‘‘You will have a new home, EmiL You can come home when the new order is set up, and—’ ’
“Let me tell you,” he hissed, as a series of names and addresses began to flash across the screen. “Let me tell you what kind of home I would like to return to. I would like to see a Georgia that recalls its rich past. I would like to see a Russia that remembers Alexander Nevsky as much as it does the Prague Spring. A Russia that looks and sounds more like the land of the firebird than it does like the land that lost millions of troops for nothing in the sands of Afghanistan. Perhaps the dream of URSA, perhaps this renewed enmity with the United States will help your dream, but that dream is not mine. I will not return until my home is what it was.
“But—”
“Yes. You know what that means, i will not return. I will help you and you will help me, but I am this now, just as Russia is this now. Stop talking to me about dreams of a new Soviet system. I am the Abomination. 1 have my own destinv.” He hissed again and tapped the keyboard and it went dark, and the sanctum plunged into dimness again. “Go. I have heard your message and you have nothing to worry about.
After a moment, Sarah nodded. Her eyes, he felt sure, spoke paragraphs of almost unbecoming warmth: No, uncle, there is new hope. “Very well.”
As she left he said, “Your father was a good man, Sarah Josef.”
The creature that had once been Emil Blonsky turned back to his console and began to draft a scries of letters.
He had URSA to thank for the complete list of proper recipients.
Betty Gaynor tapped on her lectern as she looked at her notes for a brief moment and looked up again. ‘ ‘So what do we, know about the end of the world?” She stepped away from the lectern, sweeping her gaze over the students. About half of them were daydreaming or scribbling on paper; perhaps some of those were taking notes. She was pleased to see the other half actually seemed interested.
“Hm?” she continued. “Genesis 6:6. ‘The Lord was grieved that he had made man, and his heart was filled with pain.’ Grieved. The almighty makes the earth in five days and likes it. He makes man on the sixth, rests on the seventh, and out of all the things He creates, He comes to regret man. He looks down on us and grieves. Think of that. What does it mean to grieve? Generally, we feel a great loss. We grieve our lost loved ones because they are no longer there, we’re missing the past—” she looked around ‘—and we miss the future that might have been. But for God to feel grief? His heart is filled with pain, why?” She paused, flicking her wrists to indicate she’d like a response.
None came. Betty put her finger to her lips and scanned the selection of students who were paying attention, half-enjoying the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look that came over an entire class in fear of being called upon. She considered calling on a Victim, one of the unfortunate students who had not been paying attention and only now were looidng up, out of sheer nervousness about the sudden silence. But truth be known, that wasn’t really all that fun. Well, maybe the first couple of times, but after she had gotten that out of her system, she preferred a decent discussion.
She decided to pick one of the Mouthers. That was her word for students who sat there, mouths slightly open, words waiting to come out, but kept back by—what? The same force, obviously, that caused a lot of the Mouthers’ hands to lift iust centimeters off their desks, but denied them the ability to lift their arms any further. One like ... “Clara?”
Clara Luici coughed and a flutter of mild laughter swept the room. She looked back at Betty, half relieved at being called and half imploring God to make it not so. Betty waited a moment, watching Clara and her librari-anesque blouse and large glasses. Amazing, she thought. I’m looking at myself. Strip off a few years and a whole universe of trouble, and it’s me.
“Ma’am?”
“I’ll rephrase,” said Betty. “The chronicler says that the Hebrew God was grieved about making man. Not regretful, but grieved. How does that make sense?’ ’
“Um.’ Clara stared, and Betty-could see the wheels turning. “He can grieve if He wants to, right?” Laughter. A flash of personal grief rolled over the student’s face, fear that the professor might not appreciate a bit of wit. “I mean, you can grieve someone who’s not gone/’ Good. Betty tiked her head. ' ‘What do you mean?” “Like you said. We grieve people who are lost—but the real pain, or maybe a lot of it, is the loss of opportunity, God is grieving over what humanity could have been.’
“Before the fall, you mean?” I “He got over that,” responded Clara, leaning forward and sweeping her hand. She was gaining momentum and confidence before Betty’s eyes and it was a joy to behold. “Kicked Adam out of the garden and changed the program. One disappointment doesn’t have to ruin your future. God is grieving because no matter what, people kept going in the wrong direction. I think if you opened up the mind of God in Genesis 6 you’d see plans, gigantic plans, all the wonderful things He hoped for. The way you might plan to have someone around forever, and you triav out
little fantasies, right? And maybe something happens. And they die or maybe worse, maybe they change, or you change. But those plans, all those fantasies, those are still knocking around in your head. And you look at what you have and you look at what might have been and—yeah, you grieve.”
Betty smiled. The room was hushed. She almost wanted to applaud. - She looked at the clock and was pleased to see her quiet student had just about lectured them to the end of the hour. A few minutes. She considered calling on someone else and squelched that.
What the hell. Bring it on home, Clara. “So what's the difference, here? That’s humanity you just described, and the creator here -in Genesis 6 is a lot like humanity. What’s the difference?”
Clara looked around her, putting it together. She was on top of it. "“The difference is that God grieves for his lost plans and then sends the flood and just erases the world. He destroys it, and starts over,” Clara said. “And we, um—we can’t do that. ’
Four o’clock. Chairs began to rumble. Betty nodded and only partially smiled. No, we can't. “Thank you.’M She looked at the whole class as it rose as one beast and made its way for the door. r^Clieck your syllabus guys! Tomorrow I want to get through the flood and start the Greek flood as well!” Fat chance, that But she liked to entertain the thought that someone mighf read ahead for once.
Betty Gaynor sorted her books and notes into-her bag and out of the comer of her eye saw Clara Luici approaching. She was glad, too, because she had just at that instant made a decision. “Excellent points, Clara. ’
Clara stood by the lectern with her hands clasped in front of her, once again a mirror image of once-Betty. “Um. Thanks.” -
Betty laughed. “Why do you do that?”
“Ma’am?”
“You start almost every sentence with ‘um,S5’ Betty said, pulling her brown leather bag over her shoulder. She pulled back her hair and clasped It with a scrunchy as she talked. “It’s not my place to notice, so don’t take it the wrong way.~^'
“Uh—” Clara blinked. The shame was palpable, and Betty felt monstrous instantly. ‘No, ma’am.”
‘Nervous habit, right? A lot of people say verbal tics like that are stalling tactics while we’re trying to think of to say."
Thi-rc was a pau«£ where an “um” should have been. ‘‘Could be..”
“But if that were the case 1 wouldn’t bug you about it. I’m mentioning it because 1 think you almost always know what it is you want to say and you take an extra second to summon up the courage.”
Clara stared. Betty felt as if she could jump into the girl's head and see >ut, filled with awe at the clairvoyance of someone who knows the tactics of a shy-but-getting-by student..■?‘I don’t know what to respond to that,” Clara said, and she laughed, a bit nervously.
“Well,” said Betty, “Work on it. You scored one for courage today. Meantime I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?”
“The instructo
rs get these notices all the time from various journals, here and otherwise. Anyway, the religious studies department is looking for papers, I thought W you were interested you could explore this topic we were on today some more. Fd be glad to help. I admit the Richards College journals aren’t tops in their class, but it’s a start, and maybe we could look for other places for it if it works out well.”
Clara stared. ‘But I... how-long a paper are we talking about?”
“Yeesh. Always it’s ‘how long. Long enough to be worthwhile.'1 Betty smiled. God, she loved this job, ‘ And it’s worth ■ credit if you can do it by Christmas. That’s three months, and it’ll be good for the writing requirement.”
Clara was nodding, the wheels churning away, “I... I can do that. ’
“I’ve read your essays in class; I know you can do that.’|| ■
Clara’s face mirrored every emotion she held, just like Betty’s once did, and now the face flushed. “Thank you.” “De nada. Anyway,’" Betty looked at the clock. A few students from the next class in the lecture hall had begun to wander in. “I have office hours tomorrow. Come by, we’ll talk more.”
“When do you want an outline?”
Eager, too. “If you want to do something, just work up a preliminary list of sources, and we’ll talk. Tomorrow.” Betty shrugged, indicating the time. “Gotta go’!’ '"-‘-‘Right. Me, too.” Clara headed for the door. “Thank you!”
“You’re the one who’s gonna do the work, Clara,” said Betty. “Now don’t forget to read tomorrow’s assignment!” But Clara was gone. Doesn't matter. Kid reads ahead, dollars to donuts.
Betty rode the commuter train home trying to read her own notes and spending as much time looking out the window. Four-forty-five was the beginning of the afternoon commute, still on the cusp between the day riders and the professionals, who rarely showed up on the trains until the early evening. She stared out the window at the passing tunnels and ignored the diverse group around her, punks and old folks and the odd hooky-playing lawyer or two. She repeated the thought: I love this job.
In the last several years, she had been everything from a pilot to a telephone operator, even spent time away from her husband trying to become a nun. And when a few strings—strings about which she preferred to know as little about as possible—were pulled to get Betty Banner, fugitive, into the faculty at Richards, complete with fake verified curriculum vitae and all manner of letters of recommendation for the hitherto-nonexistent Betty Gay nor, she had no idea it would suit her this much. But it did. And after two months she knew that the next move was going to break her heart.
Betty got off the train at White Plains and walked the mile and a half to the Gaynor’s condominium. Taking cabs was expensive and she had found of late that she liked the exercise of the walk—even through what had been called by some “the most boring place in America,” perhaps an unfair nomenclature. It was serene enough, in any case.
When she had her key in the door she found herself listening for signs of Bruce, and heard the keyboard all the way from the study. Inside, she snickered at Bruce’s insistence on calling an unused bedroom with a desk a “study ’ He had wanted to call it a War Room, for some reason, but it hadn’t stuck. At least he was home.
The condo was dark, every shade pulled. Betty hated to admit it but her heart sank whenever she walked in, just a little. The place stayed dark out of necessity, since they couldn’t very well have neighbors peeking in to see her seven-foot-tall, green-skinned husband. To make matters worse, Bruce had taken to wandering around with the lights off, and it made their home feel somehow funereal. She dropped her bag by the door and stepped softly down the hall, toward the blue glow that emanated from the study, following the rapid hammering on the steel keyboard Bruce used. The tapping stopped and Betty heard the sound of a modem connecting. Bruce was consulting again, and it meant a lot of faxing, and, thankfully, a great deal of money. Betty reached the door and slid it back a few inches to lean in. He knew she was there. The man had hearing like a junkyard dog.
Betty’s face softened when she saw him. Bruce was sitting in his gigantic chair, hunched over the steel desk in the dark. The bulk of his torso hid the lower half of the monitor, but his great, blockish head was perfectly silhouetted against the bright screen. So much green. The green shoulders and neck, the green tousled close-cropped hair, all lit up with the electric glow of the screen. He sat still, watching the status bar on the screen ebb away as the fax went out. If Bruce had his way, Betty thought, she would spend years talking to the back of his head. She blinked, hearing Clara, hearing herself in Clara: We can’t do that. We can’t erase it. God can grieve and start over We just grieve. That wasn’t right, was it?
“You didn’t come home last night,” Betty said, breaking the silence. The green head moved slightly and she saw Bruce’s three-quarter silhouette. He was not frowning. He was just blank.
The Hulk suddenly snapped alive, as if having needed a few seconds to translate her English before he could move. He rubbed his eyes and leaned forward on his elbows, still looking at the screen. “I’m sorry:”
“You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type. If the only gamma female around weren’t your first cousin, I’d think you were having an affair.” She was still leaning on the study door and moved forward when he granted her a short laugh.
He scratched his chin loudly, as only the Hulk could. “It was ... a hard night.”
Betty moved forward and stood behind him, leaning in, hands on his shoulders. It was impossible to tell if he were tense by touch. Her husband the Hulk weighed a ton and felt like slightly padded steel to the touch. “C’mon, Bruce. Clue me in. Make me a partner, okay?”
He nodded slightly, tipping his head toward the chair next to his. He needed her; he showed it in a thousand ways. One of the most dangerously powerful gentle men on earth and he needed her. She sat and leaned over, nuzzling her head against his torso.
“It’s hard to explain,” Bruce said. “Sometimes I wish
I could just dump my brain into yours ana you could know what I’m thinking without having to explain, to catch up.”
Betty nodded. She wished the same thing, a thousand times. So much didn’t get said because it just took so much effort.
B‘And then I think no one wants what’s in my head. '
“Don’t do that,” she said, sitting up, looking at him sternly and softly at once. “Not with me- You can pity yourself to your heart’s content but I signed on this r ir-riage for a reason, and it wasn to be spared your pain. Clue me in.”
Bruce nodded again. When they were first married he was so distant, and yes, she had been pretty distant herself sometimes. It was amazing to feel how far they’d come. Despite the fact thac they had so far to go. was walking last night. You know, I like that. I can get out on the side of the. road and blend into the grass pretty well. I can think. His voice was low, almost a whisper, although it was so deep it made her spine shiver.
Betty wanted to say, Why do you need to leave? Why can’t you stay here, talk to me all the lime? But she kept that, for now.
“There was an accident. Worst accident I’ve ever seen up close. A semi went into oncoming traffic and hit a car head-on. A blazing mess.”
“I read about t on the train this morning.” She left out" AJthough I barely paid attention to the paper since I was so mad at you for not coming home. Want to see the paper? You won’t see any tear-stains. I was too annoyed to cry, and nearly cried over that in itself. She said none of that.
“So, did I make the paper?” When she shook her head, Bruce muttered, “Just as well. I.., couldn’t.. he stopped, shaking his giant head, his lower lip trembling. “I ripped the car apart and got to one of those kids. But the other .. and there was nothing ,13. nothing...”
_L'Hey,’ she whispered. “Hey, Bruce. I read about it. They said it was a miracle that the one kid survived, okay? By all rights he shouldn’t have, just like the driver of the truck.”
“By all rights?” He whispered, almost angrily, but it was clear that Bruce didn’t want to be mad, and she could see on his face he instantly regretted the tinge of anger. This thing in him, this Hulk-gamma thing, God, what it did to him and his emotions, and God, how he struggled. “I can leap a mile. I can tear tanks apart with my bare hands, and have with regularity. And do you know what? It amounts to nothing.”
“You’re upset that you couldn’t save them both?” She whispered, “What could you do, watch the road and keep the accident from happening?”
“I don’t... I don’t know, Betty/' And he didn’t, that was clear. “It’s just so ... wrong. I felt so helpless, so underqualified. Why was I there and not Dr. Strange or some clairvoyant? Why has—” he waved his hands, indicating the green color, ‘ ‘—this happened if I don’t do anyone any good, and it ruins my life for nothing, and it ruins your life, for nothing.'”
Betty asked, ‘Why were you there instead of no one at all? Then they all would’ve ended up dead ”
There was a long silence. The tiniest part of her wanted to accuse him of just feeling sorry for himself, but this was really hurting him. It took a lot to hurt the Hulk; it deserved attention. Finally he looked up and breathed. “Morgan’s son was the kid who died.”
She blinked. Sean Morgan, the SAFE guy?” “Yeah.”
‘They didn’t give a name in the paper.”
“That makes sense,” Bruce said slowly. “There was a SAFE agent on the scene.”
“How?”
“Ah, well, there’s the other thing. He was following me. Been following me since that little to-do with SAFE and Spider-Man in New York.”
"Oh.” The syllable came out weak, childlike, and Betty felt her stomach ball up and twist. “Oh.”
“Now, Betty, don’t, please ...”
“I love this job, Brace,” she was shaking her head, her eyes already welling up. “Please don’t do thi— Please don’t let this be true.” She had almost said. Please don’t do this to me, and there was no rescuing it. “Please. I love it. Really. I’m so sick of moving around. God, Bruce, please... ”
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