Spiderman 1 Read Free Page A

sea of white, and without another word he turned and bolted up the nearby steps.
    Looking a lot older than he had a few minutes earlier, Ben turned to May and sighed dryly, "Well, that went well."

    Peter sat on the floor in the middle of the room, his knees drawn up to just under his chin. He could have been a statue; he was that immobile. The room itself wasn't terrible, but it didn't feel especially warm. In Peter's room—his real room—all the furniture kind of looked like it went together. Here it seemed as if some random stuff had been stuck to gether in one place. At least none of it was covered in plas tic.
    Uncle Ben had brought up the last of his suitcases some time ago. Peter hadn't spoken to him. The truth was, he was embarrassed about his outburst and was quite certain that Uncle Ben was angry with him. So he had felt it wisest not

    to say anything and hope that, eventually, Uncle Ben would forget that he had shouted in such an inappropriate manner. That's what his mother would have said. "In-ap-pro-pri-ate, young man," with her finger waggling one quick downward stroke on every syllable.
    Uncle Ben didn't try to strike up a conversation with him; he didn't seem to know what to say. For his part, Peter was busy focusing all his attention on the spider that was up in the corner of his room. It was quite big, hanging in the mid dle of an intricately designed web that stretched from the edge of the ceiling down to the upper portion of the wall. He had never seen anything so morbidly curious. On the one hand, it was incredibly ugly; on the other, it possessed such an elegant beauty that he couldn't look away. So Uncle Ben would come and go from the room, grunting slightly and wondering out loud why Peter was packing anvils in his suit cases—which puzzled Peter, who couldn't remember bringing any—while Peter sat there and watched the spider. The sun moved across the sky, the shadows lengthened, Uncle Ben stopped coming in and out, and Peter and the spider stared at each other until time ceased to have any meaning.
    The smell of fresh-baked cookies wafted upstairs, seep ing in through the doorway and wrapping the tempting fin gers of their aroma around him. For a moment he was sorely tempted to abandon his vigil, which had boiled down to waiting for the spider to move. He resisted, however, although he did shift his posture so that he was sitting cross- legged.
    Finally he heard footsteps again. He recognized them as belonging to Uncle Ben, but he didn't bother to turn around. Then he heard his uncle chuckling softly, and that distracted him. He swiveled his head and regarded his uncle, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms folded. He was holding a small, wirebound book tucked under his right arm. "What's funny?" asked Peter.

    "You just remind me so much of Ricky, that's all," said Uncle Ben. "Same serious face. I'll show you pictures of him at your age, if you want."
    "Who's Ricky?"
    "Ricky. Richard. Your dad."
    Peter blinked in confusion. "How come you know my dad?"
    Uncle Ben's jaw dropped. "How come I . . . ? Peter!" he said in astonishment. And then he sat down on the floor with Peter, just like his mom and dad used to. "Peter, your dad ... he was my little brother! Didn't you understand that?"
    Peter shook his head. "I thought you were my uncle."
    "I am! An uncle or an aunt is what you call someone who is a brother or sister of a parent . . . in this case, your father."
    Peter frowned, digesting that bit of information. "So ... so Aunt May is my dad's sister?"
    Ben made that odd sound that was a combination of laughter and a cough. "Peter, Aunt May is my wife!"
    "You married your sister?" Peter was by now hopelessly confused.
    "No, Peter." Rubbing the bridge of his nose between beefy fingers, Ben said, "We call her your aunt because she's married to me, which is the other way someone can be an aunt or uncle. By marriage. Understand?"
    "I guess so," said Peter, who thought he