The postcard depicted a bronze statue of Michael, the avenging angel.
His sword
raised insuring protection of a quaint village in the Italian countryside.
The flipside read: Hey Tim, look
what I’m NOT sending Bruce. Italy’s
fantastic. Barbara’s fantastic. Life is fantastic. Get married,
Bro. It’s the only life.
–Dick The postcard depicted a deceptively
modern-looking skyline, until one saw the towers of San Gimigniano were 13th
Century stone structures. The flipside read: Buon
giorno,
Selina, look what I’m NOT sending Bruce.
The Gotham of Tuscany. You
know what the view is from the top of that tall one:
olive trees! –Dick The postcard depicted a haughty
fashion model wearing a minidress of lime green and purple vinyl and four-inch
platforms, licking an Italian ice balanced on her own shoulder in the middle of a busy
intersection in downtown Milan. The flipside read: Ciao Papa
Gordon, look what I’m NOT sending Bruce.
Imagine being a playboy in a city where nobody finds this shocking. –Dick The postcard depicted a magnificent
table set with prosciutto and melon, risotto, thick loaves of Italian bread
dusted with flour, and a towering tiramisu. The flipside read: Hey, Alfred,
look what I’m NOT sending Bruce. Would
I do that to your kitchen? Just
think of the havoc he’d wreak cutting the melons.
–Dick The postcard depicted a gondola-view
of St. Marks Square. Beneath the
caption reading: Grand Canal, Venice were the words:
Bruce, Having wonderful time. Glad
you’re not here. :) –Dick
Tim closed his laptop without
sending the e-mail he’d written. He
was a little rattled, it was true. But
this was not an emergency or anything like it; it was just a scare—a silly,
stupid, nothing scare. And that did
not justify interrupting Dick and Barbara on their honeymoon. He thought about telling Bruce. But Bruce would never understand. At best, he’d think Tim was asking advice, like this was
a problem he couldn’t handle. And
it wasn’t. It was just the stupid
kind of thing that happens sometimes, and it rattled him, and he would like to
purge it by telling someone who would understand and laugh. Bruce would not laugh. Anything
to do with secret identities, Bruce would not find funny.
Worst case scenario: Bruce
would think Tim coming to him was a shot, a passive-aggressive shot, from when
Batman told Spoiler about Robin. Tim headed for
the cave, figuring
this was the time to try the solution to pent-up emotion advocated by everyone
else in the bat-family: a good,
exhaustive workout. Selina was
already in the gym when he arrived, balanced against a stalagmite, engaging in
some kind of stretching exercise that was -for a red-blooded teenager - spectacular to watch.
He cleared his throat before he got into ten kinds of trouble. “Hey, there,” she said, sitting
up but continuing to stretch this way and that. “Hey.
Thought I’d work out some,” Tim explained.
“I thought Bruce said you never use the equipment down here.” “I don’t.
He’s offered it a few times. It’s
not me. Too weird.” “But, eh...” “It’s too hot to workout at my
place. 96-degrees today. Nice thing about down here. constant temperature.” “Ah.”
It occurred to Tim that Selina had both a secret identity and a sense of
humor. He took a chance. “Can I
talk to you about something?” he asked. She nodded, and while Selina
continued to stretch Tim told his story. The young scholars at Brentwood Academy were expected to spend the summer before their senior year engaged in some activity to beef up their college applications the following term. An internship was customary, an internship at a certain level and inside a certain type of company, an internship that spoke of connections students from an institution like Brentwood were expected to have. His friend and classmate, Randy-quad—and here he had to stop and explain Randy-quad was Randoph Larraby IV, son of Randolph Larraby III (obviously) and Mrs. Ashton-Larraby. Selina looked at him blankly, and again Tim had to explain: the woman from the wedding trying to pass off citrine earrings as canary diamonds… Selina nodded. Tim nodded. That was Mrs. Ashton-Larraby. She was an Ashton. Newport Ashtons, crashing snobs, but no money left. Married to Randolph Larraby of Larraby Chemicals. Again, Selina nodded; she did know them. She had heard the story during the endless round of Christmas parties, mercifully punctuated with silent editorial comments from Bruce in their secret sign language: The biggest fight the
Ashton-Larrabys ever had, it was known throughout Gotham
High Society, was at the birth of the boy Tim now referred to as Randy-quad.
˜˜And when they say ‘fight,’˜˜ Bruce editorialized,
˜˜they mean A FIGHT. Don’t think a polite little rooftop tussle, think the social register
equivalent of gas grenades, missile launchers, and scrambling F-16s off the USS
Saratoga.˜˜ The former Miss Gladys Ashton, of the Newport Ashtons, was not willing to give up so illustrious a name, so she hyphenated. Her son too, she felt, should hyphenate. He was half an Ashton, after all. He should be Randolph Ashton-Larraby. ˜˜Getting the theme,˜˜ Bruce put in, ˜˜Ashton. It’s the logo. Like question marks or umbrellas, gotta feature it prominently at each and every appearance lest, God forbid, some smalltime Flash villain gets the credit.˜˜ Randolph-cubed didn’t agree. If their son hyphenated, he would not be
Randolph
IV. What was the point of having
offspring if you couldn’t number them like movie sequels. Bruce had made no editorial comment there.
What more was there to say? Obviously,
Randolph-cubed had won, for
his son was Randy-quad. It was to
be his
only win in twenty-odd years of marriage.
˜˜She planned it that way, tosses it up to him every time they disagree.
Like Clock King’s vendetta with the Mayor. She just will not let it
go.˜˜ All this was
backstory.
Randolph Larraby IV or Randy-quad was a classmate of Tim’s, and
“sentenced”
(as Tim put it) to intern at Larraby Chemicals over the summer.
Working at the old man’s company—Hell. On. Earth.
Tim was facing the same situation, as his father seemed to automatically
assume Tim would intern at Drake Industries.
Tim didn’t like the idea. “The
Boss’s son,” who needed that? His
name was literally on the letterhead. His
name was literally on the building! It’d
be like going to work each day with a sign hanging round his neck saying “Make
way for The Boss’s Son.” Selina laughed. “So what does Bruce say?” Tim’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t told him about it. This
has nothing to do with the Robin part of my life.
This is life-life. Bruce doesn’t care about that.” “He might surprise you, Tim. He does at least know what it is to have your name on the
building.” Tim shook his head,
“I appreciate you’re trying to help, Selina, but that’s not what I
need right now. My stepmom wanted
to help, and she totally creeped me out. You
know what she said? She said if
that’s how I felt, meaning being Tim Drake at Drake Industries, that I should
use an assumed name: get myself a secret identity!”
Selina laughed
again and Tim
realized that’s exactly what he wanted. Somebody,
anybody, to grin and reassure him that his instinct to laugh it off was okay. “Thanks, Selina.
Hey, do me a favor, don’t tell Bruce about this ok?” “Okay,” Selina lied.
That night at dinner, Selina took
her first tentative steps into territory where she was surprisingly
inexperienced for a woman her age: exercising her influence with “the
boyfriend.” As Catwoman, it’s fair to say her effect on
Batman had been considerable, if difficult to define: she tempted him, she
dared him, she infuriated him, she intrigued him, she tormented him, and she
excited him. Since the
‘whatever it was’ with Batman developed into a romance with Bruce, they’d
experimented and sometimes played with the roles of a more traditional couple. But
she’d never seriously attempted anything like this. “I want to ask you something. And your kneejerk is going to be no. But I want you to hold off
on that and ask yourself why, because there is really no good reason not to say yes.” The look was one she recognized. It was, most definitely, Batman: I know this is a trap, let’s see what you’re up to. She took a deep
breath and dove in. As she would with Batman,
she’d begin by throwing
him off balance. Give him something 180-degrees off what he was expecting: “Do you have any idea how much you all take Tim for granted? He is the nicest and most well-adjusted of the whole crazy bunch of you—except for Alfred,” she added hastily. Then she saw it was unnecessary. Alfred had vanished from the dining room exactly as silently as Batman dematerialized from rooftops. Selina continued.
“When has he ever said no, hm? Somebody
needs to pick up the minister? Ask Tim. Somebody
stakeout the Falconi warehouse? Send Robin.
It’s the inevitable fate of the nice guy: the overflowing inbox.
But does he ever complain?
And
don’t say Spoiler; that was an extreme case.
And on top of all that, he’s doing the adolescence thing, which is no
easy ride. You should have seen him
this afternoon trying not to look at my tits.” Bruce stared, openmouthed. This was NOT what he was expecting. Selina took advantage of the stunned silence and went on:
“He needs something from you right now, and he’s so used to being the
footnote around here that it doesn’t even occur to him to ask for it.” “What?” In one syllable, it was
difficult to tell if it was Bruce or Batman that cut in. “He needs a summer internship away
from his father’s company, and I want you to give him one at Wayne
Enterprises.” “WHAT?
NO!” “What did I just say about that
kneejerk no?” Bruce stopped. It was his instinct to say no to anything he didn’t initiate and work out the reason after. There was a reason, of course there was… There must be a reason… Well, Batman and Robin… It made a link with Bruce and Tim that could be connected to Batman and Robin. As if
she could read his thought, Selina said,
“Tim is the son of a major
industrialist, and he does know Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises.
Were it not for Batman and Robin, either Tim or Jack Drake could be
asking this. Were it not for Batman and Robin, would there be any reason
to say no?” There should be, and Bruce was sure it would come to him... When it hadn’t by the end of early patrol, he radioed the Redbird:
“Wayne Tower. Meet me in ten minutes.” “Good night?” he asked by way of
a greeting. “Not bad.
A dealer. Couple toughs in
the park. Nothing special.” “Good.” There was a pause.
Then Batman spoke again, gruffer than usual. “School night.
Should you still be out?” “I’ve got
it under control.” Robin was confused, he couldn’t tell where this was
leading, but it was starting to feel like being called to the principal’s
office. “You’re able to balance a full
day’s school work and a full night of…” he gestured towards
the city below. “I’ve got it under control,
Batman.” “Good.
You can take a week off after your final exams, then you report to Lucius.
9 am sharp.” Robin’s mouth dropped open, just as
Tim’s once had when Bruce made scrambled eggs. “You’ll spend
two weeks in each
division, low level clerical stuff. Keep your eyes open and stay out of the way.
One day a week, you’ll shadow me or Lucius, or else sit in on the executive training
pool. Clear?” When
the boy gave no answer, he added a no-nonsense, “Unless that’s a problem.”
The tone shocked Robin out of his
trance and he stammered. “Yes.
NO! I mean: yes, it’s clear,
and no, not a problem.” “Good.” He turned, drawing the grappling gun from his belt, clearly preparing to leave. “Um, Batman?” He
turned back. “Thanks.” There might have been a grunt lost
in the firing of the grappling hook and the swolsh of cape in the high winds.
Dr. Leland
Bartholomew,
Senior Case Psychiatrist at Arkham, couldn’t believe how a day that started
out so well could so rapidly become a living hell.
He had never credited the Joker’s delusional rationalizations that he
and other stylized personalities of Gotham “had a bad day
once.” It was the kind of
self-justifying rationales sociopathic psychotics like Joker were apt to create,
but it held no merit. Or so Dr. Bartholomew thought until today.
He’d been offered a full-professorship at Hudson University: tenure-track, speaking engagements, access to funding, and plenty of time to work on his book. He wasn’t seriously considering it; he was a healer, not an academic. But he’d allowed word to reach the Arkham administrators, and was rewarded with a most gratifying expression of their desire to keep him: 30-percent raise in salary, a new title, and a corner office. Today was his very first in this new office. He’d spent his first session sneaking peeks out the window, enjoying the new view of the courtyard and garden.
It had started out to be such a good day. Then Pamela Isley’s session began.
Bartholomew would have thought the woman who called herself Poison Ivy, and whose core
psychosis focused on plants, would appreciate the garden view. But all she would do was rant and rave about the transfer.
After her attack on Harvey Dent,
Isley had been transferred from her regular cell into the high security wing,
limiting her contact with her best friend among her fellow inmates, Harley
Quinn, and forcing her to interact with the only other occupant of the high
security wing, the Joker. Isley
evidently did not get along with Joker, nor he with her, for according to the
morning rants, Joker was amusing himself with his imitation of her dying
flytrap “crying out as its poor little plant insides fried in the heat of
that sunlamp.” Lunch with the Executive Director in
his private dining room would have been a treat, signifying as it did, the
special value the administration placed on Bartholomew’s services and their appreciation
at his decision to stay. Except the
Director served a Chef’s Salad and, as he munched, Bartholomew kept hearing
Pamela Isley’s imitation of Joker’s imitation of her dying plant. After lunch, any residual pleasure
was ruined as his digestion was subjected to Harley Quinn in his next
appointment. Separated from “her goodest buddy Red” (a.k.a. Poison Ivy, a.k.a. Pamela Isley), she wallowed in
vocal self pity for most of the session, alternating from tears to tantrums with
bewildering speed. The mix-up (if that’s what it was) after Quinn’s appointment was inexcusable, and Bartholomew promised himself that there would be a full investigation. If it turned out the orderly had deliberately brought Joker for his session early so he could run into Harley in the outer office, Bartholomew would see to it that people were fired! The whole staff seemed to buy into Joker and Harley’s assertions that this
destructive sado-polar co-obsessive liaison was a romance!
Bartholomew had just made the note: “‘her goodest buddy’—hard to believe Harleen Quinzel has a PhD” and was about to underline the word “tantrums” and add “hard to believe she’s 28,” when the patient’s voice rang out in his outer office: “PUDDIN!” There was a crash. Bartholomew opened his door, expecting to see the madman had put Harley’s head through a wall. Instead, he saw a very different picture: Harley had hopped up and fastened herself onto the Joker, her legs straddling him at the hips, arms around his head with an ear in each hand, holding his face in place for what Bartholomew believed the young people call “a liplock.” The crash was apparently caused by the force of her lunge knocking Joker against the wall. Bartholomew stared. The Joker was, hands down, the most disturbed and disturbing patient in Arkham—but the sight of the homicidal maniac pinned against a wall by an amorous blonde! “Ha…Ha…Harl…” Joker managed between breaths, “Not in front of the medical staff.” “But, Puddin,” she insisted, “I MIIIIISSED you so!” then made a sound like “moi-moi-moi” and planted stage kisses all over his face. That
tenure at Hudson University was looking better all the time. Joker turned to the orderly, looking embarrassed: “She gets excited.” Then he turned to Bartholomew, looking menacing: “What’re you looking at?” The orderly pried Harley off Joker, and he took advantage of his newfound ability to use his arms, no longer pinned to the wall, to swat at her head. “That’s for getting caught. If you had taken care of Ivy’s plants, she wouldn’t have made Harvey do it and wouldn’t be moved into MY WING…” He got no further before the orderly pulled Harley out the door, bawling, and Bartholomew ushered Joker into his office. Joker transitioned seamlessly from yelling at Harley to complaining to Bartholomew. “Can’t you do something about this, Old Sport? There are ferns growing in all the windows now. She’s not supposed to have plants, but they grow up right into the windows. Hey, if a flytrap screams in the greenhouse and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?”
To be continued…
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