The Last Superhero (12 page)

He's left his umbrella to
drain near the entrance and is making his way to where I'm sitting.

And I can't help but think
this kind of thing doesn't happen to people like me.

Wait. Is that a tulip in his
hand?

“
You're
so suave.”

He snorts. “Can't I
make a nice gesture towards you and not have you rip it to pieces?”

I take the flower and the
kiss that follows.

“
I
love it. Thank you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Am
I too early?”

“
Just
in time.” I shut the manuscript in my hands.

“
Is
your mother here?”

“
Gave
her the day off to recover from the jet lag.”

He smiles again and my
insides turn to mush.

After ten minutes of
watching him browsing around the store while sending me naughty
winks, we're turning everything off, I'm swinging my backpack over my
shoulder, and he's holding the umbrella while I shut the door.

Something tells me to look
off to the side.

It's dark, but I can totally
see a car.

Is that a little silhouetto
of a man?

We lock the gate and start
for my car. Steven takes the backpack from my shoulder and I tense,
thinking he'll use his power somehow and it'll be seen and then
Secret Agent Man will come out of that car shouting for him to raise
his hands, gun drawn, badge hanging in the air, and I won't be able
to even scream.

He keeps me dry while I get
in the car.

Bless him.

I turn the key in the
ignition and look at my side mirror.

Now the light from the
lamppost hits the interior of the car.

Nope. No man inside.

Breathe again.

“
Everything
all right?” Steven asks once he's joined me inside dry land.

I hand him the tulip I've
been holding all this time and he takes the moment to take my hand
and kiss it.

“
More
than all right.”

Abso-fucking-lutely.

11

By the way he's conducting
himself, I can tell he hasn't read the papers.

Better for me.

He's all merry and bouncy
and oh so happy and I wouldn't change that for the world.

The skies are brewing up a
storm outside and I have my smartphone propped on the bottle of wine
I brought for the occasion, an interactive map of the storm looping
on the screen while I sit all warm and cozy at the breakfast bar
watching Steven go on about him not being as good a cook as me but
his stew being finger-licking worthy anyway.

It can taste like poop and
I'd still be thrilled, if only for that smile and crinkling eyes.

“
Oh!
Forgot I've got something for you.” He dries his hands on his
apron – yeah, he's wearing one – and darts for the living
room.

I follow him with my eyes as
he brings forth a large, old-looking book.

“
Thought
you'd like to see it.”

Leather binding. Real
leather. Dead animal leather.

The
words
Waldorf
Family
in gold lettering on the cover.

I take it, mindful of the
flimsiness brought by time, and set it on the bar. He goes back to
the range, sipping from the one and only glass of wine he says he'll
have tonight.

I haven't told him, but this
is a fifty-dollar bottle of Pinot Noir. You don't sip it, you don't
drink it, you revel in the way it dances in your mouth, setting it
alight, setting your taste buds on fire, and gifts you with its
smoothness while packing that punch that makes your eyes go...

“
Wow!”

He glances at me over his
shoulder.

The book happens to be a
photo album of the whole Waldorf Family and it's... I don't know... I
don't know how to explain it because I'm suddenly scared of these
people and, at the same time, fascinated.

“
It
must have been quite a time when your type were around.”

He makes a sound that I
can't quite register as a carbon sketch of a woman with eyes
completely white next to a thin man with curly hair catches my sight.

“
You're
holding most of my family's history in your hands right now.”

Better not let it too close
to one of the candles nearby then.

Oh yes, he prepared the
atmosphere with the whole candles and stuff.

Sketches, daguerreotypes,
paper pictures. Silent thanks to that History of Photography
professor back in college.

Portrait after portrait.
Face after face. Kind after kind.

One thing that really gets
me is how much all the men look alike.

“
What's
up with you dudes looking almost the same? Whatever happened to the
female genes in this family?”

“
No
idea, but we all look very much alike.”

Not that I'm complaining.

This is fucking amazing,
though, and I love that he's showing it to me.

No need to say I've
forgotten about Daphne and Ross. This is too good.

I keep turning pages,
turning ages.

So fucking fascinating.

Then a picture of baby
Salvatore and Michelangelo comes up. Recognizable thanks to
Michelangelo's tiny wings and Salvatore's raven black hair and eyes.
Salvatore was the oldest brother and he's standing on wobbly little
feet, holding his mother's hand while Michelangelo is held by his
father, one of his wings draped over the man's forearm.

Steven's turned to me,
moving my phone off the bottle, pouring himself a second glass of
wine.

Only one, yeah sure.

“
Aaron
and Marzia Waldorf. My grandparents. They were Italians. I almost got
Salvatore as a first name, hadn't it been for my mother.”

“
What
powers did they have?” I wonder because none of the adults give
away anything from the picture, I'd say they both look very normal.
No costumes either.

Thunder strikes outside and
the rain becomes heavier.

“
Marzia
had the power of magnetism, but Aaron, he was like a Rosetta stone;
he'd understand any language instantly, even those my father invented
to tell secrets.”

Steven props himself on his
elbows across from me and there's this mischievous smile on his lips,
I want to drink it whole.

“
Were
there any other physically represented abilities in your family? Like
Michelangelo's?”

Another page shows a picture
of Salvatore and Michelangelo as teenagers, though who knows what age
they really were. God, I don't even know Steven's exact age in human
years. Do they call it human years versus superhero years? Must ask.

Thing is, the boys are
looking all naughty in the pic. Salvatore riding a horse, grinning so
wide his face's about to be split like a Cheshire grin while
Michelangelo's just flying above him, you know, because he can. His
white wings spread against the sky.

An Icarus of sorts.

“
By
my grandmother's side of the family there was this man with a
hardened skeleton and several shape-shifters. But there were many
other abilities the eye couldn't catch, even a 'deus ex machina,'
very rare. Michelangelo's wings gave a lot of talk back in the day,
a mutation that had only happened once in another family in Germany.
Telekinesis, earth and rock control, fantasy or image projection, and
gravity control, those were the Waldorfs.”

“
Those
are
the Waldorfs.”

Our sights lock for a moment
and I hold his stare.

He pulls back and busies
himself with pouring more wine into my glass.

I go back to the album and
get to the part I thought I was looking forward to and that, now, I
don't really know if I want to know at all.

A portrait of an adult
Salvatore Waldorf with a young woman under his arm.

Diana Waldorf says the
caption.

“
My
mother,” says Steven.

She's smiling and it's so
true, so warm.

“
What
powers did she have?”

Steven sighs. “None.
She was completely human.” And his eyes are contemplating her
with a tenderness that hurts to witness. “Sometimes I think she
was too human.”

The caption under the photo
reads 1908.

Next photo. 1912 and there
is little Steven in her arms and the proud father standing right by
her side.

Wait. 1912? The year the
Titanic sunk.

“
You're
over a hundred years old?” And you're not a vampire!

“
Yes.”

“
Cool.”

“
Cool?”

“
Yeah,
I mean, it's interesting. And, well, you look better than most of the
hundred-year-olds I've met.” And you definitely don't shag like
a hundred-year-old either.

That makes him laugh,
lightens the mood, makes the flame on the candle sway with his
wine-infused breath.

The lid on the pot starts
protesting and he turns around to attend it.

“
Were
you going to tell me?”

A photo of Salvatore in
military uniform takes me aback.

“
Of
course. When the time came.”

“
Salvatore
fought in World War I?”

“
And
in the second one, too. Decorated war hero. They used to have
specialized teams back in the day, but as extinction got the best of
us, they had to give up on that.”

Government + superhero
connection engaged. All systems go.

Dammit Daphne.

More thunder outside. Great
dramatic effect, Zeus, you can stop it now.

“
Did
you fight in wars too? Did your uncle?”

“
No
and no. I didn't fight in any wars and Michelangelo being a villain,
they wouldn't even think about it, he'd ruin everything.”

Not wars. What then? Secret
government programs regarding pushing the atmosphere with his power?

It could make sense. If I
wanted it to, of course, and, right now, I don't want it to.

“
Funny
how being from the same family, they were enemies.” I switch
lanes.

“
Not
exactly funny. It happened with every family. Everyone chose their
own path. My father chose the light, my uncle the dark.” He
wheels towards me as I'm passing the last page, holding a photo of
Steven at ten or twelve years old with his mother, who isn't looking
so young or so happy anymore.

Then blank pages.

“
Dinner's
ready,” Steven announces, taking off his apron, and I spring to
help him serve.

Take the bottle of wine with
us.

Smile at the silliness of
our feet finding each other under the table.

“
This
is good,” I say over my bowl.

“
Why,
thank you.” He smiles. “Not as good as the banquet you
served me, I suppose.”

“
Far
better, my dear, far better.”