Hate’s fist punched
through Hochelaga’s chest. “Hochelaga had been pursuing
the Herald of Hate after the terrorist’s as yet unexplained
public execution of an unidentified middle-aged woman,”
the broadcaster said.
They’d caught the execution on camera. I watched it on
four different channels, hoping I was mistaken. Every time,
I saw the same thing: the woman set on fire by a glowing
red skeleton wearing a black vest emblazoned with a white
swastika. That neo-Nazi monster laughed as my mother
burned.
I tried calling Bernard. We hadn’t spoken in years — he’d
made a life for himself in Montreal’s Orthodox community
and had long ago made it abundantly clear that he didn’t
want to hear from any of us again. Mom dutifully mailed him
invitations to every family milestone — birthdays, wedding
anniversaries — but he never responded. Nevertheless,
I knew his address and phone number by heart. I didn’t
spy on him, or intrude on him, or anything, but I kept
track of him. I had never accepted that he could shut me
out so completely. As his voicemail message kicked in, I
remembered that it was Saturday morning. The Sabbath.
Bernard was devout. He wouldn’t answer the phone —
would certainly not be watching television. He probably
didn’t even know that Mom and Dad had been killed. Well,
as unlikely as it seemed, Dad could have survived. Maybe
he teleported at the last minute. Maybe he was planning
a new, surprise attack on the Herald of Hate at that very
moment.
Last week, the Hegemony of Hate, after nearly a decade
of silence, had declared all-out war on the rest of the world.
Their first act was the nuclear annihilation of both Israel
and Palestine; ever since, their forces had been sweeping
through Europe and the Middle East. The Mighty appeared
to be losing the fight; there were rumours of numerous
casualties: Metal Man, Webmistress, Thunderer, Doc
Colossus. The Hegemony had unleashed a new wave of
apparently indestructible supersoldiers, like the Herald,
who was now singlehandedly destroying Montreal, with
Dad apparently dead. Murdered. Already several city blocks
in the downtown area had been reduced to rubble.
Hailing a cab was out of the question; traffic was chaotic,
as thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands — of people
evacuated in a panic. But the bridges couldn’t handle all the
traffic; the city streets were jammed in every direction, and
the sidewalks overflowed with people. Bernard’s house in
Outremont was about an hour’s walk from my downtown
apartment. I ran — uphill all the way — and I made it in
under a half-hour.
There was no answer when I rang the doorbell. For all I
knew he was inside but too pious to open the door. I broke
a window and let myself in.
Nobody was home. Bernard was probably at his
synagogue, praying or something. No — he must at least
have heard about the Herald. There were so many Jews in
this neighbourhood. More than anyone, they knew to fear
the swastika on the Herald’s chest.
Still, I might be able to find him through his synagogue.
It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think of. I had no idea
where he went for that, but maybe if I looked around I’d
find an address. I started in the room that looked like his
office. I’d barely begun my search when I was surprised by
my brother’s voice.
“I know,” he said. “I know every detail of it. Mom’s dead.
Dad’s dead.”
I turned around. He was standing in the doorway of the
office, with his coat still on. I hadn’t seen him since he’d
moved out at the age of sixteen. In my mind’s eye, Bernard
still looked like a teenager, not like the adult I was now
seeing. Behind the beard, I saw Dad’s face, my face.
“We don’t know that Dad’s dead for sure. His powers . . .”
“He’s dead. Trust me, I know.”
We glared at each other for a few seconds. But I thought
about Mom and Dad, and I softened. “C’mon, Bern. We don’t
have to be like this. It’s time for us to be
through Hochelaga’s chest. “Hochelaga had been pursuing
the Herald of Hate after the terrorist’s as yet unexplained
public execution of an unidentified middle-aged woman,”
the broadcaster said.
They’d caught the execution on camera. I watched it on
four different channels, hoping I was mistaken. Every time,
I saw the same thing: the woman set on fire by a glowing
red skeleton wearing a black vest emblazoned with a white
swastika. That neo-Nazi monster laughed as my mother
burned.
I tried calling Bernard. We hadn’t spoken in years — he’d
made a life for himself in Montreal’s Orthodox community
and had long ago made it abundantly clear that he didn’t
want to hear from any of us again. Mom dutifully mailed him
invitations to every family milestone — birthdays, wedding
anniversaries — but he never responded. Nevertheless,
I knew his address and phone number by heart. I didn’t
spy on him, or intrude on him, or anything, but I kept
track of him. I had never accepted that he could shut me
out so completely. As his voicemail message kicked in, I
remembered that it was Saturday morning. The Sabbath.
Bernard was devout. He wouldn’t answer the phone —
would certainly not be watching television. He probably
didn’t even know that Mom and Dad had been killed. Well,
as unlikely as it seemed, Dad could have survived. Maybe
he teleported at the last minute. Maybe he was planning
a new, surprise attack on the Herald of Hate at that very
moment.
Last week, the Hegemony of Hate, after nearly a decade
of silence, had declared all-out war on the rest of the world.
Their first act was the nuclear annihilation of both Israel
and Palestine; ever since, their forces had been sweeping
through Europe and the Middle East. The Mighty appeared
to be losing the fight; there were rumours of numerous
casualties: Metal Man, Webmistress, Thunderer, Doc
Colossus. The Hegemony had unleashed a new wave of
apparently indestructible supersoldiers, like the Herald,
who was now singlehandedly destroying Montreal, with
Dad apparently dead. Murdered. Already several city blocks
in the downtown area had been reduced to rubble.
Hailing a cab was out of the question; traffic was chaotic,
as thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands — of people
evacuated in a panic. But the bridges couldn’t handle all the
traffic; the city streets were jammed in every direction, and
the sidewalks overflowed with people. Bernard’s house in
Outremont was about an hour’s walk from my downtown
apartment. I ran — uphill all the way — and I made it in
under a half-hour.
There was no answer when I rang the doorbell. For all I
knew he was inside but too pious to open the door. I broke
a window and let myself in.
Nobody was home. Bernard was probably at his
synagogue, praying or something. No — he must at least
have heard about the Herald. There were so many Jews in
this neighbourhood. More than anyone, they knew to fear
the swastika on the Herald’s chest.
Still, I might be able to find him through his synagogue.
It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think of. I had no idea
where he went for that, but maybe if I looked around I’d
find an address. I started in the room that looked like his
office. I’d barely begun my search when I was surprised by
my brother’s voice.
“I know,” he said. “I know every detail of it. Mom’s dead.
Dad’s dead.”
I turned around. He was standing in the doorway of the
office, with his coat still on. I hadn’t seen him since he’d
moved out at the age of sixteen. In my mind’s eye, Bernard
still looked like a teenager, not like the adult I was now
seeing. Behind the beard, I saw Dad’s face, my face.
“We don’t know that Dad’s dead for sure. His powers . . .”
“He’s dead. Trust me, I know.”
We glared at each other for a few seconds. But I thought
about Mom and Dad, and I softened. “C’mon, Bern. We don’t
have to be like this. It’s time for us to be
Similar Books
