The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [123]
“No. No no no. I don’t want anything.”
“Then why’re you here?”
“I’m just— It’s hard to explain.”
She raises a thin eyebrow. “Every single day of my Jerry’s life, someone wanted something: the lawyers, the reporters, the so-called fans, and don’t even start me on the publisher. Before the whole mess went public, when Jerry was in his sixties, y’know he was reduced to sorting mail? The man creates a billion-dollar legend, and he spent his twilight years dropping packages on people’s desks and fighting to get paid for it. Even when they finally wrote the check and tried to make right, everyone eventually wanted something from him, Mr. Harper. So you might as well tell me: Are you doing this for the cash or just for the story?”
“I know this sounds odd, Mrs. Siegel. But I think . . . I think I’m doing this for my father, if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I know, but I was right before, wasn’t I? Jerry did witness his dad’s murder.”
At first, she’s silent, staring off at the family photos that fill the wall. “You need to understand, in the comic book, Superman was the hero, and Clark Kent was the act. But in real life . . . Clark Kent . . . that was Jerry. The awkwardness, the fears, even the slight stammer—he was the little guy that the bully would kick sand at on the beach. But that would all disappear when he was talking about his stories. Then he was a dynamo—excited, energized—able to hold his own with anyone. It was like he had this well of strength inside him that would overflow once you got him in his element. But only when he was in his element. Did you ever meet anyone like that?”
I can’t help but nod, seeing my own reflection in a nearby picture frame. “Every single day.”
“Y’know Hitler banned Superman? Mussolini also. Jerry was flying then. But when he lost the rights to Superman—when they took his name off it—Jerry the dynamo disappeared, too. But even then, even at his lowest, when the electric company said they were shutting our power off, he was still strong inside. Jerry took that beating in front of everyone. And that—I can’t explain it—but I know that strength came from his dad.”
“That him?” I ask, pointing to a gray-tone photo of a young, mustached man in a Russian army uniform. His body is small and thin, barely filling his buttoned tunic. In the photo, he’s posed in front of a railing, as though he’s holding it to stand.
“That’s Mitchell,” she says.
“So Jerry spoke of him often?”
“No. He just . . . he spoke of him differently.”
“But never in public.”
“See, that’s the misconception. Sure, Jerry gave thousands of interviews, but just because he never mentioned his father, people want to see it as a flaw or a controversy—or say that Jerry didn’t want to be pitied as the little boy who lost his parent. But that’s not why Jerry was so quiet about his dad.”
“You think he was protecting him,” I say.
“He was protecting something,” she acknowledges.
“And you know what it is.”
“I never said that, Mr. Harper.”
I shake my head, turning toward the bookcase on my left. The shelves are packed with mostly romance novels and a few random hardbacks, but along the top shelf, there’s a set of tall leather books with the words Superman, Clark Kent, and Lois Lane across their respective spines. “I know about the ashes, Mrs. Siegel.”
For the first time since I’ve been here, Joanne Siegel’s high cheeks fall.
To be fair, it was my father who mentioned the story: of Jerry Siegel splitting his ashes between a copper urn and a set of hollowed-out fake books that his wife was saving for when Cleveland finally builds a true Superman museum. But it wasn’t until Alberto said the magic words that the truth finally hit me. Once people think there are ashes in something, it becomes the one hiding spot no one’ll ever open.
Shazam.
“You’re going to take it away now, aren’t you?” she asks.
“I promised you, ma’am, I don’t want anything.”
I walk toward the shelf. Joanne stays silent.
“Can you at least tell me what it is?” she finally asks.
Glancing over my shoulder, I stare back