Chapter 2
Conversation rings through the kitchen, the walls echo with laughter, joy and amazement as the Parrs share their thoughts and hopes for the future. The youngest of their current ensemble-the two brothers either were at sports practices or with friends-Violet shares her plans for the night. Homework, study and crime fighting. The two older conversational participants laugh at her enthusiasm, however, a metallic ring ends the laughter as Bob walks to the door, his footfalls rattling fixtures as in his boisterous state he cares little to hide who he is.
The door opens; the man standing there shares little in common with Bob. Small, scrawny and scowling he simply hands Bob a plain envelope, nods and leaves. As he steps into the car, he shakes his head at Bob, whose large hand was slowly starting to open the brown secret. Bob stops, gulps, nods again as the car pulls out of the driveway, and roars down the road.
"Honey, who's at the door?" The voice of Helen rings off the harvest gold walls. Bob bellows back,
"No one dear, just someone looking for directions." This seems to satisfy his wife's curious urge as he sprints his eye up and down the street before closing the door. As he walks back to the kitchen, he makes sure to slide the envelope into his coat pocket, knowing he would read it later. As he steps into the kitchen, he claps his meaty hands, "all right then, you know what I was thinking?" He stops and stares, almost expecting them to answer, but their only reply is the raising of eyebrows. "How about we go out and celebrate, nice meal, fancy waiter. What do you two think?" They think in silence as smiles slowly creep onto their faces and both of them nod. "Great! I will pick up the boys you two get ready! Also Violet, want to invite, oh, what is that boy's name?" Violet rolls her eyes,
"Tony and no, he is out of town for the week." Helen turns,
"Is everything ok?"
"Yes mom, he is just visiting family, and then he will come back."
Bob's brow furors as he mumbles, "He better not have any 'special' plans for the two of you." Helen promptly smacks her husband on the upside of the head,
"Go get the boys you behemoth." Helen states, forgoing the nicety of asking. Bob nods, grabs the keys and leaves. His attempt to not slam the door is a failure; due in part to his bulk rather than anger.
Following the departure of the giant, Violet slowly plays with a quarter on the kitchen table as Helen sits down. The mother notices her daughters expression, silently mouthing words, stuttering even during her practice runs; a motherly smile breaks out over her face, "What is it Vi?"
"Well," she looks at her mother, debating the recourse of telling her emotions or simply covering up her tracks and discarding this conversation trail immediately.
"Come on little lady, I can tell you have something on your mind,"
"Well, since I am kinda sixteen, going on seventeen in the next month," her fingers pent and tent as she stammers her way through the request, "I was wondering if you and dad would mind too much if I, sorta, worked on my own as a super hero?" She winces, bracing for the verbal cascade of reasons and fears that would keep her within the family unit and team. However, it never comes. Helen nods, sighs and looks at her daughter with understanding and apprehension,
"Well, I can't say I am too surprised at this point. I mean, when I was your age I was already out there, on my own, fighting, laughing and enjoying the exhilaration that I felt." Violet smiles at this, but as her mother continues to speak the smile slowly fades into the corners of her moth, "but, it was also a different time, I had a lot more experience and skill than you did at your age."
"How is that my fault?" Violet protests.
"I am not saying that it is your fault, but rather that it is a simple fact, you have less experience than I would like."
"But, how can I get it with you, dad, Jack or Dash always watching over my shoulder?" She breathes in deeply, frustration and anger working into her voice as she prepares to launch into a monsoon of reasons, arguments and facts. Helen raises a hand,
"Whoa, let me finish." The young Parr breathes deeply and the mother can see the frustration welling up in her eyes, "like I was about to say; I know you're inexperienced, however, we can't shelter you forever and as such I think that your father and I will let you go on your own once in a while, keep." As the words, leave her lips Violet jumps, whooping and causing a racket. Helen shush her daughter, placing her hands on her shoulders, "keep in mind this is a great privilege that we will be giving you and that you can lose this privilege should we think you are not treating it with the respect that it deserves." Violet nods her head, to ecstatic to think, but her broad grin communicates all that needs to be said. Violet wraps her arms around her mother,
"Thank you, thank you so much," the mother strokes her midnight hair and simply nods. "May I go to my room there are some things I want to think about," her voice bubbles as she starts down the hallway. The door is already closed before Helen can even utter a single word. A hush falls over the house as Helen smiles as she stands. Walking to the kitchen, she thinks of gifts to get her young daughter for the following month. Deciding she picks up the phone and dials a familiar number,
"Maud? It's Elastagirl; I would love—if you have the free time—to ask something of you."
-I-
As Bob drives, the plain brown envelope taunts him. Light poles, pedestrians and the golden autumn leaves pass by in a blur, devoid of meaning and recognition. Through the streets, avenues and boulevards the single envelope, its lips containing untold secrets of the future, sits there and like a siren beckons him to stop his odyssey to his son and rush with it into headlong consumption. To bathe it its white oceans of paper and to bask on the beaches of black, typed words. However, Bob ignores the temptress and continues only. Only stopping to avoid hitting a jaywalker. The criminal apologises and runs on. Bob briefly thinks of taking him in, but he stops himself as his fingers touch the metal door handle.
"How would that headline look as his big return 'Mr. Incredible Returns: Jaywalker Apprehended, Faces Twenty Dollar Fine!' Not very flashy or heroic, could have been good for a chuckle" Bob thinks to himself. While he bemuses himself over title headlines he slowly pulls into the parking lot parallel to the Metroville Composite High School Field; once named Robert Parr Field during better days. He smiles as he watches his son, while his digits open the envelope without ocular aide. He turns his head and reads the black words on the white background. They read of fear, hatred and socialism; all of the words Bob has trouble tolerating.
Minutes pass in seconds and before Bob is done digesting the information packed letter a rap on the window rattles him. Much to his pleasure and his paranoia's disappointment it is only his son, streaked in sweat and dirt. Bob motions to the backseat, with his son immediately opening the door and swiftly taking his seat; the stench was overwhelming.
"Hey dad, how did I look out there?" The excited youth eagerly asks his father, obviously fishing for praise. Bob nods as he slides the envelope under some other papers he keeps in the car,
"You were amazing Dash, did the coach tell you if you are in the starting line up?" The car pulls into reverse and slowly begins to drive.
"Not yet, but if he doesn't put me he would have to be insane I think," the youth states with unabashed hubris. Bob can only chuckle at his son's eagerness as the car turns left down the street from the school.
"Well, then we will have two reasons to celebrate tonight, but first we have to pick up Jack." The two talk oblivious to the stocky bearded man watching, a cigar in his lips and scars on his knuckles. The smoke of the Cuban passes through the coarse bristle of his mustache as it saunters out of his nose. He turns to the car he is leaning against and looks in the window,
-I-
"We have to move." The youth at the wheel simply nods, shifting into gear as a cigar is tossed into a nearby green metal trash can and the older man steps into the passenger side of the car. Before the door even closes the car peels out of the parking stall it was residing in. "I know the children we should not expect much from, but I would have hoped that himself would show the signs of proving a challenge to you comrade." He slaps a meaty hand on the boulder like shoulders of the youth driving.
"Certainty, first his daughter and now him, I wonder why comrade Brezhnev even thought they were even a threat worth sending us to handle?" He chuckles as his grip tightens, causing the other man to blanch as he see the metal bend under his youthful strength.
"Well comrade, you can never be too careful. For what would happen if one day these placid super heroes," a cough interrupts the disdainful tone of his lecture. "Rose up and used their extra ordinary abilities against the Motherland? What would be next, maybe the Socialist Republics of Yugoslavia?" The threat hangs in the air.
"It matters not, I have no loyalty to Tito and my parents are members of the USSR, not that paltry Balkan Federation." The older man simply shrugs, chuckling as he absent-mindedly rolls down the window, gazing at the prosperity the Americans enjoyed.
"I have no doubt of your loyalty son," the word hangs in mock truth, "but the KGB often are too paranoid for their own good." He pauses as they pass a window display of color televisions. He sighs in longing. "The Americans here are spoiled, no?"
"Very, but why do you state the obvious?"
"Just," a pause, dangerous in the wrong company, "envy I suppose. They hardly work, they hardly suffer and what do they get as a reward? Color television!" He slams the fist into the dash. "They wallow in pleasure while their own brothers," he gestures to a man sleeping in filth on a bench, "suffer indignity that is not even befitting of animals!"
"Calm yourself comrade, I do not judge. In fact I agree with every word."
"I am sorry," he runs his hands through his greying hair and sighs, "I just wish we could all benefit from our labors equally and eliminate poverty."
"We will comrade, once we break the American's military and reserves of extraordinary persons, and then we can finally focus on the true goal of the Soviet system; prosperity." The car turns and parks in the lot of a rundown apartment. "When will 'mother' be home?"
"Later, after she completes her reconnaissance. By the way, did they accept the papers?" He reaches back grabbing brown bags of vegetables and ammunition.
The young man grins, breaking his usual sullen demeanor. It unsettles his 'father'. "Without—as they say—a hitch." He steps out of the car and pulls out his wallet, flashing his student identification card. The picture is most unbecoming. The older man grabs it and reads it chuckling.
"It never stops amusing and thrilling me to see code names in use, wouldn't you say Hugo Blitva?"
"Please," Hugo grabs the card and stuffs it back into his wallet, "I wish to be called by my real name." A glare is the immediate response.
"I guess what they say about Serbians is true, that you are all pig headed idiots." The insults hangs, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Hugo clenches his fist, but the older man stands to his full height. Six foot six, but he is still dwarfed by the furious teenager by two inches.
"What did you say comrade?" The door slams, shaking the black vehicle.
"You know what I said and you should know by now that your name is gone, you are now Hugo! Son of Peter and Katherine Blitva! The old you is gone, dead, locked in some dungeon of moldy folders!" The man slams the car back, it shifts but not to the effortless extent it did under Hugo's powerful arm.
Hugo opens his mouth, but looks down and sighs. Peter sees an obvious tremble in the youth's limbs. Not sure if in anger, hatred or simply despair Hugo falls to his knees. "You, you, are right comrade. I am gone. Dead." He slowly pulls himself up with the aid of the car, much to the anguish of the shocks. "I am gone and so, someday, will be Hugo. But, I know who I really am, deep down." Peter reaches for his gun, fearing for the worst, but Hugo extends his hand out and gently stops the older man from drawing, "I am the Geomancer."
Peter laughs, a gigantic grin breaking through his beard. "Glad you have some sense boy; now get the rest of the groceries. We have a four star meal of Yankee slop planned; hot dogs, hamburgers and coke." His voice trails as he notices an older woman, her window open, phone in hand and planter overhead. Peter looks at the youth, who sighs, knowing the necessity of the next action. With a flick of Hugo's wrist, the clay on planter bulges while the steel hook bends under the gaze of the youth. Before the words enter the phone, with the police on the other end, the planter with a large cluster of geraniums collides with her elderly cranium. Eyeballs burst free of sockets as the sickening, wet crunch fills the air. The two sigh in relief.
"It's a shame when you think about," Peter says, indifferently picking up the fallen groceries.
"How so, she was going to revel us." Hugo responds flatly.
"Oh, not that boy. The fact that some innocent Negro will get blamed for killing an old white lady is all."
Hugo stares and sighs, "it then is a shame she died," his voice devoid of emotion as he picks up a package of hot dogs, the condensation glistening in the fall sun.