by Peter David
“And Norman,” she said, indicating the turkey and the carving knife that sat near it, “will you do the honors?”
But as Norman Osborn moved to pick up the knife, Peter noticed that Aunt May was staring at him and had suddenly gone pale. He followed her gaze, and gasped.
His left shirtsleeve had a huge bloodstain on it, and it was growing. He cursed to himself. He’d thought he had the damned thing under control.
“Peter, you’re bleeding!” Aunt May gasped.
Trying to sound as indifferent about it as possible, Peter said, “Yeah. I stepped off a curb and got clipped by one of those bike messengers.” He wondered if that sounded as pathetic to her as it did to him.
She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the excuse anyway. “Let me see that,” she said, rolling his sleeve up, revealing the distinctive X-shaped slashes that the whirring razor bat had left upon him. “What in the name of heavenly glory!” she cried out.
His spider sense . . .
“Everyone sit down, I’ll go and get the first-aid kit.”
. . . tingling . . . growing more intense . . . practically howling in alarm . . .
“… and then we’ll say grace … this is the boys’ first Thanksgiving in this apartment …”
. . . drowning out everything that Aunt May was saying, pushing it far into the background, there was danger, danger in such thick waves that he was suffocating in it . . .
“… and we’re going to do things properly …”
And when Norman Osborn spoke, it was with a voice that bore only a passing resemblance to his normal tone. “How did you say that happened?” he asked. His eyes were focusing like laser beams on Peter’s arm, as if he recognized the cuts, as if he expected Peter’s answer to be a lie, because he already knew the truth …
“… Bike messenger …” Peter said tonelessly.
. . . and his spider sense was at Defcon 5, as the world around him slowed to a crawl, each face he looked at frozen, each face the face of a friend, not an enemy, there couldn’t be an enemy right here, at his apartment, at his table . . .
He snapped out of it, or snapped himself out of it, and now his forehead was beaded with perspiration. “. . . knocked me down,” he managed to finish.
Danger, right in front of you, somewhere here, right here, not just to you, to everyone, find it you idiot, find it . . .
Mary Jane looked from Norman to Peter and back again. She couldn’t understand what was transpiring. It was as if the two of them were eating a different meal entirely. That there was some sort of weird dynamic going on between them, at which the others could only guess.
And then, just like that, as Peter sat there and sweated as if he were in a sauna, Norman Osborn rose to his feet. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I’ve got to go.”
Clearly Harry was dumbfounded. “What? Why?”
“Something … has come to my attention,” he said, looking pointedly at Peter again. What the hell was going on between those two?
“Are you all right?” Harry asked. He was standing, tugging nervously at the neatly knotted necktie he was wearing.
“Fine, I’m fine. Thank you. Mrs. Parker. Everyone.”
Even Aunt May was flummoxed. “What happened?” she asked. But she had no more luck deciphering Osborn’s odd behavior than anyone else, for without responding to her question, Norman Osborn headed for the door. He stopped only to take a last look back at Peter, and then he was in the hallway. He didn’t get far, though, because Harry was right behind him, and their voices carried.
“What are you doing?” Harry demanded. At least he was standing up to his father. M. J. had to give him credit for that. “I planned this whole thing so you could meet M. J., and you barely even looked at her!”
“I’ve got to go,” Norman said curtly.
But Harry clearly wasn’t going to let it end there. “Hey! I like this girl! This is important to me!”
And when Norman Osborn replied, it was with urgent desperation, as if he were trying to convince a stubborn drowning man to take the damned life preserver already. “Harry, please … look at her! You think a woman like that’s sniffing around because she likes your personality?”
M. J.’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Peter and May were both looking at her, embarrassed on her behalf, astounded that Osborn would say such things.
“What are you saying, Dad?”
“Your mother was beautiful, too. They’re all beautiful, until they’re snarling after your trust fund like ravening wolves… .”
She wanted to crawl under the table, under the carpet. She wanted to die.
Harry spoke in a stunned, almost hushed voice. “Dad …” he said, and he didn’t sound as if he was speaking with a great deal of conviction. “This girl’s no …”
Osborn interrupted his son. “A word to the not-so-wise about your little girlfriend. Do what you need to with her and broom her fast.” Then she heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway and, just like that, he was gone, leaving his son stammering behind him.
Slowly, like a woman in a trance, Mary Jane rose from the table. Peter could barely even look at her, and May’s expression was one of pity.
That’s what she was. An object of pity. She wanted to die, just crawl away and die.
She headed for the closet just as Harry walked back into the apartment. He stood there, transfixed, as she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” he asked, dumbfounded.
The one she really wanted to lash out at was Norman. But the father was gone, and only the son remained.
“Thanks for sticking up for me, Harry,” she said tightly.
“You heard?”
She whirled on him, pointing to the hallway that Norman had vacated. “Everyone could hear that creep!”
And suddenly Harry’s own anger boiled over. Perhaps he, too, was misplacing it, since his father was gone, but he was no less vehement in his defense.
“That ‘creep’ is my father! All right? If I’m lucky, I’ve got the brains and the guts to become half of what he is, so you keep your goddamn mouth shut about things you don’t understand!”
“Harry Osborn!” said Aunt May, shocked.
“You’re acting like somebody’s father—mine!” Mary Jane said. She was so furious, she started to shove the wrong arm into the sleeve of her coat. She wrestled with it, chagrined, twisted her torso around, got it to fit properly.
“I’m sorry, Aunt May,” she said, and then she stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
Well, the danger’s gone . . .
That was the one bright spot that Peter was able to draw from the entire debacle. He stood there in stupefied silence as Mary Jane walked out the door.
“Harry, go after her!” he said finally.
To his astonishment, Harry replied with quiet certainty, “I don’t think so.”
He stepped toward his friend, shaking him as if trying to rouse a dreamer from his sleep. “Harry, come on!”
“No. I can’t,” he said again, with greater conviction than before, as if he knew that doing nothing was the right course. With bitter sarcasm, he turned to Aunt May and said, “Welcome to an Osborn Thanksgiving.”
Then he stormed into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him with as much force as M. J. had used on the front door.
A pall fell over the apartment, and Peter knew he couldn’t just stand by. That he had to do something. The thing was, Harry wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe something could still be salvaged of all this.
He had to face facts. He wanted Mary Jane, wanted his chance at her … but not like this. If M. J. and Harry had a relationship that ran its course and they parted, that was one thing. But this … this was an abortion. A total disaster. He wasn’t out to play Cupid, God knew, but he had to do something to try and stitch some fabric of the relationship back together, for all their sakes.
“Sorry, Aunt May. It looked great,” he assured her, as h
e grabbed his jacket from the closet and bolted for the door.
Behind him, Aunt May surveyed the wreckage of good sentiments gone bad and called, just before he was out the door, “We didn’t even get to say grace!”
Peter sped down the stairs, vaulting them four, five at a time, since no one was around to watch. He made it down to street level, ran out into the cold night air and looked around frantically to see if he could spot where M. J. had gotten off to. It turned out not to be one of his greater challenges. M. J. was seated on the stoop of the next building over, sobbing piteously. Then the chauffeur-driven Bentley rolled past, and Peter nearly laughed when M. J. showed enough spunk and presence of mind to flip the luxury car an obscene gesture.
He walked over to her and just stood there, hands folded in front of him. Mary Jane snuffled a bit more, then looked up at him. Her mascara was all over the place. Peter pulled out a handkerchief and held it out to her. When she hesitated, just staring at it as if it might be a hand grenade, he waved it slightly and said, “Take it.”
She nodded and took it from him, blowing her nose loudly into it. Then she looked at him apologetically for having messed it up. He shrugged. “Keep it,” he said with a ready smile. “It’s yours. Got a million of ’em from Aunt May, a dozen every Christmas.”
She laughed through her tears, blew her nose again, and this time made a very loud and pronounced “honk” that only provided louder laughter. Then, to Peter’s surprise, her laughter swung back over to crying. Her shoulders trembled, then sagged, and it was as if every miserable moment in her existence had boiled down to this instant, and she was in the process of crying out a lifetime of tears.
He sat next to her, put an arm around her, literally giving her a shoulder to cry on. “That’s okay. Good cry.”
Between sniffles, she managed to get out, “I’m sorry I acted like that … but … but I couldn’t stay there. Being treated that way … brings back bad stuff. I hate being thought of as if I’m not worth anything.”
“I understand,” Peter said with conviction. And that was no exaggeration. Not with newspapers coming out every day that questioned his actions, no matter how heroic.
“I know you do,” she told him, and there was something in the way she said it that made him wonder. But then her mind was elsewhere. “Your poor Aunt May,” she moaned, and it was reasonable to feel sorry for her, considering the amount of work she must have put into making the turkey. “But I can’t go back in there,” she said apologetically, frustrated over what she no doubt perceived as her own weakness.
Peter shrugged. “She’ll be okay. She’s tough.” The stairs weren’t the cushiest place to be, so he shifted to try and make himself more comfortable. It brought him closer to Mary Jane. She didn’t seem to mind, so he didn’t pull away. “I’ve never seen Mr. Osborn act like that,” he said in bewilderment. “I’ve never seen either of them act like that before.” He paused and then said the toughest words he knew he was going to have to say that evening. “But I know Harry really loves you.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I ever went out with him in the first place. I guess because he liked me.” She looked down at her ensemble. “Dumb black dress,” she snapped bitterly.
“However, you do look extremely beautiful in it,” he assured her.
She smiled at him then. “Thank you. You look very handsome yourself tonight.”
She had sounded so tentative when she said it, but it seemed sincere, and now he was extremely aware of just how close he was to her. He realized that it wouldn’t take much for him to lean over and kiss her. He was more in love with her than ever. He gazed into her eyes.
And did nothing.
Because he didn’t want to pressure her. Because he didn’t want to kick Harry when he was down. Because of a lot of reasons, really, but ultimately, because he didn’t think it would be right.
She put an arm around his shoulder, and they sat there, holding each other close, and that was all they did …
… which was more than enough for Harry Osborn, looking down at them from the window of the apartment and glowering in the night …
“This changes everything . . .”
Norman Osborn felt as if his head was splitting in two. He lay on the floor of his study, curled up, trembling, cowering in a pool of light from the end of the hallway. In his quivering hands he held the mask he wore as the Green Goblin, except he was doing everything within his power at that moment to convince himself that the Goblin was someone else entirely … not Norman himself . . .
… not Norman, who was no murderer . . .
… who wouldn’t even consider what the Goblin was contemplating …
“Spider-Man is all but invincible,” hissed the mask, “but Parker . . . Parker is flesh and blood . . . we can destroy him . . .”
“I can’t!” Osborn was gibbering now, saying anything that came to mind. “I’ve been like a father to that boy. He’s a good son …”
“Which is exactly what he wanted!” the mask snarled at him, clearly holding Osborn in contempt. Osborn’s entire body was shaking now, his shirt soaked through with sweat, his lower jaw twitching spasmodically. “He came to you, the greedy, open-mouthed scheming little orphan . . .”
“He did,” Osborn admitted slowly, as if puzzle pieces were being assembled in his mind.
“Plucked your heartstrings like a master. Connived his way into your heart, leaving no room for Harry, your true son and heir . . .”
Of course. Of course! How could he have been so foolish as to not be able to see it?
“It’s true … oh, God …”
“And now,” said the Goblin, moving in for the emotional kill, “after everything you’ve done for Peter Parker, after everything you’ve taught him, this is how he repays you?”
Years and years of guilt piled upon Osborn as he cried out, “What have I done to Harry?! What have I done to my own son!”
“Betrayal must not be countenanced . . . Parker must be . . . educated . . .”
Osborn sat partway up, propping himself on his elbow. In his dementia, he didn’t think it remotely odd that he should be carrying on a chat with a mask. “What do I do?” he asked firmly.
“Instruct him in the matters of loss and pain. Watch him suffer, make him wish he were dead. . . .”
“Yes!”
“And then grant his wish!”
“But how?” demanded Osborn.
“The cunning warrior attacks neither body nor mind.”
Instantly Osborn was furious. He didn’t need cryptic hints at this point. He needed solid guidance. “Tell me how!” he fairly bellowed.
The mask was silent for a moment, and when it spoke again, it said, “The heart, Osborn . . . first . . . we attack his heart.”
Ben Parker’s mother had hated her.
That’s what I should have said to her, Aunt May realized as she readied herself for bed. She did so in the same meticulous manner, with the exact same routine, that she had followed for more than a half century. It was so drilled into her that she gave it no conscious consideration, because her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on the poor, mortified Mary Jane Watson.
As she fluffed her pillow—three times, not two—and moved back the sheet the precise length—eighteen inches—that would allow her to easily climb into bed, she shivered slightly in her flannel pajamas. It was Thursday; Thursday, not Friday, was flannel pajamas. And she recalled a day—many years gone—when the debonair Benjamin Parker had brought a scared young woman named May Reilly home to meet his folks. Ben’s father had been indifferent, and his mother had been positively scathing, critiquing everything from May’s clothing to her hairstyle to her interest in Ben. May had tried to take it all, but eventually she had succumbed to her misery and bolted from the house, convinced she would never seen Ben Parker again.
Well, obviously it hadn’t worked out that way, but she wished that she’d thought to say that to Mary Jane. Granted, tonight had been a disaster, and Osborn’s behavio
r had been just abominable. But many relationships had hit similar rocks and managed to keep on sailing, just the same.
Thoughts of Ben affected her in that melancholy way they always did. She touched a framed photo of him that sat on the bedside table. The telephone answering machine was next to it. His voice was still on the answering machine. All these months he’d been gone, and she still couldn’t find it within herself to change it. Every so often, she would play the message while staring wistfully at the photograph. “Hi, we’re not around to take your call,” his photo would “say,” and she’d sigh heavily and wish that either he was still around … or that she was with him.
But there was no point dwelling on such things.
The good Lord had decided that she was to remain around for a while longer, that was all, and if He was inclined to reveal His purpose in these apparently capricious matters, then He would do so. In the meantime, she would simply deal with the hand she’d been dealt.
May knelt next to the bed, moaning softly as her knees creaked beneath her. Blasted arthritis was getting worse. Oh, for the youthful suppleness of the muscles she had once possessed. She had a young mind, she felt. What sort of perversity captured such a young mind in such an old and limited shell?
Well, the kind of perverse mind that would take Ben violently from her in a most untimely manner. Then May decided that further musings along those lines would most surely be blasphemy, and she didn’t pursue them. Instead she rested her elbow on the bed, folded her hands and closed her eyes.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” she said with ease brought by long practice. “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but …”
At that moment the wall behind her exploded. For a split second May thought she was back in World War II, back as a field nurse in that foolhardy, mad endeavor she’d never told Peter about, lest he consider it carte blanche to do something stupid himself. She thought that she was being shelled by the Germans or something. She hit the floor, plaster and glass flying over her head, and then she managed to gather together her scattered wits.