Daddy backed his red pickup into the driveway of the Ann Street house. I opened the passenger door, careful to unload my crutches first, then let myself out gently. My balance seemed much improved and my leg felt better, although something told me if I tried to walk I’d still be rather lame.
It was clear my perceptions had skipped forward in time once again. Judging from how the leaves on the trees and shrubs were turning, we were in the latter half of September now, at least.
“Doctors say you’ll probably always have a bit of a limp, Sissy,” said Daddy, who got out on his side and pulled my duffel bag out of the back of the pickup. “It’ll probably take you longer to get between classes. But if I know you, that’s not going to stop you.”
He set my duffel on the picnic table for me and went back to the truck to put on some work gloves as I hobbled around to his side. “What are you doing, Daddy?”
“I thought I’d take away the last of all that rotting firewood,” he said. “I cleared away most of it these past few weeks; there were old wasps’ nests and fungus and stuff that fused it all together. That’s why it was almost a solid wall when it fell on you, instead of loose logs. Not that loose logs would have felt much better.”
Daddy proceeded to toss fused chunks of firewood into the back of the pickup and I hobbled back along the side of the garage.
“All this junk is good for now is the St. Mary’s annual bonfire,” said Daddy. “It’s not fit for burning in a fireplace anymore.”
“You’ve been coming out here these past few weeks, clearing all the firewood away?” I asked.
“It’s taken a few loads,” said Daddy, clapping the dust from his gloved hands. “I left you a stack of the freshest wood Trent brought, in case you want a nice fire in the fireplace some cold winter evening. Already frost on the pumpkin …”
“You screwing Pamela Jointly when you come here?”
“What?” said Daddy. My remark caught him completely off guard.
“Cause if you are, and if you hurt Mama …” I raised my right crutch at him. “I’m going to beat the crap out of you, with this.”
Daddy turned white. Now, considering my slight build, my lack of Megapowers, and my mobility issues, this should not have sent the fear of God into him. It was the truth that did that.
“I mean it,” I said, and I did. “I know what happened between you two: the Dearborn motel, the afternoon rendezvouses …” Of course, I was referring to what had already transpired in my home reality, but may or may not have begun in this one.
“Honest, Sissy, I wouldn’t think of it,” Daddy sputtered. Clearly, he had been thinking of it, if not more.
“You lost Mama, you lost Avie, and you lost me,” I said angrily. “All you had left was an empty house that you had to put up for sale. And us with no place to have Christmas dinner.” I was exaggerating, because last time I checked, Daddy still had the house. “Is that what you want to happen all over again?”
I knew I wasn’t making literal sense to Daddy. But at the same time, I knew I was getting through to him emotionally.
“I would never hurt Alice, or you, or Avie,” said Daddy. “You’ve got to believe me, Sissy.”
“I hope you really mean it,” I said. I set my crutch down and walked toward the back fence.
Daddy tossed the remaining bad firewood into the pickup and stacked the remaining good logs nice and neat. “Say, what are you doing back there, Sissy?”
I was peeking around the back of the garage, to the five feet of empty space between it and the back fence. I didn’t bother trying to explain to Daddy that I was looking for a flying saucer that—in my home reality—might or might not have been parked back there. Of course, it would have been hidden by a cloaking device, rendering it invisible to the human eye; and since I didn’t have my Ms. Megaton Man visor, I wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway.
“Did the Partyers from Mars show up on Halloween or Thanksgiving?” I muttered to myself. “Was it 1982, or 1981? If so, they’re a year late. Although I don’t suppose it matters.”
I was beginning to realize I was losing track of where I was in my own life. I was reliving my recent past in an alternate reality, but by this point events had deviated so much from my memories, I could no longer usefully map the timelines together.
Daddy watched me uncertainly as I hobbled up to the patio.
“Sissy, are you going to be able to get up and down the stairs of this house all right?”
“I’m going to have to, Daddy,” I said confidently, slinging the strap of the duffel over my shoulder, made extra heavy because of my books. “I can’t miss any more classes and do homework remotely; I have to live in Ann Arbor if I want to salvage this semester.”
As I opened the screen door, I stopped and turned. Daddy must have thought I was going to apologize to him and make up.
Instead, all I said was, “I’m pretty sure it was 1981. They’re a year late.”
***
After Daddy drove off, I was left to hobble up the stairs and get reacclimated to my room. I didn’t want any help from anyone—not Pammy, Stella, or Preston, my housemates in this reality. Nor did I want the help of Trent, who was used to waiting on my biological father, Clyde, and might have been inclined to so wait on me.
Instead, I fended for myself, and over the next few days, it got easier. I learned quickly I could get by on one crutch, and that mostly for balance, as I got around campus. My hip and thigh were still sore, and I wasn’t quite ready to put my full weight on my right leg just yet. But I was almost better. It appeared, however, I would always walk with a limp.
By the time Halloween approached, I wasn’t even using the crutch at home. I could cling to the rail of the stairs and get around the short distances between bedroom to bathroom upstairs and kitchen to dining room to living room downstairs without too much trouble.
One late October afternoon, I sat on the front porch swing, reading about the early Greek philosophers. My schoolwork, thankfully, was made a great deal easier since I was retaking almost exactly the same courses I had taken before in my own reality, but Intro to Philosophy was new. It was still relatively mild weather, and as I swung gently in the sunny autumn breeze, I saw Preston returning from work at the bookstore, a little brown box clasp in the hand not holding his cigarette.
“This came for you at the store,” he said, as he stepped up to the porch. “I figured I’d save you the trip.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied as he handed it to me. “But it was prepaid.”
I took the small box and slit the packing tape with my thumbnail. “I think I know what it is.”
Inside the brown, corrugated box was a shiny white-paper box with a lid; inside was another box of glossy cherry wood with a glass window on top. I flipped open the lid.
“A class ring,” said Preston. “That makes sense; we sell all that graduation stuff, too, downstairs with the textbooks, only not so much this time of year. But you’re not graduating at the end of this semester—not now. It’ll be spring of ’83 when you’re done, not December of ’82. Who’s it from?”
“I have a pretty good idea,” I said.
I looked the band; there was an inscription in script lettering:
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Clarissa James
America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero
On the outside was a blue opal surrounded by the words “Arbor State University.” On one side were the letters, “BA.” There was a little carving of an Abyssinian wolf on one side and the Alberti Memorial Tower, our campus landmark, on the other.
I slipped it onto my finger; it fit perfectly. It was in every way identical to the one my biological father, the Silver Age Megaton Man, had given me in my native reality.
“Whoa,” said Preston. “They really got the date wrong. See? It says ‘1984.’ Somebody must have made a serious mistake when they filled out the order. Here, I can take it back if you want and order you the right one.”
“No, it’s absolutely perfect,” I said.
Just then, Trent’s green VW pulled into the driveway. He left the car running as he got out and jogged up onto the porch.
“I tried calling,” he said gravely.
“Sorry,” I said. “I heard the phone ringing from out on here, but I didn’t feel like breaking my neck running into the house to try and catch it before it stopped. What’s up?”
“It’s Clyde,” said Trent, gravely. “I just admitted him to the Arbor State Medical Center.”
***
My father was comfortable in his hospital room, much like the one I’d recovered in, although there was nothing they could do for him—not any more. His cirrhosis of the liver, due to decades of heavy drinking, had simply progressed too far. He had refused to be placed on a transplant list, and now it was too late. The only option was to place him in hospice; Trent and Preston, now getting along, were working out the details at the payphone down the hall.
“Did you get the ring?” my father asked me.
“Yes, it’s perfect,” I said. “I didn’t realize you were so sick. But they’re going to find you someplace comfortable.”
“Tell them not to bother,” he said. “I’ve been outrunning the devil for too long. By rights I should have died on that landing strip in 1963, as much good as I’ve done anybody since. I’ve wasted my life feeling sorry for myself, resentful …. I lost my power in this world, ’cause I did not use it.” He clasped my hand, the one with the ring on it, weakly. “Don’t make that mistake, Sissy.”
“I won’t, Dad,” I said.
“That’s what they call you, isn’t it?” said Clyde. “I heard Trent …”
“Yeah, Sissy.”
“I’m glad I lived long enough to meet you, anyway—to really meet you, all grown up and about to graduate college.”
My eyes were getting wet. “I called Alice; she’s at work now, but she said she would drive out later …”
“I won’t be around,” said Clyde. “Don’t let it bother you. Not everything can be reconciled nice and neatly, except maybe in those comic books. Life is too mismatched and uneven, sometimes … we’re only human, Sissy. Try to remember that.”
“I will, Dad,” I said.
“And try to go easy on your other father,” said Clyde. “He’s a good man, but just a man.”
“Okay.”
“Did you read those tracts I gave you?”
“No,” I confessed. “I’ve been reading Greek philosophy and other schoolwork. But I will, I promise you.”
“Jesus has a plan for you, Sissy,” he said. “Jesus … or whatever your name for the Universe happens to be.”
In the waiting room, Trent was going down a list as Preston made calls on the payphone.
“There’s one in Romulus,” said Trent, “that’s not too far …”
“Don’t bother,” I told them. “Clyde’s gone.”
***
After Clyde Pflug was cremated, we held a short memorial service for him behind the farmhouse that had belonged to Trent’s parents—just me, Trent, Avie, Preston, Stella, and Simon. And Duchess, of course. Trent ran a hundred-foot extension cord out from the house so that Clyde could hear his preachers blaring on the radio one last time as we spread his ashes over the vast property behind the farmhouse. Although the land no longer belonged to the Pflugs, no one supposed the present owners—developers who’d probably gone bankrupt waiting for Detroit’s ever-expanding suburban sprawl to reach Milford—would mind.
After we were done, Trent unplugged the radio, dug a hole with a shovel, and buried it under a white-painted wooden cross. But not the extension cord, which he rolled up and threw in the VW.
“What will you do with the place now?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” replied Trent. “I’ll have a lot more time and energy to fix things up now, that’s for sure, without having to look after Clyde. Maybe turn it into a place Stella won’t mind visiting every once in a while with Simon.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
We watched as Stella chased after Simon, who was chasing after one of the chickens that had gotten out of the coop.
“Look at the kid—he loves those hens.”
“You’re getting around pretty good now on that thing,” said Trent, referring to my right leg. “Is it my imagination, or are you getting taller?”
“Must be my permanent limp that makes me seem statuesque,” I said.
Avie and Preston hauled up a couple good-sized pumpkins back to the cars. “We’re stealing these,” said Preston.
“Commandeering them,” corrected Avie.
“Go ahead,” said Trent. “I have enough for one last load for the farmer’s market this Saturday—that’s as many as I can get into my VW. That’s the last day before Halloween. After that, they’re not going to be much use lying in the field.”
***
Back on Ann Street, Trent and I decorated the front porch and shrubs with fake cobwebs and plastic bats and spiders. I ran the wires for my stereo speakers through the living room window and set them up on the porch swing to play scary music.
I walked through the house, down the hallway, to the kitchen. There, Stella was cooking spaghetti, and Simon, in his high chair, was making a mess of an early sampling of noodles and meatball sauce. Duchess was lapping up anything that fell to the floor, which seemed like everything Simon wasn’t smearing on his face.
“Worms!” I said. “We’re having worms for dinner!”
Simon cackled with delight. “Worms!” he cried.
I went out to the back patio just as Preston finished carving the last pumpkin on the picnic table. “You’re so artistic,” I said.
“You better believe it,” said Preston. “Best freakin’ Jack-o-Lanterns in the Ann Street Historic District this year.”
I helped him take them around to the front porch and light candles in them just as Avie pulled into the driveway in her Pacer. Grandma Seedy was riding in the passenger seat.
Trent had just taken the top screen out of the screen door, from which we would be dispensing candy, as Avie and Seedy marched up the steps of the porch. They both had big shopping bags. Inside, Duchess was barking like a maniac.
“Duchess, be still,” said Trent, as he opened the door for them.
“What’s this?” asked Stella as she met them in the foyer.
“Your Halloween costumes,” said Seedy, matter-of-factly. “Better try them on, in case I need to make any alterations before tonight.”
Stella was surprised. “You made me a costume?” she said.
“She made me one, too,” said Avie. “But wait until you see Clarissa’s.”
Trent watched the spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove, the garlic bread baking in the oven, and Simon, as all the girls and Preston went upstairs. In my room, I put on my Ms. Megaton Man uniform in front of the mirror on the back of my door. The outfit was so close to the real thing, it couldn’t have been more authentic if it had been made of genuine Quarantinium-Quelluminum.
“This is perfect,” I said to myself, pulling my yellow gloves on, first over my left hand and then over my right—the one with the Arbor State class ring my father Clyde had given to me. I snapped on the plastic yellow visor and felt almost like the real Ms. Megaton Man. It crossed my mind that Dr. Mercedith Robeson-James must have had a subconscious, telepathic link with her counterpart in my reality—how else could she have gotten it so right?
When I came out in the hallway, I met Stella, who had donned a skin-tight suit of dusty blue, with dark blue gloves and boots, and a white “Q” on her ample bosom.
“You look fantastic, Clarissa,” she said, although she had no idea who I was supposed to be for Halloween. “Who am I supposed to be?” she asked.
“The See-Thru Girl,” I replied.
“Who’s that? And more importantly, what are my powers?”
“You can turn naked with but a thought.”
Stella wasn’t quite sure how to take that. But before she could respond, Avie and Seedy, who’d been in Simon’s nursery, emerged—Avie in a purple and green suit with a tail with a puppy-dog mask, Seedy with a tape measure around her neck. Duchess, sensing something, came up the steps to join us.
“The Wondrous Warhound,” I said.
“You mean like the Warren Woodward University mascot?” asked Avie.
“You are going there once you graduate from high school,” said Seedy. “Besides, you get along with this dog so well …”
Preston emerged from his room, having ditched his black polo and jeans for a dress shirt, tie, slacks, and spiffy shoes.
“How do you like my Halloween costume?” he asked.
“Preston, you look normal for a change,” I said. “That is so you.”
***
Needless to say, the Megahero costumes were so uncannily accurate, and fit so wonderfully, Grandma Seedy didn’t need to alter a thing. She’d even fashioned a set of infant-sized goggles, red cape, and buttons for Simon to wear, based on my description of the scene that had taken place in Stella’s hospital room shortly after his birth, albeit in another reality. This was when he flew around in his diaper until the nurses could drag him down.
Although I was able to hobble down the stairs without my crutch, I still had a persistent limp that would probably never improve. In the dining room, we all wore bibs to keep the spaghetti sauce off ourselves while Simon did the opposite, continuing to play with his cut-up spaghetti noodles or “worms” on the tray of his high chair dressed as Megaton Baby. The way he was sloshing it around, I was glad he didn’t possess Megapowers.
At the same time, I was sad to be reminded that with my persistent limp, neither did.
As we finished, dusk began to fall on Ann Street. Duchess started barking in the living room. “Sounds like our first Trick-or-Treaters are already arriving on the porch,” said Preston. “That’s a job for you Megaheroines; let me clear away these dishes.”
As Preston and Trent rose to clear away the plates, however, a glaring light shone from the porch through the living room window and into the dining room.
“Someone must have a very strong flashlight,” said Stella, covering her eyes. “But what do they need it for, with all the street lights?”
Whatever it was, it seemed to be floating, like a preternatural firefly. It must have flown through open top half of the screen door; as it moved through the living room, Duchess’s barks grew louder as she followed it toward us into the dining room.
We all squinted up at a small, white sphere by no bigger than a billiard ball, radiating curious, colorful little symbols and geometric shapes. It hovered right over the dining room table.
“What in the heck is it?” said Preston, shielding his eyes.
“I’ve only seen it in comic books,” said Avie, doing the same. “The ones Trent gave to Clarissa.”
“I’ve seen it before,” said Seedy. “But it’s been more than forty years …”
“Don’t look now,” I said. “But that’s got to be the Cosmic Cue-Ball.”