75
It's morning.
These days, mornings always seem to take too long to come. Not like the old times, when nights where so short, when the dark hours were not nearly enough for me to do my job. These days, the nights are far too long. Hours that stretch by as I stare at the walls, unable to sleep, unable to rest, unable to do anything useful. My mind races, races like it use to, my brain unaware that the body that comes with it is nothing but an old, spent carcass. No, my brain is fine; it is quick and smart like it use to, maybe even better. If not for this old body…
Selina used to tell me I'm an old fool, and she was right. Whenever she would wake up and not see me next to her in bed, she would chase me all over the manor until she found me. Usually, of course, down there. Back in the cave. Sometimes using the computer. Sometimes, seating quietly inside the car.
Are you going to sleep in there?, she would ask, her tone so familiar and youthful that I would often wonder if I hadn't been transported forty, thirty years back to the past. But I would answer just by groaning, and I would turn to look at her – my Selina, my wife, walking with the help of a cane, wrinkles on her face denouncing the effects of the passage of time.
My beautiful Selina.
Come to bed, old man, she would provoke me. And I would grunt a few senseless words, perhaps force a smile out of her as she called me a grumpy old boy. Regardless of how petulant and rude I behaved, though, Selina wouldn't leave me alone; she would just come closer. Soon she would have her hands on my shoulders, her fingers massaging my tense, ancient, aching body. I would feel the familiar touch, the firmness of her stroke, the sharpness of her well-cared nails, the pleasure of her proximity. And then, as I would slowly relax under the magic of her hands, she would lean on my back, her lips close to my ear: come upstairs and keep me company, handsome, she would whisper. And I… I would finally comply. Because it would be Selina asking; asking for me.
And she knew I couldn't deny her anything.
Selina, Selina… what will I do now? How can I keep going like this, nothing but an old man, without you?
It's morning. You know I hate mornings, Selina. You're the only one that knows this. Which means that, now, there's no one that knows this.
Suddenly, I hear someone knocking on the door; a gentle, swift knock, from someone that is probably unsure of how I'll respond. Of course.
"Who's there?" I bark, not caring about my manners. Why should I? My wife is dead. There aren't many ways things could get worse.
"Grandpa?" The voice on the other side answers hesitantly, almost in fear. Damn it. It's the boy. No one had to guts to come upstairs and get me, so they sent the boy. Cowards.
I clear my throat before answering, doing my best to sound less threatening and more pleasant. Like you would want me to, Selina. What was it that you used to say? You sound so kind when you're not trying to be scary.
"Come in", I say, turning my chair to face the door.
I watch quietly as he gently pushes the heavy door open, stretching his neck so his childish, handsome face is visible through the narrow passage. How old is he now? Nine? Ten? I'm not sure. I tend to lose track of the years, that's why I'm not sure. That, and the fact that I haven't seen him for while, of course. His father doesn't want me to; I don't think he ever did. The few times I was allowed to be around the boy, I knew it bothered him. I knew he feared it: what I would do, what I would say.
Still, there's the boy. Already ten. Yes, he's ten years-old. I'm sure now. I remember a couple months ago, when we called Thomas and he told us about the birthday party he and his wife had planned for the boy. And we sent a present, didn't we? You picked it, Selina: an electronic game, and a few action figures from some silly cartoon. Yes, I remember… Later, Tommy sent you pictures. You showed me: our son and his family, all smiling as the boy blew out his candles. Ten of them. And your eyes misted as you looked at those pictures, a hand over your heart – was it already failing, that heart of yours, always so big and fierce? -, and you said: he's happy, isn't he? Our baby boy… I think he managed to find happiness.
Yes, perhaps he did. I'm glad you died believing he did, anyway.
"Grandpa", the boy says again. Now he's standing in front of me, taller than I am while sat on my chair. "Are you okay?"
Am I? I'm not. How can I tell the boy that? I can't. I can't begin to explain to this innocent kid that I'm not okay. That I never was okay. That I've lost you, and you meant the world to me. That I had a life… a complicated life. One that had only you as the right thing in it.
This is just a boy. A young child. So much ahead of him… so much pureness, so much potential. He doesn't even know. He has no idea. He's just ten, and he lives the sheltered life his parents provide him. He has no idea, no idea that the world is nothing like his home. That people, most people, will never be kind and caring like his parents. His grandmother died – a small tragedy for a child that barely knew his grandmother. He's soft and foolish, a sweet boy… much like I was. Much like I was before my parents…
"Grandpa?" He insists. I've been silently staring at him, like a crazy old man. Like an old man that is about to break his sense of reality. Great – now the boy probably thinks I'm senile.
"I'm sorry, Terry. Sorry… I was… I was just… thinking."
He frowns, biting subtly his lower lip. "Thinking about grandma?"
At least he's clever.
"Yes", I admit. "I was thinking about her."
He nods, and the gesture reminds me of his dad. Of Thomas, standing in front of me in this very room, looking at me attentively as I told him and his older brother stories from my other life. Tales of the Batman, Henry called them…
"Will you be okay?"
It's Terry again; he looks worried. That frown makes him look older than ten, no doubt.
"Yes", I answer, not too sincerely, "I'll be fine. Eventually."
He takes a deep breath, and allows the air to escape slowly in a trembling exhale. "That's good", he says. "Yeah, I… I hope you don't get too sad."
Too sad. Oh, God. He has no idea.
"Why is that?"
"Well…" He hesitates. Eyes on the floor, than back to me. Hands hidden inside his pockets.
"Well?"
He looks at me. Straight at me. His cobalt-blue eyes on mine, lips pressed together, an evaluative gaze that I haven't seen in years. Years. No, the boy is not like Thomas. He may be gentle and polite, but there's more about him. Something…
Darker?
"Are you going to die too?"
His question comes out abruptly, but I don't sense hesitance or fear. Or shame. His voice doesn't shake. His eyes don't falter. He's still staring at me, curious and intrigued, perhaps anxious, but not afraid.
I understand it now, Selina. I see it. No one sent him here: he came. By himself. Just to ask me this question.
For some reason, he wants to know if I'm about to die, just like you. In fact, I think he's scared, he fears that I might be dying.
Why? Why?
"Why?" I ask him. "Why do you care if I do?"
His eyes widen in surprise. Slightly. Just for a moment.
"You're my grandfather", he says. "I don't want you to… die."
He's not lying, I know. He's not lying, but he's not telling the truth either. Not the whole truth, anyway.
"You barely know me", I drily point out. "What am I to you? An old man, nothing but the distant grandfather that lives quietly in a big, dark house, all the way in Gotham…"
That stung a bit, I realize. He sees the truth in my words, but he also hates it.
"And whose fault is that?" He snaps. No yelling, no change in his tone but a hint of sarcasm. Sarcasm, Selina; the boy is ten, and he already knows how to be wry and short – I bet you never knew that, did you?
"It's nobody's fault. Things are the way they are, boy."
"No", he disagrees, nodding his head in vehement denial. "No, that's not true. What happened to grandma, that was nobody's fault… because that's how things are. People die."
"Yes. There you go."
"But this… you. You and my father, and how you can't even speak to each other over the phone…" He suddenly looks away from me, his eyes now at the window, on the grey clouds that are now pouring rain over your garden. Young and confused, trying to make sense of things he has no way of understanding. "Metropolis is not that far… and you never visited us. Never came to our home. Even when grandma came, you… didn't."
I can't deny the truth in his words, Selina. I can't. I remember all those times you went to Metropolis by yourself, adamant on the fact that you had to see your son, that you had to be with your only grandchild, and that I was a fool for not allowing myself to do the same. It doesn't matter who's right, Bruce, you would tell me, all it matters is how wrong it feels. And staying away, not being able to watch our grandson grow up… it's the worst mistake we can make.
"It's more complicated than that, kid. It's not just about getting into a plane and making things right."
He looks at me again. And his gaze… it's… it's…
"Grandma told me everything", he is saying. Gravely and sternly, his childish voice almost gone, his features taken by a shadow that allows me to see the man that will come from that, and in not so many years.
"Told you what?"
But I know what. I know what he is talking about.
"About you. About herself." He comes closer to me, kneeling by my chair and placing his hands over my tired legs. His eyes are bright, shining with a light, a fire, that I haven't seen in decades. He whispers, without ever diverting his gaze: "She told me about Batman."
Selina. We promised. We made a promise, my love. You remember it, don't you? Years ago, when Henry… when we lost him. How could you…?
"Terry. You are confused. Your grandmother, she didn't…"
"No, grandpa." He takes my hand. His soft, young flesh against my dry, old skin. His hand is warm, small when on mine, but his grasp is strong. So strong. "She knew it. She warned me. She told me that if something ever happened to her, if she wasn't around to help, than I should come to you."
"What are you talking about, Terry? I…"
But I know. I know it, Selina. I know it, because I've seen it before. The fire in his eyes, the fierceness in his voice, the claim from his soul. And as he speaks, I close my eyes; I close them, and listen to it. To his young voice, the pureness and the braveness in it, the will to be more, more than merely a man. My grandson, like many before him, he asks me:
"Teach me, grandfather. Train me. Make me like you."
And Selina, I swear; I hear it. I hear your voice:
Because the world will always need a Batman, my love. That's your legacy, and that is your curse.
I smile. I smile as I hear you say it again, say the sweet words that follow…
But you, you need me. I'm yours, and I always will be. In this world, and in what comes next. Together, forever.
Forever, my love. Forever.
Together… soon.