The Masked Family

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Celeste scowled and slapped a hand to her forehead. "Here we go again." She knew she shouldn't be annoyed, but she was.

  "W-what's she s-screamingabout?" said Grogan.

  "She has these panic attacks," said Celeste. "Because she's pregnant."

  Grogan's eyes grew wide as hubcaps. "P-p-pregnant?"

  Paisley screamed again and again. Pretzel howled along with her, but she was too busy screaming to tell him to shut up.

  "Sh-sh-shouldn't we g-g-go seeifshe's all r-right?" said Grogan.

  "Just hold on." Celeste raised her voice. Even with Paisley and Pretzel taking a fit, she felt remarkably calm and focused. "Dad, you said Grogan was telling the truth. The truth about what?

  "Cary not being my brother? Baron not being my brother? Cary not being Baron's brother?"

  E.Q. sighed. "All of it."

  "Holy shit," said Baron.

  Celeste steepled her index fingers, touching the tips to her lips. "I, uh...I think we need a little more detail there, Dad. How about running down the who's who for us?"

  E.Q. seemed reluctant to go further. He shuffled his feet and looked around, arms folded over his chest.

  Paisley and Pretzel kept howling, which agitated Grogan. "Are y-you sure sh-she's okay o-over there?"

  Celeste ignored him. She wasn't about to let her father off the hook this time. "Come on, Dad. We need to update the scorecard."

  "All right, all right." E.Q. scrubbed his thick, curly head of gray hair with the knuckles of both hands. "You, Baron, and Paisley were all adopted."

  "Fuck," said Baron. "This is fucked."

  "What about Cary?" said Celeste. "He was yours by birth?"

  "Yes," said E.Q. "But it didn't matter. You were all the same to us."

  Paisley let out an especially bloodcurdling scream. Everyone looked in her direction except Celeste.

  "Dad? Dad!" Celeste snapped her fingers and got his full attention back. "Where did you get us? Were we orphans or what?"

  "No," said E.Q. "You're all blood relations. You're all from family."

  "Family who didn't want us," said Celeste.

  "Family who couldn't take care of you," said E.Q., "for one reason or another."

  Paisley's latest scream topped her loudest yet.

  "I'm g-g-going over th-there," said Grogan, but he stayed where he was.

  "Paisley was your Aunt Judith's. Your mother's...Lydia's sister." E.Q. counted them off on his fingers. "Baron was your Great Aunt Cissy's. She was on my side of the family."

  "And what about me, Dad?" Celeste glared at him.

  "Your mother was Aunt Agnes," said E.Q. He looked away nervously.

  Paisley screamed so loud her voice cracked.

  "Th-that's it." Grogan headed for the Toyota. "I'm g-going t-to s-s-see if I can help."

  Celeste stared at E.Q. through narrowed eyes, trying to figure out why he seemed more nervous than before. It was something about what he'd told her, something about her birth mother being Aunt Agnes.

  "I'm going, too." E.Q. started after Grogan.

  Celeste stayed behind, searching her mind for a link to Aunt Agnes. What was it about her that would have made E.Q. uncomfortable?

  Suddenly, Grogan called out from the car, breaking her train of thought. "Sh-sh-she's not h-havinga p-panicattack," he said, his voice urgent. "She's g-going into l-labor!"

  At that instant, Celeste gasped...but not because Paisley was in labor. She was stunned because she'd caught hold of what she'd been reaching for in her memory.

  She'd realized why the mention of Aunt Agnes as her birth mother might have worried E.Q.

  "Oh my God," said Celeste. "I don't believe it."

  "What?" said Baron.

  Celeste shook her head. "It can't be."

  Just then, Grogan shouted from the car. "Hey! G-get over h-here! H-hurry up!"

  Automatically, Celeste took a step in his direction...then jumped back as something swept past her. Someone.

  Celeste's breath caught in her throat. She stumbled to one side and fell against Baron.

  It was something she hadn't considered. She'd just assumed that Grogan was alone out there in his shithole, alone with his rats and cats and junkyard.

  She'd never considered he might have...

  Another one!

  A second figure, smaller than the first, sprinted past, nimbly dodging the scattered junk on the way to the car.

  Celeste could not believe it. She'd never considered that Grogan might have kids.

  A boy and a girl. Holy shit.

  "Did you see what I just saw?" said Baron.

  Celeste nodded. "I sure did."

  "My question is this," said Baron. "Where did they come from? Because he sure as hell didn't make them himself."

  Suddenly, a voice boomed behind them...right behind them, inches away. They both jumped, but not very far, because two huge hands clamped down on their shoulders.

  "Good guess, Beacons," said the voice. "Señor Grogan had nothing to do with making those two."

  When Celeste turned, she saw a man in a green and gold mask. His bristly jowls bounced and his gold front tooth flashed as he laughed.

  "I am El Yucatango," said the man. "Champion of the world. Buenos días, amigos."

  *****

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, 2006

  The tent was on fire, and people were screaming and running in every direction. Cary stood in the middle of it all, wearing a colorful super-hero costume complete with mask and cape.

  It was like a scene out of a comic book or movie. A scene out of a dream he'd been having all his life.

  Flaming strips of tent canvas drifted down like burning bedsheets. Support poles teetered as the canvas around them turned to ash and smoke. People knocked each other over in their haste to get away.

  It was complete pandemonium.

  As he took it all in, Cary flashed back to the night of the fire that had taken his mother's life. For exactly one heartbeat, he was back at the top of the stairs, gazing down into the surging light and heat.

  Then, he snapped back to the wrestling ring.

  Whipping around, he looked for Glo and Late...and at first, he couldn't find them. Their corners of the ring were empty.

  When he looked further, though, he caught sight of their masked faces in the fleeing crowd. Each of them was slung over one of El Yucatango's meaty shoulders, watching Cary as they were toted away.

  As he watched, they emerged from under the tent into the light of the midday sun.

  So they were safe. Cary's super-hero partner had squared away his number one concern.

  What would he do next? Run to them for the tender reunion they all deserved after so much struggle and strife? Escape under cover of chaos, find the taxi, and race to safety north of the border?

  It was what he wanted.

  As much as Cary loved the super-hero dream, as much as he fantasized about having super powers, he wasn't so deluded that he didn't know what was most important. When it came to a moment like this, in the heart and heat of a crucible, he wouldn't actually risk everything for the sake of fulfilling a fantasy.

  But the thing was, what set him apart from the screaming crowd was, when people were in danger around him, he had to try to save them.

  Without another moment's delay, he climbed up the ropes, boosted himself over the top, and dropped down into the chaos outside the ring.

  *****

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Lilly, Pennsylvania, 2006

  "Who the hell are you?" said Celeste as the costumed giant calling himself "El Yucatango" guided her and Baron toward the Toyota.

  "El campeón del mundo," said El Yucatango. "Champion of the world! I already told you!"

  "Champion of the world of what?" said Baron.

  "Wrestling, of course! Lucha libre!" El Yucatango laughed. "I took back my title one month ago in the greatest match of all time!"

  Celeste sighed in frustration. "If you're w
orld champion, then what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

  "I brought the niños," said El Yucatango. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

  "Um...thanks?" said Celeste.

  That was when Baron tried to stop moving forward. Actually, he did manage to stop, but only for a second. "Okay," he said, using his most commanding TV newsman voice. "You need to tell us what the fuck is going on h..."

  Before he could finish his sentence, El Yucatango wrapped an arm around his chest, hoisted him off the ground, and kept walking toward the car.

  "Hey!" Baron squirmed and kicked, but it did no good. "Put me the fuck down!"

  "You Beacons are getting too worked up over nothing," said El Yucatango. "Don't you know your brother sent me?"

  "What?" Celeste's heart quickened. "You mean Cary?"

  "Of course I mean Cary." El Yucatango looked at her like she was crazy. "Don't you know your own niece and nephew when you see them?"

  Celeste was dumbfounded. As El Yucatango steered her around the side of the car, where everyone was gathered, she stared at the little girl and boy who'd run past her moments ago.

  Sure enough, now that she got a good look at their faces, she recognized them.

  Their nicknames were "Glo" and "Late"...given names Glorianna and Nate. Celeste had spent time with them when she'd visited Cary and Crystal at the trailer in Wheeling, West Virginia.

  El Yucatango let go of her shoulder. She spun around and grabbed his arm.

  "Where's Cary?" she said, her voice frantic. "Is he here?"

  "Lo siento," said El Yucatango. "Cary couldn't make it."

  *****

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, 2006

  Cary dumped the bucket of ice and water from his corner of the ring over the blazing mass of canvas, dousing the worst of the flames. Tossing aside the bucket, he grabbed the folds that weren't still burning and heaved off the canvas, exposing the babies trapped beneath it.

  Their stroller was hot to the touch, and the plastic handles were half-melted, so he scooped out the babies. They screamed and kicked as he tucked them against his chest like footballs and ran them out of the tent.

  He handed them to the first person he saw--a stout old woman in a black bowler hat and wildly colorful serape--and sprinted back into the danger zone. The babies weren't the only ones he'd seen caught under a piece of burning debris.

  Dodging fleeing spectators and ducking falling embers, Cary ran toward the far side of the ring. A young woman was pinned to the ground there under a flaming support pole...and she wasn't moving.

  Cary hurdled the pole and squatted beside the woman to check for a pulse. She still had one.

  Springing to his feet, Cary tore off his cape and ripped it in two pieces. As fast as he could, he wrapped the pieces around his hands for protection.

  Then, without hesitation, he grabbed hold of the pole with both hands.

  The heat cooked the exposed flesh on his fingers and palms as he lifted the pole. With a guttural cry of effort, he hoisted it off the woman and chucked it away, then ran to her.

  As he carried her out of the tent and laid her at the feet of Father Lovito, the weight of her on his burnt hands made him howl in pain.

  "Dios mio," said Father Lovito, who was smoking a cigarette as always. "Pobrecita." He dropped to his knees beside her, and when he looked up, Cary was gone.

  Most of the outflow of people was over as Cary charged back under the tent. Everyone who could escape had gotten out.

  But Cary knew at least two more were still inside. He'd seen them take refuge under the ring during the worst of the stampede for survival.

  The problem was, the ring was now fully engulfed in flames.

  One of the special effects flamethrowers that had set fire to the tent had shifted. From its new angle, instead of shooting straight up, it aimed a fiery plume across the canvas surface of the ring. Between the redirected flamethrower and the falling shreds of burning tent, every inch of the ring's canvas, ropes, and skirting was writhing with flame.

  As Cary got closer to the ring, the air grew thicker with heat and smoke. Sweat poured under the costume, burning his eyes and soaking his face with tears. At least the mask, which only had eyeholes and no openings over the nose and mouth, filtered some of the smoke.

  On his way to the ring, Cary grabbed a length of broken-off wooden support pole that was leaning against a gravestone. The piece of pole was about five feet long--cut to a point at one end, splintered at the other.

  When he got to the ring, he used the pole to part the canvas skirting around the base. He couldn't hold it like that for long, as the skirting was ablaze, but it let him peek inside for the two people he was hunting.

  He didn't see them on his first two tries. He peeked on one side of the ring, saw nothing, and had to pull back fast when the pole started smoking. He moved around the corner to the other side and tried again--and this time saw nothing, too.

  On his third peek, however, he saw the two people. They were curled together, unmoving, in one of the corners farthest from the flamethrowers.

  Cary wedged open the section of skirting with the pole, jamming one end into the canvas above and the other end into the ground below. Then, he got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the smoky space.

  When he reached the two people, he saw that they were a man and a woman. When he pressed his fingers to their throats, he found that they both had pulses.

  Then, he had a strange moment. As he knelt by them in the smoke, with canvas burning on all sides and above him, he froze. He knew he needed to drag one of them out immediately, but he got stuck.

  Whichever he chose to take first, the other might not survive. Just like thirty years ago, when he chose to save his father, he could end up being haunted by the death of the one left behind.

  Cary rubbed the Starbeam Ring under the cape wrapped around his hand. If only his hyperspeed powers would manifest themselves, he'd get the boost he'd need to race out both victims in the blink of an eye.

  Then again, maybe he could get them out without hyperspeed if he'd just quit wasting time.

  Quit pissing around, asshole.

  Do it do it do it do it.

  Cary shook his head hard to clear it. He got up on his feet, crouching low enough to miss the flaming canvas above. Then, he untangled the two bodies on the ground.

  Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed two legs and hoisted one under each arm. As fast as he could, he dragged one of the victims toward the open flap of skirting.

  It was the woman. By leaving the man behind, Cary had done the opposite of what he'd done thirty years ago.

  Maybe, that way, he could save everybody this time.

  Cary crossed the smoky space and squeezed out through the opening in the skirting. When he'd hauled the woman all the way out from under the ring, he hoisted her up onto his shoulders and trudged toward the edge of the tent.

  Fiery embers and shreds of canvas swirled around him as he walked. His hands still hurt from the burns, and his neck and shoulders ached from the weight of the woman. A tent rope burned through and snapped from its stake, whipping toward him and just missing his face by inches.

  But he made it out.

  He hauled the woman a little further and put her down behind a stone monument where he thought she'd be safe. Then, he ran back into the tent.

  This time, when he crawled under the ring, the smoke was thicker, the heat higher. Even with Demonio's mask for protection, he had trouble breathing.

  But he kept moving. He was almost done.

  Crouching under the canvas, keeping his head down like before, Cary turned and lifted the man's legs. He wrapped an arm around each leg and started dragging...but the man was much heavier than the woman had been. Cary really had to bear down to move him, and his progress toward the way out was slow.

  Then, there wasn't a way out anymore.

  When Cary was just a few feet from the openi
ng, the canvas flap swung shut. When it swung, the flap knocked away the pole that had been holding it, kicking it somewhere on the other side of the skirting.

  Cary stopped dragging the man. As he looked around, he began to realize just how much of a problem he had.

  In all directions, he saw nothing but burning canvas. There were no fire-free sections or openings.

  He was trapped.

  Cary ducked down on one knee, trying to figure out what to do next. His only option, from what he could see, was to push through the flaming skirting as fast as he could and hope it didn't burn him too badly.

  He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself for the plunge through the skirting. Just as he was about to get back on his feet and make the attempt, a flicker of motion distracted him.

  Turning toward the far end of the ring, he saw hunks of blazing canvas drop down from above. The collapse spread fast, racing the length and breadth of the ring as he watched, bringing it all down.

  For a split-second, Cary thought the disintegration of the ring might be a good thing. If enough of the canvas dropped, he might be able to crawl through the resulting hole and climb the metal framework that remained.

  But things didn't go the way he'd hoped they would.

  At the far end of the ring, one of the flamethrowers suddenly shifted, catching Cary dead on with its fiery jet. Screaming in agony, he dropped out of the line of fire, falling on top of the man he'd been dragging.

  For a moment, Cary lay there, thrashing and howling in pain. The whole front of his body felt like it had been seared by the flamethrower.

  Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God.

  When at last he pried open his scalded eyes and looked up, he saw bits of the wrestling ring's canvas drifting down like twinkling fireflies. He heard a sound like crackling flames, and another sound like ripping cloth.

  The burning canvas sagged toward him, flames licking through fissures in the strained material.

  Cary threw up his arms just as it gave way...but his arms didn't shield him at all. As the fire showered down over him, he felt it broiling him alive.