"Mr. McGinnis." I glance up from the spot on the wall that I've been
staring at. Powers had the humility- or the audacity- to show up at my
son's wake.
"I was sorry to hear about your son." He murmurs in that wholly corporate tone. I clench my fists behind my back.
"It's a tragedy how young lives are cut short." I feel murder, that horrible black poison, seeping into my body. I could kill him.
Wisely I keep my mouth shut.
Lydia sits in the corner of the room, her eyes fixed on Ben's body. The sight at first made her sick and she could barely take it.
Now she can't take her eyes off of him. Everyone who offers their condolences receives a bland "Grazie" and no eye contact.
Lydia only uses Italian when she's incredibly happy or incredibly upset.
I can't look at Ben. It would drive me mad.
Today I have to bury my son.
After a good, long, agonizing couple hours of milling around, talking about anything but the young boy in the coffin, they send us all off into the other room.
I try to block my ears, to keep from hearing that horrible sound.
But, clear as a bell, I hear the sharp click of Ben's coffin closing.
We all proceed to the cemetery.
Ben used to hate cemeteries. Even when he got older, and got rid of the fears of ghosts and monsters, he still hated them. He said that they were nothing but gigantic worm-feed patches, and he didn't like the idea of standing over hundreds of dead bodies, even if they were decomposed.
I feel a shiver go up my spine. I'm going to leave Ben in this gigantic worm-feed patch.
Lydia will not say anything. She stares straight ahead, neither at the coffin nor away from it. I linger a little behind her.
I'd like to take her hand, walk with her, try and help her.
Hope to God that she could help me.
But I don't dare infringe on her when she's in this much pain.
The rituals of the modern-day funeral play out. I've seen them so often that they're almost routine.
Funny. Funerals are routine to me.
It ends with the finality of "Amen", and the people mill about for a moment, weighing the appropriate amount of time to remain by the grave before rushing home, away from all this death.
I don't stay long. Ben's gone. His coffin can't mean anything anymore. If Ben was still hanging around, he sure as hell wouldn't hang around in a cemetery.
I watch Lydia. She stares at the hole in the ground for a moment. She takes a step forward, like she wants to jump into the hole after him. But then she turns and follows the crowd of people, not looking back for an instant. I follow her.
I stop in my tracks, letting the rest of the people walk ahead of me for a moment. There, at my feet, is the grave of Warren McGinnis, my father.
Was this fate? The cruel hand of fate playing one last game with me before giving me up to the demons which will inevitably consume me as they have everyone I love?
Maybe. Maybe Not. Ben used to say that to almost every opinion question you gave him. Ben never said anything definitely. He believed that things could change at any moment and it wasn't good to commit yourself to one point of view.
I wish Dad had gotten to see Ben. They would have gotten along great.
But there's no use wishing. There's no guarantee that Ben would still have been born if Dad hadn't died.
I sigh and move on. Lydia's eyes are locked blankly on the ground. Her head is bowed, tears run down her cheeks, and her face is flushed. But she's silent.
Holding it in, as always. Had I no conviction, respect, or love for her, I would grab her and sob and cry until I had nothing left.
But that would be horribly selfish. I would be using her for my own comfort. So instead I act as strong as she believes herself to be and take it all on myself.
So I do nothing, and those around me stare as if I were a callous, inhuman man. They know nothing. They don't understand. How could they?
If I did go for Lydia, she would act like she always does when someone tries to help her. Walk away. Register no emotion. Ignore me. I would be oblivious to her.
She can't spare any energy for me. She's concentrated on Ben and Ben only, as she's always been.
Besides, I could never forgive myself if I caused her anymore pain than she's already been through.
The limo drives us home. We sit across from each other. Lydia's tears continue to grow the further we go from Ben. Her eyes are locked on an abstract spot on the floor. But still she makes no noise. I try. I try as hard as I can to keep from breaking down. But tears begin to drip down my face. I struggle to hold them back.
You don't always have to do the right thing, Dad. Ben used to say that when I was grappling over problems.
I stop trying to suppress them and let the tears flow. Lydia's eyes lift. They connect with mine. A choked sob escapes from my throat and I bury my head in my hands.
I spend my nights risking my life, saving hundreds of people, and yet when I need to be strong, I can't do it. Lydia stares at me, conflict in her face. She wants to comfort me but at the same time wants to leave me to my pain. Finally she lets out a small cry, allowing herself to be weak with me.
Wayne wouldn't have broken down like this. He would have been able to keep it together.
For a second I want to remind myself that I'm not Wayne.
I stop my tears and sit up, wiping my eyes. I reach across and take Lydia's hand. She offers no resistance.
The silence the way home is deafening. I hate it, but I endure it.
It lasts till we arrive here, through our entry to the house, and to us separating. Lydia climbs the stairs almost as if she doesn't care whether she gets up them or not. I go to the only place I've ever gone when I'm in trouble- the cave.
How can it be possible?
Ben is gone. My Son is gone.
Not 48 hours ago he was here, before me, his eyes bright and his face eager, the epitome of youth and innocence.
And then the motive-Why would he do it? Why would my perfect son commit suicide when he had so much good going on in his life?
The tears begin to collect at my eyes, and I know that I need to get away from here.
I go up to the bed. Sleep for a few hours. Awake around midnight.
But I can't escape.
His name beats in my head louder and louder, even in my dreams. It's now around 4 am. With nothing else to do, I stand outside in the cold darkness. Wayne's favorite spot. Contemplating. I'm responsible for so many deaths. Helpless, stupid criminals. It's hard to consider them as being humans with lives when they're trying to take the lives of everyone around them.
But I never considered them till now. Till the life of my son was my responsibility. And it has to be my responsibility. Ben was never unhappy until this damned Robin thing.
I pushed him too hard. I asked too much of him. I went too fast.
I should never have made him live this life. This was for me. How could I push it on Ben? How could I abuse the respect he had for Batman and me and make him the Robin I desperately wanted?
Then again, I didn't really want a Robin.
I wanted Ben.
But how could I risk his life just to spend time with him? My God, what was I thinking?
Dad never would have put my life in jeopardy. If I had been home that night, he would have made sure I got out.
I know how I'm responsible for that. No matter what I've said to anyone, I know that if I had been there, I could have done something.
At the very least I could have died with him.
But if I had, Ben never would have been born. I scoff out loud. What the hell was the point of Ben being born to make our lives perfect for 11 years and then to throw it all, including his life, off a 23-story building?
But I don't know the answer. I'll never know the answer. Why? Why did he do it? How was I responsible for this? It's got to be my fault, but how is it my fault?
My tears again begin to fall as I gaze at the stormy sky. Ben did not deserve this. Lydia goddamn well doesn't deserve this.
And I brought the worst hell in the world upon the people I love more than life itself.
A crack of leaves makes me turn. Lydia. She stands there, in an image I never wish to see again.
Her face is a glowing visage of agony and horror. Her eyes are wide. Tears cover her bronze cheeks and hands. Her entire body is quivering.
"Lyd." My voice cracks at the sight of her tears.
"I'm sorry." She shakes her head. Is it to reassure or condemn me?
"Lyd-"
"Damn it, Terry!" She cries, shaking me off. The piece of paper in her trembling hand crumbles as she thrusts it at me.
"He did it for us." In her voice is the pain of ultimate suffering. The pain I felt when my father died, when Wayne died, when my mother died, and when I died yesterday.
I don't want to look at it. But my body acts without my control.
It's Ben's suicide note.
Dear Mom & Dad,
I can't do this anymore. I can't deal with this anymore. I know I was a mistake. I know that I've caused you both nothing but pain my entire life. I ruined your lives. Every day, there's nothing but screaming and fighting, and every single fight has got something to do with me. We all used to be happy. We used to be an actual family. You guys used to love each other. Now you just fight over who loves me more. I know I was an accident. Not like you guys ever hid it from me, but I know I made life so hard for you both. I'm sorry, Mom. I made you family disown you. I made you get kicked out of school. I made you marry too young and I made you worry too much. I did it all and I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry, Dad. I made you a father at 18. I made you another responsibility added to the hundreds you already had. I did that all too and I'm sorry. But what I'm so so sorry for is what I've done to you both. That I've pushed you, Dad, to the point of physically hitting you, Mom- that's the end of it. I've driven you apart. I've changed love to hate and care to tolerance. I can't change anything else, but I can change that. I'm sorry. I watch you fight day in and day out and I know that all of it somehow relates to me. I can't stand the fighting anymore. I can't stand knowing that I'm the cause of it. I can't cause you pain anymore. I love you both too much.
Your loving son,
Benjamin Terrence McGinnis
No. I will not believe it. But it's true. I know it's true. Ben's so caring. He gives up everything for everyone else.
The paper I hold is cold, drips of water blurring some of the letters.
Were they his tears? Or Lydia's? Or are they my own?
My God, what kind of insanity am I thinking?
Ben is dead! For me! For Lydia! For us and for himself, he's dead.
I have murdered my son. Not in the way I thought I had murdered him, but in a way that I never thought of, a way that I could have prevented.
I can hear someone screaming. Roaring unutterable oaths to the sky. Cursing the bloodthirsty God who did this. And I realize it's me.
And amidst all this pain I feel, the sensation that my chest is about to burst, I remember something.
I haven't been Batman for almost a week.
And I don't care at all.
"I was sorry to hear about your son." He murmurs in that wholly corporate tone. I clench my fists behind my back.
"It's a tragedy how young lives are cut short." I feel murder, that horrible black poison, seeping into my body. I could kill him.
Wisely I keep my mouth shut.
Lydia sits in the corner of the room, her eyes fixed on Ben's body. The sight at first made her sick and she could barely take it.
Now she can't take her eyes off of him. Everyone who offers their condolences receives a bland "Grazie" and no eye contact.
Lydia only uses Italian when she's incredibly happy or incredibly upset.
I can't look at Ben. It would drive me mad.
Today I have to bury my son.
After a good, long, agonizing couple hours of milling around, talking about anything but the young boy in the coffin, they send us all off into the other room.
I try to block my ears, to keep from hearing that horrible sound.
But, clear as a bell, I hear the sharp click of Ben's coffin closing.
We all proceed to the cemetery.
Ben used to hate cemeteries. Even when he got older, and got rid of the fears of ghosts and monsters, he still hated them. He said that they were nothing but gigantic worm-feed patches, and he didn't like the idea of standing over hundreds of dead bodies, even if they were decomposed.
I feel a shiver go up my spine. I'm going to leave Ben in this gigantic worm-feed patch.
Lydia will not say anything. She stares straight ahead, neither at the coffin nor away from it. I linger a little behind her.
I'd like to take her hand, walk with her, try and help her.
Hope to God that she could help me.
But I don't dare infringe on her when she's in this much pain.
The rituals of the modern-day funeral play out. I've seen them so often that they're almost routine.
Funny. Funerals are routine to me.
It ends with the finality of "Amen", and the people mill about for a moment, weighing the appropriate amount of time to remain by the grave before rushing home, away from all this death.
I don't stay long. Ben's gone. His coffin can't mean anything anymore. If Ben was still hanging around, he sure as hell wouldn't hang around in a cemetery.
I watch Lydia. She stares at the hole in the ground for a moment. She takes a step forward, like she wants to jump into the hole after him. But then she turns and follows the crowd of people, not looking back for an instant. I follow her.
I stop in my tracks, letting the rest of the people walk ahead of me for a moment. There, at my feet, is the grave of Warren McGinnis, my father.
Was this fate? The cruel hand of fate playing one last game with me before giving me up to the demons which will inevitably consume me as they have everyone I love?
Maybe. Maybe Not. Ben used to say that to almost every opinion question you gave him. Ben never said anything definitely. He believed that things could change at any moment and it wasn't good to commit yourself to one point of view.
I wish Dad had gotten to see Ben. They would have gotten along great.
But there's no use wishing. There's no guarantee that Ben would still have been born if Dad hadn't died.
I sigh and move on. Lydia's eyes are locked blankly on the ground. Her head is bowed, tears run down her cheeks, and her face is flushed. But she's silent.
Holding it in, as always. Had I no conviction, respect, or love for her, I would grab her and sob and cry until I had nothing left.
But that would be horribly selfish. I would be using her for my own comfort. So instead I act as strong as she believes herself to be and take it all on myself.
So I do nothing, and those around me stare as if I were a callous, inhuman man. They know nothing. They don't understand. How could they?
If I did go for Lydia, she would act like she always does when someone tries to help her. Walk away. Register no emotion. Ignore me. I would be oblivious to her.
She can't spare any energy for me. She's concentrated on Ben and Ben only, as she's always been.
Besides, I could never forgive myself if I caused her anymore pain than she's already been through.
The limo drives us home. We sit across from each other. Lydia's tears continue to grow the further we go from Ben. Her eyes are locked on an abstract spot on the floor. But still she makes no noise. I try. I try as hard as I can to keep from breaking down. But tears begin to drip down my face. I struggle to hold them back.
You don't always have to do the right thing, Dad. Ben used to say that when I was grappling over problems.
I stop trying to suppress them and let the tears flow. Lydia's eyes lift. They connect with mine. A choked sob escapes from my throat and I bury my head in my hands.
I spend my nights risking my life, saving hundreds of people, and yet when I need to be strong, I can't do it. Lydia stares at me, conflict in her face. She wants to comfort me but at the same time wants to leave me to my pain. Finally she lets out a small cry, allowing herself to be weak with me.
Wayne wouldn't have broken down like this. He would have been able to keep it together.
For a second I want to remind myself that I'm not Wayne.
I stop my tears and sit up, wiping my eyes. I reach across and take Lydia's hand. She offers no resistance.
The silence the way home is deafening. I hate it, but I endure it.
It lasts till we arrive here, through our entry to the house, and to us separating. Lydia climbs the stairs almost as if she doesn't care whether she gets up them or not. I go to the only place I've ever gone when I'm in trouble- the cave.
How can it be possible?
Ben is gone. My Son is gone.
Not 48 hours ago he was here, before me, his eyes bright and his face eager, the epitome of youth and innocence.
And then the motive-Why would he do it? Why would my perfect son commit suicide when he had so much good going on in his life?
The tears begin to collect at my eyes, and I know that I need to get away from here.
I go up to the bed. Sleep for a few hours. Awake around midnight.
But I can't escape.
His name beats in my head louder and louder, even in my dreams. It's now around 4 am. With nothing else to do, I stand outside in the cold darkness. Wayne's favorite spot. Contemplating. I'm responsible for so many deaths. Helpless, stupid criminals. It's hard to consider them as being humans with lives when they're trying to take the lives of everyone around them.
But I never considered them till now. Till the life of my son was my responsibility. And it has to be my responsibility. Ben was never unhappy until this damned Robin thing.
I pushed him too hard. I asked too much of him. I went too fast.
I should never have made him live this life. This was for me. How could I push it on Ben? How could I abuse the respect he had for Batman and me and make him the Robin I desperately wanted?
Then again, I didn't really want a Robin.
I wanted Ben.
But how could I risk his life just to spend time with him? My God, what was I thinking?
Dad never would have put my life in jeopardy. If I had been home that night, he would have made sure I got out.
I know how I'm responsible for that. No matter what I've said to anyone, I know that if I had been there, I could have done something.
At the very least I could have died with him.
But if I had, Ben never would have been born. I scoff out loud. What the hell was the point of Ben being born to make our lives perfect for 11 years and then to throw it all, including his life, off a 23-story building?
But I don't know the answer. I'll never know the answer. Why? Why did he do it? How was I responsible for this? It's got to be my fault, but how is it my fault?
My tears again begin to fall as I gaze at the stormy sky. Ben did not deserve this. Lydia goddamn well doesn't deserve this.
And I brought the worst hell in the world upon the people I love more than life itself.
A crack of leaves makes me turn. Lydia. She stands there, in an image I never wish to see again.
Her face is a glowing visage of agony and horror. Her eyes are wide. Tears cover her bronze cheeks and hands. Her entire body is quivering.
"Lyd." My voice cracks at the sight of her tears.
"I'm sorry." She shakes her head. Is it to reassure or condemn me?
"Lyd-"
"Damn it, Terry!" She cries, shaking me off. The piece of paper in her trembling hand crumbles as she thrusts it at me.
"He did it for us." In her voice is the pain of ultimate suffering. The pain I felt when my father died, when Wayne died, when my mother died, and when I died yesterday.
I don't want to look at it. But my body acts without my control.
It's Ben's suicide note.
Dear Mom & Dad,
I can't do this anymore. I can't deal with this anymore. I know I was a mistake. I know that I've caused you both nothing but pain my entire life. I ruined your lives. Every day, there's nothing but screaming and fighting, and every single fight has got something to do with me. We all used to be happy. We used to be an actual family. You guys used to love each other. Now you just fight over who loves me more. I know I was an accident. Not like you guys ever hid it from me, but I know I made life so hard for you both. I'm sorry, Mom. I made you family disown you. I made you get kicked out of school. I made you marry too young and I made you worry too much. I did it all and I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry, Dad. I made you a father at 18. I made you another responsibility added to the hundreds you already had. I did that all too and I'm sorry. But what I'm so so sorry for is what I've done to you both. That I've pushed you, Dad, to the point of physically hitting you, Mom- that's the end of it. I've driven you apart. I've changed love to hate and care to tolerance. I can't change anything else, but I can change that. I'm sorry. I watch you fight day in and day out and I know that all of it somehow relates to me. I can't stand the fighting anymore. I can't stand knowing that I'm the cause of it. I can't cause you pain anymore. I love you both too much.
Your loving son,
Benjamin Terrence McGinnis
No. I will not believe it. But it's true. I know it's true. Ben's so caring. He gives up everything for everyone else.
The paper I hold is cold, drips of water blurring some of the letters.
Were they his tears? Or Lydia's? Or are they my own?
My God, what kind of insanity am I thinking?
Ben is dead! For me! For Lydia! For us and for himself, he's dead.
I have murdered my son. Not in the way I thought I had murdered him, but in a way that I never thought of, a way that I could have prevented.
I can hear someone screaming. Roaring unutterable oaths to the sky. Cursing the bloodthirsty God who did this. And I realize it's me.
And amidst all this pain I feel, the sensation that my chest is about to burst, I remember something.
I haven't been Batman for almost a week.
And I don't care at all.