Clarissa was still sweaty from the hot and heavy sex with Gene, who had risen from bed and put on his boxers. She watched his glistening body in the early morning light that bathed the modern Mies Van Der Rohe apartment. Scars were evident across his taut, brown musculature.
“Oh, this and that,” said Gene, sitting back down on the bed and fastening the leather strap of his watch to his wrist. “Allan keeps find work for us.”
“Why can’t you ever tell me any details?” asked Clarissa, who was still nude under the sheet; she propped herself up on one elbow. “Is it classified or something?”
“No,” Gene chuckled. “But I have to maintain confidentiality. That’s why they call it corporate espionage.”
“Well, that’s something. It’s not a messy Grosse Pointe divorce case. What corporation?”
Gene turned and ran his fingers through Clarissa’s short, but growing out, hair.
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “It’s just a boring job, anyway.”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” said Clarissa, folding her arms. “I don’t see why you can’t share intel with a fellow crime fighter.”
“Because if I told you everything, you’d solve the case immediately, Ms. Megaton Man. You’re the more powerful person in the universe; if you were on the case, you’d put the bad guys away in two seconds—then what would us poor civilians do with ourselves?”
“Nonsense,” said Clarissa. “You just don’t trust me. And I’m not the most powerful character in the universe—Megaton Man is, or the Human Meltdown.”
“Megaton Man is dormant, isn’t he?” said Gene. “He swallowed Cosmic Cue-Ball. And the Human Meltdown—that cad—is in Europe, and good riddance. That leaves you as America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero, lady …”
“I suspect the See-Thru Girl is more powerful than anybody thinks,” said Clarissa. “And then there’s Kiddo Bryson—her little toddler’s more destructive than I am. But don’t change the subject—you used to be a megahero yourself, didn’cha? We’re colleagues …”
Gene had risen again to put on his socks, trousers, and sleeveless undershirt, and was strapping on and underarm holster.
“We’re colleagues in a general sense, I suppose, yes,” said Gene. “But I was never a megahero. Just a costumed crime fighter; there’s a different. I had great acrobatic ability, athleticism. But that’s tough to keep up. And I relied on technology and smarts. Still, I spend half my time in the hospital recuperating, or in physical therapy rehabbing.”
“I bet you could still do it,” said Clarissa. “What did you call yourself again?”
“The Purple Penetrator,” said Gene.
“Ooh, that’s dirty,” said Clarissa. “Do me again.”
Gene sighed. “Clarissa, I’m already late. Allan’s already on a stake out.”
Clarissa looked up at the ceiling. “I guess Avie’s trying to be a costumed crime fighter. She’s got the costume …”
“That’s a good way to get yourself killed,” said Gene, putting on a light hoody.
“I’m just saying, she’s got the costume. She’s got some dancer moves, but I wouldn’t call her an acrobat or an athlete, although she has been working out.”
“She’s not bullet proof,” said Gene.
“I wish you’d talk to her. Now c’mere, fuck me again.”
Clarissa pulled gene’s arm; with one knee on the bed he stooped over to kiss her.
“What do you want with all this?” he asked. “I mean, what do you want—to have a relationship, to have a baby, to raise a family?”
“Oh, no baby,” said Clarissa. “Not yet. Isn’t great sex good enough?”
“It’s a means to an end,” said Gene. “That’s the way I think of it.”
“What a strange notion,” said Clarissa. “Do you want to have a baby? Raise a family?”
“I wish I had the means,” said Gene. “Someday soon. Yes, I’d like to be a father.”
“You think I’m a slut, don’t you?” said Clarissa. “You think I’m just a silly college girl.”
“I think you have some decisions to make,” said Gene. “You need to decide for yourself what all of this is adding up to.”
“What do you mean, ‘adding up to’?”
“I’m not criticizing, mind you. You’re young, you’re playing the field; you’re sowing some wild oats, as they say. That’s all right. I was your age once.”
“You think I’m a nymphomaniac.”
“I think no such thing. I just think you want to be liked a little too much.”
“But only by you. I’m crazy about you. I’m not like that with others.”
“That’s nice to hear, but …”
“You want me to stop seeing other people. I will. I will do that, Gene, for you. No other men, no other women …”
“That’s not what I’m after. You just be yourself. Enjoy your life. Figure out what it is you want. It’s not dire; it’ll come to you in good time. You have school to finish, I understand that. I’ll be around. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Screw me again, Daddy,” said Clarissa. “I mean, Gene.”
Clarissa was sitting up, grabbing Gene by the shoulders.
“Don’t leave me just yet,” she pleaded. “I can’t protect you when you’re out on a case.”
Gene slowly removed Clarissa’s hands from his arms. “Like I said, give yourself some time.” He stood up, grabbed a baseball cap off the top of the dresser of drawers.
“Fanny knows somebody,” said Clarissa. “I mean Donna. She knows somebody who does sex counseling. A woman social worker who used to work with the police. She has office space in the same professional building.”
“Maybe you could talk to her,” said Gene. “There’s nothing wrong with you Clarissa. You just have some questions to answer. Take some time.”
“By the way—Donna’s having a backyard cookout tomorrow—Sunday,” said Clarissa. “You and Allan have to come. Everyone will be there. Six and Inkster.”
“That’s where the white people live, isn’t it?” said Gene, smiling. “I’ll try to make it—I’ll try to remember to dress white.”
After Gene left, Clarissa lingered in bed; she didn’t feel like taking a shower. The sun was brilliant through the floor-to-ceiling window facing Windsor, Ontario. Everything was quiet except for the faint, muffled sound of Detroit traffic not far from Lafayette Park. Eventually, Clarissa stood up, found her panties, put them on.
She went to the dresser of drawers; she opened the top drawer. Dark dress socks, some small, framed pictures of two black folks she suspected were Gene’s parents, and a bottle of cologne.
She took the top off the bottle and smelled the cologne.
It reminded her of when she was a little girl.
“Daddy,” she said to herself.
The morning breeze was cool and bracing off the lake; so much more refreshing than the humidity in the Detroit suburbs had been. Ernie Penn Pierson was relaxed in a flannel shirt and worn jeans, quite a change from the shirt and tie he wore even during the Summer Arts Camp at Robert Louis Stephenson Senior High School. He knew the day would warm up and the flannel shirt would need to come off; he’d probably have to change to shorts before the afternoon. But at least he’d escaped up north—so far, so good.
Ironic that Vice Principal Victoria Bryant insisted on calling the Summer Arts Day Camp a camp; it took place during the day in the regular school building; there was no overnight stay and the only part that took place outdoors were the marching band rehearsals, which would have started up this time of year even without a camp. The only thing different was that parents had to drop their students off, or students had to drive themselves, as school buses were not running. That wasn’t camping, Ernie thought, and as any Michigander would know; this was camping, or more like it, at his family’s cabin; this was going “up north,” as Detroiters and suburban Detroiters knew it, escaping civilization for the great outdoors.
The Penn Pierson family cabin was a genteel, rundown affair on the Greater Simpson Lake, which ran by Simpson Creek north into the AuSable River right at Grayling. His father, who worked in the old Packard car plant, had bought the place in the fifties from one of his older coworkers who had built it back in the twenties. It still didn’t have indoor plumbing, and no insulation, hence was only good in the spring and summer months, and with the fireplace burning, into Indian summer; but at least it had been electrified since the seventies.
But it still felt like roughing it to Ernie, who’d been visiting it every summer since he was a boy. He loved fishing, although he never got good at it, on the lake; it was a short drive to kayaking and canoeing on the AuSable River, which he loved, because you could just float along with the fairly rapid current. He liked outdoor campfires with the sun setting across the lake; he didn’t even mind the outhouse. It was always a trip back in time, with local stores that carried quaint, old-fashioned can food brands he never saw on shelves in Detroit, and second hand comic books he’d never heard of before.
His parents now gone, Ernie brought friends and male lovers up to the cabin for weekends or a week at a time; while there were cabins on other properties on the lake, there was isolation and privacy and Ernie could imagine he was a pioneer, with the world beginning again.
The first week of Summer Arts Camp had been a qualified success, after it looked like it was going to be a disaster—this despite the mishap with the boiler room. His slate of canceling visiting artists threatened to derail the whole affair, but the substitute visiting artists had been a godsend, exceeding every expectation; they were a dream come true—and too good to be true.
Ernie brought them along on this trip up north.
He still didn’t know much about them—where they came from, where they had studied their respective crafts, what their exact credentials were; they still hadn’t completed the necessary paperwork he knew Bryant and the school district demanded be on file. But they had done such an extraordinary job: the mural was turning out wonderfully, dramatic rehearsals were already emotionally moving; the ceramics would take days to dry out before they could even be fired, but even in a raw state were impressive, and the jewelry in week two promised to be extraordinary. The woodworking in shop was phenomenal, and the jazz ensemble never sounded better—even that dissipated, drunken band director was inspired to shape up, something Ernie never thought he’d lived to see.
What was curious was how the visiting artists all seemed to marvel at everyday things—the telephone, television, mail delivery—even the citizen’s band radio on the van ride up to the lake. These modern appurtenances seemed to delight and amuse the visiting artists—had they never seen such things before? Or were they scoffing at them as somehow archaic and antiquated?
How did such diverse creative types become so chummy with one another, anyway? That a jazz guitarist, a wood carver, a ceramicist, a thespian, and a painter all get to know one another? There seemed to be a bond among this group that Ernie couldn’t quite fathom.
At least Ernie had gotten them up north for the weekend and out of Avondale, where they could find trouble. He had no reason to believe they’d had anything to do with the explosion in the boiler room, but he had a hunch the mishap was not unconnected to the sudden appearance of these godsends just a few days before. In any case, they were away from Bryant, the school board, and prying media figures like John Bradford, who was snooping around for a sensational story.
Ernie was afraid there just might be a story to be found.
For now, Hatori and Jordyn were out on the lake, rowing in an old aluminum boat; Dallas and Hoskins, who Ernie thought sure were a couple, were implementing some much-needed repairs on the cabin; and Munro and Merino were uphill in the woods, fetching some firewood for the fireplace and an outdoor bonfire that evening.
Ernie thought a lot about Munro, fantasized about his dark features and blue-black hair. Ernie wasn’t sure of Munro’s sexuality; earlier in the week, he’d planned on asking him up to the cabin alone, but as things shaped up, it had turned into a group trip. Still, perhaps there would be an opportunity this weekend.
Ernie decided to walk up the hill toward the woods to see how Munro and Merino, a handsome black man that also piqued Ernie’s desire, was doing. He’d presented them with a sharp, new axe, but was none too sure either knew how to use it. Best to make sure they weren’t going to inadvertently lop off an arm or a foot.
He heard the sound of wood falling, logs hitting the ground, and two mean conversing; he quickly found the clearing. The sun was rising quickly and the sun was now overhead, the two men had stripped to the waist. They had amassed a good pile of quartered wood already; Merino was setting a log vertically on a tree stump. A short distance away, he saw the axe, embedded in a log lying prone on the ground.
Ernie was so captivated by the sight of the men he didn’t immediately grasp what they were doing. Munro stood a good distance away, ten or twenty feet. “There you go,” said Merino, stepping back from the log he’d set on the tree stump.
Ernie expected Munro to grab the axe, but instead, he drew something that looked like a pistol. “Just don’t tell the women I confiscated this spitfire,” he said, as he took aim. “But this should save us a bit of labor.”
A sheet of flame shot from the weapon, directly at the upright log—which split in two clean halves with a minimum of splintering. Each half landed ten feet away on either side of the stump.
Munro and Merino hadn’t seen Ernie until after the split logs rolled to a stop, one half at Ernie’s feet. Ernie’s mouth was agape. He was staring at the weapon in Munro’s hand.
“What is that thing?” said Ernie. “Don’t tell me that’s the ray gun.”
An expression of guilt and embarrassment descended on the faces of two visiting artists.
“You did have something to do with the boiler explosion,” said Ernie. “You guys really are from outer space!”
Next: Signal from Space [Link available Friday, June 24, 2022, 10:00 AM EDT]
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