The Truth About Martians

by Melissa Savage

  We watch as he pulls himself out of the driver’s seat and stumbles off the running board and onto the ground. Momma nods to him through the open window, but he doesn’t say hey or anything. He doesn’t even remove his stained fedora from his head.

  “Momma?” I say.

  “Quiet now,” she warns, her eyes stuck on Mr. Butte’s back as he makes his way up to the front porch. He misses the bottom step and lands on one knee, quickly grabbing at the rail to hoist himself straight again. When he reaches the top, Daddy gives him a nod and Mr. Butte hurls words at Daddy in a way that doesn’t look neighborly at all. Even though I can’t hear them.

  Dibs comes out of the house in his Sunday shirt. The same wrinkled button-down shirt as always, which is ten sizes too big and probably tucked down to his knees underneath his overalls, with a grease-spotted blue tie cinched at his neck to keep the whole mess in place. On Sundays, instead of wearing his backward Yankees cap, he pulls a crooked part down the center of his head and slicks each side back with way too big a dab of Brylcreem, much bigger than he needs to tame his buzz cut. Dibs stands still behind Daddy, watching the men hurl their words.

  “Momma?” I say again.

  “Yes?”

  “Why can’t we help him?”

  She sighs. “We do what we can.”

  “Can’t we do more?”

  Momma stops, letting out a long sigh, and for a moment Baby Kay wins her battle for freedom. “I’ve offered many times, Mylo.” She sighs again. “I just don’t know what else to do. So…we do what we can.”

  I watch Daddy take ahold of Dibs’s hand, and together they come down off the porch as Mr. Butte throws more angry words against Daddy’s back. And this time, since he’s shouting so loud, I hear some of them. I’m not going to say what those words are, but they’re definitely not the kind of words that neighbors are supposed to use. If Momma caught me or Obie using those words, she would have made us put a whole nickel in the penny swear jar.

  “Come along, Dibs,” Daddy says, low and firm, keeping a strong hold on Dibs’s trembling fist.

  Daddy opens the driver’s-side door on our old Ford while me and Momma scooch over to make room.

  Dibs smiles big at us while he climbs up into the truck. “Morning, Mrs. Affinito,” he says, showing her his big beaver teeth.

  Just like he does every Sunday when we pick him up for church. Except this isn’t Sunday and today there’s a dark purplish mark just above his left eye.

  My insides ache when I see it.

  He punches me in the arm. “Big-Bellied Betty had a litter of ten piglets early this morning,” he gushes. “I named every single one after Yankee players. There’s Yogi…” He starts counting on his fingers. “DiMaggio, Bobo Newsom, that’s the runt of the litter, and—”

  “She didn’t have any girls?”

  “Yeah, but I named them after Yankee players, too,” he tells me. “I figure they don’t know any different.”

  “So you did that all by yourself?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Well, Big-Bellied Betty did most of the work. Hey, Mrs. Affinito.” He leans over me. “Is that your fried chicken I’m smelling?”

  Momma pulls a brown paper bag with grease spots on it from her purse and passes it to me, and I pass it to Dibs.

  “Thank you, ma’am!” Dibs says, pulling open the bag.

  “Not at all,” Momma says.

  And when I look up and see the way she’s looking at Dibs, I just know her insides are aching, too.

  Daddy turns the key and puts the truck in reverse while Mr. Butte stares after us through bloodshot eyes, simmering with his own mad on the stoop.

  I turn to watch him through the back window of the truck as Daddy bounces down the drive, with a whole bunch of mad filling my belly. I see him trip one more time on the porch steps, give up, and crumble.

  Broken.

  Alone.

  And even though my brain would never tell my bones to do it, they ache for him, too. I guess my bones have a mind of their own.

  * * *

  When we finally get to church I’m about to burst from having to wait all the way to Roswell to tell Dibs about the Moontian.

  I pull him over to a quiet corner of the lobby while Momma, Daddy, and Baby Kay greet neighbors and pretend there isn’t a visitor from the moons of Jupiter in the bedroom reading my collection of Superman comic books.

  “Come on,” I whisper to Dibs, pulling on his sleeve. “I have something I have to tell you.”

  “Hey, what’s the big idea? You’re mussing me up,” Dibs complains, tightening the giant knot on his dirty tie. “I want to look my best for the Lord.”

  “You think God gives two hoots about what Dibson Tiberius Butte is wearing today?”

  “God sees everything.” He stands straight. “And you got to score points where you can.”

  “Points for what?”

  “Heaven, you dope,” he says. “What do you care, anyway? I thought you weren’t speaking to Him.”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “You don’t think I noticed your fake Father, Son, and Holy Ghost crossings for the past year? There ain’t nothing about you that I don’t know, Mylo Affinito. Not one single, solitary thing.”

  “You want to make a bet?” I wrap my fingers around his skinny arm and pull him farther into the corner.

  “Where are we going?” he demands.

  “I have something big to tell you,” I whisper. “So big you aren’t going to believe it in one million years. Not a billion years. That’s how big it is.”

  His eyes open wide. “You got a doozy?”

  “This is so much bigger than a doozy,” I say. “I don’t even know what to call it.” I stretch my neck to make sure no one is listening and then put my hands on his shoulders.

  “A double double doozy?” He wide-eyes me.

  “Bigger,” I tell him.

  “Bigger than a double double?”

  “She followed me,” I say.

  He blinks.

  And then blinks again.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?” I say.

  “Good morning, boys.” Mrs. Delgado waves another lace hanky at us as she makes her way toward the ladies’ room door.

  “Oh, ah, good morning, Mrs. Delgado,” I say. “Is Gracie here?”

  Mrs. Delgado dabs at the sweat on her neck with the hanky. “She’s already inside,” she says, pushing the ladies’ room door open. “Which is where you boys should be.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. “We’re on our way.”

  Dibs and I wait until the door swings closed again.

  “Wait a minute,” Dibs says. “Is this a Gracie Delgado doozy? Because I don’t want to hear no more about how you want to kiss her on her lips.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to kiss her anywhere.”

  “You did too say it,” he insists. “And it was disgusting then, so if that’s what you’re trying to tell me, you can keep that doozy to yourself. I don’t need to hear any more of that mushy business.”

  “Will you shush up already so I can tell you?” I say. “She followed me all the way to the cemetery.”

  “Who?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “The Martian,” I mouth.

  He stands there blinking at me.

  “Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head.

  I nod. “Sure did.”

  He blinks at me some more. “No fooling?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “She’s a she, not a he, and she’s reading comic books in my room, if you can believe that one,” I tell him. “I assigned Clark Kent to stand guard.”

  Dibs stares at me for at least ten Mississippis this time. But I gave him even m
ore than a double double to consider, so I figure he can have his ten Mississippis to wrap his brain around it all. I suppose I needed way more than ten when I first laid eyes on a real live Martian peeking out behind Mrs. Vandebrink.

  “He can’t be a girl,” Dibs says.

  “Well, she is,” I say. “And she’s not from Mars, either.”

  “Hold it.” He stretches out both palms in my direction. “There is nothing in the Planet Comics series about any girl Martians. And I’ve never heard of any spacemen from anywhere but Mars. How do I know they didn’t suck your brain right out your ears for Martian mind control?” He eyes me suspiciously.

  “Dibs,” I tell him, putting my hands on his shoulders again. “They aren’t like that at all. They come in peace. They’re here to help us.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he says, still eyeing me good.

  “After church I’m going back out to Mr. Lord’s place,” I tell him. “I think there’s something he might be able to help us with. Are you with me?”

  “I mean, there isn’t anything about any girl Martians in Superman or Aquaman or nothing.”

  “What about Wonder Woman?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, but she’s not a Martian,” he says. “She’s made out of clay and comes from Greek God mythology. Her powers aren’t extraterrestrial. Totally different.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. She’s a girl and that’s all there is to it. And there’s more, too.”

  “Don’t tell me you let her sleep in Obie’s bed,” he warns me. “After all those nights with your noxious feet in my face and that lump under your mattress.”

  “She doesn’t need it. They don’t sleep,” I say. “Not like we do, anyway. Not in a bed with a pillow and covers. She gets energy in the shadow of the moon. That’s how she recharges herself, kind of like how we do when we go to bed. Get it?”

  He blinks at me again.

  “Like the moon is the Shell station and she’s a Ford pickup?”

  “Not exactly,” I tell him.

  Mrs. Meadows, the church secretary, begins playing the organ near the altar to let us know God is ready for us.

  “I’ll tell you more later,” I say. “So are you still in? Do you really want to be my Jimmy Olsen? Because I really need you to be.”

  Mrs. Manuela begins to sing “How Great Thou Art” from the nave of the church and I know Momma well enough to know her neck is stretched as far as it will reach as she’s looking for us and wondering why we don’t have our rears in the pew where they should be.

  Dibs is still thinking about my question.

  “Well?” I finally ask. “What do you say?”

  He puffs up his chest, puts his hands on his hips, and gives me his very best superhero sidekick pose. “Your trusty assistant is ready for duty, Superhero Affinito!” he says, with a crisp salute to his forehead. “And together we will save the whole wide world from certain Martian annihilation!”

  “I told you they come in peace, didn’t I?”

  He sighs and drops his shoulders. “Yeah. But that doesn’t sound as good.”

  * * *

  Turns out that it’s not the end of the world.

  Even though we already knew that.

  But Father Kevin had to do some dancing at the pulpit to convince some of the townspeople that they didn’t need to hide in their cellars, and to reassure the rest of the town that everything was just fine and there was no threat from a Martian invasion.

  After the church meeting, the adults stand in small groups sipping warm lemonade from a pitcher that’s been sitting in the sun and gossiping about what they’ve heard around town. Young children run on the grassy yard playing tag, swing on the swings, or hang upside down from the monkey bars.

  Dibs and I line up at the homemade baked goods table. I grab one sugar cookie and two lemon squares, while Dibs slips a sugar cookie into each pocket of his overalls and then piles four lemon squares on a paper napkin. Mrs. Meadows glares at Dibs over her gold cat-eyed glasses but doesn’t say a single word.

  Diego and Spuds find us sitting under the big elm tree eating our cookies and squares.

  “We have something to tell you all. Where’s Gracie?” I ask them.

  “You going to eat all those?” Diego grabs the top bar from Dibs’s napkin.

  “Hey,” Dibs protests with his mouth full. “Get your own.”

  “I did.” Diego smiles. “Then I ate ’em. Cookie Warden, Mrs. Meadows over there, won’t let me have any more.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t your lemon bar getter,” Dibs informs him.

  “I told you she won’t let me, didn’t I? Pass me over another one.”

  “No.” Dibs rounds his shoulders and folds his arms over his stash.

  When I see Gracie coming toward us in a pale blue dress with a small lace collar, I feel the tops of my ears catch fire.

  “Holy buckets, Affinito.” Diego laughs at me, almost choking on his lemon bar. “That’s quite a shade of red you’re sporting there. You could lead a sleigh with those ears.”

  Spuds laughs so hard that bits of lemon square fly out of his mouth.

  “Like a beacon,” he chimes in. “Look, now it’s spreading up his neck, too.”

  “Are you going to listen up or what?” I ask.

  “Venetian Red in the box of Crayolas.” Diego slugs Spuds on the shoulder.

  They laugh their stupid heads off again.

  “Like the color of the blood when my daddy cuts the heads off the chickens.” Spuds slaps his knee.

  “Good one,” Diego says, and then they elbow each other in the sides. “Hey, ketchup. Red as ketchup!”

  They bust another gut.

  “Are you guys going to listen up or not?” Dibs hisses. “Mylo has something to tell you all about last night.”

  Diego pops the last of Dibs’s lemon square into his mouth, and it leaves powdered sugar on the tips of his upper-lip hair.

  “I thought we all made a promise we weren’t going to say anything about what we saw out there,” Diego says. “And not one day later, here you are running your mouth. Can’t you ever keep that thing shut?”

  “Yeah,” Spuds agrees, checking over his shoulder. “Shut up about it! I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “I know that’s what we said,” I say. “But something’s happened.”

  “Yeah, something’s happened,” Dibs repeats.

  “What?” Gracie asks, kneeling down next to me.

  “You’re playing with fire, Affinito,” Diego warns me. “I heard this is all top secret stuff and the Army Air Force was out there for hours making sure nothing was left at that crash site. You need to leave them to it.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, we can’t,” Dibs says.

  “Anyone who’s still in, meet me at our barn tomorrow night after supper. I have something very important to show you.”

  Diego scoffs at me.

  “Even more important than a double double doozy,” Dibs adds.

  “We already took a vote and all decided we’re done.” Diego stands up.

  “Yeah, well, that was before,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Dibs repeats. “That was before.”

  “Before what?” Diego demands.

  “Red as Dorothy’s ruby slippers!” Spuds hollers out with his finger in the air.

  Diego laughs, and they poke their stupid elbows at each other again.

  “Before one of them followed me home last night,” I blurt out.

  They all stare at me with eyes like saucers and mouths wide open.

  “Who did?” Spuds asks.

  “One of them,” I say.

  “Th-the…gray people?” Gracie whispers.

  Diego snorts.

  “You’re such a liar, Affinito,�
�� he says to me, and turns to Gracie. “He’s lying. There’s no way. I don’t believe a word he’s saying. We saw them drag that body out of there. We saw them. That thing was dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” I tell them. “But there’s another one and I’m going to help get them home. But we have to hurry because they’re shipping the one at the base hospital out to Wright Field by Friday. Anyone who wants to help them, meet me tomorrow night after supper in our barn and you can see for your own selves.”

  “Yeah, you can see for your own selves,” Dibs echoes.

  “You’re lying.” Diego waves his hand at me.

  That’s when Dibs jumps into the center of our circle with a flourish, waving his arms and ending in his superhero assistant pose, his fingers clasped to his hips and his chin high in the air.

  “Laugh, all of you,” he tells them in his Superman radio announcer voice with his gigantic tie and wrinkled shirt tucked to his knees. “But a time will come, my friends, when you will wish you heeded the words of Mylo Eugene Affinito! Superhero extraordinaire!”

  July 8, 1947—6:45 p.m.

  “That is one big head,” Dibs says, staring down at the Moontian sitting on my bed.

  I nod. “Sure is,” I say.

  “I mean, gigantic,” he says.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “That’s got to be the biggest noggin I’ve ever seen in all my life. Like a watermelon before they ball the innards into a fruit salad. No wonder their brains are so big—they’ve got all that space to fill.”

  “She’s real smart, for sure,” I say.

  “Like As in arithmetic smart?” he wonders aloud.

  I look at him. “A-pluses.”

  After church, I took Dibs up to my room to see her. Gracie couldn’t wait until our after-supper call to arms in the barn with the others, so she rode Betsy Bobbin to our ranch to meet her, too. The Moontian had already made it all the way through Superman issue number one, “Champion of the Oppressed,” to issue number 110, “Mother Goose Crimes,” while we were at our special Tuesday meeting at church.

  “I can’t believe it,” Gracie says, sitting down on my bed next to the Moontian. “And she’s really a girl?”