The Good Fight 4: Homefront

by Ian Thomas Healy

  I’m sure many men throughout the ages have doubtless thought of their women as goddesses, but to this day I still believe mine really was.

  She called herself Lady Athena. She was one of the first heroes, part of the fledgling American Justice team that so enchanted the nation after World War II. Most of them were veterans of the war, but not her. Her background was as mysterious as her powers. How well I remember the newsreel footage of her and her companions as they flew unaided above the streets of New York to demonstrate their abilities for an adoring populace.

  I was just a guard at the First Federal Bank and Trust over on Bleecker Street back then. It was my first job since I’d left home. Too young to serve in the army before the war ended, I’d found myself in competition against thousands of veterans for positions. Fortunately for me, not many wanted to be bank guards. It wasn’t a very prestigious or glamorous occupation, but I earned enough to rent the room in a house run by a woman named Mrs. Tidwell, and provided for the occasional movie or trip out to Coney Island to watch the submarine races. It was a simple life and it suited me well after a childhood in rural Pennsylvania amid the Amish and Mennonites.

  I nearly lost my life the day I met Lady Athena, and all because our bank manager, Mr. Maxwell G. Jackson the Third—he insisted on including his lineage every chance he got—had this newfangled idea about leaving bank guards unarmed to seem more friendly to bank customers. It was no wonder he couldn’t keep men on his payroll. All the uniform did was make us easily-identifiable targets. Bank robberies were no more common back then than they are today, but that day was the exception I will never forget.

  There were six of them. They acted like many veterans I’d seen: cool under pressure but on a hair trigger, ready to unleash violence without any provocation. They wore maintenance coveralls and knit caps against the cold of the Fall, and ran inside the bank brandishing service pistols. One had a submachine gun that he must have brought back from the front lines. I had no idea what to do. My training had consisted mainly of a tour of the bank so I’d know where to direct customers. The robbers ordered the patrons and tellers to lie down on the tiled floor. I wavered, uncertain what to do. I knew I had to protect the bank, but I had nothing more than a ring of keys on my belt. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I unclipped them. I was no fighter, no soldier like these men clearly had been.

  “Well, look at this,” grunted one of the men. “Looks like we got ourselves a hero, boys. What’re you going to do, hero? Going to make us stop? Get down on the floor, hero.”

  “Do something, Stanley,” Mr. Jackson hissed at me under his breath. “Or you’re fired. You’re a guard, for God’s sake!”

  I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I wasn’t about to take a bullet for a man who thought so little of me that he wouldn’t allow me the necessary tools to perform the job for which he’d hired me.

  Helplessly, I sank to the floor. My ears burned with shame and impotence. The robber laughed at me and turned his back just as a gust of freezing wind blew through the lobby and sent deposit slips and receipts flying like snow.

  “What the heck?” yelled one of the robbers as a cloaked and helmeted figure drifted in from the street.

  She seemed far more imposing than her stature implied. She might have been five and a half feet tall—only an inch shorter than me—but with her velvety maroon cloak billowing around her in wind that seemed to swirl at her whim, she seemed the largest person I’d ever seen. Her bronze helmet with its plume of crimson feathers kept her face shadowed except for her eyes, which flashed bright like sodium arc lights. Curly black hair spilled out from under the helmet to flap in the breeze. Under her cloak she wore a bronze breastplate over a red tunic and skirt, with lace-up sandals. The part of my mind that was only human noticed that she had great legs. She held a spear in one hand and had a small round shield buckled to the other.

  I knew Lady Athena only by reputation and from the newsreels I’d seen at Saturday matinees, but here she was right in front of me. She tilted her head down towards me slightly, and I swear she winked at me from under her helmet before she turned her attention to the robbers. Those worthies all stood with their guns dangling loosely from their sides and their mouths hanging open in shock.

  “You boys had better give me those before you hurt somebody with them,” she said in a soft voice redolent with power. “Give up now and I’ll go easy on you.”

  Two of the robbers shook their heads and slid their guns across the floor. “I didn’t sign on for fightin’ no superheroes,” grumbled one of them as he knelt and put his hands on his head.

  Three of the others wavered uncertainly. But the fourth, the fellow with the submachine gun, wasn’t having any of it. “You picked the wrong day to come to this bank, little lady,” he hollered, and raised his weapon.

  “So did you,” she whispered.

  The robber unloaded his clip at her. The terrific racket made all of us clap our hands over our ears. She casually raised her shield, as if she had all the time in the world, and deflected every single bullet. I saw the sparks on her shield from each impact. Somehow, she directed every slug up to a point in the ceiling over the robber. His eyes grew wide as she stood before him, unharmed, and pointed over his head. Like a fool, he tilted his head back to look. A piece of masonry cracked loose and fell right onto his upturned face.

  The other three robbers surrendered without a fight.

  Later, I watched as the police bundled the six robbers—one nursing a broken nose and wounded ego—into the paddy wagon. Mr. Jackson fawned over Lady Athena and tried to get her to come back to the bank again for a photo opportunity. She politely turned aside his attentions and suggested he might want to review his security procedures and arm his guards. Then she smiled at me and turned to go. I knew in that moment I had to speak to her, to make her more real in my mind somehow. I slipped my hat off my head, held it in my hands before me, and twirled it nervously.

  “Ma’am . . .” I felt my tongue swell in my mouth from nerves.

  “Yes? Are you all right?” she asked in her soft contralto. Her eyes no longer glowed with that unnatural light and instead sparkled with amusement.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I . . . I wanted to know if you’re okay. That guy shot at you.” The words came in a rush, and I winced at how much I sounded like a moonstruck teenager.

  “I’m fine, Stan,” she said. “Thank you for your concern, though.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I overheard your bank manager use it,” she replied. “He’s not a bad man, your boss. Give him a chance.”

  “Thanks.” I wondered where I’d find the spine to say what I really felt. She brushed past me. In her wake, I could smell the scent of fresh-cut roses. “Uh . . . Lady Athena?”

  She paused, turned slightly, and looked back at me. “Yes?”

  “Would you . . . do you . . . like movies?” I felt like a kamikaze pilot who’d committed to his final, fatal approach into a ship, unable to change his mind.

  She smiled. “Yes I do, Stan.”

  And just like that, the pilot found a control surface that let him pull out of his crash dive. “Maybe would you like to go to a matinée? This weekend? W-with me?”

  “I would enjoy that.” She went on to say she’d meet me outside a theater on the West Side. Then she left the bank. I watched as her cape swirled around her ankles and she flew straight up into the air, which left more than a few jaws hanging loosely in surprise from those on the ground.

  Mr. Jackson was saying something to me, but all I could hear was the sound of her voice replaying in my mind.

  * * *

  Saturday found me seated on a bench outside the theater, dressed warmly against the first freeze of the season. I had my hat pulled down over my ears and the collar of my overcoat turned up. I’d been so nervous all morning I’d had to change my shirt twice because it would get soaked under the arms. I had debated myself around and around whether to buy her flowers o
r anything, but in the end I’d talked myself out of it. Flowers would seem too forward, I figured, especially since she didn’t really know me and I knew nothing about her except what I’d seen in the papers.

  “Hello, Stan. I hope I’m not late,” came a friendly voice. I stood by reflex and turned to see her standing there.

  She hadn’t worn her costume. Somehow I knew she wouldn’t, but I hadn’t ever pictured what she might look like out of it. She was likewise bundled against the cold, in a scarlet wool coat with a white scarf wrapped around her neck. She wore a matching white hat, one of those French ones that always looked lopsided to me. Unlike most women, she wore her dark hair down, with only a few pins in strategic locations. Without her helmet, she looked beautiful. Her skin was tanned and exotic, her eyes large and dark, teeth white, lips ruby red. In spite of the cold weather, she had a fresh rose pinned to the lapel of her coat. I had never considered myself to be especially good-looking, but here she was, this smooth-skinned angel, smiling radiantly and honestly at me . . . at me! . . . warming me like a bonfire.

  “N-no,” I stuttered.

  She placed a friendly hand on my arm. “Stan, relax. I don’t bite. Being a superhero is just what I do. I’m just like any other girl.”

  “Not like any other girl,” I countered. “What should I call you? Lady Athena?”

  “Athena is fine.” She shivered. “Let’s go inside. What’s playing?”

  I had already bought our tickets, so we went inside. The young fellow in his sparkling usher’s uniform tore them and handed back the stubs as he cheerfully wished us to enjoy the show. During the twenty minutes before the lights darkened, Athena and I talked. She didn’t tell me too much about herself, and apologized for it. “I still have an identity to maintain,” she explained. She did tell me that she’d lived in New York all her life, but her family had emigrated from Greece. She loved flowers and grew them when she wasn’t doing her work with American Justice. She asked me about myself, my job, my family, where I grew up. And she seemed so honestly interested that I grew very comfortable speaking to this beautiful woman.

  There was a newsreel with some headlines about Korea, then a Bugs Bunny cartoon that made us both laugh. The movie was a musical with Gene Kelly with a lot of singing and dancing and I’ll admit I thought it was kind of boring. Athena seemed to really like it, though, and once clutched my hand during one of the big dance numbers, her eyes shining as she watched people cavorting across the screen. She didn’t let go right away, so neither did I.

  By the time the matinée let out for the day, a light snow was falling. It spiraled down on the capricious currents between the buildings. Athena flung her arms out, spun around like one of the dancers in the movie, and laughed at the weather like a child. “I love the snow,” she confided to me. “It always feels so magical.”

  I shivered. “It always makes me feel cold,” I said. “There’s a diner over there. How about a cup of coffee and a slice of pie?”

  She grinned, her cheeks red from the wind. “Sure. I love pie.”

  I smiled back with a confidence I didn’t know I had. “Everybody loves pie.”

  * * *

  Our first date turned into a second. Then a third. Suddenly, without even planning it, I’d acquired a girl, and Athena had acquired me as well. She had that disarming honesty about her feelings which made it easy to swallow the fact that she was a superhero and I was, in her words, “refreshingly mundane.” We went to more movies, and to the theater. We went to a fight and saw Rocky Marciano knock out Joe Louis. When summer came, we went to baseball games.

  Many of our dates ended with us sneaking back into Mrs. Tidwell’s house or, less frequently, in one of the finer hotels downtown when I could afford it. Athena was wealthy but didn’t embarrass me by offering to pay for many things.

  The overnight stays in the hotels were always memorable. We’d share champagne and strawberries, and later make love on the softest beds ever. I never told her I had only ever been with one other woman, and she never asked. She seemed experienced, and taught me a great many things about both of us. Sometimes, when we finished, we’d lie naked beside one another, the scent of rose petals filling the room, as the smoke from our cigarettes curled up to mingle overhead much like we had previously.

  “Stanley.” She rolled up onto one elbow and looked down at me one summer afternoon. Her black curls, damp with sweat, hung around her face like the ribbons on gift wrapping. She only called me Stanley when she wanted to discuss serious topics. I forced myself to look away from her flawless skin, bosoms curving forward to perfectly-formed nipples like candy kisses. “I think it’s time I brought you home.”

  “Home? You mean to where you live?” Even after months of dating, I still had no idea where Athena lived or worked. She had perfectly valid reasons for not telling me. If I knew that much about her, I was a liability that an enemy could exploit. There weren’t many super-villains back in those days, but the few who plagued American Justice wouldn’t hesitate to use me as leverage against her, and she didn’t want to risk me. It took me some time to come to grips with that secrecy, but she was so honest about everything else with me that I had no real reason to complain.

  “Not so much where I live,” she replied. “My flat isn’t anything special. I’ll take you there sometime. But I want you to meet my family, and they to meet you.”

  I wondered if she’d been reading my mind. I didn’t know if she counted that among her myriad powers and abilities. Unlike the rest of the American Justice heroes, her powers weren’t clearly defined. As near as I or anyone else could tell, she could do just about anything she thought to try. I’d seen her fly, listen to a conversation across a park, or locate one of my missing cuff links by the way sound echoed off it. The fact was I’d been going down to Schlener’s on 28th Street pretty often and looking really hard at this one ring, trying to decide if I dared buy it for her. I’d even thought about bringing her home to Pennsylvania to meet my parents and sister.

  “Sure, I’d be honored to meet them,” I said. “When?”

  She rolled out of bed, comfortable with her nakedness. She steadfastly refused to cover herself with a blanket or sheet. “Now. Today.”

  I stabbed out my cigarette in the bedside ashtray. “Today’s good.” I thought again of that ring in Schlener’s. “I’ll just go hop in the shower so I’ll make a good impression.” I tried to maintain the same casualness and lack of modesty she so naturally exhibited and strolled into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door.

  “You are so wonderful, Stan,” she said as she slipped into the shower with me. “I was so lucky to meet you that day in the bank.”

  “Not as lucky as I was,” I countered. She laughed and threw her arms around me. We made love again under the spray, and shouted with laughter when it would suddenly get ice cold from someone turning on a tap elsewhere in the hotel.

  * * *

  Athena’s “family” turned out to be the rest of American Justice. They waited for the two of us in their penthouse suite in one of the prestigious downtown office buildings. I had never met any of them before in person, and never even seen any of them except in the papers before that day.

  I think I’d have rather met her parents. I imagined they were wealthy, beautiful people to have raised such a lovely, cultured person as Athena. The American Justice heroes were much scarier to me. Here was Dr. Danger, the world’s greatest archer, who sat with Colt, the woman who could outrun an express train. Flashpoint, the Negro war veteran, glared at me with open distrust and hatred. Kid Crash, the all-American teenager with the freckles and the ability to blow up things he touched, looked lost amid the adults. The White Knight seemed mundane without the glowing suit of armor he normally wore in public. Only John Q. Public, the man of a thousand faces, seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. He shook my hand and introduced himself, wearing the square-jawed face most people expected to see on him.

  Wherever Lady Athena went among h
er companions, she was like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. She spoke in low, soothing tones to introduce me, and their prejudices melted away. Dr. Danger and Colt insisted I call them by their given names of Adrian and Judy. Athena whispered to me they were secret lovers. I looked at the two of them and wondered how anybody couldn’t see their attraction to one another. Kid Crash wanted to talk baseball with me. Even Flashpoint, the angriest man I have ever met in my life, softened up enough to crack a genuine smile.

  Being around people of such power and reputation was heady and exciting, like hanging around with university professors or Hollywood actors or sportsmen. We ate hors d’oeuvres and drank cocktails (except Kid Crash, who was only allowed ginger ale). We talked about politics and crime and the state of the world and I felt like I had been accepted. Athena hung on my arm much of the afternoon, comfortable to display her affection for me to her compatriots and fellow men-at-arms.

  It must have been hours later when our discussion about dinner was interrupted by a pair of New York City policemen, sent by the mayor to request American Justice’s help with what they called “a situation.”

  Athena spoke with them briefly to get the details, and then asked the rest of the team to suit up. She kissed me softly, and said I could wait in their headquarters while they dealt with the incident.

  The White Knight wrapped himself in a suit of armor made from glowing light. Despite the heat of the evening, Flashpoint shrugged into an overcoat and fedora and strapped spring-loaded holsters over his wrists for his matched pistols. Colt put on her own red fighting togs that showed off her shapely legs while her lover Dr. Danger slung his bow and quiver of custom arrows across his back and tied a scarf with eye holes over his face. John Q. Public always wore an off-the-rack suit so he could disappear into a crowd at a moment’s notice. Athena slipped her helmet into place. Her cloak fluttered around her in the breeze from the open terrace.

  The others headed for the express elevator to the ground floor. Athena hung back briefly to deliver me a passionate kiss. I knew at that moment I’d head to Schlener’s the next day, to buy that ring I’d been thinking about so much. I was certain I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this woman, this heroic goddess who had stolen my heart.