81
You okay with this, yes?” Mitchell Siegel asked in his heavily accented English.
His youngest son, Jerome, sat on the radiator, his foot anxiously tapping the floor, his eyes locked on the thick, oversize Bible that rested like a cinder block in his lap. He was a restless, gangly kid with a weak, pointy jaw, a bush-top of thick black hair, and oversize glasses that came off only at bedtime, during showers, and for yearbook photos.
“I can’t, Pop. This is yours.”
“And now yours,” Mitchell insisted, his big voice bellowing from his big body.
Jerry was tempted to argue, but the truth was, he didn’t want his father to take the book back.
“You keep it, then, yes?”
Jerry nodded, brushing his fingertips along the fine, tan leather. Smooth as skin. “Can I just ask you . . . the object inside—”
“The totem,” his father said.
“The totem inside,” Jerry repeated, his foot still tapping as his knee rocked the book like a seesaw. “Do you even know what it is?”
Mitchell’s eyes went dark. “You think that matter!? All that matter is men gave lives for it. Men died for it, Jerome!” Mitchell cut himself off, thinking back to how his own father used to raise his voice. He took a heavy breath through his nose. “Is your gift now, Jerome. Yours to protect.”
Shifting his weight on the radiator, Jerry glanced over his shoulder and stared out the second-story window, where his two older brothers played skully in the street. “Why didn’t you give it to Harry or Leo—or even Minerva?” Jerry said, referring to his older sister. “I mean, I’m the smallest.”
Standing over his youngest son, Mitchell knew Jerry was right. Of his six children, Jerry
Just as Mitchell used to back in Lithuania when he was the same age.
“You argue with your father? Show respect!” his dad insisted, seizing Jerry’s shoulder in his meaty mitt.
Still staring outside, Jerry nodded, knowing better than to fight.
For an instant, his father’s grip softened and Jerry thought his dad was about to say something else.
But he never did.
In a slow, heavy shuffle—Jerry always thought he was hiding a limp—Mitchell Siegel headed for the door.
“Oh, say, Pop—can I ask one last thing?”
His father turned, framed by the threshold.
“What you said about those men—the ones in the cave, with the cloaks and the blood and the—”
“What’s your question, Jerome?”
Jerry looked at his father. “They tried to kill you, didn’t they?”
Mitchell didn’t say anything.
“What if they try again?” Jerry asked, his foot tapping faster than ever.
“They won’t,” Mitchell promised. “They can’t. There is no way they know where I am.”
Jerry nodded as though he understood. “But still . . . when you were there . . . do you really think they were trying to create some kind of monster?”
“Jerome, this was long time ago. Nothing to worry about today.”
“I’m not worried. I—” Jerry put aside the book. His eyebrows furrowed. “It’s just, well . . . if someone really could do magic or summon something or build whatever Aryan creature those men were building . . .” He tilted his head slightly, and the streaming outdoor sun made him look like a little boy. “I don’t know, Pop. Couldn’t it also be done for good instead?”
82
The word
Nietzsche’s Ubermensch and George Bernard Shaw’s
But it was Hitler, stating he wanted a nation of “supermen,” that gave the term its popularity.
—Maltz Museum brochure
You look scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I tell Serena as I grip the steering wheel of our rental car, which is parked at the end of the wide cul-de-sac. “I’m just nervous.”
“About this—or you still thinking about your father?”
I pause for a second too long. “About this.”
In the passenger seat, Serena tucks her legs into an Indian-style position, never taking her eyes off me. “If it makes you feel better about it, Cal, your dad—”
“Please don’t give me a Buddha quote right now. Can’t I just worry I’m being too easy on him?”
“Maybe you are,” she admits. “But just remember—”
“I said no Buddha.”
“No Buddha. Just listen: When baby Superman gets rocketed to the planet Earth and his real parents die on Krypton, he lands here and gets two new flawless parents who treat him perfect as can be.”
“So?”
“So that’s just a comic book. Real life has much more complicated endings. And beginnings.”
“And that’s it? Now I’m supposed to feel better? Or just forgive him? Or not second-guess myself for potentially inviting him back into my life?”
She turns to me, her yellow blue eyes trying to absorb whatever pain and regret she thinks I’m feeling. She’s not my girlfriend. I know she’s not. But there’s no denying the fact that throughout this whole mess, she’s the one clear reminder, even with all the hokey self-help quotes, that not everything carries freight with it.
“Cal, the soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”
I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.
“That was Buddha, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Native American. Minquass tribe.”
I nod, still gripping the steering wheel. I fight for my clients every day, and I always will. It’s nice to finally feel someone fighting for me. “Have I thanked you for coming here?”
“Over nine times. You still nervous?”
I stare over her shoulder at our destination: the three-story, beige-and-white apartment building with the odd flock of pelicans nesting on top.
“Terrified,” I tell her.
“That’s why you need to go. Without me. You’re the one who needs to know, Cal.”
She’s right about that.
As I nudge open the car door and step outside, the California sun salutes me. I hear the squawks of pelicans and a boat horn in the distance. We’re not far from the marina.
“Take your time. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Serena calls out, already pulling away. She’s worried if she waits around, I might back out. She’s right.
Behind me, I hear the car take off and disappear.
Following the concrete path and counting door numbers, I make my way to the back of the older, three-story apartment building, where, just past a set of open jalousie windows, there’s a coral-colored door with four different locks. I hear an old Dean Martin song playing inside. Just below the doorbell is the name:
