The Further Adventures of Batman (12 page)

“Did it help? Did all the dedication, all the criminals you apprehended, ever make up for the guilt you felt when your parents died?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Can you answer this? How well do you remember that night? What you saw, how you acted, how you felt?”

Batman hesitated.

“Not much. Only the darkness. The sudden appearance of the holdup man, demanding my mother’s necklace. My father’s resistance. The gun going off . . . twice. That’s all I can recall.”

“Never mind,” Dr. Lace said softly. “All the details are still in your mind, deep within your subconscious. I’ll extract them all, through hypnosis. Then we’ll see if they have any relevance to this new guilt you’re suffering, the one that caused you to weep in public . . .”

“New guilt?” She didn’t reply, but Batman easily read her thoughts. “You mean Robin, of course.”

“Yes,” Dr. Letitia Lace said. “Robin. What did the press call him?”

“The Boy Wonder,” Batman said.

“Yes. The Boy who died fighting for others . . . unlike the boy who lived, while others died . . .”

Well, it was apparent from Batman’s account of this dialogue that he was dealing with a formidable personality, fortunately in a beneficent cause. I must confess that, for the first time since I became Batman’s confidante, I realized that he was subject to the same human weaknesses that separate the rest of us from the gods. I should have accepted this sign of his humanity, yet I couldn’t escape a sense of disappointment.

I can give an even more detailed report of what occurred at Batman’s next session with his psychiatrist, simply because every word was transcribed.

It was Batman’s first hypnotherapy. He was concerned about the procedure, of course, worried about what he might reveal about himself (meaning Bruce Wayne) under hypnotic influence. Dr. Lace assured him that hypnotic subjects will not behave in any manner antithetical to their convictions, nor reveal secrets they consider sacred. Batman wisely required her to provide more assurance than that. He asked that she record the entire session on audio tape.

In the following transcript, I have edited out those statements employed to initiate the trance state.

DR. LACE: I want you to go back to the night of your parents death. I know the journey will be painful for you, that you would rather not make it, but you won’t be able to help yourself. You will be the boy you were then, and you will be walking home with your parents. Are you on that dark, dark street now? Tell me what you see.

BATMAN: We’re talking. We’ve just seen a movie, and we’re talking about it. I liked the movie. They aren’t so sure. My mother thought it was too violent . . . Wait! There’s someone.

DR. LACE: Someone where?

BATMAN: Under the lamppost. He’s pretending to be tying a shoelace. I can tell he’s waiting for us.

DR. LACE: You’re only a boy. How do you know?

BATMAN: I’m not sure. I always seem able to . . . know things about people. What they’re thinking, what they’re about to do. Their eyes tell me things. This man’s eyes . . . he’s frightened. He’s terribly afraid. And that makes me afraid—

DR. LACE: Why?

BATMAN: Frightened people are dangerous . . . Gosh, Dad, that man has a gun!

It was at this point that Batman’s voice altered on the tape. One could swear it was the voice of a boy not yet in his teens. It was uncanny, and a bit unnerving.

DR. LACE: Go on. What happened then?

BATMAN: He said—it was a stickup! It didn’t seem real. It was almost like the movie we had just seen . . . He said he’d take the necklace my mother was wearing. He grabbed her, and my father cried out for him to leave her alone . . . That was when he fired the gun . . . My father fell . . . and when my mother shouted for the police, the holdup man shot her too . . . I ran to my parents, but I knew that there was nothing I could do, that they were both dead, that they had died instantly . . .

DR. LACE: And the holdup man? Where was he?

BATMAN: He ran away. A patrolman heard the shouts . . . he blew his whistle and came running . . . The rest of that night . . . is just a blank.

DR. LACE: Then we must dig even deeper, Batman. You must travel back even farther into your subconscious . . .

The tape ran silently for the next five minutes while, I assume, Dr. Lace attempted to deepen the hypnotic state, but when she resumed her questioning, Batman was still unable to recall more than he had already related about that fateful night.

Even as Batman struggled to regain his emotional stability, the world outside Dr. Lace’s office seemed to go stark staring mad!

It was the
Gotham City Post
that orchestrated the madness. Its editor, Samuel Leaze, had thirsted for Batman’s blood ever since that irresponsible tabloid had tried to increase their circulation with scandalous rumors about Batman. First, there was a story implying that Batman had deliberately allowed the Catwoman to escape the clutches of the law because of a romantic involvement. Then they had printed gossip trash about Batman and Catwoman. But the final straw was the reprehensible item in a gossip column implying an illicit relationship between Batman and Robin. Batman had been outraged, of course, but he was in no position to sue, as Leaze well knew. It was actually some members of the Batman Fan Club who took revenge. When the newspaper launched a hot-air balloon as part of a promotional stunt, they amended the written message on the balloon to read: THE GOTHAM CITY POST—NOTHING BUT HOT AIR. The editor, in an attempt to eradicate the offensive words, accidentally set himself adrift in the balloon and had the humiliating experience of being rescued by—Batman himself. The episode only made Samuel Leaze despise Batman all the more.

From the day of Batman’s breakdown, not a single issue of the
Gotham City Post
appeared without a front page headline about Batman’s “hopeless” condition. With no regard for the truth, the
Post
quoted “informed sources” and “hospital spokesmen” and “intimate associates” who reported that Batman was on the brink of total insanity. Distressed as I was to read these stories, I still had faith that the public would discredit these shameless falsehoods. To some extent, my faith was justified—until the “Batty Batmans” appeared.

I’m sorry to repeat that dreadful vulgar phase, but it became common currency in Gotham City, and not just by the
Post.
All the local media, the national press, the television newscasters employed the phrase. Soon, broadcasters all over the country were dispatching ENG crews to our fair city in the hopes of capturing an exploit of “Batty Batman” for the consumption of their audience. It was surely the darkest period of Batman’s life, to say nothing of my own.

The first appearance took place at the opening of a new shopping center in downtown Gotham City, an event hardly significant to the advancement of mankind, but one that attracted several thousand people, lured by the promise of free handouts and free entertainment. Indeed, they assumed that the caped figure that swooped into their midst on what appeared to be genuine Batwire was part of the entertainment program. I was stunned to see the front-page photograph of that moment, and to read the accompanying headline.

BATMAN BECOMES FATMAN!

Indeed, the headline was justified. The caped figure swinging at the end of the wire was definitely on the stout side. Batman’s usually skin-tight body suit bulged with excess poundage, including a pot belly worthy of another legendary figure, St. Nicholas. And yet, there was no attempt to conceal the fact that the bulges and belly were false; that they were the result of cotton wool and feather pillows, that it was all someone’s idea of a jolly mad masquerade—and that “someone” seemed to be Batman himself!

It was an imposter, of course; I felt absolutely certain of it as I hastily brought the morning paper to the door of Mr. Wayne’s bedroom and knocked gingerly. It had to be a prank perpetrated by the promoters of the new shopping center, or perhaps even the
Gotham City Post.
But a terrible shock awaited me. When Mr. Wayne failed to respond to my knock, I let myself into his room and saw his sleeping figure in the bed. The first thing I saw, draped over a chair, was his Batman costume, flagrantly displayed. But what startled me was the sight of wads of cotton wool lying on the rug, along with pillows that had obviously been used as padding. Badly shaken, I left the newspaper and closed the bedroom door behind me.

I said nothing to Mr. Wayne about what I had seen, and he made no comment to me, not even after perusing the morning newspaper. Indeed, he had been virtually incommunicado since starting his therapy with Dr. Lace, almost as if reticence had been prescribed as part of his treatment.

Then, just two days later, another “Batty Batman” appeared.

You may be familiar with the Gotham City Park monument that has been the children’s favorite for more than fifty years. In life-size stone carvings, it depicts many of the beloved characters from
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
. During clement weather, it is always garlanded by climbing, laughing, happy youngsters.

The weather wasn’t clement on the Sunday that marked the one hundredth and twenty-fifth anniversary of the Lewis Carroll classic. Despite the persistent drizzle, a small ceremony was held at the base of the Alice monument. There was an unexpected celebrity in attendance. Just as the Mayor and a dozen other political luminaries gathered to pay tribute to the author and his creation—and to provide the press with a photo opportunity—Batman appeared triumphantly on the top of the monument, standing on the stone shoulders of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Only it wasn’t the Batman they all knew and loved. Because this caped crusader wore an enormous top hat that carried a price tag in its ribbon, clearly the hat worn by the Mad Hatter of Tea Party fame. Flinging back his cape, he spread out his arms to the crowd and cried out:

“Happy anniversary from . . .
Hatman
!”

He laughed wildly, the shrill, humorless laughter of the deranged, and as swiftly as he had appeared, disappeared again. With Batman’s customary alacrity, he was out of sight before the photographers present could capture anything more than a blurred image of his departure.

The next morning, I stared at that image on the front page of the Post and shuddered. My “imposter” theory was weakening. Despite the lack of photographic detail, I recognized the hat. It had been a trophy of one of Batman’s most famous exploits, his capture of Jervis Tetch, the “Mad Hatter” who had terrorized Gotham City before Batman ended his career. The hat had been locked away in Batman’s private museum, but when I descended to his subterranean lair, there it was, lying carelessly beside the computer bank, still damp with rain . . .

In all my years of service, I had never ventured either advice or criticism to Batman, but I was sorely tempted now. It was obvious that he had gone from depression to dementia, and I had to discuss the matter with someone, no matter how obliquely.

Commissioner Gordon was the only logical person with which to share my concern. I decided to use the same ruse that gained me entry into Pine-Whatney Clinic, my master’s concern for Batman’s welfare. However, it was hopeless; the Commissioner was far too busy to take my call, and it was understandable. The criminals of Gotham City, showing their disdain for “Batty Batman,” were intensifying their assault on public property. Commissioner Gordon was undoubtedly frantic, especially since the press was exhorting Mayor Paul Donovan to demand his resignation. Indeed, that action seemed inevitable.

Then another thought occurred to me. Perhaps it might be useful if I spoke privately with Batman’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lace. Her fees were being paid through Mr. Wayne’s bank, and that might provide enough excuse for a conversation.

Rather than risk another rejection by telephone, I made a personal visit to Dr. Lace, making sure that my timing didn’t coincide with Batman’s own scheduled daily visit. But there was still a surprise awaiting me. As I arrived, I saw someone else leaving Dr. Lace’s quiet brownstone, a man whose face was immediately recognizable. It was Mayor Donovan himself.

I was still pondering this odd coincidence when I rang the doorbell. Dr. Lace’s nurse-receptionist, a cold-eyed matron with the inappropriate name Mrs. Bonny, looked at me suspiciously. However, when she communicated my message to Dr. Lace, the psychiatrist amiably agreed to see me.

Her first question was why Batman’s benefactor, Mr. Wayne, hadn’t made this call himself. Wasn’t it odd to send a butler in his place?

“Mr. Wayne is indisposed,” I explained. “He contracted a virus of some sort.” I didn’t blink at the lie; there was actually some symbolic truth in it.

“Well, I hope your Mr. Wayne realizes that there is very little I can reveal about this case. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

“He understands that you have to respect your patient’s confidentiality,” I said. “But he’s very concerned about this new development, these bizarre public appearances . . . You are aware of your patient’s . . . eccentric behavior?”

“I’m aware of it,” the psychiatrist said coolly. “But why do you assume all ‘eccentric’ behavior is abnormal? Hasn’t it occurred to you—that Batman may be merely expressing a long-supressed sense of humor?”