Nothing turns a bunch of hardened criminals
into drama queens like the subject of Hell Month. “The savage
brutality of Genghis Kahn, the cunning cruelty of Torquemada, the sadistic
torments of the Marquis de Sade, the terrible wrath of Attila the Hun, the
searing pain of—” I dunno, Amazon menstrual cramps.
Hard to believe, isn’t it. I mean,
they’re talking about Bruce! Contrary to what some people say,
I do have a healthy respect for the Bat’s dark side. But he is not
mentioned in the Book of Revelations. He’s a crimefighter and a damn
good one, but even at his worst, he is not a horseman of the apocalypse.
If you want to talk sadistic wrath of
vengeful torment, consider the hangover. Try pouring five martinis on
top of jetlag, then sharing a cab uptown with Pamela Isley. Okay, first:
her skin is green; not alabaster, and a henna rinse does not
make you a natural redhead. And
when you share a cab, it is customary to drop the person who lives closest FIRST, let them pay their share and go on their way. Particularly
when they’re nursing a hangover and want nothing more than to go home,
swallow five or ten aspirin, and die in their own bed. But no, Queen
Chlorophyll has had some kind of falling out with the oak trees in Riverside
Park, so she has to go back to her old digs in Robinson Park. And Robinson
Park has been re-landscaped, so it might take a few tries to find the right
path. And she can’t leave the cab waiting if she’s all alone.
Don’t ask me why. I’m still
working on ‘tall’ and ‘blue’ as her chief objections to
Nightwing’s romantic appeal.
I finally did get rid of her, got home, and
got some shuteye. Next day, the headache was less pronounced, but
still present. I had an invitation to Wayne Manor. Leg of Lamb a la Pennyworth
was promised, a welcome home dinner. In my hungover condition, I
wasn’t in the mood for a big meal, but clearly Alfred had gone to a lot of
trouble. Of all the laws, natural and manmade, that govern the
universe, there are one or two even Catwoman holds sacred. Of those,
“Don’t Cross Alfred Pennyworth” ranks very close to the top of the list.
So I downed a few more aspirin and trudged
out to the manor. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Alfred
didn’t just leave the message on my machine, it was he who extended the
invitation. Bruce didn’t know anything about it. Bruce was holed
up in the cave. He’d been down there for a day and a half and wasn’t
expected to surface for dinner or anything else for another thirty-six hours
at least. Alfred took down a tray, he said, at hour four, then
returned at hour six to find the soup and sandwich untouched. He
replaced the tray with a fresh one and repeated this procedure at two-hour
intervals, except for the period when Batman was on patrol.
“Alfred,”
I said cautiously, mindful of the universal law against crossing Batman’s
butler, “this might be my hangover talking, but in my opinion, the
behavior you’re describing is simply fucked in the head.”
Batman has a subtle way of smiling; it’s
best described as a quick, slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You have to know what to see. Alfred is much the same but more so.
Between English, a servant, and the product of an older generation, there’s
a reserved dignity that goes beyond mere ‘battitude.’
A twitch would be far too demonstrative. Instead, there’s this odd
glint in the eyes, just a flicker of recognition. I understood
what it meant: “‘Fucked in
the head,’ Miss? Right ho!”
I took the grandfather clock passage down
to the cave. The stairs weren’t ideal, but the thought of Alfred’s
elevator with my head still throbbing was—ulgh.
The text swam. Bruce sat at his
Workstation, eyes fixed on the Log Entries for April 1997: Matches Malone
infiltrating Penguin’s gang, planting the seeds that would unravel his
alliance with Mr. Freeze. He was
beyond the point of reading; he just stared at the words… the shape of the
letters… Cobblepot… suspicion… distrust…
How
many hours now… and he still couldn’t meditate… The Logs were part of the Ritual, as a record of all Batman
had accomplished and all there still was to do…but now they were more than
that, they were his only hope of focusing on The Mission… Penguin…
criminal … apprehend… focusing
to the point of exhaustion… Frieze…
distrust… avenge… becoming one with it…. avenge… criminal…
apprehend…
“Why?”
Until he heard the word, he didn’t realize he was speaking. “Why isn’t it
working? Why can’t I focus?”
Suddenly, the sound of his voice was joined by
a new noise—Clip. ClipClip…. Clip… echoed… ClipClip… Clip…
High heels on rock… Selina… Less clippy than usual.
“Something
wrong?” he asked quietly, eyes never leaving the monitor.
“Oh… don’t shout. Hangover. Iceberg.
Don’t ask.”
“I
won’t,” he grumbled softly.
Technically, he’d acknowledged my existence.
But just barely. I knew better than to treat this antisocial behavior as
if it was anything out of the ordinary, so I peered past the back of his head to
the file he was reading, some ancient history with Oswald and Freeze.
Yawn. Then I saw the Batcuffs. I
picked them up, made myself comfy and started to fiddle.
These were the new modified cuffs Eddie had
mentioned. New locks, hard to quick pick. I told Eddie I’d take a
look when the opportunity presented itself, since I was the one who figured out
how to pick the old cuffs. What Eddie didn’t know, of course, was that I had suggested the
modification: a little flap in front of the Grazour mechanism blocked a
standard retractable pick. But Bruce had added something else, something of his own, and I had been
meaning to figure out what.
“Don’t
break those,” he snapped.
Don’t break those. Unbelievable.
The very suggestion of my ‘breaking’ handcuffs set up, I was sure, a dozen
wonderful zingers. But damnit, my head hurt and I couldn’t quite work out
a punch line. So I had to settle for:
“If I can break them, Stud, then they’re not up to the job, now are they.”
I
decided if my head wasn’t up to talking about the Batcuffs, it
certainly wasn’t up to picking the Batcuffs. So I set them down
and noticed the infamous lunch tray.
“Are
you going to eat that sandwich?”
Bruce glowered. Impossible woman. Everyone else got it. Everyone else knew—Even Dick in his most ornery
teen years knew: It’s all about The Mission. If you can’t be focused on that,
get the hell out.
The Mission.
Even he couldn’t focus on The Mission.
Why?
And
why did she have to sit there demonstrating her maddening criminal expertise
picking his Batcuffs? It was like
she was flaunting her illegal activities right in front of him—in defiance—in The Cave, no less.
Inserting herself into his life—again.
“No,”
he said, ignoring the cuffs and returning to the sandwich question, “I’m not
hungry.” Hungry. It was a broad word. What did it mean?
More than wanting food. Wanting. Will. Will to do things. Will to participate, to partake of the world, taking part in the life
experience… No. It meant food. In this case, ham and turkey with mayo and a cup of lobster
bisque.
“I’ll assume that’s why you didn’t invite me to
dinner,” Selina was saying, “Alfred did, by the way. We’re
having his famous Leg of Lamb Pennyworth. Sure I can’t tempt you?”
Amoral Bitch.
She was behind this.
“Sure
I can’t tempt you?”
This was why he couldn’t focus. The Mission. The Mission was all. “Sure
I can’t tempt you?” To become one with The Mission meant blotting out
everything else. Bruce Wayne was a Mask. A Tool. Another
Weapon used to advance The Mission. He existed to serve the Bat. “Sure I can’t
tempt you?” Bruce Wayne carving out a bit of life for himself was
never part of The Plan. Thus far, it had not interfered with The Mission,
so Psychobat let it be. But now he couldn’t meditate. He could not
shut out the man Bruce Wayne had become. The man beyond the Bat was refusing to be silent… “Sure I can’t
tempt you?” It was all her fault.
“No,” he pronounced finally. He meant it
to sound firm, but even to his own ears it sounded stubborn instead. He tried to soften it. “No thank you.”
Silence. “I’m not
hungry,” he added, not realizing he’d said this before.
“Suit
yourself.” She shrugged as if it was of no importance, picked up her
bag and headed towards the Costume Vault.
Putting away the catsuit.
He swiveled his chair back, meaning to return
his attention to the computer, but instead a thought struck him and continued
his momentum all the way around until he faced the Vault again.
Putting
away the catsuit, Catwoman’s catsuit! Defiling his Vault with a
criminal’s costume!
“I can handle putting a costume away,” he
called, stalling for time chasing after her. He caught up with her at the
door. She looked amused—like
she always looked before a Vault.
“So can I,” she answered lightly.
Typical. Defiant—like
she always was before a vault. Impossible woman.
Bruce
turned back towards his Workstation, took a single step, then paused with a
slight stumble when, as before, a thought hit him: If she goes in the Costume Vault she’ll see…
“WHAT
THE HELL DID YOU Dooooh damnit, mustn’t shout.”
…she’ll see that her shelf was smashed to
bits.
In a
heartbeat, she stood before him in the Vault doorway, holding two splintered
pieces of wood the size of popsicle sticks.
She
repeated her query silently, with only a questioning raise of an eyebrow.
“Oh,
that,” he said gruffly, “I needed some space.”
“Needed space for what?” she asked finally.
“There’s
still a hanging peg in there for you.”
“The peg pulls the leather. Needed the
space for what?”
“What
does it matter, I needed the space. I’ll get you a hanger for the suit.”
“Don’t bother, I never asked for the shelf.
I can go back to keeping it under the bed. Needed
the space for what?”
He snorted contemptuously. “Under MY
bed, you mean.”
“Bruce,”
she looked him in the eye, refusing to be baited, “Needed the space for
what?”
“…”
“You
needed the space for your fist, didn’t you?”
The look was a new one. Not a deathscowl,
to be sure. Not a glare, nor a glower. Whatever it was, it was
followed by a soft grunt. To
the untrained ear, a grunt like any other. But to Selina, well versed in
the nuances of BatSpeak, it was an answer, as much of an answer as she was going
to get.
A look and a grunt. He didn’t want to
open this up for discussion, but it was hard to turn his back on genuine
concern. Particularly when he knew
if he did turn away, the concern would follow him, stubborn, defiant and
ferociously feline.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said finally, “I was
having trouble meditating. Got frustrated.”
“Ah,” she said. It wasn’t disapproving,
nor was it sympathetic. Just
“Ah.”
Bruce’s
blood began to boil, and he heard the explanation tumbling from his lips—in
Batman’s voice—with a hateful bitterness he’d directed at many criminals
over the years but never at Selina: This
was HER FAULT, he couldn’t FOCUS ON THE MISSION. THE MISSION WAS ALL THAT MATTERED and he COULDN’T SHUT HER OUT! Damn
her to hell! She and all she
brought with her! Damn the joy she
found in living. Damn her loving him for who he was. Damn her for
opening his mind and his heart to things in this world besides hate, anger and
rage. How
in the HELL was he supposed to turn all that off!
When
he finished, he was breathing hard.
Selina said nothing. She was silent for a
long, long minute.
I almost turned away and left. Not for
good, just to give him some time until he was rational. Obviously he
wasn’t right now. When
someone lays into you for making them happy, that’s going straight through
irrational into the land beyond, where Jack kills his henchmen because it’s
Thursday and Ivy is a natural redhead because henna is a plant.
I stayed—not because of anything he said, but
the way he said it. The pain in his voice was palpable. I took me
right back to the beginning—to Xanadu—it reminded me why I’m here.
“When I was ten my parents were shot to death in a smalltime mugging. Happened right in front of me.”
What he needs from me, what he somehow sensed
Catwoman would give him that no one else did or could: I’ll never make light of
his tragedy, but I will not be another acolyte at his Temple of Loss.
Leaving him alone until he’s rational, that’s what they all do. And that’s exactly why I stayed.
He’d gone back to his workstation. I
followed and read over his shoulder. Ignoring
the more personal aspects of his rant against me, I went straight to his
favorite topic: The Mission.
“So… April 1997. Quite the pressing
emergency you’ve got there.”
“Is there a point to this?” he spat. And
I could hear it in his voice: “You still here? Impossible woman. I thought
you were smarter than that—can’t you take a hint?” The message was
clear enough. He just pronounced it: “Is there a point to this?”
“You tell me. What is the point of this?
Tell me how justice is served by you being hungry, tired and alone.”
He got
up in a huff—again—and
poured himself some water from a pitcher on the tray. It wasn’t much, but it was
a start.
“Justice
is served when I have all of the tools and information necessary to complete my
task.”
“Nice
try, but not even close,” I pointed to his monitor of 1997 crime fighting
issues, “Tiffany’s is building a replica of the 240 carat blue diamond from
Titanic for Celine Dion to wear at the Oscars, think Catwoman will make a play
for it before it’s sent to Hollywood? I’m guessing not, ‘cause I was in
Martha’s Vineyard at the time. So let’s try again. You, hungry tired and alone: what’s the payoff?”
“I’m
eating and sleeping all that I need to. I can handle the physical pressure—HEY, WHATTHE—BITCH!”
That
last outburst because I swept his leg and he landed ducking into a backward
roll, hit the railing and wound up in an undignified sprawl. Nothing more
needed to be said. On his worst day, he should have seen a move like that
coming. He was not handling the physical strain. Justice was not
served by his being depleted. There was something else going
on here with this “ritual,” something that had nothing to do with the Mission. Sequestering
himself in his cave, starving himself, exhausting himself. It wouldn’t
protect his city, save innocents or frighten criminals. What was it supposed to do?
“Is there a reason you’re punishing yourself?”
I asked, sitting on the floor next to him and leaning back against the railing. He stood and began to walk off towards the workout mats.
“No
pain, no gain.” Then an exasperated grunt. I knew why: if that was the best answer he could think of.
“That’s exercise,” I insisted, “This is not
productive pain. This is not a burn that makes muscles stronger; this is
taking a kitchen knife and carving up your arm for no reason. This
accomplishes nothing for Batman. So, Bruce, I’m asking again, why are you doing this
to yourself?”
Silence. Then…
“I’m going to meditate. Somehow now, I
think I’ll be able to block out you and everything you stand for.”
It was meant to hurt, meant to drive me
away—like everybody else during Hell Month. Which is why I didn’t let it. Besides,
I finally realized what had been bothering me:
“Bruce?” I had followed him to a dark area
beyond the mats, his special place to reflect.
“Selina,
it’s easier to block out the thought of you if you’re not actually here.”
“The way I was taught to meditate, you don’t
block out extraneous thoughts, you let them have their moment, run their course,
then you can move on. You must know that.”
“…”
“So
why?”
“…”
“Bruce?
Why?”
“…”
He stood and looked down at me, stirring a powerful surge of déjà vu:
We’d done this before, and so many times. All those galleries, all those
rooftops, all those vaults. We both knew what we felt back then; it was
palpable. But he wouldn’t say it aloud. If he said it, he’d have to
face it. Then, as now, he resented me for pushing the issue. Well… fine then… let him.
“So,”
I said frankly, “we’re back to pink elephants?”
“What?”
he looked incredulous, sounded incredulous — like the first time he saw I’d
changed to purple. It was an improvement over sulky-hostile at least.
“’Don’t
think about pink elephants.’ It’s
worked so well up to now.”
“…”
Déjà vu all over again. If he didn’t
speak back then, he was also stubborn, tenacious even, when he was the
one who wanted an answer to something. I’d learned to be
the same.
“The
question, in case you forgot, is WHY?”
“You know why,” he growled, irritated that the
question wasn’t going away. “To instill fear. They DO fear me. It
will never happen again—not in my City, not in Crime Alley, not while I draw
breath.”
“This isn’t about what you do out there.
You want to turn up the heat every January, give them Hell, nobody is
questioning that. This is about what you’re
doing in here, these last few days: not
eating, not sleeping, burying yourself in a hole in the ground…”
“THE
GRAVE IS NOT A HOLE IN THE GROUND!”
The shout echoed through the cavern. It
was only after the last reverberation had stopped that he looked at me. I
said nothing. No need. He’d heard it. Slip of the tongue. Paging Dr. Freud.
“The Cave is not a hole in the ground,” he said
softly, correcting the slip. Then he said nothing, just looked up at a
stalactite for a moment, then back at me. His eyes were searching, naked,
pained, like that night in the vault a lifetime ago when he kissed me. “I
let them die,” he whispered. “I let them die. I couldn’t save them. I wasn’t strong enough, or fast enough or…
good enough to save them. I couldn’t save them that night, so why should I get
to enjoy a normal life now? I… I
don’t deserve a life.”
There
it was: The Why. He was punishing himself because he lived and they
died. He was starving himself, exhausting himself, refusing to dwell even
momentarily on any part of his life that made him happy, because his guilt said
he deserved to suffer.
Fortunately, Bruce is not a stupid man.
He could deceive himself for so long by dressing this ritual up in a Batsuit,
convincing himself it was part of the Mission. But now that his true
motive was spoken, I had an ally, an unexpected ally, in Batman. The most rigid,
domineering, autocratic, ruthless aspects of Batman, the Psychobat that’s been
my adversary from the beginning, was suddenly my ace in the hole.
Batman was about intellect and discipline.
He overruled his feelings, Bruce’s feelings, often enough when they conflicted
with the almighty Mission. Now his
intellect was confronted with an undeniable fallacy in those feelings:
“Of
course you couldn’t save them, you were a child.”
And
not just a fallacy, a fallacy that caused an injustice, the worst kind of
injustice—a fallacy that harmed an innocent:
“You were ten years old, Bruce, there was
nothing you could have done. You’re punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”
The searching, vulnerable look was gone.
Batman was in charge. He wasn’t going to stand by and see an innocent
blamed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But for all the
determined gleam in his eyes, he still didn’t speak. He wanted to right
the wrong, that was his function, but he seemed at a loss on how to proceed.
“Come
upstairs,” I offered, “it’s where the food is, and the sunshine, and the
people who care about you.”
“All but one,” he said, slipping an arm around
my waist. I felt a hand stroke my hair, and his lips grazed my forehead,
just at the hairline. We went up to the manor. I was still hung over
and he was exhausted, so Alfred took pity on us, served the dinner on a tray in
front of the fireplace. We curled up on the big sofa and crashed for the
night.
I know
what you’re thinking: Batman
taking a night off during Hell Month? Blasphemy! He said he wasn’t up to
it, that his depleted physical condition made patrolling an unjustified risk.
Personally, I think the Bat felt he owed the Man. This wasn’t over, far
from it. But it was a beginning.
To be continued…
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