Heroic Measures (continued)

He watched as she tried to comprehend, to come to terms with what he had shown her. He understood; it was more than a little unnerving to have one’s reality suddenly shifted beneath one’s feet.

“So it was you . . .” Her gaze grew distant as she replayed her memories of the night of the attack. “All along . . . it was you.”

Walter nodded again. “Yes.”

Clara’s eyes refocused on his. “I don’t know what to say.” Her eyes darted back to the mask, the gloves, and then back at him. “I really don’t.”

Walter’s thoughts filled with leading answers: That you still love me. That you’re amazed that a hero would take a personal interest in you. That you’ll . . .

“Tell me that it doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes widened almost incredulously. “But it does!” Her voice had regained some of its strength. “It changes . . . everything.”

Walter could not help it, but he felt his body sag slightly. So this is it.

Clara’s eyes fixed on his. “Why now? Why did you tell me now?”

“Because I had to,” he said, fighting to speak past the lump that had formed in his throat. “Because I love you.” It might be the last thing she wanted to hear right now, but it was the truth, and he had to say it.

She appeared to accept the statement with anger. Turning her head away from him, she stared into the contents of the box. Her face was a mask of confusion and torment. She looked back at him once more. Walter could see her struggle between fury and tears.

“I still don’t understand,” she said. “Why tell me now?”

Walter reached up and took her hands in his. She stared down at them for a moment and then back into his eyes.

“Because I want you to marry me.”

#

February 12, 1982 . . .

[insert more here]

“I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Red whacked one of the thugs who had started to rise, but otherwise said nothing.

“You don’t think I should?” Walter was troubled by his companion’s lack of response. He glanced around: none of the other hoods seemed to be inclined to get back up and try again.

“I didn’t say anything,” Red responded casually, also looking around.

“I know,” Walter said. “Quite eloquently.”

He knelt and started fitting a pair of magnetic cuffs on the unconscious miscreant at his feet. He tossed a set to Red. Red checked them and then attached them to the dazed person lying down before him.

“It can make things complicated,” Red explained, holding out his hand for another set of restraints.

Walter frowned. He had thought of that before, which is why it had taken him so long to make his mind to propose to Clara. There was no doubt in his mind that he loved her deeply—and he was fairly certain that she felt the same way. But Red was right: relationships between heroes and civilians had a tendency to not work out. The ones between two heroes had a slightly better average for success, but not by much. Besides, there were no women among the ranks of the heroes for which he felt any attraction—at least none that were available. It was akin, Walter supposed, to be married to someone in law enforcement or a military officer on active duty. Actually, he mused, finding some small glint of humor in the matter, it was a lot like that.

He rose to his feet and looked around again. All of the fallen hoods seemed to be secure. A few moaned softly as they began to regain their senses. Walter nodded to Red to call it in to the police and the pair prepared to leave the scene.

“I’m not saying ‘No’”, Red said, returning to their conversation. “I’m just not saying ‘Yes’.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Red ducked into the car and pulled off his mask. “I’m saying,” he said, running a hand through his ruffled sweat-dampened hair, “is that it’s your choice.” He leaned back in the seat as Walter settled in and started the engine. “Just be aware.” Red closed his eyes, a slight smile forming on his lips. “But you’d damned well better ask me to be your best man.”

Walter grinned and put the car into gear.

#

February 14, 1984 . . .

Walter maneuvered his way through the evening traffic, praising himself once more for getting the chocolate, flowers, and jewelry the previous day. It had made him late getting back to the lab, but no one had seemed to notice. Director Chaung was away from his office when Walter had passed by it, so he had probably been safe from any kind of even informal reprimand.

Checking the clock dial on the dashboard, he calculated that he would be a few minutes late at most. Hopefully Clara was not preparing anything that was overly sensitive to its cooking time. If everyone would just keep moving, he swore silently.

On the radio, the international news services were reporting that someone named Chernenko was now in charge of the Soviet Union. Hadn’t they just had a new leader? Walter wondered. This was followed by series of continuing reports of the successful landing of the space shuttle Challenger, along with interviews with several of the astronauts. Walter had to smile; it seemed that the Space Age had finally been renewed in earnest. There followed a series of results from the Winter Olympics taking place in Sarajevo. Walter listened, trying to remember if he participated in any of the office pools for those events.

He pulled into the short, narrow driveway only one minute later than he had expected. Gathering, the gifts from the trunk, and slammed it closed, narrowly missing his coat, and headed inside.

Clara did not meet him at the door, but that was particularly surprising. If she had something on the stove, she preferred to keep an eye on it rather than leave the kitchen. She still never let Walter forget the morning that he had volunteered to cook omelets for them and then had stepped away “for just a quick second” to check something he had heard outside.

She did greet him at the doorway to the kitchen, her hands still in oven mitts and covered with a paisley apron that did little to hide her luscious figure. They exchanged light kisses on the cheek and she smiled at seeing his hands filled.

“You remembered.”

Walter flashed her a sardonic smile.

“Dinner’ll be on table in about two minutes,” she told him. “There’s already an empty vase there.”

Well, that was subtle, he thought, once again grateful that he had not forgotten the flowers. He tried not to imagine what the meal would have been like with an empty vase as their centerpiece.

He walked into the small dining room, finding the table set with their wedding china, crystal wine glasses, and two tapered candles that provided most of the room’s illumination. Placing the box of chocolate down on the table, and moving the jewelry box to his coat pocket, he worked at placing the flowers into the waiting vase. He recognized it, too, as one of the many gifts from their wedding.

Managing to complete the task without making too much of a mess, or not down any of the glassware, he was considering where to properly place the box of chocolates when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He wondered if she had been there watching him fumble with the flowers, but decided that he did not really want to know. She held a steaming serving dish in her hands, waiting pointedly for him to get out of her way so that she could place it on the table. Walker stepped aside quickly.

Clara placed the platter in the middle of the table. Walter sniffed appreciatively. Lamb roast. It was one of her specialties, but one she tended to save for special occasions because of the amount of preparation she put into it.

“Why don’t you pour the wine while I get the rest?” she suggested, nodding toward the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Walter watched her go, taking a moment to admire the way she walked. Some women just don’t need heels, he mused. And I’m lucky enough to have one of them. He turned back toward the table, looking for the aforementioned wine. It took him a moment to locate it, for it turned out to be a bottle of champagne. It was just a small one, but from a real French vineyard he noticed. Walter smiled; she also was treating their second Valentine’s Day as a married couple as a special occasion.

After removing the thin foil, unwinding the wire catch, he then tried to cautiously remove the cork. He discovered that he was holding his breath when he heard the muffled pop from beneath the cloth napkin he had borrowed from the stack on the table. After a tense moment, he breathed with relief when the bottle’s contents did not come bubbling out onto the floor. He was carefully pouring it into the glasses when Clara returned.

Carrying three smaller plates on a tray, she arranged each of these on the table before placing the tray aside on top of a nearby cabinet. She removed her apron, folded it, and then placed in on top of the now-empty tray. Looking over the contents of the table, she smiled and went over to her chair. She paused and Walter nearly dashed over to pull it out for her before she could stare at him pointedly for his lapse in etiquette. Normally, she was not that much of an adherent to the standards of Emily Post, but on occasions like this, she wanted to be treated as special as it was.

Clara seated herself, holding her hands demurely in her lap as Walter slid the chair closer to the table. Apparently satisfied, she moved her hands into view and waited for Walter to take his seat. Once he was seated, she passed her plate to him and waited for him to fill it. She watched him, giving him small, non-verbal cues as to the portions she wanted of each item and then sat patiently while he served himself. After the serving ritual was completed, Walter settled back in his chair and draped his napkin across his lap. He lifted his champagne glass and then looked across the table at Clara.

The candlelight danced across her features, making her eyes sparkle like polished emeralds. Her hair glistened with golden highlights. She looked radiant, warm and desirable. I’m a very lucky man, Walter thought. For a moment, he considered voicing that as part of the toast, but felt foolish—and more than a little selfish—voicing such a thought aloud.

“To us,” he said, wishing he had more to add, but deciding to keep it short rather than to ramble on, sounding inane and insincere.

Clara smiled back at him, raising her own glass to lightly touch against his. “To us.” She took a small sip from it and then replaced the glass on the table.