Martha reached the top of the stairs, walked over to the door to her left and rapped on it softly.

"Jonathan?"

Getting no answer, she turned the knob and let herself inside. He was there, standing in front of a dresser mirror in his black suit, working at the tie he had still been trying to master when she'd left to answer the phone a short while ago.

"That was the pastor. He wanted to send his regards before the service this afternoon."

"I'll have to thank him when I see him later."

He hadn't looked at her, but kept his attention on the mirror in front of him, still working the fabric around his neck and growing frustrated with it. A few steps and she was in front of him.

"Here, let me do that," she said quietly and took the tie in her hands.

The wall was still there-that something that had always made his feelings so plain and open to the world had been tucked away, a stoic emptiness left in its place. For a second, though, the facade of cool composure gave way to gentle appreciation that showed through the shadows that hung low in his eyes.

"It's been a while since I've done this," she thought aloud, hoping, in part, to remind him of happier times.

"And you're still better at it than me," he commented, almost amused as he looked down at her.

She smiled a little and gave the tie one last tug. "Better?" He looked to the mirror again and nodded.

It was difficult to know what to do. She had offered more than once to run errands, to take care of odds and ends. Each time he politely refused. Everyone deals with grief in his own way. She understood. But it was the quiet calm of it that unnerved her, like the calm before a dark and wailing storm, and she found herself bracing for the downpour.

"Your mom is in the kitchen looking over some papers...Jonathan, I know I've said this before but-if you ever need to talk or anything, you know you can talk to me, right?"

He looked down and mumbled at the floor, while fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. "My father died, Martha. Had a stroke. Nothing's going to change that."

"I know that," she answered cautiously, "I'm just worried about you. You've been so quiet and I thought-"

"I'm okay. Really," was softer, more insistent. But no more convincing. His eyes finally settled on hers, and he looked as if he might yield to the concern in them. Then, as though realizing his misstep, he looked away and to the floor again. "Can you, uh...can you go tell my mom I'm almost ready?"

For some reason, as much as part of him wanted to accept what comfort she tried to give, another part of him was determined to push it away.

Trying to move mountains was a foolish and futile endeavor. The natural course of time and elements erodes even the most unyielding of them.

"All right."

She laid her hand along his face and kept it there until his body let go of some of the tension it carried, her soothing touch like a thin thread drawing him downward and closer until he bent low enough to receive her kiss on the cheek. "I love you," she murmured, before slipping away and out of the room.

-

In truth, Martha hadn't really considered the others- the people Hiram Kent had touched throughout his life- but there were many. They arrived at the gravesite, one after the other, offering their condolences, then later their stories of friendship and days well spent.

Jonathan spoke last.

He stood and walked slowly to the front, with shoulders squared, cleared his throat and adjusted his coat against a chilling breeze. "I didn't know my father as well as some of you. If I were being honest, probably not as well as most of you." He paused and took a breath. "But I do know that he would have humbled by what I see here today... Then he probably would have said that there were much better things for all of you to be doing on a Sunday afternoon than standing around here-to get home and watch the Sharks game."

Murmurs of agreement and tearful laughter wafted over the gathering and faded.

"But we're here," he said, an almost inaudible break in his voice. He paused again and swallowed. "I remember once, when I was nine years old, I asked my dad if I could ride my bike to the Rosses' place. He said 'no.' I, of course, at nine believed I knew it all and complained loudly that nothing could possibly happen. He was being unfair. We lived in Smallville, not Metropolis. He looked down at me and he calmly replied, 'That's true enough, but you also just happen to live in my house, and in the land of Kent you're still a boy until you can speak your piece like a man.' I always hated that- that he seemed to have an answer for everything and it was never the one I wanted to hear. " He ducked his face down and for a brief second, she couldn't be certain, but it looked as though he'd said something else. When he looked up again, though, he spoke loud and clear. "I wish I were half as smart as I thought I was then. Then maybe I would understand why this had to happen. We've all lost a great man. And the world, a world that needs good men, will never be the same without him... "

-

"If anyone wants anything, I'm making some tea."

Jonathan didn't respond to his mother's offer as he shed the coat he hadn't bothered to remove all day and let it drop into a crumpled heap on the living room chair. Martha didn't think to answer either, just followed his movements, not taking her eyes from him. It wasn't likely that she would discern anymore than she already had, but there was still the dim hope that, though not able to move the mountain, she could somehow traverse it.

"It's after nine. Martha, honey, I think you should stay the night."

At that, Martha did turn around. "Oh, no. Mrs. Kent, I wouldn't dream of...I don't-"

"Mom's right, sweetheart. It's late. I'd feel better about it if you stayed. You can take my room. I'll sleep here," Jonathan offered tiredly, dropping down onto the couch, looking as though whatever invisible support had held him up thus far had been suddenly yanked from under him.

It was also the first time he'd said much since the funeral that morning, aside from the obligatory thank-yous that were automatic when someone had approached him and offered their condolences. She had spoken to him through touch-taking his arm and offering a gentle squeeze or stroking lightly at the nape of his neck, to which he responded with the same quiet thankfulness that had showed in the softened features of his face earlier that morning. But he'd remained rather quiet and hadn't asked for anything. Until now. A short glance in Jessica Kent's direction told Martha she wasn't the only one to notice.

"Okay," she said gingerly, "I'll just call home, let my mom know where I am."

Her father was out of town again, so that at least wouldn't be an issue. He would probably have driven there to get her himself he'd known.

"Go ahead and use the phone in the kitchen, dear. Jonathan, why don't you go on up and get a change of clothes?" He said something about being right down and wandered up the stairs, more from memory than actual consciousness of them.

Like her son, Mrs. Kent put on a brave face, but was less successful. Her grief followed close behind her like a shadow in the late afternoon sun as they walked into the kitchen. "Why don't I make the tea, Mrs. Kent?"

"Oh no, that's all right. It's good to have something to do."

As much as Martha liked to think of herself as an adult, worldly and knowledgeable of many things, she found herself keenly aware of being only nineteen.

"H-how long were you and Mr. Kent married?" No, she shouldn't have said that. It was too soon to talk about...

"This year was our thirty-fourth," Mrs. Kent responded, taking a teapot down from the cabinet, filling it with water, and placing it on the stove. Emotion still colored her words as she spoke, but she seemed glad for the conversation. "I knew he was the one for me the minute I laid eyes on him. It was my first day at Smallville High and I had lost my way. I must have made a sad sight wandering the halls. He came over to me and said 'Excuse me, miss. I wonder if you might need a helping hand.' Other boys, they might have taken the opportunity to talk about themselves, try to be clever, but he didn't. He just smiled and seemed happy to do what he could. Not because he expected anything but just because it was the nice thing to do, you know?"

"Yes, I do," Martha said, reflectively, while reaching over and taking a teabag from the box beside her and handing it to the woman next to her.

"Jonathan was such a surprise," Mrs. Kent continued as she twirled the string of the bag distractedly around her finger. "We didn't think we would ever have children...and then one day the doctor told us that I didn't have the stomach flu after all. Hiram was so excited. He dragged me into that truck every time I so much as sneezed. There wasn't a prouder father around the day Jonathan was born." Retelling the story, it was the first time she'd really smiled in days. But it didn't last. She turned back to the sink. "Listen to me, chattering on. You go ahead and call your mother. I'm sure she's worried about you."

Martha started to reach a hand out, but pulled it back. "Yes, ma'am," she said quietly.

Jonathan reappeared at the kitchen entrance, barefoot and dressed in a white cotton t-shirt and loose-fitting gray sweatpants. "Hey, ladies."

The crash of the teapot and steaming water spilling across the kitchen floor sent him grabbing the nearest towel.

"Mom? Martha? Are you okay?"

Martha nodded that she was all right and picked up the teapot that still lay on the floor. Mrs. Kent stared at the mess, her hand over her mouth, stricken. "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It's just, for a second you sounded so much like...I'll-I'll get it," she said, reaching for a second towel that sat on the counter.

"It's okay, mom. I've got it," Jonathan said assuredly, not looking up as he knelt down and began to wipe up the large puddle of water.

"Come on, Mrs. Kent," Martha said gently, putting her arm around the woman this time and guiding her toward the living room. "Jonathan will take care of that." She looked back over her shoulder as they walked away, to see a very weary Jonathan stooped over the spreading pool, the fingers of one hand pinched at the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed.

"Everything will be all right."

TBC...