Chapter 12: Your Past is Catching up and Closing In
There’s something hanging in the wind.
Your past is catching up and closing in.
You’ve been halfway to hell and back again.
--“Charro”
****
A few weeks went by.
Lois and I kept being partnered on stories. I wasn’t sure if it was mostly Perry White or mostly circumstance that kept pairing us together, but we managed to investigate a few major criminal operations. Somehow or other, we got into danger a few times and would have died if not for some quick thinking on both our parts. As the days went by, however, I began to get more and more agitated about not using my powers—and I felt as if I were seeing criminals at every corner trying to kill Lois . . . . Considering how many people she’d helped put in jail, my paranoia wasn’t necessarily that far off the mark.
It didn’t help with my state of mind that Lois occasionally mentioned her dates with Lex Luthor. I tried hard to dismiss my annoyance, but it was difficult. I couldn’t let go of the thought that there was something wrong with the man. Even though he had been nothing but kind to me on the few occasions I had talked with him, there was something in his eyes and his voice that made me uneasy. How had he climbed so high after being so low, anyway? The circumstances behind his rise were shrouded in mystery. None of his biographies really shed any light on the issue according to Jimmy, and so it remained an unsolved mystery to me.
I was staring at my desk in thought and frowning when a female voice caused me to look up. “So, do you like your new apartment?”
I nodded and gave Lois a grateful smile. “Yes, I do—thank you for that.” One of her contacts had found the apartment for me. It was cheap, which was good, but it had been a real fixer-upper. I had initially tried remodeling it at human speed, but it had been such a chore that I had eventually given up—not wanting to live in such filth for any longer—and remodeled it at extra-human speed, taking care to time my activities on a weekend when I wouldn’t be in contact with anyone, though it meant I had to turn down a request from Jimmy to go to the movies with him.
“He said it was a dump, but I bet it was nothing a little elbow grease couldn’t take care of.”
“Something like that,” I returned, feeling a little guilty. My “elbow grease” had been a little less intense than most people’s.
Her eyes moved away from me, and she sighed, her mind obviously concerned with something else.
“What is it?” I asked her. I was getting better at reading her moods, and I could tell something was wrong.
She turned to me and shrugged. “I guess I’m just annoyed.”
I sat back. “Annoyed? Why?” I braced myself in case it was something I had done.
“It’s the Black Knight . . . . ”
The name made me flinch, and I queried with caution, “What about him?” While the name she had picked out had caught on quickly since he—or, rather, I—hadn’t reappeared, the media frenzy had begun to die out.
She began, “I’m annoyed that the Black Knight—” (I winced again, though I tried to hide it) “—isn’t out doing things to help people. Metropolis needs him. Do you know how high the crime rate is in the city, Kent?”
“Clark,” I reminded her.
“Clark,” she repeated. “He could do so much good.”
I shifted in my chair, trying to hide my discomfort. “But what if he . . . wants to live his own life?” Or what if he was scared to hold ultimate power in his very strong but very fallible hands? I thought. What about the possibilities that constantly haunted me? What if they actually happened? After all, I had simply removed Lois from the transport without asking permission. What was to keep me from exercising control over others like that again?
“It’s selfish of him,” she stated bluntly, taking me aback. “If he really does have these special abilities, then he owes it to the world to use them for good. Take Lex for instance.”
“Lex?” I echoed with a raised brow. Of course this would all somehow come back to him.
“Yes, Lex. He has the gift of money, and he uses it to do a lot of good in the city—he uses it to help people.”
I masked my annoyance. “Maybe people like us are the reason the Black Knight doesn’t want to go public. Maybe he doesn’t want the publicity . . . . Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to reporters.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she proclaimed. “Why wouldn’t he want to talk to me?”
I just rolled my eyes and turned away from her, looking back at the notes on my desk concerning the retirement scandal story I was working on. It was one of my solo pieces, and I was determined for it to be good. Lois could obsess about the Black Knight all she wanted. He wouldn’t be saving anyone ever again.
****
The next week was a slow news week. The Black Knight wasn’t out saving anyone, as I was keeping up my daily exposure to the glowing green meteor rock. I was resolute that I would be putting my black ski mask away forever.
When Perry White came up to my desk, I thought it was to tell me about another story he wanted me and Lois to work on. We had been paired on more and more assignments, and we were beginning to take our partnership for granted, even if the Editor-in-Chief did still give us some individual pieces.
“Hey, Mr. White,” I greeted with a smile. “Something you need?”
“Clark, I think we’re past this by now. It’s ‘Perry’ or ‘Chief,’ all right?”
I nodded. “Right . . . Chief.” It was a little hard for me to refrain from saying “Mr. White”—but he was right that we were past formalities. He wasn’t just an employer any more. He had become—in just a short time—a friend.
His expression turned thoughtful as he turned to the real purpose of his visit to my desk. “You know, son, you’re really good with the, uh, touchy feely stuff, if you know what I mean. That adoption piece you did a few days ago was great stuff.”
“Uh, thanks,” I replied uncomfortably. I didn’t know what he was about to ask me, but I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like where this was going.
The pensive expression remained on his face. “I was, uh, thinkin’ . . . maybe you could write a—well, a letter of sorts for the Planet.”
“A letter, sir—uh, Chief?” I asked, my brow furrowed in confusion.
“Well—a plea for the Black Knight to return.”
The words were innocent enough, but his eyes seemed to be staring into my soul. Nonetheless, his words made me flinch—just as I did every time the name “Black Knight” was mentioned—and I then stiffened. “Chief, I don’t think that’s such a good idea . . . . I mean—how do we even know he reads the Planet? And isn’t he . . . old news?” My last sentence was uttered meekly. I knew if he reappeared he certainly wouldn’t be old news. Still, I wanted to get out of this assignment.
“Chief, let me write it,” came an insistent female voice.
I turned to look at Lois. Evidently, she’d been listening to our conversation. Under other circumstances, my discovery of her eavesdropping might have irked me or at least made me exasperated. This time, however, I was glad. Unfortunately, Perry White wasn’t.
He crossed his arms and gave her a reprimanding glance. “Now, Lois, I didn’t ask for you to do it. I asked Clark to do it.”
“And you heard him say he doesn’t want to do it. I, on the other hand, would be absolutely—”
“Lois, honey, I’m not giving it to you,” the Chief Editor said firmly. He turned to me. “Clark, please come with me to my office.”
Hanging my head like a kid in trouble with the principal, I followed him in and sat down. Meek and somber, I stared at my hands. All the strength in the world wouldn’t be able to extricate me from this situation.
“Now, son, Elvis relied heavily on Colonel Parker’s advice. If the Colonel said, ‘Jump,’ then the King said, ‘From where?’ But there was one big exception to that. You see, when the King went into the movie business, his musical reputation started to plummet. The Comeback Special of 1968 changed all that, though. The Colonel wanted the King to sing only Christmas songs in the show, but the producer, Steve Binder, suggested that he sing his old hits . . . . Now, the King wasn’t one to stand against the Colonel, but he knew this was something he needed to take a stand on, and he told the Colonel he was doing it ‘Binder’s way.’” The Chief Editor tilted his head and lifted his hands. “But at that point, the King had been around the block quite a bit. He had risen high enough that he could make a few calls of his own. Do you, uh, get what I’m sayin’?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered quietly. I wasn’t at the height of my career; I was just starting. And if I wanted to make it big, I had to do what my “Colonel Parker” told me to do. Even if it meant I would be miserable doing it.
“Now, do you have anything to tell me?” he asked.
The question was casual enough, but the gaze he gave me set my heart to pounding. He knows, I couldn’t help but think, though I couldn’t even comprehend how he could know.
Shakily, I told him, “N-no.”
“Uh huh,” he said, still looking at me. “Now, son, I didn’t become editor of this newspaper just because I can yodel. I’ve noticed that you jump every time the Black Knight is mentioned.”
I couldn’t help it; I flinched again.
“Is there something you’ve done that you regret, Clark? Or maybe there’s something you know that I need to know?”
I forced myself to meet his eyes with my own. Taking a deep breath, I told him firmly, “I will write the plea to . . . the Black Knight.”
He nodded, and as I left his office, my mind was reeling. I wasn’t sure what he knew or what he suspected—and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. It was certainly feasible that a man like him could put the pieces together—my reaction to the term “Black Knight,” the reluctance I expressed when asked to write about him, and the fact that Lois had been removed from the colonist transport . . . . It wasn’t a complicated puzzle for a newspaper man like Perry White.
But that just made it all the more important that the Black Knight never show his face again.
As I went to my computer, I couldn’t help but notice that Lois was sulking. It might have been amusing if it weren’t for the fact that I was dreading the piece before me. As it was, however, I was on edge. I didn’t want to do this.
I sat and stared at the screen, tapping my finger against the down arrow on the keyboard nervously. I was going to have to think about the good aspects of my persona if I was going to be able to make this piece into what the Editor-in-Chief wanted—and thinking about the good of that alternate ego was something I was continually fighting against. But I was stuck between the metaphorical rock and a hard place.
Not certain what the final product was to look like, I began writing a header:
TO THE BLACK KNIGHT:
METROPOLIS NEEDS YOU
What a joke that was. Metropolis had gotten along fine for years without a vigilante’s meddling. What made now any different?
I sighed. This wasn’t the way to get this done. I had to just plunge in. Still, I changed the header:
A CRY FOR HELP:
BLACK KNIGHT, WHERE ARE YOU?
Trying not to think about the irony of my being the person to write that question, I continued typing:
We do not know all you can do, but speed, flight, and strength seem to be your allies. Do you know how much good you could do with those abilities?
As much good as bad, I reflected. I could just as easily hurt people as help them—hurting people would be easier, actually. And the notion of someone’s controlling me was enough to make me feel sick to my stomach . . . .
I swallowed and thought back to what Lois had said. Was it selfish of me not to use my powers for good? Was Lois right?
Feeling off balance, I returned to my article and wrote:
You could stop a runaway train with your bare hands or take a gun away from a criminal before he had a chance to use it. The crime rates in a city like Metropolis are astronomical. You could serve as a beacon of hope shining in the darkness. You could prove to the people of Metropolis that one person can make a difference.
I worked on the article for a while. The process disturbed me, as it made me confront everything I was mentally arguing against, but I wanted to prove myself to Perry White. The final version looked somewhat different from those first few bits I had written, but the heart of it remained. I continued my plea for me—or the Black Knight side of me, anyway—to return and make a difference in the lives of others.
I was staring at the letter and trying to determine whether I should change a few sentences when the Chief Editor came and stood in front of Lois’s and my desks. My desk had been moved closer to Lois because of our constantly renewing partnership, so he was able to talk to both of us without yelling (though I wasn’t quite sure Perry White knew how to talk in a quiet voice unless an Elvis yarn was involved that required it).
He threw a fancy invitation down next to Lois’s monitor. “Lois, Clark, I want you two to go to the Magic of the Night Ball tonight to cover it for the society section.”
“Perry, no,” Lois protested in disgust.
“Chief, isn’t there someone else who can do it?” I asked.
The Editor-in-Chief frowned. “What’s that I hear? ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir’? Surely that’s what I’m hearing. I couldn’t possibly be hearing two of my reporters tell me ‘no.’”
“Perry, you know I don’t like magic,” Lois insisted.
“Neither do I,” I chimed in.
“Well, tough. You’re both going to have to come up with a better excuse than that. I’m your commander, and I command you to go. It’s that simple.”
Lois made one last attempt. “Couldn’t you get Ralph to do it?”
“Lo-is,” he said warningly.
“Fine, Chief. But you’d better remember this come promotion time.”
I wasn’t sure whether to smirk or grimace, so instead I just sighed. I hated magic.
****
Lois and I went to the Magic of the Night Ball with Jimmy, who was excited to have a night out away from the Planet. Lois and I weren’t happy about going to the show, but we weren’t about to disobey Perry White’s direct order. In investigative journalism, a reporter had to choose certain battles with the boss—and avoiding a magic show wasn’t a fight worth risking a career over.
Fliers outside the Magic Club proclaimed the magnificence of the event and gave details of the buildings’ creators, whereas the atmosphere of the building’s interior was simply brimming with magic. Once, I had relished the thought of magicians and hypnotists and illusionists; now, I dreaded them all.
Much to Jimmy’s disappointment, we sat at a table as far back from the stage as we could get. Lois was vocal in declaring her hatred of magic, but I mostly remained stiff and tightlipped. Poor Jimmy kept trying to counter Lois’s anti-magic arguments, but he wasn’t able to gain any ground in convincing her that magic had any benefits. I certainly wasn’t about to help him out.
After the passing of just a few acts, I was more than ready to leave, but I held my tongue and remained seated. When it was announced that the “greatest illusionist alive” was about to come onto the stage, I just became even more uncomfortable. It was bad enough to have to sit through mediocre magicians—to see one actually worth his mettle was even more nerve wracking.
“An illusionist,” Lois repeated in disgust, “as in someone who tries to trick people into believing that something that isn’t real is real.”
“That’s part of the fun,” Jimmy insisted, though both Lois and I ignored him.
I tilted my head and looked at Lois as I realized something. “You don’t like magic because you don’t know how it works.” Her lack of a response simply made me more confident. “You can’t stand the thought of not knowing, can you?”
“Don’t you find it a little bothersome that these people get paid to try to trick people?” she whispered back furiously. Darren Ronick, the so-called “greatest illusionist alive,” was paying a lot of attention to audience members, and she was trying not to catch his attention.
“That’s . . . not exactly what bothers me,” I answered hesitatingly. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I couldn’t tell the truth. I was about to formulate a plan for a change in subject when Darren Ronick called for the “lovely Constance” to come up on stage. My head shot up, and I watched as she walked on.
Her hair was just as blonde as when I had seen it last, though her outfit—all glamour and feathers—left much to be desired. But I wasn’t concentrating on her body. I was concentrating on controlling the urge to flee. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized she was living in Metropolis.
Our eyes met across the crowded room, and she faltered. It was barely perceptible, but there was a small hitch in her step. She continued on with her act, however, without returning her eyes to me. It was just as well, for it took me the rest of the act to calm my heartbeat down to normal levels.
When Darren Ronick was finished, I immediately stood to leave, but Lois asked me, “Clark—what are you doing? We still have another act to watch.”
“Lois . . . ” I hesitated. My eyes flicked toward the exit and then back toward her. “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Is something wrong?” she queried, rising so she could see me better.
“Clark,” a quiet voice said from behind me.
It was all I could do to keep from cursing. Reining my emotions in, I slowly turned to look at Constance.
Her expression told me all I needed to know. I felt a vice grip on my heart. I needed to go.
“I’m so glad to see you, Clark,” she told me with the utmost softness. She reached a hand out, moving it toward me—
“Don’t touch me,” I growled abruptly.
Constance jumped in surprise at my vitriol, and Lois stepped forward. “He doesn’t like to touch people,” she explained, giving me a confused look. “You’ll have to forgive him.” What she didn’t realize was that I didn’t want Constance’s forgiveness.
“I’m so sorry, Clark,” Constance whispered.
My mouth a thin line, I told her, “Forget about it.” I moved away from her, approaching the exit.
“Clark, please don’t go,” she pleaded, following me. “Clark—I love you.”
I just shook my head and continued walking. I needed to get away from her.
But she rushed up to me. “Clark, I promise you didn’t do it. I was the one who did it . . . . I was going to make you do it—but I just couldn’t . . . . Clark, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’ve missed you so much.” She began to tug at my arm, but I slowly removed her fingers from me and walked away.
Perhaps her words should have given me the comfort she thought they would. But I couldn’t let myself trust anything she said, and I paused in the doorway to tell her, “I never want to see you again.”
I just barely heard her whisper my name before I left the room.
Outside the Magic Club, I allowed myself to halt my flight. I stood on the sidewalk, looking at nothing, and trembled with emotion. I felt so many things at once I could almost burst.
I desperately needed to be alone, but Lois had followed me outside. “What just happened?” she demanded. When I didn’t respond, she tried a softer approach. “Is she the reason you don’t like to touch people?”
I should have just said nothing; I didn’t owe Lois any explanations. But instead, I told her, “She’s only part of the reason.”
And then I hailed a taxi and refused to say anything more to her than, “Goodbye, Lois. Tell Jimmy good night.”
****
That night in my apartment, I took the green shard out of my locket with my bare hands and clenched it in my fist for about a minute, my face strained with pain, before I put the shard back in the locket and flung both on to the floor.
Then I went to my bed and cried.
