by Peter David
“I know. Exactly,” he said, as if they were on the same wavelength when she knew they weren’t. “And all you have to do is believe in yourself and pull yourself together and get right back up on that—”
She clamped a hand over his surprised mouth. “Don’t give me the horse thing.” He nodded in mute acknowledgment, and she removed her hand, but she was no less frustrated. Why was someone as intelligent as Peter being so dense? “Try to understand how I feel. I look at these words and it’s like… like my father wrote them.”
Understanding dawned on Peter’s face. He knew full well that Mary Jane’s father had lived for tearing her down at every opportunity. When she had wanted to embark on her acting career, her father had been her first and loudest critic. She had been determined to prove him wrong in his negative assessment of her abilities. Now it was looking as if her father was correct.
Peter took a moment to regroup and started to open his mouth to reply, when the police radio he kept on his desk crackled to life. Keyed in to the emergency frequency, it only went active when something truly major was hitting the band. That happened now, and Mary Jane saw Peter wince as the voice—static-filled since Peter’s eavesdropping connection wasn’t exactly legal—announced, “All units in the vicinity of Fifty-sixth and Madison, report. Large crane out of control. Approach with caution, Fifty-sixth and Madison. Pedestrians in danger.”
Instantly, Mary Jane felt conflicted. Part of her wanted Peter to ignore it, to focus on her. On the other hand, how could she be that selfish? Yes, her career was on the line, her ego was on the line, but so were lives. Careers could be rebuilt, shattered egos restored, but dead was dead. If Peter could save their lives…
She hated this. She hated that she couldn’t even seek solace from her boyfriend without it turning into a major soul-searching referendum on her priorities as a woman and a human being.
Peter stared at her, waiting for some clue as to what she was thinking. She gave none. She just gazed at him with an impassive face. She didn’t even give him the slightest twitch of an expression when the sound of a siren blew in the front window. As if he were prompting her because she’d missed a cue, he said hopefully, “Go get ‘em, tiger?”
He never even considered staying for me.
But… what did you want him to say? “Don’t worry, honey, let people’s lives be at risk. This is more important.”
Except this is more important, to me at least.
My God, how can you even think that?
She lowered her head, feeling frustrated, feeling ashamed, feeling angry that she had come seeking emotional support, and all she had gotten was more frustration and conflict. First the review had belittled her talent. Now she herself was belittling her values as a person. A little more support like this and she’d be ready to throw herself off the roof.
There was a sound at the window and she turned and realized that, as she’d been standing there zoning out in distraction, Peter had changed into his costume and was standing at the open window, his mask in his hand, one foot on the sill.
“Wait for me?” he asked, hopeful.
Mary Jane made no reply, since she had no clue as to whether she would.
He pulled on his mask, fired a webline, and swung away. Mary Jane stared for a long time at the open window, at the emptiness that it represented. There was something tremendously symbolic in that.
She remembered when she’d sprinted here in her wedding dress, convinced that she had been running toward something. Now she began to wonder if instead she’d simply been running away from something else. She felt lonely, directionless. Support from critics hadn’t been there for her professionally; support from Peter hadn’t been there emotionally.
Yet she felt guilty for feeling this way, and perhaps that was what rankled her most of all. She wondered if this was how a doctor’s wife felt, always playing second fiddle to the needs of her husband’s patients. That wasn’t really the same, though. A successful doctor’s wife had a home, and friends, and at least she didn’t have to worry about her husband being killed on the job. She supposed she was closer to a policeman’s wife. Even then, though, an entire support system was in place: other spouses of cops who understood the risks, plus a salary, benefits.
Mary Jane was in a unique club. She had no one to whom she could talk about her feelings, no one to share her frustrations or concerns. She had thought she had Peter, but it was Spider-Man who really had Peter, had possessed him, taken him over. She had believed she could understand, had wanted to be supportive. But she desperately needed to be the focus of Peter’s world. Not all the time. Just occasionally she had to know that she came first.
She glared at the radio that was continuing its distress warning and had an epiphany—she would never, ever come first. Total strangers would always be more important to Peter than she was.
It both galled and mortified her that she was angry about it. What the hell kind of match was such a selfish girl with such an unselfish guy?
Mary Jane walked over to the desk where his open science books lay, afforded them a quick glance, crumpled the newspaper, and dumped it in the trash can. She headed for the door, pulled it open, then turned and glanced back at the room once more, wondering if she was ever going to set foot in it again.
Something curious caught her eye. Peter, a typical guy, had left clothes strewn around, and she noticed his dress shoes lying in the corner in the shadows. One of them had a huge chunk of what looked like black tar on the sole. She wondered what in the world Peter had stepped in.
She picked the shoe up and glanced around to find a rag to clean it off, then stopped herself and wondered just how much of a glutton for punishment she was. Peter had ditched her to go off and be a hero; she was an emotional wreck over it, and she was going to fix his shoes in the midst of all that?
Mary Jane shook her head at her own foolishness, tossed the shoe aside, walked out the door, and closed it behind her.
The shoe landed in the sunlight near the radio. The radio blared loudly, and feedback caused a high, shrill tone to cut through the air. As soon as that happened, the ebony substance on Peter’s shoe pulsed, flexed, then peeled itself off the sole. It left a small part of itself behind, but didn’t seem especially slowed by it. It moved quickly away from the sunlight, away from the radio, undulating across the floor as fast as it could. Within seconds it had made it to the cool, quiet darkness of the closet, slithering inside and taking refuge in the shadows once more.
Unaware of the unearthly drama unfolding in the apartment she’d just left, Mary Jane was walking down the hallway when she found her way blocked by Ursula, the wafer-thin daughter of Peter’s landlord. Mary Jane had spotted her before, looking at Peter with the puppydog eyes that only a teen girl with a hopeless crush could possibly effect. Just hold out hope, kid. Maybe someday soon you’ll be old enough so you can have your heart cut in half too.
“Hi, Mary Jane,” Ursula said with forced perkiness.
“Hi.” MJ started to step around her, in no mood for conversation.
Ursula didn’t move aside. MJ didn’t think she was being rude; she was just oblivious to the fact that Mary Jane wanted to leave. “How’s Peter?” Ursula asked.
“He went out.”
From the blinking surprise in Ursula’s face, Mary Jane instantly realized she’d given the wrong answer. Who knew how long Ursula had been standing there? She would have known that Peter hadn’t gone past her. And she was too credulous to consider the possibility that Mary Jane might be lying and Peter was still up in his apartment. Still, she sounded dubious as she said, “He always goes so fast.”
“Very fast.” Seeing that Ursula wasn’t moving anytime soon, and surrendering to the inevitability of a conversation, she forced herself to appear interested as she asked, “What are you up to?”
“Not much. Washing dishes at a jazz club.” Since that clearly wasn’t especially interesting, she added, “The waitresses sing. I can’t sing. Can you sing?”
Of all questions to ask.
She thought of Peter’s excuses as to how the critics got it wrong. But she also considered that, if she’d read that review about someone else, she would have taken the critic’s assessment at face value. So why then, but not now?
Making one of the most difficult admissions she’d ever uttered, Mary Jane said, “I don’t know.”
* * *
Chapter Eight
THE EYES OF EDDIE BROCK
Unaware that all hell was about to break loose, the photo shoot in the law offices of Miller and Ingersoll, Esq., continued blissfully along with music blaring and photographer clicking.
The offices had been rented for the day—no big deal since both attorneys were in court—by the publishers of an office supply catalog. Three comely models… a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead… were draping themselves over the latest-model office copier and desperately trying to make mundane photocopying look sexy.
They were oblivious that, just outside at a construction site, a crane operator had been hoisting a massive steel girder above the street. Warning lights had flashed on the control panel within the cab, and the crane operator had struggled desperately to bring things back under his command. His efforts were well-intentioned but futile, and he had screamed into the microphone connecting him to the foreman, “I’ve lost control! Shut it down!”
His foreman tried to do just that, but was thwarted by the very problem that had caused the controls to go out of whack in the first place: a short in the transformer. Sparks flew out of it, several of them bouncing against a sign with an interchangeable number slot on it that read: seventy-NINE DAYS accident FREE! leaving small scorch marks. The foreman had yanked the shut-off override switch and, instead of shutting down the crane, had received a sizable jolt that blew him backward.
The crane began to swing wildly, and all its erstwhile operator could do was watch in horror and wish for a miracle.
Meanwhile, the three models alternated chatting about guy matters while tossing smiles at the photographer. The brunette was an exotic-looking Latina named J. J. Sachs, with a mane of curly, black hair and olive skin. She exuded sexuality the way that other mere mortals exuded sweat. The redhead, Wendy Goldstein, had a slightly round face and short-cropped hair. Of the three, she was having the toughest time making upbeat expressions. Clearly, a good deal was on her mind, and the smile that she plastered onto her face at the photographer’s command seemed forced.
The blond model attempted to forestall any problems that Wendy might be having by offering advice. The blonde was Gwen Stacy, Peter Parker’s lab partner at Empire State University, and as she struck a pose in which she was caressing the photocopier, she urged Wendy, “Don’t fight with him. It doesn’t fix anything.”
“But that’s all he wants to do,” Wendy complained.
“Well, tell him if all you do is talk about the relationship, there’s no time to have one.”
“Everybody hold it!” called Ernie Schultz, the heavyset and increasingly annoyed photographer, liking the position they were in. He fired off a few quick shots, but when Wendy opened her mouth to address Gwen, he anticipated it by calling out, “Stop talking! Hold it!” Wendy’s mouth snapped shut like a lobster trap, and he continued, “Give me office efficiency but with bedroom eyes. Not sleepy, Wendy!”
Gwen was beginning to feel exhausted. She had no aspirations toward being a model. She’d just answered the call for the gig on the university bulletin board as a means of picking up some extra money. She’d figured, How hard could it be to stand around and get your picture taken while smiling? Gwen was getting the answer. Her face was starting to hurt, and she was certain that her smile looked as artificial as it felt. She was copping a feel on a photocopying machine, for heaven’s sake. How was someone supposed to get enthused about something like that?
Clearly Ernie was getting a sense of her frustration. He lowered his camera and said impatiently, “Look, I know you’re new at this, but you’re not giving me what I need. I need”—he groped for the right words—“I need mystery… I need…”
“A new personality?” Gwen suggested with wide-eyed innocence.
Wendy and J.J. choked back laughter, but the photographer completely missed the veiled insult. “Yes!” he declared as if the Holy Grail had just been presented him. “Some life! Some…”
He had been peering through the viewfinder, trying to compose a different shot, and now he was looking up in annoyance. “Now what’s that thing doing in my background?”
His “background” consisted of a New York skyline visible out the wide windows behind them. Gwen turned to see what he was talking about, and at first she wasn’t clear on what she was seeing either. It was moving quickly, but the shadows of the skyscrapers were obscuring it and she couldn’t…
Then her eyes widened in horror as she saw the massive arm of a construction crane swinging toward them at high speed. Dangling beneath it was a teetering girder.
Gwen was paralyzed with denial, certain the thing wasn’t going to hit. Or perhaps she was dreaming of something that she had seen in an action or disaster movie.
She remained that way for several precious seconds until her mind processed reality. Then, as the wildly swinging girder hurtled toward them, she screamed, “Get down!”
Everyone dove to the floor as the spinning girder shattered the window. Glass flew everywhere. Gwen kept her eyes shut, terrified of being blinded by flying shards, as small pieces of broken window littered her hair. The girder kept going, smashing lighting fixtures, sending sparks flying, and annihilating a row of desks, reducing them to splinters. Then, just as quickly and surreally as it had appeared, the girder was whisked out the window.
Ernie Schultz, Gwen, J.J., and Wendy slowly got to their feet. Standing in the middle of the office wreckage, they quietly marveled at not only the amount of destruction, but that they were still alive to see it. Still stunned, they picked their way through it, inspecting the damage. Impressed by the photographic possibilities the devastation offered, Ernie snapped off a few shots.
A high-pitched whistling of wind filled the wrecked office. As one, they turned and saw a massive shadow sweeping over them.
“It’s coming back!” shouted Ernie.
Having no desire to press their luck and uncertain they’d be fortunate enough to survive a second pass, the four bolted for the door. The girder suddenly dipped, swung low, and slammed into the building one story below them.
That was way too close, thought Gwen.
Ernie was leading the way or, more likely, was just trying to save his own ass, as he threw open the door and charged through. Wendy was right behind him, with J.J. and Gwen bringing up the rear.
Suddenly the entire office violently tilted, as if it were constructed on a gigantic seesaw. The girder must have taken out the structural support columns in the floor below them, and now the entire office structure where they were was pitching downward at a forty-five-degree angle.
J.J. had been sliding as well, but she had grabbed hold of a metal strut in the floor that had been ripped open by the girder’s initial pass through. She threw her arm out, trying to snag the sliding Gwen… but Gwen went right past her.
The open window yawned before Gwen as she went toward it, grabbing at the smooth floor and unable to find purchase. She tried slapping her open hands flat on the floor, perhaps in the vain hope that she might suddenly acquire adhesive powers like Spider-Man. This only slowed her down for a few seconds. Meantime, pencils, cans of soda, and rolling chairs skidded past her, tumbling out the smashed window and falling to the street below.
She would inevitably have followed, save that a ringing telephone of all things grabbed her attention. It had fallen off one of the smashed desks, and the cord was jacked into the wall. She snagged the receiver as she slid past, and receiver, phone unit, and Gwen all started to slide toward oblivion. Miraculously the cord, all of $ 2.49 at RadioShack, remained affixed to the wall, stubbornly
refusing to release its hold.
Everything that wasn’t bolted down slid past Gwen and out. Clinging wildly, she heard a tinny voice coming through the phone receiver.
“Hello! Hello?!” she screamed.
The voice on the phone came back at her with sunny cheerfulness that didn’t exactly match the moment. “You’ve got the rockin’ sound of WKRQ! If you can name our last two “Two for Tuesday” songs, you could be our grand-prize winner!”
“Help! I can’t hold on!” she shrieked at the receiver.
“Right you are!” chirped the DJ.“‘Help’ and ‘I Can’t Hold On’! Pack your bags, ‘cause you’re going on a trip!”
With a remarkable, if morbid, sense of comic timing, the telephone cord chose that moment to give up the ghost. It snapped, and Gwen continued toward the open window. It waited for her like the maw of a great beast, knowing that sooner or later patience would pay off, and it would swallow her up.
She slid right out the window but, at the last second, snagged a jutting piece of the steel window frame.
Dangling in midair, her legs pinwheeling as if she were riding an invisible bicycle, Gwen Stacy hung one hundred stories above the street.
In an insane digression, her mind flashed to when she was a little girl and had leaned too far out the bedroom window of her Queens home. Before she could tumble out, a hand reached out and grabbed her. The terrified child, realizing how close she had come to seriously injuring herself, sobbed into the chest of the man who had saved her. “I’m sorry, Daddy!” she had wailed, afraid that she was going to be punished. Instead her father had simply held her close, whispered that it was going to be okay, that her being all right was the only thing that mattered, and he assured her in that low, gravelly voice of his, “I’ll never let you fall.”