The Day Mr. Cosmic Died

WORLD PREPARES FOR DEATH OF MR. COSMIC

John read the headline and made a wry smile.

“Nothing but click bait,” he said, and he flicked the newsfeed on his smartphone. He couldn’t escape the hype. It was all anyone was posting. Nothing but a string of memes of Mr. Cosmic standing tall, his fists on his hips, and the American flag waving behind him. The prayers, the preemptive condolences, and, of course, a few racists that sparked a thread of reciprocated hate. That Mr. Cosmic - the only superhero ever to exist - was black, pierced the bigots to the core. John loved how the mere appearance of his hero scared the simplest of villains.

He leaned back against the side panel of his car and flicked through the comments, all of them trivial and vapid. It was him, John Treburt, who informed the world on everything Mr. Cosmic. Until he published, no one knew anything, and that was how he liked it. Another flick of his finger and a picture of Mr. Cosmic holding a baby caught his eye. John smirked at the tender scene. The picture may have been propagated for click bait, but John knew better than anyone that Mr. Cosmic’s smile and gentle eyes were genuine. The hero of the world was no politician, holding babies merely for the photo-op. Mr. Cosmic was a good man, and John felt the weight of emotion against his chest.

His phone vibrated. It was his editor calling. John cleared his throat.

“You there yet?” asked his editor.

“And hello to you, Karl,” said John. “Yes. Just pulled up.”

“You can’t leave him for one second, John. You hear me?”

“Karl, this is Mr. Cosmic we’re talking about. My bread and butter.”

“I want you in the room. I want you standing over the bed. Capture every moment. I want pictures. The world is holding their breath, John. You hear me? Everyone from the president to little kids in Mongolia are on pins and needles. The death of the only superhero the world has ever known, John. This is huge.”

John rolled his eyes. “Okay, Karl. Thanks. I got this.”

“Yes. I know. Yes. You got this . . .”

John clicked off his phone and pocketed it in his suit breast pocket. He straightened his tie, and strode to the double doors of the only mansion in Russellville, Arkansas and home of Mr. Cosmic. A clearing through the tall pines revealed the glimmering Lake Dardanelle off in the distance, a spectacular view from this modern day Mount Olympus. The lake was straight out of Thoreau’s poetry, except for the power plant stationed on the distant shore. Its billowing singular stack released a steady plume of steam like the exhale of a smoker that never ended. John did the math in his head; it had taken nearly five years for the power plant to become operational after the accident, a day which became a local holiday, both to remember those who died in the blast, and to celebrate the day Calvin Harrison, mild-mannered engineer, transformed into Mr. Cosmic, the world’s first and only superhero. John wondered if Mr. Cosmic had intentionally cleared the trees so as to always have the site of his birth in eyeshot.

“Fair warning,” said Terrance, a tall rock of a man who had answered the door. “Ben’s here.”

“Great,” said John, and he rolled his eyes. John stepped into the mansion and looked up the staircase.

Ben stood at the top, lording over the entrance like a sentinel. He wore his navel uniform, his cap in his clenched fist. “Get the hell out of here,” said Ben.

John chuckled. “Well, would you look at that? Hey, Terrance, did you know Ben’s here?”

“Get out,” shouted Ben.

“And, as always, playing the part of the spoiled brat.”

“Don’t make me come down there, John. You are not welcomed.”

John proceeded up the staircase with a confident smile. “You don’t get to decide that, Ben,” said John. He relished in how his mere presence ate at Ben like acid through metal.

“No one invited you, you leach.”

“Your dad did.”

“Liar.”

John stepped onto the landing and came toe to toe with Ben. It was like two fighters waiting for the bell to ring.

“You look good, Seaman,” said John. “The Navy still wiping your black ass or they get you a bidet?”

“Unlike you, freeloader, I make my own way in the world. Now, I’m going to say it one more time before I kick in your honky teeth. Get out.”

John pushed past Ben, knocking his shoulder into him for good measure. Ben stumbled, but pushed back, and the clenched fists swung. Only pent up rage was shared between the two brawlers. John took a right hook to the jaw, but came back and caught Ben’s nose. They clashed, Ben tackling John to the ground, and John swinging his fists wildly.

“Terrance,” came the voice of Mrs. Harrison. “Terrance, get over here and get these morons.” Terrance must have already ascended the stairs because immediately, John felt his ear clenched between Terrance’s thumb and forefinger. Terrance yanked him up to his feet, and his earlobe burned. John glanced over at Ben standing on the opposite side of Terrance, his nose bleeding and rubbing his ear.

“What. The. Hell,” said Mrs. Harrison. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her eyes wide and red, fresh from a crying session. She wore a black skirt and top, her hair shorter than John remembered. “Are you two serious right now?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Harrison,” said John.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” said Ben.

She pointed her finger at them and never blinked. It was all too familiar a moment and John could not help but feel nostalgic. She was always ready with a motherly sermon meant to correct their bad behavior. It had never worked. He and Ben were always the culprits of random tomfoolery. Right then, John loved hearing her reprimand. It was a rerun of simpler times. It masked the grief all around him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said John when she asked him if he was a grown-ass man. She had already asked Ben the same question, and he had given the rote response.

“Then I expect grown-ass men to behave with dignity when they are in my home.”

“He’s not family. He shouldn’t be here,” said Ben.

“Ben, you shut your mouth about should and shouldn’t or I will smack that mouth so hard you’ll be eating out the back of your head.”

Ben huffed. John did his best to hold back a grin.

“Now, both of you go into the office and wait there,” said Mrs. Harrison.

“I’m not waiting with him,” said Ben, and he pointed at John.

John was quick to tug Ben’s finger, which only upset Ben further, but John grinned.

“Get,” shouted Mrs. Harrison, her command echoing like the voice of a god.

John was quick to obey orders, and Ben followed. Terrance closed the door to the office behind them, John beelining it to the drink cart and Ben striding to his dad’s desk. John heard him fall into the leather chair, and when he looked, Ben sat with arms crossed over his chest.

“That was hilarious,” said John.

“Shut up,” said Ben. He yanked out a wad of tissues from the box on the desk and wiped his bloody nose.

“Shut up,” John said in a snarky voice. “You’re such a little bitch.”

“Oh, I’m a little bitch. You pulled my finger out there like some ten year old.”

“Yeah, and where was the follow through?” asked John. “You’re supposed to rip one. What was it, one of those silent but deadly?”

“You’re such an immature child.”

“Was it silent? There was nothing deadly about it.” John plopped down on the leather couch across from the desk and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Ben turned his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Man, get your feet off the table,” said Ben.

“Your dad doesn’t care.”

“How the hell would you know that?”

“Because this is where I always come to do our interviews. He sits in his chair, I sit here, we do a three-minute review of him beating up terrorists, or saving a dog from a burning building, or whatever geopolitical conflict he’s squashed. Then we get plastered. My feet are firmly planted on the coffee table the whole time.”

“And I bet you’d pass out.”

“Well, your dad wouldn’t fly me home, and I wasn’t going to drive. So, yes.”

Ben shook his head and dabbed away the last of the blood. “I can’t believe my dad only gave interviews to you.”

“Well, believe it because he did. And those exclusives made me bookoo cash.”

Ben wadded up his bloody tissue and threw it towards John. The effort only made John chuckle because the tissue barely made it past the desk.

“If it weren’t for my dad, you’d be a no-name bartender somewhere,” said Ben.

John thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. That’s probably true. So what? It could have been yours. You walked away, so he gave it to me.”

“Hey, I did what any real man should. I carved my own path.”

John scoffed. “You didn’t carve nothing. The Navy tells you what clothes to wear, when to eat, how to shit, and gives you a place to live in the oh-so-dangerous-land of San Diego.”

“Hey, I am a Petty Officer 3rd Class in the United States Navy, and-”

“Oh, please," shouted John. "The man whipped out his dick, and you sprinted to be first in line to take it up the ass.”

Ben jumped to his feet, came around the desk, spewing insults, some indecipherable, some clearly leveled against John’s deadbeat dad, his broken upbringing, how lucky he was that his parents let him practically live with them. Without a second thought, John threw his drink at Ben. The bourbon splashed over the front of his white uniform transforming it into a brown dripping rag.

John, realizing the insult he had committed, preemptively jumped over the back of the couch.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” yelled Ben, and he leapt over the couch after him, tackling John to the ground. The fists flew, along with spit, insults, and cheap knees.

“That’s enough, ya’ pinheads.”

They stopped fighting, both recognizing the voice of Mr. Cosmic. They clambered to their feet, each pushing off the other. The reprimand of their shared mentor caused both to stand at attention, a habitual response.

“Dad, sir,” said Ben.

“Hey, Cal,” said John.

It was Mr. Cosmic, that was sure, but John was shocked by his condition. He was a shell of the world’s only superhero, hunched, reliant on an electric scooter, his body sickly ash, and his hair patchy. He had come in through the office door, Terrance closing it behind him. Mr. Cosmic used a joystick on his scooter to move to his desk, ramming the chair Ben had been sitting in and pushing it aside.

“Ben,” said Mr. Cosmic, his voice raspy. “Your uniform’s a mess.”

“That was my fault,” said John. “Spilled my drink.”

“That’s bound to happen . . . when you're wrestling,” said Mr. Cosmic.

“Good one, Cal,” said John and he laughed. It was a weak chuckle, the feeble condition of Mr. Cosmic still troubling.

“Stop calling him that,” whispered Ben.

“What? I’ve called him Cal for years.”

“Well it’s Mr. Cosmic or Mr. Harrison from now on.”

“Stop,” said Mr. Cosmic. “He can call me by my name for Christ’s sake. It’s okay. Listen, give us a minute to talk.”

John went to leave, but Mr. Cosmic said, “No, you stay. Ben, let me talk to John.”

Ben could have screamed. “Sir, John is not family. He shouldn’t even be here. He’s only here to write a story and get a paycheck.”

Mr. Cosmic raised his hand. “Ben, I don’t have time to argue with you, now do as I say."

“Yes, sir,” said Ben reluctantly. He walked out of the office with a military gate, shutting the door behind him.

John goose stepped around the couch. Imitating a robot, he sat down and shook his head in disbelief. “Can you believe that guy? How he walks and everything. Can you believe we used to be friends?”

Mr. Cosmic let out a wheezy chuckle and said, “Yes, I can. You two were inseparable.”

“That was when he was fun. The Navy put a pole up his ass.”

“Well, he’ll either pull it out one day or they’ll make him an officer.”

“Looking good by the way,” said John.

“Ha! And you’re full of shit.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Nah. I don’t have much time. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“You gotta make things right with Ben.”

John threw back his head in exasperation. "Let me take that back. Most anything.”

“John.”

“Cal, it wasn’t me that left. He’s the one that disappeared.”

“He had his reasons.”

“Trash. He runs away and you get a call three days later that he’s joined the Navy. He just left us. Total bullshit. It’s him that should be apologizing. To you, to Mrs. Harrison, to me.”

“John, what Ben did was wrong, but I don’t want there to be a grudge between you two. You are the brother he never had and vice versa. I can’t leave this world knowing you two are fighting.”

John sighed. “Really? Are you seriously using the I’m-going-to-die card?”

“Works every time,” said Mr. Cosmic with a smile.

“Not this time,” said John and he wagged his finger. “This is all a ploy. You’re not really dying. You’ll pull through in a week and then we’ll be out by the pool drinking margaritas and talking about your latest effort to save albino seals or some shit.”

Mr. Cosmic chuckled. “That’d be nice, my boy,” said Mr. Cosmic. He looked out the window with a reflective mood.

“It’s the truth,” said John, and he gulped his drink as if he were swallowing down the fantasy he spoke of.

It seemed Mr. Cosmic reflected on John’s words before saying, “I love you too, John.”

Those words pierced John’s veneer. He had to look away and choked back his tears. His devotion to a man on the verge of death stung like a thousand bees.

“John,” Mr. Cosmic whispered. “My son, your surrogate brother, needs you. And you need him.”

John leaned forward. "Listen, you and Mrs. Harrison are like parents, okay? My mom did the best she could, but when she was working nights, I was never left home alone. I could always count on staying the night with the Harrisons. And there’s no way this community college dropout would be doing anything noteworthy if it weren’t for exclusive interviews with Mr. Cosmic. I owe you a safe and stable upbringing. I owe you my career, but don’t put the onus on me to mend things with that deserter.”

Mr. Cosmic leaned back in his chair, his head slouching to the side as if the weight was too much for his neck. “I never told you, but I have a brother,” said Mr. Cosmic.

“What?” asked John. He rose to his feet.

“A twin,” said Mr. Cosmic. “He left Russellville to join the army. Died in the Gulf War. I stayed here, thinking he’d come home. After he died, I held him, his spirit, his memory, in my heart, letting him guide me. He was so courageous, and so, when I was scared to ask Janet to marry me, I thought of him. And when Ben was born, I was terrified, but I thought of him. And then, when I got my powers, I thought of what he would do, and it made me into the man I am. I owe everything I am to the memory of my brother. Do you understand, John?”

“I’ve been interviewing you for five years. You never told me you had a brother.”

“Well, some things are sacred, John. Some people are sacred. You keep them locked up in your heart ‘cause you don’t know what the world will do to them.”

“What was his name?”

“Like I said, John. You keep some people sacred.”

Mr. Cosmic nudged the joystick, and his scooter carried him to John’s side. He stood, rising out of his chair with moans and obvious pain. He extended his arms and wrapped them around John.

“I always thought of you like a son,” said Mr. Cosmic. “And I’m so glad Ben has you in his life.”

John reciprocated the embrace, laying his head on Mr. Cosmic’s shoulder. The scent of his hero, a sweet hickory, decimated any attempt at composure. He wept.

“Thank you, Cal,” whispered John. “Thank you for everything.” His tears stained the shoulder of his dying friend, mentor, the best man he had ever known.

Mr. Cosmic released John, and sat in the scooter. He dabbed at his eyes, as did John. He drove the scooter to the door, and John opened it for him.

“What do you want me to write?” asked John.

“Ah, you know me, boy,” said Mr. Cosmic. “I trust you.”

John watched Mr. Cosmic leave through the open doorway, hunched in his scooter and crossing the lobby. Mr. Cosmic stopped next to Mrs. Harrison and Ben, motioning for Ben to return to the office, and for Mrs. Harrison to accompany him to the bedroom.

John was quick to hide himself, wiping away his tears and sniffling back his emotions. He went to the drink cart, poured bourbon into a glass, and looked out the window. His phone vibrated, and there was a host of text messages from Karl. He wanted to know how it was going, what was happening, if Mr. Cosmic was dead yet or on his last breath. John would have hit Karl if he were standing in the room. Intermingled were texts of desperation, reminding John how much Russellville Inquirer needed this exclusive, how his livelihood depended on it. Then the last text from Karl: Triple pay for pictures.

The office door slammed shut. John put his phone away.

“This is bullshit,” said Ben. “You’re only here to get paid.”

“Shut up,” said John, and he took a gulp of bourbon.

“No, you shut up.”

The room went silent, as if time had stopped and John’s hero wasn’t dying, and abandonment didn’t surround him. But the clock on the wall ticked, and John’s ears caught its rhythm, and reality struck again and again. John knew there wasn’t enough bourbon in the world to make it stop.

“Why’s he dying?” asked John, careful to not let his voice crack.

He heard Ben huff. “Thought you’d know,” said Ben.

“He’s a superhero. Superheroes don’t die,” said John, as if the words made it true.

“Yeah, well. This one does. Same radiation that gave him his powers is killing him. The accident at the power plant killed everyone he couldn’t rescue. It’s just taking longer for him to die.”

John shook his head and said, “Not even three months ago he was streaking across the sky to stop a plane over Thailand from crashing. Now, I mean, he can barely stand.”

“The radiation’s eating him at an accelerated rate,” said Ben, looking away with his arms folded across his chest. “He’s paying for borrowed time now.”

“It’s not fair,” said John.

“No. It’s not,” said Ben. “And you know what else isn’t fair? You, coming in to get the scoop on my dying dad for your damn news column.”

John slammed his glass onto the drink cart and turned to Ben, an accusatory finger pointed right at him. “‘Cause you’re his keeper now? Huh? Big Navy man waltzes back and gets to throw his weight around.”

“Hey, he’s my dad.”

“And you threw him out like a piece of trash,” shouted John.

“Man, you don’t know anything,” shouted Ben.

“I know your mom bawled her eyes out when you went missing,” John screamed. “I know your dad dropped everything to go looking for you. I know he went up and down the river, and flew over every square inch of the woods, and probably scanned every home from Russellville to the Wichitas. And where do they find you?” John spun on his feet and swiped his arms across the top of the drink cart. The glassware crashed into the wooden bookshelves, shattering in every direction. “I thought you were dead,” shouted John.

“I did what I had to do for me,” Ben shouted back and dug his finger into his chest. “I had to get out from under his shadow. Become my own man.”

“Oh, I see, little Bengy gets to come and go as he pleases. Doesn’t have to tell anyone anything, least of all his best friend.”

“And while I’m out there working a real job for my country, you’re stepping in and mooching off my parents. Typical.”

“Typical?”

“That’s right, typical. You’re nothing but a freeloader.”

“It’s not my fault your dad only interviewed with me.”

“He felt sorry for you, you worthless hack.”

“He did it because he loved me,” shouted John.

“He loved me,” shouted Ben.

“And you left,” John screamed, and rushed, charging Ben like a bull.

Ben stopped John in his tracks with an uppercut to his gut, and John’s feet left the floor. He crumpled, the air gone, and his body stunned by the blow. Ben kicked him in the back and John spasmed like a bolt of electricity jolted through his spine. Ben grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the office, through the upstairs lobby, letting John’s shoes drag across the marble floor. He threw him down the stairs, and John tumbled headfirst. He stopped his fall halfway, but not until after he slammed his head against a marble step.

“Get out,” said Ben from the top of the staircase.

The world spun, John’s head bleeding, brain pounding, and it took everything for him to suppress the nausea. He grabbed his back and the spasm silenced his scream. Blood flowed over his left eye, but he made out the blurry image of Ben at the top of the staircase. He reached for the banister and pulled himself to his feet. The throbbing pain in his right leg had him limping down the staircase, blood dripping from his head and leaving a trail behind him. His bloody hand slipped on the door handle, but he opened it and left.

Outside, John leaned against his car. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

Karl had sent another text: ?

John responded: Still triple pay for a picture?

Karl immediately texted back: Yes. triple pay for pic.

John’s lip curled. He wiped the blood with his sleeve, and hobbled back towards the house. He didn’t go to the double front doors. He went around the side of the house, crossed the manicured lawn and wrapped around to the back. He knew the pool and the sunbathing chairs, and the outdoor chest with beach balls and a croquet set. Many an interview had started in the office but had moved to the pool. Many a water volleyball party had required him to climb the lattice work and retrieve the ball from atop the patio cover, which is where John eyed his prize.

John was breathing heavily when he pulled himself onto the top of the patio cover. A loose nail on the lattice ripped his pant leg, but he ignored the tear. Standing atop the overhang, he had to stretch his neck to get a view into the window, but he was not disappointed. The curtains had been pulled back as if they were expecting him.

Mr. Cosmic laid in the center of the four-post bed with his head propped up by pillows, his eyes closed, and his body limp. He wasn’t alone. Mrs. Harrison was lying on his right side, her head on his chest, and tears streaming down her face. And on Mr. Cosmic’s left side, curled up like a little baby, Ben. His head rested on his dad’s chest, and he was crying. Mr. Cosmic’s arms were wrapped around both of them.

The sunlight fell on all three subjects, as if heaven had opened to receive the earth’s greatest and only superhero. The four-post bed framed the shot for him, the grieving widow on one side, and on the other, the patriotic son. It was God, family, and country all in one perfect still life. John raised his smartphone, took the picture, inspected it, and then pocketed the phone in his breast pocket.

He climbed down the lattice and returned to his car, huffing, limping, wiping away the blood from his head wound, but with a sense of righteous retribution. He sat in the driver’s seat, and there, in the heat of his stuffy car, he wept. The tears gushed uncontrollably, and he screamed, his hands shaking. His tears mixed with his blood, and the concoction dripped down his cheek. Alone, hurt, grieving the demise of his vicarious father, John could only wish to be with his family, lying on that bed in the arms of his hero.

***

The next day, the Russellville Inquirer published the following:

Calvin James Harrison, a.k.a. Mr. Cosmic passed away yesterday evening. He is survived by his wife, Janet Harrison, and his son, Benjamin Calvin Harrison. The family asks for privacy during this time of grief.

The obituary did not include a picture.

***

John was standing in line at the concession stand beneath the bleachers of the high school football stadium. The rivalry between Dardenelle and Russellville was in full swing, the crowds of teenagers with painted faces - red and black or green and silver - team jerseys, and foam fingers. He wore the jersey sporting the Russellville red and black and flicked through the newsfeed on his phone.

“Your turn, John,” came the voice of the attendant. It was one of the mom’s from the football booster club.

“Sorry,” said John. He put his phone away and stepped to the counter. “Can I get a hotdog and medium coke?”

“You got it,” she said, and she rang him up. “How’s your first semester?”

“You know, I like it alright. Still learning the ropes of this teacher thing, but it was a good change after the news, and all that.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you. My Daniel loves your class.”

The accolade made John smile. He took his hotdog and drink back to the stands. A few members of the crowd nodded in his direction as he climbed the bleachers. He found a vacant spot away from the band and boisterous student section. He was about to take a bite of his hotdog when his phone vibrated.

It was a text from an unknown number: Hey. It’s Ben.

John stared at the name, a ghostly apparition from a past he had let die. He didn’t know why, but he texted back: Hey

How long has it been?

Five months

I’ve been meaning to reach out, texted Ben. I wasn’t sure how. Just wanted to say thanks for what you wrote in the paper. Actually, more like what you didn’t write.

John texted: No prob.

And thanks for the picture. It means a lot to mom and me.

I miss him.

Me too.

John had to be careful, or he would burst into tears in front of everyone at the football game. He blinked away his emotion and swallowed back everything he wanted to tell Ben: that he missed his best friend, that life was moving on, but different and it was okay, but not okay because it wasn’t the same.

Ben texted: I’m visiting mom next week. Get a drink when I’m in town?

John smirked and replied: First round’s on you.