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Main Street had already been cleared by the time Jonathan got to town, but he wasn't surprised to see it barricaded at both ends. People were busy nailing plywood up over broken windows, and some of the heartier souls swept up broken glass. Jonathan almost smiled—it was just like the town to pitch in and get to work as soon as they could.
He parked a few blocks away by the elementary school, which had escaped any damage, and walked towards the Talon with Martha's donations. Half a dozen news crews stood out front, and Jonathan felt a shiver of unease run down his spine. He was glad he had recovered the mysterious object when he'd had the chance.
A thin blond woman Jonathan thought he recognized from one of the Metropolis stations spoke into a microphone.
"We do not yet have an official death toll, but sources say…"
A few feet away a handsome man in a suit that probably cost more than Jonathan's last mortgage payment gave his own speech to another camera.
"Scientists at Metropolis University's world-renown astrophysics laboratory estimate the odds of a meteor strike such as yesterday's to be approximately a million to one…"
Jonathan snorted, which earned him a dirty look from one of the cameramen.
Vultures. They must have started arriving before dawn. As if it mattered now what the odds of yesterday's events had been. It had happened, hadn't it?
He went into the Talon to find yet another camera crew at work and squeezed past them. He found Dr. McIntyre sitting next to a folding table, drinking coffee with a disgusted expression on his face.
"Mornin,' Jonathan. Hope you got some sleep when you could."
"I did; not much, but it helped. Did you get home last night?"
"Naw, Josie and I bunked down here with some of the other families. Heat still works, so it wasn't too bad. Josie's gone back to our place to check on things and get Martha those clothes she promised for the child."
"She doesn't need to go to any trouble," Jonathan protested. He glanced around him and saw Nell Potter asleep on one of the pallets, her hair covering her face. The doctor followed his glance.
"Gave her a few Valiums; she kept getting hysterical all over again. But she'll sleep it off."
The younger man nodded; he and Nell had dated in high school, and he knew first hand she didn't handle crises well. "Where's Lana?"
The doctor pointed at the folding table next to him. "Under here."
Frowning, Jonathan ducked his head down. Sure enough Lana Lang sat huddled against the wall, her thumb in her mouth. She stared at Jonathan without expression.
"She o.k?"
"She's hiding out." Sam gestured at the news crew. "First thing they did when they got here was try to get pictures of her. Said she was 'the face of Smallville's tragedy.' I told them where they could stick their cameras."
"Good for you, Sam." Just like with the little boy at home, Jonathan felt at a complete loss. "Should we leave her under there?"
"My boy, rest his soul, liked to hide under things at that age, too." There wasn't any sadness in Sam's smile—Toby had died many, many years ago. He'd be almost Jonathan's age if he hadn't lost his battle with leukemia. "I say we leave her be for now."
Nodding, Jonathan held up the bags.
"Martha sent along some extra blankets and some of Dad's old coats."
"That Martha—always thinking of others. If you go downstairs you'll find the Red Cross has got a donation center set up. There's a bulletin board where people are puttin' up photographs of missing folks, too. You might want to check and see if anyone put up a picture of the boy you found."
"Will do, Sam. Thanks."
The old man's eyes narrowed as he watched the press interviewing a fire official. "I'll just set right here with Miss Lana until those folks are on their way."
Jonathan laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're a good man, Sam."
The doctor only waved away the complement.
Downstairs Jonathan found half a dozen men and women in Red Cross jackets sorting through boxes of supplies. It looked like soon they would have a makeshift kitchen going to feed the homeless and the rescue personal.
A blue-haired lady who reminded him of his late grandmother accepted the donations gratefully.
"We'll be getting more clothes and personal items in this afternoon, but these will be a start. Some poor folks lost everything."
Thinking of the child upstairs, he nodded. "I know."
Jonathan crossed the room to stand next to Sheriff Coulter. The sheriff was examining the hastily-made "Missing" posters and rubbing the back of his sunburned neck.
"How're you holding up, Earl?"
The other man gave him a tired smile. "Oh, hello, Jonathan. As well as anyone else, I expect."
"Wife and kids ok?" Jonathan had heard that phrase repeated all over Main Street—it had become the new way residents greeted each other.
"Fine. Kids were all still out at Smallville High at a victory party. Thank God the school wasn't hit."
Jonathan studied the photos tacked to the board. Most of the names and faces he recognized. "What's the death toll stand at now?"
"Officially, twenty-seven. But the emergency crews are still clearing away debris, so we think it'll rise. I tell you, Jonathan, not even twenty years on the force prepares you for something like this."
"I don't think anything would." Biting his lip, Jonathan took a deep breath. "Say, Earl, I know it's the last thing you need, but there's a little boy…"
"The one you and Martha found," the sheriff nodded. "Doc McIntyre told me all about it. How's he doing?"
"He's doing fine, I think—he's home with Martha. But he's so young he doesn't talk, so he hasn't said anything about who he is or where he came from."
The sheriff looked thoughtful.
"Well, I'll tell you, Jonathan. No one's reported a missing child, not to the sheriff's office or the police department. Normally we'd call in Social Services over from Lowell, but they've got their hands full here as it is." He squinted at his friend. "I'd be much obliged if you and Martha could look after him until we get things better squared away."
Able to breathe again, Jonathan smiled. "We'd be happy to, but is that legal?"
"It's legal if I say it is, Jonathan." Sheriff Coulter looked at the board again and shook his head. "So much death and suffering. It's enough to break your heart, ain't it?"
The sheriff clapped his broad-brimmed hat back on his head. "Better get back out there. Give my regards to Martha."
"I will—same to Sally."
Jonathan couldn't quite believe it. He and Martha had permission to keep the boy, at least for a while. He'd expected paperwork, social workers…but of course, the county had other priorities at the moment. The little boy would have to wait until he wouldn't get lost in the shuffle.
And in the meantime he had a safe, warm home at the Kent farm, as long as he needed one.
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Martha heard the front door open downstairs, and her husband's voice carry up the stairs.
"Martha, you home?"
She hastily pulled a dry sweater over her head. "Coming, Jonathan."
Her husband stood in the middle of the living room. He frowned when he saw her wet hair.
"Taking a bath in the middle of the day?"
She smiled. "No, but Clark was. I think he enjoyed it a little too much."
Jonathan's frown deepened. "Who's Clark?"
Martha pulled her husband into the kitchen and pointed at the little boy happily rolling a toy truck across the linoleum.
"He's Clark."
The boy looked up at Jonathan and grinned. "Hi," he said in his piping little voice.
"He's picking up words fast now," Martha said quickly. She could see her husband's face darkening by the second. "He can say 'hello' and 'goodbye' and 'truck,' and of course, 'spoon,' but you already heard that one…"
"Martha, you can't name him!"
"Why not?"
Jonathan ran his hands through his fair hair. "Because he isn't ours!"
She gave him a withering glance. "I know that, Jonathan—don't you think I know that? But it looks like he might be here a while and we couldn't keep calling him 'little boy,' could we?"
He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. "Martha…"
She sat down next to him and took his hand. "I know what you're going to say, Jonathan, and, really, I agree with you. I know he won't be here forever. But what's wrong with giving him a name, just for a little while?"
He sighed, but Martha could see she had won the battle. He cocked his head and looked at the boy again.
"Clark, huh? Why Clark?"
"Well, you know how my dad always wanted a son to carry on the family name. I figured having a grandson carrying it on is the next best thing."
Jonathan opened his mouth again, but shut it hastily when he saw the determined set of his wife's chin. He knew there was no reasoning with her when she was like this.
"Where'd the truck come from?"
"Oh, Josie brought over the most wonderful things!" Martha gestured for the child. "Clark, let's go show Jonathan all the nice things Mrs. McIntyre brought you."
Jonathan obediently followed his wife and the child down the back hall to the spare bedroom. The solid oak bed his grandfather had carved for his grandmother occupied most of the small space, but Martha had laid out an array of clothes and toys on top of the quilt. Jonathan hadn't noticed that the little boy—Clark--now wore a red shirt and a tiny pair of dungarees instead of his grungy old sweatshirt. He had to admit it was an improvement.
"See, Jonathan? There're a bunch of little shirts and these little overalls and some toys and books—even a pair of pajamas, but those are still in the wash. Good thing children's clothes don't go out of style very fast," Martha beamed.
"Um hum," her husband answered noncommittally.
"Really, honey, it'll be a big help. You'll see. And Clark loves the toys, don't you, sweetheart?"
Distracted by running his hands over the brightly colored bedspread, Clark ignored her.
"How does tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches sound for dinner?"
"Fine."
Martha hummed to herself as she cooked, and Clark, abandoning his truck, tugged on Jonathan's jacket. Something felt to the floor with a metallic clunk.
Jonathan picked it up, and studying it in the light realized it must be whatever had fallen off the ship when he'd moved it into the barn.
Martha eyed it curiously as she sliced cheese. "What is that?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "It fell off the…uh…the whatever it is." Clark was now jumping up and down in a plea for attention, so Jonathan sat down and lifted the boy onto his knee.
"Oh." His wife remained silent for a long moment.
"It just looks like a flat piece of metal, but there are markings all over one side of it," Jonathan explained as he examined it.
"What sort of markings?" Martha dished up the soup and gave each of them sandwich.
Idly bouncing Clark, Jonathan shrugged. "Darned if I know. They look like little pictures, like you'd see in Egyptian tombs…"
"Hieroglyphics." His wife supplied the word.
"Yeah. But I've no idea what it's supposed to say."
Giving Clark a triangle of sandwich, Martha frowned.
"Are you sure it came off the…uh…"
"Pretty sure. Where else would it have come from?" He turned it to and fro while Clark munched contentedly.
"Maybe it explains where it came from, where Clark came from. Maybe it's his."
"Maybe, but if we can't read it I don't see what good it will do."
Martha ate silently for a moment. "Jonathan, did anyone in town…say anything? Find anything…"
"Like we did? If they did they're not mentioning it. Sheriff Coulter says no one's reported a missing child, either, which is strange."
"Only if he's actually from around here. Which he probably isn't."
"Anyway, Earl asked us to look after him, until things calm down."
Martha's head snapped up. "Why didn't you say so sooner? That's wonderful!"
Jonathan stirred the soup with his spoon and blew on it. He offered the spoonful to Clark, who tasted it and nodded, seemingly in approval.
"It's still only temporary, hon. We can't forget that."
But Jonathan had a terrible feeling his wife already had.
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