3
One Face for Another
The funeral. The lawyer’s office. Uncle Randolph. A discovery in the attic. Bronson says goodbye to the Tillman kid.
Bronson sat in a scratched wooden pew in a church he’d never set foot in before. Several women chatted in the pew next to him. His mom used to invite them over for wine and board games a few times a month. One of the ladies, Mrs. More, had been nothing but kind to Bronson in the days since the accident. She’d put him up in her guest room, made him any food he wanted (which wasn’t much), and had even purchased the suit he wore to the funeral that day. She sat beside him now as the other adults chatted about how sad the situation was. Everyone agreed what happened to his parents was “just awful.” A lot of them referred to him as a “poor boy.” A few even called him an orphan.
He’d heard them talking about what would happen to him once things settled down. From what he understood it all depended on the conditions, if any, his parents laid out in their will. Bronson found himself unfazed by any of it. He knew he should care. He missed his folks, but outside that he felt…nothing. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet, he thought, or maybe spending that night in the car turned me into some sort of sociopath.
He spun a pink carnation, his mother’s favorite, between his thumb and ring finger. He’d picked it on the walk over from Mrs. More’s. It hadn’t bloomed because of the shadow from the building next door.
The organ started to play. He didn’t want to be up in front of everybody during the ceremony so he walked over to the closed caskets at the front of the room.
The preacher, whom he had never met, stood between the two caskets looking appropriately somber. Bronson didn’t like him one bit. This guy didn’t know his parents. He probably had three of these a week so why would he be sad? Bronson nodded at the preacher and the preacher closed his eyes and nodded back.
Bronson stood in front of his parents’ caskets then bowed his head. That’s what the adults had done so he figured he’d follow suit. A few of them cried, so Bronson tried to bring some tears to the surface. He figured being at his parent’s funeral would be motivation enough, but he didn’t have any tears in him. He sniffed a little to keep up appearances.
Bronson laid the carnation on his mother’s casket under the spotlight. He wished he could see them one more time for a minute or two. Then he remembered the last time he had seen them and decided against it.
The flower started to open. He loosened his tie. His shoulders shook. He heard a wail off in the distance. It took him a full twenty seconds before he realized the voice was his and ten more seconds to realize he was rocking back and forth on his knees. The preacher placed his hand on Bronson’s shoulder. Mrs. More’s mumbled something behind him but he couldn’t make out what she said. He didn’t know where he was or who he was or why he was acting like this.
Bronson stood up straight then straightened his tie. He turned around. Everyone in the building stared at him. Their eyes made him feel small. He ran down the aisle. Mrs. More called after him as he went out the doors in the back. Once he got around the corner he sat on the ground, curled up with his arms over his face, and waited for the whole stupid ceremony to end.
The lawyer’s office was mostly empty the next day. Bronson sat up front next to Mrs. More. Wylie Morgan, one of his dad’s fellow magicians, stood in the back with his wife. People sat in folding chairs as the lawyer shuffled through documents. A giant clock on the wall struck 10 o’clock. The lawyer stood up.
“We are about to begin.”
The lawyer pointed his finger at every person as he counted to make sure everybody was there. He cocked his head to the side and looked down at his sheet.
“We seem to be missing somebody. A Mister…”
The double wooden doors slammed open. A tall man in a trench coat oozed in. Everybody turned to look at him. He seemed to enjoy the attention and did a small curtsy.
“Mr. Randolph Black, bereaved brother of the deceased at your service,” he said, “Glad to know each and every one of you fine folks.” He took his hat off then held it over his heart. “What a pleasure to know that my brother Duncan touched so many people in his too-short life.”
He dashed over to Bronson and knelt down beside him.
“You must be Bronson. I wish I could say I’d heard a lot about you, but sadly your father thought it best to not tell me much. Thrilled to know you, my boy. You have a hard life ahead of you with no parents and all. I hope they saw fit to leave you something anyway.”
Randolph wasn’t anything like Bronson imagined. He always pictured him as a younger, cooler version of his dad. The man before him was a scoundrel at least. He seemed like the type of person you’d find in a dark alleyway, but he carried himself like a nobleman.
“Mr. Black,” the lawyer said, “if you could find a seat we are about to begin.”
“Oh yes, sir. Of course, sir. Pardon the interruption, sir. I’ll sit back here, sir.” He went to the back row of folding chairs, plopped down, put his feet up, folded his arms, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” the lawyer said, “we’ll begin then. Now, we are all here to hear the final instructions for the estate of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Black, survived by their son Bronson. Now, there’s not a lot to tell. Mr. Black was a traveling magician. He didn’t have much in the way of hard assets. Some savings, no pension, and he didn’t own any property.”
“You’re kidding,” chimed in Randolph from the back.
“Sir, I’ll ask that you keep quiet so that we can proceed in due course. Now, Mr. Black’s $15,000 in savings will be split in half. Half will pay for a storage unit for the family’s belongings until his son turns 21, and half will go into a certificate of deposit until his 23rd birthday, after which it will be released to him.”
Randolph put on his hat then stomped back toward the door.
“Mr. Black, please sit down. We will get to you in a moment.”
Annoyed, Randolph went back to his seat. He pulled a small knife from one pocket and an apple from another. He cut off a hunk and sucked it into his mouth. Juice spat from his lips and hit Mrs. More on the back of the neck.
“Now then,” the lawyer said, “the car, as we all know, was a complete loss. They did have a small insurance policy. Unfortunately the accident was deemed an “act of God.” The policy only covers the fees for the tow and ambulance. Now, to Mr. Wylie Morgan is left all of Mr. Duncan’s intellectual property, i.e., his magic tricks, patents, etc., with which Mr. Morgan is free to perform or sell as he wishes, although the deceased did note that he would prefer they not be sold. To Mr. Randolph Black is left…”
“Well it ain’t like there’s much left, is it?” Randolph said with a mouth full of mauled apple chunks.
“To Mr. Randolph Black,” continued the lawyer, “or to be more specific ‘the closest related family member,’ the deceased leave custody of their beloved son Bronson.”
Randolph spit the apple cud he’d been chewing into a potted plant beside him. He pushed his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. “You’re serious?” he asked.
“I assure you, Mr. Black. I am never not serious.”
“Gee,” Randolph said. He pointed the knife at Bronson then clicked it closed, “Thanks, brother.”
Bronson was in his room packing up his stuff for his big move to Colta City. He assumed it would be his last night at home. On one hand he couldn’t believe he was going; on the other hand he couldn’t believe who he was going with. Randolph stood in the doorway watching his every move. Any time he would open a drawer Randolph would peer over his should to inspect the contents.
“Your parents didn’t give you much, did they, Bronson?” he asked.
“They always gave me what I needed.”
“Clothes, shoes, a few baubles here and there. I don’t see anything of value.”
Bronson felt more uneasy about his uncle by the moment. “My dad never talked much about you, Uncle Randolph. Why not?”
Randolph seized one of Bronson’s comic books and laid back on his bed. He pawed through the pages. “Oh, we had a bit of a falling out when we were kids. Money is thicker than blood and all that. That’s something you should know if you’re going to live in the city. It always comes down to money. With anyone. With everyone. When they sort all of us by value you’re only as good as your wallet is thick. Bet your dad never thought I’d be the one to get you. I’ll tell you that. He probably thought you’d go to our great aunt up in Boston. Wonder how long ago they wrote it? Must’ve been a couple years at least.”
Randolph stood up from the bed and tossed the comic book at Bronson’s feet. “I’m going to your parents’ room… See if there aren’t any family heirlooms your dad left lying around. You finish up in here, okay? We’ll be heading for the train station shortly.”
Randolph left Bronson to his task. After a few minutes he’d put together a small pile of clothes, comics, and a few odds and ends. He scooped it all up in his arms and went to his parents’ room.
Randolph stood there holding an empty pillow case picking through his mother’s jewelry box. He’d take a piece out, bite it, and either toss it in the sack or on the bed. He looked up and saw Bronson.
“Done already?” he asked.
“Just taking all this junk upstairs to put in a trunk for the trip,” Bronson answered, hoping his uncle wouldn’t want to accompany him.
“Fine, fine. Just hurry up with it,” Randolph said as he went back to sifting through the jewelry.
Bronson went to the end of the hall then lowered the door-steps to the attic. He climbed up, sat everything down at the top, then pulled the switch to turn on the light. In the back, right where it was in his vision, a sheet covered up his father’s trunk. He moved the sheet then pulled the key his father had given him out of his pocket.
Bronson pushed it into the rusty lock. It clacked as it hit the tumblers… It sounded so loud he figured half the neighborhood had heard it. The lock popped open. He got down on his knees and opened the lid of the trunk.
Three throwing knifes sat on top. Bronson tested one by throwing it into a cardboard box. Sharp. There was an orange cardboard package in a plastic baggy labeled Necro-Fancy Flash Papers and a bag of red tablets labeled Wee Glimmers. Bronson had seen his dad use the flash paper at parties but he’d never seen the Wee Glimmers before. He took one out of the bag to inspect. Nothing about it seemed all that notable. It looked like an aspirin dipped in food coloring. He tossed it over his shoulder. A loud POP echoed through the attic accompanied by a bright flash of light. The Wee Glimmer spun across the attic floor then sputtered out.
Bronson pulled out a brown paper package with the initials D.B. drawn in crayon. Curious, he untied the twine holding it shut then opened it up. Inside was a folded dark purple cloth. Bronson unfurled the magician’s cape. Underneath that he found the most unusual item in the trunk: an old Halloween mask with faded paint but solidly built. The face on the mask reminded him of the dog that had helped him find the road. Same breed maybe? A border collie as far as he could tell. As he touched the mask. His vision filled with that strange orange glow that he’d seen in the car—
Him, on top of a building. Cape on back, mask in hand. Puts on mask. Lifts cape. Jumps. Another flash—
Bronson found himself back in the attic. He remembered his father’s words.
“That is your legacy. Use it.”
Bronson smiled. He snapped up his belongings then tossed them in the trunk and locked it. He grabbed the items he’d taken from the trunk then shoved them in a garbage bag he found in the corner. He climbed down the ladder back to the second floor then ran to his parents’ room. Randolph snored away in his parents’ bed. He walked over to the nightstand and wrote a quick note.
Uncle Randolph, I’ll be back in about an hour. I just found something that I have to take to somebody from school. – Bronson
Arthur Tillman was in his backyard taking a wheel off a bike he’d “found” in a rack at the convenience several blocks from his house. It wasn’t the first bike he’d “found” but it was the first one without a rusty chain. He’d been working on building his own bike for several weeks. He took a piece here, a piece there, and hoped they would all add up to a pretty sweet machine by the time he was finished.
Arthur popped the wheel off. He heard some movement from the bushes back by the garage. He picked up the wrench he’d been using then put it behind his back.
“Who’s out there? You’d better come out or run back to your mommy.”
Three red dots flew from the bushes. They hit the ground with a loud pop then flashed so bright it made it impossible for Arthur to see. Everywhere was light. He could only see vague shadows. One sprung from the bushes. His eyes adjusted and he saw some kid in a cape flying at him. He had a mask on… a dog maybe? The kid pulled a long dagger out from a leather sheath strapped to his ankle then waved it at Arthur.
“What… what are you thinking, kid? Put that away and go home before I kick your butt.”
The kid behind the mask chuckled. “You’re out kinda late,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s real dangerous out here at night for kids like you,” Arthur said. “I destroyed kids your size when I was half your size.” Arthur held out his arms then moved toward the boy. “Do I even know you?” he asked.
“Me? No, you don’t know me. I’m Dogboy and I’m here to teach you not to pick on kids like me.”
“Wait, I know who you are. Heard your parents died. Guess they couldn’t stand having a wuss for a son.”
Dogboy winced under his mask. He thought he’d done a good job disguising his voice. He’d have to practice that more later. What did Batman do? A kind of growl? That’d work.
“I am Dogboy,” he said, “and I’m beating you up.”
“Go home, kid,” Arthur said, “I don’t have time to play games with little jerks like you.” Arthur took another step toward him then moved to grab the knife. Dogboy threw the knife at Arthur. It whizzed past his ear. “Big mistake, Black,” Arthur said as Dogboy leapt in the air and tackled him. Before he knew what happened Dogboy’s hands hit him all over his head and shoulders. He couldn’t react before Dogboy was back on his feet kicking him in the stomach. What the kid lacked in upper body strength he made up for in leg strength. The kicks hit swift and hard, and they hurt. Dogboy jumped over him then landed one last kick to the back of his head. Arthur laid there shaking. He thought for sure that the little psychopath was going to kill him.
Dogboy walked over and retrieved his knife from the lawn. He slid it back into its sheath. He ran back to the bush he’d appeared from then turned back to Arthur and ripped off his mask.
“What’s the matter, Tillman,” he asked, “didn’t see that coming?
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