The Book of Lies

82

The word Superman comes from

Nietzsche’s Übermensch and George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman.

But it was Hitler, stating he wanted a nation of “supermen,” that gave the term its popularity.

—Maltz Museum brochure

Today

Marina del Rey, California

You look scared.”

“I’m not scared,” I tell Serena as I grip the steering wheel of our rental car, which is parked at the end of the wide cul-de-sac. “I’m just nervous.”

“About this—or you still thinking about your father?”

I pause for a second too long. “About this.”

In the passenger seat, Serena tucks her legs into an Indian-style position, never taking her eyes off me. “If it makes you feel better about it, Cal, your dad—”

“Please don’t give me a Buddha quote right now. Can’t I just worry I’m being too easy on him?”

“Maybe you are,” she admits. “But just remember—”

“I said no Buddha.”

“No Buddha. Just listen: When baby Superman gets rocketed to the planet Earth and his real parents die on Krypton, he lands here and gets two new flawless parents who treat him perfect as can be.”

“So?”

“So that’s just a comic book. Real life has much more complicated endings. And beginnings.”

“And that’s it? Now I’m supposed to feel better? Or just forgive him? Or not second-guess myself for potentially inviting him back into my life?”

She turns to me, her yellow blue eyes trying to absorb whatever pain and regret she thinks I’m feeling. She’s not my girlfriend. I know she’s not. But there’s no denying the fact that throughout this whole mess, she’s the one clear reminder, even with all the hokey self-help quotes, that not everything carries freight with it.

“Cal, the soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.”

I stare at her. She stares back, unblinking.

“That was Buddha, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“Native American. Minquass tribe.”

I nod, still gripping the steering wheel. I fight for my clients every day, and I always will. It’s nice to finally feel someone fighting for me. “Have I thanked you for coming here?”

“Over nine times. You still nervous?”

I stare over her shoulder at our destination: the three-story, beige-and-white apartment building with the odd flock of pelicans nesting on top.

“Terrified,” I tell her.

“That’s why you need to go. Without me. You’re the one who needs to know, Cal.”

She’s right about that.

As I nudge open the car door and step outside, the California sun salutes me. I hear the squawks of pelicans and a boat horn in the distance. We’re not far from the marina.

“Take your time. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Serena calls out, already pulling away. She’s worried if she waits around, I might back out. She’s right.

Behind me, I hear the car take off and disappear.

Following the concrete path and counting door numbers, I make my way to the back of the older, three-story apartment building, where, just past a set of open jalousie windows, there’s a coral-colored door with four different locks. I hear an old Dean Martin song playing inside. Just below the doorbell is the name:

SIEGEL

I study it for a minute, collecting my—

“I see you out there,” an elderly woman’s voice announces. “You here for the air-conditioning?”

It’d be simple to say yes. Or to flash my wallet in front of the eyehole and pretend I’m still a fed. She’s gotta be nearly ninety. She wouldn’t know the difference.

But I would. And this woman—and her family—deserves better.

“I’m—if you can—I was hoping to ask you about your husband,” I tell her.

The door stays shut. “If you’re one of those comic book people, I don’t do interviews. I don’t talk about Superman. I’ve told my stories,” she tells me.

“Ma’am, I don’t care about Superman. I’m here about your husband. Jerry.”

“Then you care about Superman. You think you’re the first yahoo to try that line?”

“Ma’am—”

“I’ve been putting up with people like you since 1948,” she yells through the door.

“I know who murdered Jerry’s father.”

“Nice try. I’ve heard that one, too. Lemme guess: You wanna write a book. Everyone loves a mystery.”

“I know it wasn’t a mystery. And I know Jerry saw it happen.”

There’s a long pause. The pelicans continue to squawk.

“I found these,” I add, pulling the four panels of the old comic strip—with the old Thule symbol—from my pocket and holding it up to the peephole.

There’s another long pause.

Tnnk. Tnnk. Cuunk. Tnnk. The locks come undone.

I’m expecting a frail Miami Beach Golden Girl. Instead, I get an elderly woman with teased reddish brown hair, lively dark eyes, and the most stunning cheekbones I’ve ever seen. According to the brochure from the museum, this woman posed for Jerry and Joe, making her the physical model for Lois Lane. Of course she’s beautiful.

“Why don’t you come inside, Mr. . .”

“Cal Harper,” I say, extending a hand.

“Joanne,” she says, inviting me in without shaking back. “Where’d you find the art?”

“In Jerry’s Cleveland house. In his room,” I say, watching as she stares at the comic panels in my hand. “You didn’t know they were there, did you?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she leads me into her living room, which is decorated in light pastels and sea-foam green. Just like the prison. There’s a bookcase on our left, but the rest of the walls are filled—absolutely stacked—with picture frame after picture frame of family photos. Pictures of her and Jerry, her and her daughter, her and her grandchildren. There’s not a single one of Superman.

Over by a white Formica credenza, she reaches for the double cassette player and lowers the Dean Martin volume—but doesn’t turn it off. She doesn’t like being alone. Me neither.

She takes a seat on her wicker-and-peach sofa, crossing her ankles like a true lady. “Tell me what you want from us, Mr. Harper.”

“No. No no no. I don’t want anything.”

“Then why’re you here?”

“I’m just— It’s hard to explain.”

She raises a thin eyebrow. “Every single day of my Jerry’s life, someone wanted something: the lawyers, the reporters, the so-called fans, and don’t even start me on the publisher. Before the whole mess went public, when Jerry was in his sixties, y’know he was reduced to sorting mail? The man creates a billion-dollar legend, and he spent his twilight years dropping packages on people’s desks and fighting to get paid for it. Even when they finally wrote the check and tried to make right, everyone eventually wanted something from him, Mr. Harper. So you might as well tell me: Are you doing this for the cash or just for the story?”

“I know this sounds odd, Mrs. Siegel. But I think . . . I think I’m doing this for my father, if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“I know, but I was right before, wasn’t I? Jerry did witness his dad’s murder.”

At first, she’s silent, staring off at the family photos that fill the wall. “You need to understand, in the comic book, Superman was the hero, and Clark Kent was the act. But in real life . . . Clark Kent . . . that was Jerry. The awkwardness, the fears, even the slight stammer—he was the little guy that the bully would kick sand at on the beach. But that would all disappear when he was talking about his stories. Then he was a dynamo—excited, energized—able to hold his own with anyone. It was like he had this well of strength inside him that would overflow once you got him in his element. But only when he was in his element. Did you ever meet anyone like that?”

I can’t help but nod, seeing my own reflection in a nearby picture frame. “Every single day.”

“Y’know Hitler banned Superman? Mussolini also. Jerry was flying then. But when he lost the rights to Superman—when they took his name off it—Jerry the dynamo disappeared, too. But even then, even at his lowest, when the electric company said they were shutting our power off, he was still strong inside. Jerry took that beating in front of everyone. And that—I can’t explain it—but I know that strength came from his dad.”

“That him?” I ask, pointing to a gray-tone photo of a young, mustached man in a Russian army uniform. His body is small and thin, barely filling his buttoned tunic. In the photo, he’s posed in front of a railing, as though he’s holding it to stand.

“That’s Mitchell,” she says.

“So Jerry spoke of him often?”

“No. He just . . . he spoke of him differently.”

“But never in public.”

“See, that’s the misconception. Sure, Jerry gave thousands of interviews, but just because he never mentioned his father, people want to see it as a flaw or a controversy—or say that Jerry didn’t want to be pitied as the little boy who lost his parent. But that’s not why Jerry was so quiet about his dad.”

“You think he was protecting him,” I say.

“He was protecting something,” she acknowledges.

“And you know what it is.”

“I never said that, Mr. Harper.”

I shake my head, turning toward the bookcase on my left. The shelves are packed with mostly romance novels and a few random hardbacks, but along the top shelf, there’s a set of tall leather books with the words Superman, Clark Kent, and Lois Lane across their respective spines. “I know about the ashes, Mrs. Siegel.”

For the first time since I’ve been here, Joanne Siegel’s high cheeks fall.

To be fair, it was my father who mentioned the story: of Jerry Siegel splitting his ashes between a copper urn and a set of hollowed-out fake books that his wife was saving for when Cleveland finally builds a true Superman museum. But it wasn’t until Alberto said the magic words that the truth finally hit me. Once people think there are ashes in something, it becomes the one hiding spot no one’ll ever open.

Shazam.

“You’re going to take it away now, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I promised you, ma’am, I don’t want anything.”

I walk toward the shelf. Joanne stays silent.

“Can you at least tell me what it is?” she finally asks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I stare back at Jerry Siegel’s widow. Of course he never told her. The contents inside had already cost his father his life. If his wife knew the truth . . . if they ever came after her . . . No way would Superman ever put Lois in danger.

“You really don’t know?” I ask.

“I have an idea. But not for sure.”

I pull out the fake books and realize there’s one more book attached to the set: a green one that says The Spectre on the spine. “The Spectre?”

“Jerry’s other great creation: A murdered man gets sent back by God to take vengeance on evil sinners,” Joanne explains.

“Sounds pretty biblical.”

“All the best stories are,” she says. “Jerry always said that. Don’t you see? Comic books aren’t just a ragbag of words and pictures. The Superman story exists in every culture on this planet. We all need our heroes. And our villains. So how could it not be like the Bible? Jerry apologized for it, but I don’t. There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone to save us—or admitting we can’t do it all ourselves.”

“Yeah . . . my pastor used to say that.”

“Your pastor’s right. Jerry never learned that part. Always thought he could fight the world himself—or at the very least outsmart it,” she says, focusing back on the hollow books that supposedly hold half of her husband’s ashes.

With her nodded permission, I lower them from the shelf, and it’s clear that all the volumes are glued together as one. Sure enough, there’s a small latch in back. With a flick, it opens and the spines of the books pop forward half an inch, like a barely opened drawer.

“You’re nervous,” Joanne Siegel says behind me.

But all I hear is Roosevelt’s voice buzzing in my head with theories of God’s most precious gift passing from Adam to Cain, from Mitchell Siegel to his son, and at the cherry-top of this surreal sundae, somehow, from my father to me. According to Roosevelt, when Cain repented, God gave him a mark, a sign, this Book of Truth that contained the secrets of immortality.

I don’t believe in magic. Or immortal gifts from God. But I do believe that there are some sons who will do anything to carry out their father’s final wishes. And protect their family.

I edge my fingertip into the crack and pull on the spines of the books, revealing a deep, tissue-lined compartment that holds two sheets of paper stuck together. I finger-tweeze them out, feeling how sticky they are. Of course. Jerry’s favorite. Wax paper.

Like the holder for the original comic book, the paper’s been melted and sealed around the edges, preserving whatever’s inside. I try my best to peer through it—there’s definitely writing of some kind—but it’s all mottled and brown, impossible to read. This isn’t another comic book. From the crumbled bits of sand and stone collected at the bottom, it’s something far older than that.

After tearing the corner of the wax paper, I poke my finger in and slide it like a letter opener down the right-hand side. My hands should be trembling. But they’re not. Whatever’s inside, I just want the answer.

A thin stream of sand pours down in a fine waterfall as my letter opener finger slides along the bottom edge of the wax seal. Inside is an ancient sheet of—it’s not paper. The way it’s yellowed and dried . . . as if it’s written on some kind of animal skin. But it’s not until I fold back the protective wax cover that I get my first good look.

My eyes narrow, then widen. Dean Martin continues his serenade.

Oh my wow.

It . . . it exists: the one and only chapter of the Book of Truth.

Behind me, Joanne says something. I don’t hear it. The only sound in the world is the slow-motion poomp-puuum of my own heartbeat.

Bits of the dried animal skin crack off as I touch it.

It’s not some cryptic message in Hebrew. Or Greek. Or some lost ancient tongue I can’t understand.

The Book of Truth is written in the one language the whole world speaks.

It’s a picture.

And it’s glorious.

At first it looks like an etching, but the way it’s framed at the corners—like a stamp . . . or a seal. The horn . . . this is the carving that was on the horn. Someone pressed it in ink and rolled it like a rubber stamp. Right onto the skin.

I study the lines, which are rough, almost primitive. The pale brown color . . . it’s dried blood. Ancient blood. But what makes my eyes well with tears is the picture itself: It’s rudimentary, with poor, crude dimensions—but there’s no mistaking the image of a young child sitting on his parent’s lap—his father’s lap—as the man whispers something in his ear.

A story.

A father telling his child a story.

My brain turns into the skid, searching for traction. At first I assume it’s Adam, whispering to Abel . . . to Cain . . . it’s gotta be one of his sons. My eyes scan it again, inspecting each ragged line for clues. The way the father leans in close . . . the way the boy dips his head downward, like he’s relishing every detail. I think of Bible stories from when I was young—of Noah and his quest to save God’s creatures. I think of Jerry Siegel, alone in his bedroom, staring at his ceiling. And of course, I think of my father and all the secrets and stories I missed. So much harm comes into this world when the wrong thing is said. But that’s nothing compared to the pain from what goes unsaid.

The image blurs from my tears, but with an eyeblink, they’re gone. And I see father and son and story. Clear as can be.

Roosevelt . . . Roosevelt was right. It is a birthright—a mark—a sign—the ultimate remembrance—a “book” that Adam created to pass all earthly knowledge. The instructions are right there:

Tell your story.

That’s the secret of immortality. The one true way to live forever.

“So it’s one of Mitchell’s old sketches, right? Something he did for Jerry maybe back in Lithuania?” Joanne calls out behind me.

I blink more tears from my eyes and feel the smile that’s overtaken my face, and all I can think about is Ellis and the Thules. Their theories were so wrong. But when they called it magic . . .

They were absolutely right.

“Yeah, it’s just one of Mitchell’s old sketches,” I say, sliding the brittle parchment back into its protective cover, which I tuck back into its hollow hiding spot behind Jerry’s greatest creations.

“Jerry always hoped it would go into a Superman museum—y’know, let his dad live on and all. But Cleveland barely seems to acknowledge that Jerry and Joe even existed. I mean, those boys created Superman, for God’s sake. But you know how it is . . . some dreams linger for years.”

“And some last forever,” I tell her, returning the fake books to the shelf.

“So that’s it? You just came to see the sketch? No Superman questions? No were-you-really-the-model-for-Lois-Lane?”

“I got what I needed, ma’am, thank you,” I tell her. “By the way, these are for you,” I add as I hand her the four original comic strips that we pulled from Jerry’s wall.

She fans out all four panels on the glass table in front of her, then stares at them with the kind of look that elderly women save for their wedding photos.

“I can’t pay you for these,” she says, her voice quivering.

“Your husband already did,” I say, heading for the door. I know they’re worth a ton. I don’t care. Everything eventually has to make its way home again.

“Wait!”

She thanks me with a sweet peck on the cheek. I got a kiss from Lois Lane. Then Joanne Siegel waves good-bye, and the door closes behind me.

I head down the breezeway, the father and son image still fixed in my mind.

“What’s with the happy face?” a familiar voice calls out.

I turn just in time to see Naomi sitting on the bottom step of the open stairwell. There’s a bandage still on her arm.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “C’mon, Rambo, war’s over.”

“I can’t help myself. We always get our man.”

“Naomi, my deal with your bosses—to nail Roosevelt, to ID Ellis—we’re done. Finished. So don’t take this the wrong way, but coming this far? Sometimes you just gotta let things go.”

“Says the man who couldn’t stop chasing his dad.”

It’s a slight push, but I see that smirk in her eyes.

“Look, Cal, I just wanted to say . . . no hard feelings, okay?”

I know her better than that. “You flew all this way just to say thanks?”

“I didn’t say thanks. I said no hard feelings.”

“Naomi, tell me why you’re really here.”

She bites at her bottom lip, then finally looks up, standing from the steps. “You flew across the country with barely seven hours’ notice. The animal horn is still missing. I was worried you were coming here to meet up with Ellis.”

“How do you know I wasn’t?”

She motions to her phone. “I just got the call. They found Ellis’s body. In Michigan.”

I nod but don’t reply.

“And that weird gun he had that I wrecked at the library? With the hemlock? They matched it to what was in Timothy’s blood. Oh, and we also found a twenty-thousand-dollar payment in Timothy’s bank account. From a fake name they think was Ellis.”

She kicks at the concrete. We all have our own secret identities.

“Y’know, I still think your father—I don’t care what kinda rosy picture you painted in his plea deal—I still think he got into this for the wrong reason.”

I don’t argue with her. But she doesn’t understand.

“Don’t think I don’t understand,” she adds. “My son? He was an orphan, too.”

“Naomi, please spare me the rah-rah.”

“I’m just saying, if his parents came back, I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to find out who they really are. It’s not a weakness, Cal. I mean, most people don’t really want to know their parents. They just want to know themselves.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It will when you think about it,” she promises. “I’m a mother. We’re not wrong.”

I can’t help but grin. I head up the covered walkway toward the car. But Naomi doesn’t follow.

“So whatever happened with the Book of Lies . . . or Truth . . . or whatever you named it?” she calls out. “Y’ever figure out what the story was with those old comic strips from Jerry’s wall?”

I spin around and see her staring at Joanne Siegel’s closed door.

“No. Not really,” I tell her.

She stays locked on the door.

“Yeah . . . me either,” she finally says, following in back of me and leaving Joanne Siegel behind.

I nod a thank-you. She pretends she doesn’t notice.

As we reach the end of the breezeway, the sun bakes us from overhead.

“Just tell me one last thing,” she adds. “You really traveled three thousand miles just to see Jerry Siegel’s widow?”

“Yeah. I did.” I turn to Naomi. “Though I thought you didn’t know who I was meeting with?”

This time, she’s the one who’s silent. But the smile on her face says it all.

“By the way, about your son . . .” I start. “Y’ever tell him what you do?”

“With what? With work?”

“With anything. Does he know what your job is? What you fight for?”

“He knows I have a gun. That’s enough to impress him.”

I shake my head. “No. You need to tell him. Tell him your stories.”

For a moment, she makes a face, loading up the quick comeback.

But it never comes.

“I will,” she says, brushing her dyed brown hair from her face.

We both cross the small grass patch that leads to the cul-de-sac. “So how do you explain to your boss that the animal horn is still out there, and you’re coming home empty-handed?” I ask.

“Empty-handed? I got a nibble on Ellis’s old phone records. There’s a judge in Michigan I’m gonna go say hello to,” she says. “And you know judges just hate wearing those PlastiCuffs,” she adds, already starting to wave good-bye. “Just remember, though, Cal: You only lose what you cling to.”

“That’s nice. That Native American?”

“Buddhist,” she calls back, ducking into her white rental car.

Her tires howl, she takes off, and I’m left standing in the empty cul-de-sac as the wind shoves my white hair back, revealing my face.

Serena won’t be here for at least a half hour. I’m alone. All alone. And for once, I think that’s how it’s supposed to be.

On my far right, between two other apartment buildings, I spot the edge of a dock and a few bobbing boats.

Before I even realize it, I’m walking toward it.

Jerry’s father had it so damn right. There’s the life you live and the life you leave behind. But what you share with someone else—especially someone you love—that’s not just how you bury your past. It’s how you write your future.

Following the nearby path and a few pelicans, I head toward the lapping splash of water at the marina in the distance. Even between the buildings, the sun shines like gold from overhead.

With a final, deep breath, I crane my neck back and stare straight up at the heavenly blue sky.

“I know it’s been a while, Mom. But have I got a story for you . . .”