Chapter 3
~§~
“Hola, señor Sam!”
The greeting followed him as he made his way down the washboard road, every dark face calling out a hello with the addition of a wide smile. Clark lifted a hand in friendly salute. After a month, he was almost able to greet each person by name.
“Sam” had caught on immediately. The natives of San Pablo found the common name far easier to use that Superman. For his part, Clark didn’t mind. It actually helped him remember that in San Pablo, he wasn’t Clark Kent but rather Superman, despite the fact that he wore normal clothes and walked most places rather than flew.
Besides, it also meant they no longer referred to him as gringo loco, except on occasion when he’d do something particularly peculiar. Like the time after the first big rain, when he’d waded into the middle of the small river flowing past San Pablo so that he could wash his red boots of the thick mud caked nearly all the way to their tops. Since then, he’d acquired a pair of waterproof boots, an absolute necessity when the rain turned roads and paths to a dark, viscous muck.
But that particular day, the sun shown warmly on his back, allowing him to forgo the boots. He now owned his own pair of Tevas, having learned first hand that the open-strap sport sandals proved extremely comfortable and surprisingly durable in the mild climate.
As he made his way to the day’s work site, he passed by rows of wooden molds packed tightly with the precise mixture of clay, sand, water and straw to make adobe bricks that wouldn’t crack or crumble. Each row was marked, the exact number of days the bricks had been curing in the shade of the banana trees carefully accounted for.
Clark had quickly learned what generations of experience had already taught the villagers of San Pablo. Adobe bricks required a good ten days to cure. No amount of heat-vision or speed-drying could change that. In fact, any forced drying made the bricks too brittle and prone to crumble. He’d found it humbling to learn that despite his powers, there were still many things that Mother Nature held firmly in her grasp and refused to allow to be improved.
So Superman, the world’s strongest, fastest being, had set himself to learning the fine art of brick laying. And after four weeks, he now moved about the grounds comfortably, taking up the tools he’d learned to wield if not expertly, at least with a modicum of skill. The six other men working along side him gave him hearty nods and wide grins, their acceptance of “Sam” complete and well earned over the past weeks.
He made quick work of stacking bricks onto the wall he was building, closely scrutinized by the men who happened by the site and felt perfectly at ease pointing out flaws or potential problems with his work. He took their criticism seriously, removing poorly placed bricks when necessary in order to make the walls sturdy and straight.
Their input hadn’t always been so welcome, and as he worked, placing layer upon layer with careful precision, he thought back over those first few days. They’d been incredibly hard, the clean-up effort not so much physically taxing as mentally draining. Each pile of crumbled adobe represented a family’s home, a life’s worth of belongings destroyed.
The rubble had been diligently sorted before being removed. Large chunks of stone and bricks were carefully set aside to be recycled in new buildings or to repair those suffering less severe damage. While the men picked through the ruins, the women rummaged through as well, extracting personal possessions that retained usefulness despite their dusty condition. Clothing, beautifully woven baskets, the few precious family heirlooms, and more mundane items such as pots and pans were carried away to be cleaned and put to good use once again.
And what was left after every useful item had been culled from the destruction was dumped into the deep ravine a quarter of a mile beyond San Pablo’s western edge. Wagon load after wagon load of crumbled adobe was carted away, and slowly the damage of the earthquake was cleared to make room for a fresh start.
The whole process certainly stood as a metaphor for what Clark felt he had gone through, albeit with less success. Nothing much of value had been scavenged from the wreckage of his own life. But at least for a little while, he’d been afforded a chance to make a fresh start.
He wasn’t sure if he found it an absolute relief or amazingly depressing that once his decision had been made to stick around for a while, it was a simple matter of making it so. With the destruction of the Daily Planet, so much of his life had been wiped away that not much was left for cleaning up. A phone call and the price of a few air mail stamps, he’d neatly sewn up the loose ends of Clark Kent’s life in Metropolis.
From a phone kiosk in Silvia, he’d called his parents.
“Mom?”
“Clark?” His mother’s voice went from worry right into reprimand mode. “Honey, I was starting to get worried about you!”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly.
“I saw about that earthquake in Colombia on the news, but I though for sure you’d be back by now. I left a couple of messages at your apartment.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I haven’t been home yet,” he explained.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, her worry for her son shifting to the unfortunate victims of the earthquake. “Is it that bad?”
“No, I just got sidetracked a bit.”
“Oh, well that’s good. And anyway, we’ll see you on Sunday – ”
“Actually, that’s why I called,” he interrupted, steeling himself for her reaction. “I don’t think I’m going to make it on Sunday. I’m going to stick around here for a while.”
“Where?” she asked, and less than a second later, exclaimed, “In Colombia?”
“Yeah.”
“Clark, that’s such a dangerous place...”
He rolled his eyes. “Mom.”
“I know. I know.” Her chuckle over her own irrelevant concern made him smile. “But I’m still your mother, and I worry you know.”
A sharp hiss of static distorted the line for a second, and afraid that his connection might end, Clark got down to business. “Listen, I’ve sent Perry and Jimmy and Jack your phone number. Told them that if they need to reach me they should just call you.”
“Perry and Jimmy?” She paused a moment, the significance of that comment sinking in. “Clark, how long are you planning to be away?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted “A week. Maybe a few.”
“Oh no,” she groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start living out of that old suitcase again?”
“Mom, I’m not roaming around. This isn’t like the days before the Planet.” He rushed to assure her, knowing how happy his parents had been when he’d finally decided to stay put in Metropolis after his years of wandering. “I’m staying in a small village. In a real...house...not some seedy hotel.”
It was sort of true, he mused. He’d call his shack dilapidated but not seedy.
“What about Lois?”
He paused, just long enough to let the wave of pain subside. “What about her?”
“Does she know how to reach you?”
“I’m not really sure why Lois would need to reach me,” he stated firmly, the pain making way for the anger that always seemed to follow close on its heels. “She made her feelings pretty clear. As far as I’m concerned, she’s Lex Luthor’s problem now.”
“Clark,” his mother admonished, “Lois is your friend...”
“Was, Mom. Lois was my friend,” he clarified. “I don’t really want to hear about her wedding plans or where she and Luthor plan to live. And since we don’t work together any more, we don’t have that much in common anyway.”
She didn’t say anything, and he could imagine her disapproving frown. He knew he sounded petulant and selfish, but for once he needed to look after his own heart for a while. Besides he had nothing to say to Lois. Not any more.
“Well, you can still come home, can’t you?” Martha asked.
Clark thought of Gillian’s jibe. That it was easy to stick around when you could always pop home for a shower or a hot meal. Between wanting to prove her wrong and needing to isolate himself from anything he might inadvertently hear about the upcoming Luthor nuptials, he found himself shaking his head.
“I don’t think I’ll be home for a while. Unless you and Dad need me, of course. It’s just a lot easier this way.”
“Oh, Clark,” Martha started, and Clark could hear the sympathy in her voice.
“Listen, can I talk to Dad?” he asked, before she could launch into a lecture about needing to be with family. He really didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but for the moment, his mind was made up.
There was a long pause before she agreed. “Sure. Honey, you take care of yourself, OK?”
He promised her he would, and after an exchanged “I love you,” waited until his dad’s voice came on the line.
“Hey, Dad.”
“So, son, what’s this I’m hearing about you not coming home?” Jonathan Kent asked.
“I need some time away. Before I decide what I want to do next. I’m going to stay here and help out for a while,” he explained again, knowing that after they hung up, his parents would analyze everything he’d told each of them, cross checking notes and deciding if they needed to panic over their son’s wayward tendencies.
“What about Metropolis?” his father asked. “Don’t you think they’re going to miss Superman?”
Clark had given that some thought and hadn’t been able to completely evade the guilt in abandoning his adopted city. Still, he didn’t plan to be gone forever, so he shoved it aside, giving his father all of the rationalizations he’d given himself.
“I’ve sent a letter to the Metropolis Star. From Superman, just saying that he’s been called away on some urgent business. After a year, I figure I’m entitled to a vacation. Besides, Metropolis managed to stand for a couple hundred years before I showed up. I imagine it’ll be there when I get back.”
“I suppose,” his father said noncommittally.
“Listen, I don’t have easy access to a phone, so I don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me. Here’s the number of the Red Cross headquarters in Popayán. They’ll know how to reach me if it’s an emergency.”
He gave his father the appropriate phone number and the address for good measure. During his travels, there had often been times when he’d been unreachable for several weeks on end, so he didn’t worry too much about the lack of contact. The Kents relied on the “no news is good news” philosophy, so unless a true emergency cropped up, his remoteness shouldn’t pose a problem.
“Clark, do you know what you’re doing?” Jonathan asked, and Clark thought he detected a note of concern in his father’s voice.
“I’m not sure, Dad,” he admitted with a sigh. “I just know that right now, staying here makes about as much sense as anything else in my life. At least here I can be of some use instead of moping around waiting for Lois’s wedding."
Then, feeling the need to lighten the mood a bit, Clark pushed aside his maudlin thoughts and forced a brightness into his voice. "Besides, I’m learning a new trade. The fine art of bricklaying. Did you know that adobe bricks take ten days to cure and no amount of super-heating can speed it up?”
“What?” his father exclaimed with a booming laugh. “The boy who practically had to be tied down to do chores around the farm is now working construction?”
Clark laughed. “Pretty much! It’s hard though. A lot of the stuff I can do isn’t much good around here. It’s pretty humbling, but it’s also kind of nice. I feel almost normal.”
“Clark, you are normal,” his father reminded him.
He thought a moment, understanding for the first time the appeal of staying in this tiny, remote village where no one had ever heard of Superman. “Well, to these people I am, anyway.”
~§~
But being normal had its down side, Clark had come to find out. Especially when he steadfastly determined to tough it out no matter how bad things seemed.
The first two weeks had been difficult at best, miserable at their worst. Trying to communicate with the locals proved hard despite his fluency in Spanish. They used a dialect that contained much of the native Indian tongues of the region. For nearly a full week, they seemed almost afraid of him despite the fact that the Diablo cape lay folded neatly in the trunk in his room. And the children still kept a clear berth as he wandered about the town.
Also frustrating was his inability to really use his powers to their fullest extent. Yes, his strength made the removal of debris a fairly easy task, but he was limited by the narrow, twisting road and thick vegetation covering the ravine. He couldn’t just fly in with a wagon load and dump it. Much like the rest of the men, he could do not much more than help load the wagons then assist the horses as they made their slow journey back and forth to the ravine. And like everyone else, he had to simply wait for the adobe bricks to cure in their own due time.
Several times he’d thought of forgetting his promise to Gillian and heading back to Metropolis. He hadn’t seen much of her while the majority of the clean-up had occurred, her own work attending to injuries keeping her tucked inside the temporary clinic set up in one of the few buildings that could be made stable with minimal repair. Sometimes she would pass by the work site to speak with Jeff, lifting her eyebrows in surprise when she’d glance at Clark, as if she couldn’t believe he was still there. That look was what caused him to stagger home at the end of each day rather than take off straight into the sky.
Jeff Phillips, on the other hand, had proven indispensable in showing Clark the ways of village life. After he had gotten over the shock of learning that Superman himself was going to help in the recovery of San Pablo, Jeff had nearly tripped over himself to accommodate their celebrity guest.
As they worked side by side, Clark learned that Jeff was the product of a marriage between a Colombian school teacher from Cartagena and an American DEA agent. His family had left Colombia when he was very young, and he grew up in the United States. After attending law school, he’d wanted to return to his mother’s native home and try to assist the impoverished farmers who often found themselves victims caught between Colombia’s drug cartels and its government.
But after years of frustration, he’d abandon the system, deciding he could do more good if he actually rolled up his sleeves and went out among those he most wanted to help. He’d joined the Peace Corps, refusing to leave when the US government pulled the program out of Colombia. Instead he remained in San Pablo teaching at the school and doing whatever else the village required of him, often acting as liaison between the people and the government officials in Popayán.
Clark instantly liked the sincere, easy-going man. Although supremely well-learned, he certainly didn’t hold himself above the uneducated folks in San Pablo. Not even the most menial task was beneath him, and Clark noticed that nearly everyone in the village looked to Jeff for assistance and wished to please him in return.
In fact, Clark was sure that it was Jeff who arranged for the daily visits by the women of San Pablo, all bearing large platters of food. Where they managed to cook it he never figured out, but it seemed they were on a mission to be sure that he didn’t starve.
Even as his days became a bit easier, Clark’s nights remained as torturous as they had been in Metropolis. Tossing and turning on the narrow pallet, his head unsupported by a pillow, he found it nearly impossible to find rest despite the hard work of the day.
Once he slipped into a fitful sleep, images of Lois and Lex Luthor as he had last seen them together floated through his dreams. Lois’s agreement to marry the villain, her warm reception of the kiss Luthor had given her upon her acceptance. And as if he watched it all for the first time, he could feel the agony of his shattering heart through the veil of unconsciousness, the pain so real and sharp that it pulled him awake
Even worse were the dreams where Lois declared her love to him, vowing that she would love him even if he were an ordinary man, only to turn against him when she learned that her hero was none other than Clark Kent. Her fists pounded against his chest as he tried to hold her, her words of love becoming shouts of hatred. The only difference now was that sometimes she shouted at him in Spanish.
It had been after one such fitful night, somewhere around his fifth or sixth day in San Pablo, that he’d hit his lowest point and had considered abandoning the place, promise to Gillian be damned. He was tired. He was frustrated. But mostly, he was sick of feeling incompetent.
He’d taken to purifying his water, not so much because he worried for his own health, but if someone were to actually visit his shack, he needed to have clean drinking water. Heating the water to boil for fifteen minutes wasn’t always convenient, so he determined it would be a good idea to have on hand some of the Halazone tablets Gillian had mentioned.
Rubbing his stiff neck with a harsh scowl, he headed toward her shack to fetch a supply.
Her house stood down the hill from the flattened clinic. Made of wood, it had survived the earthquake relatively unscathed and indeed looked quite a bit more sturdy than Clark’s. In addition to the vertical planks that lined the interior, horizontal boards encircled the entire structure, offering a sense of solidness that Clark’s shack lacked. While his looked as if a strong breeze might blow it over, hers had a permanence to it, only one step removed from an actual adobe house that spelled a long term stay.
As he approached, a young boy darted out the door and ran toward the main street. Clark recognized him as the same kid who’d fetched the water that very first day.
Gillian was shaking her head, her hands akimbo on her hips as she surveyed the room. “That boy. He’s going to be the death of me. Or my house. I think it was cleaner before he showed up. Come on in.”
The puppy Luke scampered over to Clark to give his hand a friendly lick while Clark took in the room with a cynical frown, his general bad mood and lack of sleep casting his view of pretty much everything in a negative light. It looked clean enough to him.
“Bit...imperialistic, don’t you think?” he noted bitingly, slightly disgusted that she’d take advantage of a kid by making him clean her house. “Having locals clean your room. Fetch your water.”
She fixed him with a hard stare. “I pay Antonio to do this to my house.” Her arms made a broad sweep of a poorly made bed and piles of dust scattered across the stone floor. “And then I pay his sister, Alicia, to come in and undo it. They make more money cleaning for me for a half an hour once a week than they would if they dropped out of school to pick coffee beans all day. So I don’t quite see it as imperialistic.”
Firmly embarrassed by both his misunderstanding and his blatant rudeness, Clark shifted his gaze away from her pointed glare and made a show of inspecting her house. Despite the shabby job Antonio had done, it actually looked quite inviting.
Larger than his own shack, it still consisted of but one room minus the posters and the gaps and peep-hole knots. The walls had been painted, so instead of weathered gray, they were white giving the entire space a clean, open feel. A braided rag-rug in a riot of colors covered a healthy portion of the stone floor. Printed curtains hung at the windows, all of which had screens free of any tears or holes, their obvious patches evidence of the care taken to keep them in good repair.
Adding to the entire sense of permanence, Gillian’s home contained real furniture, albeit pieces that had a very hand-me-down feel. Instead of a pallet, she possessed a genuine full-sized bed tucked into the far corner. Covered with the same native-style wool blanket as his own pallet, he noted wryly that she had pillows. And not just one, but two. Mosquito netting cascaded from the beams above the bed, providing backup protection for those pests the screens failed to keep out.
A low shelving unit against one wall contained both paperbacks and hardback books stacked haphazardly as if she had never gotten around to actually putting them away. On top of the shelf sat a shortwave radio, and angled near it was a battered recliner that looked far too nefarious to actually sit in. A dresser leaned against another wall, a jar of flowers sitting atop it lending both fragrance and bright colors to the room.
Like Clark, she possessed a table, but her elevated status afforded her four chairs instead of his mere two. And she had two lamps, both with lampshades. Truly a sign of luxury.
Most intriguing of all was what appeared to be a disemboweled motorcycle of some sort resting in the corner. Spread over a tattered rag that looked as if it might once have been a tee shirt were springs and gears and other parts unknown. The amputated wheels leaned against the wall, and the bike’s frame rested on its kickstand like some kind of skeleton hanging in a physician’s office.
“What’s that?” he asked, hoping that if he acted as if he hadn’t done it, she would ignore his rudeness of moments earlier.
She followed the line of his gaze. “A motorbike.”
“Bet it’s kind of hard to ride like that.”
“I’m cleaning it.”
“Cleaning it?” He snorted. “Looks like you killed it.”
“Hardly. She’ll be purring like a kitten soon enough.” When he continued to look at her skeptically, she shrugged. “I just got a little sidetracked with, you know, stuff.”
“You’re going to put that thing back together?”
“Yep.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head slightly, giving him a broad grin. “Let me guess, you’re a big time Harley biker who can’t believe that a little girl like me might actually know something about motorcycles?”
“Hey, I’m not saying anything,” he said quickly. “That just looks like an awful lot of parts.”
“It’s amazing what you’ll pick up once you leave Grosse Pointe, Michigan,” she said with a laugh. “If you stick around long enough, I may even give you a ride.”
He nearly choked on his laughter, the thought of riding the twisting roads of the Andes on a motorbike that currently lay in about a thousand pieces a hard concept to imagine. “I think I’ll stick with flying.”
“Now who’s challenging who?” she asked. But he noticed a distinct twinkle in her gray eyes.
Pulling himself up to his full height, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I tell you what, if you ever get that thing to run again, I’ll let you give me a ride on it. I have a feeling San Pablo will have a few skyscrapers by then.”
She laughed. “OK, it’s a deal.”
He grasped the hand she extended, giving it a firm shake to seal the promise. For a long minute they stood there, looking at each other expectantly.
“Did you need something?” she asked finally. “I mean, I love to have company, but I’m sure you didn’t just drop in to discuss motorcycle repair.”
“Um, yes,” he said, his mind coming back to the reason for his visit. “You mentioned some Halazone tablets. I was wondering if I could have a few.”
“Oh, sure.” She moved to a mounted cupboard in her small kitchenette, calling over her shoulder as she fetched the tablets. “Decided to heed my warning, huh? I’m telling you, I’ve never had them, but I’ve seen the results. You don’t want to mess with those tropical parasites and worms.”
While she rummaged for the tablets, he moved across the living area to a desk where a dusty CD player sat surrounded by stacks of CDs. Absently, he shifted through a pile, finding quite an eclectic mix. Van Morrison. Garth Brooks. Prince’s Purple Rain. Two framed photos smiled out at the world, one of an older couple he guessed must be Gillian’s parents. The other showed a teenage Gillian standing arms linked with a teenage boy and two older men. She wore a cheerleader’s uniform, and he lifted the picture, trying to imagine what would bring a girl like her to this remote part of the world.
“I’m the only girl.”
“What?” he said with a flush, a bit embarrassed to be caught snooping.
“I’m the only girl in the Brooks family. Those are my brothers.” She indicated the picture.
“They teach you about motorbikes?” Clark asked, placing the picture back on the desk.
She laughed. “No. I think between the three of them they might have been able to figure out where to put the gas. They’re what I’d call intellectual types. Here’s the tablets.”
"Thanks." He accepted the tablets that she handed to him, then shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Um, I guess I’d better get back to work.”
She nodded and gave him a smile. “Ok, see ya then. Stop on by any time.”
Shaking his head, he pocketed the tablets and headed for the work site. She certainly was an odd mix. He just couldn’t determine what she thought of him. Nor exactly what he thought of her.
Enough adobe bricks had been cured that building had started on the destroyed home and cantina of a woman named Rosita. Since Rosita didn’t have a husband and relied on the income from the cantina to feed herself and her two children, it had been deemed an important priority.
The debris had been cleared to reveal a cement slab on which the adobe walls were to be built. Clark eyed the stack of pale bricks, thinking that surely it couldn’t bee too difficult of a job. He imagined that by the end of the day, they’d have all four walls standing since he could speed the process along. Grabbing a brick in each hand, he turned to the man named José, indicating that he was ready to start.
After many exaggerated gestures and a few rows of demonstration, José backed away, motioning for Clark to give it a try. Setting his mind determinedly to proving himself competent at something, he carefully but quickly stacked row after row of bricks, making sure to put just the right amount of adhesive mud between each layer. The morning passed quickly, and by mid afternoon, he stood back to admire the head-high wall he’d constructed.
But as the other men stopped to examine his work, Clark noticed that the wall seem to waver back and forth, the sway picking up intensity until, with an ear-splitting crash, the whole thing flopped away from him as if he’d placed his hands against it and shoved. An entire day of work now lay in ruin.
When the dust settled, the loud riotous tumble of falling adobe made way for silence. For an extended minute, everyone stared at the pile of broken bricks that had almost become a wall, the horror on their faces turning into one of amusement.
Clark turned on his heel and strode directly to his shack with the sounds of laughter ringing behind him.
The wooden door ricocheted back open after he slammed it shut. He looked around in distaste at the dingy shack, the gray walls and faded posters that were long overdue to be tossed into the garbage can.
“Don’t even have a blasted pillow,” he muttered angrily. “What I would give for a decent shower. Or a blasted slice of pizza.”
He turned to see Gillian, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the door frame. A bemused smile twitched on her lips.
“What’s the problem, flyboy? Hard work getting to you?” she asked cheerfully.
Clark scowled, in too foul of a mood to take her bait. He really wanted to be left alone. Or better yet, to fly away from this place and just forget about it. If he never saw another adobe brick, it would be too soon.
Releasing a breath, Gillian ignored his obvious signal and continued. “I just came to tell you that Jeff and I are heading to Popayán tomorrow. We need to file a disaster report so we can get some aid. All of this work will be for nothing if we can’t manage to get some stucco on these buildings before the next rainy season – ”
As if she hadn’t spoken, he interrupted. “I don’t mind hard work. It’s just infuriating when I can’t use the abilities I have to make a difference. To speed things along.”
“We’ve been over this, Sam. You know it takes ten days at least for the adobe to set up – ”
“It’s not just the adobe. It’s everything else. Do you know how much faster it would be if I just flew supplies down here instead of waiting for horses to haul it all down the mountain side?”
“And just what do you think would happen when folks started noticing that Superman kept flying back and forth over this area?" she asked pointedly. "Guerillas would be all over this place, not to mention the paramilitaries and the Colombian army, wanting to know why Superman had set up shop in some small backwater town.”
“Then why am I here?” he asked, disgusted with the rationale she and Jeff had given him those first days when he’d wanted to fly supplies in. “What can I do for these people? Lift tons of bricks and haul rubble to the ravine? That’s pretty much all I’ve done since I arrived.”
“Sorry, right now we just don’t need anything heated up.”
“You know what I mean, Gillian,” he said, thoroughly exasperated with her refusal to see the obvious. “I’m nothing more than a common laborer. And I can’t even manage to do that very well.”
He’d thought he could make a real difference. That as Superman, he’d be able to put these people’s homes back together quickly and efficiently. But it was proving to be much harder than he’d ever expected. These people didn’t need a superhero. They needed masons and supplies. Heavy construction equipment.
“Sometimes that’s what it takes to rebuild lives. A lot of unglamorous, backbreaking labor,” she said, giving him a thoughtful look.
“Yeah, but I’ve done nothing a couple of bulldozers couldn’t do,” he said, unable to keep the defeat from his voice.
“These people don’t have bulldozers,” she reminded him. “You’re doing a lot of good here, Sam. The work of fifty men at least. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”
It was the first compliment she’d offered him, and it appeased him slightly. Still, he just didn’t know if he could really help these people at all.
~§~
Later that evening, a soft tapping sounded on his closed door, and he opened it to recognize the boy Gillian had called Antonio standing several feet away, partially hidden in the shadows cast by the oncoming night. He clutched a bulky sack, but when Clark extended a hand to welcome him inside, the boy took a hesitant step back.
“Come in, Antonio,” Clark invited in Spanish. While he’d been readily accepted by most of the adult villagers, most of the younger children still looked at Clark fearfully, remembering clearly the day when Superman had landed in the middle of San Pablo with the bright red cape of el Diablo billowing about him, a terrified André cradled in his arms.
Mustering up his courage, Antonio stepped out of the shadows, only continuing forward when Clark matched the boy’s steps with backward steps of his own. In this manner, he entered the shack, but he wouldn’t come in more than a foot from the door.
When at last he spoke, Clark nearly had to use super-hearing to catch the softly muttered Spanish. “Señorita Gillian sent me. She said you would pay me to clean your house, yes?”
Clark chuckled to himself, eliciting a puzzled expression from Antonio. Before the frightened child could bolt from the shack of the gringo loco who not only talked to himself but laughed as well, Clark nodded. “Sure, Antonio. How about you come once a week? On Tuesdays, after school.”
Antonio nodded slowly, then smiled when Clark extended a large hand to cement the deal. He placed his tiny hand in Clark’s, even allowing it to linger once the ceremonial shake had been completed. Clark felt a surge of accomplishment in earning the boy’s trust. It was a small move, but in his disheartened state, it was something.
“Also, señorita sent this. She told me to tell you that she does not have pizza or hot shower, but this maybe will make you feel better after much hard work.” With that carefully worded recitation, Antonio thrust forward the sack he held in his other hand, offering it and its contents to a bewildered Clark.
Before Clark could open the sack, Antonio had slipped out the door and down the road.
Whatever she had sent was incredibly light, and more curious than ever, he turned on the lamp, blinking against the glare of the bright bulb. One of these days he was going to have to fashion some sort of lampshade.
Reaching into the sack, his hands closed around a soft bit of fabric.
It was a pillow. Pancake thin and grayed with frequent washings, it smelled faintly of shampoo.
Clutching it to his chest, he smiled softly. No more excuses.
~§~
That day had proven to be a low point before he fell into the comfortable rhythm of San Pablo. Now, after four weeks, enough homes had been constructed that all of the women and children could be housed at night. The pressure to secure the villagers’ safety had lessened significantly, and with it, a heavy weight was lifted from everyone’s shoulders, most of all Clark’s.
Work took on a joyous tone, jokes flying fast around the building sites. Clark started to see the humor in his ignorance, laughing at himself when his walls sloped visibly and taking the good natured ribbing from the other men as a sign that he belonged. That he was accepted and his efforts, no matter how unskilled, were appreciated.
Two weeks after they’d left for Popayán, word reached the village that Gillian and Jeff were back in Silvia. They’d received enough aid from the Colombian government’s disaster relief division to procure much of the cement needed to make the heavy stucco used to coat homes and buildings, giving the porous adobe bricks much needed water-proofing.
Ignoring their small committee’s decision that he refrain from flying, Clark did so under cover of night to meet them in Silvia and escort them on the three hour journey back to San Pablo. His presence not only offered protection against wandering bands of guerillas, but he was also able to supplement the efforts of the horses hauling four heavy wagons over the deeply rutted and sometimes impassable roads. It was brute work, pure and simple, but it needed to be done.
When they finally arrived in San Pablo, the three exhausted volunteers staggered to their individual houses, bone tired but pleased with a job well done. Instead of drafty and inhospitable, Clark’s shack, still leaning to its left, looked welcoming. It was becoming home.
Clark sat quietly for a minute on the edge of his pallet, trying to pinpoint the odd sensation that squeezed at his temples and filled his head with heavy, wet rags. Everything about him weighted, his very skin heavy and drawn. As he passed his hand over his eyes, his thumb and finger joining in a firm pinch at the bridge of his nose, it came to him. The gesture was one his father had often made after a dawn to dusk day spent wrestling a frozen field. It was one of great weariness.
He felt weary. It settled over him, wrapping him in its muted blanket just as his cape enveloped him in folds of crimson.
Had he ever felt purely exhausted? And not just a tiredness of well-used super muscle or depleted reserves of nearly inexhaustible energy. No, never anything like this. Swooping in to perform heroic feats took nothing compared to dealing with the aftermath. It was in the rebuilding that true heroes were revealed.
And with each adobe brick he laid, each home finished and filled with a grateful family, he felt his own injured heart slowly stitching tight. With exhaustion, he found peaceful sleep.
As he sank down on to the narrow pallet and pulled his wool blanket over his shoulders, his last coherent thought was that he’d never felt anything so good as his pancake thin pillow rising to meet his cheek.
to be continued…
