Caped Page 7

  “But—” Ignacia goes in for one more kiss, I pull back again.

  In the car, I take the rest of my work clothes off and change into my . . . costume. It’s like the outfit from the fundraiser, only I changed it a bit so my husband wouldn’t noticed, and I added a white leather coat for modesty. Of course, I tie on a white mask, which I sewed myself.

  Let me tell you, being a superhero has no financial upside, if you do it right. And it complicates everything.

  “Listen, Ignacia, can you pick up Langston from practice, please?”

  She doesn’t say a word.

  “Ignacia, I need you.”

  “What about my needs? I’m not just a charging station.”

  “This was your idea, remember? All that ‘together we can fight crime and save the world’ stuff.”

  “Yes, I said that, but I thought that would bring us closer. That I’d see you more.”

  Damn.

  “Can we talk about this later?” I ask sweetly. Ignacia nods, then gives me a long, passionate kiss.

  I slide out of the car and take off, exploding through the canopy of an old tree in the hospital’s parking lot.

  I soar high through the sky. Here everything is peaceful, calm, perfect. That’s when I realize I have to text Omar and tell him to pick up Cheri. So instead of flying gracefully in the air, I fumble for my smart phone. I slow my flight and drop my altitude, so I don’t over shoot the Mint. Besides, I’m not too good with technology. The phone is a helluva lot smarter than I am.

  Omar, I write, last minute favor, can you pick up your sis—

  Something smashes into me. I smell rubber and realize someone threw a tire at me. I stop in the sky and stuff the phone into my pocket. First things first. There’s only one person who can throw a car wheel at me, and it’s the supervillain below.

  “Brick want plates! Where are plates?” The Brick is a great big tall guy, red-colored, skin porous and rough, like he’s made of bricks. Hence the name. He has it easy. I spent hours Googling trying to come up with a superhero name for me.

  Brick smashes through a cop car (it’s missing a wheel), and lifts out a boy in blue. The villain throws him like a fast ball at a Rockies game.

  The second the poor man is out of Brick’s grasp, I zoom off, flying low to the ground, dodging police cars and camera vans. Gonna be close. I concentrate on the eerie scream of the man hurtling through the air.

  Falling, falling, falling. I increase my speed and the cop falls right into my hands. The shock of not being dead is too much for him; he passes out. I leave him on the ground and fly back.

  “Brick want plates!”

  I dart around, my leather coat like wings, and speed back to face the bad guy. I stop a little ways away from him, floating in the air.

  His blue eyes, pretty against the rusty red of his face, latch on to me.

  I say, “Sweetie, there are no plates. The Denver Mint only makes coins.”

  Brick thinks about it for a moment. That takes a lot of effort it seems.

  “But money made here!”

  “Yes, Brick. Quarters, pennies, nickels, not dollar bills. Understand?”

  Again, Brick grows introspective.

  “You lie! Money here! This is Mint!”

  Sigh. Well, stupid villains are better than smart ones.

  Brick rips a lamppost out of the ground and swings it at me. I dodge the first attempt, then the next. I think about taking to the air, but Brick would probably throw the lamppost and Lord knows where it would land. So, we dance down here.

  Now I’m pretty tough, real strong, but I don’t think I can go toe-to-toe with Brick. I buzz around Brick. I’m like a mosquito, and he’s swinging the lamppost like a flyswatter. His aim is bad, though, and that only infuriates him more. After a particularly savage swing, he falls down. As he tries to get back up I notice he’s breathing heavy; the rage is draining his strength. I dart over to a SWAT van.

  “Hey boys, can I borrow some flash-bang grenades?” Reading comic books, you learn about such things.

  “Huh?” One of the young men looks as young as Omar, poor thing.

  “Flash-bang grenades, honey. You know what they are.”

  Brick flings the lamppost like a spear, and before it can hurt anyone, I knock it away.

  The young officer finally complies, and I fill a pocket full of grenades. They might have tried to use them, but I can get far closer. And I have a plan.

  Brick is up, stomping toward me, sucking wind like a blasting kiln. I meet him in the middle of Colfax, clear of cars, just him and me. I fly close, pull a pin on a grenade and toss it in his face. The light, the noise, the stink of the sulfur—Brick yelps in pain. He fights blindly, waving his massive rocky hands around.

  Again and again, I dodge his blows and hit him with grenades.

  Now’s your chance, Tanisha, finish him. I fly to the roof of the Mint. More SWAT guys cluster there, pale, sweating. All are wearing rappelling harnesses. Coiled ropes lay at their feet.

  “Hathor, what are you doing up here?”

  “Saving the day, sweetie.” I latch on to an industrial-sized air conditioning unit and rip it free. I turn to the young men. “Okay, guys, I’m gonna deck him. You ready to clean up the mess?”

  They all nod their heads and go over the edge of the building, rappelling down. On their backs are foam guns, thanks to HeroTech, a technology company founded by another superhero that gives regular folks the ability to fight super villains. Kind of.

  I streak toward Brick, my muscles straining, my grip on the AC slipping. The bad guy is still blinded. He flails about. Poor thing.

  Before I can drop the AC on Brick, I lose my grip. Panicked, I try to get a hold of the unit, but I can’t, and before I know it, both the AC and my body explode into Brick, knocking rocks off him. One of his rocky arms come loose. We all roll together across the asphalt, me, the Brick, the AC, bouncing and sprawling. I do most of the landing on my face.

  When I wake up, someone is shoving smelling salts into my nostrils. A paramedic is about to take my mask off, when I sit up and push him back. “Oh, no, honey, you don’t wanna know my secret identity. It would be a great disappointment for you, I’m sure.”

  “Sorry, Hathor, but that was awesome. I mean, that was really awesome!” Great, a fan.

  The Brick, one arm gone, no blood, is still out, lying like a demolished house in the middle of the street. The SWAT guys take the foam guns and spray Brick. The foam hardens into a substance as strong as cement.

  “Looks like The Brick has just been mortared,” I say. The fans like a good quip. Another thing I learned from The Defenders of L.A. In the comics, though, you don’t get a sense of how much landing on your face hurts. I can’t think of the pain, still too much to do.

  I leap to my feet and take to the skies. The real work of my evening begins. The schedule was hard before. Now? It’s impossible, but I have to try.

  Flying would be so much easier than driving, but I can feel my powers waning. I make it back to my car before they give out completely. Ignacia is nowhere to be seen, so I can’t power back up. And it would be a little awkward trying to shop at Target as a superhero.

  I pray to God Ignacia isn’t late picking up Langston.

  Once again, I go over my to-do list. I can get dinner from the Trader Joe’s around the corner, and there’s a Target off I-25. I’d be late to the birthday party, but oh well.

  I know I’m forgetting something. Bad time for a senior moment.

  I ain’t Superman, so it takes me a bit to change back into my work clothes. I fold my costume and slip it into the trunk. Then, I drive like a mad woman to the Trader Joe’s.

  My head is throbbing as I walk into the store and directly to the ladies room. I clean off the blood, but I can’t do much about the swelling. Out in the store, I grab some pasta, organic hamburger, onions, garlic, a block of parmesan cheese, and a bottle red wine. I get in line.

  The checkout girl glances at me. I know, I l
ook horrible. Oh well, nice thing about being older, what other people think doesn’t matter, and I’m a hero, whether she knows it or not. I put those peas on my face, right in front of her.

  Back in the car, almost five-thirty now, I search my purse for my phone to call the mom throwing the birthday party. Then I remember. I dig for my phone in the pocket of my Hathor coat. I pull out shattered plastic and bits of wire. I bite my lip in disgust, muttering curse words.

  I pull into the Target, the peas are no longer frozen, and I’m seconds away from opening the bottle of wine, but I stop myself. In the electronics section, I find a clerk. “Excuse me sir, I’m looking for . . .” That’s when I blank on the name of the game. The salesman is gracious and gives me a couple of options. I pick one, and hope it will do. No time to wrap the present, I get a colorful bag and a card.

  Close to six o’clock, I can still be the awesome mom and a superhero, all at the same time.

  I park in front of Langston’s friend’s house.

  “Mom!” Langston calls from the back yard.

  “Hi, baby!” I’m beaming as I get out of the car. “I got the gift.”

  “Mom! Don’t call me that in front of my friends!”

  I hand the package over to him over the fence. “I know. I know. Give me some sugar.”

  “Mom. You look awful. What happened to you?”

  My heart sinks. I can’t tell him the truth because of all the reasons given by all the superheroes fighting all the bad guys since the beginning of time. I lie while trying to tell the truth. “I dropped something, Bricks were involved. But I got you the present.” I smile though my nose is throbbing.

  “Mom. What is this?”

  No more smiles. “It’s the game you wanted to get your friend.”

  “Mom! I asked for Undead Commandos 4. This is Bob’s Jungle Adventures. It’s a little kid’s game. You messed up again!”

  I’ve failed him.

  “Wait here. I have . . .” I rummage through my purse. “Thirty-two dollars in cash. Give him that.” Langston swipes the cash and the bag, tossing me the game. (Do I still have the receipt?)

  Defeated, I leave. At home, I unload the car and cover my bruises with some make-up. I then start on dinner and start on wine. My face feels better in no time. The onions and garlic sizzle when I throw in the hamburger. My mood is on the rise.

  The front door slams and Omar calls out, “What’s for dinner, Mom?”

  “Spaghetti and meat sauce.”

  Omar walks in, eating a burrito. As if one dinner is enough for that boy.

  “Where’s your sister?” I ask.

  “I dunno.”

  “What do you mean? I texted you to pick her up!”

  “Mom, I didn’t get any text.”

  The text hadn’t gone through. I should’ve checked to make sure Omar had gotten the message.

  It’s past 6:30, and the ballet teacher hasn’t called. Where’s my baby Cheri?

  “You finish dinner,” I say to Omar. “I’ll find your sister.”

  And I do, on Colfax, by East High School, walking down the street in her tutu. I swerve, cut across three lanes of traffic, and stop. I can’t stop hugging her.

  “Mommy!”

  “Cheri! My baby girl!”

  I’m a wreck. Cheri is all smiles.

  “Hi, Mommy! You didn’t pick me up right away, and I didn’t want to bother Miss Monique, so I decided to walk home. But then I got tired, so I got on the bus. The bus driver was real nice and told me where to get off.” She is so proud of herself. All I can do is cry—great bubbly tears mixed with sobs.

  When Marcus gets home that night, I don’t tell him a thing. How can I? My make-up job is good enough he doesn’t see the bruising. As we get ready for bed, he holds me close. His hands travel up my body, and I want to, I really do, but I can’t. I’m worn out from my fight with the Brick. More than that, I’m ashamed. Images of Cheri, my little girl, walking down Colfax by herself, fill my mind.

  Is this my life? Fumbling through marriage and motherhood? I failed everyone except the U.S. Mint.

  The regret races through my mind, and ain’t no way I can sleep with a racing mind.

  Hours of doubt and regret later, I’m watching the orange of dawn creep into the sky. I know what I have to do.

  Ignacia doesn’t have her kids this week, and I know she’s up, getting ready for work. My kids are still asleep, but Marcus finds me in the kitchen, dressed, car keys in my hand. “Where are you going so early?”

  “Over to Ignacia’s. I have to speak to her.” There is a heaviness in my voice.

  “Sounds serious. Everything okay between you two?”

  “No. But it will be.” I smile at my husband. He smiles back. Through the twinkling of his eyes I can see all eighteen years of our marriage together. I squeeze his hand and kiss his cheek.

  On the drive over to Ignacia’s, I keep thinking about the day before, and that thinking stretches all the way back to the year prior. I think about the good I’ve done as a social worker, I think about my children, and I think about the villains I’d stopped as Hathor.

  The sun is just coming up as I ring Ignacia’s doorbell.

  She answers the door in her scrubs and gives me a big Cheshire grin. I know what’s on her mind.

  “Tanisha, mi amor, necesito más besos, por favor.” I do love when she speaks Spanish to me.

  “Ignacia, we need to talk.”

  “Okay.” Even though she’s confused, she invites me in and we sit in her living room. “Are you all right from yesterday? I saw the news footage. You were amazing!”

  Her hand in mine, my eyes on hers, I say as gently as I can, “Ignacia, honey, I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  “The superhero thing, us. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Her face falls all apart. “What? But you were amazing! You can do anything! I—”

  “Ignacia, I forgot to pick up Cheri after the fight. She was walking up Colfax, and you know how bad that street is. I can’t go on.” Tears well in my eyes. Ignacia comes in close to hold me, kiss me, caresses me. The smell of her clean body fills my nose just as the power fills my body. My spirit sings a hymn, and oh, she is lovely, and what we have is oh so special.

  Ignacia pulls back. “I understand why you’re feeling this way. Next time we’ll have better systems in place. Just give me your kid’s schedule and I’ll—”

  “No. It’s over.”

  Ignacia’s sympathetic demeanor ebbs. What replaces it is very cold. “So you’re just going to quit? What about all the people who need you? Need us? Who’s going to help them?”

  “What about my responsibility to my family, Ignacia?”

  “You have been given a great gift, Tanisha. You have a responsibility to use it.”

  We sit quietly. She’s distant, I’m hurt, and she finally says, “The world needs superheroes, Tanisha.”

  “Maybe.” I think about HeroTech, and other superheroes I’ve met, and the villains I’ve fought.

  She’s waiting for me to say more.

  I pat her hand. “Maybe. But more important? My kids need a mom. My husband needs a wife. I’ve seen what happens when parents check out to pursue their careers, and the damage that causes does things no super villain could hope to do. My home is world enough for me to save.”

  “You sound like a 1950’s housewife.” Ignacia sniffs.

  “Oh, baby, you know I don’t fetch my husband his slippers and pipe on command. I work hard at my day job, doing good work for the city, and I’m not going to give that up. But I’ve reached the limits of what I can do, and I’m choosing my family over being a hero.”

  “What about me?” Ignacia whispers.

  “I’ll always be your friend, but I can’t be with you like that again. I made a vow to my husband, and I have to keep it. I’m sorry.”

  I watch her face, closely, until she finally lets a smile slip on. “I’ve kissed other people and never gave them powers
. Maybe I can find someone else to work with. I really wish you would reconsider though.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her smile disappears. She slams the door behind me when I leave.

  A new day is beginning, and I grin, thinking of Marcus herding our kids to get them out the door. I have to go help him, but first?

  It’s early in the city, and Ignacia lives near a park. I’m so full of the energy, I can’t help but chance a little flying.

  I rise above the trees, just some middle-aged woman, thick around the middle, lines around my eyes, but for one last time, with the wind caressing my face, I’m Hathor, the ancient Egyptian goddess of motherhood.

  A mom. A goddess. Like me.

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  DAX AND THE RED EYES

  Adrienne Dellwo

  Dax

  “It must be so hard, having one child with such extraordinary powers and another who’s so developmentally delayed. Six years old and still in pre-school! I don’t know how she does it.”

  Daxton listened, not understanding why sometimes he could see inside his house all the way from school. He scowled as he tried to place a blue block on top of a red one. There, I did it! But then his hand brushed the red block and it burned him. He flinched, and the blue block tumbled to the floor. He wished Mommy was in the kitchen, because if she was, her friends would stop saying. Mommy didn’t let people say about Dax.

  “She acts like everything’s fine, but it’s got to be disappointing. Sawyer has so much promise, especially with how sought-after supers are these days. And then there’s one that’ll be a burden on them for the rest of their lives.”

  Dax didn’t want to be a burn on his parents. A burn hurts you. He knew because of red. Dax didn’t feel hot, though, and only hot things burn. He decided lady didn’t know what she said.

  Mommy walked back in the kitchen then. “I’m so sorry, girls, but Sawyer’s tests ran long. Nathan needs me to pick Daxton up from school.” Mommy looked apologetic and grabbed her purse.

  Ladies gave Mommy fake smiles. “That’s no problem, Anna,” one of them said. “I should go walk Katie from the bus, anyway.”