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#3

"Legacies and Lunatics"

by David Marshall

 

Mother of Mercy Hospital, Blue Valley Nebraska

"Some people will do anything to avoid a fight," I teased. Deep inside, I was more worried than I let on. It was strange to see Pat in a hospital bed and even weirder seeing him wearing one of those gowns. Yes, those gowns! The monitor by his bed kept tabs on his vital signs and beeped whenever his heart rate or respiration dipped too low. Doing my best Dr. Mid-Nite, I watched the electrocardiograph at the bottom of the screen despite the fact I had no idea how to read it.

"Shiv playing dress-up in daddy's clothes? You call that a fight?" Pat asked.

It was good to hear some bite in Pat's reply. "So what happened?"

Pat raised the head of his bed to an upright position. "I climbed into the S.T.R.I.P.E unit and felt a dull pain in my neck and shoulder. I assumed it was from when our cage fell from around Shiv's dragon's neck and we hit the ground, so I brushed it off and climbed into the armor. I went through my usual checklist and was ready to fire up the propulsion systems when my chest tightened and I became short of breath. Luckily, Mike rushed into the workshop to remind me that he upgraded the rear visual sensors and found me."

"I kept waiting for him to take off and he never did," Mike cut in. "I asked if anything was wrong and he didn't respond so I opened the entry door on the back. He was out cold."

Pat nodded. "Saved my life is what he did."

"Sure did," Mom echoed. She put her arm around Mike's shoulders.

Mike shook his head. "I found him. The paramedics saved his life."

"Wait," I said. "Who got you out of the suit?"

Pat shrugged. "No idea. Mike?"

Mike bit his lower lip and sighed. "The paramedics. I'm sorry, Dad."

I saw that vein on Pat's forehead pop out. "Mike..."

"You, relax!" I ordered. "Your blood pressure's bottom number just jumped fifteen points. I thought you said you took him, mom."

"It's called the diastolic number, dear. And I called the paramedics," said Mom. "We were going to let Pat think I brought him to the hospital to keep him from getting upset. Secret identity be damned, Pat! I'm not going to let my husband die of a heart attack to satisfy his spandex fetish. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat!"

Pat took a couple of long, deliberate breaths. "I don't wear spandex. So our cover's blown?"

"It's not like we had much of one anyway," I replied. "Shiv knows us and so did Per Degaton a couple of years ago."

"Degaton could have gleaned that information from the future," Pat shot back.

"And don't forget Shiv used my name in front of practically the entire town when we fought her father, but it's cool. Jay ditched the alter ego bit years ago."

Pat wasn't convinced. "Jay also had the entire JSA backing him up."

"Hello!" I shot back. "So do I!"

"Then where are they?" Pat asked.

Ouch! Sore spot. If Pat only knew why I left the JSA, but I couldn't tell him the truth. "This arguing is getting us nowhere," said Mom. "Not to mention how bad it is for Pat." She was great at "steering conversation from the realm of negativity into the sphere of reason", as she called it. I blame it on the Psychology degree. If I had a dime for every time I'd heard her say that growing up, I'd be Bruce Wayne.

"You're right," Pat agreed. "Some changes are in order."

I wasn't sure if the silence was real or imagined, but since Pat brought up the subject of change, "Yeah, about that..."

"About what?" Pat asked.

"Change," I answered. "Isn't it a little early to throw Mike into the armor?"

"Now wait one damned minute!" Mike protested. "I pulled your ass out of the fire!"

"Oh please!" I huffed. "You could have gotten me killed out there!"

"Yeah?" Mike asked. "You had a fine head start at that on your own until I showed up!"

"You honestly don't get it! Do you?" I yelled. "I thought Pat was in the armor! If anything, you were in my way!"

A large, red-haired nurse poked her head into the room. "Is everything ok in here?"

Mom looked mortified. "I'm sorry. It's the children."

The children? God, how embarrassing! So we yelled, but children? I seethed but there was no need to make matters worse.

"Yes, ma'am," the nurse replied. "But if they're not mature enough to obey the rules of the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit they will have to leave."

Pat tried to take the heat off us. "It's ok, nurse. They're not bothering me."

The nurse glared. "Mr. Dugan, you aren't the only patient in the C.I.C.U. Everyone keep it down or we'll enforce a strict no visitors policy for Mr. Dugan. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mike replied.

The nurse left us alone once more.

When Pat spoke it was in a clear, concise tone. "I'm only going to say this once. Courtney, your brother is fully capable of taking my place and it's not like my intentions were ever a secret. I've wanted him to take over the armor ever since he came back into my life." "But Pat..." I protested.

"Stop interrupting," Mom warned.

"But Pat, nothing," Pat replied. "A few years ago you found Sylvester's stuff and you... What is the word I'm looking for?"

"Stole?" Mom reminded him.

Pat snapped his fingers as if he just remembered some long-forgotten secret and continued. "Stole! That's it! Thank you Barbara. You stole his things for yourself! That uniform represented my only connection in this world to the closest thing to a brother I've ever known. You don't know how difficult it was to watch you usurp his legacy! But despite my reservations and your initial, bungling attempts at heroics, I saw greatness in you and trusted you wouldn't disappoint me. I see that same greatness in my son."

Pat wasn't my biological father but he made me feel small like only a parent could.

"The change may be short term or it may be permanent. Either way, I ask that you respect my wishes on this," Pat demanded.

What else could I say? "Yes, sir."

"And Mike," said Pat. "You're have to work with Courtney and not against her. She's in charge!"

"In charge?" Mike asked incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me! I thought Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E were partners, fifty-fifty?"

"That's true when I'm in the armor," Pat replied. "But you haven't been doing this for half a century. Courtney is in charge or I decommission the suit. Understand?"

Mike closed his eyes as if weighing an exhaustive list of options then nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

The door to Pat's room opened and a gorgeous hunk of a doctor walked in. If I'd seen him a year before, my knees would have buckled and his sandy hair and blue eyes would've had me thinking thoughts good, little heroines weren't supposed to think. That was before.

"Mr. Dugan?" the doctor asked.

"I'm Dugan," Pat replied. He extended his right hand.

The good-looking young doctor shook Pat's hand and opened his chart. "I'm Dr. Moore. How are you feeling this evening?"

"I'm feeling a lot better," Pat replied. "When can I go home?"

Dr. Moore smiled and closed the chart. "Not so fast, sir. This is a hospital, not a fast food drive-thru. It takes three hours to process the paperwork alone."

I laughed politely at his joke. Of course I was the only one who did, which made me feel absolutely silly.

"How is he, doctor?" Mom asked.

"His EKG confirms he suffered a very mild heart attack, but otherwise your husband is in excellent health for a man of his age," Dr. Moore replied. "He's easily among the top one percent in his age group. We usually don't see this level of fitness outside the meta community."

"Then I can go home?" Pat asked.

"Pat!" Mom admonished. "Let the man talk."

"We're going to keep you overnight for observation," Dr. Moore replied. "If everything looks good in the morning we'll release you and schedule some tests to determine if there is a blockage."

"What kind of tests?" Mom asked.

"Standard procedure with heart attacks, Ma'am," Dr. Moore answered. "Whatever their severity. The initial test is a common stress test. If everything checks out, we can look at a treatment consisting of diet, medication, and cardiovascular exercise. If the stress test indicates a blockage may be present, we'll schedule a catheterization as a precaution."

"So I can go home in the morning?" Pat asked.

"As long as some candy-striper doesn't send you into remission," Mike joked.

Mom elbowed him in the ribs.

Dr. Moore laughed. "Boy's got a good sense of humor. But yes, Mr. Dugan, you can go home in the morning if you don't suffer a setback overnight. Any questions?"

My family and I eyed one another, waiting for someone to say something.

"No?" Dr. Moore asked. "Then I'll see you in the morning, sir."

Mom stopped him as he pulled the door open. "Thank you, Dr. Moore."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Dugan."

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Moore." I added, sounding far more freshman crush than I meant to.

Dr. Moore smiled and left our family alone.

"Yes, thank you Dr. Moore," Mike teased. "Perhaps if you tied a bed to your back next time?"

Ordinarily, I would have shot back at him or even hit him. Instead I choked back the tears welling up in my eyes. "I need to go."

Pat glared at Mike. "Courtney, are you ok?"

I forced a smile and dared my tears to fall. "I'm fine. It's just that... I promised the girls I would hang with them today and help them get moved in."

"You sure?" Mom asked.

I nodded. "I'm fine."

The Kramer Farm

"What if someone sees you?" I asked.

"Don't worry, Mary," Mr. Saunders replied. "I'm a ghost. People only see me if I want them to. It's one of the first tricks they teach you at ghost school."

"Ghost school?" I asked. "Really?"

Mr. Saunders enjoyed my naiveté. "Kidding!"

"But what about me?" I asked. "What will people think if they see me talking to thin air?"

Mr. Saunders chuckled. "Back in the old days we called it bats in the belfry."

You'd think it was bad enough that a dead cowboy handpicked me to carry on a legacy that involved handguns. But no, he had to be a smart-ass too!

"Exactly," I replied. "I'm shooting guns and talking to myself."

"Such is the high price of justice, Ms. Kramer," said Mr. Saunders. "Why do you think I wore a bandana over my face? Did you bring them?"

"Yes," I replied. I opened the case and retrieved one of the guns by its pearl handle and held it out for him.

He shook his head. "My hands still smelled of gunpowder when I died. You're the one who needs to practice. First rule - the gun is always loaded."

I was aghast! "You let me handle that gun so carelessly and it was loaded? What if it went off accidentally?"

"Indeed! What if?" Mr. Saunders asked. "Always assume it is."

"This is a safety lesson, right?" I asked.

Mr. Saunders nodded. "You're a fast learner, young lady. It'll serve you well."

"What's the second rule?" I asked.

"Never point the barrel at anything you don't intend to shoot," Mr. Saunders replied. "Assume that unless it comes from Krypton and wears an "S" on its chest, your target will be destroyed."

"I hate guns," I whined. "I've mentioned that already, right?"

"You hate the headlines they attract," said Mr. Saunders. "Do you hate cars because some varmints kill people while drinking and driving?"

He had a point. "No, but..."

Mr. Saunders cut me off. "Always be aware of your surroundings. A bullet can carry through your target and hit something it wasn't intend to strike. Hand in hand with this rule is to keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot. This ain't the movies, sweetheart. Forget everything you ever saw about old west cowboys walking around with their guns drawn and their fingers itching to pull the trigger. Relax your trigger finger along the gun's frame. Some folks curl their finger to be ready, but I don't recommend it. You can't misfire a gun if your finger ain't in position to pull the trigger. Besides you could trip and fall and if your finger's on the trigger, you might hurt yourself. Questions so far?"

"What was all that talk about the Spirit of the Gun? You said it would guide my aim," I asked.

"I am the Spirit of the Gun," Mr. Saunders replied. "I will guide your aim but I can't think for you in battle."

"So you're going to always be with me?" I imagined myself years down the road - married with two kids, a dog, and the ghost of an old cowboy no one could see but me.

Mr. Saunders laughed. "I've not been dead long enough to get my haunting license yet. Say, that's a play on words, ain't it? Haunting license, hunting license. I made a funny!"

"I think I understand," I half-lied. My mind was stuck on an old ghost spying on my every waking moment.

"Let's load the gun and take some practice shots," Mr. Saunders instructed.

He talked me through loading the gun. I vowed to one day write a manual for doing it with nervous, shaky hands. Once it was loaded, I learned to hold it properly and we discussed my stance.

"Now let's find a prime target," said Mr. Saunders. "What about that old crow on that fence over there?"

"That's it!" I protested and dropped the gun to my waist. "I told you I refuse to shoot a living thing!"

"Kidding again," said Mr. Saunders. "You've gotta learn to lighten up or the gun will weigh you down, Mary. I found some old bottles before we started and set them up on the fence posts that separate your family's farm from your neighbor's."

I was impressed. It was several football fields between where we were standing and the property line that separated Kramer from Stubin. "You can see that far? For real?"

"Can you really not see the bottles?" Mr. Saunders asked.

"Maybe" I fudged. At least I could see the fence posts and some tiny dots sitting on them.

I aimed, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. The blast deafened me. "Sweet Mother of God!" I dropped the guns and one of them went off. Luckily the bullet buried itself in the earth instead of something important - like me. "Mr. Saunders?"

My ethereal mentor was nowhere to be found. I sucked so bad I scared away a ghost!

"Great news!" said Mr. Saunders. "You hit the bottle in the middle!"

"But I dropped the guns and one went off," I argued.

"An unfortunate mistake in form that can be corrected," Mr. Saunders replied. "Along with closing your eyes."

"Mary! Are you ok?"

It was my dad! He came running from the house when he heard the gunfire. He was nearly on top of us before he yelled. Luckily Mr. Saunders had time to disappear again.

"I'm fine, Daddy!" I yelled. "Just practicing!"

Dad rushed to my side. "What the hell are you doing? You'll scare a body to death! Your poor mother... Are those guns?"

Mother of Mercy Hospital, Blue Valley Nebraska

"Thanks for staying with me, son." Dad wasn't a man of many words. He expected you to know things without saying them. Being a military school brat myself, it was no big deal. I knew the language of testosterone, but it sure was nice to hear the gratitude in his voice.

"No big deal," I lied. "I'm sure you'd rather have Barbara with you."

Dad smiled. "Yeah, but I'm stuck with you so I'll make the best of it."

Was my father trying to be funny? "Thanks."

Dad reached for an ESPN magazine lying on his night stand. He eyed the cover and shook his head. "The heavyweight division is a mess! This Bruiser Malone fella couldn't hang with Louis, Ali, or Grant."

"Or Holyfield in his prime either," I replied.

Dad let the open magazine fall to his lap and smiled. "I didn't know you watch boxing."

Bonding with the old man was cool, but I couldn't allow myself to pull the wool over his eyes. "Not really. . I scan the Sports Page for NASCAR news. From time to time, I'll see a boxing story or two."

"Oh," said Dad with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "At least you know who Holyfield is."

"And you don't know a thing about racing? Do you?" I asked.

Dad feigned shock. "Bite your tongue, boy! I built engines for Stan Sterling for a short while before I hooked up with Sylvester and Infinity. We raced every track from Daytona to Bristol ."

"You did?" I beamed. Holy crap! Stan Sterling was the man back in the day! "Why did you stop?"

"The travel," Dad replied. "It got to me after awhile. And I got into some trouble down in Georgia one night."

"What kind of trouble?" I asked.

"Got into a fight and hurt a few guys," Dad answered.

I laughed. "A woman involved?"

Dad shook his head. "No woman, but plenty of hooded robes and fiery crosses. There was a kid, James Thomas or J.T. for short. He was maybe nineteen or twenty and traveled with us doing odd jobs for Stan. He was an honest, hardworking kid who was grateful for a chance to make something of himself. NASCAR wasn't like it is today. The stars like Stan still ran the local dirt tracks. He called them the heart of racing. Anyway, Stan won that night and the crew went out to celebrate afterwards."

I was intrigued. "So what happened?"

"We found a little redneck bar on the outskirts of town. We'd been there for awhile when J.T. excused himself and slipped outside. We didn't know it at the time but someone goaded him into a fight and dared him to step outside. He never stood a chance. They were waiting on him. He was beaten and chained to a truck hitch then drug two miles. We found him doused in gasoline. Me and the boys flattened some pointy hoods."

"Wow!" I exclaimed. "I had no idea..."

"The fight made me think of Sylvester," Dad replied. "He hated racists too."

"You two are a tough act to follow," I said.

Dad smiled. "Sounds like you don't plan on giving up the armor."

I felt my cheeks turning red. "I didn't mean..."

Dad shushed me. "No need to apologize, son. You and Courtney will make a great team."

"Yeah, about that..."

"Listen to her, Mike. She's good - scary good," Dad replied.

"But she's a girl. It makes me feel dumb."

Dad nodded. "Did you know I'm the answer to a trivia question? Who was the only adult sidekick to a kid super hero? I always fancied us more like Sandman and Sandy , but I knew the truth. The Star-Spangled Kid and Stripesy. That's who we were."

"How did you learn to accept it?" I asked.

Dad smiled. "The first time I saved someone's life I realized it didn't matter what labels others stuck on us, as long as someone's loved one went home to their family at the end of the day. Trust me. You'll accept it."

It was my turn to smile. "Yeah, saving those kids was an awesome feeling!"

"I'm proud of you, son," Dad said. "Give them hell."

For the first time in my life, I held my father's hand. "Damn right I will."

Blue Valley, Nebraska, That Evening

I knocked again in case no one heard me over the music blaring inside and inspected the house while I waited. It was cute, but needed a little work. The shutters were due for painting or even a vinyl replacement. Ditto for the clapboard siding. Cracks dotted the sidewalk but it would hold a few years without heavy abuse. All in all, it was a cool bachelorette pad. It may have been a tiny bit smaller than my own family's home, but far more charming and less cookie-cutter. Pat always said older homes had more character. I had to agree.

They knew I was coming didn't they? Of course they did! They invited me over. I tried the doorknob and it turned easily in my hand. Small town living obviously agreed with them. I pushed the door open and poked my head in. "Hello? Anita? Greta? Cissie? It's me, Courtney!"

I yelled again, a little louder and hoped it would carry over the music. Their car was in the driveway so why was no one answering? I hated to enter unannounced, but they left me little choice. Maybe if I turned off the stereo? I found the remote on the coffee table and muted the system.

"Hey guys! I made it!" I yelled.

No one answered.

"Guys? Anyone there? Come on! This isn't funny!"

I made my way through the house and waited for them to jump out and surprise me at any time. The longer I searched, the more pronounced the sick feeling in my belly grew. I returned to the living room. The only thing out of place was a glass in the floor by the sofa. Of course one man's castle was another's pigsty. Who was I to say what was out of place?

I picked up the glass and headed to the kitchen to put it away. Then I saw them. "Oh my god!" The glass shattered against the hard linoleum.

The girls were unconscious on the kitchen floor. Jagged shards of glass from broken dish littered the room. Greta was sandwiched between two halves of the splintered kitchen table. Cissie was sprawled near the sink. Anita lay in a pool of blood in the center of the room. Whoever hit the girls took them unaware as they weren't even in costume.

I rushed to Greta because she was the closest and checked to make sure she was breathing. Thankfully she was still alive. I shook her gently. "Greta! Please wake up! Greta?"

"Who's there?" Cissie asked from behind me as she opened her eyes.

I turned my attention to her instead.

"Cissie?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Courtney? Is that you?" Cissie moaned.

I moved to her side. "Yeah, it's me. Who did this to you?"

Greta finally stirred as well. "Courtney? Did he get you too?"

"Did who get me?" I asked, trying to make some sense of what happened.

Cissie struggled to her feet and soaked a dish rag beneath a jet of cold water and tended to Anita. Thankfully the blood was coming from her nose.

I found one chair that wasn't broken and flipped it upright "Whoever is hurt the worst take a seat."

Cissie helped Anita to the chair and continued to make trips back and forth from the sink to wring out the bloody rag and douse Anita's nose.

"Oh my god!" said Anita when she finally stirred. She jumped up and ran through the house. "Mom! Dad!"

"I didn't know Anita's parents lived with you guys," I said. "I thought you were on your own."

"It's not as it looks," Greta answered.

"Oh god no!" Anita shrieked. "No!"

We ran down the hallway to a bedroom and found Anita on her knees by an empty crib. Tears stained her cheeks as she turned to us. "He took them! They're gone!"

Cissie and Greta rushed to comfort her. Anita fell into Greta's arms.

I felt like an outsider. I didn't know Anita was a mother. I tried my best not to judge her. After all, I didn't know her that well or her situation. She was old enough to make decisions on her own. It was none of my business if she did the nasty every now and then. Right? Hopefully it was with someone who loved her.

Cissie stroked her friend's hair. "We'll get them back, Anita. I promise."

"I don't mean to be insensitive," I said. "But I'm confused. Could someone fill me in? Where are your parents?"

Anita wiped her eyes and pointed to the empty crib. "He took them!"

I was even more confused. "Your parents... sleep in a crib?"

Anita nodded. "It's complicated."

"Obviously," I replied.

"Anita's parents were reincarnated as children," Greta explained. "Long story, but he took them."

I'd seen stranger things than someone raising their own parents. "Who took them?"

Anita looked up. "He called himself the - Fadeaway Man!"