The Book of Lies

46

How many?” an older woman with a doughy face asks at the front desk of the museum.

“Three,” I tell her.

She stares, confused, seeing only me. Over my shoulder, the front door to the museum opens and my dad steps inside. It was his idea: waiting in the car to see if anyone followed. But as the door opens, for a moment, I could’ve sworn he was talking to someone out there. “All clear,” he announces to me.

The woman’s still confused. “You said three?”

“We have— In the bathroom,” I explain, pointing behind me at the ladies’ room.

“Welcome to Metropolis,” the doughy woman says with a far too high level of joy as she hands me the tickets. “Though remember, we’re only open till five.”

I look at my watch. Less than fifteen minutes.

“C’mon, Serena!” I call out, heading past the restroom just as the door swings open.

Surprised to see me so close, she jumps back, stuffing something into her purse.

“Who were you talking to?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“Your phone. Sorry,” I add as I point with my chin, “it looked like . . . in your purse . . . you were putting back your phone.”

She stares straight at me for barely a second. It’s a helluva long second. “Just checking messages,” she finally replies, calm as ever. Reading my expression, she adds, “You believe me, right?”

I’m lied to every single day by most of my clients. But as I look at her . . . “I believe you, Serena.”

“Don’t use the phone anymore, okay?” my father barks, so clearly pissed that the woman at the ticket desk looks our way.

“Okay, everybody lose the claws,” I say. “We’re all tired . . . we’ve got twelve minutes till closing . . . Let’s just be—”

“Faster than a speeding bullet!” a baritone voice announces behind us.

“See, now that’s just horrible,” Serena says, rolling her eyes as we turn toward the official entrance of the exhibit.

Beneath the tall glass windows and across the long rectangular Jerusalem stone lobby, a six-foot-tall statue of Superman holds a giant Earth over his head. On the Earth, there’s a little red flag stuck into Cleveland with a note that says, “Birthplace of Superman!”

“More powerful than a locomotive!”

And more annoying with each passing second.

I race toward the exhibit. “Let’s just get what we came for.”

From what I can tell, the main exhibit hall of the Maltz Museum is set up like a long rectangle—the back half of it dedicated to Jewish artifacts, the front half to the Superman display, which is split into half a dozen smaller rooms. It doesn’t take long to divide them up. I don’t like it. But with closing hour quickly approaching, the only way we’re finding the attic copy they have here is with some speed. On my far left, my father took the room labeled “Superman in the ’60s”; on my right, Serena took “Superman Today”; and I very purposely staked my claim in the main central exhibit: “Origins of the Superman.”

Like any other museum, it has stark white walls lined with Lucite cases of all shapes and sizes, holding everything from old photographs and pencil sketches, to copies of Nietzsche’s mention of the Übermensch and Hitler’s demand for the master race, to 1940s Superman movie posters, action figures, jigsaw puzzles, baseball cards, Colorforms sets, cereal boxes, and every other product that you can possibly put a giant red-and-yellow S on. But, amazingly, there’s not a single comic book.

In the corner of the wide room, a bright red Superman cape hides the entrance to what looks like a separate part of the exhibit. I’ll bite.

As I pull aside the cape and step inside, the darkness tells me it’s just a small theater. The curved, blue-carpeted benches look like they can seat ten or so people, and on the far left wall, a flat-screen TV announces:

“Up in the sky! Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!”

From the crackling of the recording and the clapping of the crowd, it’s an old radio show. But on-screen, it’s a black-and-white photo of young Jerry Siegel and artist Joe Shuster. Most people in 1940s photos look like they’re somehow older than you. But to see these two . . . these kids dressed in shirts and ties . . . one of them sitting at an old typewriter (I’m guessing Jerry), the other leaning over him with a pencil behind his ear (Joe, the artist)—they can’t be outta high school.

“Yes, it’s Superman. Young America’s stalwart idol,” the radio announcer says as a montage of more family photos appears on-screen, along with a caption that says: “Audio from Town Hall Tonight with Fred Allen (1940).”

“Hey, listen!” a little boy’s voice interrupts. “A new Action Comics just came out, and boy, has it got a swell adventure of Superman in it!” he says as the radio audience cheers.

On the flat screen, there’s another photo, this one of Action Comics #-1—just like the one in my backpack.

“Our guest tonight is the man who originated Superman. He’s Mr. Jerry Siegel. Good evening, Mr. Siegel,” the announcer says.

“Good evening, Fred,” a nasal voice replies, and for the first time—even after walking through his house and his bedroom and his attic . . . even after seeing his photo . . . to actually hear his anxious, squeaky voice—Jerry Siegel is suddenly alive, whispering to me from the dead.

“So you are the man behind Superman, Mr. Siegel?”

“No, I’m just one of the men, Fred. I write the situations and the dialogue, and the strip is drawn by my collaborator, Joe Shuster.”

With each question, the announcer revs up his voice, hoping to draw Jerry out. This kid just created Superman! But with each response, Jerry’s voice—it’s not just that he sounds so wonderfully geeky (though he does)—but to hear his uncomfortable stutter and stammering . . . It’s just— This boy— We expect him to be Superman.

But he’s just Clark Kent.

“Well, you seem . . . seem rather young to be the instigator of this highly successful feature, Mr. Siegel. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

As Jerry says the words, images from more old comic books fill the screen. Shots of Superman in World War II: his chest out as he literally punches a German U-boat . . . then him walking arm in arm, centered between an army soldier and a navy sailor. The next image is a shot of the planet Krypton, then one of a baby in a blue blanket being placed in a 1940s version of a rocket ship.

“And how long have you and Mr. Shuster been working on your high-voltage Robin Hood?” the announcer asks as the montage continues.

As the red rocket lifts off, a glass window in the ship shows the baby crying inside, while off to the left of the panel, Mom and Dad appear in profile as they both crane their necks up and calmly wave good-bye to their only child. There’s a single tear skiing down the cheek of the mother.

“We started about eight years ago, but Superman has been in print only the past two years,” Jerry says.

“Well, what caused the delay? Cirrhosis of the batteries?”

“No, Fred. It took us six years to sell Superman. He was turned down by almost every comic editor in the country.”

The audience laughs hysterically at that one, while on-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on just the crying baby swaddled in the bright blue blanket. Baby Superman, rocketing to the planet Earth. The camera then shifts left, pulling in on the doomed parents . . . then back to the crying baby . . . then back to the parents. The camera’s so close on their profiles, you can see the tiny pink halftone dots that color their faces—and as it pulls even closer—on the mom’s nose and eyes and tears—

“It’s a bit heavy-handed, no?” a voice asks behind me.

I turn around to find a short, muscular man in a too tight business suit. The name tag on his lapel tells me he’s the Curator; the way he stands across from me—drifting into my personal space—tells me he’s also a real-deal comic book fan. “It’s really hard with these exhibits,” he explains. “But people forget: At the core of it, Superman is an orphan story.”

“Yeah . . . no . . . I didn’t realize that,” I tell him, turning back to the screen.

“Y’okay?” he says in full midwest accent.

“I’m fine.”

“Y’sure? Y’look a little . . . zapped by kryptonite.” He laughs a hiccupy laugh, and for the first time I realize how much more he blinks than the average person.

“So you’re the curator?” I ask.

“Welcome to Metropolis!” He beams at me, giving three quick blinks. “Gareth Gelbwaks.”

“Great, then maybe you can help me with this, Gareth,” I say, going straight for the backpack and pulling out Action Comics in the wax paper—

Gareth’s eyes go wide, as though I just unveiled the Rosetta Stone. “Th-That’s— Where’d you—?” He swallows hard and blinks half a dozen times. “Maybe we should go back to my office.”

“That’d be perfect.”

Within seconds, we weave toward the far right exhibit hall, back past the bathrooms, to an oak door marked, PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY.

It’s not until he twists the doorknob that I realize I haven’t seen Serena or—

There’s a rusty squeak as the door swings open, revealing a small conference room, a round meeting table . . . and my father sitting there with his hands in PlastiCuffs.

“Dad, what’re you—?” I race forward, already realizing I’m too late.

The door slams behind me, and I finally spot her: the tall Hispanic woman with a cheap haircut and an even cheaper brown dye job.

“Nice to see you again, Cal,” Naomi says, pointing her gun at me. “Welcome to Metropolis.”