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Sammy meant what he said, or what he tried to say, on the witness stand. Boy sidekicks did not represent any attempt, covert or subconscious, to channel repressed sexual feeling into the worlds of thirteen-year-old readers, either on his own part, or on those of the creators of Robin and Bucky and Speedy and all of the other surprisingly competent children. It had been enough of a struggle to admit to himself that his reputation for sidekicks was fair, and deserved; the realization that it was certainly born of a constant search for father-figures was painful and embarrassing in its own way. But he knew, for sure, that even in the darkest recesses of his mind, there was and could not be anything untoward between the Monitor and Liberty Kid, or Cubby and the (now no longer) Lone Ranger. The father as superhero is a tenet in the eyes of a child that is hard to destroy, even when the father fails time and again to live up to his destiny. In the pages of comic books, the hero and his ward are the happy father and son ideal – just one the many unrealities of the comic book.
It was only in making this clear to himself that Sammy gradually, with his growing cache of irony and self-awareness, realized that there was a far greater and surely more obvious homosexual allegory at work in his stories, and in those of almost all costumed heroes: that of the secret identity, the double life. Not to mention the highly desirable figures of the heroes themselves. Although the Escapist and his muscled, stunningly good-looking contemporaries were depicted as wowing women the world over, they were, in fact, both created and consumed almost entirely by men and boys. A huge proportion of the American media was now dedicated to beautiful, strapping young men who – usually under the cover of night – disguised themselves, deceiving their friends and families, and headed out to have wild, impossible adventures. Sammy thought, bitterly amused: It didn't occur to you, Senator Hendrickson, to question that?
The fact that Sammy had actually created a successful alter ego, albeit not a secret identity – Sammy Klayman and Sam Clay were very closely related, but not one and the same – was not an irony lost on him.
Sammy was never sure whether in the Escapist he created the man he wanted to be or the man he wanted to love, as had been the case with almost all of the men in his life. His emotional and physical desires to have or to be with people had always mingled with a desire to actually be them, to inhabit them, or even just to emulate them. He was not ashamed of himself – well, that wasn't true, but despite his vast capacity for self-mockery, self-disappointment, and self-disgust, he had never absolutely not wanted to be Sam Clay. Unlike his cousin, who, unbeknownst to Sammy, had at times wanted to stop being both Josef and Joe Kavalier – and, for some time in the Arctic, almost certainly stopped being either – Sam had a hard core of himself that he could not shake, that he accepted, sometime begrudgingly, but without a fight. And yet, he dreamed of transferring that central Sam-nucleus to other bodies, other minds, better and faster and cleverer and more beautiful people.
It was actually Bacon who had first articulated the thought explicitly. "Don't you think it's funny, what's happening?" he'd asked, his ever-present almost-smile making it clear that whatever it was, he certainly thought it was funny, and so likely Sammy would agree.
"What's that?"
"With you and me," Bacon said, and rubbed a hand lazily through his spun-gold hair. "I mean, when you come down to it, Tom Mayflower is you, right? Or you're Mayflower. Either way."
"It's a bit more complicated than that," said Sammy, a little defensively. The Escapist was more complicated than a polio kid's wish-fulfillment fantasy, although it was also, obviously, that. Tom Mayflower was part Sammy and part Joe – both of them longing to be handed that golden key, that power to transform and to liberate – and he was also part comic-book staple, and part pure invention.
"Oh, sure," said Bacon, comfortably. "You're not identical. But you see what I mean."
Sammy did see. "Yeah," he said, into Bacon's shoulder, too tired to pursue this conversation to the perhaps fascinating psychological depths it could have carried them. "Yeah, I guess it's funny."
*
Even with more money than he knew what to do with, Sammy was still loath to spend it indiscriminately. He'd take a cab now, sure, but not unless it seemed really necessary – and besides, walking calmed him. It made him proud, in childhood and today, to walk as far as he could on legs that a weaker person would use as an excuse to give up after a few blocks. ("I don't think 'excuse'," Joe had said, the first time Sammy told him this, "I think 'reason'.")
Sammy hiked his way around the city, or at least around chunks of it, and if he arrived a little breathless sometimes, then, well, he was important now. People could wait a few minutes while he got his composure back. He was never in trouble for being late these days.
Bacon was waiting for him outside the bar, which was funny, because it wasn't Bacon he was meeting there – Anapol had organized an awkward half-meeting, half-social occasion with some sponsors, and Sammy was required to attend. Joe, as un-pointedly as possible, wasn't; but then Joe wouldn't have wanted to come anyway. Sammy didn't know if somebody told Bacon he would be here, or in fact if he told him that himself and forgot, or if it was just a continuation of their strange, fated entanglement, so persistent it brought them repeatedly together across a city of seven million. This was not the first time they had run into each other without meaning to.
"I'm here to liven up your party," said Bacon. He was in his penguin suit, which made Sammy feel permanently underdressed, even though the clothes he was wearing tonight cost more than he used to see in a year. "Or give you an excuse to leave, if you're bored of it."
Sammy looked him up and down, and wanted to say, "But why are you here?" in a wider sense: why are you in this world? Why are you in my life? How did you happen to me? What he said, for some reason was, "What are you?"
Bacon said, "Well, I'm whatever you want me to be."
"I think that's a dangerous claim," said Sammy.
*
Bacon's hands on him were still something of a surprise, even now. Their very presence, their size, their strength – the idea that hands like those should touch him for any reason that wasn't hostile was still faintly unreal. Sammy didn't get beat up much more or much less than anybody else as a kid: he was pretty good at talking his way into sticky situations but also pretty good at talking his way out of them, and his physical weakness actually seemed to deflect hostility, in a way that Sammy rather resented. Still, the few times he'd come into contact with hands like these, they'd more likely be cuffing him round the ear than anything else.
In fact, this time wasn't so far off. Bacon had, slightly humiliatingly, lifted him bodily into the air, his hands under Sammy's arms, like he was picking up a small animal. Sammy kicked ineffectually in his direction, scuffing against him once or twice with his stocking feet, but not really making contact.
"Picking on a little guy," panted Sammy. "You should know better. Nobody ever teach you that's not right?"
"Jeez, if you'd stay still – if you didn't whale on me every time I touch you – "
"Every time you manhandle me," Sammy huffed, but stayed still for a moment. It felt strange and almost magical to be upright but suspended, hanging in mid-air – albeit with a growing ache in his armpits where Bacon's hands had him firmly.
"I was trying to do this," says Bacon, and pulled Sammy in towards him, and then hefted him easily over one shoulder, like he was rescuing him from a burning building. It wasn't getting much bigger on dignity. Sammy didn't have time to complain, or start fighting him again, before Bacon crouched down so that Sammy's feet touched the floor. He scuttled round Sammy's legs in a funny little about-turn, pushing his face between the backs of Sammy's knees, so that Sammy lost his balance for a moment and sat down heavily on Bacon's shoulders. Then he stood up. Sammy was suddenly six feet in the air, and he leaned forward instinctively so as not to immediately topple back. Bacon grasped him by the shins, hands warm through his slacks, and then executed an unexpected and precise pirouette.
"Don't," said Sammy, pulling, after a moment, at his ear, which seemed to be the most available handle – "Don't, I'll throw up on you."
"Okay," said Bacon, and Sammy could hear the big easy grin in his voice even though he could only see the top of his head. Then Bacon twisted his head awkwardly around to try and see him; it didn't quite work, and just rubbed his hair against Sammy's belly, messing it up a little. "Now you can see what it's like to be me."
"Unstable?" Sammy said.
Bacon laughed, and bobbed up and down, so that Sammy bobbed up and down in the air. For some reason, Sammy laughed too. For a moment, happiness overwhelmed him, in the complete, unfiltered way that it had taken to doing since Tracy Bacon inexplicably loved him back. It was not until Bacon tickled gently at the underside of one of Sammy's feet that his happiness was tempered by the realization that it was partly nostalgic in nature; that he was, apparently, half-remembering another occasion like this, the feeling of dizziness and euphoria at being hoisted easily into the air. Sammy did not remember ever being placed on his father's shoulders, but perhaps his body did, or perhaps he wished for it so hard that he retained an imaginary impression of it.
"Enough already," Sammy said; when Bacon didn't loosen his grip on his legs, Sammy flicked gently at the side of his head, then less gently. "Put me down. This is undignified."
Bacon just held tighter, so Sammy put a hand over his eyes. Then, realizing that making Bacon unable to see was probably a greater threat to himself at this point, he moved the hand down to cover his nose, and clapped the other hand over his mouth. Bacon made a muffled noise of protest, and Sammy could feel the air slipping through the cracks in his fingers as Bacon inhaled, trickles of oxygen still making it into his lungs. It was a categorical fact that Sammy could not injure or damage Bacon, or in any way impede the simple strength of his ability to go on living. This is why he could, occasionally, try, because it was not really trying.
After a couple of seconds of this, Sammy loosened the lower hand a little, which Bacon took as an opportunity to open his mouth and press his tongue against Sammy's palm. Sammy moved his hand away completely; then back, two of his fingers pushing into Bacon's mouth – gently at first, then a little deeper as Bacon sucked cheerfully on them.
*
Sammy didn't feel bad about spending less time with Joe, because Joe had started spending less time with him first. Their initial partnership had been so intense that he could see, now, that it was sensible to give each other breathing space if they were to stay friends and collaborators. It was good that they could come together to work, could go to the movies or to a restaurant together, but could also go away to someone else for entertainment. Even before Bacon, Sammy had never been jealous of Rosa, exactly – he liked her too much to resent her hold over Joe, and he liked Joe too much to resent how happy she was evidently able to make him. This is why it was surprising for Sammy to realize, very gradually, that Joe seemed uneasy about the time he was spending with Tracy.
"Come with me," he said, rather abruptly. Sammy had grabbed his bag and was high-tailing it to the elevator, already running late. Joe, unshaven, ink-smeared, and wild-haired as ever, had seemed as mildly attentive as usual to Sammy's chatter, betraying no particular reaction either to the script Sammy had just talked him through or to the dinner plans he was now leaving to fulfill.
"Come with you where?" Sammy said.
"Out. I don't know. Come with me, come with Rosa. We'll have dinner."
"But I have to go now. It's organized. Besides, you don't want me in your space." Sammy wondered, suddenly, if Joe was experiencing some misplaced and very late-acting guilt for being the one to initiate their slight social drift apart; if he was trying to prove that he still cared as much about Sammy as he ever did. This was rather sweet, Sammy thought, but unnecessary. "I'm fine, Joe, don't worry. Go out with your girl. I'll see you tomorrow."
Joe looked briefly, profoundly unhappy. Sammy, in unthinking sympathy, was momentarily unhappy too; then he wondered why on earth the depths of misery Joe kept bound and gagged in the pit of his soul should make a short appearance for something as inconsequential as this.
"Are you all right?" Sammy said.
Joe said, "I am fine," and then, his face back to normal, said, "I just worry about you."
"You don't have to," said Sammy, sincerely. "I'm happy."
*
"Back in Tallahassee – "
"Tallahassee?” said Sammy. “You've never mentioned that one before."
"Sure I have. Some folks there on my mom's side – I was schooled there a little."
"Your mother's family is from Ohio. You said."
"Her parents lived in Cleveland. But I have an aunt and uncle in Florida."
"Cincinnati, you said, last time." Sammy was unexpectedly, and pointlessly, frustrated – it was not as if any of this mattered, as if there was anything more important than the here and now. "Get your damn story straight," he said, anyway.
Bacon gave him a look that was half-wounded puppy, half-something else that Sammy couldn't place – not anger or guilt or worry (as if Tracy Bacon had ever, in his life, looked worried). He said, "Does it matter?"
Sammy said, "Not to me," and wondered why it sort of did.
"That's the point of the city, you know," Bacon said, and Sammy thought maybe he'd missed something.
"What is?"
"That it doesn't matter what happened to you before you got here, or who you were. Or – it doesn't have to matter, anyway. You start again, you become who you really are, or who you want to be."
"And who do you want to be?"
"I'm whatever you want me to be," said Bacon.
"I've heard that one before," Sammy said.
"Where?"
"From you."
"No you haven't. I never repeat myself."
"You repeat yourself constantly," said Sammy, enjoying, as ever, Bacon's strangely endearing propensity to know very little about himself.
"I never repeat myself."
"Well, you've just said that twice."
Bacon grinned. "I know. Kidding."
"So what do you do," Sammy said, "if you've lived here all your life? How do you get to start again?"
Bacon shrugged. "Search me, Clay."
*
Everything good that Sammy had been or done or made was a fiction. This didn't make him sad, particularly, to realize – just made him glad that he had been equipped with the tools to create these things, to make himself and others happy by telling them lies about people who didn't exist. Sammy was acceptable to the world because of the front and the persona he was able, from a relatively young age, to understand that he needed to wrap around himself: he had done this for so long that he was not completely sure what was underneath. The skinny-tough city kid was easily visible through the new front of a fledgling businessman, which Sammy was learning, slowly, to fake too; but as for what was underneath the smart-talking seventeen-year-old version of himself, that was anybody's guess, really. Sammy's fictional worlds sustained him through childhood, the funny-page characters that he dreamed into reality, and the fat, scuffed, never-shown portfolio of sprawling cityscapes, bursting with imagination but a little light on exact draftsmanship. And so it was only natural that fiction should become his life and livelihood, his bread and butter: he was full of stories, always, waiting to be told, partly because that was how he had built this accidental empire, and partly because he knew nothing else.
"I am sad," said Joe, "because I think you are lonely, and I think it is my fault."
Sammy said, slightly incredulously, "But neither of those things are true."
"That is because you tell yourself they are not. You tell stories, Sammy, that is what you are the most wonderful at – but I don't want you to tell a story to yourself. I want you to have a life. Not a story." Joe alternated between looking Sammy in the eye and looking anywhere but; desperate to say this and desperate not to.
"I have a life, and I have – people to be with."
"Yes, you do, and you do not spend your time with them. You go out – alone – you go for walks alone, and drinks alone, with your imagination for company." Joe sighed. "Sometimes I am jealous. It is nice to take care of yourself, not to have to rely on others. But sometimes I am sad."
Sammy said, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry you are sad. I'm leaving."
*
"Sometimes I'm still surprised I didn't make you up," Sammy declared, to the room. Bacon didn't answer.