by Peter David
Or… maybe she didn’t. But certainly that was her problem, not his.
“Call for you,” she said, pointing to the pay phone in the hallway. The receiver was dangling off the hook, swaying back and forth slightly. “It’s Mary Jane.”
Feeling energetic for the first time that day, Peter moved quickly to the pay phone and grabbed the receiver. “Hi! How are you!”
“Fine.” She sounded far away, much farther than simply calling from her apartment would suggest. Obviously she was still concerned about things, but that didn’t bother him. The important thing was that they were talking. Everything else could be sorted out if there was at least communication.
“I’m so glad you called. I’ve been trying to—”
“Can we meet?”
He was surprised by her directness. “You bet! Where?”
“You know that place in Central Park? Near the statue of that dog? I was thinking in an hour, maybe…”
“Sure! I’ll be there! Love ya!”
There was no answer. Again, more hopefully and more aggressively, Peter said, “Hello? Love ya!” The silence extended and then clicked over into a dial tone, and he realized that she’d hung up. Why should that bother him? That she had called at all was enough to make him giddy with anticipation. He was going to be seeing her again.
He was going to be able to make things right. He ran back into his room, picked up the engagement ring from the sock drawer where he’d hidden it, and tucked it into his pocket. Remembering the last time he’d carried the ring on his person, he certainly hoped that things would work out better this go-around. Then again, anything short of being attacked by the Goblin was going to be an improvement.
Peter grabbed a subway over to Central Park, although truthfully he felt as if he could have run the entire way. When entering the park, he passed a makeshift flower stand. The roses were tempting but pricey, so he settled for a bouquet of peonies. Clutching them tightly to his chest, he made his way through a grove of trees and then spotted Mary Jane in the distance. She was achingly beautiful, the wind blowing her hair ever so gently, looking like something off the cover of a romance novel.
He approached her and drew within a few feet. Concerned somehow that he would shatter “the spell,” he didn’t want to touch her, as much as he ached to take her in his arms. “Wow. You look so beautiful,” he whispered.
No reply—she just stared at him, and he couldn’t get any sense of what was going through her mind. He held out the flowers. “Peonies,” he said, then added a bit unnecessarily, “for you.”
Still no answer. No movement or taking the flowers from him. He might have been talking to a photograph for all the interaction he was getting.
“You okay?” he asked, his concern starting to grow.
“No. There’s… something I have to tell you, Peter.”
Her voice was clipped and formal, as if she were acting, only badly.
“Okay,” he said cautiously.
“It’s not working, you and me.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“I don’t want to see you anymore.”
Peter actually laughed, although it was nervous, confused. This had to be some sort of joke. If she didn’t want to see him, all she had to do was continue not to return his calls. Why would she go out of her way to contact him and bring him here to make a point of saying that they were through? It smacked of a cruelty that he wouldn’t have thought her capable of. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” she said, flustered. He couldn’t tell if she was admitting that she didn’t know what she was talking about, or if she was trying to toss out grievances and see if one would stick. “You aren’t there for me.”
I’m here, now! What the hell more do you want?’. But he bit back the more aggressive, angry response and said with labored patience, “I know that. But let’s talk about it. Maybe I was selfish. I can do better. I can change.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But we love each other!” he said with mounting desperation. “We have problems, we work it out. We talk—”
“There’s someone else!” The words seemed to surprise her, as if they’d flown out of her mouth of their own accord. “I’ve… fallen in love with someone else.”
She turned her back and started walking quickly away. Without thinking, Peter sped around her so rapidly that to an observer, it appeared as if Peter had disappeared from one spot and rematerialized at another. He stood in front of Mary Jane, his face a question, pleading, demanding some sort of explanation.
Either she had none to give… or she had no desire to do so. Either way it made no difference. She strode past him, and this time he made no effort to stop her. He simply stood there, holding the peonies, and the ring in the pocket of his trousers now felt as if it were burning against his thigh.
He thought of pursuing her, of running after her down the wooded path that she was taking to leave the area…
Oh… the hell with it. He had his pride. There was no way he was going to go sprinting after Mary Jane like some pathetic schoolboy.
Which, as it turned out, was a tragic decision on his part. For if he had done so, he might well have spotted Harry Osborn step out of hiding in the shadows, quietly applauding, falling into step next to Mary Jane and remarking, “Bravo,” in a soft, triumphant voice. He would have seen Mary Jane looking at Harry with a mix of fear and loathing.
But he saw and heard none of that.
Instead he returned to his apartment, and only after he slumped down onto his bed, lonely and empty, did he realize he was still holding the bouquet. He must have looked like an idiot, coming all this distance carrying a batch of flowers. Disgusted, he threw the peonies toward the foot of his bed and heard them bounce off something. Well… he knew what they were bouncing off, didn’t he?
He slid off the bed, stepped around to the foot of it, and stared down at the trunk. The flowers were lying in a heap next to it. He kicked them away, scattering stems and petals to a far corner of the room, and continued to regard the trunk with apprehension…
… and anticipation.
Other men in the precarious situation that Peter was in would have headed out to a local bar and drowned their sorrows in drink. They would have enjoyed the peaceful oblivion that booze offered. But that wasn’t Peter’s style.
When he had first become Spider-Man, he had seen his costumed persona as a means of making restitution for his great sin of omission. Theoretically, having recently learned that he wasn’t directly responsible for Ben’s death, and having wreaked vengeance upon the man who was, he should have had no qualm about retiring the entire double-identity existence. But he was starting to understand that Spider-Man represented far more to him than that. Spider-Man was an escape from the mundane, from the earthbound problems that afflicted Peter. When he was swinging high above the city, what possible problems from below could touch him?
That was what he needed now: the airborne escape. And the suit in its current state provided him even more than that. When he put it on, he was flooded with a sense of… of Tightness. The doubts that followed him, even when he was masked, tended to melt away in the face of the confidence he drew from the suit.
But you don’t know what it is. You don’t know how it does it.
You don’t know what it could be doing to you beyond that. You don’t…
… care.
Even as that immutable truth went through his head, he was reaching down for the trunk, unlatching it, opening the lid, and looking inside. The rationalizations came fast and furious as he reached down for the black suit. He was a scientist, after all—this was a scientific curiosity. What better way to understand it and discover more about it than to become one with it again and see what happened as a result? Granted, using himself as a test subject was a risky venture, but really, what sort of scientist was he if he didn’t believe in taking a few risks in the interest of discovery?
Merely holding
the black costume caused the sadness and pain to drain from him. At once, Mary Jane seemed small and irrelevant, certainly not worthy of causing him anguish.
Any doubts he might have harbored were erased as he quickly donned the suit. He immediately felt stronger, more self-assured. He considered heading out as Spider-Man, but no. Not yet. For some reason he felt like facing the world as the newly confident Peter Parker.
He pulled clothes on over the black costume, button-ing long-sleeved shirt over it.
He looked in the mirror to make sure that no part of the costume was visible and liked what he saw.
Peter Parker was someone who couldn’t be hurt, couldn’t be messed with, couldn’t be stepped on as if his feelings meant nothing.
He headed out into the street, walking with his arms swaying loosely, his shoulders straighter. He’d never realized before how tentatively he moved through the world when he wasn’t webswinging.
Picturing John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, he started to strut.
Men sidestepped to get out of his way without even realizing they were doing it… and women were giving him a second look as he passed by. He shot off smiles to them, even an occasional humorous two-fingered salute.
Things were feeling pretty damned good for the first time in a while. Here he had thought that he needed Mary Jane for the world to be in focus for him—instead Mary Jane’s presence had blurred things, like an additional lens on a telescope. She shifted the attention away from what was really important: Peter Parker, the man, the myth, the legend.
As he crossed Broadway, he saw a group of people chatting at a newsstand. Normally he would have ignored it. But then “Spider-Man” was mentioned, leaping out at him and catching his attention. Praising him, no doubt. Perhaps word had gotten out about how he had disposed of Sandman, an action that he had previously felt conflicted about but now wasn’t bothering him in the least.
He sidled toward them and was stunned to hear anything but praise. Comments flew fast and furious, and none of them were flattering.
“I think it’s awful.”
“He’s supposed to be a role model.”
“Spider-Man was my son’s hero before today, but now… “
“Edna always said he was a schlemiel, didn’t ya, a?”
“Schlemiel.”
Overcome with curiosity and not a little concern, Peer drew close to the newsstand to see what the commotion was all about.
He stared at the front page of the Daily Bugle, at first thinking it had to be some sort of joke. Then he grabbed it up, and his hands tightened on it in cold fury.
Spider-man, thief! the headline blared in what looked like seventy-two point type. Below it a subheading read: spidey shows his true colors. Splashed across the front page was a photograph so convincing, Peter’s first thought was Did I do that? I don’t remember doing that.
There he was in the black costume, leaping away from the bank with bags of money in either hand.
Peter started to wander away, and the news vendor shouted, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going with that? You have to pay for it. Who do you think you are, stealing stuff: Spider-Man?”
The snide comment drew laughter from the others standing around, and Peter’s first thought was that if they all had one neck, he’d break it. Then he considered bringing the whole newsstand down around the vendor’s ears.
Forget it—that would only exacerbate the problem. He fished out a quarter from his pocket and flipped it to the vendor. Then he went back to the paper.
He turned to the story, which went into detail about how Spider-Man had been caught in the act by the aggressive and fearless reportage of the Daily Bugle. Sources in the police department asserted that, upon being shown the irrefutable evidence, police captain George Stacy had declared to his men, “We just gave this guy the key to the city, and now he’s made a fool out of all of us. Go find him!”
Fearless reportage? What kind of—?
Quickly he flipped back to the cover photo, and there it was, big as life: a photo credit to Eddie Brock.
“I should have known,” Peter snarled. He stared at the picture long and hard. It still had that disconcerting feel of familiarity to it, as if he had really committed the crime. He started to second-guess himself, wondering if the suit had somehow compelled him to steal the money and—
Then the anger left Peter as it struck him exactly why the picture looked familiar. “Waaaaüit a minute,” he said, staring at it longer, and then he started to laugh. It drew strange looks from the people nearby, but he didn’t care. He was flooded with relief upon discovering the truth.
And now that he knew it, he was going to take it and shove it down J. Jonah Jameson’s throat and up Eddie Brock’s backside, all at the same time.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
THE RISE AND FALL OF EDWARD BROCK JR.
Eddie Brock’s brand-new cubicle in the Daily Bugle city room wasn’t much to write home about. It was, however, a start, and he had every confidence that the corner office he coveted would be his sooner or later… probably sooner.
The sparsely decorated cubicle held only the three photos that he’d taken of Gwen at the key-to-the-city ceremony. Until recently, his memories of that event were far too painful, considering the shameless display of lip-smacking that Spider-Man had foisted upon the public. That was no longer a concern. Who had the last laugh, Bug Man? Not you, that’s for damned sure.
A bottle of champagne was on his desk, courtesy of J. Jonah Jameson… a remarkably cheap brand, but what else would one expect? Well-wishers and coworkers had gathered in Eddie’s cubicle for an impromptu party, and one of them was busily pouring the champagne into plastic cups. They were all toasting him and his continued success at the Bugle. Eddie had no delusions that any of them especially liked him. But they could sense an up-and-comer when they saw one, so nobody wanted to be on his bad side. Instead they preferred to bask in reflected glory or, even better, attach themselves to his forward career movement like remora to a shark.
“Right place, right time,” he said to an attractive young woman who had been congratulating him on his success. Displaying a modesty he didn’t really feel, he added, “I was just lucky.”
The champagne had run out, and as typically happened in such instances, the party was starting to break up. The young woman touched his hand and said in a low voice, “This is so wonderful for you.”
Brock grinned, and seeing Betty Brant walking past—disdaining to have joined the party, of course—he called to her, “Tell JJ to clear some more wall space!” Betty rolled her eyes and kept going.
Jameson had dropped off a little “Welcome to the Bugle” gift earlier: a framed front page of that day’s paper. Brock looked around the cubicle, trying to figure out where he could hang it. As he did so, he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see who the latest well-wisher was.
He was both surprised and not surprised to see Peter Parker standing there, leaning against the entrance, his arms folded. “Good morning,” Brock said chipperly. “Beautiful day.” He tilted his head as if trying to remember some obscure fact. “What was it you said? I’ll never get that picture?” With a satisfied chortle he tapped the framed front page. “There’s your hero.”
Brock stood, trying to figure out what wall area would properly display the picture as Peter shook his head, his voice laced with disappointment. “Huh. I never thought he’d really do that.”
“See, right there, you’ve made a judgment call,” Brock replied. “You’ve got to see it like it is.” “Funny you should say that, ‘cause I was looking at an old photo of mine, and it sure did look similar.” Brock froze. He tried to laugh it off and didn’t succeed. In a slightly strangled voice he said, “Okay, well… gotta get back to work.”
“You’re trash, Brock.”
Parker’s voice was deep, challenging. It almost cried out for Brock to take a swing at him. There was none of the quavering protest or traces of uncertaint
y to which Brock had become accustomed. “Excuse me?”
Peter casually tossed a large yellow envelope onto Brock’s desk. Eddie’s eyes went wide when he saw the address printed on the envelope’s upper corner: Empire State University Department of Photography.
“Your picture’s a fake,” Peter said with quiet conviction. Brock felt as if he were shrinking while Peter was growing in stature. “You grafted two images together. Digital shots you took at the scene of the crime, and a picture from two years ago that I took, where Spider-Man was picking up bags of money that he’d just gotten back from a bank robber. Except in my picture you could see he was handing them back to the bank president, who was smiling. You lifted out the Spider-Man image, Photoshopped the black costume, and presto: instant incrimination.”
Brock had walked into this knowing that Parker might figure it out. He’d gambled that Peter might not remember; it was one of Parker’s oldest photos and hadn’t even been used. It was just sitting around in the Bugle’s morgue with hundreds of other old pictures. Still, it wasn’t as if Brock were unprepared. He’d run through what he might say a number of times, and now he affected the demeanor of an old pal and confidant. “Look, we could all use a little extra spending money every once in a while,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “I could help you out there.” When Peter didn’t immediately reply, Brock urged him, “You’re such a Boy Scout. Give a guy a break.”
Eddie Brock then got the shock of his life.
The normally mild-mannered Peter Parker grabbed Eddie by his necktie and shoved him hard against the wall. Brock slammed up against it with such force that it dislodged a framed photo of Gwen and sent it clattering to the floor, shattering the glass.
Parker’s face was almost unrecognizable, distorted in cold fury as he seethed, “You want forgiveness? Get religion.”
“What’s going on?”