The Indestructible Man Page 16

  Though he feared the scalpel blade would splinter against the skin, it went in easily, cutting a “Y” into the soft bloodless torso with the gentlest pressure, exposing the heart, lungs, bowels. Because he had been told to probe deeply, he examined the body with the greatest care, taking blood and tissue samples, feeling the spongy masses with his latex-coated fingers. But after many hours he found nothing remarkable. The heart seemed particularly weak, sitting pinkish-yellow and inflamed in the chest cavity.

  He pulled the suit out of the bag, tugged at it, held it up to the light to see if it possessed any supernatural attributes he had not considered. It smelled faintly of medicated powder and newspaper ink. Though he expected to find bullet-proof lining or other reinforcement, he realized it was merely a pair of sky-blue long johns, the yellow and red “S” embroidered on the chest in yarn; threadbare crimson boxers; and a pair of thin rubber boots spray-painted blood red. The wrinkled cape was cut from an old flannel bedsheet and fixed to the shoulders with Velcro.

  The medical examiner tried to picture the old man in his skin-tight outfit, swinging his legs over the edge of some rooftop and launching himself into the air, cape billowing behind him like butterfly wings. For a moment the idea crept into his head to lock himself in his office, put on the suit and cape, take the service elevator to the roof, and dive off to see what happened. The rush of air and adrenaline would feel wonderful in those first few seconds, before his arc deteriorated and he smacked against the sidewalk twelve stories down. He wondered if the old man ever felt that kind of exhilaration, if he was somehow able to extend those few seconds into minutes, into hours, until the laws of physics no longer applied.

  The medical examiner finished his work, stitched up the body. His superiors would be unhappy, but the proof was right in front of him: those callused hands were those of a normal working man—a steelworker, perhaps a carpenter. Yet, if the stories were to be believed, they had once bent steel bars, smashed through brick walls to save kidnapped children, subdued gun-wielding thieves and madmen too many times to count.

  He shook his head, drew the white sheet back over the corpse. It was all a lie, of course. Any sane person could see that. He returned the body to the cooler and closed the metal door with a clang. The suit still lay spread across another table in the examination room, waiting to be stuffed back into its plastic bag and shut up in a locker. He felt the cape fabric with his fingers, lifted the suit and let it unfurl before him, held it against his body to look at his reflection in the window. The fit seemed perfect.

  He sat in his office for hours, staring at the makeshift costume laid out across his desk, until it was dark outside and the staff had gone home. Finally the phone rang, startling him—his wife, asking when he would be home. “I’m on my way,” he said, pushing away from his desk. He gathered up the blue suit, stroking the red “S” with his fingertips before folding it gingerly back into the bag.

  That night he dreamt of shadowy figures in black trenchcoats emerging from alleys and manhole covers, knowing their chance had finally come. They scattered in the dim moonlight, heading for the shops, banks, and homes of the city. Inside their houses people huddled together for protection, casting hopeful glances toward the sky. His eyes snapped open and he found himself panting, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, and though he tried to calm himself he could not go back to sleep.

  He rolled out from under his wife’s arm and reached under the bed, careful not to let the rustling of plastic wake her. Stumbling in the dark bedroom, he threw on some loose clothes and went for a walk in the cool night air. He had gone only a few blocks when his ears caught the distant wail of fire engines. At the very limit of his hearing he thought he could make out the muffled cries of children. He squinted in the direction of the city, miles away; in the pre-dawn light he saw a long plume of black smoke rising above the jutting skyline. Somewhere, he knew, children were trapped in a burning high-rise, beyond the reach of firemen’s ladders, their escape blocked by flames. His heart beat hard in his chest; he felt the blue fabric snug against his skin, the flowing cape folded beneath his cardigan. On the corner was an empty phone booth, its door hanging open, inviting him inside. He closed the door behind him; his twill pants and sweater fell away, and in seconds he emerged, breaking into a run, each crimson-booted footfall lighter than the last, until gravity began to lose its hold and his feet no longer touched the ground.

  To The Sleeper

  You were gone three days before I found you, caked with dirt, dried leaves clinging to your shirt, curled up and snoring under an old elm with sagging branches. It took the children and me an hour just to lift you into the cart to carry you home. You did not wake. Nothing could wake you, not my prodding in your side, not smelling salts, not even lit matches touched to your fingertips.

  No one since has been able to explain what happened to you, though for years I heard the rumors: you were lulled into the woods by soft unearthly music that caused you to fall into a timeless and irretrievable sleep. At the time I thought it more likely you had simply drunk far more whiskey than your body could withstand. I thought you would die soon, but the doctors told me you were merely sleeping, that for all they knew you could awaken at any moment. That was twenty years ago, almost to the day.

  I could not do much with you then but remove your soiled clothes, wipe the dirt from your face where it was pressed into the earth, slide you into a clean nightshirt, and lay you in bed in an out-of-the-way corner downstairs so you would never be out of our sight. At first, because I was lonely and the house grew chilly at night, I slept next to you; the rhythm of your breath, the warmth of your body, comforted me at night, and I would fall asleep counting your snores.

  But soon I realized it was not enough, that your snoring and still form could never replace the sight of you parading around the yard, one of our children clinging to each leg, another riding piggyback, arms snugly fastened about your neck. It was not something I was accustomed to seeing, but there were a few such moments and that is the way I would prefer to remember you. Until you wake, it will do.

  You lie in the same corner even now, your bed pushed against the wall so you do not obstruct the daily chores. You do not seem to require food, though the doctors do not know why and, grudgingly, I will admit it now seems likely that a spell has caused your sleep. Every so often the doctors insist on tapping at your joints, listening for your heartbeat to see if anything has changed, but there seems no need for concern; your heart is strong, your breathing normal, and so all that remains for me to do is change your nightshirts now and then and brush the fresh dust from your face every morning. I still tickle your ears and nose with the feather-duster, hoping to rouse you in disgruntled laughter. It has been a long time since I heard you laugh. But you are silent except for the snoring.

  The children are gone now, away to homes of their own, so there is no danger that their play will wake you, and when our grandchildren climb over your bed you do not seem to mind.

  Though I found it endearing at first, after a while I came to find your bouts of snoring intolerable, so as soon as you start I simply turn you on your side and go on about my tasks in peace. You talk in your sleep sometimes, asking a dream-version of me for an extra pancake for breakfast, another beer. “Get it yourself,” I say, but if you cannot be waited on you would just as soon go without. Eventually your dream-self is satisfied, and you settle back into quiet sleep. Your dreams must be quite boring—from your sleeping lips I hear snippets of everyday conversations with old friends, talking about work, cigars, women. I sometimes wonder if I am in them only to serve you.

  I often wonder why you kept the family finances from me for so long, hunched secretively over your contracts and ledgers as if there were some mystery to them, tucking them away whenever I might look over your shoulder, as if you feared they were so far beyond me that I would go blind from a single peek. They are my responsibility now, and there is really no mystery to them at all. They are only numbers.

>   Because you cannot work I had to find a way to support us, so since you left us I have taken up work as a seamstress. The children have all offered to chip in, but it is not necessary; I am very skilled, and the men in town now come to me for custom-made suits, the young girls for wedding gowns and sundresses. My designs have lately become fashionable even among the wealthier townspeople. I have taught my skills to a few of the village girls; they work for me now. The money is good, and it seems we take in more and more every week—more than you ever brought home in a week of carpentry. Do not be jealous; if we take into account the money you spent buying drinks for yourself and the young women you tried to impress, things might even out.

  I could leave this place, of course, buy something larger, better. But this is still home, and I know every creak and moan of this old house. Still, I have made a few changes to keep myself from growing bored with these same, familiar walls—the paint is new, as are the blinds and the hardwood floor in the children’s old bedroom, now our guestroom. I think that, when you finally wake, you will find it a very different place. You may even like it.

  I have taken lovers from time to time—not many, just a few young men from town. They mean little to me. But once the children were gone the house seemed echoey and lonely and so quiet that I could barely sit inside, coming in only to sleep. The children do not know and do not need to. We are discreet, respectful enough to retreat into the upstairs bedroom rather than writhe under your snoring nose. If you notice, you do not say.

  Since you need so little, I have taken to going off with our children for a few days at a time—never more than that, and always with someone to check on you to make sure you are safe and undisturbed. I have seen the sun set behind the mountains, dangled my feet in the surf of the coast. I will never understand why you always refused to leave home, why you insisted on remaining in your old ugly rocking chair at home before the fireplace, or at the tavern with your business friends and poker mates. I must remember to ask you one day.

  And I have run with our grandchildren in the open grassy field behind our house—we have four, with another soon to come. To them you are more a piece of furniture than a grandfather, a warm sleeping statue stretched out in the corner of their grandmother’s house. At Christmas they climb over you and play with your limp arms and fingers. Last New Year’s, the youngest crawled up on the bed next to you and yelled “Happy New Year” in your ear. We all watched as you turned over and groaned, but then you stopped moving and resumed your silence. Keeping them from crawling on you, putting small sticks and fingers in your nostrils, painting you up like a clown with bits of chalk, has become a chore in itself. It is very hard not to laugh. Keeping up with their play has made me fit again, and I feel as if ten years have fallen away from me. Once you are with us again it will take a long time for you to catch up. But I imagine you will, eventually.

  Because of the time I spend with them I sometimes fail to tend you as well as I should; at times I find your graying beard grown bristly and wild, a coat of dust on you thick enough to write on with my finger. Forgive me; they take up so much of my time now it is difficult to think of anything else.

  In the past few days your sleep has grown restless, and you shift from side to side, groaning in protest of waking. It will be soon, I think, so I try to remain near your bedside. I would not have you waking alone in an unfamiliar place, bewildered, calling for someone, anyone to explain what has happened. When you do I will be there, so when you open your eyes my face will be the first thing you see. It is not the same face you last laid eyes on twenty years ago, when, grumbling after an argument over cold potatoes, you wandered into the woods alone. But I imagine it is still recognizable. If I am alien to you there is nothing I can do, nothing I care to do. I cannot be who I was before you left us, do not even wish to; if you will not like what you see it might be better that you remain asleep. It will at least spare you the shock of seeing what has slipped away from you these past twenty years. But I cannot control what you will think. I can only watch carefully as you stir and wonder, as your eyes begin to open, what they are about to see.

  About the author

  William Jablonsky was born and raised in Rock Falls, Illinois. He received his BA and MA in literature from Northern Illinois University, and is a graduate of Bowling Green State University’s MFA program in creative writing. His short fiction has appeared in several literary journals, including Artful Dodge, the Beloit Fiction Journal, the Southern Humanities Review, and the GW Review, among others. He currently lives in South Milwaukee, Wisconsin with his wife and three cats, and is at work on a novel.