The Dark Knight (Apocalypse Weird 2) (7 page)

Before the world ended...

Cory was born.  They didn’t know at first.  But later, it
was his mother who knew.

“He’s not right, Colin,” she told her husband.

“He’ll be fine,” his father, a rookie cop just out of the
marines explained as he left for the night shift.  A long night of driving the
alleys and quiet streets of their town with his officer-trainer.  “Boys are
always slower to come along.”

Except Cory stayed slow.

And one day, when Cory’s dad, Colin, was on patrol, his
mother left him with Mrs. Swinton to go to the market, “real quick” she said,
and never came back.

Never.

Ever.

Colin couldn’t blame her.  He never did.  He just took
over.  He just took over everything.  And of course, there was Mrs. Swinton...
and some others who came and went throughout the years.

When Cory was twelve...

... well, when he was twelve, he still went to elementary
school with the other “normal” kids.  The school system, good teachers and a
caring principal, felt it was not just good for Cory, but good for the other
kids too.

Kids like Bryan Ratigan...

... well, you know... there’s always a Bryan Ratigan, isn’t
there?  One day Cory found himself being pushed down again and again out on the
football-baseball field behind the bleachers.  Where the teachers couldn’t
exactly see what was going on.  All the cool kids watched.  Sort of laughing.

It was okay to laugh at Cory.  He did a lot of funny things
even though he didn’t mean to be so funny.  After all, he was “special”.  And,
of course...

... well of course, there was his whole Batman thing.

Bryan Ratigan had lured Cory out there.  It was May.  School
was almost over.  Elementary school was almost over.  The end of the sixth
grade.  Then they would all be off to junior high.  Real adults.  Makeup for
girls.  Fights for boys.

Boyfriends.

Girlfriends.

Dances.

Except Cory.  Cory would be going to a “special” school.

So, it was their last chance to have fun with Cory.  Bryan’s
last chance.  Most of them had known Cory their whole time in elementary
school.  If you’d asked them, they’d have told you they’d known Cory their
whole lives, which was, as far as they considered the length of lives, the sum
of themselves.  Don’t we say that when we’re young?  Don’t we think that all
our years in elementary school are the sum total of our lives? 

Didn’t we?

Such a small part, isn’t it?  Now that we know how long a
life can be.

Bryan Ratigan pushed Cory down again.

And again.

And again.

And every time, Cory would say, “I am vengeance.  I am the
night.  I am Batman,” as he struggled back onto his clumsy feet, sometimes just
barely before Bryan would push him, or hit him, and down he’d go again.

It was funny, wasn’t it?

Not so much.

Again.

“I am vengeance...”

Again.

“... I am the night...”

And again.

“... I am Batman.”

“Just stay down this time, Cory!” someone said.  A girl
named Tara.

The fun was over now. 

Bryan had to start hitting Cory right in the face, y’know 
hard, to keep him down.  See, because Cory kept getting back up, saying, “I am
vengeance...” and Bryan couldn’t just stop because somehow that would be
letting Cory win.  Cory couldn’t win because he was... y’know, “special”.  If
he beat you at anything then you were worse than him.  You were worse than
“special”.

Cory’s nose was bleeding now.

“Just stay down, Cory!”  Even Bryan almost pleaded the next
time. 

“I am vengeance...”

Bryan socked him in the eye when a girl, a girl Bryan liked,
told him to stop bullying Cory.

If it helps, at that moment, even Bryan Ratigan hated
himself.  If it helps.

Cory thought it was all just a game.  Grunting, he struggled
to his feet again.  Blood ran down onto his chin.  His eye was very swollen and
turning blue.

“Ewww,” someone screamed.  A girl.  “He’s bleeding a lot.”

Kevin Casell who was playing soccer nearby saw what was
happening and ran to get a teacher.  When the zombies attacked the hospital
Kevin Casell would later work at as a physical therapist, he would die trying
to help a family get to the roof everyone was being evacuated off of.  He was
that kind of boy.  He would become that kind of man.

But, back on that day in the last May of Childhood, later
that afternoon, Colin Banks, Officer Banks, showed up at the school.  Cory was
sitting in the front lobby, next to the door of the principal’s office.

No, Officer Banks didn’t want to press charges.  Yes, Cory
was staying in school for what remained of the year.  What other choice did he
have?  Cory’s special school didn’t have room just yet, and when it did, it was
going to break Officer Banks, who was a single parent, financially and emotionally. 

They drove home that afternoon.

Cory ran to the front door, flung it open, and threw himself
in front of the TV.  Waiting.  Colin entered.  Turned on the TV with the
remote.  Hit play on the DVD.

Remember that Batman cartoon from the early nineties?

That’s Cory’s favorite show.

Hence, “I am Vengence.  I am the night.  I am Batman.”

Later, once Cory had finished the one episode he was allowed
to watch after school, the one in which... the Scarecrow made Batman very
afraid... as Colin sat in the kitchen dealing with his rage, which was to just
sit and drink a glass of water and look at a calendar that had a picture of
Hawaii on it...

Later...

... he took Cory into the backyard.  It was almost summer. 
Daylight savings.  Colin brought out his old punching bag, setting it up under
a gnarled olive tree.

“Cory,” said Colin softly.

Cory never looked at Colin.  Always away.  To the side. 
Somewhere else.  He didn’t really look at anybody when he didn’t need to.  But
he was listening.  Cory always listened.

Not being paid attention to sometimes upset people.

Not those who knew and loved Cory.  They just accepted the
way he paid attention, which was different than how others paid attention.

“Yeah, Daddy,” said Cory who was big for his age.

“You had a fight today,”

“Bryan and me were just playing.”

Colin paused.  He ground his teeth.  He took a breath.

“He was hitting you,” said Colin.

“Yeah, Daddy.  We were just playing.”

There is no modulation in Cory’s voice.  No inflection of
emotion.  Every spoken word is a statement.  He never asks questions.  He only
makes statements.  Everything is delivered flatly.

“Yeah, Daddy.  Just playing.”

Colin is afraid.  Not of the thugs and gangbangers he busts
regularly.  No, he’ll chase them down a blind alley, often leaving his older
partner far behind.  He’s not afraid of them, or guys who beat their wives or
other guys with guns looking to settle a score.  No, Colin is afraid of the
world and how it treats Cory.  He won’t always be there for the kid.  His son. 
He won’t always be there.  He knows that and it frightens him to death.  Every
day.  Every night.

All good parents know the feeling.

“Cory?”  Colin bends down.  “I want to teach you how to play
with kids like Bryan.  Kids who want to play too rough.  Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, Daddy.”

Before Colin joined the marines, back when he’d been a poor
kid from the poor side of town, he’d been a golden gloves contender.  Not a
champion.  Just a contender.  He’d even boxed in the marines.  From that first
evening of early summer as the world changed despite Colin’s efforts to make it
stay the same safe place it had never been, that whole long summer, he taught
Cory how to “play” when others like Bryan Ratigan wanted to play.

Cory wasn’t fast.  If you’d taken any kind of marital arts, or
been in enough fights, you could easily beat him.  But if you didn’t watch out,
his left hook became a devastating haymaker, and on occasion, he could land an
uppercut that once knocked Colin out cold.  Lights out.  When Colin awoke,
sitting up in the grass, he thought that day might just be the happiest day of
his life.  Because now he knew Cory could at least defend himself. 

Now, Cory could do something in all Colin’s darkly imagined
scenarios.  The ones where Cory’s cornered as he walks home to an adult
assisted living facility long after Colin’s been killed in the line of duty by
some drunk driver late one night.  He knows Cory’s life won’t be one where
Colin’s always there.  Colin was still a cop after all.  Carrying a gun.  Going
into every situation where someone else might also be carrying a gun.  But now
Colin knows, hopes, that on that dark night when someone wants to mess with
Cory, that Cory has something he can use to defend himself.

When Colin thought about his life and the bad breaks he’d had,
he still loved Cory’s mom though she’d been gone for years, he wasn’t mad or
sad or even angry.  When he thought about his life he was just worried.  A
lot.  Cory’s knockout uppercut that day helped Colin not to worry so much.

Colin was very brave.  All the other cops knew that.  He
took risks out on the streets just to make sure everyone got home safely each
night.  That was a big thing to him, “just get home safely” he’d say, or remind
everyone else to, when he made sergeant.  Watch Commander.  His only worry
until that afternoon when Cory laid him out in the grass with a nice uppercut
into Colin’s jaw, was for Cory.  That someone, that someones, that all the
Bryan Ratigans of the world, might try hurt him one day.

But now... there was that uppercut.

He still worried...

... but the uppercut helped.

“I’m going now, Cory,” said Colin
Morris the night the world began to end.  Sergeant Morris.  Cory sat in front
of the TV.  He was nineteen years old.  Still just a boy, though.  It was three
o’clock in the afternoon.  Cory attended an advanced adult education center in
the mornings and early afternoons.  Then he came home and it was time for
Batman.

How does a young man, a simple man, come to be so devoted to
the Dark Knight?  It happened when Cory was very young and it started with a
question. 

Cory had asked a question.

As his father dressed for work, Cory would often watch from
the floor where he played nearby.  But you see, he really didn’t watch.  I
mean, you never really knew what was going on in Cory’s mind.  Maybe nothing,
is what most people supposed.  A few liked to imagine something akin to a
deeper symphony they could not hear. Happy to know that it was Cory’s and
Cory’s alone.  And so on that day, as his father dressed for work, ironing and
pressing his own uniform because if Colin could save just that much in dry
cleaning, it would go right into the trust he’d set up to take care of Cory in
case anything ever happened.   On that day, Cory asked a question.

Colin burned himself on the iron.  Not thinking about what
he was doing because he was thinking too much about money and worry and the
state of the world and Cory.  Not feeling very “Super Cop”-like at that
particular moment.  Not feeling very heroic.  Feeling a little down, defeated,
unable to catch a break.  Wondering what he’d done...

And he stopped right there. 

Because he couldn’t take that out there on the streets
tonight.  Every traffic stop, every domestic violence call, every crime in
progress was a potential confrontation and he was not the biggest and baddest
dude on the street.  But, as every cop knows, when it comes down to it, it
comes down to one thing.  One simple thing when a drunk the size of a mountain
wants to tangle.  It comes down to who wants to make it home more.

Colin Morris knew he couldn’t take his baggage out there
tonight.  He knew he needed to be something bigger than what he felt like at
that burned hand moment.  Something, someone heroic.

One of the sergeant’s wives had given her husband a photocopy
of an email she’d received.  It was some little girl’s letter to a soldier over
in the war.  The little girl had written to the soldier, knowing his life was
in danger in a foreign country, instructing him to be careful, and then, the
little girl gave that unknown soldier a piece of solemn advice. 

“Always be Batman.”

You see, Batman can handle anything, and to a little girl
and a sergeant’s wife, any cop’s spouse, Batman always comes home.  Which is
important when you love someone.  Coming home is real important.

The sergeant posted it near the lockers.  Just a piece of
paper and a strip of tape.  The important part underlined in red, circled by
the sergeant’s wife.  “Always be Batman”.

And no one said anything.  No jokes like there always were
about advice from wives.  No one defaced it.  No one tore it down or even
laughed as they walked by.

“Always be Batman”.

And Cory, playing in Cory world, hearing that unheard
symphony or some such, looked up from the closet where he was petting one of
his Dad’s sneakers and said, as Colin Morris belted his utility belt around his
waist checking the fit, he’d been losing weight lately because he’d been
skipping lunch.  Saving just that much more for Cory, y’know.  Cory looked up
and said, “Who are you, Daddy?”

Colin looked up suddenly.  He’d been thinking about the burn
to his hand and how it had to be right where he would grip the steering wheel
all night.  Right in the web of his hand.  And, just like all of us when small
things send us down the well of self-pity again, and our larger issues rear up
and mean so much more in the light of tripping, or dropping a plate, or putting
salt in the coffee instead of sugar, Colin had no answer other than an
existentially deep and unspoken “I don’t know some days” that seemed on the tip
of his tongue, but was really deep down in his heart.  Or at least, that’s
where it felt like it was.

And that wasn’t good enough for Cory, Colin knew.  Cory
didn’t understand existential answers.  Neither does life.

Then, remembering the piece of yellowing paper in the locker
room, Colin Morris said, “I’m Batman.”  He smiled and snapped the belt into its
loop.

“How come?” asked Cory.

What followed was Colin Morris trying to explain, to his
mentally handicapped son, what a police officer did.  Which led to crime. 
Which led to bad people and the farther Colin went, heading into the law and
judges and even the constitution, he knew either Cory wasn’t listening or
didn’t understand and he wasn’t sure because Cory just watched a shoe with his
head cranked to the side and a little bit of drool escaping out the side of his
mouth.  The more Colin Morris talked, the more he was convinced Cory would
never understand.

But later...

“My dad is Batman,” he told Mrs. Smith, his then-caretaker
that afternoon as Colin Morris left for his shift.  Colin Morris smiled
awkwardly.  Mrs. Smith nodded and ushered Cory in.  That night, as Colin Morris
patrolled the streets, his mind took a break from everything.  He just drove up
and down empty streets in the night.  There really wasn’t much going on, which
was nice and restored his faith in humanity for a little while.  Still feeling
good and going on toward midnight, he stopped at a 7-11 for a coffee.  The
store manager always brewed a pot at midnight and made sure the cops knew they
could come by for a free cup.

Free cup in hand, Officer Morris felt good.  He’d liked
talking with Cory that afternoon and the burn hadn’t felt as bad throughout his
shift as he’d thought it would.  Talking with your kid was good, he thought to
himself inside the 7-11.

Now most parents with young children might take this for
granted.  They might talk with their kids so much, answering never-ending
rivers of questions about the sky being blue and why don’t people have pet
elephants, that those parents might actually crave some silence every so
often.  Don’t worry about them though, they’ll get it.  When the questioners
have grown and gone, they will ache for just one more question.  Just one.  And
when it comes, when the telephone rings and they finally ask advice on how to
cook a steak, or buy a house, or get a tough stain out of a good coat... well,
that’s just one of the best days, isn’t it?

But the parents of children who are special, and yes all
children are special, but in this case we mean the “special” children who are
autistic, mentally handicapped, Down syndrome... special children.  They, these
parents, don’t always get to play the game of questions.  Some of these
children don’t ask questions much, or ever.  Like Cory.  Some don’t know how to
show affection.  Like Cory.  And so, when you are the parent of a special child
you must wait, like a hunter in the blind through long wintery afternoons, you
must wait all alone.  You must wait so long that you forget you’ve been
waiting.  One day, you even give up hope of ever having even a normal
conversation with the child you love more than you could’ve ever imagined
loving anyone.  Life?  Love?  The best way to cook a steak?  Questions. 
Special children don’t ask a lot of questions.

And so a rare and wonderful thing had happened to Colin
Morris that day, he thought as he reflected back on the ironing and the
question and his descent into the American legal system.  His son had asked him
a question.  And Colin Morris had answered back and he’d answered back so much
that even now he laughed at himself about the trail he’d followed trying to
answer a simple question.

Did Cory understand ten percent of it?  Five percent?

Who cares, thought Colin Morris.  Who cares? 

It was wonderful. 

It was a conversation with his son.

Then an evil thought occurred to Colin Morris.  What if
there were more of those conversations?  What if... what if he could talk with
his son like...?

He stomped that line of thought down.  Because that meant
waiting for a day that might never come.  Waiting and maybe missing something
else.  Waiting for Cory to be someone other than who Cory actually was. 
Wanting for him to be...

Which is why his wife had left them both.

She got tired of waiting for Cory to be something else.

He sipped his coffee, spinning through a rack of DVD’s
inside the 7-11.  Not really thinking.  Just enjoying the carousel and its
hypnotic motion.

The first season of the old Batman cartoon spun into view. 
Batman from back in the nineties.

Colin Morris bought it.

“Always be Batman” some little girl had written to a lonely
and frightened soldier in the desert.

When they’d come home from school the next day, Colin put
one of the discs into the DVD player and asked Cory to come watch it with him.

“Do you remember when I told you...” he started.  “Do you
remember when I told you I was Batman, Cory?  Do you remember that?”

Cory said “Yeah, Daddy.”  He was watching a hummingbird just
outside the window. 

“This is the real Batman,” said Colin and pressed play.

Music began and the horns rose triumphantly after the Warner
Brothers logo.  And Batman...

You know... Batman.

Cory turned his head toward the screen and watched.  And so
did Colin Morris, except that he occasionally snuck glances at Cory whose eyes
were large and whose mouth was wide open.  His son was enthralled, raptured.

“Always be Batman” meant always be a hero.  Always help
those in need.  Cory understood now.

“I’m going, Cory,” said Sergeant Morris, Colin Morris,
Cory’s dad, for the last time he would ever say anything to nineteen-year-old
Cory that last day as the world began to end.  Cory, in his child’s Batman
costume over his regular clothing, just the too-small cape and the rubber mask,
well-made, turned and waved quickly and without finesse as he shouted, “Okay,
Daddy.  I’ll watch for the Bat Signal if you need help before I go to sleep.” 
Then he turned back to the TV.  All of it in one motion.  All of it in his
rapid, breathless, off tone rising-pitch speech.

Colin Morris closed the door to his house for the last
time.  Six hours later, he’d be at the hospital, responding to a
riot-in-progress call.  As the world began to end.