Superman's Cape

by Brian Spangler

  The weather forecast started off well enough. He knew this stuff. He knew this job. And most of all, he knew with almost exact certainty what the weather was going to be the next day. Maybe that is what helped him win his audience. What gave him an edge in his delivery. When he spoke of the forecast it was with an as a matter of fact I do know the weather sentiment that came from the place his gift lived. His message was as genuine as they come. Because, he just knew.

  Jacob told his viewers about the previous days’ weather. He told them about last evening’s weather. He began to tell them about the approaching weather, including the possibility of hurricane force winds and rain. As he spoke, he watched his reflection in the glassy eye. The reflection mirrored his moves as he worked his delivery.

  “Superman’s cape,” Jacob suddenly blurted for no reason.

  “… and to the west we have a cold front with winds North to Northeast that will spawn an afternoon thunderstorm…” he continued.

  Andy’s eyes sprung up from his clipboard. Surprise and confusion riddled his expression as he darted looks to the crew around him, “did he just say Superman’s cape?”

  Flipping through his clipboard, his pen racing down each page, Andy searched for any indication of the words.

  “Is there another piece we’re doing later?” he spat into his microphone.

  When nobody answered him, he scolded, “I mean, Jesus, what the fuck is a Superman’s cape?” Andy put a finger to his ear and listened through his headset as the Control Room tried to make sense of what Jacob said. “Okay, I know what the fuck Superman’s cape is!” Andy answered annoyed by the chatter in his ear.

  Jacob could no longer see his reflection in the glassy eye staring back at him. He was only vaguely aware of what he’d just said. A minute later, he lost his words almost completely. He felt his body go on autopilot. He moved in the rehearsed motions complementing years of experience. He worked the board, with one hand pointing to a list of temperatures and the other playing a supportive role for the next set of queued numbers. His body continued and flowed but his words tumbled out between clumsy sets of Ummms and Ahhhhs. Some of his words tripped off his tongue, falling without defense to the floor where no amount of comprehension could save them. A cold sweat caught him. It swelled up from beneath his shirt onto his collar and neck before settling in a chill. Nausea joined a second later. The room stirred crooked for a moment as his mouth dropped open and blackness attacked his eyes.

  “Oh shit – he’s gonna lose it!” Andy proclaimed.

  “Come on Jake, take a breath.”

  Andy raised a hand up for the Control Room to see him. As Director it was decision time. Cut away or let his friend recover.

  “You can do it, Jake, get a breath and let’s move on.”

  More chatter interrupted Andy’s ear, “I know, I see him … just hang on a second,” Andy muttered as he gripped his microphone with tense fingers.

  Jacob braced his arms against imaginary rails with hope there was enough steady to be had. They helped. Otherwise, he was sure to have fallen onto his face for all of Jacksonville to see. He imagined seeing a video gone viral on the web. The one of the puking weatherman. Jacob shook the images out of his head. He gripped the imaginary rails again. He thought of the boat rails when he was a boy during his first ocean outing. On the water for the first time, when he didn’t know what sea-legs were or how to put them on.

  Focus, he thought struggling, I need some focus. He turned and sought out his friend and boss whose voice was speaking in his hear. He searched past the camera’s glassy eye. He looked past the lights and then beyond the sea of snake cables and shadow silhouettes. The glow of colorful lights blinking from a wall of audio and video equipment twinkled like star-lights that hurt his eyes. In spite of the painful mirage, he found Andy. He saw Andy’s form against the glow. His small arms raised in question. Andy caught Jake’s eyes. You got this? his friend asked him. Jacob heard Andy’s voice in his earpiece. His voice became clearer and the blackness and nausea receded.

  “Come on back, Jake, finish it out – just a small stumble, nothing tragic,” Andy consoled.

  The mystery ride on the fictional seas abruptly ended. So too did the jambalaya of word delivery. Jacob fixed his eyes on Andy. He straightened his back. He corrected his necktie. A deep breath later and he was ready to finish the weather report.

  With some difficulty he focused his attention back to the camera where he saw his reflection mirroring his moves, “uhhh, my apologies folks … all this hurricane talk has my stomach flipping a bit.”

  He did finish the broadcast. He told the viewers of the weather. He told them of Hurricane Dani. He told them what to expect and what to listen for if an emergency broadcast were issued by the National Weather Service. He told them everything any other responsible weatherman would tell his audience. But what he didn’t tell them was a single word more about Superman’s cape.

  8

  Sara dropped her eyes to the remains of the picture frame and photo before her. Anxious to protect her fingers from the sharp glass, she began the task of fishing out the photograph. She moved with care, knowing that each fragment of glass threatened to cut the photograph it once protected. Sara thought the shards might suddenly leap up and lacerate her beloved picture in a frenzied action that screamed spitefulness for having been stomped on. She hesitated before touching the glass. She paused, waiting for the sharp edges to come to life. When nothing happened, Sara felt embarrassed by the silliness. She pushed the images out of her head. And with just her fingertips, she picked up the first of many pieces that made up the jigsaw puzzle of tiny razors.

  When she heard the door open, she looked up long enough to see Kyle’s feet as he rushed out of the door. The trailer’s porch door swung closed, firing its own version of a gunshot over the heads of her and Jonnie. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jonnie jump and then settle back down, but not before he looked over to his mother for some assurances.

  “It’s Okay, Jonnie. Just the damn door. Nothing to worry about,” she said.

  Jonnie’s startled eyes turned to concern as he lifted his hand and pointed toward the photo.

  “Bleeding,” he whispered.

  Sara looked down and saw the blood coming from a cut in her finger. The glass she was holding jumped up after all and invited itself in for a small bite.

  “Oh shit,” Sara said dropping the sharp sliver of glass from her hand.

  “I guess I jumped too,” she said trying to force a smile in hopes it would settle some of Jonnie’s concern. But, when she looked back over, he was already fixing his eyes on the TV again. His expression was lost in the same faded mural of television colors.

  Sara carried her hand to the sink and turned the cold water tap on. She felt the pipes in the floor beneath her feet shudder as air from their well’s pump belched out of the faucet’s spigot. She hesitated before putting her finger into the narrow flow. It wasn’t the clearest of water, and it wasn’t the dirtiest, but it certainly wasn’t without some questions. Uh-uh, she thought making up her mind and turned the faucet off. From beneath the counter Sara grabbed one of the store brand bottles of water.

  The cut was deep but manageable. No needle and thread necessary. She poured the water onto her wounded finger. Sara braced her leg against the sink as the cold water woke up needling pain in her open skin. Blood left her finger and dropped to the sink in small crimson splatters. The water helped to clear the cut of any glass. The stinging settled to a groan and deeper throb that she began to feel with each beat of her heart.

  “I’ll get your sandwich in a few minutes, Jonnie Okay? Just need to finish this up,” she said. The only response Sara heard was the nearly silent bumping of glass. And for a minute she again thought the glass shards must have sprung to life and were dancing above the photo. Her fear settled in a long sigh when she found Jonnie working to help clear the photograph of the lifeless glass. Kneeling over the photograph, his eyes were fixed on the work befo
re him. She thought he could have been an afternoon surgeon on TV, preparing for his first cut of the day. The sunlight through the door was animated with dust drifts that swayed in and out of the rays. The rays cast their afternoon butter light on the area around the picture frame and photograph. The light clearly defined each piece of glass edge and splinter. Sara grabbed a towel, wrapped her finger, and moved to take a seat next to Jonnie. Mesmerized, she watched him work.

  As wildly strange the idea was of letting Jonnie clean up the glass, Sara was taken by her son’s intent interest and attempt to save the photograph. Instead of pulling his hands up or sweeping away the dangers posed, all she could do was watch. And Jonnie put on a show. She watched his little fingers work magic. She watched in awe as he worked meticulously and picked up the jigsaw puzzle pieces. He placed each of the glass fragments safely and neatly next to the photograph. One at a time, he did this for all the pieces.

  When Jonnie was finished demonstrating his mastery of glass surgery, he picked up the photograph and swept a small hand over it, as if searching for imperfections in the skin of the print, or to clear it of any minute splinters he’d missed. The throbbing in Sara’s finger ebbed, and she smiled at the photograph and turned to Jonnie.

  “Thank you so much, little man. Thank you. You know how much I love that photograph.”

  Sara saw Jonnie’s eyes water and his lower lip tremble as he ran his little fingers over the figure of his father. For the first time since Chris’s death, Sara saw the face of the little boy that departed on that awful day. He ran his fingers over the picture of his father again and then brought the photograph in against his chest. He hugged the photo. His eyes closed, and as Sara watched, a single teardrop was pushed out and slid down his cheek.

  “Miss 'im,” Jonnie murmured.

  “I know, Jonnie. I do too,” she followed and pulled Jonnie and the photograph into her arms. She hugged her little man as if she would never let him go.

  “I miss him too.”

  9

  A mess of pine needles lay across the floor of the woods. Some of them were the longest Kyle thought he’d ever seen. And sharp, he considered as he playfully teased the end of one with his finger. To Kyle, the floor felt like a big bouncy carpet. Jogging his knees up and down, he liked the small springy push it gave back to his sneakers. Kyle jumped up and giggled. He jumped again.

  Tall grass sprouted through the pine needles. They added their own flavors of green and yellow to the carpet dressing the floor. Kyle’s smile wilted like some of the dying vegetation. And then it faded altogether. He dropped the pine needle in his hand and continued his walk. He quickened his pace not caring that the long grasses whipped at his sneakers and shins. Some of the grass left behind cuts on his legs. He felt the slippery wet of blood drops emerge through the breaks in his skin. But he didn’t care.

  Kyle walked deeper into the woods. He walked with a hurt and shame that was his to wear. The hurt and shame wore on him and weighed down his steps. He kicked at the pine needles and pulled stalks of the grass as he swiped at his watering eyes. He walked until the contorted vision in front of him grew clearer. He swung his hands at the baby trees around him, their tops approaching his face, and their defenseless arms extending a stunted reach to shake his hands. He grabbed one of the younger saplings, his fingers wrapping around the top, and pulled until the force ended with a snap. He continued walking off the unfriendliness in his head.

  The anger and resentment he felt when he woke every day didn’t pass with the rise of the sun. It didn’t find calm in the afternoons. It didn’t sleep when he lay back down at night to close his eyes. The lightness and fun that once was a part of him was becoming a faint memory. It was going to a place far away deep inside. Lost to his eyes. Lost to his ears. Lost to his lips and to his heart. A part of him missed feeling good. But he missed it less and less.

  He walked some more and thought about his dad. He replayed the images in his head as the man’s gun spewed the smoke and metal that turned the day into a tragedy. He walked from tree to tree and sometimes in short circles while thinking of blood and Jonnie’s Superman cape. He skipped his toe into the floor of pine needles. He skipped his toe hard. He could still smell the smoke and hear his father’s last breath. He walked until a squirrel ran across his feet and startled him. Kyle came to a stop, interrupting the cloud of feelings he was so unwilling to leave.

  Kyle put a hand and arm to his face. He cleared his eyes of the remaining tears and wiped his nose of the runniness that crept towards his upper lip. His eyes wandered up the tall trees as he paused in awe of their size. Umbrella growths blossomed at their tops, smiling at the sky. He saw glimpses of blue and graying sky through the broken areas of branches and leaves and blossoms. Kyle rested his eyes for a minute as the sky peeked back at him from the other side.

  With his fingers, he tried to pry a shingle of bark from a tree. He pulled on it. But the tree protested, yelling out what sounded like the slow tearing of paper. He pulled again and the tree finally let go. The shingle covered most of his hand. If I were a Hobbit, I’d build a roof with these, he thought amusingly for a moment then tossed the shingle to the ground.

  “There are a lot of trees in here,” he said to the pine wearing a fresh wound.

  As if listening, the tops of the trees waved to each other. They moved rhythmically backward then forward before returning home to their original stances. He felt the air cross his face and go through his hair. As a breeze passed over his wet cheeks, the cold reminded him of his tears and what he was doing there. The question of direction sprouted in his mind like the green stalks of grass shooting up from the floor of the woods. Which direction, the grass stalks whipped at his memory. Which direction did I come from?

  This has to be easy, he thought in an attempt to settle the fear that was building. Just need to remember where the sun was … it was behind me. My shadow was in front of me. A sense of pride turned up a smile and he looked to the ground in search of his shadow. “If my shadow was in front of me when I entered the woods then I need to put my shadow behind me now. And then just keep walking in that direction”, he proclaimed to the trees. “Simple. Right.” Kyle turned left and right, looking for his shadow. He walked a few yards ahead, his head down and eyes to the floor. He searched the pine needles for the figure of his outline.

  “Where is the Sun?” he questioned, and lifted his chin to find it through the tall trees. The ceiling of umbrella blooms swayed back and forth, hiding it from him. Hiding the shadow he needed. He watched as the trees moved in the breeze. He listened to them sounding off angry giggles. They giggled louder, mocking his predicament. It was a punishment for his having peeled the bark off one of their brothers and for having killed one of their young.

  Suddenly, a patch of sunlight burst through the ceiling and landed to wake up the forest floor. Kyle ran to a sunlit patch. He ran from one to another then another as the wind’s direction changed. The light painted abstract shades across the pine needle floor. The painting in front of him seemed alive as it morphed from one shape to another. The wind moved the light. It danced and jumped around. And then the wind steadied and slowed. He ran to one more patch of ground and thrust his feet into the light with the expectation of seeing his shadow. But just as before, the sunlight faded into the surrounding gray.

  “Which direction is home?” he asked the trees as frustration edged his trembling lip. His shadow stayed hidden from his eyes like a teasing game of Marco Polo. “Marco,” he mumbled, wishing he could hear someone reply.

  Get a Grip. Kyle dismissed the growing concern. He stifled the speculation that was breeding fear in his mind, and instead turned around from the direction he was facing, and walked.

  “It’s this way,” he said defiantly. And in soldier form he stepped five or more yards before considering a look in any direction other than forward.

  A minute of walking passed. And then another. And when he stopped to look around, he only saw the same frustrating tre
es. He didn’t recognize anything. He looked to the ground with hope that his sneakers left imprints. But the blanket of pine needles kept the dirt hidden. The blanket didn’t show a hint of remembering who he was, let alone betray whether anyone, or anything, had ever walked here.

  Kyle searched in vain for the broken sapling. The one he grabbed earlier, out of anger, and pulled until he felt it break. He turned – there it was! How simple, he thought. He saw the sapling just ten yards away. His heart leapt and he picked up his feet and ran over to the young sapling. He apologized to the surrounding trees for having hurt the poor thing, but at the same time was so thankful that he had broken it; otherwise, who knew where he’d be? Kyle felt the fracture in the bark. The young tree bled a sticky goo of sap that was resilient to his attempts at wiping it away.

  Kyle glimpsed another small tree. One, then two and then three more. As far as his eyes could see, and in every direction, broken saplings sprinkled the woods around him. A sinking feeling entered him. It replaced all others that overwhelmed his senses that day. He finally realized that he didn’t know which direction he walked in from. He didn’t know. He had no idea which direction was home.

  10

  Andy ordered his fourth beer while Jacob was still finishing his first. By Jacob’s count, the lunch offer he made was picked up by half a dozen or so, and still growing. The group from the station sat in and around two long tables at the center of one of their favorite watering holes. The ‘Rust Bucket’ was located just off Rt. 17 – closer to Maysville than their station. You always knew you were near when the salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean greeted you. Everyone liked the ‘Rust Bucket.’ It was the place to go with folks from the station, or when you just wanted to grab a beer. The place was hypnotic – a throwback to an easier time.