19
“Jimmy, don’t question it, just enjoy!” Lois laughs and sips her wine. Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she watches Jimmy Olsen take another bite of steak. She glances at me with a sly smile.
“Seriously, CK, where did you learn how to cook like this?” he asks, shaking his head as he savors the tender meat. He chuckles and sets down his fork. “Remember when you two had Perry and me over for dinner a few months back, Lois, and CK almost burned down your apartment trying to help you cook that roast?”
“I do indeed remember that,” Lois answers, her fingers tapping against the side of her now empty wine glass. I lift the wine bottle to ask if she wants a refill, but she waves me off. “No thanks, I think I’ve had plenty of wine.”
“Jimmy, refill?”
I hold up the bottle as an offering. Jimmy obliges, pushing his wine glass toward me, and I carefully top off his glass, emptying the last of the wine. I stand and move into the kitchen as the amicable banter continues. Lois begins teasing Jimmy about his latest crush on a copy editor named Melinda, and Jimmy digs into a second portion of roasted potatoes. I pour myself a cup of coffee and settle against the counter, watching them interact.
We’re now three weeks in. I have friends. Good friends. A steady, productive job at the Daily Planet. Colleagues who respect me both as a person and a reporter. And a second job that fills the world with hope and courage while fulfilling my need to help.
Tonight is a sort of test, really, because tomorrow…well, tomorrow, the Kents are visiting. I haven’t spoken with them since the first weekend I was here, when Jonathan kicked me out of their home and accused me of trying to take advantage of his son’s death. But Lois and Martha have been working to smooth things over for me with Jonathan, and he finally agreed to see me again. We decided that Lois’s apartment would be more neutral territory, and Lois decided that I should cook for them.
So, me being me, I spent two days trying to pick a dish. I finally chose herb-marinated chicken with linguini and asparagus. And then Lois suggested that I ‘practice’ cooking in her kitchen to get familiar with it, and so we invited Jimmy over for steak, roasted potatoes, and steamed broccoli. I think she just wanted me to cook for her again, since we’d definitely been eating too much take out. However, this has turned out to be another good test, actually, and I can say now that I think we’ve officially succeeded in the ‘swap’—that is, my insertion into
his life.
There have been a few hiccups, for sure. Last week, Jimmy was the first one to notice that I’m right-handed; apparently, the other Clark always made a big deal out of being left-handed. That was fun to try to explain away. Uh, yeah, something about Krypton’s red sun having weird effects on my physiology…? Lois had come up with that one. However, everything else has been fairly simple, I realize. Any faux pas have been easily blamed on my ‘bad memory’—another thing the other Clark was well known for—or absent mindedness from my long trip. Several times, I’ve overheard colleagues asking Lois when we are rescheduling our wedding. And I always cringe. But she never misses a beat and replies that we’re still working on it.
Superman has been busy as well. In the three weeks since I’ve been on this world, Superman has done more than I’d done on my world for the past three months; this world was—and still is—a mess. But I see major improvements. The conflict in the Middle East remains on hold, with both sides agreeing to sit down in Moscow in a few days for peace talks, which will be mediated by Superman. Tensions of nuclear war have eased substantially. And crime rates in Metropolis and other major cities worldwide have plummeted to below where they were four months ago, before the other Clark left for New Krypton. Lois assures me almost every day that the work I’m doing is uplifting her world.
Despite my protests, I was indeed nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing for my lengthy article on Superman’s return from New Krypton. More importantly, Lois and I were jointly nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in Investigative Journalism for the series we wrote on opioid-related deaths in veterans during our first two weeks working together. The award ceremony is scheduled for a month from now in New York City. And Lois already booked us both hotel rooms, planned our driving route, and picked out what she’s going to wear. I had laughed as I explained to her that on my world, Pulitzers were given for each calendar year, with nominations announced mid-January for writing published in the previous year. Here, apparently, nominations are announced mid-October for writing published during the prior 12-month period. So both my article and our series of articles had been published right before the deadline. Perry argued that this was optimal since the work we’d done would be quite fresh in the judge’s minds. Overall, I’ve found all of this to be a bit overwhelming. I’ve never been recognized for my writing accomplishments before. And now two Pulitzer nominations in only three weeks. It feels good…but is still overwhelming.
I shift my coffee to my other hand as Lois brushes her hair back out of her face and laughs at another of Jimmy’s terrible jokes. Jimmy smiles and finishes off his wine. He glances over at me.
“No alcohol for you, huh, CK? You used to drink more than all of us combined and never even get buzzed.”
I chuckle and shake my head. I’ve gotten this question several times. Apparently, my doppelganger was well known for partaking in alcoholic beverages at every opportunity. From Lois, I’ve also learned that he tended to eat like an uninhibited teenager—burgers and fries had been his go-to, which explained the funny look she’d given me when I’d ordered a salad at Burger Bistro that first day we’d worked together at the Planet.
“Nope, Jimmy, not anymore. Coffee, water, or tea for me.” I smile nonchalantly and lift my coffee mug for good measure. “Will you be staying for dessert? Chocolate cheesecake with fresh strawberry topping, at Lois’s request.”
“Homemade?” He raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod with a half-smile. “Oh, man, CK, I really want some, but I’m already stuffed, and it’s getting late.”
“How about I send you home with a piece?” Lois suggests, standing up from the table and navigating around me into the kitchen. She opens up the refrigerator and takes out the dessert. Her eyes light up, and she licks her lips in anticipation as she sets the cheesecake on the counter. “Although on second thought, maybe I’ll just send both of you boys home now and keep it all for myself.”
“Not a chance. You will share the chocolate, Ms. Lane,” I laugh.
I set down my coffee mug to help her portion out a piece for Jimmy to take with him. I pull a plastic container out of her cupboard as she cuts a generously sized slice of the cheesecake. She then transfers the slice to the container, and I close the lid. Jimmy is now standing, watching us with interest, as Lois begins cutting us each a piece. I turn and hand Jimmy the dessert to take with him, and he peers in through the transparent plastic.
“This looks so good, CK. Thanks man,” he says. “And Lois, thank you for having me over. And for the advice with Melinda.” His cheeks turn red slightly as he smiles at Lois and then at me. “I just…aww, well you know, I just want what you two have, you know?”
And here it is. The hardest part of all of this so far. The ‘happy couple’ act.
Lois sets down the knife she’s using and wraps an arm around my waist; my arm loops around her shoulder as though it is the most natural thing in the world. My heart does a flip-flop in my chest. God, how I wish this was real. I hear her heart racing, and I wonder if she’s feeling even just a tiny bit of what I am.
“You’ll find the right woman, Jim,” I assure him. Lois rests her free hand on my chest, and I glance sideways at her and smile. “And when you do, you’ll know it.”
“Or you’ll be like me,” Lois says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And deny and fight your feelings much too long. You remember when Clark first came to work at the Planet?”
“Totally. It was brutal. CK, I don’t know how you did it.”
Jimmy shakes his head, and I just laugh. I’ve heard this before too. Apparently, Lois had been pretty hard on her Clark when he’d first come to work at the Planet. It had taken him over a year of persistence and growing their friendship until she’d admitted her feelings for him. Of course, the fact that she’d fallen head over heels in love with Superman hadn’t helped Clark’s plight.
“Hey, Jim, let me give you a ride home?” I ask, partially to change the topic and partially because he sways slightly on his feet as he pulls his coat on. “Lois, can I borrow your car?”
“Nah, CK, I’m fine. I only had two glasses of wine. Or was it three?”
Lois pulls her keys out of her pocket and hands them to me.
“It was four, Jimmy,” she says with a laugh. “Just let him drive you.”
I pat Jimmy on the back amicably and steer him toward the door.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t eat my cheesecake,” I joke playfully, glancing back over my shoulder at Lois and wagging my finger at her.
“Better hurry. I make no promises,” Lois replies. She picks up her plate and takes a quick bite. Her eyes close, and a small sound of pleasure escapes her lips. “Mmm, wow. Nope, no promises.”
She opens her eyes again and smiles broadly at me. Her tongue flicks out the side of her mouth to clean up a small bit of chocolate, and I inhale sharply. Does she know what she’s doing to me? Probably not, or she wouldn’t do it.
A flicker of an emotion that is not mine edges into my consciousness, but I force it back. Not now, Kal.
“Come on, Jim.”
Fifteen minutes later, I let myself back into her apartment. My piece of cheesecake sits untouched on the table—thank you, Lois—but the kitchen and living room are otherwise unoccupied. With practiced ease, I focus my hearing and locate her in the bathroom; the shower is running, and she is getting undressed. The sound of her bra unsnapping and her almost imperceptible sigh of relief as she removes the piece of clothing sends a shiver through me, and I immediately scold myself, turn off my superhearing, and head into the kitchen.
Don’t be a creep, Kent. Give her privacy. I make quick work of my cheesecake and then begin washing the dishes and cleaning up. As I put the final dish into the dishwasher, I hear her pad lightly into the room, and her freshly clean scent fills my nostrils. I smile as I turn around, drying my hands on the dishtowel.
I try not to stare, but she is gorgeous. She has changed out of her work clothes in favor of a simple pair of sweat pants and a plain gray T-shirt, and her hair, still wet from her shower, is beginning to curl at the ends as it dries. She wears no makeup now, and her natural beauty takes my breath away. I prefer her like this, really.
I swallow and reset myself. We are alone now, and ‘happy couple’ pretend time is over. I force a smile again as our eyes meet.
“Thank you for not eating my dessert,” I say teasingly.
“Well, I decided if I did eat it, I’d have to run an extra mile tomorrow morning,” she responds with a grin. “And I just really don’t want to do that.”
I fold the dishtowel and set it back in its place on the counter as my smile grows. “I guess I need to work on the recipe more then, if it’s not even worth an extra mile. And I will convince you to add that extra loop around the park soon.”
“You’re so weird, Clark.” She laughs and brushes a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “I don’t know anyone who runs for fun. You certainly don’t need to.”
“It just helps me feel…a little more normal, I guess,” I admit, ducking my head as I speak. I love that she has started joining me on my run most mornings. But she still teases me about it constantly. Which I also love.
“I know.” Her voice has taken on a gentler note now, and I look up at her sharply. Her expression is unreadable, but she tenses slightly and pulls her eyes away from mine.
“Well, uh, it’s getting late,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I should probably get out there and do my patrols.”
She nods, but doesn’t say anything right away. Her arms cross over her chest, and she moves toward the kitchen, where I’m still standing. I stay perfectly still as she walks up to me and settles her hands on my chest. Her fingers work their way up to straighten my tie, and she swallows almost nervously.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
I hear her sadness. And her loneliness. She misses him so much. She acts so strong all the time that it is easy to forget how much she’s lost. A tugging in my gut compels me to wrap my arms around her, and I pull her into a hug. A hug that promises a little bit more than just friendship. His presence is strong right now, and I try, but cannot force him out. She melts into me, shaking slightly as she buries her head into my chest. I allow one hand to gently rub her back, and I rest my head on top of hers.
“Lois, I don’t tell you this enough, but you are an incredible woman. You’ve shown so much strength through all of this.”
My voice is quiet, muffled in her hair, but she hears me, and a low sob escapes her as she clings to my shirt. In my mind, a razor sharp, anxious voice that sounds so much like my own growls,
“Why is she crying? I hate to see her sad. Please, Lois, don’t cry.” Without my consent, my own voice echoes his words, “Please, Lois, don’t cry.”
She nods into me, and her body gradually stops shaking. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, wiping her tears away with one hand.
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad to be here for you,” I say, tightening my arms around her. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she moves her arms around my waist and returns my embrace.
Words I cannot say are right on the tip of my tongue. They are my words, but also his.
I love you, Lois. I bury my head into her hair to keep myself from blurting out these four forbidden words. Or maybe to keep him from somehow forcing the words out of my mouth.
Tentatively, I suggest, “You know, Superman could take the night off, if you need a friend to stick around tonight. I don’t want to leave you when you’re upset.”
“No,” she replies almost immediately. I tense slightly, worried I’ve overstepped. But she quickly clarifies, “I appreciate the offer, but with the progress Superman has been making abroad, and with the upcoming peace talks, I don’t think it would be wise for Superman to take a night off.”
I nod reluctantly. “You’re probably right. But your well-being is more important to me than anything else. If you need me, please just call, and I’ll be here.”
I loosen my arms from around her, and she pulls back and looks up at me. Her eyes are slightly puffy from crying, and her cheeks are wet from her tears. I cannot stop myself; maybe it is me or maybe it is him, I don’t know. My hands reach up to her cheeks and wipe away the tears, my thumbs gently brushing against her soft, pale skin. She closes her eyes but doesn’t move away.
I want to kiss her; her lips are full and inviting. But I don’t.
I smile at her and lower my hands, and she steps back, giving me room to spin into the suit. As my spin slows to a stop, the red cape billowing in the breeze I’ve created, she forces a smile on her face. She’s trying to be brave for me. So I can go and do my job and not worry about her. I lower my eyes briefly.
“I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. Have another piece of cheesecake, and we’ll go six miles instead of five,” I joke with a wink.
“No chance. I might have the cheesecake anyways, though. Still only five miles.” Her smile looks slightly less forced now. I grin back at her and nod.
“Sleep well, Lois.”
I reach out and touch her cheek lightly, and she closes her eyes and leans into me. Then I pull away and head toward the window.
I take off slowly into the dark night sky, turning my senses outward. All is quiet in Metropolis. I bank to the east and soar out over the Atlantic Ocean, my sensitive ears picking up sounds of daily life in Europe and beyond. A traffic accident could use my attention in Athens, and a forest fire is growing in Costa del Sol. The tenuous peace in the Middle East region seems to be holding; I hear no sounds of explosions, gunfire, or missile strikes. I hurry to Athens first.
As the Sun peaks up over the horizon, I feel the warmth of its radiation filling me with power, and I hear his voice again. Stronger this time. And more insistent. I stop mid-flight, hovering over the Mediterranean Sea.
“Is she okay? Tell me she is okay. She should not be crying.” I shake my head, wondering how he does this, even in death. We’ve had conversations like this before, although not quite this clear or demanding. I’m never sure if I should just ignore him, ignore whatever this is, or continue to interact with the voice in my head. And sometimes I wonder if I’m just crazy. In any case, I am compelled to assure him.
She is okay. She is strong, I tell him, and I feel his sense of relief. Then, his presence fades again, and I am alone.
I gaze ahead. Three cars and a bus filled with tourists have crashed and are blocking the road, and one passenger is stuck inside his vehicle. I push all other thoughts out of my mind and speed through the air toward the disturbance. Time to get to work.
20
We run side by side down the winding forested path, occasionally switching to single-track when the trail gets too narrow. Next to me, she pushes herself to keep a brisk pace, and we race through the woods and back out onto the sidewalk path in record time. I glance sideways at her. Her cheeks are red with effort, and a thin sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead, despite the chill of the early fall morning. The Sun shines brightly overhead, no clouds obstructing its light, and a layer of steam rises off the top of the pond as we pass. I usually stop here to enjoy the scenery for a moment, but today, I feel her need to keep going, so I follow dutifully as she pushes herself even faster. Soon, we cross back over the street, and the final stretch of sidewalk to my apartment comes into view. She reaches over and taps my arm playfully, then smiles at me and pushes herself into a sprint for the last hundred meters or so. I laugh and easily keep up with her, matching her stride for stride.
“You…you cheat, you know,” she exhales as she slows to a walk, breathing heavily. I stop next to her, and we walk up the stairs to my apartment side by side.
“I don’t know that I’d call it cheating,” I counter, reaching into the pocket of my running shorts to pull out my keys. She laughs next to me. At least I think it’s a laugh. I suppose it could be a wheeze.
“You…you’re not even winded…after all of that. It’s not fair.” She pats me on the chest teasingly as I unlock the door, and I grin at her.
“I’m also not sweaty and flushed,” I add, reaching over to brush a stray lock of her damp hair back behind her ear.
“See, not fair. You cheat.”
I shake my head and chuckle as I open the door and lead the way into the dimly lit apartment. She follows me inside and then veers off into the bathroom to shower and change, while I start a pot of coffee—a routine that has slowly grown on us over the last couple weeks since she began joining me on my morning run. I deliberately focus my hearing out to the city around us, but it is quiet for a Saturday morning. Instead, I force myself to focus on the steady drip of the coffee into the pot in front of me, and I carefully avoid allowing my hearing to pick up other, more enticing sounds, like the little noises she makes when she’s in the shower, the sound of her hands sliding over her skin as she washes herself and of warm water hitting her face and back and neck. I scold myself for even thinking these thoughts, and I let out a heavy sigh as I get to work preparing a small breakfast for her—eggs, toast, bacon, and fresh strawberries.
Several minutes later, I set her plate at the table as she exits from my bedroom, toweling her long dark hair dry. Her thin blue cotton T-shirt and jeans accentuate the curves of her figure, and I feel my pulse quicken at the sight of her. I force a smile on my face to hide my reaction.
“Hungry?” My voice catches slightly in my throat, and she smiles at me.
“Always,” she says as she saunters over to the table, eyeing the breakfast with keen interest. She pulls out her chair and sits lightly, hanging the folded towel on the back of the chair behind her. “You spoil me, Mr. Kent. A girl could get used to this, you know.”
“I aim to please.” I set my plate down across from her and add our two cups of coffee to the table before joining her. “I enjoy having someone to share my cooking with. It’s much better than eating alone.”
“Well, as the primary beneficiary in this culinary relationship, I will agree with you on that.” She smiles at me and takes a big bite of eggs.
I grin as I spread even layers of butter and strawberry jam on a piece of toast. My thoughts drift for a moment back to when I was a kid, when my mother would spread the butter and jam on toasted homemade bread for me before school. I picture her, in her clean white apron, her hair pulled back in a bun—except that one errant curl that always fell down around the side of her face. My dad would come in from outside, since he had always already been up for hours working on chores around the farm, and he would hug and kiss her, and she’d scold him for getting her dirty, all the while laughing and loving the attention. Then, she’d usher me off to the school bus with a hug and kiss of my own.
I take a bite of the toast. I should make homemade bread to go with lunch today, I decide. I haven’t baked fresh bread in a while. I’ll have to get started right away since the process is time consuming. My eyes land on Lois. She is chewing slowly and studying me with a half-smile on her face, her beautiful dark eyes inquisitive.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks as she reaches out and lifts her coffee mug to her lips.
I lower my eyes for a moment before responding. “My mom used to make me toast in the mornings before school. She’d always have freshly baked bread ready. I was thinking I might make a loaf for lunch with the Kents this afternoon.”
“Oh.” Her voice is quiet. She hadn’t expected that, I suppose.
“But I—”
A news broadcast from the neighbor’s radio distracts me, and I swing my head toward the sound abruptly, focusing my hearing. My stomach lurches. Not today, of all days.
“What is it?” she says with a hint of urgency. She can sense from my reaction that it’s not good.
“Huge earthquake in Los Angeles,” I answer quickly. I’m already standing and pushing back from the table, and I spin quickly into the suit. “Sorry, I have to go. It’s—it’s sounding really bad. I-I hope I’ll be back on time for the Kents…”
I meet her gaze, and she nods an understanding. Rescue efforts for disasters like this are not fast work.
“They will understand if you’re late. Or if we have to order pizza.”
She gives me a half-hearted smile, which I don’t return. I step toward the door to the balcony.
“I’m sorry, Lois,” I repeat, and I hurry out the window and up into the sky.
My keen hearing picks up the sound of her soft voice with her worried reminder. “Be careful.” And I rush on, due west, toward California, where the Sun still hasn’t risen. I listen ahead to the sounds of sirens, crumbling infrastructure, and cries for help.
More speed, I need to be faster. I’m always too slow.
I growl in frustration and push myself harder. Almost instantaneously, I’m there, hovering thousands of feet up over the now burning city, and in slow motion below me, the interchange between US Route 101 and State Route 110 is in the process of collapsing. Cars filled with passengers on their very early morning commute plummet as tons of concrete crumples and begins to fall. With a speed I’ve never known before, I fly down to vehicles stuck at the lowest layer of the interchange and lift several cars at once, moving them hundreds of feet out of the way to safety. The scene continues to unfold, but I’m moving so fast now that everything almost appears frozen to me. I clear all the vehicles on the lowest level, then move up and up and up, clearing cars and trucks from each of the four levels of the interchange. Only after everyone is safe, do I slow down and allow the collapse to continue as I return to normal speed. My chest is heaving with the effort.
There you go, Lois, I’m finally winded now, I think. However, I’m not joking or smiling. My hearing picks up more sounds of other buildings falling, bridges collapsing, and heartbeats stopping.
I turn toward the most devastated part of the city, near downtown, where emergency crews are arriving at Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. My face pales and I waver in the air as I realize a large portion of the building has crumbled.
No, not more children… I can’t breathe for a moment as my chest constricts. I then blink to steady myself.
Don’t waste time. Move. Now.
And I push myself forward, toward the hospital, and start the awful work of searching for survivors among a sea of broken bodies. Small, lifeless, broken bodies. I tighten my jaw and hold back the tears.
Don’t waste time. Move. Now.
21
Five hours later my dusty boots land heavily on the balcony of my apartment, and I slowly make my way inside. The home is quiet; all the lights are off, and the dishes from breakfast are cleaned and put away. Light from the early afternoon Sun brightens the bedroom as I step down from the balcony, but my mood is grim, my thoughts numb, and my body tired. I stumble into the bathroom and speed through a quick shower to wash away the grime, dust, and blood… And then I get dressed.
One thousand two hundred fifty-seven. That’s the number of lifeless bodies I pulled out of the rubble. They are saying the official death count is now over nineteen hundred. The earthquake is one of the most devastating in recent history.
I know I saved hundreds of lives. I moved faster than I ever had before, and I remained absolutely focused the whole time. But when I close my eyes, I don’t see the faces of the survivors. I see those of the unfortunate victims who did not make it.
I was fast.
But not fast enough.
Although it should be the last thing on my mind, I glance at the clock and realize I might still have time to cook before the Kents arrive at Lois’s at 1:00 p.m. We won’t be having freshly baked bread, though. The negative thought etches itself into my brain, and I shake my head violently, trying to push it out. I move back to the bathroom and check my appearance in the mirror. A shaky hand runs through my hair, which is still slightly damp from my shower, and then straightens my glasses. I look presentable. If I can rid my eyes of their haunted expression. With effort, I take a deep breath and carefully fix a neutral expression on my face. Better. A little.
A minute later, I knock lightly on the window to Lois’s apartment. She is in the kitchen, organizing the ingredients for the lunch I’m supposed to make, and she looks up sharply toward the sound and then hurries over to let me in.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, and I drop down into the room from the window sill and spin out of the suit and into my more casual attire—a black long-sleeved shirt and gray slacks. I immediately start toward the kitchen, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Sorry I’m so late. I think I still have time to get everything cooked if I hurry and maybe use, you know, a little super help. But I definitely won’t have time to bake bread. I was thinking of baking fresh bread—I mentioned that this morning, I think. It would take too much time, and I don’t really have that right now. I—”
Her arms wrap around me from behind, and her voice, gentle and reassuring, murmurs, “Shhh, now. No rush, Clark.”
I turn in her embrace, but don’t reciprocate this time. I can’t. Or I won’t be able to stop myself from crying. I need her to understand.
“Sorry, Lois, I-I just need to g-get cooking,” I manage, carefully extricating myself from her arms.
I turn back to the kitchen. The oven is already preheating at 350°F, and she’s set the chicken out in a dish, ready to cook when the oven temperature is ready. The ingredients for the homemade pasta are sitting out, and the asparagus has been rinsed and is drying on a platter. She’d thought of everything. I swallow hard and spin back around to face her.
“The Kents are running a bit late, so you have a little over a half hour still,” she explains. She steps back up to me. “Clark, we can postpone if you need to. They would really understand.”
She reaches out to me again, and this time, I allow her to comfort me. Her hands rub my back lightly, and I rest my head on top of hers. Somehow, I avoid crying.
“I don’t want to cancel,” I admit, my tentative words muffled in her hair.
“Okay. Then just tell me what I can do to help.” She pulls away from the embrace and raises her eyes to meet mine.
“You’ve already done so much with just getting the Kents to agree to see me again,” I say quietly. I attempt a smile, but maybe it resembles more of a grimace. “Unless you know how to make homemade linguini noodles?”
“I do not,” she responds, returning my smile. “But I learn pretty quickly.”
“All right then.” I step away from her and turn back to the counter, where everything is neatly organized. “First, let’s get this chicken in the oven, and then, we’ll make some pasta.”
She nods and moves out of my way a bit as I put the chicken into the preheated oven. We then work together to mix the ingredients for the pasta, knead the dough, cut the pasta into thin strips, and lay it flat in preparation for cooking. We chat idly, mostly about how to make pasta, and I tell her little tidbits about my travels to Italy. I find the process oddly therapeutic, and by the time the pasta is ready to cook, my mood has improved substantially. Lois moves a pot of water to the stove and turns on the heat, and I check the chicken and put the asparagus into the oven to roast.
A knock at the door and sounds of muffled whispers from the hallway send my heart racing, however, and I freeze, holding the hot dish of chicken fresh from the oven in my hands. From behind me, Lois doesn’t miss a beat. She removes her apron and pats me on the shoulder.
“I’ll get the door,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles at me reassuringly. “Don’t worry one bit, okay?”
I nod wordlessly and set the chicken dish down on the counter. The water will take a few minutes to boil, and the asparagus needs to cook for about eight to ten minutes, so I have a few minutes before I need to do anything else. I rest my hands momentarily on the counter and take a deep breath to steady myself. I hear sounds of the deadbolts being unlocked and the door opening. I turn around as I hear sniffling and quiet murmuring. The Kents step just inside the apartment, setting down their luggage next to the door, and as I watch, the three of them embrace, the two women burying their heads into each other’s shoulders and Jonathan wrapping his arms around both of them. I lower my eyes; this is their first in-person interaction since learning he will not be coming home to them—and I am an intruder. My fingers grip the counter behind me as I feel their sadness and grief.
And his presence, which has been absent all day, seems to awaken inside of me. I raise my eyes to the scene in front of me again, and a strong sense of guilt and self-loathing floods my mind. His emotions are almost overpowering and are accompanied by a tightness in my chest. I close my eyes and attempt to shut my mind to his presence.
“Thank you both for coming,” Lois says.
I look up at them from across the room. Jonathan now stands with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his troubled gaze fixed on Lois, as though he cannot yet acknowledge that I’m in the room. Martha and Lois hold hands still, but Martha’s eyes dart to me, and she offers me a kind smile through her tears.
“Clark,” she starts, releasing Lois and moving across the room toward the kitchen. I push myself away from the counter as she reaches out to give me a hug. My eyes close, and my shoulders tense as her arms envelop me in a gentle embrace. A deep sigh escapes me—it’s both of us this time—him and me, and I shudder as I allow myself to feel the comfort from her touch. Martha holds me a little tighter, and her motherly, caring voice whispers in my ear, “It’s good to see you again, honey.”
“You too,” I breathe.
She smells like apples, and a brief, happy memory that is not mine pops into my head. I walk leisurely next to her in the apple orchard at the top of the hill, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She grabs an apple from the nearest tree, brings it to her nose, and inhales deeply, her eyes closed. A smile grows on her face, and she looks at me, her eyes filled with love. She hands the apple to me and then reaches out and takes my free hand in hers.
“I love you, Clark. I’m so proud of you.” “I love you too, Mom.” As I pull her into an embrace, the vision fades, and I open my eyes slowly as she loosens her hold.
A weak smile grows on my lips, and I hold her gaze for a moment before swallowing nervously and shifting my eyes to Jonathan Kent, who has stepped up behind his wife and now stands stiffly, his eyes trained on me.
“Th-thank you for c-coming, Mr. Kent, I—”
“No need to thank me,” he interrupts, his voice gruff but also concerned. “In fact, I owe you an apology, Clark.” I hear his heart pounding unevenly in his chest, but he doesn’t waver. “I unfairly accused you of being dishonest when we met last. I’m sorry for that. I was grieving for my boy, and I… I took it out on you. And that was inappropriate.”
He reaches out to shake my hand, and I return the gesture. His hands are calloused and rough, but there is a gentleness about his grip that reminds me suddenly of my own father.
I try to form words, but none will come. Instead, I just drop my eyes and nod as we shake hands.
“Clark, this all smells wonderful, dear. Fresh pasta, my goodness.”
From the kitchen, Martha’s voice breaks the silence, and I release Jonathan’s hand and turn abruptly toward her. The water is now boiling rapidly in the pot on the stove, ready for me to add the noodles, and the timer on the oven is about to go off, signaling that the asparagus should be finished cooking. Lois has shut the front door and is now moving to set the table with plates and utensils. I step back over to the stove.
“Thank you, Martha. Lois helped me quite a bit since I was, um, in California for most of the morning. I—it’s, um, maybe another five to ten minutes, and we should be able to eat.” I recognize my tendency to babble yet again, but no one comments on it.
I pull the asparagus out of the oven—it is perfectly cooked and smells tasty—and then I carefully drop the pasta into the boiling water. As the noodles cook, Martha and Lois finish setting the table, Jonathan moves their luggage into Lois’s extra bedroom, and I prepare the creamy garlic parmesan sauce for the pasta. Lois then makes coffee and tea, selecting an aromatic jasmine green tea that has obviously been imported from China. Ten minutes later, we settle at the table and begin eating heaps of pasta, chicken, and asparagus.
Lois keeps a steady conversation going. She describes the story we are currently working on together—an exposé on the New York billionaire and so-called philanthropist Lex Luthor. Lois uncovered some evidence of Luthor’s backdoor dealings with Intergang, a Metropolis-based crime organization, and as part of our ongoing investigation, we’d secured the first in-person interview with Luthor since he became a billionaire, scheduled for Wednesday next week.
“Sounds like it will be a busy week, with the peace talks in Moscow as well,” Martha mentions, glancing across the table at me as I shove a bite of pasta in my mouth. She chews another bite of chicken, her curious eyes watching me. I nod absently and lower my gaze to my plate for a moment.
“I’m due in Moscow in about ten hours, actually,” I explain. I take a quick sip of my tea to wash down the pasta and then continue. “I’m pretty optimistic that we can negotiate a permanent ceasefire. Both sides want to come together, so I hope I can help. Although, I-I’m not sure…” My voice trails off as everyone stares at me. I smile tightly and drop my eyes to my plate again.
Lois reaches over and places her hand over mine in a comforting gesture. It’s actually the first time she’s touched me since the Kents arrived; I almost get the impression she’s been avoiding touching me to prevent upsetting them. As usual, her touch strengthens me, and I raise my eyes to meet hers. She smiles encouragingly at me.
“I know you’re going to be successful, Clark,” she assures me, squeezing my hand gently. I smile weakly in response.
“It’s a complex situation that has developed, and Russia is…playing an odd role. They backed the rebels, but are now offering to host the peace talks. I’m not sure yet what their motives are,” I clarify.
And, I’ve never helped to negotiate a peace treaty before, so I really have no idea what I’m doing, I think to myself. Martha, however, seems to almost read my thoughts.
“Just trust yourself, Clark, and follow your instincts.” She spears the final piece of her chicken with her fork and pops it into her mouth. “And,” she adds with a hint of a smile, “please give me the recipe for this chicken—it’s to die for! So tender and flavorful. Am I tasting
rosemary and thyme?”
Before I can answer, Jonathan pipes in from across the table. “Rosemary, thyme, marjoram, and a hint of sage. And marinated with buttermilk.” There is a twinkle in his eye, and I smile as I nod in response.
“Correct,” I say. “My mom used to make this chicken when I was a kid. She grew all the herbs fresh in her garden. I’d be happy to share the recipe.”
“And the pasta, he learned to make that when he traveled in Italy.”
Lois removes her hand from mine and cleans the last bit of asparagus from her plate. The loss of her touch brings a sense of emptiness to my chest, and I distract myself by standing to clear the table.
“Did you do a lot of traveling, Clark?” Martha asks, nodding a thank you to me as I take her plate and utensils. Lois starts to stand to help me, but I shake my head at her and smile.
“Yes, I, um—I graduated from high school when I was sixteen, and then that summer, I found out I could fly. I traveled quite extensively for the next two years before I went to college. I never really stayed in one place for very long, but I visited as many different places as I could.”
I place all the dirty dishes in the sink and turn back to the table with the pot of coffee. Jonathan holds up his mug, requesting a refill, and I oblige as I continue.
“I stayed at a hostel in Italy, and the owner was an older woman named Bettina. On Friday nights, she would cook fresh pasta for everyone. I helped her out with chores to pay for my stay, and she taught me to cook pasta. The creamy garlic sauce was her recipe as well.”
I refill Lois’s coffee as well and get Martha and myself fresh tea before sitting back at the table.
“He also made this amazing chocolate cheesecake yesterday,” Lois adds with a smile. “If you all are not too full from lunch, that is.”
She sips her coffee slowly, and I settle into my chair and watch as the three of them resume discussing current events, life at the farm, and the Kents’ plans for their anniversary the next month. I remain mostly quiet during their conversation. I learn much about the Kents from just listening, and my respect for them grows even more. They are humble, kind, compassionate, thoughtful people, and they loved their son fiercely. They love Lois just as much.
At about 3:00 p.m., I move to the fridge and take out the leftover cheesecake. I serve everyone a slice and am about to sit back down when my superhearing kicks in. I turn my head sharply toward the sounds of sirens and gunshots from miles away on the other side of the city. I quickly identify the problem.
“Uh, there’s a, uh—I’ll be back in just a few minutes. Excuse me. Sorry.”
I spin into the suit as I take off out the window and then speed across the sky, my senses extending ahead of me. I see two police cruisers chasing a red Ford Mustang through the crowded streets of downtown Metropolis. The two passengers in the Mustang each hold a handgun, and the man in the passenger’s seat periodically reaches out the window and fires a shot back at the police cruisers following them. A duffle bag stuffed with cash sits in the back seat. Bank robbery gone wrong, I surmise.
The Mustang swerves to avoid hitting a pedestrian, and the driver mutters a curse and makes a hard left through a busy intersection. The police follow. I shake my head and slow down as I approach. I learned a long time ago that the first step is always to disarm all suspects, so I dip down at superspeed, grab each of the guns, and squeeze them into a single ball of metal, which I nonchalantly toss into the back seat of the moving vehicle. I then fly in front of the car and easily bring it to a stop. The police cruisers skid to a halt behind the Mustang, and the officers hop out, their weapons drawn. The two men inside the vehicle stare at me wide eyed, and the driver, in one final attempt to get away, slams his foot down onto the accelerator.
“Really?” I say, raising my eyebrows at him as I cross my arms over my chest. When the car cannot physically push me out of the way, the driver curses under his breath and puts the car in park. Both men lift their hands over their heads, and the approaching policemen each pull out a set of handcuffs.
“Whew, thank you, Superman. That was getting dangerous there.” The police officer nearest to me tilts his head toward me as he hauls the suspect toward his cruiser.
“You’re welcome, Officer Dunham,” I reply courteously, noting the officer’s name tag. I stick around for just another moment to be sure the police have everything under control before launching back into the air toward Lois’s apartment.
I slow as I approach and step quietly through the window, my cape billowing out behind me. The three occupants of the apartment silently watch me enter. With a frown, I realize Lois and Martha have moved their chairs closer to each other, and their eyes glisten with unshed tears. I shift my gaze to Jonathan, but he stares blankly at his empty dessert plate, his fingers absently tapping the table. I quickly spin out of the suit and then adjust my glasses as I move back to take my seat at the table.
“I’m really sorry I had to leave. There was a—”
“It’s okay, Clark,” Lois cuts in, attempting a smile at me as she squeezes Martha’s hand.
Lois’s cheesecake is half-eaten, her fork forgotten at the edge of her plate, and Martha’s dessert remains untouched. I nod weakly at her and shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Was everything okay?” Lois asks softly, her eyes meeting mine.
“Y-yes. No one w-was injured,” I stammer. My throat feels dry, and my hand trembles slightly as I take an unenthusiastic bite of my cheesecake.
“Good,” Lois says. Her hand rests on top of Martha’s, and the older woman, who had been gazing aimlessly into her tea, reaches up and wipes away a tear before looking over toward me. I can’t meet her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Martha, Mr. Kent… I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
This time, it is Jonathan who speaks up, his low voice unexpectedly kind and supportive.
“Actually, Clark, we were all just discussing how relieved we are that you are here—” He hesitates and takes a deep breath as he reaches over and takes Martha’s other hand in his. “…to step in for our boy. You’re doing so much good for this city, for the world. We’re all…we’re all proud of you.”
My breath catches in my throat. Does he really mean that? I look up at Jonathan warily. His eyes meet mine, and he nods slightly at me. My mouth opens to respond, but I can’t speak right away. I swallow hard and lower my eyes.
“Th-thank you, s-sir. That means a lot to me.”
The next few minutes are quiet. Jonathan Kent excuses himself from the table and heads toward the guest bedroom, and Lois finishes her cheesecake and then helps me as we work together on the dishes. Martha manages to take a few bites of her dessert, but remains quiet and withdrawn.
A voice that is not mine echoes in the back of my mind.
“I love you, Mom.” And I finish the dishes up at a pace slightly faster than normal and then take a seat next to her, where Lois had been sitting. There are still tears in her eyes, and as she looks up at me, one falls silently down her cheek. My heart hurts for her.
“Martha, I—” His voice in my head directs my words, and I relinquish some of my control to him to allow his help. “He wrote about you in his journals… I—he loved you
so much. Your support and encouragement helped him grow into the man he became, and he was grateful every day for everything you and Mr. Kent did for him. Everything that he did was because of you.”
My words don’t have quite the effect that I want; instead, she lets out a sob and stands up abruptly, pulling me with her. Her arms wrap around my waist, and I immediately return the embrace. My chin rests on top of her head, and my eyes close as I hold her to steady her shaking…and my own. His presence, which had been very strong a moment before, fades rapidly as an intense aching grows in the center of my chest. I ignore it. From behind me, Lois’s hand touches my back, and then her arms wrap around me and Martha. A moment later, we are joined by Jonathan, and the four of us embrace.
I shouldn’t be here. It should be him here. Not me. But I allow myself to comfort and be comforted. And it feels good.
“M-my mom used to say, ‘A good hug can—’”
“—heal the soul,” Martha finishes for me. Everyone pulls back slightly from the embrace, although we don’t separate completely, and her tear-filled eyes gaze into mine for a moment. The hug was as healing for her as it was for me. Lois’s hand remains on my back, and Jonathan shifts so his arm is around his wife’s shoulders. I swallow sadly and nod.
“I should probably be going. I need to prepare for Moscow and do my patrols a bit earlier than normal,” I say reluctantly. Next to me, Lois’s hand slides gently from my back to my shoulder. “Thank you—all of you—for welcoming me here.”
I reach out to shake Jonathan’s hand again and then give Martha and Lois brief hugs before heading toward the front door. I’ll make a much less dramatic exit this time. Martha and Jonathan retreat into their bedroom, and Lois follows me to the door. She steps out into the hallway with me, and we turn to face each other. Her anxious eyes shift uneasily as she studies me, and she lifts one hand to my face, brushing her hand along my cheek. I inhale sharply as my skin tingles where she touches me, but I otherwise remain perfectly still. She then stretches up and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. My eyes close involuntarily, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
“Clark,” she says quietly, her hand pulling away from my cheek.
I open my eyes to meet hers, and I feel pulled toward her, his presence growing strong again. I resist, my shoulders tensing, and my lips part as though to speak, but I say nothing.
“Be careful,” she whispers. A troubled expression crosses her face briefly, and she replaces it quickly with a tight smile. “And believe in yourself. They will respect confidence and clarity. Let me know how it goes.”
“Thank you, Lois.”
I should clarify.
Thank you for bringing the Kents to see me. Thank you for your support and friendship. Thank you for helping me deal with the very difficult rescues I’ve encountered in the last few weeks. Thank you for believing in me like no one else ever has before. Thank you, Lois. But I don’t say anything else. Just like always, though, she knows. Her smile confirms it. And her beautiful dark eyes again draw me in. I step away before I do something I’ll regret later.
“If I’m home on time tomorrow morning, I’ll text you. Otherwise, you can do an extra loop around the park for me.” I wink at her with a crooked smile.
“Ha, not a chance, Kent!” She laughs and backs up a step into her apartment. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod. “Tomorrow.”
With one final sad smile, she turns and retreats, closing the door behind her. I walk slowly toward the stairs, and my hand ventures up to where her lips touched my cheek.
She meant nothing by it, I tell myself. I know this. It was just a friendly gesture of support. We are friends. That is all.
I reach the door to the stairwell, push it open, and jog up the steps to the roof. I then spin into the suit and launch myself up into the sky. A few laps around the world should ease my nerves a bit. Then I have several hours for patrolling before I’ll head to Moscow.
Moscow. I’m quite familiar with the city. I lived there for two months when I was seventeen. I learned to speak Russian and Ukrainian during my stay, and I studied the modern history of the country before moving on to my next stop at a remote village in northwest Mongolia. But I feel anxious as I consider how to approach the negotiations. The ceasefire in Aleppo and the surrounding region has held, true; however, if I mess this up, they could resume fighting, and many more innocent civilians could die.
I fly at superspeed due west, the Sun shining strongly at my back, and a now familiar voice echoes in my head. I try to ignore it. I should ignore it. After all, he is dead. I saw his death—I felt it. But I hear him now, as clearly as though he were standing right next to me.
“Save my world for me. Stop this war. Please.” I will do my best, Kal. I will do my best.
