I was pretending to be agitated while pretending to be calm. Since Clark's alien powers seem to be compensated for by a preternatural obliviousness to subtlety, I had to overact both aspects.
When I came into the room, I cleared my throat, asked how he was doing, nodded when he answered that he still felt dizzy and sick sometimes but not as frequently, paced, cleared my throat again, and when he finally asked what was wrong, answered, "Uh."
He looked at me with deep concern. "I can tell something's wrong."
"Clark, I think--" I interrupted myself. "Why don't you sit down?" As he did so, I looked at him and then lowered my eyes. "I think I know what happened, why you got sick. It was a shock that did it to you, a, a very bad shock." He frowned and looked bewildered. This was the most delicate part of all.
"What was it?" He was clearly going over the possibilities in his mind, a mental checklist of his hostages to fortune.
"Your parents, Clark. They...they left you a note."
He didn't reach out to take it but looked at me as if asking me to explain more. Perfect. "I kept trying to call them--nobody answered--and finally sent somebody down. I'm so sorry. Your father had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It would have been slow and painful. He and your mother decided to...she shot him and herself. I think what happened is that you went down to see them before, and...they didn't change their minds." I held the note out to him again. "This is a copy, the police gave it to me."
He said, dully, "You bribed them."
His mind was seeking refuge in trivialities. "A small infraction." I unfolded it and put it in front of him.
"Dear Clark,
I'm so sorry that your father and I are making you unhappy like this and that by the time you read this, you won't be as angry with us. Believe me when I say with all my heart that this is sparing all of us tremendous pain. Your father would suffer terribly, not just from his cancer, but knowing what watching him die would do to you, and I've lived with him and loved him too much to want to live for an instant without him.
"We always loved you as much as if you were our own son.
"Your very loving mother,
Martha"
"I can't believe it. Mom and Dad wouldn't do that. They don't run away from problems."
"We never know what people might do. Good people can do very selfish things." I hastily added, "Not that what they did was selfish."
"I don't remember anything like that."
"Traumatic amnesia. You could very well remember later. The mind knows what it can handle when. Listen, I'll get you the best grief counselors there are."
"I've got to get home." He got up and shook as I stood next to him and opened the concealed box.
"I'll take you."
"Why?" I closed the box as he looked at me.
"Why?" I repeated, sounding confused.
"Why are you..."
"Clark, I'd never given up on our friendship." That was even true, in its own way. "You're more important to me than you can even imagine. Now that you need me, I'm not going to let our past misunderstandings get in the way."
"It was more than a misunderstanding."
"I'm not so sure."
"Why do all your rivals die or end up ruined, Lex?" He looked at me as he had so many times before, but this time the accusation was melded with sadness.
"Clark, that's like asking why extreme sports have a high accident rate. Scientists working with the most dangerous compounds pay more spectacularly for accidents than somebody testing the new lemon scent for detergent. Anybody who gets into politics either has to run with or against big money if they don't have their own. Big money and big crime, or people desperate enough to commit crime to get the big money, can't be separated."
"You say that like you're answering a press question."
"Isn't that what I'm doing now?" I risk a sidelong smile at him. "Besides, this is a question I've had to ask myself a lot. Is there blood on my hands?"
"Is there?"
"Some people have died or suffered because of me. Just like they have because of you. That makes us similar, Clark, not criminals."
When I came into the room, I cleared my throat, asked how he was doing, nodded when he answered that he still felt dizzy and sick sometimes but not as frequently, paced, cleared my throat again, and when he finally asked what was wrong, answered, "Uh."
He looked at me with deep concern. "I can tell something's wrong."
"Clark, I think--" I interrupted myself. "Why don't you sit down?" As he did so, I looked at him and then lowered my eyes. "I think I know what happened, why you got sick. It was a shock that did it to you, a, a very bad shock." He frowned and looked bewildered. This was the most delicate part of all.
"What was it?" He was clearly going over the possibilities in his mind, a mental checklist of his hostages to fortune.
"Your parents, Clark. They...they left you a note."
He didn't reach out to take it but looked at me as if asking me to explain more. Perfect. "I kept trying to call them--nobody answered--and finally sent somebody down. I'm so sorry. Your father had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It would have been slow and painful. He and your mother decided to...she shot him and herself. I think what happened is that you went down to see them before, and...they didn't change their minds." I held the note out to him again. "This is a copy, the police gave it to me."
He said, dully, "You bribed them."
His mind was seeking refuge in trivialities. "A small infraction." I unfolded it and put it in front of him.
"Dear Clark,
I'm so sorry that your father and I are making you unhappy like this and that by the time you read this, you won't be as angry with us. Believe me when I say with all my heart that this is sparing all of us tremendous pain. Your father would suffer terribly, not just from his cancer, but knowing what watching him die would do to you, and I've lived with him and loved him too much to want to live for an instant without him.
"We always loved you as much as if you were our own son.
"Your very loving mother,
Martha"
"I can't believe it. Mom and Dad wouldn't do that. They don't run away from problems."
"We never know what people might do. Good people can do very selfish things." I hastily added, "Not that what they did was selfish."
"I don't remember anything like that."
"Traumatic amnesia. You could very well remember later. The mind knows what it can handle when. Listen, I'll get you the best grief counselors there are."
"I've got to get home." He got up and shook as I stood next to him and opened the concealed box.
"I'll take you."
"Why?" I closed the box as he looked at me.
"Why?" I repeated, sounding confused.
"Why are you..."
"Clark, I'd never given up on our friendship." That was even true, in its own way. "You're more important to me than you can even imagine. Now that you need me, I'm not going to let our past misunderstandings get in the way."
"It was more than a misunderstanding."
"I'm not so sure."
"Why do all your rivals die or end up ruined, Lex?" He looked at me as he had so many times before, but this time the accusation was melded with sadness.
"Clark, that's like asking why extreme sports have a high accident rate. Scientists working with the most dangerous compounds pay more spectacularly for accidents than somebody testing the new lemon scent for detergent. Anybody who gets into politics either has to run with or against big money if they don't have their own. Big money and big crime, or people desperate enough to commit crime to get the big money, can't be separated."
"You say that like you're answering a press question."
"Isn't that what I'm doing now?" I risk a sidelong smile at him. "Besides, this is a question I've had to ask myself a lot. Is there blood on my hands?"
"Is there?"
"Some people have died or suffered because of me. Just like they have because of you. That makes us similar, Clark, not criminals."