A story.
A father telling his child a story.
My brain turns into the skid, searching for traction. At first I assume it’s Adam, whispering to Abel . . . to Cain . . . it’s gotta be one of his sons. My eyes scan it again, inspecting each ragged line for clues. The way the father leans in close . . . the way the boy dips his head downward, like he’s relishing every detail. I think of Bible stories from when I was young—of Noah and his quest to save God’s creatures. I think of Jerry Siegel, alone in his bedroom, staring at his ceiling. And of course, I think of my father and all the secrets and stories I missed. So much harm comes into this world when the wrong thing is said. But that’s nothing compared to the pain from what goes unsaid.
The image blurs from my tears, but with an eyeblink, they’re gone. And I see father and son and story. Clear as can be.
Roosevelt . . . Roosevelt was right. It is a birthright—a mark—a sign—the ultimate remembrance—a “book” that Adam created to pass all earthly knowledge. The instructions are right there:
Tell your story.
That’s the secret of immortality. The one true way to live forever.
“So it’s one of Mitchell’s old sketches, right? Something he did for Jerry maybe back in Lithuania?” Joanne calls out behind me.
I blink more tears from my eyes and feel the smile that’s overtaken my face, and all I can think about is Ellis and the Thules. Their theories were so wrong. But when they called it magic . . .
They were absolutely right.
“Yeah, it’s just one of Mitchell’s old sketches,” I say, sliding the brittle parchment back into its protective cover, which I tuck back into its hollow hiding spot behind Jerry’s greatest creations.
“Jerry always hoped it would go into a Superman museum—y’know, let his dad live on and all. But Cleveland barely seems to acknowledge that Jerry and Joe even existed. I mean, those boys created Superman, for God’s sake. But you know how it is . . . some dreams linger for years.”
“And some last forever,” I tell her, returning the fake books to the shelf.
“So that’s it? You just came to see the sketch? No Superman questions? No were-you-really-the-model-for-Lois-Lane?”
“I got what I needed, ma’am, thank you,” I tell her. “By the way, these are for you,” I add as I hand her the four original comic strips that we pulled from Jerry’s wall.
She fans out all four panels on the glass table in front of her, then stares at them with the kind of look that elderly women save for their wedding photos.
“I can’t pay you for these,” she says, her voice quivering.
“Your husband already did,” I say, heading for the door. I know they’re worth a ton. I don’t care. Everything eventually has to make its way home again.
“Wait!”
She thanks me with a sweet peck on the cheek. I got a kiss from Lois Lane. Then Joanne Siegel waves good-bye, and the door closes behind me.
I head down the breezeway, the father and son image still fixed in my mind.
“What’s with the happy face?” a familiar voice calls out.
I turn just in time to see Naomi sitting on the bottom step of the open stairwell. There’s a bandage still on her arm.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “C’mon, Rambo, war’s over.”
“I can’t help myself. We always get our man.”
“Naomi, my deal with your bosses—to nail Roosevelt, to ID Ellis—we’re done. Finished. So don’t take this the wrong way, but coming this far? Sometimes you just gotta let things go.”
“Says the man who couldn’t stop chasing his dad.”
It’s a slight push, but I see that smirk in her eyes.
“Look, Cal, I just wanted to say . . . no hard feelings, okay?”
I know her better than that. “You flew all this way just to say thanks?”
“I didn’t say thanks. I said no hard feelings.”
“Naomi, tell me why you’re really here.”
She bites at her bottom lip, then finally looks up, standing from the steps. “You flew across the country with barely seven hours’ notice. The animal horn is still missing. I was worried you were coming here to meet up with Ellis.”
“How do you know I wasn’t?”
She motions to her phone. “I just got the call. They found Ellis’s body. In Michigan.”
I nod but don’t reply.
“And that weird gun he had that I wrecked at the library? With the hemlock? They matched it to what was in Timothy’s blood. Oh, and we also found a twenty-thousand-dollar payment in Timothy’s bank account. From a fake name they think was Ellis.”
She kicks at the concrete. We all have our own secret identities.
“Y’know, I still think your father—I don’t care what kinda rosy picture you painted in his plea deal—I still think he got into this for the wrong reason.”
I don’t argue with her. But she doesn’t understand.
“Don’t think I don’t understand,” she adds. “My son? He was an orphan, too.”
“Naomi, please spare me the rah-rah.”
“I’m just saying, if his parents came back, I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to find out who they really are. It’s not a weakness, Cal. I mean, most people don’t really want to know their parents. They just want to know themselves.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It will when you think about it,” she promises. “I’m a mother. We’re not wrong.”
I can’t help but grin. I head up the covered walkway toward the car. But Naomi doesn’t follow.
“So whatever happened with the Book of Lies . . . or Truth . . . or whatever you named it?” she calls out. “Y’ever figure out what the story was with those old comic strips from Jerry’s wall?”
I spin around and see her staring at Joanne Siegel’s closed door.
“No. Not really,” I tell her.
She stays locked on the door.
“Yeah . . . me either,” she finally says, following in back of me and leaving Joanne Siegel behind.
I nod a thank-you. She pretends she doesn’t notice.
As we reach the end of the breezeway, the sun bakes us from overhead.
“Just tell me one last thing,” she adds. “You really traveled three thousand miles just to see Jerry Siegel’s widow?”
“Yeah. I did.” I turn to Naomi. “Though I thought you didn’t know who I was meeting with?”
This time, she’s the one who’s silent. But the smile on her face says it all.
“By the way, about your son . . .” I start. “Y’ever tell him what you do?”
“With what? With work?”
“With anything. Does he know what your job is? What you fight for?”
“He knows I have a gun. That’s enough to impress him.”
I shake my head. “No. You need to tell him. Tell him your stories.”
For a moment, she makes a face, loading up the quick comeback.
But it never comes.
“I will,” she says, brushing her dyed brown hair from her face.
We both cross the small grass patch that leads to the cul-de-sac. “So how do you explain to your boss that the animal horn is still out there, and you’re coming home empty-handed?” I ask.
“Empty-handed? I got a nibble on Ellis’s old phone records. There’s a judge in Michigan I’m gonna go say hello to,” she says. “And you know judges just hate wearing those PlastiCuffs,” she adds, already starting to wave good-bye. “Just remember, though, Caclass="underline" You only lose what you cling to.”
“That’s nice. That Native American?”
“Buddhist,” she calls back, ducking into her white rental car.
Her tires howl, she takes off, and I’m left standing in the empty cul-de-sac as the wind shoves my white hair back, revealing my face.