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The letters come in drips and drabs to Terri Rothstein's house.
She opens them, reads them, and puts them in a box. She doesn't quite know what to think.
Life didn't ... no, to say that life didn't prepare her for a situation like this, well, it's a way of hiding, isn't it? It's a cop-out. What she means to say is that she never thought she'd find herself in a situation quite like this, and that it's awkward, because there's really not anybody to talk to about it, or ask for advice. There are few clear paths in life, and in her case, it's even muddier.
She keeps her mouth shut, except to say "No comment" when asked about Al.
Al murdered a criminal to save her life.
Murder is wrong. Murder is a sin.
Terri's glad to be alive. She's glad down to her bones to be alive. She wishes there were a way to save the others on the plane, like that nice young lady who sat next to her and made the flight so pleasant with her conversation. The kind of woman she'd like to see Al settle down and marry.
Only, she doesn't think that's going to happen. Not anymore. Or, at least not the way she thought it would.
Not just because Al's in prison and probably will do a stint with the Suicide Squad soon.
Most of the letters are written by hand, in imperfect English; some of the mangled phrases have made her chortle. Some of the letters are clearly the kind written in one language and then translated, laboriously with a dictionary, word by word into English. It takes some time to parse those because the words are in such strange order.
The letters all say the same thing. Your son saved my life/saved my child(ren)/has done some wondrous thing and no matter what the rest of the world says, Al Rothstein is a hero and a good man.
Many times there are pictures. Some posed. Al, kneeling next to some person or a family, smilingly a little awkwardly, a little shyly, while they stand proudly often in what is clearly their best clothes next to him.
Terri's favorite photo is a candid taken at a school, showing a bunch of children climbing all over an elephant sized Al, on his hands and knees, and everybody's got a genuine smile on their face. She can almost hear their shrieks of delight and Al's rumbling laugh.
The letter that makes her cry was written by a young journalism major who protested against the old regime, rescued by Al after several months of being raped and beaten by an officer in the Kahndaq secret police. It contains a photo of a tiny infant, born five months after the liberation, named Albert Adam.
The hardest to read letter comes in an expensive cream colored envelope. It sits on Terri's kitchen table for three days before she can bring herself to open it. It came somewhat later than she thought it would. She wonders if it was the hardest letter to write.
It contains a somewhat blurry snapshot of a titanic sized Al grappling with The Spectre. On the back, carefully printed, are the words "No greater love".
The letter itself is written in a neat, firm, hand on the same cream colored 100% cotton fiber stock as the envelope. The language is elegant and formal.
It informs her that a park and youth sports facility in honor of Al is being built in a working class neighborhood of Shiruta, that it would contain decorative mosaics based on the drawings that children, most notably a girl named Sadora Zawari (killed by The Spectre) had given to Al, and that the government and people of Kahndaq respectfully request her presence at the ribbon cutting ceremony when the park opens a year from now.
It goes on to assure her that in addition to whatever precautions DEO and the JSA are taking for her security, that the government of Kahndaq is also working to make sure that terrorists make no move against her.
It closes with I hope the mother of my brother is not suffering too much during the long midnight of his unjust imprisonment. Should you want for anything in my power to provide, simply call the phone number or write the address at the top of this page, and I shall make all necessary arrangements.
Terri sighs, folds the letter, and puts her head in her hands. She can feel a tension headache start to squeeze and throb at the base of her skull.
She closes her eyes, and runs her fingers idly over the surface of the letter as she thinks about babies born in the "indian summer" of life, of the extraordinary world she lives at the fringes of, of the growth spurt that turned Al from an already tall 6'5" into a towering 7'6". She remembers hoping he'd choose a career in basketball despite all those weekends spent hanging out at the JSA headquarters. She remembers the day his powers awoke.
She wonders if she should call DEO and forward this letter on to them.
She thinks about the size of her social security and pension checks and sighs when considering the fact that she really needs a new furnace come winter.
She tries to recall what Odysseus did when caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Because that's how she feels right now.
They say two wrongs don't make a right. But what do you do when two rights combine to make a wrong?
She stands, puts the letter and the photo in the box with the others, sets the kettle on to boil, and heads for the medicine cabinet. It's going to be a long day, and for all of Black Adam's offers of help, she doesn't quite see him ironing her blouses, thinning the tomato seedlings, or tending to the pansies and marigolds in the planter by the door.