Chapter 11:

Revenge, and Where to put the Greenhouse

The phone rang and Nathan immediately ignored it. Besides, it wouldn’t be Kelly. Six months ago, he woke to an empty bed, and he had not seen or heard from her since. As for this caller, well, Nathan didn’t care. They could leave a message.

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

After the fifth ring, the answering machine picked up. Yes, an actual answering machine. Marvelous never bothered to switch to voice mail, or any other modern alternatives. He used his mother’s old answering machine as she was the one to take on new technologies.

Nathan hated voicemail. For one thing, voicemail required him to call in to some disembodied voice, hanging in the ethos. It was too ethereal for his taste, somehow mechanical and spiritual all at once—which begged too many uncomfortable questions. In comparison, the answering machine was visceral, occupying actual space on his counter, in the bulkiest and tackiest of manners; a blunt instrument of—well, not torture—but definitely something unpleasant. It was inconvenience wrapped in the opposite guise, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a prejudice dressed as an idea. The effect approached torture.

Also, Nathan couldn’t listen as people left messages on voicemail. With the answering machine, Marvelous felt like a voyeur, listening in on somebody else’s conversation. And the answering machine only allowed one shot at a message. There was no erase option for the listener, should they blunder their words, or say something stupid. The answering machine was very unforgiving, which Marvelous thought appropriate since he viewed telephoning as a rather invasive practice.

Beep, said the machine, after asking for a message and promising a reply. Yeah, right...

“Nathan Marvelous, this is Brion Mindur.”

Ah, Brion. He would talk to Brion. Still, he didn’t pick up the phone.

“You might want to turn on your tube, channel 9. I read the book. I picked it up a week ago. It’s a crock, of course. But I thought you might want to know about this one. Anyway, you have my number. Give me a call, when you have a moment. I have something you may be interested in.” Click.

Nathan sat up. What was this about a book? Was this about a new book? There were several already. Books were one of the many costs of celebrity. No matter how many official or endorsed works one allowed, there were always those who wanted to put out unofficial versions, the dirt diggers, the ones that didn’t sugarcoat shortcomings, but instead highlighted them: text in bold, underlined, italicized, and capitalized, so as not to say bad, but BAD! Not that it mattered. Official or unofficial, all the books were lies. Why should he care about one more?

Yet, Brion called. There would be something different about this one. After all, Brion was not the panicky type.

Nathan set aside his orange juice and picked up the remote for his kitchen set. He switched the channel to 9.

It was on commercial. Some local dealership didn’t care about his credit; they wanted to sell him a high quality used car, as long as he was honest and hardworking. They didn’t care if he’d made a few mistakes in the past. They believed in people. How very nice of them. And what sort of interest rate does such good faith deserve? Obviously, if you’re going to offer your fellow men a second chance, you should be allowed to gouge them on the interest.

The second commercial was for new Barbie fruit snacks, which seemed to have a lot to do with little girls spinning around in pink dresses. All you need is a bit of our princess themed fruit bits, and your life will be nothing but peaches and sunshine!

Such blatant lies from such shameless liars.

Marvelous almost shut off the set with the beginning of the third commercial, but Kelly Green was on his set, walking around a partition to shake hands with Candice Graham, and he realized it wasn’t a commercial after all. It was Wake Up, America!

Marvelous turned up the volume. Six months with nothing, not even a note to say she wasn’t coming back. Six months, and now she was on television with Candice and Jackson for the Wednesday edition of Wake Up, America!

Nathan stared at the set, transfixed. Kelly ran out on him, leaving him vulnerable and panicky. He wanted to hate her, but she was beautiful: that smile, the sharp green eyes, and brilliant face. He couldn’t hate her. No, he wanted her back. He wouldn’t even know where to start, but he wanted her nonetheless.

Candice was the kind of woman who has children and a career and still finds it effective to act like a cheerleader. Perhaps it had something to do with her diminutive stature and long blonde locks, her thin frame, over-sized teeth, youthful face, and boundless energy. She was eternal youth realized. She was very likable in her annoying fashion.

Jackson was also the cheerleader type: strong, jocular—but not jock-ular—self-effacing, easy to look at, yet notably feminine with his impeccable grooming, dress, and posture. He was quite possibly the definition of metrosexual, as if such distinctions are not only insightful, but necessary. Funny, there should be something of a backlash against these sophisticates, as if it takes poor hygiene and a factory job to be a true XY. But then, there’s a backlash against everything, even backlashes against backlashes.

What is this need to label, explain, categorize, relegate, and define everything? Put a tint on it. Spin it as you can. Call it what you want. It’s one of the things humans do best, sorting our surroundings, identifying edible from inedible from poisonous. We distinguish what we want to eat, from what wants to eat us. Our survival depends on it.

Wake Up, America! didn’t investigate sad events; war, drought, or suffering in the interior of Africa, natural catastrophes in the rural north of India and Pakistan, possible human rights violations in Samerikandia. No, these were happy stories of individual accomplishment, of wonder, splendor, and redecorating. These were tales of triumph.

Watching Jackson and Candice was like getting headlines from the prom queen and her gay best friend, neither having grown up. It was TV as a sort of Neverland.

But then, TV is a sort of Neverland.

Kelly fit well with these two: confident, beautiful, demure in a basic black and white getup that suggested all her curves without revealing any. She played cool and smart to her hosts’ giddy antics. In return, the hosts deferred to her as they asked the basic questions, and garnered a list of accomplishments that were cheered by the hosts and audience alike.

The List:

• Kelly McKenzie Green graduated from East Cityopolis High School in 2002 as valedictorian, a peer of both Nathan Marvelous and Michelle Hernandez.

• Kelly attended California University at Berkeley and graduated magna cum laude.

• She continued her education at Stanford Law and currently works in corporate law.

• Kelly’s controversial first book, Less than Marvelous, has been at the top of the New York Times Nonfiction list for the last three weeks.

Nathan groaned. She wrote a book?!

Indeed, the book was the reason for Kelly’s appearance on Wake Up, America!, and the title was not inviting. Despite the fact there were several unflattering books about Marvelous already on the market, he felt cold sweats coming on as he watched the three talk:

CANDICE: This book is all about Nathan Marvelous, of which there is a plethora. What makes your book different? Why bother?

KELLY: Unlike most of the books about Marvelous, this book isn’t about his boxing career or about some of his more incredible exploits: the attempted assassination, the pandas, the bank heist debacle. I’ve known Nathan since middle school. We attended high school together, and for a brief time, even dated. This book is about Nathan himself, so you could say I’m quite intimate with the subject.

JACKSON: High school was some time ago.

KELLY: It was! But our relationship didn’t end with High School, although it did taper off. After the fire, after the death of Michelle—his lover and my dear friend—we both had a need for companionship, and we found our needs met in each other, at least for a time.

JACKSON: So the rumors are true?

KELLY: Yes. We were a couple brought together by tragedy.

JACKSON: Did you write this while you were dating?

KELLY: No, not at all. We were quite close, until, oh, five, six months ago, at which point, I simply couldn’t ignore all that I learned. I left Nathan and wrote this book to clear my conscience.

CANDICE: You have some very mean things to say about your subject. You openly accuse Mr. Marvelous of some rather duplicitous actions.

KELLY: When we were together, I always wanted to believe the best. I’m certainly not the first to turn a blind eye, but in the end, I simply couldn’t ignore all I saw, all I heard. Unfortunately, I never had any empirical evidence, so I couldn’t go to the authorities: various boxing commissions, the police, and so on. Instead, I wrote the book.

JACKSON: Empirical evidence? You mean to say you have no proof?

KELLY: Strictly saying, no governing body will ever bring a suit against him, not based on what I have to say. But to say that there isn’t strong physical evidence isn’t to say that there isn’t strong evidence. The things he told me, the way he acted aren’t admissible in court, yet, they can’t be discounted. For example, he and Michelle were indeed guilty of blood doping. But unless I provide physical evidence, I’m simply another naysayer.

JACKSON: I remember this as it happened. After several accusations, Nathan was repeatedly tested. Nothing ever came up. Due to proximity, Michelle said she also felt compelled to take additional tests, not to mention all the tests she had to take in order to compete in both Olympics. Again, there was nothing to support the accusations. In the end, a special investigation by the Cityopolis Crier found the accusers themselves had ulterior motives.

KELLY: Let me clarify, when I speak of Michelle cheating, I’m not talking about Michelle cheating for Michelle, but helping Nathan. It is possible, I suppose, that she used whatever method Nathan perfected, but I personally think she was stronger than this. Michelle was my friend, so, with me, she gets the benefit of the doubt. However, for his part, Nathan was a cheater, and somehow he talked Michelle into helping him—which I find even more unsettling—that he could corrupt such a kind and giving person. Yet, he had me fooled, so I could see him fooling Michelle too.

CANDICE: But you admit, you have little proof?

KELLY: My evidence is highly speculative, as I am truly my greatest source. But beyond what I provide, I work through the evidence to build my theories, instead of coming up with theories and trying to jam in the evidence, which is where others get in trouble. Never follow a theory, always follow the evidence. Evidence points to the truth. Theory points to your own prejudices.

JACKSON: You also speculate that Marvelous may have played a role in the death of Michelle Hernandez. She was obviously someone he cared about, yet you suggest he has no remorse for what he did to her.

An audible gasp escaped the audience, followed by several long boos. Marvelous groaned. Kelly hushed the crowd with a sympathetic smile. How many idiots took this for truth simply because some shyster said it on TV? Admittedly, she was a captivating shyster.

KELLY: Correct. His relationship with Michelle was terribly complicated and rather fractured. Of course, it was a relationship based on deceit. I don’t know exactly what role he may have played in the death of Michelita, but I’ve illustrated several possible scenarios in the book. There’s one particular theory I find most likely, which I’ve spelled out for my readers—but you’ll have to get the book if you want to know what I have to say!

JACKSON: If I’m not giving too much away, you suggest he was a co-conspirator with Yzal, and that he set Yzal up to take the fall.

KELLY: Scapegoating is something Nathan Marvelous knows all about, but please, don’t give away any more of the book! What will these nice people read?

JACKSON: Didn’t you defend him in court?

KELLY: Further proof that I am fallible. I won’t say he didn’t fool me. Quite the opposite: he fooled me easily. I invited it.

CANDICE: Does it concern you that he would go after Michelle? I mean, if he’d go after her in such a way, what makes you think you are safe? Are you scared of any retaliation?

KELLY: As one of my favorite authors, Sebastian Sinclair, put it, “Do not fear retaliation from those who would hurt you anyway.” I do fear for my safety, but when I knew the truth about Nathan, I simply had to write the book. Of course, Nathan is quite calculating, and because I so openly oppose him, anything that happens to me will immediately bring renewed and intense suspicion against him. That is not to say that I haven’t taken precautions. I have. Still, I don’t imagine he would do anything. I’m afraid to say, I’ve done all the damage I can.

JACKSON: You mention a previous guest, Sebastian Sinclair. Have you met the author?

KELLY: I have not, and I hope he doesn’t mind me butchering his prose. I will say The Burning Seas is one of my favorite books.

CANDICE: He would thank you for the plug, I’m sure.

JACKSON: Tell us. What exactly drove you to write this?

KELLY: As you noted, in some circles Nathan Marvelous is regarded as quite the hero; I found him to be otherwise, and I felt the world should know the truth about him. It’s one thing for someone to be a true legend and have a dark side, to have done some great things and also committed some bad deeds. Look at Walt Disney. Senator McCarthy. O.J. Simpson. But when someone cheats his way into everything he has, well, that’s just a bad person. Also, Michelle was a very good friend of mine, and I think the world should know the truth about what happened to her. Yes, its sad and destroys a glittering image, but that image is a fake, a mere simulacra.

JACKSON: You are a strong and beautiful woman, Kelly. I hope my girl grows up to be like you.

KELLY: (taking Jackson’s hand) Thank you! You’re so kind!

CANDICE: Everyone, let’s hear it for Kelly Green!

Kelly smiled on the screen as she mouthed the words, thank you. The audience drowned her out with cheers.

Nathan was dumbstruck. Why would she participate in such boldface lies; in the doping rumors, the Olympic scandal, the rigmarole of imagined cheats—and how could she tarnish Michelle’s legacy and still call herself a friend?! Michelle was above cheating. She competed for the love of competition, and just happened to very good. As for Nathan, there was no need. Nobody even came close. All the accusations were born out of jealousy, frustration, animosity. They were the shortsighted ambitions of little people. He had not expected Kelly to stoop so low.

The phone rang. Still in shock, Nathan did something he otherwise wouldn’t, and reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Nathan. This is Michael Braunn. I have to say, I watched Wake Up, America! and I’m quite shocked. I’m shocked that someone so close to you would manipulate their proximity and intimacy so obviously for monetary gain.”

“Hi, Michael. You read the book yet?”

“Not yet, but I have a paralegal on it. She’ll have it finished before the weekend. We need to know everything she says. We need to turn her words against her,” assured Michael.

“Do we?”

“If you’re going to sue for defamation, we do. This is obviously nothing more than slander. She based an entire book on conversations that never occurred—I take it these conversations never occurred?”

“Doubtful. I haven’t read the book myself, so I don’t know what she claims.”

“I’ll get you a copy. I think we can have a suit before a judge by Monday,” Michael announced.

Nathan thought it over. Kelly would be expecting a lawsuit. She would embrace a lawsuit. She would put him on the stand and ask all the right questions. He could see the tears, the drama, the finger pointing... it would be quite the pageant. She’d bare claws and fangs and tear into him as only she could, and despite her ferocity, the world would love her for it. He remembered the way she wrecked boys in high school; the captain of the football team reduced to a sobbing mess in front of chess club nerds and stoners alike. Kelly tore through boys like a chill wind. Nobody ever saw her coming, but everyone felt it as she swept past, bitter and numbing. One did not cross Kelly Green without serious repercussions.

Watching the aftermath was even more amazing. The other girls would comfort Kelly, and the other boys would jostle and position themselves to be her next beau, to quite possibly suffer the same fate. Still, they lined up.

“No, we won’t sue,” Nathan decided.

“Are you sure? This is an open and shut case.”

“No, you don’t sue a lawyer. It’s what they want. It’s what they live for.”

Michael laughed at that, “It would be fighting her in her element, wouldn’t it?”

“And what’ll we get?” Nathan replied. “The profits from the book? In the meantime, she gets to embarrass me however she might. That’s a heavy price for a the possibility of such a pittance,” he noted. “I know you do good work, but I’d prefer if you were doing it for someone else.”

“Is there nothing I can do?” his lawyer asked. “Shall we at least make a public statement?”

“I suppose...” Nathan began.

“We’ll use your lawyer bit for a laugh at the end, lighten things up, and show everyone we’re not taking this book seriously. What else? We’ll start off saying you feel betrayed by an old friend, and it just goes to show some people will do anything for personal gain. Anything else?” Michael asked.

Nathan thought about it for a second, “Nothing off the top of my head, just keep it light, and send me a draft.”

“Certainly,” Michael stated, “This is the right step. We make a statement or people are going to think you’re afraid to respond. That would strengthen the doubters.”

Nathan sighed. Why was it always about what other people thought? “Keep it short. I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay a thousand for every word under a hundred. Make sure you like it, make sure I like it, and have it in the media’s hands by the end of the day. Sounds doable?”

“We won’t be able to use any of her book against her.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s all lies, even the true parts.”

“I’ll call you when I have something.”

“Thanks.”

Nathan hung up. He hated talking to his lawyers. Not that he thought this lawyer was a bad person, but it was always little more than damage control. Why should he care what people thought? Who were these people he so needed to impress? Why the hell did everyone have an opinion about him anyway? Where did they derive the right to pass judgment? Who made this okay?!

Immediately, Nathan picked up the phone, wishing he had a number for Kelly. Was she really hiding? Should he bother trying to find her? Would she report it as harassment? Nathan dialed 411.

“Name?”

“Kelly McKenzie Green, attorney.”

“City?”

“San Diego,” he hazarded a guess.

“Please hold.”

He waited. It wasn’t long before the operator got back to him. “Kelly McKenzie Green, attorney at law, 253-377-9555. Should I connect you?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Nathan breathed a sigh of relief. She’d taken precautions? What sort of precautions? Was she now locking her doors? He gave a huff. She’d fed Jackson and Candice a line. No, she fed ‘em a whole book! Kelly feared Nathan about as much as she feared direct sunlight.

The phone rang. It picked up, “Kelly Green speaking.”

“I saw you on TV. You looked fantastic.”

“Hold a sec.”

Nathan listened as she switched ears. She must have pressed the phone against her right ear. He remembered the old injury and felt strangely vindicated. How does it feel to only need one speaker on your ear buds, Kelly?

“I’m sorry. What was it you said?” Kelly asked.

“That was some show you put on today. Or did it tape some time last week?”

“Thank you, it was live, actually. I’m still in the studio.”

“I’m even going to buy your book. I of all people should read it, don’t you think?”

“Really? Well I’m glad to hear it!”

“You mind if I send it by your office? I’d love a signature.”

“Please do!” she smiled. “Who do you want me to sign it to?”

“To Nathan, the victim of my venom.”

“Nathan!? Oh wow! Hi Nathan! How have you been?” she preened. “‘Victim of my venom’? My, my! Nice alliteration! Are we into poetry now? Glad to see you found a new passion.”

Something clicked on the line.

“No, I’m not doing poetry,” he snapped.

“Too bad. Before you say something you might regret, you should know I’m now recording this call.”

Nathan harrumphed. “No, I said all that six months ago, when I said I loved you.”

“Right after you said I’d always be second to Michelle, even though she’s dead.”

“Is that why you left me?! I needed you. I trusted you, and you bolted like a cat at the lake, because I still love Michelle?!”

“You never needed me, not specifically. You need a warm body to take Michelle’s place. That’s what I was to you: a hundred and twenty pounds of warm flesh—to keep the demons away.”

“Not true. You were never a replacement. You were never Michelle, true, but I never wanted you to be. I always loved you for you.”

“No, you loved the idea of me, perhaps, but never me,” she asserted. “Listen, Nathan, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m never going to bother you again. You treated me like a consolation prize, and now I’ve had my little revenge, so let’s never speak again, and I promise never to tighten the little vice in which I’ve secured your itty-bitty balls.”

“I also recorded this call,” Nathan stated.

“You did not. Nice bluff though. I like that, but like Michelle, I’m much faster than you. Of course, now you can catch her.”

Nathan didn’t respond as these vicious little words sunk in. How could she be so callous?

“Nathan, are you still there?”

“You didn’t record shit,” he accused.

“Oh really?”

There was a pause, and then Nathan heard a muffled version of himself state, “… like a cat at the lake, because I still love Michelle?!”

To which, Kelly replied, “You never needed me, not specifically. You needed a warm body to take Michelle’s place. That’s what I was to you: a hundred and twenty pounds of warm flesh—to keep the demons away—”

Nathan hung up the phone without saying another word. Not a second passed before he had the receiver to his ear again—and Nathan was astounded to realize this would be his third phone call in a single day! He pressed the phone to his ear and slowly realized there was no dial tone.

“Hello?” Nathan queried, expecting to find Kelly still on the line.

“Hello? Nathan Marvelous?” The voice belonged to a man, not somebody Nathan recognized. Nathan heard the man clear his throat, and then the man began to speak. “Hi, my name is Daniel Christianson, I’m with Crystand Image and I’d like to offer you my professional services as a publicist. I’m thinking we should do a couple interviews, I’m thinking Angela Daniels, Craig Bricker—you know, some real heavyweights—if you’ll forgive the pun. I’m thinking we should turn the tables, set the agenda. In my opinion…”

He must have called just as Nathan picked up. Dumb luck, that. Nathan set down the receiver. Click.

The phone rang and Nathan picked up before the first ring finished.

“In my opinion…”

Click.

Ring. Nathan picked up the phone yet again.

“In my opinion, all you need is someone to tout your achievements, the things you’ve done for the community,” Daniel Christianson continued—seemingly unfazed by Nathan’s attempts to get him off the line. “How many people remember the Chinese freighter?” He added.

“Too many,” Nathan replied, almost curious to know what the man would say next.

“How many remember the assassination attempt? How many people remember the sanctuary? How many people thank you for saving so many when your own high school burned to the ground? It’s all a question of accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative! You’re a living legend, and people ought to treat you like one…”

“Daniel,” Nathan interrupted, “If you ever call me again, you will hear from my lawyers, and they will not be offering my patronage.”

Nathan hung up. He waited a few seconds to see if perhaps Daniel would try one last time. Luckily, he did not, as Nathan wasn’t interested in calling his lawyers and suing some unknown publicist. How messy would that be?

Nathan picked up the receiver again, finally able to dial Brion Mindur.

Ring, ring, ring.

With no answer, Nathan was routed to Mindur’s voicemail.

“This is Brion Mindur. Please leave a name and number and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.” Beep.

The message was ever so dry and professional, and why not? Why go for something original, something daring or funny? All voice mail and answering machine introductions were antiseptic. People wouldn’t know what to make of you otherwise. People wouldn’t know how to regard the proprietor of some frivolous or comical message. Besides being rather juvenile, such things were distracting and put the caller off their matter. Professional was good. Professional kept the caller on task.

“It’s Nathan Marvelous,” he began. “I just wanted to say thanks for the warning.”

Nathan was forgetting something. Brion call about something else…

No matter. Nathan hung up the phone and turned off the TV, which was running a commercial for headache medicine. Nathan frowned; he could take a whole bottle and it would do nothing. Strange that he should get stress headaches when an old girlfriend was out for revenge, but an armored truck hitting him at thirty miles an hour wouldn’t leave a lasting bruise. Strange, that morphine only worked for a few seconds before his body broke the chemical down and kicked it out of his system—but the tantrums of an ex-girlfriend had him on the verge of tears.

*****

Nathan strode down the long hall to the east wing, where his mother stayed, when she happened to be around, which, lately, was a lot. The hallway testified to her presence. There was no dust in the corners, which sat thick on the furniture and paintings of the west wing and central suites.

Nathan glanced at the photos and pictures, looking again and again despite the fact that he knew them all by heart. He liked the paintings most of all: a dirt road winding through the countryside, a semi-circle of school age girls laughing at a frog, several hunting dogs that lounged on the bed of their preoccupied master. There were over a dozen paintings down this hall from a number of disciplines. Most were original works, though a few were replicas; the Monet, the Dali, the Thomas Ralph Spence. Nathan knew this because his mother told him; otherwise he would have taken them all for the real thing.

The photos were not as welcome. They were pictures of Nathan, and this made him uneasy—but they were not the pictures one might expect, the ones he would have truly dreaded. They were not pictures of his graduation, of boxing titles, of empty accomplishments. Instead, they were pictures of swimming, lounging in the living room, and playing in the grass. These were pictures with the light just right, with shadow and balance and perspective. These were pictures of innocence, curiosity, and beauty.

Nathan found it funny that his mother held him in such high regard. He had a fascination with dirt, noise, and obnoxiousness that so offended the clean peace and quiet his mother yearned for. Only now, when there was so much space between them—even in the same house—did they get along so easily. Growing up, he had tormented her endlessly with his shenanigans. He found it funny that mothers should be so flustered and agitated; that they might yell, and properly swear at their little boys, but when their boys grew up, mothers still hang their pictures prominently, so proud their sons turned out just the way their mothers feared they would.

Nathan ambled past door after door, quite certain which one was hiding his mother. He pushed into the right room, and huffed as he entered, so she might take notice.

This room was light and airy, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and an unobtrusive sound system, on which his mother played something classical. Was it Mozart? Chopin? Beethoven? The music added to the airy quality of the room with the sun pouring in. Despite the massive windows overlooking the city below, the room had a comfortable, almost cozy feel. The walls were covered with bookshelves, and the earthy must of aging paper was thick in the air. Several luxuriant couches and rugs covered the hardwood floor, and a gas fire in the corner finished the room. Nathan loved this room, but only spent time in it when his mother was around. It was, after all, one of her rooms, and without her, it felt empty.

Although he huffed as he entered—although he stamped dramatically across the room and dropped heavily into a chair next to his mother—she did not look up from her book. Her mouth twisted ever so slightly into a smile. Despite his agitation, he lay content on the couch, knowing he would have her full attention momentarily.

Anna Marvelous possessed a young face, petite figure, and good skin. Some said she only looked a few years older than Nathan. She was not the type for crème treatments, spas, or surgery; attributing her young looks to a good diet, incessant exercise, and a healthy dose of luck. She was small, even in comparison to Nathan’s rather average build, standing just over five feet with heels. People were always astounded to find out this was Nathan’s mother and not an older sister. Indeed, this tiny creature was solid, capable, and independent; an anchor in Nathan’s chaotic existence from time before memory.

At the end of a page, or perhaps just a paragraph, Anna spread the book lightly on her leg and turned her full attention to Nathan. She studied him for a second before speaking. “Well? Spit it out,” she said. “I can tell something is bothering you.”

Nathan smiled. Like Michelle, Anna was never bothered by Nathan’s dramatics, so he had an easy time exposing himself. “It’s Kelly,” he admitted.

“Did she call?”

“No. I called her after I saw her on TV.”

“So you heard about the book.”

Nathan frowned. “You knew about it?”

“Yes. You mad at me for not telling?”

He thought about it for a second, “No.”

“It’s a bad book, in terms of execution as well as content,” she shrugged. “It’s terribly obvious, I should say. You can tell she’s up on all the old accusations. Anyway, I have a copy if you’re interested, but I wouldn’t suggest it,” she shook her head.

“Candice and Jackson seemed to like it.”

“Who?”

“Candice and Jackson? Wake Up, America?” Nathan asked.

“Oh,” Anna said with a shrug, “Those two. Well, I wouldn’t put much stock in what they say. After all, they’re paid to sell us on dumb schlock. If you don’t believe me, just watch the commercials.” With a sigh, she set her book aside, stood and walked over to her son. She wrapped her arms around him. “This is a beautiful house, and I love it dearly, but you need to get out of it every once in a while.”

“Maybe,” he said, wanting to agree, but where would he go? Anywhere he went people knew his name, knew everything he’d ever done, and accused him of a few things he hadn’t. He hated the looks: the gawking, the gestures, the comments, the constant attention. He couldn’t get used to it, and he certainly couldn’t ignore it.

“Anything I can do for you?” His mother asked.

“I’m going to go for a drive, get some wind in my hair, and attempt to clear my head. We’ll talk about it later, perhaps?”

“Okay.” she said, picking up her book, “Have you decided where we’re going to put the greenhouse? I’d really like to start growing something.”

This question again… It was an old conversation which never changed. “Unless you want to shrink up the design, we’re going to have to rip something up,” he answered.

“I think you’re right about that, so I’ve come up with an alternative,” Anna said. Why don’t we put it off the guest house?”

“It’s not the sort of room you add to a guest house, mom. It should be on the main house—or unattached—but off the guest house is just silly. Not to mention how inconvenient it would be, what with the elephant man. What if you want to work on your squashes at four in the morning, which, knowing you, isn’t beyond the realm of the possible?”

They both knew she was indeed the type to get up at four in the morning to look over squashes. Still, Anna shrugged. “He won’t mind. He probably wouldn’t even notice me. Besides, he’s help, not a guest.”

“What will people think when I sell the place and we have crap built just anywhere?” he shook his head. “No. It’s too haphazard.”

“The entire property is nothing but extravagance. No one would even notice it. Indeed, they’d find it charming,” Anna replied.

“I wouldn’t!” Nathan complained. “Look, we’re going to have to put it right against the fence and rip out a few trees; there’s nothing for it. It’s that, or the West Wing.”

“But I love the West Wing!”

“Nobody is ever even in it!”

“Still, I can’t let you do that,” Anna said. “It balances the house.”

“We can put it down on the slope. It’s a walk to get down there, but it could be really nice, and you’d have a great view of the valley.”

She shook her head. “The slope faces north. We wouldn’t get enough sun, especially in winter. The view could be anything—but the plants would hate it.”

“Then we’ll just have to think of something else,” He sighed. “I’m gonna go. I’ll be back around… I don’t rightly know,” he admitted.

“Call and I’ll start dinner.”

"You mean, call and you'll order out?"

Anna ignored the comment. "Be safe."

“Okay.”

Nathan moved off toward the garage. Be safe. What a strange thing to say, but then, after all this time, his mother still didn’t have him pegged, not about this anyway. How could she not know? How did she not understand? “Safe” and “danger” were a dichotomy Nathan never had to worry about.

Nathan pulled a key off a pegboard, and walked over to his favorite vehicle. He’d shipped the Nissan Skyline R straight from Japan, had it outfitted with all sorts of after market accessories, then gave it a custom paint job. Still, his favorite part was simply that the driver was on the right side of the vehicle.

Cost certainly wasn’t the point. He had more expensive cars, and plenty of money to get more if he felt like it. Somehow, his financial planner always managed to make him more. All kinds of percentages and figures danced around the statements he received in the mail, and the number at the bottom always managed to dial up, no matter what he spent. For a split second, he wondered what sort of endeavors his money was currently engaged—but he didn’t really care. The mansion was nearly paid off, after only six years. The cars were all bought outright. He owned over a thousand acres west of the city, up into the mountains, for which he had absolutely no plans. He had a vacation home near Miami, in the suburb of Townage, that he’d never even seen. He didn’t know what else to buy, and so the rest of his money sat, waiting for a purpose. It was rather sad, really, to think of all that potential bottled up in some bank.

He gave generously to several charities including a few of Kelly’s favorites, as he had when they were seeing each other. He figured the needy shouldn’t suffer just because he couldn’t get along with one of their other benefactors. Not that it made him feel any better. It was just paper. He was simply pushing paper at what he perceived was real pain.

He crawled into his car. The engine of the Skyline R roared to life. Marvelous pulled the car out of the garage, slowly, slowly, and then, he broke down the long driveway; turbos whining, and screamed to the end of the drive. He slammed on the brakes as he reached the gates and kicked up a massive cloud of dust as the tires dug into the gravel.

The protesters gaped at his car, and he wondered what they did to get by, that they could find so much time to picket his mansion. Perhaps if he didn’t feed them… but then, they’d refrained from the sneaky vandalism that had been one of their early tactics. Indeed, he’d even gone so far as to install electrical outlets on the outside of the gate, so they could watch Friends, listen to music, or surf the internet on their laptops. In return, the protesters were nice enough to move out of his way when he needed by, waving hands instead of signs. Indeed, he felt they had a nice arrangement. They didn’t heckle his visitors—not that there were many of those—and he provided food and electricity. Still, he wished they’d simply go away—but they maintained that they couldn’t abandon their principles. For several months, he’d negotiated, hoping to fund a charity in the name of PLES, but they could not agree on an appropriate beneficiary. Discussions broke down and the protesters stuck around in an effort to force Nathan’s hand. What was he to do? Say he was sorry for saving a man’s life? He refused—and now they were deadlocked. And so, Marvelous welcomed the protesters with food and electricity, and sometimes he’d find homeless with signs reading ‘CHEATERS NEVER PROSPER’ or ‘FREE DUMBO’ hoping for the meat combo. Teenagers ballsy enough to test the rumor, waved placards of ‘OLD ENOUGH TO DIE, OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK’, ‘LEGALIZE WEED’ or ‘JOHN 3:17’ with smiles on their faces, knowing these issues had nothing to do with Marvelous. It didn’t matter. He fed them all.

Nathan pulled past the protesters. Few people occupied the road: stay-at-home wives on errands, businessmen going to or from meetings, weekend workers, and the occasional teenager playing hooky. Nathan had plenty of space to maneuver his Skyline R.

How fast did he go? Fifty down the driveway, which was about a half mile long. As fast as eighty-five through the city. Something over one-fifty on the freeway; he couldn’t be sure as he didn’t check the speed as he raced past the seemingly idle traffic.

Windows down, the smell of asphalt and oil, the heat of the sun through the windshield, the rush and thud of the wind as he screamed down the road... Marvelous didn’t keep up that sort of speed for long. No need to attract the cops. That’d only attract the media, which would only result in massive public head shaking, and wagging of fingers. He slowed for the good of everyone’s collective necks, and immediately regretted it, only because speed was so fun, so liberating. If this car had wings, he’d fly it to the moon, or at least half way. And then he’d fly half the remaining distance, and half again—and again and again—never actually able to get all the way to the moon, as he’d be too busy going half the remaining distance. Eventually, he’d turn around and travel halfway home, and then, half the remaining distance and so on and so forth, stuck between here and there, always slowing, and never completing the full distance.

Ahh... such thoughts...

He thought about slamming headlong into one of the separators, the long concrete dividers that split the north and south bound lanes—not to actually hurt himself—only to shake things up. What kind of a jar would that be? How many flips before he skidded to a stop? Would he black out? He bet he would. He bet it’d be magnificent.

He wondered if he could make it look accidental, and maybe garner a little public sympathy. How many people would call the paper and spill the beans that he’d passed them by doing a buck fifty? Could he chalk it up to agitation over a slanderous new book? Maybe they’d look at the wrecked car, at the book, and be overcome with sympathy.

But he didn’t want to be a victim. Besides, he knew what it was to crash. He remembered driving a motorcycle off a cliff years past in southern Oregon. He drove the thing into the waves crashing over the rocks below, right into the eternal war waged between water and stone, where the earth won each battle and yet slowly succumbed to the undeniable ocean.

He remembered slamming through the water, and smacking the rock, and then… nothing. He remembered coming to on the beach, washed up, oil coating the tatters of his clothes, metal and plastic bits of his bike spread about him. He remembered the pointlessness, the shock of his friends, and also what it resolved; which happened to be nothing. He never did tell Michelle about the wreck, or especially his mother. They wouldn’t understand.

Not that there was some grand point to the endeavor. There wasn’t. He simply wanted to ride off a cliff into oblivion.

But it became more. For Nathan, the whole experience was the lifting of the veil, his great disillusionment, something from which he still suffered. From time to time, Marvelous still found himself desiring to wreck something, to twist and break, to utterly destroy. He could not suffer as others; he would never be an amputee, or suffer a weak heart. For seconds at a time, he could feel the rush of pain everyone else suffered in stretches. He could be just like everyone else, vulnerable and weak.

But it never lasted.

His physical pain immediately gave way to the healthy tingle of nerves, the wholeness of being; exempt from the maladies, aches, and recurring injuries others suffered.

How many people would it take to scrape the pieces of his imported Nissan off the interstate? Would there be any subsequent crashes; rubbernecks distracted from the traffic in front of them? How many would pile up?

Nathan seriously considered the idea for only a moment, but he did enjoy developing the scenario and possible outcomes. There would be fire trucks and police. He’d get to pull people out of wrecked cars and watch the jaws-of-life in action. He would be not only the culprit, but a rescuing hero. It sounded a bit enticing, what with all the inevitable scurrying. Still, it’d be messy, and he’d receive no end of phone calls.

Halfway to somewhere, Nathan turned around. He refused to look at the clock or the trip meter on the dash, figuring it was still well before dinner. With nowhere else to go, Nathan limped home, stuck in the far right lane, doing just under 55. Let the cops pull him over for going too slow. Wouldn’t that be ironic? No need to hurry after all, it’s not like home wouldn’t be there when he returned. Or so goes the assumption. Normally, he’d be right—but not on this day.

There was a lot of smoke in the air as he turned onto his street. Nathan could see it as he approached home, but didn’t think it pertained to him in any way, which was a bit strange considering how much smoke and chaos had found him over the years. As he got closer, it became obvious that the smoke originated from his mansion, and Nathan became agitated. He pulled through the gate, almost hitting it when it didn’t open as fast as he wanted. The protesters stared at him, worry caught on their faces as they whispered among themselves. He pulled the Skyline to the front of his house and—not paying attention—wrecked it on the front steps. He put the Nissan three steps up the cement stairs, not even bothering to brake—CRUNCH. Vital fluids mingled and drained over the steps.

Nathan jumped out of the wreck and immediately ran to the rubble of what used to be the east wing of his mansion. He did not care that the rest of the mansion was intact; he was horrified that his mother’s suite was smoldering.

“MOTHER! MOTHER!”

His face grew hot and flush; tears streamed from his eyes and his heart lurched. He knew she wouldn’t answer and assumed the worst. The worst in these situations is what he always seemed to get.

There was a small fire, but it was nothing compared to the ruined yellow stone lying in thick chunks around twisted bits of this and that. He jumped into the rubble of the three-story wing, and pushed aside the remains of lumber, drywall, insulation, and furniture. He dug where the library should be, recognizing the bits of fabric, the books freed of their pages, the twisted canvas of a replica Monet. Glass sunk into his skin, snagging him at every opportunity, trailing his blood over the wreckage. Nathan ignored the small cuts and his digging became frantic.

“MOTHER!” He shouted into the wreckage.

Why had this happened? Who was responsible? He had no answers. He could barely come up with the questions, much less answers. He looked up for no apparent reason, perhaps just to survey the mess, to find a new place to dig, or hoping to see something he had missed. He looked up to see his neighbor coming up his drive. Mr. Highton? Mr. Whighton? He couldn’t remember the neighbor’s name.

“THEY KILLED MY MOTHER!” He yelled between sobs.

His neighbor approached slowly, shock etched on his face. “Good God,” the neighbor managed. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “There’s been a disaster,” he stated.

“THEY KILLED MY MOTHER!” Nathan screamed again, then returned to the ruins. His fingers bled as they caught on a thousand sharp edges. His blood dotted the wreckage like a Jackson Pollock.

The neighbor cupped the phone, “We’re in the High Hills. There’s lots of smoke. Follow the smoke.”

Nathan covered his face as his sobbing increased. He felt the Earth shudder; twitching, pitching, and groaning beneath him, as if it shared his grief.

*****

When the police arrived, they found Marvelous alone, sitting on his lawn, shaken, but no longer sobbing. He was covered in blood, his own, although there was not a single cut on his body. He’d plucked the glass from his hands, glass which sat in a sticky pile on a stone of the shattered wing. His hands were healed, although he thought he could see faint scars left by the glass.

Marvelous was suspicious of everyone, especially the police. He was short and grudgingly answered their questions, sure little would come of it. As far as he could tell, nothing good ever came of police involvement. As far as he could tell, the cops didn’t like anyone except other cops.

The police questioned the neighbors. Had they seen anything? Did they hear anything? None of them had anything useful to say. Dr. Whitten, the neighbor who’d phoned the authorities, told how he offered to help Marvelous, but was quickly shouted from the site. He’d only been home a few minutes when the police arrived at the door. What should he do? He’d asked. The only thing he’d managed was a call to his wife, to say that he loved her.

A few weeks later, Nathan sent a gift basket to Dr. Whitten, thanking him for his troubles. The basket contained tickets, a travel package through Europe for three months, lodging at the very best accommodations, and a note expressing Marvelous’ undying gratitude for the doctor’s concern. It was a lavish gift, perhaps, but money was nothing to Nathan.

Some reporter got wind of the exorbitant gift, and because it wasn’t relevant to the lives of most, if not all other Americans, it became a staple of the news cycle for several weeks. What better way to distract the populace from the growing corruption of government than the shenanigans of an American celebrity? Dr. Whitten was baffled by the media attention. He openly admitted to the gift, and publicly asked Marvelous to take it back, a plea ignored by Nathan. At some point, Nathan flipped off a channel 9 field reporter—which was made into something of a scandal. A month later, there was a new book.

Despite the attention, Dr. Whitten took his wife to Europe on Nathan’s dime. While they were away, they finalized the sale of their estate. They moved to the SeaTac area in order to be closer to her family. When asked about the strange events, they only shrugged, having little to say. They did offer that Marvelous was a nice, misunderstood fellow, and noted that they really didn’t know him as well as they might like.

For years, that was all the good doctor had to say about the events. Eventually, his real part in the affair came to light. After that, he was unapologetic, even hostile to anyone that questioned his actions. Various news outlets did their best to rally the public against the Whittens. Finally tired of the manipulation of modern media, much of the public showed their disapproval with the rough treatment of the Whittens by turning off their televisions and canceling their subscriptions to these perpetual liars.

But that was all years from here and now, after the truth was discovered, after Nathan’s great lie was revealed. For now, police had few leads concerning the explosion, mostly because they refused to do any real work on the case. After all, they had a whole city to keep safe, and Cityopolis was plagued with hell bent jaywalkers determined to cross streets at any given opportunity. Motorists sped on the freeway and didn’t properly feed parking meters. Potheads smoked endless amounts of completely benign weed and thought their interesting thoughts in plain view of everyday people. The city was a mess! The police had limited resources, and couldn’t put some extravagant team on something as mundane as a simple murder! Was the case to get special treatment simply because Nathan was famous?! Besides, the commissioner knew the score. Nathan didn’t have the political connections to be a true pain in the ass, so, fuck him.

It wasn’t until a letter arrived at City Hall that authorities realized the attack occurred on the anniversary of the infamous Cityopolis National Bank robbery. Brion leaked a copy to Nathan. Who else did he leak it to? Anyway, the letter got real attention. It wasn’t the bank robbery that really mattered; it was the death of Angelica Scruples, Psychoto’s accomplice and lover; a death that needed to be avenged. Psychoto gave specific details as to how he carried out the attack. He used an RPG he’d bought off a CIA-sponsored arms dealer based in Lebanon. Getting it shipped wasn’t terribly difficult—though it cost a bit of a mint and took just over a month. After all that, pulling the trigger was easy.

Marvelous put up a reward of a million dollars, eventually doubling, and tripling the bounty. Despite the commissioner’s best efforts, the search for Psychoto intensified. The police were overwhelmed with leads. To this day the reward is unclaimed, and Psychoto is still at large. But that isn’t to say that this was the last anyone saw of him. No, as they say, not by a long shot.

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