Hi All
Previously on Recollections of the Heart...
Rachel’s radio interrupted them. She hugged both Martha and Clark and left, promising she would come back the next morning. Clark remained there, pleading in vain that his mom should home and let him stay overnight. After the second dismissal, Clark, Lois and old Wayne left the hospital to the small parking lot in front of it. There, Clark lowered his glasses for a final glance over the walls of the building where he saw his mom being conducted by Dr Jenkins into the IC unit. :::>Chapter 3<::: As they drove in silence closer to the farm, Clark’s memories of that path flourished. Like in a dream, he saw himself years ago.
// A boy running through the corn crop with thick oversized black rims taped on the right side. The glasses were resting on his father’s lap when he picked them and ran away. Now, he was being chased under the bright hot sun of Kansas by a smiley younger Jonathan who would not give up yelling to his son he would catch him sooner or later for getting his glasses - despite the fact that his son was much faster and sneakier than him.
The boy ducked furtively, using the tall corn stems to hide his skinny figure and wait for the moment to surprise his dad. He was anticipating his father would come from the right and that he could use his strategic position to play a trick on him before running home to his mother who he could hear from far away, calling for lunch.
What was for lunch? From the smell of it he could tell they would have his favorite – corn on the cob with melted butter. Gosh, how he loved Saturdays when his mom would ask him in the morning what he would like for lunch. For dinner, they would go to Maisies’ for those famous super hamburgers packed with flavors and smells that nowhere else in the world had. They would come home after their feast and light the fireplace. His father would tell him old folk tales with him on his lap and his mom would fix them hot cocoa with a wood stove flame licked marshmallow on top.
“Gotcha!” his father tagged him on the shoulder, making him leap and yelp.
Both laughed hard, rolling on the glass. Clark was so busy planning his Saturday that he did not see his father coming from the left. He could have acute senses but never could he underestimate one’s intelligence or their ability to flip the table. Best was to always be prepared. “Can I keep them, dad? Please?” the boy touched the thick rims on his face on the taped part. “They’re old and broken and I know you have a new pair at home,” he reminded his father, hoping he had said enough to keep it.
“Clark, listen to me. Just because something is old, it does _not_ mean it has no value. Do you understand that?” his dad asked kindly. With a puppy faced nod from his boy, he pondered. “And so it seems they do have some value to you.”
“They remind me of you. Make me look like you even when I know… I’m different.” The boy lowered his eyes.
His father stood up, his face stern. He offered his son an extended arm to prop him up from the grass and pulled him to a tight embrace. “You’re not different from anyone. You’re my son.” He brought his strong and assuring arm around young Clark and both father and son walked the trail side by side in the corn crop towards the farm. From that day on, the boy kept rims on as a constant reminder of that day. //
The lights of his memory soon faded to darkness once again as Wayne’s truck pulled over in front of the farm entrance. As if on autopilot, Clark quickly ventured through the darkness and entered the old house, climbing up the stairs, flicking on the light without success. He could vaguely remember Wayne saying something about the power being out due to the thunderstorms of the previous day. He opened his mom’s first drawer and grabbed the first pairs clothes he could find. Flying down the stairs, he fetched an oil lamp from a bookshelf and arrived back to the entrance before Lois’ eyes even adjusted to the darkness. He lit and handed Lois the oil lamp and gave the old man a small knitted bag. “Wayne, tell her to call if anything happens, please.”
Wayne Irig nodded, waving both goodnight. Lois and Clark silently watched him drive into the darkness of that cloudy night. Clark had Lois standing behind him, holding the oil lamp and illuminating the entrance of the farm. Behind Lois the house stood dark and still, and he knew he needed to go inside but he couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at both house and Lois. Instead he touched the gate that started everything. It was still hanging loose on the grass, resting against the fence, and waiting to be fixed. His father had left his tools scattered around. Under Lois’ steadfast observation, Clark knelt on the grass and saw the hammer, some nails and a brand new pair of joints that would replace the old ones. On the grass one of the old joints of the porch stood alone, obscured by the dark. He picked both new and old joints together and compared them aloud, murmuring his father’s words. “Just because something is old it does –not –mean it has no value.”
Lois could only watch him as he stuffed his pocket with the old joint and fetched the hammer. Slowly, he started to pick out the old rusty nails of the porch. Coming closer and still holding the oil lamp, she knew in her heart that fixing that porch was somehow penitence and redemption to Clark’s mind and that was something he just had to do. It would take him some time to do it but she would stand there quietly and watchful. The only thing she could hope for was to somehow bring light and warmth to the darkness.
:::><:::
Clark’s eyes flicked open at the faintest sound of the morning birds. After fixing the entrance gate the night before, he could only recollect that Lois had fixed sandwiches for both of them and clumsily attended Clark’s request for hot cocoa. His cup was still close to his feet, beside the sofa, half full. When he saw it, he could remember how heavy his eyelids felt when he finally finished the repair, came inside with Lois, lit the fireplace, and helped himself to the hot liquid comfort, engaging into conversation for what it felt like a minute before his senses succumbed.
Beside him, lay Lois. She was still asleep, wrapped in a knitted throw and wearing the same large sweats she had on the day before. Poor Lois; she must be exhausted from all the running around and emotional strain they had been through, not to mention, pulling an all-nighter by his side while he fixed the old porch. He could only be grateful for fixing things between them on time and that they were back to being friends. A faint snore brought him to his senses and he walked up the stairs into his room and opened his closet; she had left her brown dotted dress behind, probably thinking it would never come in fashion in Metropolis. His mom had washed it and placed it on a hanger, hoping one day she would come back and wear it. His mom was always right, he grinned.
After showering and changing, Clark came down to the living room where his heavy steps woke Lois up. “What time is it?” he heard her mumble. She looked like she could use another couple of hours to catch up with some sleep.
“It’s very early, Lois. Stay here and rest a little more,” he suggested, grabbing his old man’s truck keys and heading to the door.
“Don’t be silly,” she grouched, standing up. “I’m fully awake.” Her feet tangled in the throw, and she would have fallen to the wood flooring had he not been fast enough to catch her. “Or maybe not,” she replied, embarrassed.
Clark smiled and helped her untangle. “Why don’t you just go to my room and get some sleep. No offense, but you really look flushed.”
“So do you, but you’re going anyway, aren’t you?” she argued, crossing her arms in front of her body, defiantly.
The fine line between Lois’ aggravation and her wrath was looming on the horizon and he decided not to take the ride there. “Fine, Lois. So use the bathroom upstairs in my room, take a quick hot shower and change into… something else, I’ll just make a strong coffee while I wait for you.”
Before he could change his mind, Lois rushed up into his room. On his bed, the brown dotted dress was neatly folded together with a pair of boots she had left on her previous visit to Smallville. Touched by Clark’s gesture, she sat down and carefully patted the brown fabric; it reminded her of the time she spent there with Clark and his family and how she had secretly loved it. Never had she had so much fun with someone and felt like she could finally let her hair down for a few days. Although on an assignment, she had to admit the couple of days she stayed there were the best ‘vacation’ she had in years. She still remembered from time to time that silly corn festival when Clark had won that little bear for her.
// “All right, Clark. Make this a day to remember.” She handed the barker a ticket.
So he tried and failed, but he did not give up. He dug into his pocket and handed the man another ticket. “Again,” he said, hitting it once more. And “Again” and “Again” until he finally made the bell ring to ‘Superman’ level.
When the barker held the two options, a Superman doll and the little Teddy bear, her first instinct was to take the first one, but she realized the bear was just simpler. The Superman doll was stiff and unattractive whereas the bear was cute and huggable. When she saw Clark rolling his eyes, sure she would choose her always-fancied idol over the little cuddly bear, she opted for the other. She hugged her bear tight and, since that day, she always kept him close to her in bed.
“You know, Clark, I've never seen you so... I don't know... so relaxed... so 'Clark.'” She placed a friendly arm around him.
“Well, that's who I am. Clark.” He grinned their way to the corn husking competition. //
She exhaled deeply. He was Clark, the soft, huggable, comforting teddy. Superman was just like his doll – stiff. Sure she knew he had feelings for her and he was always very polite and kind to her, but why did he have to be always so uptight? Couldn’t he loosen up a little like Clark sometimes? She looked down to the dress again and realized each of them had kept souvenirs from those days – she the bear and Clark her dress. Hadn’t she brought it with her to Metropolis? Oh, of what use would that be? Although she had to admit they were pretty damn comfortable, she couldn’t bring herself to wear those country clothes or boots in Metropolis and break her businesswoman reputation.
“Always a slave of expectation,” she acknowledged.
Lois brought the dress close to her face and up to her nose; it bore her perfume but it was now laced unmistakably with Clark’s cologne. She closed her eyes, grinning and letting only her sense of smell work. The resulting essence was addictive, she was sure, and reluctantly she brought herself up and to the bathroom for a cold shower instead.
While Clark waited for her downstairs, he fixed them each a sandwich and a cup of cold buttermilk. He sat down around the kitchen table and just stared at the cup. The memories of what it meant made him gulp it down.
// “Nothing like buttermilk for what ails you, uh?” His young and cheerful father patted a rather disappointed young Clark on the back. He had just lost a football match at school and was really upset. He wished he could show everyone his real talents but instead he always had to hold back and hope he did not to hurt anyone by the end of the game.
“I lost, Dad. Even though I could have won.” He whined and bitterly thanked his mom for another helping of buttermilk.
“And… does that make you feel like a loser?” his son’s eyes filled with tears as he continued. “Son, you don’t need to win all the time to be a winner in life. Hang on…” he said standing up and leaving the kitchen for a minute. When he came back he had a book in his hands, flicking through the pages, trying to find the right one. “Here, Clark. My father gave this book to me when I was about your age. It’s rather long, but would you care to read this poem for us?”
The young boy lowered his cup and got the book from his father hands. The page he had marked was smudged on the corners and Clark was sure his dad had read it far too many times. He glanced at the first line of many he would have to read and looked up to his dad for reassurance. When his old man smiled tenderly, he started.
“If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you; if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too: if you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, or being hated don't give way to hating, and yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise…” With each line he read aloud a teardrop fell warm down his cheeks, washing away the pain he had felt.
His voice trailed off and his father took the book from his shaky hands and continued. “If you can dream - and not make dreams your master, if you can think - and not make thoughts your aim, if you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same, if you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;”
Admiring her family’s recitation of one of her favorite Kipplings, Martha breathed softly and interrupted her husband with the next strophe. “If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose, and start again at your beginnings, and never breathe a word about your loss, if you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"”
Looking confident, the young Clark smiled and retrieved the book from his father and carried on sole. “If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, if all men count with you, but none too much, if you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, and - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!”
The young boy started sobbing by the last two lines of the poem. His parents rushed to his side and hugged him close. His tears were not of sadness, he assured his old folks. He cried of happiness and gratitude for such a wonderful welcoming family and swore to his father one day he would stand up for it and make each line come true.
“Just be yourself, boy. The rest will gradually come.” His father dried his own tears. //
The sound of Lois’ steps arriving in the kitchen made Clark shift abruptly to reality. His older eyes were now once again filled with tears from that memory as he gulped down his buttermilk. She arrived far too soon, leaving him almost no time to dry his unstoppable tearing. Not knowing what to do, Clark swung his way up and hurried to the sink across the kitchen, placing the used cup in it. “I… didn’t hear you coming.”
Lois’ heart crumbled into pieces. To know Clark was in deep distress was one thing, but to see him actually weeping over it was heartbreaking. He was so vulnerable she could barely recognize the strong rational man he had always been since they met. He was her safe port, yet she had to admit that even a firm man like Clark could have his weaknesses as well. Funnily enough, she never saw him as a weak man even when comparing him to Superman. Both were equally strong willed and just and their powerful image was just obscured by Clark’s constant modesty, she thought. The fact was that both played key roles in her life. *Stop this, Lois. Why, every time you think about Clark, do you have to compare him to Superman?* She mentally kicked herself. “I’m ready to go.” She sipped on her buttermilk cup and bit the fixed sandwich on the table, trying to act as if she hadn’t noticed his emotional breakdown. It was best not to touch the wounds, she thought.
Grateful for her not digging this one too deep, Clark turned and grabbed the truck keys from the kitchen table. “Okay. Let’s go.”
TBC.
