’t you see? Comic books aren’t just a ragbag of words and pictures. The Superman story exists in every culture on this planet. We all need our heroes. And our villains. So how could it not be like the Bible? Jerry apologized for it, but I don’t. There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to save us—or admitting we can’t do it all ourselves.”
“Yeah . . . my pastor used to say that.”
“Your pastor’s right. Jerry never learned that part. Always thought he could fight the world himself—or at the very least outsmart it,” she says, focusing back on the hollow books that supposedly hold half of her husband’s ashes.
With her nodded permission, I lower them from the shelf, and it’s clear that all the volumes are glued together as one. Sure enough, there’s a small latch in back. With a flick, it opens and the spines of the books pop forward half an inch, like a barely opened drawer.
“You’re nervous,” Joanne Siegel says behind me.
But all I hear is Roosevelt’s voice buzzing in my head with theories of God’s most precious gift passing from Adam to Cain, from Mitchell Siegel to his son, and at the cherry-top of this surreal sundae, somehow, from my father to me. According to Roosevelt, when Cain repented, God gave him a mark, a sign, this Book of Truth that contained the secrets of immortality.
I don’t believe in magic. Or immortal gifts from God. But I do believe that there are some sons who will do anything to carry out their father’s final wishes. And protect their family.
I edge my fingertip into the crack and pull on the spines of the books, revealing a deep, tissue-lined compartment that holds two sheets of paper stuck together. I finger-tweeze them out, feeling how sticky they are. Of course. Jerry’s favorite. Wax paper.
Like the holder for the original comic book, the paper’s been melted and sealed around the edges, preserving whatever’s inside. I try my best to peer through it—there’s definitely writing of some kind—but it’s all mottled and brown, impossible to read. This isn’t another comic book. From the crumbled bits of sand and stone collected at the bottom, it’s something far older than that.
After tearing the corner of the wax paper, I poke my finger in and slide it like a letter opener down the right-hand side. My hands should be trembling. But they’re not. Whatever’s inside, I just want the answer.
A thin stream of sand pours down in a fine waterfall as my letter opener finger slides along the bottom edge of the wax seal. Inside is an ancient sheet of—it’s not paper. The way it’s yellowed and dried . . . as if it’s written on some kind of animal skin. But it’s not until I fold back the protective wax cover that I get my first good look.
My eyes narrow, then widen. Dean Martin continues his serenade.
Oh my wow.
It . . . it exists: the one and only chapter of the Book of Truth.
Behind me, Joanne says something. I don’t hear it. The only sound in the world is the slow-motion poomp-puuum of my own heartbeat.
Bits of the dried animal skin crack off as I touch it.
It’s not some cryptic message in Hebrew. Or Greek. Or some lost ancient tongue I can’t understand.
The Book of Truth is written in the one language the whole world speaks.
It’s a picture.
And it’s glorious.
At first it looks like an etching, but the way it’s framed at the corners—like a stamp . . . or a seal. The horn . . . this is the carving that was on the horn. Someone pressed it in ink and rolled it like a rubber stamp. Right onto the skin.
I study the lines, which are rough, almost primitive. The pale brown color . . . it’s dried blood. Ancient blood. But what makes my eyes well with tears is the picture itself: It’s rudimentary, with poor, crude dimensions—but there’s no mistaking the image of a young child sitting on his parent’s lap—his father’s lap—as the man whispers something in his ear.