Spider-Man

by Peter David

  “And by dumping Flash,” concluded Peter, “it was almost as if she was signing her own Declaration of Independence.”

  “You’ve really got this whole thing worked out.”

  “Well,” Peter admitted, “I’ve been giving her a lot of thought.”

  At that, Harry raised an eyebrow and looked at him sideways. “Hunh. Really. So are you planning to … y’know … make a move? Now that Flash is out of the picture?”

  “Harry, she just broke up with the guy, for crying out loud. What, I want to be the guy on the rebound?”

  “What’s wrong with being the rebound?” Harry said reasonably. “Rebounds get played into slam dunks, too, y’know.”

  “I just …”

  “You just what … ?”

  Peter knew that if he happened to be looking in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen the haunted, dispirited look in his eyes. Because as much as he’d been fighting it up until that point, all he could think of was who wasn’t there that should have been… .

  She deserves better than me. . . .

  “Peter … ?” Harry prompted him.

  And Peter just shrugged. “We’re too different. We’d never work. It’d be a train wreck. Trust me.”

  Harry started to reply, but then Norman Osborn came out of the Parker house, walking briskly. Peter noticed that when Osborn walked, his arms didn’t swing at his sides like other people’s. They stayed straight down, taut, contained. He looked as if he was capable of jumping into a few quick movements from Riverdance.

  “You have a lot of awards, Peter,” said Osborn. “Your aunt showed me every one. Every. One.”

  “Ouch,” Peter said sympathetically.

  But Osborn gave a wan smile. “I understand. She’s proud of you. It’s good to have children you’re proud of. Just as I’m proud of Harry.”

  Harry looked thunderstruck, and as he climbed into the back of the Bentley with his father, he gave Peter a cheery thumbs-up. Peter grinned and stood there, watching the car pull away. Then he turned and walked slowly into the house.

  Aunt May was beaming, looking at the science award, turning it around in her hands and examining it from every angle. His diploma was on the coffee table; she already had a frame picked out for it, poised and waiting next to it on the table. She glanced over her shoulder as Peter entered and started to trudge up the stairs. “May I fix you something?” she asked.

  “No. Thanks.”

  He was trying to keep back the sadness, but he could tell from Aunt May’s expression that he was failing miserably. Peter continued up to his room, not even bothering to close the door. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he interlaced his fingers and stared off into space. He had no idea how long he’d sat like that when Aunt May finally entered.

  She knocked on the door, peering around the open corner of it, looking in at her nephew. Peter didn’t stir, just sat there. She apparently took that as leave to enter, for she walked across the room and placed the science plaque on a shelf next to some other trophies. The diploma was already framed, and she placed it neatly on his desk. She took a step back, considered it, then moved it slightly and nodded with satisfaction over the minuscule adjustment.

  Then she turned to Peter and just stood there, as if waiting for him to say something.

  Finally he filled the silence. “I missed him a lot today,” he admitted.

  She nodded. “I know. I miss him, too.” She took his hand in hers and said, “But he was there.”

  Peter was in no mood to hear about how Uncle Ben would always be there with them in spirit. He was Ben Parker, not Ben Kenobi, for crying out loud. And having him in our hearts just isn’t the same thing, so let’s stop pretending that it is.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he just nodded, and then he started to say, “I just wish I hadn’t—” Let the thief go. Caused Uncle Ben’s death. All the real, true completions for the sentence, he didn’t dare say.

  “Peter,” sighed Aunt May, “don’t start that again.”

  No, he didn’t dare talk about the true reason for Ben’s passing. So instead he focused on the only aspect of his guilt he felt safe discussing. “I can’t help thinking about the last thing I said to him …”

  “Stop it,” she said firmly.

  “He tried to tell me something important, and I threw it in his face.”

  There were many things Aunt May tolerated, but self-pity was not among them. “You loved him and he loved you,” she said, her tone strong and certain. “He never doubted the man you would grow into. How you were meant for great things. You won’t disappoint him. Or me.”

  She waited another moment, then squeezed his hand, stood, and headed to the door. She looked as if she wanted to say something else but refrained from doing so, instead walking through and allowing the door to click shut behind her.

  Peter remained there alone for a time. And then, without even being aware that he was doing it, he was up and at his dresser. He pulled one drawer out completely, removed some sweaters that he’d piled in there, and proceeded to dig all the way to the bottom of the drawer.

  It was there. The makeshift costume he’d worn when pursuing the crook. The red sweatshirt with the spider outline sketched onto its chest.

  “Remember,” echoed Uncle Ben’s voice in his head, “with great power comes great responsibility.”

  But responsibility to whom? To what?

  The answer became clear to him. To the living. To the dead. To those accused but not convicted. To the people who need help.

  And to those who, faced with death, deserve to live and have a second chance to make things right.

  But he couldn’t do it from here. Not from the house where Uncle Ben—whom he had let down—no longer resided. And Aunt May, jeez, she’d be watching his comings and goings like a hawk. He needed mobility. He needed freedom.

  He needed to do the job.

  Dear Mom and Dad:

  I’m going to keep this short, because a lot’s been going on in the last few weeks.

  I’ve moved in with Harry. It’s great.

  I’ve got a job. It’s great, too.

  The costume’s done, which may or may not be great, because if I get myself killed, then the apartment and the job are pretty much moot.

  But I have to try. That’s really the lesson of all this, isn’t it? I have to try.

  If this works, I’m going to be making it a better world for a lot of people. If not . . . well . . .

  . . . then I guess I’ll see you soon.

  XIV.

  THE SPIDER-MAN

  She missed him.

  That’s what it really came down to. She missed him.

  Mary Jane stood at the pay phone on Fifth Avenue, hesitating for what seemed the hundredth time. Why should it be so difficult to speak to him?

  Did he even think about her? Wonder where she was? What she was up to? Or was he busy with his own life? If she tried to contact him now, after all these months, would he think she was crazy? “What are you calling me for?” he might ask with real confusion in his tone. That was high school. High school is gone. We’re adults. Go off, be an adult. Don’t bother me, little girl.

  A couple of people went past her, talking excitedly between them, and she heard the words “spider monster” being batted about. She rolled her eyes in annoyance. How long was that going to go on. There’d been some sort of mass hysteria throughout the city in recent weeks. People kept claiming there was some sort of human spider scuttling around the tops of skyscrapers, hiding in alleys. How in the world did these idiot rumors get started, anyway? And before this spidery creature, there had been albino alligators in the sewers, and Elvis pumping gas at truck stops in New Jersey. How did people let themselves be so gullible, anyway?

  She took a deep breath, trying not to let the uncertainty that had infested her undermine what little strength she had left. The city had undergone a real cold snap, and she drew her threadbare coat more tightly around her.

 
Mary Jane Watson, party girl. Well, the party had sure gone on without her, hadn’t it.

  A half block away, a vendor was hawking pretzels to tourists. They were insanely overpriced, but because of the cold, people were snapping them up anyway. She actually considered it for a moment, but then checked her pockets and found that she had precisely four bucks on her, and that had to last her for the day since she wasn’t getting paid until tomorrow.

  The truth was … she was homesick. The problem was, home itself held no happy memories for her. But she wanted something. Something that would make her feel better about herself, that would remind her of at least the facade of happiness she once displayed.

  Screwing her resolve solidly into place, she dropped the money into the slot and dialed the phone. It rang a couple of times, and then she heard a comforting voice on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  She took a deep breath and, putting as much upbeat inflection in her voice as possible, she said, “Hi, Mrs. Parker … it’s Mary Jane.”

  “Mary Jane?”

  Feeling slightly crestfallen, she said, “Watson.”

  There was a pause, and then sudden recognition that made her feel as if a weight had been lifted off her heart. “Little Mary Jane! From the house behind us!”

  She nodded into the phone, which of course was a silly move, but she wasn’t thinking about it. “Yes, that’s me. I got your number from information. I hope you don’t mind… .”

  “Sakes, child, of course not! Little Mary Jane … well, not so little, of course. Not anymore. You were so wonderful as Cinderella, you know. In the school play, I mean.”

  She suppressed a laugh. “Yes, I still get lots of comments about it.” Then, taking a deep breath, “Well, look, Mrs. Parker, I was just wondering … is Peter around?”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore, dear.”

  For a moment, she felt utterly defeated. With her luck, he was in Chicago or Los Angeles … someplace like that. “Well, uhm … do you have a number for him?” She looked nervously at her watch, timing the call. The money would be falling through soon, and if Mrs. Parker had to rummage around in some shelf for five minutes to turn up Peter’s phone number, that would be that.

  “Of course, yes. I keep it pinned right here on the bulletin board next to the phone. Do you have a pencil?”

  M. J. closed her eyes, prepared to recite the number to herself repeatedly to get it down. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s area code 212 …”

  Her eyes snapped. “That’s Manhattan. That’s here.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Here in New York City.”

  “Yes, dear, unless Manhattan’s been moved to Illinois and no one told me.” She paused. “That was a little joke, dear. Although, you know, perhaps it’s not so funny. I remember when the Brooklyn Dodgers left. I thought my father, rest his soul, was going to throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge… .”

  The money fell through. The call had thirty seconds left and then would be automatically cut off.

  “His address, Mrs. Parker. Could you tell me where he is? I just,” and she took one last shot at sounding convivial. “I just figured I’d see where Peter is hanging around these days.”

  The robber bolted out of the Korean deli, not caring about the alarm the grocer had set off behind the counter. There were no cop cars around; he’d been too careful. By the time any responded, he’d be long gone.

  He heard a string of invectives behind him, and turned to see the grocer coming after him, waving a baseball bat. His feet pounded the pavement, and when he glanced back over his shoulder, the idiot was still right behind him. It was incredible. The guy had to be in his fifties if he was a day, and he was keeping up. What was he, on the freakin’ Korean Olympic sprinting team?

  Well, enough was enough. There was no reason to let this farce continue.

  The robber spun, yanked his gun from the inside of his jacket, and aimed it at the grocer. The grocer didn’t even seem to notice; he kept coming at him, waving his bat, shouting in Korean.

  “Fine, your funeral,” snarled the robber.

  But before he could fire, strands of gossamer white that looked fragile but were strong as steel wafted down from above, snared the gun, and yanked it from the robber’s fingers.

  He gaped as the gun flew through the air and, an instant later, stuck to the wall of a nearby building, held there by what looked like some sort of … webbing.

  Uncomprehending, he completely forgot that he was in any sort of jeopardy, but he was promptly reminded of it as the baseball bat slammed him upside the head. He went down faster than dot-com stock. Even the grocer looked a bit surprised at what had transpired, but when he looked around to see what had happened, all he saw was a quick flash of blue and red disappearing down an alleyway … on a wall six feet above the ground.

  “Did you see that?” he asked the robber in Korean, but then realized that the guy was unconscious. He kicked him once for good measure, and then went to phone the police.

  Mary Jane took a deep breath and buzzed the street-level intercom at Harry and Peter’s apartment. The writing on the tag said, in neat felt tip lettering, OSBORN & PARKER. Beneath that, in the same hand, the words “Attorneys at Law” had been scribbled. She smiled at that. Nice to know someone up there was keeping his or her sense of humor. Then she tilted her head back and studied the townhouse. Very nice. If she’d been living there, her sense of humor would probably be in much better shape, as well.

  The door buzzer sounded without a voice speaking to her over the intercom. She shrugged, pushed it open, and entered the immaculate front hallway. She knew from the apartment number that Peter and Harry’s place was one flight up, so she trotted up the stairs, her heels clicking on the wooden steps. When she got to the right door, she knocked.

  “It’s open,” came Harry’s voice from within.

  She entered the apartment, glancing around. She’d been expecting something of a disaster area, considering it was two guys living on their own. But, startlingly, the place was immaculate. Harry was lying on an elegant living room couch that had black leather cushions, reading a book. The couch looked nice. Indeed, everything in the place was nice. Somebody in the apartment had money, and she had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t Peter.

  “Hey, Harry,” she said.

  Harry both sat up and turned so quickly that he almost fell off the couch. He was wearing a T-shirt and gym shorts, and looked baffled and confused.

  “Mary Jane?!”

  “Last I looked.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the lady’s room at Grand Central, and someone had written, ‘For a good time, go to …’ and this address was listed.”

  He stared at her blankly, reflexively straightening his hair. “What?”

  “I was kidding. Peter’s aunt gave me the address.”

  “And how’d you get up here?”

  “You buzzed me up, Einstein,” she laughed.

  “Oh. Right.” If Harry had looked any more sheepish, M. J. could have used him to knit a sweater. “I thought it was Peter. He forgets his keys sometimes.”

  “Ah.”

  There was a pause. Then Harry, as if suddenly remembering his manners, said, “Sit down! Sit down! Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Anything. What’cha reading?”

  He padded barefoot into the kitchenette, which was just off the living room. “Interview with the Vampire. Have you read it?”

  “No. Saw the movie. The little kid in it creeped me out.”

  He came back with a couple of glasses and handed one to her. “Cheers,” he said and they clinked glasses.

  She sipped from the glass. “Ginger ale?” He nodded. “Harry, you wild man. Off and living on your own and you’re getting crazy with ginger ale.”

  “You should see us scarfing Cheez Doodles. We’re practically animals.”

  They laughed together, and then they were silent for a moment. “Do
you know when Peter will be back?”

  “Not sure. Think he might be at the lab. He’s got a job at a lab, you know. So … you came by to see Peter, then?” Harry asked.

  “Both of you, actually. I just … happened to be in the neighborhood, really. Thought I’d say hi. Uhm …” She looked down into her drink, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I should say thank you. For your help at graduation, I mean.”

  “Oh. No problem. Whenever anyone needs a shoulder to cry on, I’m more than happy to be there.”

  She got up from the chair, her glass empty. “Wow, you were thirsty. Want another?” When she nodded, he said, “Help yourself.”

  As M. J. poured out another glass, she leaned against the countertop and smiled sadly. “You must have thought that was some kind of timing on my part. Me breaking it off with Flash on graduation day.”

  “I guess it was. But it was understandable.”

  His casual tone of voice surprised her. She turned to look at him. “It was?”

  “Well, sure.” He appeared to be pondering the matter, reaching for a thought, or perhaps trying to recollect something he’d considered earlier. “Let me take a guess: You didn’t get on great with your father, right?”

  Mary Jane was utterly taken aback. “How did you know?”

  “Takes one to know one. He put you down, right? Made snide remarks, made you feel worthless. Am I getting warm?”

  “You’re scalding!” she said in wonderment. Harry had had his feet up on an ottoman, but M. J. came over to him and sat on it now, so he put his feet on the floor. “I’m really impressed, Harry.”

  “Like I said, when someone’s got the same difficulties in their life as you do, you just get a knack for telling. Let me guess,” and he leaned forward, fingers steepled. “As much as your dad didn’t like you … he adored Flash.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly right!” Her face was flushed with excitement.

  Warming to his subject, Harry said, “So, in a way … you stayed with Flash as long as you did because he offered a kind of protection. He helped you survive by giving your father something to like about you. And it made you feel a little bit less lonely in a family where love was hard to come by. But by dumping Flash, it was like you were sending a message to your father. Almost like you were signing your own Declaration of Independence.”