Then:
Martha paused her sweeping on the front porch as a strange car pulled into their gravel driveway. Late morning was an odd time for unannounced visitors in a farm community, so she watched the man climb out of the car, smile, and walk toward her.
“Mrs. Kent? My name is Donald Porter. I’m the defensive backfield coach at the University of Kansas, and I’d like to speak to your son Clark.”
Martha frowned in puzzlement. “Did Clark contact you?”
Porter stopped just short of the porch steps. “No, ma’am, his father did. Seems he thinks Clark would be happier going to classes and playing defensive back for us than baling hay or fixing fences.”
“Well, they’re out in the barn this morning, working on the tractor. They should be back for lunch in the next half-hour or so. May I see your identification, please?”
Porter grinned and reached for his hip pocket. “Of course, Mrs. Kent. I’d want my mother to make sure some guy she’s never seen before was who he said he was.”
“Especially since late spring is not usually recruiting season. Especially for recruiting someone who hasn’t been on a football field for over a year.”
He chuckled and opened his wallet. “Here you go, ma’am, my driver’s license and Kansas U ID. I can also give you the number to Glen Mason’s office on campus. He’s the head coach. And because Clark is already a high school grad and isn’t enrolled in any college at the moment, we won’t be breaking any NCAA rules.”
“I’ll let my husband make that call to the school, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all, Mrs. Kent. I’ll wait in my car if you want me to.”
“No need, Mr. Porter. My husband and son are right behind you.”
Martha watched Porter’s face light up. It was another indication that he was who he said he was and had told her the truth about why he was there. He introduced himself to an enthusiastic Jonathan and a slightly taken aback Clark, then shared apple pie with them. When he left nearly an hour later, he smiled as if he’d put one over on every other defensive coach in the nation.
*****
Jonathan smiled as Clark waved at Coach Porter as the man drove out of sight. Clark turned to his father and said, “I’m sure there’s an explanation for this that I don’t have but would very much like to have.”
Jonathan put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’re enthusiastic, son, and fun to work with. I really like having you here, and so does your mother. You always do the job you’re doing the right way and in record time.”
“Lana and Rachel like having you live with us too,” Martha added.
Clark’s mouth worked like he’d swallowed a truly disgusting bug. Before he could respond, Jonathan continued, “That’s true. But we can tell that you’re hiding out here. No, don’t interrupt, let me finish. Whatever happened at Met U to drive you back here was a bad thing, but you can’t let it define you. Son, there’s not one thing on this farm that you can’t do well. But we know this isn’t where you really want to be. We don’t want to push you away, but we do want to give you all the options you need to decide what you really do want to do.”
Clark stared at his father for a long moment, then shook his head. “Whatever happened to ‘don’t let them dissect you like a frog’?”
“Nothing happened to it. I still think you need to be careful. But both of us also think that you should explore the possibilities your abilities provide for you.”
Clark grinned. “How long did it take you to find all those three-dollar words?”
Martha sighed and lowered her gaze for a moment. “That was me, actually. But your father and I agree that you shouldn’t become a farmer just because something bad happened to you. We both think it was a girl, but whatever it was, you’re still who you were before.”
Clark frowned again. “I might have come back because of a girl who was already here. Ever think of that?”
“Yes, but if that were true, Maisie and Trixie wouldn’t have had to break up a fistfight between Lana and Rachel day before yesterday. A fight over you, if Maisie’s right.”
His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Who did – what?”
“And Lana wouldn’t have gotten a black eye and bloody nose, and Rachel wouldn’t have been kicked in the groin.”
Jonathan crossed his arms and tried not to laugh. “I thought Rachel said she got punched in the stomach.”
“That’s what she’s been telling people. But since Lana’s so short and Rachel’s so tall, it’s more likely that Rachel was punching down on Lana’s head and Lana was kicking up at Rachel’s – er, lower regions. I believe what Maisie and Trixie told everyone.”
“That’s not funny, Dad! I don’t want girls fighting over me.”
“You can’t help it, son. Even if you’ve had a couple of dates with each of them, you obviously don’t love either of those girls – or any other girl in Smallville – in the forever and a day way. But you’re such a great catch that some of them will literally fight over you.”
Clark stared at his father, then at his mother, then lifted his hands and let them fall. “You’re telling me that I need to leave home just to keep the peace in Smallville?”
Martha surprised her son. “No, not just to keep the peace among the single girls of Smallville. Or the boys who’d like to date them but can’t because the girls are being totally unrealistic and holding out for you. You need to leave to have peace in your own heart.” She paused, then added, “Besides, a football scholarship won’t interfere with your journalism major, even if you start out as a walk-on.”
He glared at his mother for a long moment, then deflated. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
Jonathan clapped his big hand on Clark’s shoulder. “That’s all we can ask. Now let’s see if that old tractor engine will turn over this time. Got to use you and your skills while you’re still here with us.”
*****
Now:
Clark’s phone call home was buoyant and excited. He’d nailed a job at the Daily Planet on his first try, and his parents were almost as thrilled as he was. True, it was only guaranteed for three months, and he was on probation like any other newbie, but it was an excellent start.
After hanging up, he decided to take a walk around his hotel to start getting the lay of the land. And if he happened to find someone committing a crime, the darkness would help to shield him.
For some reason his mind kept going back to Maggie – or whatever her name really was. She’d told him she was from this part of the country, but he’d never been able to find her name anywhere at any school other than Metropolis University or in a phone directory or any professional listing. He finally decided that Mayfield had been her married name and that she’d gone back to using whatever her maiden name was. If that were true, he’d probably never see her again. Her maiden name was yet another detail he’d never bothered to learn about her.
Maybe seeing that redhead today had brought Maggie to the forefront of his mind. Maybe he’d never forgiven himself for acting like a spoiled brat that last morning with her. Maybe, on some level he couldn’t quite name, he needed to clear the air with her.
And he suddenly realized that he wanted to see her. He wanted to explain why he’d blown up at her and how wrong he’d been. He didn’t want this hanging over his head for the rest of his life, but unless she sought him out or they just happened to cross paths accidentally, there was nothing he could do but learn from the experience.
He didn’t want to restart their relationship. But he didn’t want her to hate him, either.
*****
Half a world away, then:
Captain Thomas Lee addressed one of his recently-arrived subordinates. “Specialist Lane, are you ready for a combat mission?”
“Yes, sir! Ready and eager, sir, just like the last five times.”
The captain shook his head. “Most of those missions were basically sentry duty, not much more than babysitting, but you did a good job spotting those infiltrators last week. Probably saved some lives.”
The specialist straightened even more. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Some of these guys think I’m nuts to send a woman on a combat patrol, but I know you can do the job. You’ll also be the field medic on this mission, so don’t forget your medical kit.”
“Yes sir!”
“Report to Staff Sergeant Yost at oh-nine hundred hours. You’re dismissed.”
Lane stepped back and nodded. “Yes sir!”
Captain Lee would have smiled had he been alone. Army brass had saddled him with the first women to be assigned to duty in a hot fire zone, and Lane seemed to be the best of the three. She’d already learned not to risk his life by saluting him where the enemy might see them, and he knew she was not only an expert shot with an M-16, she kept her weapon in fighting shape at all times and didn’t waste ammo.
On her first day with his unit, just two months earlier, he’d tested her. “Specialist Lane,” he’d demanded, “are you a practice target for the enemy, a token uniformed chick, or a real soldier?”
“Only one way to find out, sir,” she’d replied with a straight face.
“Can you follow orders, Lane?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then you can sit sentry on the north wall from ten tonight to four in the morning. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, sentry duty, north wall, from twenty-two-hundred to oh-four-hundred.”
“Good. Report to Corporal Zane for the rest of your briefing at twenty-one-hundred hours. You have six hours to unpack and settle in.”
“Yes, sir!”
Zane had been impressed, too. She’d followed his instructions and asked intelligent questions. She hadn’t raised her voice or shot at ghosts her entire shift. All that was lacking was seeing her in an actual firefight.
Sixteen nights later she’d passed that test with flying colors.
A force of perhaps twenty enemy combatants had rushed the wall she’d been guarding just after midnight. The recon patrol had reported no bodies in front of her position – there weren’t any bodies to find, at least – but there had been nine small bloodstains further out. None of the infiltrators had gotten closer to her position than sixty meters. She wasn’t the only one shooting back, of course, but she’d more than held her own without flinching.
And she’d only touched off twenty-four rounds, all on single-shot semi-automatic, slipping left or right after each short flurry of shots she’d fired. She was nearly as accurate as Annie Oakley and as deadly as John Wesley Hardin. Some of the others had called her Calamity Jane – but only once per man and then never to her face after that first time. He thought she was privately pleased with the nickname, but with Lane you could never be completely certain.
Captain Lee was happy he had Lane as a Specialist on his fire team, but not everyone else felt the same way. Despite a total of two years and eight months service time and all the accolades a non-commissioned officer could earn serving in a peace zone, she was still earning the grudging acceptance, if not the respect, of her peers.
It was time to find out what she was really made of.
*****
Lois didn’t much care for the current mission.
Specialist Lane walked behind the Humvee, her rifle held at the ready and her eyes sweeping the right side of their formation. They’d received reports of a concentration of insurgents armed with RPGs and heavy automatic weapons lining their main supply route, and Lieutenant McAllister, the officer in charge of the column, didn’t like that. The two armed and armored vehicles were tasked to clear the route and escort a supply convoy back to their headquarters in the fire zone.
It was not a popular assignment. They’d be moving slowly, a target for both IEDs and heavy weapons for nearly two miles each way. The three women in the detail were rumored to be special targets for the insurgents, who preferred that their own women not know how to drive so much as a moped, much less wield automatic weapons – they might take it into their heads to shoot the men who treated them like disposable personal possessions. And McAllister’s request for a relief detail on the return trip was refused by the colonel in charge of personnel assignments. The only positive point was that they would exchange their Humvees for a pair upgraded with extra armor and armed with paired .50-caliber flexible mounts over the cabin instead of a single mounted .223-caliber M-249 SAW at the terminus of the patrol.
The journey going out was quiet. They swapped their older vehicles for the newer up-armored and more heavily armed ones. The walking details would flip sides and return down the same side of the street they’d traveled to meet the supply mission. Theoretically, it would give them a better chance to notice something threatening that wasn’t there before.
Lane had walked the left side going out. Now she walked the right side coming back, both times beside the second Humvee.
And she was the first one to see the muzzle of the grenade launcher peek over the top of the building across the street from her as her Humvee drew even with it.
“Hostiles at nine o’clock high!” she shouted. Her M-16 muzzle swung up to fire at the threat as her safety flicked to the “off” position. She saw a man’s head and body raise up and point the launcher at the Humvee beside her.
She pressed the butt plate of her rifle to her shoulder and touched off four rounds.
The body above the side of the roof went slack and fell backward. The weapon fell three stories to the street below and broke into several pieces.
And a hail of lead appeared from all around them.
Lane threw herself against the side of the Humvee and found another target, this one a machine gun on a bipod. She flicked another switch that put her weapon in three-round burst mode and raked the gun with a dozen more rounds. Both the gunner and the loader on that weapon fell to the ground and lay still.
She felt rather than saw or heard automatic weapon fire beat a drum solo against the roof of the Humvee. As she spun to check for wounded inside the vehicle, the soldier directly behind the Humvee cried out and fell forward. Lane opened the rear door to the Humvee and ran to the wounded soldier.
It was PFC Sarah Ferguson. She’d been hit in the back of both legs with what appeared to be AK47 rounds. Lane grabbed her by the collar with her left hand and dragged her into the Humvee as she simultaneously wielded her M-16 like a pistol with her right hand. Lane’s weapon ran dry as she reached the rear door and pulled PFC Ferguson inside.
She looked up and saw the .50-cal gunner on the floor of the vehicle, his right hand putting pressure on his left upper arm.
Lane dropped her rifle and stepped into the gunner’s frame, swiveled it to the rear, then opened up on their attackers. The big slugs chewed holes through the concrete blocks behind which another bipod-mounted machine gun spat fire at them. The smaller machine gun went silent. Then Lane laid down covering fire on both sides of the street as their driver shifted to the far right side. She ignored the storm of fire from the other Humvee which ripped past her right shoulder and tore into the insurgents on the opposite side of the street. Her own guns traversed right and up and hit three other grenade launcher teams before they could fire on the column.
Someone slapped her on the leg and yelled, “I got the fifties!” Lane let go with one more short burst, then slipped out of the harness and went to work on Ferguson’s legs. There was a lot of blood, but the bandages cut the flow down to a trickle by the time Lane switched to treat the original gunner with the arm wound. She bandaged it quickly and professionally, then patted him on the leg. “You’ll need some doctor work, Corporal, but you’ll be fine.”
Corporal McKenzie – just a boy, really, given his still-childish appearance – nodded and relaxed as the morphine ampule kicked in. “Great. How’s Sarah?”
Lane glanced at the other woman and wiped her face with one hand. “The surgeons will probably take her first, but I think she’ll be fine. You just worry about you, okay?”
McKenzie nodded again, then lowered his head onto the Humvee’s deck. “Good,” he said. “Good.”
Lois hoped she hadn’t just lied to the young man.
*****
Now:
She lurched up out of the half-dream half-memory with an audible grunt and found herself on Cat’s couch, her legs and abdomen covered with Cat’s favorite afghan. Sarah Ferguson had survived the journey back to the compound, the emergency surgeons there had performed a minor miracle in saving both of her legs and had promised that she’d walk again. And the evac chopper had flown her to the staging area where she was airlifted to Germany for more treatment and a lot of physical therapy.
Lois had always been sad that Sarah had been shot, but if she had to get hit, Lois was glad that it had been before she’d suffered her own wounds, the ones that had prematurely ended an eight-year-enlistment – maybe even a full twenty-year career – and sent her to follow in Sarah’s wobbly footsteps. Sarah had been nominated for, and received, a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star, and the press coverage she’d received for being the first woman in the theater of operations to receive those honors took the edge off Lois’ coverage – another reason Lois was grateful to Sarah. The medals for the two women had been rushed through the approval process in less time than their respective flights to Germany had taken.
Lois was glad she’d awakened before dreaming about her own Purple Heart. And about the Silver Star she’d received from her wheelchair. Remembering the details of that action always robbed her of sleep and put her in a foul mood all the next day.
Not that the dream she’d had was a bed of roses.
Her knee was aching from being in a bad position all night, and she knew from experience that her leg wouldn’t really loosen up until after lunch. After awakening from the dream on someone else’s couch, she wasn’t up to being Mary Poppins just yet. It didn’t help that Cat blew into the living room just twenty seconds later and abruptly announced, “Perry’s called a brief staff meeting at eight-thirty to introduce the new—”
Cat froze in mid-step just inside the living room doorway. Her voice locked up on her and she went silent. Lois blinked, sighed, and reset the safety on her pistol. “Cat, one of these days I’m going to shoot you by accident and you won’t be there to help me hide the body. Please stop sneaking up on me.”
Cat released the breath she’d held since not finishing her sentence. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I don’t know anyone else in Metropolis who draws her gun – sorry, her weapon – that fast and without sufficient provocation.”
“You snuck up on me.” The Beretta slid back into Lois’ purse holster. “That’s sufficient provocation in my book.”
“I didn’t mean to sneak.”
“I know.” Lois leaned over and put her head in her hands. “I had the dream again. Not the really bad one, just the bad-enough one. It always puts me in a foul state of mind.”
“You’re forgiven. Besides, you listened to everything I told you about Clark last night.”
“Yeah, well, despite your well-developed urban stealth mode, you’re one of the very few people who will listen to me and be patient with my John Wesley Hardin impersonations.”
“You want some breakfast? I have cantaloupe. Wasn’t Hardin the guy who went to the OK Corral with Bat Masterson?”
Lois rolled her head and gave Cat a long-suffering wounded look. “You do that on purpose, don’t you?”
Her face angelic and perfectly calm, Cat asked, “Do what on purpose?”
“You know very well ‘what.’ Scrambling Western history, wench. The Earp brothers and Doc Holliday went to the OK Corral to arrest the Clanton family and supporters for illegally carrying weapons in town and it turned into a bloodbath. Masterson was nowhere near Tombstone that whole month. Hardin – who was also not in Tombstone then – was the guy who was supposed to have shot forty men, one for snoring too loudly.”
Cat handed Lois a bowl with half a cantaloupe in it. “Did that really happen?”
Lois took a bite and chewed, then swallowed. “Hardin? I don’t know. He was a stone-cold killer, but whether or not that’s true is anyone’s opinion. I guess when the legend gets bigger than the truth, you print the legend.”
“Ha! Don’t let Perry hear you say that.”
“Or the new guy. Speaking of whom, is Clark the new guy Perry’s introducing at such an unhealthy hour?”
Cat sipped a glass of orange juice. “Perry didn’t tell me, but given what you said about his audition story and how eager he was, I don’t know who else it could be. We haven’t exactly been inundated with qualified applicants.”
“That’s because Perry expects the rookies to know a lot more than how to give their Pulitzer acceptance speeches. Me, I just hope he takes direction well and doesn’t call you Mags in front of Ralph. All that idiot needs is another nickname for you so he can make it sound dirty somehow.”
*****
Lois checked her watch. She’d seen Cat slip into the supply room a few minutes before, so the plan to put Clark in there with her hadn’t changed. Lois would be there too – with her Beretta. Just in case.
At eight-twenty-nine, Perry walked onto the bullpen floor and lifted both hands. “Hey. Hey! Listen up, people! I said LISTEN UP!”
The room noise finally faded into the background. Perry lowered his arms and waved for a guy most of the crew had never seen to step up beside him. “I know we’re all busy, so I’ll make this quick. Our newest member of the Daily Planet is – drum roll, please.”
A young man with floppy teen-aged hair did a quick paradiddle with his hands on the desk beside him, including sound effects, and finished with a cymbal crash. Clark smiled wide as Perry continued. “The author of the feature story about the Sarah Bernhardt Theater demolition, which we published in this morning’s edition, is this solid young man standing beside me. His name is Clark Kent, and he’s the newest member of our news crew.”
Polite applause from most of the men and enthusiastic applause from most of the women burst out, the latter continuing until Perry gestured for it to cease. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. We’re gonna throw him in the deep end of the pool and see if he can tread water, so don’t any of you hand him an anchor. Uh – you can swim, can’t you, Kent?”
Clark nodded and put one hand in his pants pocket and grinned as if he were about to grab a stalk of wheat to chew. “Like a fish, Perry.”
Most of the group laughed. “That’s good. Y’all come by and welcome him to our little family, and if he asks a reasonable question, you give him a reasonable answer. Can I get at least that level of cooperation from you sharks?”
More laughter. Karen called out, “At least from the lady sharks!”
Lois rolled her eyes. The comment wasn’t surprising coming from Karen Wells. She’d been flirting with every man in the newsroom even before her divorce had become final almost a year before. She hoped Kent had better taste.
Apparently he did. Karen filed past him twice to shake his hand, making sure she was the last one in line the second time around. Clark deftly sidestepped her touch to his shoulder and slipped away from her grip, then turned and headed toward Jimmy’s desk.
Lois stepped in front of him. “You’re Clark Kent.”
He smiled and nodded. “Guilty as charged, ma’am.”
“The name is Lois Lane, Kent. Come with me.”
She spun on her heel and began marching toward the supply room. Kent caught up and said at a volume only she could have heard, “Old injury or recent one?”
That was when Lois realized she was still limping slightly, her damaged knee still unwilling to stretch out to its full extension. Over her shoulder she muttered, “Old one. The damage is permanent but manageable.”
He waited a couple of steps before muttering back. “You know I’m not a physical therapist, right?”
“I don’t need you for that.” She stopped in front of the supply room with her hand on the doorknob. “Come in here with me.”
He frowned, but with amusement. “You know, I usually don’t get supplies with anyone else on my first day of the job.”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
“Ah-ha. Now you have done gone and intrigued me.”
She opened the door and gestured for him to precede her. “Inside, Farm Boy.”
*****
Clark stepped into the supply room, wondering why the stunning brunette had called him “Farm Boy.” Did his rural upbringing show through that much? Was there straw in his waistband or stuck behind his ear? Had his syntax betrayed him?
Then he saw the tall redhead across the room and stopped thinking.
Maggie.
“Hi, Clark. How have you been?”
“Uh—”
He felt Lois’ hand in the middle of his back and allowed her to push him forward a couple of steps. “Use your words, Farmer Brown,” she snapped out.
The door closed behind them. Maggie stood stock-still, obviously waiting for him to say or do something. The problem was, he didn’t know what to say or do. It was difficult for him to remember to breathe.
She looked good, really good. The years had been kind to her. She’d graduated from jeans, sweatshirt, ponytail, and sneakers to a stylish blouse-skirt combo with her red hair worn long and straight and no gray that he could see at a glance. And she was still as slender and shapely as the last time he’d seen her.
The redhead smiled tentatively and stepped closer, her velvet-soft voice barely reaching him. “Clark? Please say something. I need to know you’ll let me explain what happened back at Met U.”
Met U. Of course, he thought. She’d finally found him and – no, that made no sense. The brunette, Lois, worked here. Maybe Lois had found out Clark had been hired and had brought Maggie in to – no, that didn’t track either.
He finally managed, “You’re – you look good, Mags.”
She shook her head. “That’s part of what I tried to tell you that morning. My real name has never been Margaret Mayfield. It’s Catharine Grant. I was undercover from the Daily Planet, looking for hard evidence of that escort ring you and I busted. Did you ever see the story in print?”
His brain was starting to come back on line, trying to process this new data. “Uh – no, I didn’t. I guess that’s why I – why you’ve always been Maggie in my memory.” After a long moment, he added, “I’m sorry.”
She tried to smile at him. “That’s okay. You can look it up in the digital archives if you want to. I think Jimmy and Jack have managed to get to those issues. Anything from 1983 or earlier is going to stay on microfiche, though.”
“No, I meant – the ‘I’m sorry’ was for the way I acted that day. I was wrong and it’s bothered me ever since then.” He took a tentative half-step toward her. When she didn’t back away, he took another, close enough to touch her but not so close as to make her feel trapped. “I want to apologize right now for being such a moronic jerk that day. And I don’t expect anything from back then to continue now. If you’ll forgive me, I’d like to go kinda slow and have us try to become friends. How does that sound?”
Maggie’s face – no, Catharine’s face, he insisted to himself, have to remember that – relaxed visibly. “That’s what I want, too. Lois and I both hope you’ll be an asset to the Planet, and everything will be better if we’re not suppressing anger or resentment against each other. Oh, Lois, he’s doing fine! Put it away!”
Clark looked over his shoulder to see Lois slide a semi-auto pistol into her purse. “You’re prepared for just about anything, aren’t you, Miss Lane?”
She adjusted the purse strap and locked eyes with him. “Just call me Lois, and yes, I’m ready for just about anything.” Her hand caressed her purse. “Don’t make me think I made a bad call with you, Kent. Cat’s my best friend, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re just cannon fodder.”
Clark stared for a moment, then turned back to Cat and asked, “She always like this?”
Cat shook her head without breaking eye contact. “Oh, no. This is one of her good days.”
A half-smile crept onto his face. “Then I’ll be careful.”
Cat – or Catharine – giggled in the pixie manner he’d once loved so much. “Thank you, Clark. Will you – will you shake my hand?”
She put out those long fingers, still thin and soft and supple. “Of course,” he said as he took her hand in both of his. “To a new friendship.”
Cat’s expression somehow conveyed relief and slight sadness at the same time. “To the beginning of a beautiful new friendship.”
Her hands still felt good. But there was no spark between them, only a wisp of smoke wafting toward the ceiling. Maybe that’s why there was a sad component to her expression.
Maybe that’s why he felt that same slight sadness, a regret for what might have been but would almost surely never be now.
Their hands parted and he felt the need to ask what she wanted him to call her. “Uh – I’m guessing that calling you Margaret or any derivative of it isn’t how I should address you.”
“No, please, that’s a bad association for me. Just call me Catharine for now. If that’s okay, of course.”
“It’s your name, Catharine. I’ll call you whatever you want me to.”
“’Catharine’ works for me. Maybe later you can call me Cat.” She smiled again and he was once again reminded of that night. Then she straightened and her eyes twinkled. “Hey, we need to get to work before Perry gets upset with all three of us.”
He stepped to the side and extended his arm toward the door. “I will follow you ladies and your lead. For now, at least.”
Last edited by Terry Leatherwood; 03/19/20 08:46 PM.
