Naming the Baby
"Timothy."
"Ugh, how bourgeoisie. Paul," suggested Lionel Luthor, smiling at his wife. She sat opposite him at a small wooden table, overlooking a public garden in Metropolis. The garden seemed out of place in such a grimy city, with its young green trees and sparkling fountain. Still, the Luthors magnanimously forgave its incongruity—they were celebrating.
"No good nickname possibilities," complained Lillian. "Michael."
"Too common. Darius."
"Too uncommon." Lillian took a genteel sip of her non-alcoholic milkshake. Over the tall glass, her eyes sparkled challengingly at Lionel. She wore a loose, rich green dress that contrasted pleasantly with her fiery red hair. "Leo."
Lionel refrained from replying to this suggestion immediately. He deliberately sipped his champagne, studying Lillian. She stared back, amusement and challenge in her eyes.
"If we're still…discussing…this when I go into labor…" said Lillian, allowing the unspoken threat at the end of this sentence to hang in midair for a few minutes.
"Leo is ridiculous," complained Lionel. "We're having a baby, not an astrological constellation. Horatio."
"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.' George."
"That's closer," said Lionel, frowning. "That's almost right—Saint George the Dragonslayer…how about Julius?"
"Caesar?" asked Lillian. "Again, not quite right. The association is too immediate." She paused, thinking. At length, she clapped her hands and smiled triumphantly. "Lionel! I have it! Alexander." She leaned back to observe the effects of her announcement, quiet triumph in her dark eyes.
"Alexander…" said Lionel thoughtfully. "Alexander the Great was undefeated in battle—conquered the Persian Empire, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Syria…all before he was thirty. A great and powerful leader. Alexander it is."
"Alexander Luthor," said Lillian, testing the name out. "Got any thoughts on middle names?" she asked mischievously. She sipped more milkshake, weaving plans and schemes for little Alexander as complex and intricate as a spider's web.
"Julius," Lionel insisted stubbornly.
"George," countered Lillian.
By the time the waiter arrived to take their check, either Luthor would have assumed the argument would be settled—according to their own preference. However:
"George."
"Julius."
"George."
"Juli—you know, this would make an excellent parking lot," said Lionel, as they walked past the garden to where their chauffer waited.
"It would be a shorter walk…" agreed Lillian, her voice honey-sweet, one hand resting protectively over her stomach.
"Anything for you, my darling," said Lionel, supporting her with a hand under her elbow. He dug in his pocket, produced a cell phone, and had the entire thing arranged before their chauffer had finished settling them into their seats. Lillian smiled happily.
As they drove away from their favorite restaurant and the doomed garden, Lionel put his arm around Lillian, dropping a kiss on her hair.
"Don't think you'll get out of it that easily," murmured Lillian.
"The offending vegetation will be removed promptly," Lionel assured her.
"I know." She waited a beat. "George."
"Julius."
"George."
"Julius."
"George."
"Julian—Julius."
"George."
The battle continued over the next few days, weeks, even months. Wisely, the friends, acquaintances, employees, and family of the Luthors refrained from comment (one motherly stranger was not so intelligent—mysteriously, her life's savings disappeared a few days later). Reticence continued to be the order of the day when the Luthors (much to their shame if it ever became known) at last succumbed to a compromise.
Alexander Joseph Luthor was a beautiful baby. His name was perhaps a little lofty for such a small person, but Lionel almost immediately hit upon a way out of the difficulty. He was once again taken aback by his own genius. The nickname combined alliteration with simplistic elegance. It gave his son's name that final, crowning touch of individuality. It was perfect.
"Lex?" asked Lillian, her eyebrows raised in haughty surprise. "As in, Lexington, Kentucky? Or lexicon, or lexical analyzers?"
"Lillian, you underestimate the power of alliteration. Lex Luthor will go down in history—my heir, the inheritor of my genius—"
"And hopefully my common sense," Lillian said dryly. Lionel gave her a swift, calculating look under his brows. She sighed. "And your financial savvy."
"He is a true Luthor," said Lionel, with pride.
Lillian considered this a trifle premature, but knew better than to argue with Lionel concerning the nebulous 'what it means to be a Luthor' question. Instead, she considered her days-old, sleeping son. The few tendrils of hair he possessed were as red as her own, and this soothed her. She saw Lionel looking at them both with fond and fierce possessiveness, and gave in to the inevitable.
"Lex, huh?" Lillian murmured, stroking one long, sharp, polished red nail gently across his cheek.
Lionel crossed to them, putting his arm round her and looking down at the baby as well. "Yes. Lex Luthor."
LL the quote is from Hamlet I.5.166-7