Chapter 12: The Mysterious Milkman

By a/k/a Simon
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The funeral needed food. According to tradition, the people who had suffered the greatest degree of loss from a person’s passing where obligated to play host and provide a buffet of some kind to all those who showed up to profess their shared grief. Greta had forgotten about this responsibility until Abe Trafalgar reminded her while going over the details of the actual ceremony. Arrangements would have to be made with a caterer, or at the very least an assortment of deli meats and bread would have to be set up to appease the post-funerary guests. She called Shane, hoping that his incestuous connections with the people of Putnam could be of some service. In a rare display of usefulness, Shane admitted to knowing the owner of Canton Market, Adam Canton, son of the original owner, Miles Canton. Shane told Greta to go see Adam, drop his name, and he would service her every request. And, if he didn’t, Shane suggested she mention something about Canton Market building an expansion over wetlands five years ago. He assured her that the grocer would be more than compliant after that.

When Greta announced their destination, Eddie immediately saw this as a perfect opportunity to repair the damage he’d done by using up the rest of the milk. Megan remained silent for the most part, using the drive time to settle her composure and collect her thoughts following her outburst at the funeral home. She was grateful that Eddie would be off on his own, seeking out a carton of two percent, giving her a chance to right things with Greta. Her remarks had been the result of the overall experience, but she worried that her aunt might take things personally. She could see the amount of stress Greta was under and was doing her best to be the one family member not causing her more stress. At the same time, no matter how helpful Greta was being, Megan still found it hard to completely trust anyone in her family. She’d lived in exile for so long that just being around someone who shared her bloodline put her on high alert. It could very well be that her aunt was the one decent member of the Kroeger clan. But Megan wasn’t going to risk finding out that that wasn’t true.

The Canton Market parking lot was packed. It was a Saturday afternoon and everyone in town was stopping in to pick up bags of steak tips or a pound of hamburger for their grill. If they wanted more, they would have driven up to the highway and shopped in bulk at one of the warehouses. As it was, the weather was still decent enough to get in at least one more weekend in the backyard, eating hot dogs and sipping beer. There was no need to haul mass quantities of supplies home when all that was needed was some meat and a bag of rolls. Canton Market was reduced to a glorified convenience store. But the Canton family was old-time Putnam citizens, and that meant that their business survived through community nepotism where other markets their size would have long been crushed under the colossal boot heels of the mighty chain supermarkets.

Inside it was just as busy as the parking lot would lead one to believe. Every one of the thin aisles had at least five people nudging and sneaking by and between each other, ferreting out the items they were looking for. But despite the large crowd, it was quick business and the turn over of customers lasted only slightly longer than a short conversation while finding the right flavor of Ben & Jerry’s or choosing plain or ruffled potato chips.

On the way to the deli counter Greta was stopped three times by faces familiar to her, offering their condolences. The first was Henry Mason, who confronted them with his regrets at the stack of baskets by the front door. He had owned the gas station in the town square from the time it was a Mobil up to its current incarnation as a Shell, and had known Helen Kroeger since they partnered in History class their Sophomore year of high school to do a presentation on the Whiskey Rebellion. Mr. Mason was a long-winded sort with an extraordinary memory, nearly repeating the entire report on which they’d collaborated, adding new details about the event that he’d discovered over the years like it was intriguing information to share. Megan realized that he was probably just uncomfortable with the grim nature of the situation and compensated by babbling endlessly. Greta would later tell Megan that Henry Mason had never married and the rumor around town was that years of inhaling gas fumes had left him touched in the head.

At the end of the first aisle, near the bottles of ketchup, mustard, and other condiments, they were stopped by Nancy Remender, wife of Todd Remender, a recently elected new member to the Board of Selectmen. Nancy had never met the late Mrs. Kroeger, but like any good politician’s wife, she knew the faces of the important people in town and so, did her diplomatic duty to express her sorrow at the Kroeger family’s loss. Her delivery was ingratiating and glossed-over, possessing no real sentiment other than to ensure the continued success of her husband’s career. Megan saw through the ruse but managed to disguise her contempt. Greta was better at playing the game and kindly thanked Mrs. Remender for keeping the family in her thoughts and prayers.

Three feet from the deli counter itself, the last of the impediments took Greta’s hands in his own and tilted his head with the appropriate sad but supportive expression. This was Nelson Travis, a former PTA chairmen who had once organized a bake sale with Helen while Ryan was still in school. He recognized Megan after an introduction, having not seen her since she was a child, and offered his well wishes to her as well. Trying to connect on a casual level, but unfamiliar with the details of her life, Nelson sought common ground by asking Megan how her younger brother was doing. Megan’s answers to his questions were predictably short, ultimately explaining to him that she had been away for several years and wasn’t all that familiar with her brother’s life at the moment. It was a bit harsh, but her patience for friendly faces had worn thin by that point, and it was the best she could do. Mr. Travis chalked it up in his mind to the thread-bare nerves of someone under extreme stress and decided it best not to bother them any longer.

Finally, after fifteen minutes in the store, they made it to the deli counter and were able to get to the business at hand.

“I’ve got my mission,” Eddie announced, taking off to discover the milk aisle.

Greta asked at the deli counter for Adam Canton, who Shane had assured was working that day. The teenager behind the counter took off into the back to find his boss. Greta bent down to inspect the selection of meats. “Do people eat more roast beef, or more ham?” she pondered aloud, maintaining her gaze on the glass case.

Megan, half-aware of the question, answered, “I like turkey myself.”

“Yes, but turkey goes bad so quickly. And it gets that slimy layer of…slime on it after a couple days. If we’re going to have leftovers it would probably be better if it’s stuff we can use, stuff that won’t go bad on us.”

“I’m sorry,” Megan said, finding the phrase increasingly popular in her usage lately.

“Oh, that’s okay dear. We can still get you some turkey…”

“Not the turkey,” Megan corrected, her tone calling Greta away from the display of luncheon meat. She looked at her niece expectantly, knowing there was so much behind her apology and wondering how much of it was about to be revealed. “The funeral home. I’m sorry I blew up like that. You know, it’s just…I guess I just didn’t expect…” she trailed off, doing her best not to let emotion consume her again.

“You didn’t expect what?” Greta asked, wanting to take Megan’s hand, but sensing the restraint, knowing that such a display of affection might send her retreating back into herself.

“I didn’t expect her to be dead,” Megan confessed. “You called me and I was still so angry the whole ride up here. I spent the entire time working up this anger, getting it ready. I wanted that one last chance to tell her how badly she’d hurt me, how much what she did effected my entire life. All those hours, Eddie was sitting right next to me. I had every reason to vent some of my anger on him, after all the crap we’d been through, to have him just show up, expecting me to take him back. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to save it all. Every ounce of resentment and animosity, I wanted to store it up so that I could dump it all on her, finally get it all out. I don’t know if I was ready to put things behind us or what. Maybe I just wanted that one last chance to tell her how I felt. And then I got here…”

“You got here and she was already gone,” Greta finished for her. Megan nodded. “And now you don’t know what to do with all that anger you were building up. You’re like a balloon that was supposed to pop, but instead, you’re letting it all out in short bursts.”

“Exactly. And I’m not really sure I can control when they happen.”

“Not quite as satisfying as if you’d just had the chance to explode, is it?” Megan shook her head as Adam Canton came out from the back room wearing a white butcher’s apron and rubber gloves.

“What can I get you ladies?” he asked with an oblivious smile.


In the back corner of the Canton Market Eddie found the dairy case. He’d been up and down almost every aisle before he thought to look at the signs hanging from the ceiling, listing the contents of each section. Years of living like a bachelor, even when he was married hadn’t given him experience with your standard grocery store. Ordering take out was more his thing, his metabolism making him not so concerned with normal human things like a balanced diet. His body had been like a miniature reactor, able to convert pretty much anything, no matter how lacking in nutrition, into usable fuel. It was one of the many perks of being a superhero he missed.

The dairy case was open, releasing refrigerated air out into the aisle. Eddie got the shivers just turning the corner, let alone standing in front of the assortment of milk while attempting to make a decision.

He grabbed a half-gallon of whole milk and was reading the information when a man near him in the aisle turned to him. “You don’t want that one,” the stranger instructed.

“No?” Eddie asked, wondering what the big difference was.

“Whole milk is too heavy, too fattening. You should be drinking skim, preferably, or at the most one percent. It will keep you fit, something you’re going to have to start worrying about now.”

Eddie was struck by the slight oddness of his comment, but then figured the stranger for just some health nut, warning him that he wasn’t getting any younger. The man picked up a blue and white carton of one percent and handed it to Eddie. Holding both containers in his hands, the combined cold sent a visible chill through his body.

“Kind of chilly in this aisle,” the stranger observed. “You look like someone who’s more used to warmer places.”

“I’m visiting from DC,” Eddie informed him.

“Ah, the nation’s capital,” the man said knowingly. “I’ve spent some time there myself. Gets hot down there in the summer. Hot like walking on the sun. Like the…what’s the word…you know, the outer part. The corona.”

That caught Eddie’s attention. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The stranger had gone out of his way to use the word ‘corona’ specifically. For the first time, Eddie took a good look at the man. He was hovering around seventy, though he still had a full head of hair, remnants of red streaked randomly through it. His skin was wrinkled and sagging, eyes sunken deep into his skull, shadows cast heavily from a prominent brow and a hooked nose. For someone his age he was in the shape you would expect, thin and diminished, but with a bit of a gut, a constant tremor at his extremities. He was wearing a T-shirt with a brown cardigan sweater over it, corduroy pants and soft leather loafers. Everything about him suggested a typical old man. Except that he had mentioned Eddie’s superhero codename, and he’d been very obvious about it.

The man realized Eddie was examining him, sizing him up, determining his threat level and the best course of action. He allowed the former hero this opportunity, as he pretended to scan the shelves of milk. Without turning to look in his direction, the man asked, “Enjoying Putnam, Eddie?”

Eddie decided to try the ignorance defense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My name’s not…”

“You’re name is Eddie Sanchez,” the mystery man interrupted. “Formerly the superhero known as Corona. Your powers were nuclear based. You received them after an unfortunate accident that took the lives of your parents, Morris and Lillian Sanchez, at the time, top scientists in their fields. You were raised and trained by Biotron International, under the direction of Doctor Friedkin, a hack in my opinion. Just recently you lost your powers in a battle with a sentient black hole named Abyss. Do I need to go on?”

Looking around, Eddie noticed for the first time that the aisle was completely deserted. Clearly the man, whoever he was, had the goods on him. He was nervous to admit it, but he was even more nervous that someone might come along and overhear their conversation.

The man stood with a presence and power that defied his declining physical condition. He owned the space around him, defiant to the rigors and ravages of nature. From his attitude, and from Eddie’s experience, the man could only be a scientist. Only a person who was sure they had mastered nature could carry themselves with such conviction, such arrogance in the face of obvious decrepitude.

“Who are you?” Eddie asked, cautiously, his tone conveying a subtle warning that, though his powers may be gone, he was still no one to be trifled with.

“It’s not important who I am,” the man said. “The important question is this, Eddie,” he turned to face him, his eyes piercing and confident. “What would you say if I told you I can get you your powers back?”

To say that Eddie was immediately skeptical would be a severe understatement. Just days before he’d been hooked up to state-of-the-art machinery at the top facility in this, or any other country, the data examined by the cream of the scientific crop. They’d all come to two conclusions: his powers were gone and they were never coming back. And now this stranger, who wouldn’t even identify himself, was saying differently?

“I don’t have time for this,” Eddie said, turning to walk away.

“Wait,” the man grabbed Eddie’s upper arm, his grip far greater than would be expected of a man his age or size. “Listen to me. I can get you your powers back. Trust me.”

“Why should I trust you? I don’t even know your name.”

The man suddenly became paranoid, looking around to make sure no one was listening or watching. He reached into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out a business card. Handing it to Eddie he said, “My name is Roland Balthasar. It’s doubtful you’ve ever heard of me. But believe me when I tell you, your powers don’t have to be gone forever.” He looked over his shoulder, sensing someone approaching. He suddenly became a lot more secretive, hunching over, trying to hide his head behind the collar of his sweater. “I’ve told you my offer. The clock is ticking. You have a decision to make. When you’ve made it, contact me.”

Megan and Greta came around the corner at the far end of the aisle. The man calling himself Roland Balthasar gave Eddie a quick look, trying in that split second to assure him of the truth of his proposal, then ducked quickly around the near corner and was gone. As his wife and her aunt approached, Eddie looked down at the business card cupped in his hand. He instantly committed the phone number to memory before stuffing it into his pants pocket.

“Who was that?” Greta asked once they reached Eddie.

“Oh, just some guy helping me pick out milk,” he covered. “Is one percent alright?” he asked, holding up the carton in his hand. Greta told him it would be just fine and they headed to the check out line. Standing there, waiting to buy the carton of milk, Eddie could feel the business card in his pocket and he wondered.

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