Frankly Speaking

Chapter 1

Thursdays are slow enough that I work alone. Often, the only face I see for hours is Frank’s. For the last four years or so, this man – now in his late seventies, I think – has come in around noon on Thursday with his coffee and his little black book to buy half a dozen comics (Batman is his favorite) and sit. Like Indy’s dad in The Last Crusade, he gently brushes the pages with the tip of a Ticonderoga, which I’m sometimes surprised he can hold steadily. Frank, the sketching septuagenarian. I love that. I am fascinated by Frank.

Though he’s mostly kept to himself, after the first few months, I couldn’t resist the temptation to ask him my first question. That day, as he headed for the exit, a bit hunched as if preparing for the outside world again, I reached out a hand. “Excuse me, sir? Mr. McCloud?” Neither of those were my actual question.

Frank raised his head and his eyebrows with a cautiously curious half-smile as he turned. “Frank.”

“Sorry. Frank,” I corrected. “Can I ask how long you’ve been reading comics?”

His half-smile grew as his brow relaxed, and he replied, “Always.” Then, with a wink, Frank faded back into his life.

From that time to this, our custom continues. No handshakes nor high fives. Just one question, one answer, every Thursday, for the past three-plus years.

“How long have you been drawing?”

“Always.”

“Do you remember the first comic you bought?”

“Batman.”

“Did you go to school for art?”

“Nope.”

“I see your ring. Is your wife, um, retired?”

“Yep.”

“Does your wife like comic books?”

“Nope.”

“What did you do for a living?”

“Police sketch artist.” Can you imagine? Three words! Progress!

“Did you ever help catch someone famous?” “Did you ever try working for Marvel or DC?” “Is there a particular criminal that sticks out in your memory?” “Can I see what you sketched in your book today?”

“Nope.” Always with that damned smile. Except…

“Do you have any kids?” That day, his expression eluded me. No smile, but no frown either. The only thing I sensed was the pause.

“Nope.”

Chapter 2

Okay, now I’m anxious. Is that ridiculous? Frank probably was feeling under the weather the first week, so he stayed home; but that was three weeks ago. The selections I’ve set aside are piling up. Older people can take longer recovering, right?

Maybe he had a fall. I’ve seen the old commercial. If he couldn’t get up, he couldn’t come here.

Or, perhaps he went out of town. Took a well-deserved vacation. Wedding, birthday, anniversary, or – God forbid – a funeral; so many events could supersede a trip to the comics store.

Funeral. Seriously, why did I have to go there? I mean, at his age, I suppose there’s a good chance that someone’s going to…

STOP! Alright, breathe. It’s not crazy to care about someone. It’s compassionate.

Okay, so, how does one find a person in the post-phone book age? Do landlines still exist? Maybe they do for old people. No offense, Frank. I mean, Google is the thing, right? Let’s see: F-R-A-N-K M-C-C-L-O-U-D…

O-B-I-T…

Oh, thank God. Nothing there, at least. Breathe. Okay. Now we find an address and grab some books. And maybe grab some coffee! Wait, I never asked how he takes it.

Chapter 3

When she cracked the door, Mrs. McCloud looked appropriately perplexed.

“Hello, Mrs. McCloud?” I offered.

“Yes…” she cautioned. “May I help you?”

“Hi. I’m Clark from World’s Finest Collectibles.”

“Oh! Of course. I’m sorry, is there something wrong?”

“Oh, no ma’am. Not at all,” I assured. “I noticed Frank hadn’t come by for the last few weeks, so I thought I’d check if he was okay. Also,” reaching into my backpack, “I brought him some issues I thought he might like to have.”

“I… I see,” she muttered, as she relinquished her grasp on the door to receive the books. “Thank you, young man. I’m sure he’ll appreciate these. How much does he owe you?”

“Nothing ma’am. No charge. Just, hopefully, a promise to come back and visit next week, if he can.”

Mrs. McCloud clutched the comics to her chest. Her eyes began to glisten as they darted back and forth, searching mine. Finally, she whispered, “That’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“If I may,” she began inquisitively, “how did you find us?”

As I embarrassedly scratched the back of my head, “Ah, well, I did some internet snooping, and when I found his name, I figured there was a good chance it was him since he told me he didn’t have any kids.”

“He did?” she asked, startled.

Trying to smooth over her shock, I continued, “Yeah, I mean, he also told me that he had been a police sketch artist, so I found his old precinct, which was close by. Figured that confirmed it.”

Again, looking a bit bewildered, Mrs. McCloud questioned, “He told you that?”

“Heh, yeah. We’ve talked a bit over the last few years. Anyway, I hope he’s alright, and that he enjoys these books.”

As I turned to leave, Mrs. McCloud called after, “Young man, I’m sorry, what was your name, again?”

With a smile as big as I could muster, I replied, “Clark, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes, like Clark Kent.”

Of course. Everyone knows Clark Kent. “Exactly!”

“Well, now I see the resemblance! Please Clark, don’t call me ma’am. It’s Diana.”

Suddenly, the strength of my smile, I realized, was causing me to blush. My favorite comic book fan had apparently found himself a Wonder Woman. “Thank you, Diana. It was quite literally wonderful to meet you. And that’s definitely a name I’m not going to forget.”

Chapter 4

Comic book Wednesday. It’s a day of both newness and familiarity. On a day like today, it is refreshing to be busy and to see several friendly faces. Tonight promises to be busy as well with the game room half filled with the manna of Magic players and the other half with the sounds of dice rolling in Star Wars: Destiny. It’s an all-hands-on-deck, perfectly geeky (in all the best ways) day of distraction, and yet, my thoughts have trouble escaping my anxiety for tomorrow. This is why I decided to take lunch and run to the post office. And this is where I received a package from Diana McCloud.

I wasn’t fooled in the least. Through the yellow paper surrounding a layer of bubble wrap, I could feel the spine. My fingers could sense the weight, the shape, the thickness, and the flexibility. I didn’t need to peel back the covering to reveal the color or texture of its contents – hard black leather surrounding heavy paper. Without seeing it, I had seen it more than a hundred times. My eyes, having longed to spy on this book, now burned like acid, calling up tears to drown the feeling. My heart instantly leapt at the prospect of uncovering secrets, only to plummet at once, knowing the price that must have been paid.

After calling the store to report that they would need to close without me, I sat silently in my car, both overcome and numb. My mind was a damaged compass, swirling to find direction, as if North no longer existed.

Then, like an infinite mass punch, it struck me and awakened me from my stupor. I wanted to know him. I had been hoping, relishing the chance; now, opportunity was literally in my lap! Hurriedly, I tore open the envelope to reveal more than just a little black book. Inside, a letter:

Dearest Clark,

As Frank has so much trouble speaking, especially now, I’m writing to you in his stead. I will do my best to share what I believe his thoughts to be. As you surely know, comic books and drawing were two of the great passions of his life. He was always more comfortable communicating through his pictures than he was his words, even with me. In this sense, his drawing books really are his story. I have been lucky enough to share much of that story with him. Because of your kindness, I believe he would like to share some of that story with you.

Always,

Frank and Diana McCloud

More intrigued than ever, I carefully opened the little black book. Unsure what to expect, I was floored by what I saw. A house, a police station, his wife, and more, all craftily rendered in comic book form. “Stately McCloud Manor” towered on a hill. Diana stood brightly and appropriately as a version of Wonder Woman. There was a Hall of Justice police station and even a Pioneer High School as Arkham Asylum! But toward the end… I wasn’t ready. There, labeled “Fortress of Solitude,” stood a perfectly superior version of my store. On the next page was a drawing of me! I somehow stood much taller than I ever could, a cape draped over my shoulders, with a curl in my hair, and a large “S” on my chest. As much as I hated to admit, Diana was right. There was a resemblance.

Another turn revealed a page with no drawing. Instead, there was a key taped beneath a name – First Trust Bank. Below, in a gentle and elegant cursive, read, “Box 39. He would want them to be yours. I’ll meet you there when you’re ready.” I didn’t know if I was ready, but it didn’t matter. I was going.

Chapter 5

This map to another man’s treasure feels so heavy. I am not the penitent man, Dr. Jones. I’m not sure I deserve this quest.

A smiling Diana greeted me as I entered the temple of First Trust. As she approached, I began to ask, “Why – “

“Shh,” she interrupted. “Let’s tend to business first.”

After some paperwork, the bank’s guardian of Frank’s Grail led us to Box 39, and then into a viewing room. He then left and shut the door. So, there we were – Diana, me, and a part of Frank.

“Open it,” she said, as if this weren’t the strangest day of my life.

Still not ready, I turned the key. Still not ready, I cracked open the hefty lid. My eyes averted to Diana’s face as I moved the lid fully ajar. Again, that sweet Aunt May smile, invoking my guilt by denying me of it. I closed my eyes, lowered my forehead toward the table, and opened them again. I know what I expected to see, but I still didn’t expect to see it.

“Diana…”

Inside that metal sanctum were Batman comics dating to 1939. Though they were in plastic, they had also been noticeably used. Loved, really.

“Where –“ I began to sputter.

“His father,” she knowingly replied. “Apparently, Frank’s father started the tradition. These were his, then Frank’s. Now, yours.”

“I can’t…” as I carefully leafed through the stack. “Just one of these, on the low end, could go for maybe fifteen or even twenty thousand dollars!”

Diana seemed unaffected. “Is that so?”

I laid the comics on the table and picked up the little black book. “Diana, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this, but I am not Superman. I’m not fast or strong or invulnerable, and I’m certainly not perfect.”

Diana reached for one of the books on the table. With reverence, she lifted one called New York’s World’s Fair Comics 1940 Issue and held it in her gaze. “Well Clark, I believe I understand. I have to say, I know very little about Batman, Superman, or Wonder Woman.” She then turned the book to face me. The yellow and white background highlighted the stars of the cover – Superman, Robin, and Batman. “But it seems that, for a Batman with no Robin, Superman was his best friend.”