A Ghost From the Past
Frost-spikes hung off the windowsill like fingers of some phantom ghost clawing to get into the church. The world outside was a moonscape of white, not unlike back home. Bruce much preferred the loud, unpredictable streets of Gotham, to the quiet, surreal cornfields of Smallville. Everything seemed too perfect, like a Thomas Kinkade painting coming to life. In the distance Christmas lights twinkled like fallen stars on the landscape. Bruce Wayne balanced his head on one hand, and looked at all the happy folk in the church with an air of boredom. On one end of the church, Gothamites sat stiffly in their shiny city garb all fiddling with their expensive phones. On the other side, the locals chattered like irksome birds in the morning, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the bride to be. A little girl waved jollily at him from across the room. Bruce glared back at her.
"Bruce, you'll never get a girlfriend if you scare every eligible girl away," Father chuckles heartilly. Bruce was not amused by his gest.
Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I don't want a girlfriend," he hissed. "Girls have cooties," he explained in the same reasonable tone one might use when explaining the evolution of humankind. The toddler sitting in the pew next to the Waynes, eyed Bruce with big, wide, curious blue eyes, not unlike his own. Bruce glared at him and dared the other boy to say a peep.
"Cooties are an urban legend," Mama smiled amusedly at her son's innocence.
Bruce frowned in confusion at his parents. He did not understand what an urban legend was, but it sounded insulting, so he retorted, "You're an urban legend!" Mama and Father shared conspicuous smiles, and Bruce couldn't help feeling he was being left out of an inside joke. He sensed the same girl from earlier eyeing him with newfound curiosity. She waved again, and this time blew him a kiss. Two pink dots appeared on his pale cheeks. He buried himself deeper between his parents, thankful to them for hiding him from the worst monster to ever walk the Earth: Girls.
"Mama, I want to go home," Bruce announced. "I miss Alfred." It was two weeks till Christmas and Bruce was stuck at a lame wedding when he should have been at home helping Alfred with the decorations. If he closed his eyes he could smell pine trees, the scent of Christmas. And then he realized the whole town smelled like Christmas, and his mood soured. It only reminded him of the fun he was missing out on.
"Alfred will be there waiting for you when we get back," Mama said, leaning over and fixing Bruce's bowtie that had gone askew. Bruce's throat tightened and his lip trembled. He thought twice about crying when he saw the younger boy was staring at him as if he were waiting for something exciting to happen. Bruce swallowed down his disappointment. He refused to cry in a room full of so many strangers, and certainly not in front of a baby. He just wanted the comforts of home, was that too much to ask? Everyone was way too chipper and friendly in Smallville. His cheeks had already been pinched three times by the bride to be, and countless strangers. He was six-years old-way past the coddling phase. His cheeks hurt from their needless picking.
"I want to go now!"
"Bruce," Father squeezed Bruce's knee in warning. "You are making a scene son," he said through clenched teeth. "You are Wayne, behave like one.." Bruce scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, sulking. He stopped complaining, but by gosh he was going to let his parents know exactly how displeased he was with them. He didn't care if he was setting a bad example for the younger boy sitting next to them. Bruce didn't see why everyone was making such a big deal. So what? A few of dad's colleagues were tying the knot. Big whoop. He tied knots on his sneakers every day and didn't need an entourage to congratulate him. He did not understand what Miss Nora saw in Dr. Fries anyhow; he was an old fart with not a single funny bone in his body.
As if Mama could read his disgruntled thoughts she said, "One day soon Bruce, you'll meet someone unique that accepts you for who you are, warts and all. Then you will understand the beauty of marriage," she said. Bruce was not convinced. Marriage was simply another way for adults to add unnecessary labels to their trivial relationships. He couldn't understand how someone could choose only one person to spend the rest of their life with. It was mind boggling. Alfred wasn't married and he was happy as a clown.
Mama sighed."You have no idea how fortunate you are to live in a world where you may marry whomever you please," she looked at Father when she said that. Mama and Father's eyes locked, the two of them enraptured in each other's gaze. Next thing Bruce knew he was sandwiched between the two of them as they shared a passionate kiss.
"Awe!" the younger boy squealed, clapping like a silly school girl.
"Yuck!" Bruce jumped out of his seat, successfully breaking his parents apart. "Shag on somebody else's watch!"
"Mommy!" the toddler squealed loudly. "Can I shag too?"
The boy's parents froze, identical expressions of horror echoing in their features. Bruce slunk deeper into his seat, ears red. His parents' disappointment cut through him like a stab wound. He found newfound interest in his shiny shoes. He was totally grounded. Ooops. He forgot he had to keep everything PG in the presence of a babe. But Alfred said 'shag' all the time, it didn't seem that bad of a word. These smallfolk were so bizzaro.
The redheaded woman, who Bruce assumed was the toddler's mother, slipped her son into her lap. "Clark," she said seriously. "That is a very bad word," she explained. "Don't ever say that again."
"Why?" Clark blinked up at his mom in confusion. She looked towards her husband for help, but he was laughing so hard his rear was halfway off the pew.
"I apologize for my son's tongue," Mama intervened with a gentle tilt of her head; her smooth black hair framed her embarrassed face. "His nanny is British," Mama offered as an explanation. Alfred was more than a nanny; he was a wicked soldier who knew how to kick ass. He even taught Bruce a few moves. "Bruce sometimes doesn't think before he speaks," Mama scowled at him, raising one inquisitive brow. Bruce winced. Yep. He was totally grounded. Well, he could kiss goodbye to the 12th century Samurai blade he wanted for Christmas. Santa Clause was definitely leaving him coal in his stocking this year.
"No harm done," the other woman said kindly. "Heaven knows, Clark has heard much worse at home," she kicked her husband meaningfully in the shin. He shrugged, a sheepish grin slipping on his face. There was something about the older man that made Bruce smile.
"We will definitely have a talk with Alfred," Father reassured, ever the diplomat. Bruce's eyebrows skyrocketed. He didn't mean to get Alfred in trouble. He opened his mouth to defend Alfred, and smartly closed it. The last thing he needed was to say something else that would worsen the situation.
"It is unacceptable for an employee of ours to use such foul language around the children," Mama added her two cents. She couldn't be serious! Father was just as guilty as Alfred.
It was Clark who came to the rescue. Bold as you please he crawled into Mama's lap and gazed up at her with big puppy-dog eyes. "I sorry," he hiccuped. "Don't be made at Al red" Bruce gaped at the younger goy, who couldn't be older than three years old, but seemed to know how to work the charm. He couldn't believe Clark was coming to Alfred's defence, a man he had never laid eyes on. Bruce waited for Mama to coo and awe like the rest of the simpering members of the opposite sex when near a bubble of adorableness, but she simply stared perplexed at the toddler in her lap.
A shadow fell across Mama's face, and her gaze grew distant. Bruce recognized the expression instantly; she wore the same half-forgotten smile when gazing up longingly at the swirling stars as if a part of her soul was lost in the galaxy. Bruce learned quickly Mama needed him most of all during those dark moments when she felt alone in the world of men. He was a miracle child and he was there each time to remind her she wasn't alone. She looked at Clark now as if he were one of those lost stars in the cosmos.
"Who is his mother?" she asked, a note of hope hanging off her words. She gently pushed a strand of Clark's messy black hair out of his pale innocent face as tenderly as if he were her flesh and blood. A spark of jealousy ignited in Bruce. Martha Wayne was his mother, Clark had his own.
"That would be me," the red headed woman leaned forward in the pew and beckoned for her son to come back to her. Clark dutifully wandered into his mother's arms. "Martha Kent," she introduced herself cordially, but fire danced in her eyes, a silent challenge. Bruce didn't miss the worried look she shared with her husband.
"Are you sure?" Mother persisted, not able to take her gaze away from Clark. She looked at him as if he were a ghost from her past.
"Of course I'm sure!" Martha Kent snapped. "I dressed his bottom I ought to know!" Her face turned red with fury.
"I meant no offense," Mother amended. "He simply reminds me of someone I used to know."