life?”
I don’t have to turn around to know my dad’s watching me.
“What about Jerry’s father?” Serena interrupts, sounding far more interested than I expected. “Any idea how he died?”
“I thought it was . . . maybe a heart attack?” Johnsel guesses. I don’t bother correcting him. “I think Jerry was in high school.”
“Is that when he made
“That’s— Hoooo— Where’d you get an attic copy?” Johnsel asks.
“A what?” I ask.
“Those copies—with the—” He glances down at the typed message on the wax paper. “And you got one with an address,” he says. “Hoooo, this’s— You know what this’s worth?”
My father shakes his head.
“Last I heard, when the movie came out . . . something like 1.2 million,” Johnsel says.
I stay silent.
“Cal, maybe we were wrong,” my dad says. “Maybe it’s the comic that they wanted instead of the—” He cuts himself off, watching me carefully.
“You knew,” he adds. “You knew how much it was worth.”
He’s right. I had Roosevelt look it up before we left.
“Why didn’t you say something?” my dad asks.
Again, I’m silent.
“What? You thought I’d swipe it from you? You really think I’m that much of an animal?”
For a moment, I close my eyes and try not to picture the fact that my dad knew about the coffin key. Or which block this house was on. Or that we should even come here in the first place.
“Let’s just focus on what’s important,” I tell my dad, and turn back to Johnsel. I hold up the comic. “Sorry, you were about to tell us what this is.”
“Already did: It’s an attic copy,” Johnsel replies. “Just like it sounds, one of his personal copies from the attic.” Seeing we’re lost, he quickly adds, “
“We gathered that part,” I tell him.
“Then you also know how rare they are. Less than a hundred copies still exist—and of those, most of them are beaten and torn, because back then, who knew to save them? Well, I’ll tell you who: the young kid who was so darn thrilled to see his creation in print.”
I stare at the tiny room with the torn-away ceiling and try to imagine the teenage boy sitting up in bed. “Jerry Siegel.”
“Why not, right? When each comic came out, the publisher used to send a few free copies to all the writers and artists who worked on it. Again, most would give ’em away or do whatever with ’em. Even Joe Shuster—the Superman artist and co-creator—never kept ’em.”
“But Jerry Siegel saved them.”
“He did save them—even preserved them in his own makeshift wax-paper sleeve. But more important—Jerry Siegel
“But the comics stayed here,” I surmise.
“With Jerry’s mother. The owners before me said they bought it from the Siegel family when his mom died in the early forties. Skip forward a few years later when they eventually start crawling through the attic, and look what’s there—tucked away where no one would find them—half a dozen pristine copies of some old Superman comic . . .”
“They didn’t even know what they found, did they?” my father asks.
“. . . which they quickly sold at a garage sale for something like a buck or two apiece, thereby scattering these attic editions back into the population—”
“And kicking off the ultimate geek gold rush for Jerry Siegel’s so-called personal copies,” I say, running my fingers across the melted edges of the wax paper and rereading the typed address in the bottom corner. I know it’s worth $1.2 million. And sure, people kill for much less than that. But that haunting look in Ellis’s eyes. All this talk of Cain. There’s still no way this is just about a comic.
Across from me, Johnsel rolls up the arms of his sweater and stares out the double-square windows. As if he’s looking for someone.
Oh, Lord. If he’s stalling us . . .
“I think we should go,” I insist.
“No,” my dad says. “This comic— The address said to come here.”
“Just what are you boys looking for?” Johnsel asks, confused.
“Mr. Johnsel, is this it back here?” a voice calls out behind us.
Following the question, we spin around to see Serena outside the room, standing at the landing at the top of the stairs. She’s got a single finger pointed upward.
“That’s the one,” Johnsel replies as we join her on the landing and raise our chins up toward the unfinished wooden square that’s set into the ceiling. I didn’t even see it at first. The entrance to the attic.
Serena keeps staring at it. “Think there’s anything left?” she asks.
“Hoooo—you’re dreaming big dreams now,” Johnsel says, laughing.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” she teases, smart enough to keep it nice. “Maybe there’s something still up there.”
Again, Johnsel laughs. “It’s been over sixty years—plus all the people that picked through it before we got here. Trust me, there ain’t nothin’—”
“When was the last time you were up there?” Serena interrupts.
Johnsel cocks his head, confused. “When we first moved in. Why would I wanna go again?”
“Wait. Hold on,” I say. “You haven’t been up there since you first moved in? When was that?”
“Not that long. We came in . . .” He thinks for a moment. “1972.”
If I had water in my mouth, I’d do the full spit shot.
“Okay,” my dad says. “We need a ladder.”
43
First time flying?” a young woman with a pencil-point chin asked from her seat next to him.
Ellis stared downward at the floor of the airplane, his fingers wedged above his closed tray table. But he didn’t answer.
“Sir, you okay?”
Again, Ellis stared at the floor. He was at the window; she was on the aisle.
“You need to throw up?” the woman asked, rifling through the seat pocket. “There’s a bag right—”
“Y’hear that?” Ellis asked.
The woman looked at him, confused. “You’re really gonna throw up, aren’t you?”
“You don’t hear that sound? Like a high-pitched whimper. Y’know, like a dog?”
At that, the woman raised an eyebrow and lowered her sharp chin. Ellis was still staring at the floor of the plane. “Ohh . . . you have a puppy down there, don’t you?” she asked, motioning downward as if she were pointing through the floor to the cargo hold.
“There it is again!” Ellis insisted.
“Sweetie, I got a mopey cocker spaniel at home. Every time I take her on the plane, I swear I hear her crying for me. And then someone’s kind enough to tell me I’m just being nuts.”
