DARTH MAUL VS. SUPERMAN
EPISODE III
Martha Kent stood by her kitchen table, collecting herself and playing the role of anchor amongst the turbulent seas of the Kent farm, but beneath her veneer of composure she knew it was sheer folly to hide her feelings from her beloved son Clark. Her hands steadied and she attempted a smile, but she had little energy to spare her hastily thrown together façade of strength. Lost in her thoughts, she revealed too much of herself to her unearthly son in the language of form; her body was her lie detector, and in her brief, private moment of respite, her curtains of strength fell by the waysides to reveal her innermost fear, leaving her raw pain plainly visible to her otherworldly child.
"Clark," she whispered, standing up silently, suddenly, creating a visage of bravery that was lacking but present nevertheless. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes as a smile emerged quickly: Not fast enough. Never fast enough to fool the Man of Steel.
Except this time, Kal-El, Clark Kent went to his mother, wanting to believe the lie.
The Man of Steel glanced at his earthbound mother sensing the despair beneath her words. Suddenly, her arms flew to her chest, crossing in front of her breast bone, the tears of sadness developing into those of rage; she approached Clark, opening her right hand. She raised her hand, rearing it back…
"How dare you, Clark!" Martha Kent screamed. "Using your goddamn…" she choked back her outrage, "you're goddamn spooky vision to look into me and my cursed guts! You had no damn right!"
"Mom," Clark said in astonishment for Martha Kent was one of the most even-keeled individuals he had ever met. "Are you kidding? You can't hit me."
Martha Kent held still for a moment before swinging her hand with all her force, raking her open hand against Clark's face. She immediately screamed in agony before moments later a deep, pulsating swelling sensation developed in her fingers.
"Oh my God! Jesus, Clark!" she yelled as she ran towards the refrigerator.
Clark, frozen in shock, rubbed the spot on his face that his mother struck.
"I can't believe you hit me, Mom. You've never hit me," Clark said with amazement, the pain so great in his eyes that he feared raising his pupils to meet hers.
"Clark, I'm sorry, Son," she said quickly, "I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. We all know how city people get so intolerant of country folk nowadays."
Clark smiled at his mother's use of humor.
"I ought to use my heat vision on you. Teach you a lesson. That's the only thing I learned in Metropolis. Shoot first, and ask questions never."
"Ha, ha, Clark. I can't believe…" Martha Kent said as she rubbed her hand, "I've never been that stupid," she said as she wrapped a towel in ice, putting it over her injured digits. "Stupid, stupid old woman."
Clark walked towards her, and tried to wrap a comforting arm around his mother's shoulders. She shrugged, quickly moving away from him. She lifted her hand, spreading an arm's length of distance between her and her son, keeping him at bay, inches apart but far, far away.
The Man of Steel had no choice but to stop. Clark was reminded of the feelings of helplessness of his adolescence; moments when his great powers were never enough to calm the jagged angst of his soul, where the nature of his true self was lost amongst secrecy and fear in interchangeable order.
"I saw Jonathan try to spank you once. That silly man, he knew your block head wasn't nearly as hard as your granite behind, but he kept saying 'the boy has got to learn right from wrong, just like my daddy taught me'. Well, I'm pretty sure Jonathan didn't have bones and muscles tougher than steel." Martha laughed raucously, her mind lost in the memory of her deceased husband. The joviality of her chuckle broke the sullen atmosphere, bringing a reluctant smile to Clark's face. For a moment, Clark forgot what he had seen upon entering the kitchen, lost in his mother's joy.
"He nearly broke his hand. I never saw your father so angry, especially when you started laughing."
"I wouldn't do that, Ma. I didn't laugh at him," Clark retorted, stunned as his mother arched an eyebrow. "I couldn't help it, Mom."
"Oh, so now Clark Kent remembers humiliating his old man," Martha said as she opened the refrigerator again. Clark hears with superhuman hearing the hum of the electricity through the refrigerator, the slight scrapping of a metal tin against the shelving of the interior; all sounds he had heard before and that brought a warmth of his soul. Without thinking, Martha Kent had retrieved an apple pie, homemade of course, setting it on the table where he carved his initials into years ago. Clark recognized the fragrance of the pie immediately, as if the smell itself was the key to a memory of a home he was becoming a stranger to. It was at that moment that he wanted to hug his mother and never let her go, but it wouldn't be right, he thought, there could still be hope.
"Mom, I didn't come here for pie…"
"Are you kidding, Clark Kent?" Martha replied. "That big city girl making you self conscious? You're shaming me now, Clark, letting Lois tell you what you can and can't eat…"
"Mom, it's not that," Clark stammered, "and trust me, Lois can't really tell me what to do with my body. Especially since her body isn't bulletproof." The little boy in Clark subconsciously puffed out his chest, almost flexing his arms in the effort.
Martha smiled as she cut a slice of pie and placed it onto a plate, sliding it towards Clark. She picked off a piece of the crust for herself, biting into it.
"Don't kiss your biceps yet, Casanova. If you get too heavy to lift off the ground, that city gal might be looking towards some of those fru-fru city metrosexuals," she said while chewing. "Besides, super scaredy cat, did you tell her?"
"What?" Clark responded uncomfortably.
"Clark, damnit, has that city taken all the sense away from you. You have got to tell that woman just how deep your feelings have become for her. You've been working at that rag for how long and you're still playing footsie with her. Hell, every girl has her limits when it comes to patience, even if the guy is a Superman."
Clark rolled his eyes. "Mom, you know I hate it when you call me that."
"Why?" She said frankly, "you get annoyed when other people say it?"
"No, but you're my mom. When you say it, it makes me feel like a little kid wearing a cape, jumping off the barn."
"And hot damn if you didn't get a scratch on you," Martha said, thumping the table. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in closer to her son.
"Don't try and change the subject, Clark. You have got to be the man here. Especially when you're the one that wants to take another step in your relationship. Why are you ducking it?"
Clark laughed nervously. "Are you serious, Ma? You're asking about me and Lois? Are you some kind of love therapist now?" Clark said sarcastically. "I'm sure the chickens, and the cows, and the sheep, and…whoever…all appreciate that kind of advice. Me on the other hand, I think I'm old enough to handle my own love life."
Martha Kent leaned back and removed a jar from the refrigerator, struggling to unscrew the cap.
"Well, Clark, I don't know about the cows and sheep, but you should take to heart the love advice I give to the chickens, since you cluck the same way they do," Martha Kent said derisively. She softened before adding, "Clark, you're not asking her to prom, and she's a nice girl, and she accepts…well…she already knows you can open a jar of pickles, even if it's sealed shut with super glue."
Martha held the jar of homemade whipped cream towards her adopted son. Clark smirked as he flicked his finger at the lid of the jar, sending it spinning off as if it were a flying saucer. Martha Kent smiled before unceremoniously dumping the jar's contents on Clark's piece of pie.
"My boy Clark. Jonathan knew you'd be a catch for any woman."
Clark's demeanor darkened.
"Mom, maybe she doesn't want to spend time with someone…that's different."
Martha leaned over to her son.
"Clark, you're saying she might want a regular guy? One who can't fly her wherever in the world she wants to go and heat up dinner by just looking at it funny? Son, guys who can do that end up being keepers in any gal's book."
"She took an assignment in a war zone. She said she needed to find herself again. I…I don't want to talk about…"
Martha pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Now, Clark, you wouldn't have come here if something wasn't troubling you. Spill it, Clark…"
She grabbed Clark's hands with her own.
"Damnit, ouch," she said has she tried to close her right hand, "Feels like my hand is in a cement glove."
Clark leaned over and peered at her hand, using his visual powers to view the musculature underneath her mother's skin, then, the bones.
"It's inflammation of the tendons, Mom. The bones aren't broken, aren't fractured." Clark leaned back in his chair. "My diagnosis, Mom, you're being a wimp."
Martha chuckled, throwing a dish towel at Clark, hitting him in the face.
"Oh you shut up before I try and smack you again," Martha said as she raised her aching hand, "and hit you with my stump. How could you do that to your mother?"
"Mom, sit down, ok, I promise not to coerce you into punching me in the face again."
Martha smiled, "You best not, Superman or not, I'm still your Mom."
The mere mention of the word, "mother" lingered in the air, hanging in increasingly dense contrast between the slits of sunlight casting alternating lines of shade and light over his mother's expressions; equal parts shroud and shine.
"Mom," Clark stumbled with his worlds, his eyes downcast, carefully raising them to meet his mother's. It was a weight that was inscrutable, pained, with a mass that though unseen, held court within the souls of both mother and son. Martha's face revealed a fatigue that bore an affliction of silent turmoil, a soundless battle within a corporeal battlefield.
"Clark, you had no right…" Martha repeated quietly this time, the corners of her eyes moistening, a teardrop precariously balanced on an eye lash. "What's the point, Clark? You already know. I saw the expression in your eyes."
Clark slumped in the wooden chair he sat in as a child. He remembered those years, eating his meals with his parents, never questioning their invulnerability, their immortality. His legs were braced against the chair legs, his fingers tightening into clenched fists of quiet anguish.
There would be winter, spring, summer, fall, with new experiences, but when the chatter of life ceased, and the winds of change quieted, the Kents, his parents, would be there to comfort this unworldly child, this Last Son of Krypton. Already, the pain of Jonathan Kent's death played through his mind; all of the gradual lessons of manhood, or decency, of humanity that his "old man" spoke of. All that resided in the Man of Steel's internal gauge in this crucial moment was an abysmal sense of pain, guilt, and helplessness.
For all the powers that his Krytonian physiology had provided him, he did not save his birth parents, he did not save his adopted father, and as he watched Martha Kent with his all seeing eyes, he knew that there was yet another failure on the horizon, another crack in the myth of his god-like sentience, that was provoked by a fate that was forever tragic and eternally alienated from his realm of control.
"Mom, what…?"
"You would know better than me, Clark," Martha said, her stature suddenly smaller, the bitterness teaming at the corner of every syllable that was spoken. "Specialists, Ha! Yeah, they're special alright, took them a month to tell me I wasn't right. Why do they think I went to the doctor? Cause I was feeling fine?"
"Mom," Clark said through clenched teeth, his expression was granite. "Why didn't you call me? Why…?"
"Clark, I thought you had enough on your plate, being that your presence on this worthless rock changed it forever. Being that the government now spends half of its budget worried about where you go to the bathroom. You should have seen those idiots on the boob tube!"
"I've seen it," Clark answered. Martha eyes flashed over to his son, eventually weakening him. "Alright, Mom, I don't watch it. I don't have to. I live it. But seeing that you never did open that new TV I bought you…"
Martha exhaled deeply; it didn't help. Her body was gripped once more with her son's horrible responsibility. A portion of the weight felt as though it were transferred to her, the mother of a son from another planet. She never felt Jonathan was completely right to keep Clark from the world, but with the changes in attitude from what the press was referring to as the "Metropolis Incident," Martha view of the world subsequently changed and not for the better.
"Why do you think the old TV is broke, Clark?" Martha exclaimed, "I didn't want them to talk about you like that. With their commentary, their analysis, who you are, what you are, they act like they know you. They don't know my son, they don't know all the things you had to do, that me and you father had to do just so their ignorant jackasses can go on living a lie."
Martha picked up a plate and tossed it into the sink, watching it smash into pieces.
"That's what I think of those idiots…'The alien acts like us, dresses like us, but he is a threat'…Damnit Clark, don't those fools know you are us. You saved us. You're the best of us when the worst didn't do a thing while the world was just about doomed."
"They're scared, Mom. Dad said they'd be scared, that's why he…" Clark allowed the sentence to trail off into silence. That's why he let himself die…
Martha shrank into her chair, attempting fruitlessly to rub the fatigue from her being, knowing it was a deep seated sense of tiredness that would not be vacated easily.
"I'm sorry, Clark, it's just, I can't see what's happening to me, and I feel like everything, with the doctor, with how I feel right now…that everything is coming to an end."
Clark quickly stood, moving towards her mother.
"That's not true, Mom, don't talk like that. I can't accept that nothing can't be done…"
"You're an adult, Clark, and we both know wishing for things don't make it right. Hell, you have the super vision, you know more about what's going on in here," Martha gestured to her body. It created a chill that ran through the course of his alien physique; a fearful emotion bound with the futility of grief from a growing sense of hopelessness. The Man of Steel knew fear, fear of a sort that could touch him in the most private fashion that would linger with him for the rest of his days.
Martha grabbed her son's hand and leaned in close, the redness of her eyes blighted her vision, and Clark suddenly realized his mother was older, with a sick sense of frailty that he would never be afflicted with. The sorrow welled in his Kryptonian heart that could barely be contained by his near indestructible form.
"Tell me, Clark," Martha said to her son desperately, in an almost pleading fashion, "what is happening to me? Am I going to die? And if I live, what kind of life will it be? Because this Kansas woman will not tolerate just existing. I've lived too long a life to tolerate that type of living. I know it'll kill your soul and leave the shell of your body breathing."
"Mom, please, it's not that bad, it can't be," but Clark was unsure, his mind was fighting an internal battle of its own, denying his knowledge of human biology, blurring the shadows of his mother's condition with faint rays of hope despite a deeper voice whispering words to the contrary. "There are things that can be done. We can move you closer to the city, and you can see the best specialists in the world."
"Clark," Martha said, the sadness faint, but present nevertheless.
Clark was already lost in a desperate plea within himself; wandering amongst emotions derived from a fate of cursed abandonment that turned a blind eye towards his mother's degenerative health.
"You can make it through, I know it, Mom," Clark responded hopefully. His mother searched through the grief in his eyes, finding the man that Jonathan Kent knew Clark would become. The man that would not give up, nor give in, to beings of this world and beyond; despite all cries of surrender, her son would never surrender. He was as much of a Kent as Jonathan would ever be; those born amongst the cornfields of Kansas did not succumb to circumstances easily.
Neither would her son Clark. Even when the end was inevitable.
"I can't bear to see you like this, Mom," Clark stammered, his eyes glistening.
"It's alright, Clark. I'm just a bitter old woman who ain't in the best of health. Don't mind me," she said as stood up and put her arms around her son. His lithe figure shuddered as if graced from a frigidness of frost that he never experienced before. She held him tightly, her tears falling more freely as she turned her face away from Clark's. "Clark, it'll be okay. You're right. It will be alright. Everything will be fine…"
As he hugged his mother, Clark restrained himself from embracing her too tightly.
"Mom, I don't think so. Not this time…" he said over a small, distant voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "Not this time," he said once more, as his mind raced remembering how he stood idly by as Jonathan Kent was swept away from his life forever. "Not this time," Clark said softly, repeating the phrase to himself, knowing that he would never again let go of another family member without a fight; damn the heavens, damn the gods. Damn it all.
END OF EPISODE III