FAITH IN HUMANITY
THE THIRD AFTERMATH

June 22rd, 2004:

Madeline Watson opened the door to find her husband there. He was clutching a carrier bag, and looking downcast.

"Yeah?" she asked warily.

"Is MJ in?" he asked.

"Yeah. She's asleep," Madeline answered. She looked at him critically. "What do you want?"

He held out the carrier bag. "Got you something," he muttered. "That's all."

Madeline took the bag. It was heavier than she expected. She thought it might contain a glass bottle, probably alcohol. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll go then, shall I?"

"Yes. If you don't mind."

Phil started to walk away. "Will you tell MJ I was here?"

"Yes," she answered, and closed the door.

She walked through to the kitchen and took out what was in the bag. It was a glass jar, filled with sand. Her first instinct was suspicion, strangely enough. She picked it up and shook it. Nothing happened. She put it down again.

She glanced out of the window. Photographers had been sniffing around. The first time, she had run out and screamed at them- she didn't know what tactic she would try next. But there was nobody there.

The stairs creaked. She put some toast in the toaster and hunted around for the newspaper. When she found it, she put it down again. The headline wasn't nice.

MJ came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing a yellow pair of pyjamas that were slightly too small for her, and Madeline's old blue slippers. "Morning, Mom," she said, and took her place at the table. Madeline shifted the newspaper away from her and dropped it in the bin. "Morning, sweetheart."

MJ reached for the glass jar. "What's this?" she said.

"Your father brought it," Madeline said, searching the drawers for a butter knife. "I don't know what it's for."

MJ picked it up and turned it around in her hands. "Me neither," she said quietly. She stared at it although not entirely sure it was there. "Sand, though..." She trailed off. Madeline put a plate of toast in front of her.

"Dear, why hasn't Peter come by to see you?"

MJ almost jumped. "He just...hasn't. Yet," she said quickly. She took a bite of toast and looked away. "Actually, Mom...we kinda had an arguement. Before all the bad stuff happened. A bad one. We don't...know where we stand. At the moment."

"Oh," Madeline said, surprised. "Well, he could have at least phoned."

MJ said nothing. She gradually finished her toast, sighed, and stood up. "I'm gonna go get changed." She headed for the door, and then turned around. "And Mom? I'm gonna go back to my flat today or tomorrow, if that's okay. I appreciate all this, but...I can't stay here forever."

"I understand," Madeline said. She had been surprised her daughter had stayed with her as long as she did. "Don't worry."

"Thanks," she said. "Is that today's paper?"

Madeline saw she was looking at the dustbin, and before she could stop her she'd fished the paper out. "MJ, don't-"

MJ straightened the paper out and read aloud. "Spider-Man's priorities start to show: the man who allegedly saved his life lies in the morgue and he still won't come forward." Her voice grew high and angry. "Today the Bugle asks of Spider-Man, if you have any respect at all for your supposed friend's sacrifice-" She stopped reading in sudden fury, and threw the paper down on the table. "How could they?" she spat. "The bastards-"

"At least there's nothing in there about you," Madeline pointed out quietly. "Or at least, there hasn't been."

MJ picked up the paper and flipped through the pages.

"But-" she began, and then she trailed off and stopped. "You're right. I suppose-" She stopped again.

"It's John, MJ," Madeline said. "I think he's been pulling strings behind the scenes. It's his father owns the paper, after all."

"Why would he do that?" MJ asked, her voice cracking a bit.

"Surely you know," Madeline answered. She took MJ's plate away from the table and rinsed it in the sink. "You go get changed then, sweetheart."

MJ put the newspaper back on the table and hurried away. Madeline watched her go.

Sunlight hit the jar of sand, and lit it up. Every speck of dust in the room suddenly shone. Madeline lifted the jar from the table, and stared right into it. Nothing.

But she didn't open it, or empty it, or break it.

"Mom?" MJ called from the stairs. "I'm gonna go out in a minute."

MJ walked to the Bugle offices, her stomach churning. She hadn't told her mother exactly where she was going, although she thought she might have guessed. She had also taken a few things from the house to bring back to the flat- food, clothes, and the jar of sand. She hadn't been able to bring herself to throw it away, or any such thing, and although it had been given to her mother, Madeline didn't seem to want it.

She turned the corner onto the road where the offices were.

John might not even be there. And if he is, what will you say? What will you do?

She approached the building. Upon seeing it, she realised that she just couldn't go inside, and she was furious at her cowardice. So she slowly made her way to a bench, and sat there, and stared up the office windows. John could be in any one of them. In his father's office, maybe, talking to him. Or getting coffee, or walking down the stairs.

I'm sorry, John. I'm too afraid.

She closed her eyes and thought. Thought about falling- off bridges, into fire, into webs- thought about Peter, and Harry, and John, and her father. Of fighting and death and monsters and sand crumbling beneath her feet.

It's time to stop yourself from falling, kid. Time to reach out and hold on. You don't have to be caught. You can still survive.

She squeezed her eyelids tight to stop herself from crying, and then opened them again. There was someone sitting next to her on the bench- for one wild, relieved moment she thought it was John, almost opened her mouth to say his name- but it wasn't. It was a man she didn't know.

He was looking at her, though.

"I know you," he said. "Mary Jane Watson."

MJ suddenly had the urge to get up and run, or to give him an earful for staring at her so impolitely, but she didn't. She didn't have the energy. "Yeah," she said glumly. She was going to have to get used to this. Again.

"I'm Duane Stamos," he said. "'Course, you don't know me. But I was at the battle. I was one of the paramedics." He spoke like he had merely been present at a film set, or a rock concert.

"I see," MJ said, not knowing where he was going with this.

"It's weird, meeting you like this," he said, almost in awe. He paused. "What was it like?"

"What?" she said testily.

"Being up there in that taxi."

"Well, what do you think it was like? It was scary." She got up from the bench. "I'm going."

Duane Stamos said, "What's that?" and pointed to her bag. MJ looked at it. The jar of sand was sticking out. "A jar of sand," she snapped. "Would you-"

"Where'd you get it?" he asked, and something in his tone of voice made her opt not to scream her answer at him.

"From my father," she said. "I don't know what it is. I suppose you do?"

"Yeah," he murmured. He reached into his jacket pocket for some cigarettes. "There were loads of kids running around at that construction site. Goddamn irresponsable parents. Anyway, I heard the kids yelling that if you got a jar or bottle or something and filled it with sand from the battleground, then you'd be able to keep the Sandman in there, trapped in seperate jars, and he wouldn't be able to come back." He lit his cigarette. "Some of the kids did that, I think, although god knows where they got jars or bottles from. The trashcans, probably. But anyway..."

MJ took the jar out of her bag.

"I imagine some people- the superstitious, probably- went back later and took sand from the ground," Duane continued. "It's rather strange."

"Yes," MJ said. She held the jar close to her eyes, staring right into it. The rest of the world seemed to disappear around her: she stared and stared and stared. There was nothing there, no movement, nothing.

"I'll be off, then," Duane said. He gave her a strange little smile. "I've been trying to sell articles to the Bugle. They seem to be on the same wavelength as me." He headed off towards the building, smoking his cigarette, and MJ almost followed. But she didn't. She stood there for a while, jar in hand, and then she went back home.

Madeline had made chicken pie and chocolate cake for supper. The two of them sat calmly, eating.

"I know what the jar of sand's all about, Mom," MJ said, gesturing to it. It was still in her bag, which was now on the table. "I met this guy, he recognized me...he was obnoxious, but he saw the jar and knew what it meant."

"What does it mean?" Madeline asked.

"It was something some kids started, I think," MJ said. "They said-" She took the jar out of the bag. "They said pieces of the Sandman were in there. And if you had a jar, you were stopping him from coming back."

Madeline looked thoughtful. She took of bite of chicken.

"MJ," she asked. "Do you know what actually happened to the Sandman?"

Peter had told her, during those awful hours in front of the television- she could remember quite clearly. But she didn't know what to say.

"I don't think he's a threat anymore, Mom, and I don't think he's dead, but I don't know where he is or anything."

Madeline seemed reasonably satisfied with that. "Well," she said with a sigh. "I hope not to see him again. Him or any of them." She seemed very far away all of a sudden. "So your father was giving me one of the men who took you away."

"Yes," MJ said uncomfortably. "I guess he was."

Madeline pushed a pea around her plate. She was staring into space. "How...odd." she finally said.

"Mom," MJ said.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can I have the jar?"

Madeline looked at her. "I...yes, yes you can. I guess so. What are you going to do with it?"

MJ put her cutlery down. "Come with me, Mom," she said. She picked up the jar from her bag, and walked through to the back door. She opened it. The sun was just beginning to set outside, and the air was humid. It looked like a thunderstorm was on the way. It might clear the air a bit.

"MJ, what are you doing?"

"You'll see. Here-"

She glanced around the yard, and went to a concrete fencepost. She breathed in the harsh summer air-

-it's time to stop yourself from falling, kid-

-and she smashed the jar against the post. It broke instantly, and sand and glass was scattered on the ground, falling like from an hourglass. She watched it. Then she shook the remaining sand from the remaining piece of the jar, and turned to her mother.

Madeline was gawping at her.

"Put- put the broken glass down," she said. "You'll cut yourself."

MJ went to the trashcan and dropped it in there. "Yeah," she said, searching for the right words. "I hope you don't mind that I did that."

"No," Madeline said. She looked at the ground, at the sand, as if trying to stare it down. "The Sandman wasn't in there."

"No," MJ agreed. "Could've been, though. That's what the kids think."

"Yes," Madeline said, and gave a little shiver. "Come on in, MJ. It's going to rain soon, I think. There'll be a storm. Come in."

MJ did. Madeline ushered her through the door, still staring at the pile of sand by the fencepost- and then she followed her daughter inside.

"Eat up, sweetheart," she said, gesturing at the table. "And thank you," she found herself saying. "I wish your father hadn't given me that awful thing."

"He had his reasons, probably," MJ murmured.

They sat and finished their meal. Outside, it started to rain and then started to pour, and thunder echoed through the sky. The sand in the garden was washed away by morning, and Phil came by a few days later, and cleared away all of the glass.