Temporary Superheroine

by Irene Vartanoff

  Jerry tried gamely to play along with what he probably thought was a gag. He even struck an admonishing pose. “If you mean the Amulet of Life, young man, it must be earned by superheroic good deeds,” he warned in a stentorian voice.

  With terrible ease, the purple man lifted Jerry two feet in the air. Using only one hand. The other balled into a fist. “You have ten seconds before I kill you. Where is the amulet?”

  He shook Jerry, who now looked terrified. Despite a lifetime of drawing and promoting superheroes, he was no match for a real supervillain, even in his own mind. He was an old man.

  Roland made like a professional wrestler and crashed a folding chair down on the supervillain’s head. He wobbled and dropped Jerry. Eric, Biff, and some of the others tackled the bad guy. As Jerry tried to regain his composure, Roland put a hand on his shoulder and urged him toward the door while looking back to me briefly.

  “Chloe, let’s get Jerry to safety. The others won’t hold that creep for long.”

  Eric, whom I distrusted and who was no superhero, was nevertheless giving his all to keep the supervillain down. I deserted him and ran out the door with Roland and Jerry.

  Jerry protested. “Gee, what was wrong with that guy? Who are you?”

  We had to get him moving. “Jerry, this is my friend, Roland. He’s a big fan of yours.” That seemed to reassure Jerry, and we grabbed the elevator and headed down to street level.

  “How on earth did you break in here, Roland?” I asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” he muttered, as he counted floors. “We must escape this building and Manhattan as quickly as possible.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Yes, why, young man?” Jerry had gotten over some of his fright.

  “Mr. Fine, you are in great danger right now. Please trust me,” Roland finished, out of breath from the force of his pleading.

  “Trust Roland, Jerry,” I chimed in. “That man threatened to kill you.”

  “I knew those strange supervillain sightings must mean something,” Jerry said, almost to himself.

  “You told me you knew nothing about them,” I said.

  “I wasn’t sure,” he replied, as Roland dragged us out of the elevator and down the short hall. Miraculously, there was a car at the door on 48th Street. Roland ran to it, urging Jerry along.

  “This is unreal. Why haven’t you been towed?” I asked, as we threw ourselves inside and buckled up. Roland started the engine and headed us straight for the East Side Highway.

  “I was inside maybe three minutes tops, that’s how. Even the police take three minutes to get anywhere.”

  “How did you get past the guards?” I demanded.

  “A lucky break. Tell you later.” As we crossed the bridge into Queens, he began to smile. “Time for a short road trip.”

  “Road trip?” Was he out of his mind? We had a supervillain to deal with somehow. “Why?”

  Roland kept his eyes on the highway, but replied, “We need answers. Did Jerry identify your mystery artist, Chloe?”

  “No, he didn’t.” I turned to our elderly passenger. “What about the note I gave you?”

  “Oh. Well, er,” Jerry said, “If you must know, it was from an old coworker in the comics business. He warned me that someone named the Purple Menace was after me, wanting the Amulet of Life to access the dimensional portal at will. I thought it was a joke, a set-up for a gag.”

  “You mean there really is an Amulet of Life?” I seized on that, although everything else sounded incredible too. I’d thought Jerry was merely playing along with the Purple Menace, being bombastic the way the fans expected him to be.

  “Yes, the Amulet of Life featured prominently in our storylines forty years ago.”

  Roland took up the tale. “The Amulet of Life was the main weapon of Lord Raga, the Indian-inspired superhero who used his philosophical oneness with the universe to fight crime. Kind of a Dalai Lama figure, you know. Wise, above human frailty. He fought mostly ghosts who were based in a kind of invisible zone. They kept invading Earth and—”

  “Okay, enough, Mr. Fanboy,” I interrupted. “Why would this Purple Menace guy think Jerry had the Amulet of Life? Especially since it’s from a made up, completely fictional tale?”

  Jerry had an answer. “We used to run contests, and the prizes were little trinkets, toys and games featuring our superhero characters. In the ad copy, we’d joke about how I was reserving the Amulet of Life for myself.”

  “The Purple Menace read your comics from forty years ago—I suppose he bought some old issues at a comics shop—and on the strength of a tongue-in-cheek ad for a contest, he’s now trying to get something that doesn’t exist?” I didn’t try to keep the bafflement from my voice.

  As I eyed the drab buildings lining Queens Boulevard, Roland prompted Jerry, “Didn’t you or someone else have a real Amulet of Life designed? Wasn’t it given to a girlfriend?”

  Jerry appeared uncomfortable. “Well, now that’s possibly true.”

  “What do you mean, possibly?” I asked. “If the Purple Menace wants to kill you for it, he thinks it’s real, right? Is it? Is there really an Amulet of Life?”

  “I don’t have the Amulet,” Jerry denied. “It was someone else. Not my story to tell.”

  Roland seemed to know a lot about it, because he said, “That’s why we’re going on a road trip, Chloe. To talk to someone who knows.”

  They both clammed up and wouldn’t say a thing more about the amulet despite my efforts to pry it out of them. As the familiar streets of Queens flashed by, I switched to a different topic. “What’s up with you following me to New York? Didn’t we agree we’re friends now?”

  “Yes,” Roland said, but not paying much attention to me as he attempted to drive and read a map. His low-end rental car didn’t have a navigation system, but he refused to show me the map and let me help.

  “You took it upon yourself to follow me why?” I prodded.

  “I decided you needed some help, okay? What are friends for and all that,” he flung at me, clearly miffed I wasn’t grateful.

  Maybe I was too hard on him. “Tell me how you managed to show up at the studio at the exact moment when the—he called himself the Purple Menace, right?—attacked Jerry?”

  “I knew you needed backup.”

  “Backup? I can’t handle the Big Apple all by my little self? Thank you very much.”

  “Don’t be that way,” he begged. “You don’t know how scared you sounded when you called me after your last dream. Was I supposed to ignore your fear?”

  “I was handling it.”

  “Yeah, drowning yourself in caffeine.”

  “You’re interfering in my life again,” I warned. He’d brought me back down to earth. Truth was, I was in way over my head with the dreams/drawings/supervillain problem. As for the rest, I had thought of these comic book big shots as equals, but in reality I was merely an indie nobody. The TV producers used me to make their stupid show appeal to a younger market. The most impressive thing I could do was draw, and no one even noticed that I hadn’t drawn my contest entry. No one had asked me to draw since I hit New York, either. They weren’t interested, not at all. My participation in the TV show had gotten me exactly nowhere. Not counting the whole debacle with Eric.

  “If you must know,” Roland surprised me out of my self-flagellation, “I also got a phone call from someone who knew about the artwork and wanted me to come here and keep you safe.”

  “Keep me safe? Who called you? How dare you take it upon yourself to protect me? I didn’t ask you to.”

  I went on in that indignant vein for quite a while. Roland got in an occasional word edgewise in his defense. But he did not enlighten me about who had called him. Either arguing is very time-consuming, or I’d forgotten how close-in Flushing was, because in a very few minutes we were pulling up at a modest suburban home built in the 1950s, on a tree-lined street a few blocks from Queens Boulevard. There was nothing to distinguish this house from
the others on the street with their smallish but well-kept front lawns and bushes. Roland parked in the driveway and led the way to the door, Jerry behind him. I hung back a bit. Sometimes I hate surprises.

  The doorbell rang and a middle-aged woman wearing too much makeup opened the door. A cigarette dangled from her overly lipsticked mouth. She was dressed in slacks and a rather low-cut blouse, plus multiple pieces of plastic junk jewelry, necklaces, bracelets, and rings. She smiled, but it was an ironic smile.

  “Hello. You must be Roland. And Jerry. After all these years,” she greeted the men.

  “Jerry, you remember Bodacious Barb, the girl Friday who ran the Fantastic Comics office, of course.” Roland made the introductions.

  “Chloe, dear.” Her usual sarcastic greeting.

  “Hi, Mom,” I muttered.

  Roland and Jerry turned to stare at me.

  Chapter 8

  Bodacious Barb, aka Barbara Cole, started to laugh. Her deep smoker’s rasp made her voice catch. “There are still some secrets behind the comics after all,” she said, and laughed at us.

  She waved us inside. The living room was exactly as always. Simple furniture. No family pictures or albums littered about. No comic book memorabilia, either.

  “You never told me Bodacious Barb was your mother, Chloe.” Roland turned on me.

  “You never asked.”

  “You let me go on and on about Fantastic Comics and Jerry Fine and the Gang o’Buddies fan club, and you never said a word.” His tone was aggrieved.

  “I didn’t have anything to tell,” I insisted. Roland idolized people who had feet of clay.

  Jerry looked uncomfortable. As well he should. Barb was her usual sardonic, amused self. I have never understood why she found everything so damn funny. All my childhood woes included.

  “You’ve got the great Jerry and Barb here, ask them your questions,” I said.

  Jerry spoke up, uncertainly. “Now I am confused. You think Barb has some information? Does she know what’s behind the recent appearances of a purple-garbed supervillain who tries to destroy public landmarks like the Third Avenue Bridge? Who threatened to kill me today?”

  Much less certain than before, Roland nodded his head. “Don’t you think being attacked by a supervillain is linked to the Fantastic Comics universe, sir?”

  Roland turned to Barb. “You were there when the Gang o’Buddies was big. This mystery seems to be connected to Chloe and to Jerry, here. Now I’m beginning to understand why Chloe. Because of her connection to you, Barb.”

  “I doubt it,” she countered. She looked at her cigarette briefly, then pinned Jerry with her gaze. “I was only the office girl. Not part of the true pantheon.” After that accusation, she turned to me. “Your troubles are linked to your father.”

  Roland turned to look at Jerry, puzzled, and then with dawning horror, “You?”

  “Don’t even think that. I was a faithful married man back then.” Jerry spread his hands defensively.

  “Are you telling the truth?” I asked with some heat. I’d suspected him, of course.

  “Give me some credit, kid,” my mother chided me, as she shot Jerry a look of distaste. “I worked for this guy, but I didn’t mess around with him. You can see he’s chickenshit even now.”

  “I resent that,” Jerry said.

  “You’re in my house,” Barb retorted. “Shut up.”

  “Then who is my father?” I had asked my mother before. She hadn’t answered.

  “Your father is a creative genius, far more interesting than this stuffed dummy here. Sorry, Jerry,” she added with calculated derision. After many decades, it seemed she still had some issues with her old boss.

  “Who? Who?”

  “Don’t be impatient, girl. I’m getting to it. As I was saying. Your father is intensely creative and his mind is different from most men’s. Family isn’t important to him. Only creative work. That’s why you never met him as a child.”

  Jerry spoke up. “I have the strange feeling Chloe’s father is Diabolical Dave McCay. Am I right, Barb?”

  Roland gasped.

  “Clever deduction, Jerry. You always were very smart.” Barb nodded. She turned to me.

  “Dave McCay, the famous eccentric comic book artist, is your father. Recently, he sent you drawings and dreams.”

  “How?” I asked. I wanted to doubt her. “There’s no known technology to account for dreams showing up in my head. Or images showing up on my computer.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” she shrugged. “The man’s a genius.”

  Roland spoke up, “If your computer had been enslaved, Diabolical Dave could send you all those images without your permission.”

  “But how did he send the dreams?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Any ideas?” I looked at Jerry.

  “Sorry. I’m not sure I even know what you’re talking about. Dave has been sending you comic panels?”

  “On my computer,” I said. “The page I showed you at the TV studio is one. That’s why I asked you who the artist was. The drawings are of those mysterious attacks.”

  “Why send them to you?” he enquired. “No offense, but are you even interested in superheroes?”

  “Not really,” I replied.

  “To get her to act,” Barb threw in. “Dave always preferred the oblique to the obvious.”

  “He couldn’t possibly know Roland would take the artwork and enter it under my name to this TV contest. Or that an independent group of judges would pick me as the winner and bring me to New York.”

  “He didn’t expect you to come here,” Barb said.

  “Then where?”

  “He wanted you to use the amulet and go into the other world. When you didn’t, he called Roland and told him to hurry to New York.”

  Roland’s jaw dropped. “You have the Amulet of Life?”

  “If this Dave McCay is so famous, why didn’t anybody recognize his art style?” I refused to call him my father.

  I turned to Roland. “Why didn’t you recognize it?” I looked at Jerry. “Or you?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I haven’t worked with Diabolical Dave McCay in nearly thirty years. Since his accident.”

  “Accident? What accident?” I asked, my breath suddenly shaky. Why? Given my father’s complete lack of interest in me my whole life, he couldn’t care less about me. Yet I worried about his health?

  Barb answered. “Dave’s drawing hand was mangled in a weird office machine accident,” she said. “No point going into details. Then the company gave him the shaft because he was a freelancer. Jerry here did next to nothing.” Barb looked at Jerry with utter scorn.

  “Not true. I tried. They wouldn’t—” Jerry protested.

  “You didn’t fight hard for him. We all knew you were afraid of the big boss. It made Dave bitter.”

  Barb turned back to me. “I was the one who helped Dave, took care of him for a while. One thing led to another, and here you are, Chloe.”

  Suddenly I had an inkling of why my mother was such a sarcastic personality. She’d left a lot out, but she had reasons for her bitterness.

  “Dave switched to drawing with his left hand after the accident. Even left-handed, he’s still a better artist than you are, Jerry,” she added.

  Roland’s eyes showed his shock at Barb’s biting disdain of his idol. I was aghast myself, even knowing how nasty Barb could be. She didn’t pull any punches with Jerry despite his icon status, or his age.

  Roland shook his head. “I had it all wrong. Or not quite. Bodacious Barb, uh, Ms. Cole, Jerry was attacked a half hour ago. The Purple Menace guy demanded the Amulet of Life.”

  “The Amulet of Life. What do you know about it, Barb?” Jerry questioned, urgency in his voice. He wasn’t eager to be killed by the Purple Menace. Jerry risked being slain by Barb’s scorn instead.

  In answer, Barb turned to me. “Chloe, did you receive a package from your father?”

  I pulled the pendant from
beneath my blouse.

  “The Amulet of Life,” Roland breathed. He reached to touch it reverently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought it was a personal gift.”

  “What does it all mean?” Jerry said. “Why would Dave give you something this Purple Menace wants? Why would the bad guy think I had the amulet?”

  “Get a clue,” Barb said in disgust. “You sound like one of those wimpy women characters you used to write.”

  “You were targeted because you’re so famous, Jerry.” Roland said to soothe his idol. “The Purple Menace must have thought you knew where the Amulet of Life was because you invented it.”

  Jerry preened visibly for a second, then slumped disconsolately. “The note from Dave warned me, but I didn’t believe him.”

  “Wait a minute. Was the old janitor Diabolical Dave?” I asked.

  “See, I told you, Chloe,” Roland cried. “He visited 30 Rock in disguise to deliver a warning.”

  “He could have said, ‘Hello, I’m your father,’ while he was at it.”

  “Not Dave’s style,” Barb said, looking amused.

  “Since Chloe has the Amulet of Life, you’ll be safe.” Roland reassured Jerry.

  “Right,” Jerry said. His relief didn’t last long. “Why?”

  “Yes, why will Jerry be safe?” I asked. “I’ve had the amulet for two months—”

  I stopped in mid-sentence and stared at Roland. “Two months.”

  “The Amulet of Life wouldn’t cause the dreams, or send artwork over the Internet,” Roland said, quickly, shaking his head. “It’s a people transporter only.”

  “That’s how I wrote it,” Jerry confirmed. “I called it the Amulet of Life to make it sound important.”

  “If you say so.” I brushed that aside for the moment. “Why would a piece of jewelry be so important?”

  “I know why,” Roland said, excitement in his voice. “Because the amulet works. It transports people.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said, “Anyway, why didn’t the Purple Menace come after me?” I demanded. “And why is Jerry safe now?”