by Tom De Haven
“My favorite book of the year.”
—Denver Rocky Mountain News
“De Haven is today’s best comics novelist … Some of the early sections could be Steinbeck meets Smallville … It’s Superman! … and it’s terrific.”
—Palm Beach Post
“This is a must for all Superman fans.”
—Philadelphia Weekly
“For those of you who share [a] love for books like Carter Beats the Devil or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, [It’s Superman! is] so up your alley that it should be renamed The Book That’s Very Up Your Alley, Starring Superman. There’s a humanity to the storytelling, and what it chooses to emphasize about all of the characters, that makes it a joy to read.”
—Comic World News
“One of the finest interpretations of Superman in any medium … Nothing would be more pleasing than to learn the author has a sequel or two in mind for this book.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“What fun! In the heart of winter, a cracking good, fast-reading beach book and more … More than just a story of humor and action, It’s Superman! is a tender, bittersweet tale of a young man who wants to do good, but is not quite sure how, and who is tormented by not being able to help everyone who needs him.”
—Utah Daily Herald
“Sometimes even icons have to grow up.”
—The Onion
“This is one of the best novels I’ve read all year … The plot (a braid of a few intertwined storylines) moves like a locomotive; you can almost smell the movie popcorn and feel the salt on your fingers as you turn the pages. If the Superman story had never existed before, this would be it.”
—Manchester, New Hampshire Hippo
“A fascinating ride … The novel stands alone in a field of superhero adaptations. While the book is about Superman, De Haven’s skill actually makes it about every one of us … We could be any one of them. In some cases, we are.”
—Diamond Galleries Scoop
“It’s Superman! is not the first Superman prose novel … but it’s the first great one, transforming Superman—icon of comics, film, animation, and television—into a literary icon as well.”
—Montreal Gazette
“It’s Superman!—the new novel by Tom De Haven—tells the story like you absolutely, positively have never heard it before. If you thought Batman Begins was a revisionist take on a well-known pop-culture legend, you’re about to have your definition rewritten. This is … easily one of 2005’s top discoveries. Exciting enough to merit its title’s exclamation point.”
—Bookgasm
“[A] sprawling saga of Depression America. The narrative at once contemplates the blood and guts of evil (Lex Luthor is a cold-blooded killer, and Superman doesn’t save everybody) while it explores the possibility of doing good with extraordinary gifts. [An] absorbing read.”
—Reno Gazette-]ournal
“An entertainingly inventive piece of work that provides a real-life grittiness by using actual historical figures and by not shying away from the realities of violent crime. Both elements force the reader to take the novel more seriously, regardless of whether or not one is a fan of comic books.”
—New Jersey Home News Tribune
“De Haven’s novel shows that, nearly seventy years after his creation, the Man of Steel still has plenty to offer.”
—Booklist
“De Haven, whose Derby Dugan trilogy beautifully reimagined twentieth-century American history through a pleasant sheen of media-tized irony, presents the man of steel as a sullen Depression-era teen, a bad WWII-era reporter and as ambivalent about his super powers throughout, all with a kind of knowing that reflects a deep immersion in pulp. De Haven gives readers X-ray vision for determining when his tongue is in his cheek here; using it is great fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Tom De Haven returns to the roots of the foremost archetypal twentieth-century superhero … Combining superhero action, pulp thrills, mythic Americana, and an engaged social vision, De Haven has significantly enriched both the Superman myth and the SF canon.”
—Locus (Best of 2005 List)
“Before Superman hit the comic books or big screen, he was an awkward teenager slowly adapting to his astonishing powers. De Haven … has added a sophisticated, well-rounded, and compelling addition to the Superman genre. The verdict: proof that Superman’s appeal has withstood the test of time.”
—Bookmarks
It’s Superman! is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2011 Del Rey Mass Market Edition
Copyright © 2005 by DC Comics
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Superman and all related characters and elements are trademarks of DC Comics.
Originally published in trade paperback by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2006, and in hardcover by Chronicle Books, San Francisco, California, in 2005. Reprinted by arrangement with Chronicle Books.
ISBN 978-0-345-49675-1
Printed in the United States of America
www.delreybooks.com
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Titlepage
Dedication
Acknowledgments
PART ONE: THE WPA GUIDE TO SMALLVILLE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
PART TWO: WAYFARING STRANGERS
XIII
PART THREE: THE SAUCER-MAN FROM TINSELTOWN
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
PART FOUR: ANYTHING FOR HALLOWEEN?
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
PART FIVE: FIRST-NIGHTERS
XXVII
About The Author
Back Cover
For Margaret Hussey,
whose fortunate son I am.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A great part of this novel was written in a tiny cabin on a small island off the coast of northern Maine. I would like to thank the Eastern Frontier Educational Foundation for making that residency possible, and Steve Dunn for his generosity, encouragement, and friendship.
PART ONE
THE WPA GUIDE TO
SMALLVILLE
I
Public enemy. Events at the Jewel Theater are recounted.
The baby that fell off a wagon. Science fiction.
Alger in Smallerville. Mr. and Mrs. Kent.
●
1
Our version of the story opens on the last Saturday of May 1935 with the arrival of Sheriff Bill Dutcher at the police station in Smallville, Kansas. A craggy man with steel-gray hair and long sideburns, he’s wearing tan slacks and a barn jacket over a maroon polo shirt. His star is pinned to the pocket. He brought along his pistol belt and holster but leaves that in the trunk with his 12-gauge. Those won’t be necessary. When he got the call an hour ago, Dutcher was off-shift, at home in Lyndon savorin
g his third highball of the evening and playing canasta with the wife and some neighbors. He could have been easily in a fume, or worse, by the time he motored thirty miles through drizzle and dust blow to this clodhopper town—but no, not at all. He is in fine spirits, especially once he discovers those federal glory hogs out of Topeka haven’t showed up yet. He shakes hands with two deputies that meet him at the door, even clapping one of them on the shoulder. Then he speaks privately with Doug Parker, the local chief of police, both of them turning together to cast brief looks at the farm boy, seventeen years old and hunched low in a varnished chair near the chief’s desk. Judging by the kid’s shiny eyes and heavy breathing and the tense fist that he rubs back and forth on his thigh, any minute he’ll put birdie to his dinner plus whatever Jujubes or Raisinets he had earlier at the picture show. “You might think of giving Sergeant York, there, a wastepaper basket,” says the sheriff, “while I go and see Jiggs.”
“Straight back. You can’t miss him.”
Beyond the lavatory door with its tractor calendar stands a long sawbuck table where Mr. Jiggs Makley, for some years a presence both on wanted posters and in rotogravures, has been laid faceup. A chunk of that face, however, is blown off, and the rest of it, including a cheap theatrical mustache, is covered with blood, not all of it dry. His big eyes are open and staring.
Hands deep in his pockets, idly jiggling coins and keys, the sheriff stands alongside of the table thinking, Poor dead hillbilly son of a bitch, he looks completely flabbergasted. Thinking: Good pair of Florsheims. Hardly been worn. Brown pleated trousers, he thinks, but no belt. That figures. Dutcher removes one hand from a pocket and fingers the shirt collar away from Makley’s neck. Essley brand. Size 16. Top, second, and third buttons missing. Plucked off, it looks like. And no cuff links, either. Surprise, surprise. “Chief,” he says realizing that he’s been joined, “tell me again. What was it your boy said? The craziest gun?”
“Stupidest. He said Makley must’ve owned the world’s stupidest gun.”
“Meaning?”
“That it had to’ve fired backward.”
Dutcher laughs. “I know you told me his name, but—”
“Kent,” says Chief Parker. “Clark Kent.”
2
His left hand curls into itself and he keeps squeezing it like a slow pulse, but every time Clark thinks he might actually open his fingers and look, he feels another bolt of panic and changes his mind.
“How you doing, son?”
Clark’s fist draws back to his waist, pressing there.
“Something wrong with your hand?”
“No, sir.”
The man nods, a few times too many. “Bill Dutcher, Clark. I’m sheriff of Osage County.” Grabbing a small chair, he twirls it casually and sits down, his thick folded forearms across the back. “Say, you wouldn’t be related to the Kents live over to Osawatomie, would you? Own that big stove company?”
“I don’t think so.”
“My wife’s cousin does their bookkeeping—or she did. Maybe don’t anymore. Things being how they are.” Dutcher leans forward. “Sounds like you had yourself quite an evening.” He sits back, plucks out a hand-rolled from his shirt pocket. “So hows about you tell me what happened?” Dutcher holds the paper of matches in his right hand, tears off a match, and runs it across the friction strip with his left. And seeing that, realizing Dutcher is left-handed, same as he is, Clark relaxes a little. He feels an odd kinship with lefties. Just as he feels one with blue-eyed people or people with black hair. With fingernails shaped like his: square and blunt.
Finding people who are like him, even in the smallest ways, is always a comfort. It’s stupid, he knows, but still it’s some comfort.
“Clark,” says Dutcher, “I surely don’t mean to push you, son, but do you think you might tell me about—”
“Excuse me for just one second, Sheriff.” Holding a cup of coffee, Chief Parker settles himself, carefully so he doesn’t spill any, behind his desk. “Clark, you sure you don’t want me to send somebody for your dad? It’s no trouble.”
“I don’t want to worry him, with my mom and all. But thanks.”
“Up to you.” Earlier the chief had offered to call Clark’s father—or let the boy do it himself, of course—except the Kents don’t have telephone service. Or electricity, either. Truth be told, they’re lucky to have a roof still over their heads. Things being how they are. “Well, if you change your mind. And oh, Clinton drove your girlfriend home, she’s fine.”
“I just took her to the pictures,” says Clark. He feels heat rise in his neck. “She’s not my girl.” The chair under him creaks. “But what about Alger Lee? He all right?”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” says Parker. “We told him to stick around, but he left. I expect he ran on home.”
“Alger Lee?” says Dutcher.
“Colored boy I told you about, was there. I’m sure he just—I expect he ran straight on home. We can go fetch him now for you if you like.”
Dutcher seems to consider the offer but doesn’t respond to it. Just pulls at his cigarette and exhales. Then: “What movie you go see?” he asks Clark.
“We were supposed to see The Werewolf of London.”
“Now, somebody told me about that one. It’s with the guy plays Charlie Chan, right?”
“Warner Oland,” says Parker.
“I bet it’s good,” says Dutcher, then he says, “Chief, could I bother you for some of that coffee? Sweet if you got sugar, no milk.”
One end of Parker’s mouth quirks up. Then he purses his lips slightly and smoothes them out again, and Clark figures all that pantomime is to let the sheriff know he’s amused by the request, takes no offense, and sees it for the rank-pulling take-a-hike that it is. “Clark, how about you? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Be right back, then.”
“Take your time,” says Dutcher. “This young fella’s gonna tell me what all went on, and you heard it before. So Clark,” he says, “what time the picture start?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Lot of other folks there tonight?” Dutcher asks. Then asks him again because the boy is getting more and more remote every moment. “Full house?”
“About regular for a Saturday.”
“And what’s about regular?” Dutcher finds an ashtray on the chief’s desk and rubs out his cigarette. “Thirty people, fifty, a hundred?”
“I couldn’t say. I guess half the seats downstairs were filled. I don’t know how many that’d be.”
“Uh-huh.” Dutcher looks thoughtfully at Clark’s face. Points. “You get whacked by something?”
Clark’s right hand goes promptly to his forehead, tapping his fingertips around, playing dumb.
“You got a red mark, there, right there. Like something might’ve hit you.”
“No, sir.” But two hours ago, little less, Clark saw it himself, what the sheriff is squinting at now. A small welt barely an inch above his nose. He saw it when he leaned against a cigarette machine, hugged it, laboring to get control of himself. Saw it reflected in the panel mirror the same moment he saw the body of Jiggs Makley lying spread-eagled behind him on the Jewel Theater’s fake-Persian lobby carpet.
“Son?” Dutcher holds up a wastebasket, offering it. “You going to be sick?”
“If they’d done it in the right order,” says Clark, “this wouldn’t of never happened.”
“Done what in the right order?”
“Before the picture, it’s always you got your coming attractions and then you got your cartoon and then you got your newsreel.” Clark smacks his knee savagely with that doubled fist. “But oh no, tonight somebody had to go and do it different.”
“What’d they do?”
“Showed the newsreel right after the coming attractions.”
And it wasn’t just the goofus running the projector machine, either. When you came right down to it, and Clark isn’t blaming anybody, not exactly, it’s just t
hat … well, before heading into the auditorium, he asked Janey Laster if she wanted him to stop by the candy concession for a box of nonpareils or a chocolate bar or a drink, whatever she liked. He asked her, he offered, and if she’d only said yes. If only she’d said yes then. But she didn’t. She said she was still too full from dinner. Thank you, though.
This was only Clark’s second date, and his first with Janey Laster from his typewriting class. He’d expected to run into some kids from their high school, was hoping he would, since Janey not only was a pretty blond with the kind of figure people called “cute,” but was known to be awfully picky about boys, which could only help Clark’s standing with his peers. Although why in blue blazes he cared about that at this late stage of the game, he wasn’t sure.
At school Clark is not actively disliked, he isn’t unpopular, he’s just … there. There-but-not-there. You say hello, he says hello back. You don’t, he doesn’t. Overall, he’s good-enough looking, but not what you would call handsome, either. His ears are too small for his head, and his crowded teeth crooked on the bottom. He’s a quiet boy, a struggling B student, does all of his homework, and while it seems by appearances that he’d be strong, well-coordinated, quick—he has good shoulders and graceful legs—he has never gone out for athletics. And he was invited to by coaches any number of times. He reads a lot, but mostly the junkiest, dopiest pulps, the kind with tentacled green Martians on the covers. He likes movies, all sorts of movies, and often goes by himself. Even still goes to the kiddie show on Saturday mornings because he especially likes chapter-plays with cowboys and masked men, death rays and robots. And he writes—carefully, accurately, but with no special flair—for the school newspaper. He’s okay. He’s all right. In the opinion of his peers at Smallville High School, Clark is all right but nothing special. And Janey Laster was at the Jewel with him on a Saturday night, she went out on a date with Clark Kent, but nobody that he knew—at least nobody his own age—was there to notice.
“I think I should’ve gotten a Coke,” said Janey during the preview of Katharine Hepburn’s latest picture, something called Break of Hearts. Which didn’t look so hot. “Do you mind?”