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Billy watches Mary hold a pearl necklace to Mommy’s collarbone, parting her painted lips in thought, the reflection on the vanity mirror a pretty echoing twin. Her cheeks are flush-red, heels of apples. Billy lies on the carpet at her feet, listening as she hums a song he doesn’t recognize. This way he can pretend it’s really Mommy, and not just Mary in their dead mother’s body.
They do this sometimes, play make believe. Mary’s best at it, but Billy likes to think his Daddy’s bumbling-about impression is spot on. Mary had snuck Mrs. Bromfield’s gossamer nightgown out of her closet after powering off the cape. It had been one magic transformation after the other.
Billy is aware that it’s funny and strange. They keep it secret. Freddy doesn’t even know and he’s Freddy. Mary says he won’t understand. No one would.
“Make believe,” she reasons, “is for babies. We can’t just tell everybody.”
“Not even Freddy?”
“Especially Freddy,” Mary warns. She’s speaking with her diary on her lap, angled away so he can’t see. “You know how he gets.”
Shortly after they had volunteered at a newly-opened soup kitchen, Captains Marvel and Marvel were slapped on the front page of Fawcett Tribune, dimpled and apron-wearing. Mary had sliced the pictures out of the newspaper, shuffling the cutouts in a curated album alongside other Marvel photo-ops.
“It’s like Mommy and Daddy are heroes,” she had told him. “Alive again. I like that. Don’t you?”
And Billy did. Billy liked that a lot.
They don’t do things to get noticed. It’s just how it is nowadays, with the day-to-day average hero coverage. Billy’s teamed with all the big-namers, so he’s caught overseas often or on panels for official capacities. He leans in for a picture with the mayor of Fawcett and smiles in just the manner he’s seen Daddy do in the few pictures they have of him: a little crooked, full-breadth. It’s distinct enough to Mary and him, who’ve pored over those remnants so long that it’s secondary.
In comparison, there’s less of Marilyn to document around. But despite rarely stepping foot out of state aside from immediate world crises, the lady Marvel isn’t a no-name. She’s dogeared every local grassroots movement around town and helps out regularly at the community center with the Vasquez kids. Whiz Radio covers her in their own Marvel corner, and Billy makes sure he’s the one behind the camera when it lifts.
Freddy—because he’s Freddy—catches on eventually. For once, they’re lunching on campus, a day of obligation when it comes to the trio’s “How many times can we skip till we’re flunked?” calculations. Squashed between a dozen other middle schoolers mulling over their peas and carrots, Freddy goes, “What you’re doing with the pictures—sure that’s healthy?”
“You would put it that way,” Mary says, sounding defensive already, “like it’s simply a horrible thing to do.”
“Don’t forget you’re not the only orphan here. And you can do what you like to remember your family, but you don’t think this’ll just hurt Billy in the long run?”
As they bicker in the very veiled, grown-up parental charade that they do, Billy pulls out the morning paper and lays it gently between their lunch trays. It’s not front page stuff, just a page three feature about charity work. This was from a few days ago, after collecting the donations Mary built up at her annual Watchtower bake sale, and it’s got a picture of the Marvels and a few Leaguers gum-grinning behind a grand big check.
“It’s nothing bad, Freddy,” Billy consoles his best friend, whose constant worry for them could be weighed in truckloads. “I know it’s not real. Pretending doesn’t make it real.”
“Then why?”
He ponders over this, trying to put it to words. “It’s like they live through us now,” he starts. “When we save or rescue or be a hero, they are, too. They always wanted to do some good in the world. This is how we can help them do it even when they’re gone.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Freddy flicks a pea at him. Above Mary’s reprimand, he elaborates, sounding years beyond his age, “You don’t have to be them to keep them with you. Look at me. Look at me when I’m… caped. I look like I’ve lost anything, when I’m not him? Well, I haven’t. Not a thing.”
Mary grips Billy’s hand tightly over the surface of the table. Freddy always knows what to say to placate her and Billy alike. It’s why Darla and the boys follow him like easy-to-please ducklings, and certainly why Billy and Mary are who they are still. The rush of affection for his family that overcomes him is old and familiar. He thinks he’d like a photo of them together in uniform next time they’re out, where his parents might join them. And next time he won’t need to smile like C.C. Batson, or even Captain Marvel. Billy’s enough. Everyone that he loves lets him know that much.