Spiderman 1 (50 page)

"It's no excuse," said Osborn firmly, drawing closer. "I'm
proud of you. And I lost sight of that somewhere. But I'm going to make it up to you. I'm going to rectify certain
 
. . .
inequities."

I'm dreaming . . .
 
oh, lord, I'm dreaming. Maybe it's not
my dad, maybe it's an impostor . . .

The shadowed individual drew into the light, and it was indeed Norman Osborn as he threw his arms around his son and—hugging him so tightly that one would have thought he'd almost lost him—Norman said, "I love you."

And from that angle, steeped in the joy and wonder of a scene that Harry imagined so many times, he was almost
certain he'd lost his mind altogether. Hidden in all of that
were eyes that burned with inner dementia, and lips that
were pulled back in a wolflike sneer. It was the look of
someone who understood love only in the context of the
power it gave him over others. Power that he was more than
willing to exploit . . .
 
through whatever means necessary.

It was a pleasant dream Peter was having . . . he was
webswinging through the concrete jungles of New York, but

he was unmasked. Let the world know who Spider-Man is,
because the world is a good and safe place where good peo
ple remain good and bad people don't exist.

Then he heard a voice, calling him from a very great dis
tance, saying, "Peter? Peter . . . "

Peter woke up instantly, looking around in momentary
confusion even as he sat up and knocked over the textbooks
that had been lying in his lap. They lay on the floor, forgot
ten. Instead what he was gaping at was Aunt May, this time fully awake and looking far more lucid than she had earlier.
"You're awake!" he said, cunningly going straight for the obvious. "That's good! Good. You okay?"

"I'm okay," she said with certainty, and immediately
switched over into overly concerned mother figure. "But I
think you should go home and get some sleep."

He shook his head vehemently. "I don't like to leave you."
He didn't want to add,
because then I can't protect you.
"I'm safe here," she said dismissively. "I should have been there."

Aunt May stared at him blankly, unable to determine
what he might possibly be talking about. Then, of course,
she realized: "there" meaning "with her." She shook her
head. "You didn't know." When she saw that he looked no more mollified than before, she took his hand and held it
tightly, with surprising strength. "Peter, the struggles we
face in life are not ours to question. They're God's will." "I know, but I could've done something. . . . "
Naturally she had no idea that the conversation was hap
pening on two levels. No idea that her nephew meant that—as
Spider-Man—he could have squared off against the Green
Goblin, and possibly brought this madness to an end. Instead
she chuckled at what she perceived as the pure absurdity of the
notion. "Done something? You do too much! College, a job, all
this time with me
 
. . .
 
you're not Superman, you know."
That comment, of course, prompted an involuntary smile.

How could it not? Not realizing the source of the humor, she
was encouraged. "A smile! Finally. Haven't seen one of
those on your face since Mary Jane was here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hey! You were supposed to be
asleep. What did you hear?"

Smiling enigmatically, she said, "You know
 
. . .
 
you were
about six years old when her family moved next door. And
when she got out of the car and you saw her for the first time,
you grabbed my hand and said, 'Aunt May! Aunt May! Is
that an angel?' "

Peter had only heard that story a hundred times. Never
theless he put on an affected gosh-wow attitude and said,
"Gee, Aunt May, did I really say that?"

"You sure did," she said, missing—deliberately or other
wise—the sarcasm. Then she lowered her voice and told him
gently, "She'd like to know that, don't you think?"

Peter had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Now he
stood and turned away, his hands draped behind his back.
"Harry's in love with her. She's still his girl."

"Isn't that up to her?" she asked, blinking owlishly.

"She doesn't . . .
 
really know me. She never will."

Aunt May had been lying back in bed, but now she pulled
herself fully to sitting, and she spoke with such vehemence that it surprised him. "Because you won't let her! You're so
mysterious all the time. More than ever lately." She blew air
out through her lips in irritation as she rearranged the blan
ket around her legs, apparently quite frustrated with her
nephew but not exactly sure where to start in letting him
know just exactly how annoyed she was.

"Don't be so complicated," she said finally. "And don't let
any more time go by. The one thing Mary Jane needs to
know, the only thing she needs to know," and she waggled a
bony finger, "is how you feel. Tell me, Peter
 
. . .
 
would it be
so dangerous to let Mary Jane know how much you care?
It's not as if everyone doesn't already know you love her."

He found himself nodding in mute agreement . . .
 
and
that was when the other dime dropped noisily in his head.
He'd been so focused on Aunt May and her being targeted by
the Goblin, that the full scope, the full horror of the situation
hadn't been evident to him
 
. . .

 
. . .
 
until now.

He forced a smile, trying not to panic. "You know
 
. . .
 
I
think you're right, Aunt May. I think I'll . . .
 
I'll give her a
call right now
 
. . .
 
tell her
 
. . .
 
try to, uh
 
. . .
 
make things

right."

"How nice!" She pointed at the phone near her bed. "You

can use that one right th—"

"No, I, uh
 
. . . " He was stammering, backing toward the
door. "There's a pay phone in the hall . . .
 
I'll just, uh . . .
privacy, you know
 
. . . " and without another word he turned
and ran out of the room.

Aunt May smiled, her heart soaring. "Ah, young love,"

she said.

Peter, meantime, was in the corridor, near the solarium
where nervous family members were waiting to hear about
their respective loved ones. He dialed the number, and as he
listened to the phone ring, repeatedly, he felt as if he were one of them
 
. . .
 
except there was no doctor involved. The health of one of his loved ones depended entirely upon the
whims of a lunatic.

"Answer the phone, answer it!" he muttered.

There was a click and his heart jumped, but then her an
swering machine kicked in. "Hi, it's me! Sing your song at

the beep."

He waited impatiently. She had one of those phones that took ages to get around to the tone, and when it did he spoke so fast and with such urgency that he had to force himself to
slow down part way through.

"M. J., it's Peter. Are you there? Just checking on you. I
mean, making sure you're safe and sound. Give me a call

when you get in. I'll give you an update on Aunt May. Hey,
where are you? Okay, then, take care. Don't go up any dark
alleys." He tried to make it sound light, but he knew there
was no way he could leave "You're in terrible danger from a
flying maniac" on a phone message.

Then, just as he was about to hang up, he heard another click on the other end. She'd picked up. "Oh, great, you're
there!"

No answer.

"Hello?" he said tentatively.

And then a demented cackle sounded, and Peter almost
crushed the receiver in his hand. All the blood drained from
his face as a singsong voice inquired, "Can Spider-Man
come out to play?"

"Where is she?" he demanded tersely. Some passing or
derlies glanced at him. He half turned and squared his shoul
ders, so his agitated state would be less conspicuous.

"Be of love a little more careful, Spider-Man," recited the
Goblin.

"I have better things to do than listen to you mangle e. e. cummings," Peter said, choking back his fury.

"An educated man," the Goblin laughed again. "Then
again, a little knowledge
 
. . .
 
can be a dangerous thing. But
there are so many dangerous things in the world, aren't
there."

"Where
 
. . .
 
is
 
. . .
 
she?"

"She's having a little bridge work." And then he laughed
again, and his cackling carried and carried, and Peter felt
those yellow eyes burning into his soul. . . .

XXV.

THE CHOICE

It was the cold that caused Mary Jane to waken.
The cold seeped into her bones, needling her awake, and
she felt incredibly heavy and clumsy as a result. She didn't
know where the chill was coming from, at first, and then her mind processed the information—thanks to the steady howl
ing—that it was the wind causing her to feel this way. The wind was blowing constantly, and that in and of itself was bad enough, but she also felt some degree of exposure that she couldn't quite understand. Exposure, vulnerability
 
. . . perhaps she was dreaming. That could make sense.

She was wrapped in darkness, and then she realized that
it was because her eyes were closed. But when she opened
them, things didn't improve. She still couldn't make out
much of anything. It was night, that much was certain.

Slowly she hauled herself to standing, disoriented, hold
ing her head in pain. She remembered walking into her
apartment, smelling something sickly sweet, wondering if
she'd left the gas on
 
. . .
 
and then nothing. A haze of confu
sion had settled over her mind like a cloud.