Serial Spider

5/26/08

Issue Two

"Mr. Toomes"

They entered the Osborn penthouse to pitch black. Harry flicked on the lights. Dim greens and golds splashed through the many sconce lamps to crest along the ornamented walls and lavish furniture.

"Dad?" called Harry.

No one responded.

"Peter's here!"

They walked inside to the dead house, Harry illuminating each spacious quarter as they pushed open the doors. From the back windows of the inner rooms came faint tinted light, seeping in from the New York cityscape. Peter followed Harry into the kitchen, where marble surfaces turned the room into a palace. The colossal freezer, a vault in and of itself, released a hearty tub of ice cream, much to Peter's delight.

Moments later, they sat at the table in silence, spinning their spoons through the frozen servings.

Finally: "Peter, when are you going to ask Gwen out?"

"Harry, don't bring it up. When I'm ready, I'm ready, you know? And, you know, it might not even happen. I mean, I'm hinting at it, but like, I don't think she wants a boyfriend. Not right now. And look at me. I'm probably not her type."

"Hey. Hey, you," said Harry, pointing his spoon. "Don't talk yourself down, Pete. You're a great guy. And I'm getting a vibe from Gwen—"

"Don't, Harry," said Peter, turning his stare to a very deep valley in his vanilla as his cheeks burned cherry red.

"I'm just saying…" Harry walked his bowl over to the sink. Peter pushed his aside, but kept his eyes down to the table.

"Hey, uh, Harry. Thanks and all. But I need to get back. I promised my Uncle Henry I wouldn't be out too late, and what with Captain Stacey and everything, and now coming here, I should go."

"You ditching me, Pete?"

"No, Harry! Just, you know how—"

"No, dude, I'm kidding. Get out of here." Harry took Peter's bowl.

"OK. Then I'll see you first thing tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Peter. Oh, and uh, good luck in advance with the fair on Friday. I'm gonna go tour colleges this weekend. Figuring I'm not gonna win anything, so I might get a head start on the drive."

"You going with your dad?" Peter asked.

"You kidding me, Pete?"

"Oh, I figured… Sorry. Sorry, Harry."

"It's cool. Tomorrow then, man?"

"Yeah, Harry. Tomorrow."

Peter left, passing each of the copiously sized penthouse rooms, and back out through the foyer, where eyes of Renaissance models stared down at him. He pushed his way into the iron-lattice elevator. The shaft pulled him down to the lobby.

Waiting for the elevator was a lanky, gangly old man. He looked down at Peter over his sharply hooked nose, fixed his tie, and shoved his way into the elevator as if Peter had offended him.

"Jesus," Peter mumbled as he left the building. "What was his problem?"

"Hey, Aunt May," said Peter, fumbling with his cell phone as he climbed into the taxi cab. "It's me. … No, I know. … Yeah, we visited him already. … OK. … Yeah, I'm in a taxi right now. I love you. … I love you too. Bye."

Peter gave his address to the driver and then cooled his cheek against the window. The night rolled by.

The bell tolled through the suite. Harry ran to the elevator doors to meet the man standing there, looking with shadowed eyes towards Harry.

"You must be Harold."

"No. My real name is actually just Harry."

"Don't contradict me." His face contorted into a snarl. "Norman!" He was calling Harry's father.

"My dad's not home, sir. Maybe you—" But Harry was wrong. From the other wing of the penthouse suite, Norman Osborn's crisp, low voice called through the walls.

"Toomes? Is that you?"

"Yes, Norman. Where are you?"

"In the office. Come in."

Harry turned, perplexed, toward his dad's door. "Dad! I called you earlier, and you never—"

"Harry! How many times do I have to tell you not to bother me when I have company?"

Mr. Toomes slid through to the office, gave Harry one last fleeting look of disgust, and slammed the oak panel behind him. Harry heard Mr. Toomes' steel briefcase pound the floor and then nothing else.

Gwen walked along the last block before her house with a downcast stare. A tear rolled down her cheek for her father. Too much was thrown at him at once. First, the death of Mrs. Stacey, and now the accident at the convenience store. She wanted something to go right, which was precisely why she needed to win the science fair competition so badly.

She thought that maybe if she could bring something home to her father—a trophy, a contract to work for Dr. Connors—maybe then a little peace would grace his life. It was all she could think to do.

She checked her watch and then walked faster, uncomfortable even in her own sketchy neighborhood. She pulled her jacket closer as if it were a shield and fanned her hair low. It was how she became invisible, how no one (except for Peter, her fellow shadow on the wall) noticed her.

She slid along the pavement as if ice skating in the cool night air. She imagined her childhood, a birthday where her mother took her to a new ice skating rink. How she still tied her skates with the bunny-ears-trick, and how she'd bet her mother that Mrs. Stacey would fall first. She'd won too, and never realized her mother had slipped on purpose; the subtlest birthday present she could give.

But even still, the image was precious, as unfinished as it may have been. It carried her protectively to her building, and up the stairs to her apartment, where she slammed the bolt in and fell asleep, never changing, never showering.

Only dreaming.

"Looky who! Peter Parker!"

It was Flash Thompson, Peter's unfortunately crass neighbor. "Off with your little nerd friends playing science games?" Peter wondered why the neighbors didn't file complaints against Flash. He was leaning out of his second-story bedroom window, shouting at eleven in the night towards Peter, and he wasn't particularly mannered.

So much as a warning would have served Flash wonders, but Peter wouldn't minded if someone had gone the extra mile and issued a restraining order. Or if they'd institutionalized the jockish moron, but one couldn't have all his wishes granted.

"Good night, Flash."

"Hey, Parker! Moon's shinin' bright tonight!"

And in a moment of inane barbarism, Flash dropped his pants and pressed his rear against the window, disgusting Peter, who closed his eyes and rushed away into his house.

"Asshole," murmured Peter. And then realizing what he'd said, he shuddered.

"Peter?" called Aunt May's gentle voice. "Are you there?"

"Hey, Aunt May." Peter hung his jacket on the rack and then laid his sling on the dining room chair. His aunt wrapped her arms around him.

"Are you alright?" she asked, bringing her wrinkled hands to his cheeks. "How's Captain Stacey?"

"Give him some breathing room, May," said Uncle Ben. "Howdy, kiddo."

"Hey, Uncle Ben. Captain Stacey's alright, Aunt May. He's a little shaken up, but the nurse seemed to know what she was doing. I'm sorry it's so late. Harry had me over for some ice cream."

"That's fine, Peter," said Aunt May. "But it is late, and you should get yourself to bed."

"No, I know, Aunt May. I'll go get ready now."

He fussed about upstairs for a while and finally collapsed atop his mattress. Periodic tables and Da Vinci drawings stared down from the walls. He probably would have fallen asleep instantly in his science sanctum if his Uncle hadn't knocked on his door.

"Your aunt's asleep," he whispered.

"Okay."

"Peter, I just wanted to talk to you."

"What about?"

Uncle Ben came and sat down at the end of his bed. His hands, large and tough, rested on the blankets beside him. Peter reached to the nightstand and grabbed his glasses.

"We just haven't seen you a lot lately. Don't get me wrong; you're growing up. I expect you to be out a lot more. Just… well, Peter. Your dad…"

He sighed.

"Go ahead," Peter said.

"Well, Peter, sometimes I wonder if I'm doing a good enough job."

Peter turned his head. He wasn't sure whether or not to take that as an offense.

"What I mean is," Uncle Ben corrected, "is if your father was here… Would you be better off? I mean, I'm just saying—this isn't about my ego, Peter—I'm just saying that I used to talk to you a lot. About all kinds of things, and I'd share things with you, things that I knew because I was older. But now, you're a teenager, a mature one, practically a grown-up, kiddo, and somehow, I'm already running out of advice. And I just wonder, you know, if maybe he would have had some more to give."

Peter looked at his uncle.

"I really only remember seeing my dad once," said Peter. "It was when they told me I'd be staying at you, before they took off. And my dad said, that above all things, I'd be safe if I were with you, because no one else could love me as much as you and Aunt May. Except for my parents. And now that I've been with you so long, Uncle Ben. I dunno. I don't think I could ever love them as much as I do you."

"Don't say that, Peter. Your father—"

"I know, Uncle Ben. I just mean… you and Aunt May mean everything to me."

"Aren't you forgetting someone?" asked Peter's uncle, a slight tint of humor lacing his words.

"Who?"

"Well… Gwen."

"Oh, come on, not you too."

"She's a beautiful girl, Peter—"

Peter yanked the comforter over his head. "Goodnight, Uncle Ben."

"Goodnight," Ben laughed and left, appeased, flicking off the lights behind him.

"You drive a hard bargain, Norman," said Toomes, sidling out of the office. Harry lay on the couch in the living room, daring himself not to move, hoping he could overhear something about his father's confidential business if he remained quiet enough.

"You want to do business with Oscorp," replied Norman, "then you make sacrifices. I didn't build an empire out of a soft heart. Neither did Caesar."

"Ah," smiled Mr. Toomes. "But we have one thing Caesar never had."

"Yes we do," replied Norman.

"Sky's the limit now," replied Toomes. Harry thought his father may have laughed, but since he'd never heard him do that before, he doubted it.

"Good night, Toomes."

"Good night, Mr. Osborn."

The man took his things and moved to the elevator. The bell to the shaft rang softly as Toomes disappeared, but the door to Norman's office never closed, so Harry was left alone again with the silence and the night, to fall asleep in his unwavering position on the couch.