The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [59]
“Introduce yourself, Johnsel!” a woman scolds from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” the older man says, extending a hand. “Heyden Johnsel.”
“And Vivian,” adds an overweight black woman in a Cleveland Browns apron, entering the hallway with a surprising elegance. She reaches into her shirt and from inside her bra pulls out a tissue and dabs her eyes. “Not real crying—just onion chopping,” she promises, as if having three strangers in her house is just part of her daily life. But as I look around, I realize it is.
The far wall is covered from floor to ceiling with pictures, drawings, needlepoint, shelves with candles, even a wall calendar with Jesus on it, and in nearly every one, Jesus is pictured as black. It’s the same in the administrative offices of the shelters and churches we work with. True believers are always the most likely to take in weary travelers.
“So apparently, back in the twenties, this’s the room where the whole family used to gather round the radio,” Johnsel says, pointing to where the TV is and heading toward the worn stairs. “Though I assume you’re really here to see the bedroom, huh? In the attic?”
We all three smile and nod. “Absolutely,” I say.
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?” Johnsel asks, stopping on the first step.
None of us move.
“D’ya even know where you are? This is the old Siegel house— sacred ground—where young Jerry Siegel created Superman.”
“No, that we know,” my dad says, though I can’t tell if it’s the truth. As always, he’s a half-step ahead. And it’s the kind of half-step that’s getting impossible to ignore. “We’d love to see the bedroom,” he says.
Johnsel grins and shrugs. “Hoooo. Fine by me.” He’s in his pajamas at four-thirty. He’s just thrilled to have an audience.
In a slow spiral, he leads us to the second floor, then around to a shaky set of stairs that lead up to the third. The higher we go, I swear, the narrower the stairway gets—and with each shoeless step, the uncarpeted wooden stairs creak and scream far more than I’m comfortable with.
“Don’t worry, it’ll hold our weight,” Johnsel promises.
I grab for the banister and realize there isn’t one.
“Okay, now, here’s what people make the fuss about,” Johnsel says as he reaches the third-floor landing and extends his hand palm up like a model on a game show.
I crane my neck to peek over Johnsel’s shoulder. I’m not from money. I live in a converted motel room. But even by my standards, the small finished bedroom is a wrecking ball of a room, filled with pile after pile of milk crates, plastic bins, and old furniture. The entire back wall is hidden by mini-skyscrapers of paperback books—all with titles like Elijah and King of Kings. Up top, huge hunks of the slanted plaster ceiling are cracked and missing, revealing the old wooden slats underneath.
“Hoooo—it’s definitely seen better days,” Johnsel admits. “But like they say, you gotta sorta imagine: This was it . . . the exact spot where a teenage kid was lying awake in bed one rainy summer night and came up with a hero who could fly above all the world’s problems. Can ya imagine: one sweaty night to change your whole life?”
I don’t have to turn around to know my dad’s watching me.
“What about Jerry’s father?” Serena interrupts, sounding far more interested than I expected. “Any idea how he died?”
“I thought it was . . . maybe a heart attack?” Johnsel guesses. I don’t bother correcting him. “I think Jerry was in high school.”
“Is that when he made this?” I ask, realizing it’s time to show some cards. From my backpack, I pull out the wax-paper protective sleeve that holds Action Comics #1. Johnsel takes an excited step toward me. I take a step to the left, stealing a quick peek out the double-square windows that overlook the front yard. They’re so thick with dust, I can barely see out.
“That’s— Hoooo— Where’d you get an attic copy?” Johnsel asks.
“A what?” I ask.
“Those copies—with the—” He glances down at the typed message on the wax paper. “And you got