Hero

by Mike Lupica

  He followed Kate at a distance, wondering where the girl who could sleep until noon if you let her was going to so early. He figured the mystery was solved when she went into Starbucks and emerged a few minutes later with a giant cup of what he knew had to be hot chocolate. He waited for her to turn back home.

  Only, she didn’t.

  And now Zach wondered if he was developing a sixth sense. Because he knew exactly where she was going.

  Like she was the one who needed to test herself in the park, the way he had.

  He stayed a block behind and out of sight, watched her cut into the park past the Met, watched her go up the steps and take a left, walking toward the maintenance building. Zach kept his eyes on her, was ready to dart off the path a couple of times when she’d stopped and looked behind her. She almost caught him once, so he started jogging in the other direction.

  When he looked back, he saw that Kate was no longer alone.

  And even from a couple of hundred yards away, Zach could see who was with her on the track.

  He saw the guy pulling Kate by her hood and was sure he could hear her silent scream.

  And Zach Harriman was on the move.

  20

  KNIT Cap never even saw Zach coming.

  Zach grabbed him from behind with a fistful of his black windbreaker.

  Before he had a chance to lay a hand on Kate.

  Kate watched Zach the way someone watches fire-works on the Fourth of July.

  Zach couldn’t believe that Knit Cap had come back here, that he was enough of an idiot to think he could get away with messing with Kate.

  His problem, not mine, Zach thought.

  He lifted Knit Cap off the ground, a little surprised at how easy it was, how light the guy felt to him. Then Zach launched him through the air in almost the same motion, like the guys picking up trash in front of his building tossed bags into the back of the truck.

  Knit Cap landed hard in the grass.

  Sweet.

  “Stay out of the way,” Zach said to Kate.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said.

  The guy tried to roll up into a sitting position, trying to get up, to fight back. He couldn’t.

  “Enough,” he said.

  “That’s my line,” Zach said. “You come near her again, even think about putting your hands near her again, it will be much worse.”

  Zach knelt down in front of him now. He grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him close and said, “Why are you doing this?”

  Knit Cap was breathing hard, no expression on his face, eyes on Zach.

  “I said, why do you keep doing this? What do you want from me?”

  Nothing.

  Zach shouted at him now. “Who sent you?”

  Knit Cap finally spoke. “You’re not asking the right questions, kid. At least your father asked the right questions.”

  Zach shook the guy now, snapping his head back.

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “A lot, Zacman,” he said, finishing with the type of smug grin Zach was used to seeing from Spence.

  Zach felt like he’d been punched.

  Another person who knew that name.

  “Now what do you say you let me go?”

  “Not until you tell me what I want to know,” Zach said.

  Knit Cap grinned again. “You are like him in one way, I have to say that. Neither of you knows what he doesn’t know. Or, in his case, didn’t know.”

  Zach pictured himself knocking the smile off the guy’s face. Forced himself to breathe before he spoke.

  “Again,” he said, “ what do you know about my father?”

  “Like I said—a lot. But I’m not the one to tell you, kid, no matter how much you bounce me around.”

  And in that moment, Zach knew the guy was telling him the truth, at least about that.

  He gave him one more shove, unclenched his fists—when was the last time they hadn’t been clenched?—and let him go.

  Zach stood up first.

  The guy’s grin was back.

  “You gotta chill, Zacman.”

  “Don’t! Don’t call me that.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Even on that you gotta chill. You did good today. Better than I expected.”

  Then he stood, turned and ran down the track. In a matter of seconds he was gone again, disappeared.

  Kate was standing next to Zach now.

  “You let him go,” she said.

  “He’ll be back,” Zach answered.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  21

  AS winter made the turn toward spring in New York City, Zach’s mom began to spend more time with Uncle John.

  Zach kept finding out more and more about his new self, testing the range of his powers whenever he could. As he did so, he saw his mom finally turning into her old self.

  First it was dinner out at a restaurant. Then a Broadway show opening. Then there was a trip to the movies, over on 86th Street, which turned into a weekly event for her and Uncle John.

  One time they were coming in just as Zach was preparing to sneak past the night doorman again and patrol the city for a couple of hours, and he’d had to scramble back into his bed.

  Finally, one night, his mom downstairs waiting for Uncle John to pick her up, Zach used the D word on her.

  “What time is your date?” he asked.

  She laughed, but in the high-pitched way she did when she was nervous or embarrassed.

  “A date? With John Marshall? Stop your crazy talk.”

  He grinned, letting her know he was playing. “Okay, if it’s not a date, what would you call it?”

  “It’s dinner, mister. With maybe some coffee afterward.”

  “Well, then, I guess what I’m really asking here is the difference between a date with somebody and going out to dinner, including coffee afterward, with the same somebody.”

  “It’s been too long since my last date—with your father, I might add—for me to even remember dating. This is dinner. With your Uncle John.”

  They were on the long couch in the living room.

  “Hey,” she said. “This isn’t bothering you, is it? Me getting out of the house a little for something other than the campaign?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “Your Uncle John isn’t just a good friend. He’s practically family.”

  “Mom, you think I don’t know that?”

  “He was like a brother to your father.”

  “A band of brothers, Dad always said. Even though there were only two guys in the band.”

  She slid down the couch, put an arm around him, kissed him on top of his head.

  “I know you were just kidding,” she said. “But the thing you were kidding about? It’s not like that between John and me. Not now, not ever. Not happening.”

  Zach wondered if Uncle John would have answered the same way.

  And his mom, being a mom, must have mentioned their conversation to Uncle John, because the next Saturday morning when Zach came down for breakfast, Uncle John was sitting in the kitchen waiting for him.

  He was in jeans, sneakers and his favorite Red Sox sweatshirt. It had always been a fun competition between Zach’s dad and Uncle John. Tom Harriman bled the dark blue of Yankee pinstripes. Uncle John had grown up outside of Boston and was a Red Sox fan. It was probably the only thing they’d ever disagreed on.

  “Get dressed,” Uncle John said. “We’re going to do something we haven’t done in way too long.”

  “What?”

  “Young Zachary, you and I are going to have ourselves a good old-fashioned knock-around day.”

  Zach rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “With you wearing a Red Sox sweatshirt around New York? Yeah, we’re gonna get knocked around all right.”

  “Talk, talk, talk. More dressing, less talking. Adventures await.”

  Zach’s first knock-around day with
Uncle John was four years ago, when Uncle John saw how much Zach had been missing his dad. Over the years they’d kept up the tradition—always when Zach’s dad was away. The rules were simple: Zach could go anywhere in the city he wanted, sometimes three or four stops before they were through. But he could only pick out one at a time. No itinerary. No game plan. They would just make up a Saturday or Sunday as they went along. Sometimes they’d have a car and a driver, sometimes they’d take cabs, sometimes they’d use the subway.

  Always, though, it was big bangin’ fun.

  They ate a lot of junk food, usually every few hours whether they were hungry or not. Uncle John insisted that knock-around days, if done right, should resemble all-you-can-eat contests.

  Since it was already eleven-thirty by the time Zach got dressed and came back downstairs, he announced that he was going to skip breakfast and go straight to lunch.

  “Where?” Uncle John said. They had a car waiting for them downstairs.

  “Sylvia’s,” Zach said.

  The best and most famous restaurant in Harlem. Serving the best food, at least in Zach’s estimation, in the whole city.

  “Done.”

  They ate like complete idiots, Zach ordering the meat loaf smothered in Sylvia’s “secret sauce,” with garlic mashed potatoes and ribs on the side, followed by coconut cake for dessert.

  “You go wherever you want to next,” Uncle John said. “Just drop me off at the emergency room.”

  “You’re the one who says we have to pig out.”

  “I didn’t know Sylvia was going to bat leadoff.”

  “Speaking of which,” Zach said, “I have picked where I want to go next.”

  “Say the word.”

  “Two words: Citi Field. To get us ready for the baseball season.” Zach shrugged. “Unless you can’t get us in, of course.”

  Uncle John already had his cell phone out. “Can I get us in? Is the pope Catholic? Did the Knicks stink last night?”

  “Ouch.”

  Uncle John walked a few feet down the sidewalk on Lenox Avenue, came back two minutes later and said, “We’re in. I hope that didn’t take too long.”

  He winked at Zach.

  A half hour later they were standing in the outfield under the huge old-fashioned Pepsi sign.

  “I still don’t understand how you became a Mets fan,” Uncle John said.

  “Simple: David Wright.” Then he said, “Am I allowed to run the bases?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Zach stood in the batter’s box, which had already been drawn in brilliant white, even though opening day was still a few weeks away. Then he took off for first, took off for real, running the bases hard, touching the inside corner of each base like his dad had taught him.

  Fifteen feet from home plate, he launched into a head-first slide, not worrying about getting dirty, not on a knock-around day. He slid around an imaginary tag, reaching back to touch the plate with an outstretched hand.

  “I thought the catcher might have nicked you on the way by,” Uncle John said.

  “Nope. Never touched me.”

  “First run of the season,” Uncle John said. “Your old man would have been proud.”

  As soon as he’d brought up Zach’s dad, Zach could see from the look on his face he was sorry he had.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle J.,” Zach said. “I miss him all the time, whether we’re talking about him or not.”

  “Me too.”

  They walked through the Mets dugout. One of the security guards let Zach have a look inside the clubhouse, which was filled with unpacked boxes waiting for the season. When they were outside in the parking lot, Uncle John said, “There’s a method to my madness today, by the way.”

  Zach nodded. “Figured.”

  “I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about your mom and me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yeah,” Uncle John said, “I think you do. And I would, too. There’s a line your old man liked to use, from an old joke: ‘It’s not so funny when it’s your mom.’ So I get it, young Zachary. I really do.”

  “So do I,” Zach said. “Really, I do.”

  “But whether you do or not, I want you to understand. I always told your dad that I’d look after both of you if anything ever happened to him. And that’s what I’m doing. Trying to keep a promise to your dad. Not trying to be your dad. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Uncle John put out his fist. Zach pounded it lightly. “Pact?” Uncle John said.

  “Pact.”

  “Now let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “‘Blow this pop stand’? Wow. You’re older than I thought.”

  “Oh,” Uncle John said, “ you have no idea.”

  They ate cheeseburgers at P. J. Clarke’s on Third Avenue when they got back to Manhattan, Zach polishing them off with apple pie and ice cream. As he did, he noticed Uncle John staring at him, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “Your old man ate like this. Always. Starting in college. Never gained a stinking pound.” He winked. “You remind me more of him all the time.”

  Zach kept shoveling in the pie and ice cream, thinking that Uncle John didn’t know the half of it.

  It was late afternoon by the time they walked out of Clarke’s, but Zach still wasn’t ready to go home.

  Neither was Uncle John, apparently. “Where to next?” he said.

  “We walk.”

  “Where?”

  “My favorite place in the city,” Zach said. “Anywhere.”

  Anywhere turned out to be Central Park. Even on a knock-around day he felt himself being drawn there.

  They gradually made their way east and north, passed by horse-drawn hansom cabs and bikers and joggers. The more they walked, the less they spoke, not because they’d run out of things to say, just because the quiet seemed to fit them right now, both of them letting the last of the afternoon just be.

  They were past the zoo, heading toward the 66th Street entrance, when Zach said, “Thanks, Uncle John. I’m done.”

  Uncle John laughed. “Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that, Zachary. Because old Uncle John was done at about 59th and Third.”

  “I thought I saw a look when the last hansom cab went past us,” Zach said. “Like you wanted to kick out that nice couple and jump in.”

  “You know me so well,” Uncle John said as he laughed.

  Then he wasn’t laughing, or walking. He’d stopped the same as Zach had.

  Both of them staring at the giant.

  22

  HE was the biggest person Zach had ever seen outside of an NBA game, dressed in a dark suit and old-fashioned brim hat pulled low over his eyes. His features were distorted, almost like he was wearing a mask. His hands alone were the size of basketballs.

  There was no way for Zach to be sure what seven feet tall looked like in street clothes. But if this guy wasn’t all of that, he was close, and looked as if he weighed enough to shove Shaq out of the paint.

  Zach looked around. Nobody else in sight. Like somehow the stage had been emptied for him again.

  The man said to Uncle John, “The boy is coming with me.”

  Uncle John stepped forward, trying to protect Zach. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. But this boy isn’t going anywhere with you.”

  “I’m not leaving without him. I’m not like the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Ask the boy.”

  “Zach,” Uncle John said, eyes not leaving the giant. “Do you know this man?”

  “No.”

  The giant said, “No games this time.”

  “What games?” Uncle John said. Standing his ground. Head tilted back like he was looking up at a tall building.

  “Leave us. Now.”

  Then Uncle John shouted, “Run, Zach!” as he ducked and charged forward, driving a shoulder into the giant’s stomach.

  The huge man didn’t flinch,
or move, or even acknowledge that he’d been hit. He just shook his head, almost in disgust, grabbed Uncle John by the shoulders, lifted him as easily as he would a toy and threw him in an arc across the open field to his left.

  In that moment John Marshall looked as if he’d been shot out of an invisible cannon, flying, before he landed at the base of a thick old tree with a truly sickening thud.

  Then he lay still.

  The giant reached for Zach, saying, “Let’s go.”

  And without planning it, without even thinking about it, just on fire again, Zach Harriman was the one in the air.

  He was the one flying.

  He elevated like LeBron and then just hung there in midair in front of the giant, scissor-kicking him in the middle of his face.

  “Yeah,” Zach said. “Let’s go.”

  Still in the air.

  Not for long.

  Unlike Knit Cap, the giant fought back. He back-handed Zach out of the air like King Kong swatting airplanes. This time it was Zach hitting the ground hard.

  In pain, a lot of pain, but trying to roll away.

  He felt a huge hand on him then, felt himself being turned around as though he weighed nothing. There was blood on the giant’s face where Zach had connected with his nose.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” the giant said. “You’re not ready yet for someone like me.”

  Then came these giant hands again, catching Zach on the side of his head. Zach went down.

  The giant kicked him. Zach heard shouts, a siren slowly getting louder.

  Then he didn’t hear anything.

  23

  ZACH wasn’t sure what day it was.

  Or whether he was awake or asleep. He just knew that sleep seemed much, much better right now, because sleep meant he wouldn’t be hurting nearly as much.

  He was in New York Hospital, in a room overlooking the East River, in a wing named after his mom’s father. When he managed to open his eyes, which wasn’t often, he saw his mom. Kate was there a couple of times, too. And Uncle John. But he was never awake long before a doctor or nurse entered the room, took his temperature, gave him a pill to swallow, checked his eyes and told him to go back to sleep.