imagined a loser who only had to whip off his glasses and step into a
phone booth to morph into a paragon of manliness, a world where the geek got the girl at the end. The public, reeling from the Depression, embraced Superman, who took them away from a bleak reality.
Daniel's first comic book had been about leaving, too. It had grown from a Yup'ik story about a hunter who stupidly set out alone and speared a walrus. The hunter knew he couldn't haul it in by himself, yet if he didn't let go of the rope it would drag him down and kill him. The hunter decided to release the line, but his hands had frozen into position and he was pulled underwater. Instead of drowning, though, he sank to the bottom of the sea and became a walrus himself.
Daniel started to draw the comic book at recess one day, after he was kept inside because he'd punched a kid who teased him for his blue eyes. He'd absently picked up a pencil and drew a figure that started in the sea - all flippers and tusks - and evolved toward shore to standing position, gradually developing the arms and legs and face of a man. He drew and he drew, watching his hero break away from his village in a way that Daniel couldn't himself. He couldn't seem to escape these days, either. In the wake of Trixie's rape, Daniel had gotten precious little drawing done. At this point, the only way he would make his deadline was if he stayed awake 24/7 and managed to magically add a few hours to each day. He hadn't called Marvel, though, to break the bad news. Explaining why he had been otherwise occupied would somehow make what had happened to Trixie more concrete.
When the phone rang at seven-thirty A.M., Daniel grabbed for it. Trixie was not going to school today, and Daniel wanted her to stay blessedly unconscious for as long as humanly possible. “You got something to tell me?” the voice on the other end demanded. Daniel broke out in a cold sweat. “Paulie,” he said. “What's up?”
Paulie Goldman was Daniel's longtime editor, and a legend. Known for his ever-present cigar and red bow tie, he'd been a crony of all the great men in the business: Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Steve Ditko. These days, he'd be just as likely to be found grabbing a Reuben at his favorite corner deli with Alan Moore, Todd McFarlane, or Neil Caiman.
It had been Paulie who'd jumped all over Daniel's idea to bring a graphic novel back to former comic book fans who were now adults, and to let Daniel not only pencil the art but also write a story line that might appeal to them. He'd gotten Marvel on board, although they were leery at first. Like all publishers, trying something that hadn't been done before was considered anathema unless you succeeded, in which case you were called revolutionary. But given the marketing that Marvel had put behind the Wildclaw series, to miss a deadline would be catastrophic.
“Have you happened to read the latest Lying in the Gutters?” Paulie asked.
He was referring to an online trade gossip column by Rich Johnston. The title was a double entendre - gutters were the spaces between panels, the structure that made a comic illustration a comic illustration. Johnston encouraged “gutterati” to send him scoop to post in his articles, and “guttersnipes” to spread the word across the Internet. With the phone crooked against his shoulder, Daniel pulled up the Web page on his computer and scanned the headlines.
A Story That's Not About Marvel Editorial, he read. The DC Purchase of Flying Pig Comics That Isn't Going to Happen.
You Saw It Here Second: In The Weeds, the new title from Crawl
^^ace, will be drawn by Evan Hohman . . . but the pages are already popping up on eBay.
And on the very bottom: Wildclaw Sheathed?
Daniel leaned toward the screen. I understand that Daniel Stone, Kid of the Moment, has drawn . . . count 'em, folks . . . ZERO pages toward his next Tenth Circle deadline. Was the hype really just a hoax? What good's a great series when there's nothing new to read?
“This is bullshit,” Daniel said. “I've been drawing.”
“How much?”
“It'll get done, Paulie.”
“How much?”
“Eight pages.”
“Eight pages? You've got to get me twenty-two by the end of the week if it's going to get inked on time.”
“I'll ink it myself if I have to.”
“Yeah? Will you run it off on Xerox machines and take it to the distributor too? For God's sake, Danny. This isn't high school. The dog isn't allowed to eat your homework.” He paused, then said,
“I know you're a last-minute guy, but this isn't like you. What's going on?”
How do you explain to a man who'd made a life out of fantasy that sometimes reality came crashing down? In comics, heroes escaped and villains lost and not even death was permanent. “The series,” Daniel said quietly. “It's taking a little bit of a turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“The storyline. It's becoming more . . . family oriented.” Paulie was silent for a moment, thinking this over. “Family's good,” he mused. “You mean a plot that would bring parents and their kids together?”
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I hope so,” he said.
* * *
Trixie was systematically removing all traces of Jason from her bedroom. She tossed into the trash the first note he'd passed her in class. The goofy reel of pictures they'd taken at a booth at Old Orchard Beach. The green felt blotter on her desk, where she could feel the impression of his name, after writing it dozens of times on paper.
It was when she went to throw the blotter out in the recycle bin that she saw the newspaper, the page open to the letter her parents had not wanted her to see.
“If the town of Bethel was to pass judgment on this case,” Trixie read, “Jason Underhill would surely be found innocent.” What they hadn't said, in that awful editorial letter, was that this
town had already tried and judged the wrong person. She ran upstairs again, to her computer, and connected to the Internet. She looked up the Web page for the Portland Press Herald and started to type a rebuttal letter.
To Whom It May Concern, Trixie wrote.
I know it is the policy of your paper to keep victims who are minors anonymous. But I'm one of those minors, and instead of having people guess, I want them to know my name.
She thought of a dozen other girls who might read this, girls who had been too scared to tell anyone what had happened to them. Or the dozen girls who had told someone and who could read this and find the courage they needed to get through one more day of the hell that was high school. She thought of the boys who would think twice before taking something that wasn't theirs. My name is Trixie Stone, she typed.
She watched the letters quiver on the page; she read the spaces between the words - all of which reminded her that she was a coward. Then she hit the delete button.
* * *
The phone rang just as Laura walked into the kitchen. By the time she'd picked up, so had Daniel on an upstairs connection.
“I'm looking for Laura Stone,” the caller said, and she dropped the glass she was holding into the sink.
“I've got it,” Laura said. She waited for Daniel to hang up.
“I miss you,” Seth replied.
She didn't answer right away; she couldn't. What if she hadn't picked up the phone? Would Seth have started chatting up Daniel?
Would he have introduced himself? “Do not ever call here again,” Laura whispered.
“I need to talk to you.”
Her heart was beating so hard she could barely hear her own voice. “I can't.”
“Please. Laura. It's important.”
Daniel walked into the kitchen and poured himself some water.
“Please take me off your call list,” Laura said, and she hung up. In retrospect Laura realized that she'd dated Daniel through osmosis, taking a little of his recklessness and making it part of herself. She broke up with Walter and began sleeping through classes. She started smoking. She peppered Daniel with questions about the past he wouldn't discuss. She learned how her own body could be an instrument, how Daniel could play a symphony over her skin.