THREE MONTHS LATER
The director put down the sheet of paper in front of him, impressed. "Quite a resume. A lot of experience for someone your age."
The puff of smoke from the young man's cigarette dissipated slowly as he took his time to respond. "I'm older than I look."
"This says you got a lotta theater experience. It's different than Hollywood, believe me."
"The theater scene is nice, but it's passed its prime. Time I looked into something a little. . .different."
The kid smoked in silence. The director didn't say it, but their production was running out of funds. So what if this kid was green, they were desperate.
"We're in need of people with your skills. That little pyrotechnic demonstration you showed the f/x manager? Really something."
"They're my specialty."
The director held out his hand, ready to finalize the deal with a customary handshake.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Lynns."
Fire reflected in the kid's eyes.
"Please. Call me Garfield."
"Where is he?"
"It's not like him to be late."
"Are you wearing lip gloss?"
Mother Francis left the chattering nuns of the front desk, pacing to pass the time. It was almost noon. Choir practice ended promptly at midday especially for their weekly guest, and the children eagerly awaited their new storytime tradition. The whole building was new, the furniture, the paint, the recreation room, the reading room library, the pool, everything. Orphanages in the Tri-state area had undergone similar expansions and renovations. The Justice League kept its word, and Gotham's recent socialite gala made significant contributions. Wayne Enterprises spared no expense, and it showed.
Mother Francis slowed her pace, listening to the choir practice drawing to its close. Most of the nuns at the orphanage, bless their hearts, could not carry a tune. So the children's rehearsals twice a week were more than welcome. You could hear the melodies throughout the building, its polished floors resounding the hymn.
Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide;
When other helpers go and comforts flee
Help of the helpless oh, Abide with me
Mother Francis almost passed the chapel door before noticing it wasn't closed. A shadow was inside.
"Hello?" The silhouette of a man hulked in the corner. She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the dimly lit chapel with the lamplight. She sighed in relief.
"Mr. Wayne, you gave me a start."
Gotham's prince looked up from the pew where he sat, arms folded in meditation. "Apologies, Mother Francis."
"No need to apologize to me, my boy." She smiled at him like she would a beloved grand-nephew. They both listened to the choir music haunting the room.
What an interesting person, the old nun thought to herself. The richest man in Gotham, the topic of interest on the news in twenty-five states, and he takes time every week to visit their little orphanage, asking specifically for the media not to be involved. She turned the lamplight down, unsure of why, though knowing this enigmatic man would prefer the darkness of the stain-glass windows, the dim candles on the altar as ambiance to his reverie.
"I'll see you a bit later in the reading room, Mr. Wayne. Take all the time you need," she whispered, retreating out the door as quietly as possible. She saw him bow his head, closing his eyes in meditation.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heav'n's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me
The children were in rapt attention. Mr. Wayne was a good storyteller, doing funny voices when needed, and reading at an interesting pace. They waited for this time every week, and he for it. And yet today, reading with just as much animation and humor, he noticed two specific people were not in attendance.
"Edward knew what it was like to say over and over again the names of those you had left behind. . ."
Sister Miriam tapped Mr. Wayne's shoulder. "Sorry to interrupt sir, but Mother Francis requests your presence in the corridor."
All forty-two of the children groaned. Little Millie was young enough to voice what they were all thinking.
"But Edward's lost! What's gonna happen?"
Mr. Wayne smiled. "Don't worry Mildred, I'm coming back. And we'll find out what happens together. I promise. Would you be a dear and hold the page for me?" Millie nodded enthusiastically. Mr. Wayne bowed politely, exiting the room. He shut the door as quiet as he could.
Sister Miriam cleared her throat, whispering. "I think it's so sweet of you to visit the children, Mr. Wayne. It must be inconvenient for your busy schedule."
"It's really not a bother."
The young nun smiled shyly. She was looking a little too long at his handsome face, smiling at him like all of the nuns were want. "Really sweet of you. If you need anything, just ask."
Thankfully, Mother Francis arrived, relieving Mr. Wayne of the eager young lady. Mother Francis looked at the young man with stern eyes.
"The adoption papers for Warren and Phoebe came through. They left yesterday."
"This couldn't have waited until after storytime? For shame. You've left a poor bunny rabbit and us all in suspense."
She snorted in good humor. "And talk to you after? When you all but disappear without a trace? No thank you. I wanted you to know the parents were thoroughly screened, as per your request, and were considered the finest candidates. Warren and Phoebe will have a happy home with the McGinnis family."
Mr. Wayne appeared nonchalant. "Good news."
The old nun squinted. This man that pretended to not care when he did, to appear to have every comfort and yet not, he was a mystery.
"She left this for you."
Mother Francis was holding a stack of papers tied with a black hair ribbon. The old nun watched the young man untie the ribbon, looking over the crayon drawings. There were stick figures of a girl with red hair and a boy with glasses. A teddy bear. A Ferris wheel and golden dots flying. A red-haired girl holding hands with a figure in a dark trench coat. The last page read, To Mister Wayne, Luv Phoebe.
Mr. Wayne held the priceless treasures, re-tying the ribbon with care. He kissed Mother Francis' hand with gratitude. A squeal from somewhere from the front desk indicated Sister Miriam was watching them through a security camera.
Mother Francis smiled, a little sadly. "Do you remember what I told you, long ago?"
"The young, rich man who looked over the world and asked the Lord, 'Why did you not send help?' I remember."
"Do you remember what he replied?"
He shook his head.
" 'I sent them you.' "
"If you excuse me," he bowed politely. "I must return. I believe Millie is inciting a riot."
"Farewell, my boy."
The children were overjoyed to see their friend return. Millie handed him the book, the cover reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. "Sister Thomas wanted to read another story but I said no, we gotta finish this one."
"Then finish it we shall. Now, where were we?" He found his place on the page. He cleared his throat, and the children settled down, eyes wide.
"Edward knew what it was like to say over and over again the names of those you had left behind. He knew what it was like to miss someone. And so he listened. And in his listening, his heart opened wide and then wider still."
The sounds of sirens wailing in the distance was all too normal. Dick Grayson was used to the sounds of Bludhaven. Not the nicest place, but it needed him more than Gotham. And that was saying something.
With practiced ease, he maneuvered through the fire escape. He entered his apartment. Not big, but acceptable for a superhero bachelor. He made his way to the fridge, hoping he hadn't eaten all of the leftover pizza. Sometimes you really want to hit up a Taco Bell, but showing up as a vigilante? Probably not the best idea, he told himself.
. . .Wait. His instincts told him something was wrong. Muffled sounds came from the kitchen. From around the wall corner, he could see the shadow of someone moving. He paused, getting his night sticks out.
"I'm giving you five seconds to leave before you get hurt."
Whoever was in the kitchen didn't same phased. "Oh, I'm not leaving," a voice replied. The voice sounded young. Turning the corner, night sticks out in defense, Dick Grayson caught sight of a teenage kid sitting at his kitchen table, helping himself to his fridge. Sensing no danger, he slowly put his weapons away. The kid kept on chewing like nothing unusual was going on. The young hero couldn't take it.
"Who are you?" he blurted. "Is that my pizza?"
The kid swallowed. "Sorry, I got a little hungry after taking three buses to get here. We met at the carnival a while back."
"You're the Drake's kid. Do they know you're up past midnight?"
"No. And they're not going to."
Funny, parents usually go ballistic when they hear their teen's been sneaking out, breaking to people's houses, and stealing. "Really," was all he said.
"Aren't you curious how I found you, Dick Grayson?" He motioned to the photo on the wall of the Flying Graysons, the very same one he'd given him as a gift. "Easy enough to plant the tracker between the frame. All I had to do was follow the signal."
That had Dick floored. "So you know who I am and where I live. What is this, blackmail?" He cracked his knuckles, advancing a step.
"Whoa, I'm not here to cause trouble."
"You obviously came to make a statement. You have ten seconds to say it."
The kid gulped, looking nervous. He breathed, choosing his next words carefully.
"My name's Tim Drake. And I'm the next Robin."
THE END
. . .OR IS IT?