"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
It was just before noon and Eddie was watching television in the living room when Megan came downstairs. She went into the kitchen, filled a glass with water and came into the room where Eddie was sitting. She took a seat in the recliner next to the couch.
Eddie felt a sudden rush of anxiety wondering what she was about to say. Bad dreams, no powers, impotence, there were very few happy things on his mind and he really didn’t feel like hearing any of them spoken aloud.
“I heard you get up this morning,” he said, hoping to head her off before she could bring up anything he didn’t want. “But you weren’t in the kitchen when I came down.”
Megan hesitated. “I went for a walk in the woods. Needed to get away from things for a while, clear my head.”
“Did it work?”
She looked out the window instead of answering. Something was bothering her and she was mustering the courage to put it into words. “Eddie, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“If this is about last night, I’d really rather not.” There was a forcefulness in his voice that had been absent since they’d reconnected.
“No, it’s not that. But now that you mention it, I should probably explain what I was doing then. I don’t want you to think that, because of what happened, that everything is all right, that we’re back together again.”
“Nothing happened,” he said, sounding bitter and shameful. “So there’s nothing to worry about. I just assumed you needed a distraction.”
“I hope you don’t think it’s that simple, that you’re just a distraction to me.”
“I really don’t know what I am to you, or what I can be. Obviously losing the ability to shoot beams out of my hands isn’t the only power I’ve lost.”
“Eddie…”
“Anyway,” he cut her off, ending the subject. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Well…” Megan began, but before she could say anymore the front door opened and Greta walked into the room.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it,” she announced, carrying a large bundle of paper in her hands. “Sunday Globe is here. Anyone need a distraction?”
Eddie peered at Megan out of the corner of his eye, a look acknowledging the coincidence of phrasing. He leaned forward on the couch. “I’ll take the tech section and the comics.”
Greta flipped through the mound of newsprint and pulled out the two sections, handing them over to him. He opened the technology section and began reading an article on stem cell theory. Megan waved off the offer and picked up the television remote, flipping through the History Channel, Discovery Channel, and the movie channels looking for something to watch.
Ten minutes later, Greta was looking through the bundle of advertisements when she stopped on a flier that caught her attention. “Roland Balthasar’s Center for Rejuvenation,” she read aloud. The name caught both Eddie’s and Megan’s attention and they suddenly perked up, then played calm when they worried the other might notice their reaction. Greta was reading the rest of the flier to herself, scanning down the page in silence. Once she finished she said, “Sounds like some kind of new spa. I’ve never heard of this address before. Lord knows I could use some rejuvenation with everything that’s been happening lately.”
They both desperately wanted to see the flier for themselves. Eddie wondering if this was how Agent Cannon was sending him information, Megan wondering if the flier could shed some light on the phone number she’d called earlier.
“A subsidiary of Cannon Solutions?” Greta read. “Sounds like some kind of big multi-national. Probably a franchise spa. They never do a good job at those places, all about volume.” She stuffed the flier back into the center of the paper and quickly forgot about it. Megan and Eddie were sweating.
The grandfather clock in the dining room struck noon with a loud, resonant bong. Megan had gone upstairs to get her wallet, about to leave for her lunch with Wanda Schenkman. Eddie was finishing up the comics when Greta told him she was going to put the paper on the kitchen table, in case anyone else wanted to read it. She came back a few minutes later with a sandwich and made herself comfortable on the couch.
Eddie saw an opportunity and he took it. “I’m just going to put the comics back with the rest of the paper,” he said, getting up and walking to the kitchen. Once in the room he was clear of any watching eyes and started to flip feverishly through the endless pages. He’d seen Greta stuff the flier somewhere in the middle of the stack, but Sunday papers were so notoriously big that it was like sifting through a half dozen daily papers to find the one thing he was after.
“Hey, Eddie,” Megan said, rounding the corner and walking into the room, just as Eddie stopped digging and stood upright, trying not to look suspicious. He didn’t do a very good job; Megan could see it in his expression. “I’ve got lunch plans with that woman at the cemetery. If anyone asks, can you tell them I went to make sure the plot was being opened today?”
“No problem,” he assured her.
Just then, Shane’s Lincoln Navigator pulled into the driveway. Hazel and Shane stepped out of the SUV and came up the steps into the house. Shane looked around and hobbled into the kitchen to find Eddie. “Hey, big man, can you help me out here. I need you to bring Dad up the steps.” Murphy Kroeger was in a wheelchair and Shane’s crippled knee made it impossible for him to lift the chair up the three steps and into the house.
“You didn’t tell me that Dad was coming home,” Megan said, abrasively.
“You didn’t ask,” Shane told her. “Anyway, what do you care?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. Shane crooked his head, a gesture that told Eddie to come along. The two men left the house, Hazel and Greta standing by the door.
Megan looked out the window as the tailgate of the vehicle opened and Eddie took the wheelchair from the back. It was then that she realized that she was alone in the kitchen, with the newspaper and a few moments to herself. She turned to the pile and quickly began flipping through. There wasn’t much time, and she felt sure that if she left for her lunch without finding the flier, she would never see it again.
Newsprint rubbed off the pages and stained her fingertips, unfortunate evidence of what she was doing. But that’s what they put pockets in pants for, to conceal your hands from suspicious eyes.
By a miracle she found the flier with enough time to read it.
Roland Balthasar’s Center for Rejuventation Feeling Weak? Feeling Helpless? Feeling Powerless? Roland Balthasar’s Center for Rejuvenation Can Change All That! Get Your Energy Back! Feel Like You Can Fly Again! Be The Person You Used To Be! Satisfaction Guaranteed!
This was followed by address information. Like Greta, she didn’t recognize the street name, though the flier claimed the Center was located in Putnam. Her immediate thought was that it was probably a bogus address, or maybe a secret location only for superheroes. It had to be about superheroes, the choice of words were far too obvious knowing what she knew already. The whole flier was a coded message, and she couldn’t be completely sure which lines were true and which were simply window dressing. Whoever this guy Balthasar was, it was clear that he could give Eddie his powers back. Who Cannon Solutions was, she didn’t have a clue. Maybe that didn’t even matter. Roland Balthasar was who was important.
Megan folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into her back pocket just as Eddie pushed her father through the front door.
It was a bittersweet moment seeing her father again after so long. The Parkinson’s had taken its toll; not just on his mind but his body as well. The wheelchair had a restraint, like a seatbelt, that held him upright, though he still noticeably hunched over. He looked around, drifting back and forth from confusion to recognition, remembering one moment the house that he had lived in so long, then forgetting it the next and asking where he was.
“Good to see you, Murph,” Greta said, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re looking pretty good.” His face was sagging and sallow, with liver spots blotting a corner of his forehead. The nursing home had kept his hair trimmed short, thin strands of white pulled over the top to conceal his bald scalp. On his hands every vein was harshly outlined, bruises here and there from occasional IV insertions. It was early September, he was wearing long pants and a heavy sweater, but he still shivered. The tremors were not because he was cold; they were because his body couldn’t stop shaking.
“Dad,” Megan said, approaching. He looked up and stared at her with distant brown eyes.
“Helen?” he asked, in his mind picturing his wife.
“No Dad,” Megan corrected gently. “It’s me, Megan. Your daughter.”
Murphy looked around the room, making eye contact with Greta, Shane, and Hazel. “Megan?” he said, confused. “Megan’s gone. Megan’s dead.”
“I’m not dead, Dad. I’m right here.” She looked at Shane, the slight smirk on his face. “Who told you I was dead?”
“We told him you were gone,” Shane said, indignantly. “He kept asking about you. What were we supposed to tell him? Guess he just jumped to the conclusion that you’d died.”
Megan scowled at her brother, but opted to avoid a confrontation. “Dad, I’m not dead. I just went away for a little while. Do you understand?”
Murphy shrugged, the closest to understanding she could hope for. Then his attention drifted to Eddie. He lifted a quaking hand and pointed at him.
“This is Eddie,” Greta informed him. “Megan’s husband.”
Murphy looked at Greta as she spoke, then to Eddie. “The superhero,” he said. No one corrected him.
“We should let him rest up,” Hazel suggested, hoping to take the focus away from Megan and her husband. “It’s going to be a busy couple of days.”
They wheeled Murphy into the living room and Eddie helped him out of the chair and onto the couch. Hazel turned the television on and Murphy’s attention went right to whatever show was on at that moment.
Megan looked at her watch. “I have to get going,” she told the group.
“Where to?” Shane asked.
“The cemetery called. They need me to fill out some more forms about the plot.” It sounded like effort, and she knew Shane wouldn’t protest her assuming the responsibility. They quickly ignored her in favor of the television and Megan left.
Once Eddie heard her car drive away he went back to the kitchen to resume his search. He spent almost a half an hour foraging through the pages until his hands were black, but he couldn’t find the flier. It had disappeared.
