Eat your vegetables.
Peter was good at hiding concussions. This was not officially on the List—his criteria for what went on that was very well-established—but it was something he prided himself on all the same. So when the nice mechanic (“Please call me Ben, Pete. You’ll give me a complex, I swear.”) insisted he go home with him, he felt fairly confident he could convince his nurse wife that he was totally, one-hundred percent ok.
“Heyyyy. You’re that nice nurse lady I met on the bus. I’m sorry about your shoes.”
It was going well.
“Oh my god, Ben, bring him in here. Sweetie, what happened?” Peter absolutely did not flinch at her hand on his head, nor did he tear up at the reminder of everything he could never have.
It was going super well.
The Parkers lived in a two-bedroom apartment just a few blocks away from Ben’s garage. The brownstone building was older but well-maintained, and Peter, whose experience with homes was limited to his uncle’s cold mansion in Colorado, Mr. Beck’s trailer, and his cell at Horizons, was absolutely charmed by the eclectic decor the couple maintained. Classic car models were displayed on homemade shelves, among 70s and 80s rock band albums, succulents, and an inexplicable number of PEZ dispensers. Mr. Parker (“Just Ben, son, seriously.”) smiled when he saw Peter looking at them.
“It was sort of an inside joke from when May and I first started dating—we kept buying them for each other and never really stopped.”
May smirked as she walked back into the room with a ziploc baggie filled with ice and a stitches packet. “Yes, and now 10 years later, I like to describe our home as flea market chic. Hold still, mio caro, this will sting. So I hear this was Murph’s fault, huh?” She began to gently dab some antiseptic on Peter’s forehead and nose. “That cat runs this neighborhood, let me tell you.”
“That cat is an asshole.” Her husband yelled from the kitchen, where he had disappeared to get Peter a lemonade. He returned with a Chinese take-out menu. “Ok, kid, pick your poison.”
May swatted it away. “I made a casserole tonight.”
He winked at Peter conspiratorially, “Exactly.”
“Oh, Mr. Ben, I’m not really hungry, but thank you so much.” May snorted at the honorific while putting a bandaid on his nose. She pinched his cheek lightly.
“Please don’t insult our intelligence, Pete, I can hear your stomach from here. Now, who do I need to call to tell you’ll be staying here for dinner? Ben, honey, if you’re so insistent on that crap, at least order a vegetable this time.” Peter flushed in embarrassment at their easy touches and teasing. Mr. Ben winked at Peter and gave him a thumbs-up when he finally stuttered out his order ( “I guess I”ll have orange chicken and an eggroll if that’s ok?”). He grabbed his wallet and kissed May on the cheek—leaving them alone in the apartment.
May held out a cell phone. “Ben can drive you home after dinner—you’re also welcome to stay here for the night. We have a guest room. You need to have someone check in on you every two hours—non-negotiable with concussions.”
Peter waved the phone away and stood up quickly. “It’s really not that bad—I’ve had way worse.” It was true, of course, but something distantly told him that probably wasn’t the best thing to share out loud. He swayed a bit and May reached out her arms to steady him.
“Mhmm. Well, it’ll make me feel better. Who can I call?”
Peter had never been a great liar—his uncle used to say it was because he wasn’t smart enough for it—but after six months on the road, he didn’t think he was that bad. “My parents work nights. They…um…don’t have a cell phone. But my…um…sister can watch me. I’m kind of close to here, so I can walk home after dinner.”
May pursed her lips and didn’t say anything. She stared at him for a few minutes and then shook her head as if clearing her thoughts. “We’ll talk about it after we eat, alright, angelo? Now, why don’t you sit down and tell me about yourself?”
Peter—who knew from experience that the best way to avoid questions was to ask his own—pointed at the framed map of Italy above the couch May guided him to. “Are you Italian?”
If she recognized the pivot, she didn’t call him on it. Instead, she smiled and grabbed a photo album from the coffee table and handed it to him. “Sí. Well, my mother was from Italy. My father was from Brooklyn, but his parents were first-generation Italian. They met when he went on a study abroad trip in high school—they got married secretly—it was a big scandal—both families were die-hard Catholics. My dad brought mom back here when she was seventeen—I grew up in Jersey—tragic, I know—but we’d go back to Naples every year until Mom died. When Ben and I first started dating, my dad didn’t know what to do with the only-child Protestant kid who thought gnocchi was some obscure Italian curse word. It wasn’t until Ben fixed his 55 Impala that he gave his blessing for us to be married.”
Peter smiled as he flipped through their wedding album. “My…my grandmother was from Italy. I didn’t know her—she died before I was born—but I read in an interview—I mean, my dad told me that she grew up in this house by the river in this town called Ponte San Pietro. She’d take my dad to visit when he was a kid—and there was this church—the church of Saint Peter—that they’d leave offerings at every Christmas. My grandmother told him that Saint Peter would watch over our family because that was our true focolare and any miracle we’d ask for there would be granted as long as we kept coming back. That’s why they named me Peter. I mean, they aren’t…we aren’t…really religious or anything, but my dad said…says…that our family can use all the miracles the world has to give.”
He watched as May’s eyes softened as she looked at him. She smiled and jumped up, “Hold that thought, Peter,” and left the room. He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, cursing his overactive senses and the headache that was making it hard to control his emotions and his tongue. A few minutes later, she returned with a black box in her hand. Dropping it on the table in front of him, she nodded her head. “Go ahead and open it.”
It was a plain chain with a silver pendant dangling from the end. Peter could tell it was an etching of a man’s head holding a book. Italian words covered the back. May plucked it out of his hands after he looked at it for a moment and put it around his neck. “It’s a Saint Peter medallion—it used to be my mom’s. She was a sucker for shit like this. It’s been sitting in the back of my dresser for years—figured you might find better use for it. Maybe you can show it to your dad!”
“Food’s here, kiddos!” Mr. Ben saved Peter from having to come up with a response to that as he walked back into the apartment with an insane amount of takeout boxes. ( “Leftovers, May-Belle, leftovers! We won’t have to have that casserole for at least another day.” ) Peter was given a paper plate packed with noodles and chicken and rice and ushered to the couch instead of the dining room table. May set up pillows around him and fussed with his bandages, while her husband flipped the TV to an old Star Trek episode.
“The best medicine for a headache, Pete, is food, rest, and Tribbles, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Peter smiled as he thought about the only person who would tell him otherwise was dead—Uncle Obie’s solution for Peter’s concussions had been a whole lot different than this friendly mechanic’s and his kind wife’s: a warning-spanking and a night spent locked in the basement. As Peter ate, he wondered how his own parents would handle him getting hurt. Surely they wouldn’t have laughed and called him a klutz like he knew his uncle would have, but it was hard to imagine they’d be as nice as the Parkers. Maybe somewhere in between—Uncle Obie said they wouldn’t have had a lot of patience for his antics, but maybe his mom would have still put a bandaid on his head like May or let him eat on the couch like Mr. Ben.
He didn’t realize he was drifting to sleep until he felt the heavy blanket over him. He could hear the couple whispering next to him but his belly felt so full and he was so warm, he let the words drift over him, not caring at their direction or concern.
“He’s just a child, Ben. Look at him—he’s thinner than a rail, he looks like he’s twelve or thirteen—you should have seen him yesterday on the bus. His shoes are falling apart, and he was holding that backpack like it was all he had in the world. He doesn’t have anywhere to go.”
“We can’t keep him, May, he’s not ours. You know that. And I’m not calling the cops on the kid—you know how they handled the Mariano case. Maybe if CPS could just…”
“In the morning, bring him with you to the shop. Maybe he can help out? He’s a runner, Ben, look at him, you know I’m right. We have a room…we give him a chance to talk to us tomorrow. Elsie works for the hotline and maybe she has advice on what to do. He’ll need to go to school.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have someone waiting for him tonight?”
“I don’t think so, Ben. You should have heard him. Let him sleep and we’ll figure it out in the morning. Can you move him to the bed?”
“I’ve got him, love. He weighs nothing.”
Peter felt two arms pick him up bridal style, but he fell back asleep as soon as his head hit the soft pillow below him. His glasses were gently removed from his face and put on the nightstand next to him. A heavy quilt was draped over his body and the door shut quietly.
For the first time in ten years, Peter slept without nightmares.
Meanwhile…
The media called Morgan Stark a “darling” but her dad called her a “mongoose” and honestly, that seemed to fit her personality better. Morgan was also a very smart girl (her dad said she was a “genius prodigy” but her mom smacked him on the arm and told him that it wasn’t polite to gloat in front of company—in her opinion, though, Mr. Ross wasn’t company, he was just a silly, old man who shouldn’t have talked down to Morgan in the first place) and it was because of this smartness that she knew her family was hiding something from her.
“Jarvis, what are mom and dad hiding?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Miss?”
Jarvis was silly and liked to pretend he didn’t know things, but Morgan knew he did. Just like she knew he knew what was going on with her mom and dad, who had promised to pick her up from school, but instead sent Uncle Sam to get her. She liked Uncle Sam, of course, and Uncle Steve, who had chocolate chip cookies waiting for her, but they both sent her out of the kitchen and into her playroom and told her to stay there, and she wasn’t born yesterday, she knew a distraction when it was warm and paired well with milk.
“Miss Morgan, your parents have asked that you not leave the playroom, yet. Dinner will be in half an hour. Why don’t you play with DUM-E today? He needs help with the Peanuts puzzle.”
Jarvis was silly but probably right because DUM-E started the Peanuts puzzle yesterday and still couldn’t figure out where Woodstock’s head went. She rolled her eyes because even at five-almost-six-years-old she knew the difference between the yellow of Woodstock’s feathers and the yellow of Sally’s hair.
“Watcha working on, Maniac?” Her Uncle Rhodey walked into the room a few minutes after Morgan connected Snoopy’s ear to Charlie Brown’s jacket.
“Uncle Rhodey!!” DUM-E beeped sadly as Morgan left him to jump into her uncle’s arms. “I missed you!”
“I missed you, too, peanut. Ready for dinner?”
“Sure! Are Mommy and Daddy here?” Her uncle adjusted her on his hip and walked towards the dining room. He seemed to pause before answering.
“They are working on something right now. It’s just gonna be us for now.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes and was about to say something when she saw a strange boy sitting at the table. He was wearing a Jurassic Park t-shirt and had a hat on—he looked very shy, and Morgan wasn’t going to stand for that.
She jumped off of her uncle’s hip quickly and ran over. “Hi. I’m Morgan. Who are you? Why are you here? Are you the reason Mommy and Daddy can’t eat dinner with me tonight?”
“Morgan!”
“Um…” The boy was not as smart as Morgan, obviously, “I’m Ned?”
“Is that a question or do you know it? Mommy says not to end all your sentences with a question mark because people won’t take you seriously.”
“Morgan.” Her uncle was pinching his nose with his fingers. She thought he looked silly.
“...It’s N…Ned. I’m Ned.”
“Well, hi, Ned, it’s very nice to meet you. What are you doing here?” Morgan sat on the chair next to Ned and motioned at her uncle to serve her the macaroni and cheese that was on the table. He rolled his eyes but started to fill her plate.
“I…Mr. and Mrs. Stark invited me.”
“Yeah, that’s weird. Jarvis, make a note. That’s weird.”
“Noted, Miss.” The AI sounded amused, but Morgan knew he’d help her out. He was her friend like that.
“Have a plate, Ned.” Her uncle handed the strange boy dinner—Morgan noted she had more broccoli on her plate than he did on his so she scooped some of hers onto his.
He smiled. “I have a friend who always used to give me his broccoli, too. He said it tasted like…”
“Dirt.”
They both said it at the same time and Morgan nodded solemnly. “Oh yes, he’s exactly right.”
Before Morgan could ask Ned more about his very wise, broccoli-hating friend, her Mom came into the room.
“Mommy, hi! Do you know Ned? Did you hear about what—”
“Not now, sweetheart—” Her mom didn’t even look at her—and, rude—but walked quickly over to her uncle instead. She whispered something, but Morgan could only hear a few words.
“Jim…Jarvis said….a blurry picture…definitely him…yesterday…Times Square…Tony needs…I can’t…”
Her mom looked like she needed a hug and Morgan was a really good hugger but before she could get up out of her seat, both adults were rushing out of the room.
It was quiet. Ned sniffed a little. (He also looked like he needed a hug, so Morgan obliged.)
“I know where Uncle Steve left the cookies.”
Morgan looked at Ned and Ned looked at Morgan. She smiled and grabbed his hand. “C’mon, we can be best friends. Make a note, Jarvis.”
“Of course, miss.”