F. Wilson: Secret Histories

As Tom, Kate, and Jack returned to the kitchen, Tom whispered, “The future of what? Maybe if you’re a math geek, but for us normal folks?” He shook

his head. “Dad’s gone off the deep end.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kate said. “Like you’d know a thing about it.”

“Remember when he said Betamax would last and VHS would fade away? This is the same thing—a dead end.”

The crossing topics of computers and VCRs brought to mind the tape Jack had rented last month: Tron. Much of the film took place inside a computer.

The story was kind of boring but cool to watch.

“I think it’s neat,” he said.

Tom pointed to Jack. “Hear that? Miracle boy thinks it’s neat. I guess I’l have to revise my opinion.”

Then, with one swift motion, Tom swept Jack’s shel ed pistachios off the counter and popped them into his mouth.

“Hey!”

“What?” Tom said, chewing. “Were those yours?”

“You know they were!”

Jack raised a fist and started toward him—Tom was bigger but Jack didn’t care. Anger had taken control.

Kate stepped between them. “That was pretty lame.”

“What? They were just lying there.” He grinned at Jack over Kate’s shoulder. “Want ‘em back?”

Jack started for him again, but Kate held him back. He could have pushed her aside but no way he’d do that to Kate.

As Tom sauntered out, Jack said, “Bastard.”

“Don’t let Mom hear that,” Kate said.

“Wel , he is.”

“Immature is more like it.” She ruffled Jack’s hair. “You rocked his world when you were born. He was cock of the walk around here for ten years, and

then Mom’s ‘miracle boy’ arrived. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it. A bad case of arrested development.”

“How about you?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? You were a baby, a real, live baby. Suddenly I didn’t have to play make-believe with dol s anymore, I had the real thing to

care for. I was in heaven.” She hugged him. “I thought you were the best thing that ever happened to me. I stil do, Jackie.”

“Jack, Kate. Jack.”

Jack lay in bed reading a copy of TheSpider, a 1939 magazine with yel owed, flaking pages. Mr. Rosen at USED, where Jack worked part-time, had

stacks of old magazines and let Jack take home a couple at a time to read—”As long as you return them in the condition you received them.”

Jack had already read the half-dozen copies of TheShadow in the stacks. Lately he’d moved on to TheSpider—MasterofMen!, obviously a Shadow

rip-off, copying the slouch hat and the bil owing black cape, but a different kind of guy. Jack had thought the Shadow was cool, but the Spider was even

cooler. The Shadow fought mostly regular crooks while the Spider dealt with threats to the world. Like this issue: “King of the Fleshless Legion,” with al

sorts of skeletons on the cover and the Spider rushing in to save a woman locked alive in a coffin.

Neat.

He wished he could buy posters of these covers. Some of the posters he had now—especial y the one of Devo in their flowerpot hats—were getting

ratty. Besides, he hardly listened to Devo anymore. He certainly wasn’t going to replace his Phil ies pennant, not when they looked like they had a shot at

the World Series this year.

His beloved Eagles, however …

After that stupid footbal players’ strike last season they went a whopping three and six. Wasn’t easy being an Eagles’ fan these days. Maybe with

Vermeil out and that new coach—

He jumped as he heard a single knock on his door. He looked up and saw his father enter.

“How’s it going, Jack?”

“Fine.”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “You sure? Finding that … body today isn’t bothering you?”

Jack realized this was a side Dad didn’t show much. He tended to be the stiff-upper-lip sort: If you fal down you pick yourself up and keep going without whining or complaining.

“Real y, I’m fine.”

In fact, what the bad guys were doing to the Spider and what he was giving right back to them had pretty much wiped the body from his mind.

“You going to be able to sleep okay?”

“Think so. I’m not scared, if that’s what you mean. It was gross, but I won’t be dreaming about him coming for me or anything like that.”

At least he didn’t think so. He figured if anything kept him awake it would be questions about who was dead and who had done it and why he was kil ed

and what sort of ritual was used. The last time he’d been too scared to sleep had been a couple of years ago, right after reading ‘Salem’sLot —afraid to

look at his window for fear he’d see Eddie floating outside it.

Dad patted Jack’s leg. “Good. But if you have any problems during the night, don’t be afraid to give a hol er.” His gaze drifted to the magazine. “Good

God, where’d you get that?”

Jack handed it to him. “Mister Rosen’s got a bunch.”

Dad stared at the cover, a smile hovering about his lips. “I used to read these as a kid.”

Jack did a quick calculation: They’d celebrated Dad’s fifty-third birthday last month, which meant he’d been born in 1930. So he would have been nine

when this issue was printed. Nine might have been kind of young, but yeah, he could have read this very copy. Jack knew his father had been a kid once,

but this made his childhood … real. He suddenly saw Dad in a new light.

“Did you like them?”

“You kidding? Doc Savage, the Shadow, and this guy … I loved them.” He flipped through the yel owed pages. “Can I borrow this?”

Jack was only halfway through the story and didn’t want to give it up. He reached into his nightstand drawer and pul ed out another issue he’d already

finished.

“How about this one?”

Dad grinned at the cover: High atop the George Washington Bridge, the Spider battled with a guy in some sort of diving suit over a girl in a shredded

red dress.

“‘Slaves of the Laughing Death.’ I love it.” He rose and slapped Jack on the leg. “Thanks. This’l bring back old memories. And I think you’l be just fine

tonight.”

Jack thought so too. But he was concerned about the magazine. Mr. Rosen would have his hide if it came back damaged.

“Just return it in the condition you got it.”

“No matter what I do, I can’t get it open.”

Jack could sense Weezy’s frustration. It fil ed her bedroom like a storm cloud. He and Eddie knelt on the floor with the black cube from the mound between

them. Weezy sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her hands together. Jack had told them about the ritual murder story from the sheriff’s office. Usual y that

kind of thing would grab Weezy’s attention like one of those leg-hold traps they’d seen yesterday, but she seemed completely focused on the cube. The Cure’s Pornography was running in her eight-track player and, as usual, the

whiny voice was grating on Jack’s nerves.

“Can’t you play something else?”

Her smile had no humor in it. “You’d like Siouxsie and the Banshees better? Or

how about Bauhaus?” Her taste in music matched her taste in clothes

and posters.

He found the black-and-white Bauhaus poster of some shirtless guy hanging by

his hands a little too weird. Give Jack the Spider plugging hot lead into mad vil ains any day.