The Truth About Martians

by Melissa Savage

After a stop behind Corona General to add Spuds, Gracie, and Diego to the back with us, Mr. Lord puts his boot on the clutch and pulls the gearshift into first and then second and the truck lurches back out onto U.S. Route 285 toward Roswell.

  The wind is loud in the back of the pickup so we all stay quiet, busy with our own thoughts as we bump and bumble along the road toward the base. Diego is probably thinking about his lip hairs. Spuds is probably trying to think up another joke for later. Dibs is probably thinking about Martian mind control and phasers. And Gracie is probably thinking about…actually, I’m not real sure what she’s thinking about. I’ve never seen that expression on her face before as she stares up at the stars, loose hair swinging around her cheeks. Whatever it is, it’s probably more profound than the rest of the bunch.

  As for me?

  I’m thinking about you.

  With my head leaning back on my arms, I stare out at your sky. The stars sparkle and light up a million different journeys to a million different places.

  But tonight it’s different.

  Tonight, I feel you closer.

  You’re here.

  And now I know it.

  I feel it, just like you promised. I also know you’re here because you wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  Dibs gives me a poke. “Hey, Mylo,” he says, jutting a chin toward the sky.

  “The mighty Krypton explodes into millions of glowing fragments. Glittering stars that will remain forever in the heavenly sky,” he tells me in his radio announcer voice.

  That makes me smile all the way down to my noxious toes because I know that Dibs feels Obie here with us just as much as me.

  July 11, 1947—12:45 a.m.

  When we finally make it to Roswell, Mr. Lord stops the truck out in front of the post office and he and Daddy stretch a long tarp over us.

  “Once we get past the gate and to the infirmary building, we’ll guide you to a safe place on the base,” Daddy says. “Everyone still doing okay?”

  We all nod and Moon Shadow gives an A-OK sign.

  “I taught him that.” Dibs smiles big, pointing a thumb to his chest. “Me, I taught him that.”

  “Hey, Mr. Affinito,” Spuds says. “Where would a Martian park his spaceship?”

  “Anyone who wants to stay in the truck once we get there is welcome to do so,” Daddy tells us, tugging at the end of the tarp.

  “At a parking meteor! Get it? A parking meteor? It’s supposed to be meter but I said meteor.” Spuds slaps his knee and nearly busts a gut.

  “Meteor and it’s supposed to be meter,” Moon Shadow says, then slaps her knee and makes the same sound Spuds did when he laughed.

  Then we all laugh, and so does Daddy.

  “What did the Moontian say to the Earthling?” Moon Shadow says.

  I turn to face her.

  “What?” Gracie asks, her lips slowly stretching over her teeth into a wide smile.

  “Where can I get a bowl of Chocolate Swirl? Get it? It’s supposed to be Peppermint Bonbon.”

  Spuds looks at Diego and Dibs and Gracie, all with furrowed brows, while me and Moon Shadow yuk it up.

  “You had to be there,” I tell the rest of them. “Believe me…it’s funny.”

  “It’s funny because the Chocolate Swirl was on sale but everyone knows Peppermint Bonbon is better,” Moon Shadow explains. “Get it?”

  * * *

  The truck lurches and then jerks to a stop at the Roswell base. The 509th Bomb Group entrance.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” the guard asks Mr. Lord.

  “Yes,” Mr. Lord says. “I’m Major General Mordecai Lord. I’m contracted with the Army Air Force to analyze the communication devices of the flying disk and head the engineering group to learn how this thing works. This is Lieutenant Colonel Affinito, who is contracted to arrange the shipping of the parts out to Wright Field later today.”

  We hear papers shuffling on a clipboard.

  “I—I’m sorry, General Lord,” the guard stutters. “I—I don’t see any orders listed here, and I haven’t been briefed on any contractors.”

  More shuffling.

  “I apologize, but I’m going to have to call General Delgado at home for confirmation of these orders before I can let you on base, sir.”

  “Oh, sure,” Mr. Lord says. “I’m certain there won’t be any disciplinary action ordered after you wake up the general because of someone’s incompetence. Please,” he says. “Be my guest. We can wait.” Mr. Lord stomps on the clutch and pushes the gearshift into neutral and throws on the brake.

  Shuffling and then a crash as the guard drops the clipboard on the ground. “W-well, it’s just that I don’t have anything written on my, ah, on my list here,” he says.

  “Right, you go on ahead, then,” Mr. Lord says. “I’m sure this mistake won’t stand in the way of any promotions you were hoping for.”

  “I—I’m sorry, sir,” the guard says. “I’m sure your orders are correct. I apologize for questioning you.”

  The gate swings open.

  “Good man,” Mr. Lord tells the guard, shifting the truck back into gear. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  And even though I can’t see him do it, I just know he gives the guard a nod like he really means it.

  * * *

  When Mr. Lord stops the truck again, I pull back the tarp and we all climb out for a final huddle to go over the plan once more.

  “You all wait here, and when Mordecai and I are ready, we will come out for Moon Shadow,” Daddy directs us.

  “But, Daddy,” I say, “I want to help.”

  “Me too, Mr. Affinito,” Dibs says.

  Daddy shakes his head. “This is too dangerous. I don’t want any of you kids in there. It’s been a difficult enough decision even to allow you to come along. You wait here with Moon Shadow.”

  “But, Daddy—” I start.

  “Mylo, your mother would skin me six ways to Sunday if she knew I let you in there,” he says. “Stay right here so that when we find J. Moon we will know where to find you.”

  We watch Mr. Lord and Daddy slink around the back of the infirmary and through a back door, using a key from Mr. Lord’s pocket.

  “This is so unfair,” Dibs complains. “It was our plan to begin with. They’re totally stealing our thunder. Gracie, you must be able to do something to get us in there.”

  Gracie smiles. “I might have an idea,” she says. “Follow me.”

  July 11, 1947—1:45 a.m.

  Gracie leads us to a spot outside the cinder-block building Daddy and Mr. Lord just went into, under an open window.

  “What’s this?” I ask her.

  “Daddy’s office,” she says. “He always forgets to close his window before he leaves for the day. I figured there was a pretty good chance he did it again.”

  I give Gracie ten fingers to hoist her up.

  “Wait,” Dibs says. “We need a warning signal…you know, in case someone is coming.”

  I nod.

  “How about a whistle?” Diego offers.

  “I think it should be a word,” Gracie says.

  “Cracker Jacks?” Dibs says.

  “Shortstop,” I say.

  Dibs smiles. “Yeah, Shortstop.”

  Gracie nods and takes a poll. “That okay with everyone? If someone’s coming, we call out Shortstop, right?”

  We all nod.

  “Everyone ready?” I ask.

  “Holy cheese and jalapeños!” Dibs hisses, pointing up in the sky.

  Above us, hanging low in the sky, is a gigantic flying craft hovering without a single sound, only this one is almost the size of an entire football field and in the shape of the letter V. The thing is spit-shine black, but also clear at the same time, and we can see the stars through it as it floats
above us. Along the bottom of the spaceship are two long lines of deep amber-colored light. Smaller disk-shaped beams shoot off from the large craft in every direction, like tiny ships taking off from a floating runway.

  “It’s the mother ship!” Dibs whispers. “It’s just like I dreamed it.”

  Moon Shadow puts her hand on my arm. She points with her other hand.

  “They’re here for us,” she tells me.

  “Yes.” I take her hand. “You and J. Moon are going home tonight. We’re rescuing him. Your ending will be the way it should be. I promise you that.”

  Gracie grabs Moon Shadow’s other hand, and then we’re all standing with our fingers intertwined.

  “Moon Shadow,” Diego says. “It’s been neat to know you, and I hope you come back to visit again soon.”

  “Me too,” Spuds tells her. “Except you have to work on your jokes.”

  “Thank you for showing me that girls can be whatever they want to be,” Gracie says, sniffing back her tears. “Even here on Earth. I will really miss you.”

  “Moon Shadow,” Dibs says. “Thank you for not using your phasers on me and for showing me things I would have never learned about without you. Please come back and visit us again.”

  “You helped me find something inside me,” I tell Moon Shadow, feeling tears prickling behind my eyes, “that I didn’t even know was there. I will never forget you.”

  * * *

  One by one, we hoist each other up and through the window of General Delgado’s office. It’s mostly dark in there, with one small lamp left on at the corner of his desk. Gracie starts to open desk drawers.

  “What are you looking for?” I whisper.

  “Papers,” she tells me. “Anything that looks official like.”

  I nod and pull a drawer open on the other side of the desk while Dibs pulls one open below me.

  “Look!” Dibs holds a paper out for her to see. “Some need-to-knows are in here!”

  She takes it from his hand. As she reads, we lean over her shoulders.

  OFFICE MEMORANDUM

  UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT

  Analyzing flying disk.

  Concern to national security.

  Witness questioned and silenced.

  One thing is clear enough. On the top of each page is a big black stamp.

  TOP SECRET

  Gracie puts her ear to the door and listens to the hallway outside. “Sounds quiet,” she says. “Come on.”

  She turns the silver door handle and pushes the door open a crack, slipping out into the hall. We all follow her. Me, then Moon Shadow, Dibs, Diego, and Spuds.

  The cinder-block walls are the color of coffee with too much cream in it. The way Mrs. Manuela likes her coffee when she and the other Roswell Women’s Club ladies come for coffee and pinochle.

  Momma likes hers black with two scoops of sugar.

  “Left just up here,” Gracie whispers over her shoulder.

  Voices.

  The clicking of a doorknob.

  Boots shuffling.

  “Abort mission!” Gracie hisses, spinning around.

  In a panic, we bounce and bumble into each other like bumper cars at a carnival.

  “That’s my foot!” Spuds exclaims.

  “Cracker Jacks,” Dibs whispers frantically. “I mean Sh-shortstop! Shortstop!”

  We scramble back to General Delgado’s office. I hold the door as Gracie, Moon Shadow, Spuds, and Diego slip inside, and just as I’m about to close the door, large hands grab me by my overall straps, lifting me clear off the floor.

  “How did you get in here?” a very large man demands while my toes hover over the gleaming hall tiles.

  He’s wearing a tan Army Air Force uniform shirt with his tie tucked in just under the third button.

  He slams the general’s office door.

  “What are you doing in this office? How did you get in here? Who are you?”

  More noisy boots shuffle and squeak against the sparkling tiled floor. Screeching and pounding as tan-suited officers grab and push me down the hallway.

  When I turn the corner, I find myself face to face with my nemesis, Lex Luthor himself.

  So we meet again, the superhero part of me wants to sneer at him.

  He stares down at me with that same ugly scowl on his face.

  The real ugly one.

  “How did you get in here?” he demands.

  I don’t say anything.

  “Answer me, boy!” he explodes.

  I don’t blink.

  He shakes his head. “Put him in the holding cell,” he tells the men. “A few nights there and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

  July 11, 1947—3:02 a.m.

  There’s one cot with a dark wool blanket pulled over the mattress, a single silver toilet with a sink attached to the wall, and not one single bar of Ivory soap anywhere to be found.

  Momma’s gonna be as mad as a wet hen when she hears that one.

  I lie flat against the mattress on my back, my head on my arms, staring at the ceiling. There are peg holes up there, twenty-two per ceiling tile.

  A sharp voice interrupts me while I’m counting how many tiles per row.

  Angry voices.

  I sit up and hold my ear to the wall next to the bed.

  “The president is furious!” someone yells, slamming something on a table with a loud bang. “I had to come all the way out here from Washington to clean up your mess. First someone gives a press statement letting the world know we have the disk without proper authority. Now we have to mop up and make everyone think we made a big mistake? We look like fools! Like we aren’t in charge of our own skies. The American public counts on us to be in control. To provide safety. You could have caused a mass panic!”

  “I disagree,” a deep voice says.

  I know that voice.

  It’s Mordecai Lord.

  “People are smart,” he says. “They are caring. They are loving. And this Martian civilization wants to do us no harm. We already know this from the other visitations. From the other crash survivors. We can build a relationship with these people of benefit to everyone. They’re communicating with this boy. I believe you should have the president form a government group to work on relations with this population. And it’s only fair for the public to be informed that we are not alone in our universe and that we are not in any danger. The Martians come here in peace.”

  Silence.

  “Where are the bodies?” Mordecai Lord asks.

  “We’ve autopsied the bodies, and they will be preserved and sent to Wright Field in Ohio today.”

  “And the lone survivor?”

  “He—he’s ill.”

  Silence.

  “My best bet…he won’t make it until morning.”

  I hear a key turn in the holding cell door and it flies open.

  It’s Gracie.

  I bound off the bed and race toward her.

  “Mylo, I—”

  “We’re running out of time!” I say, grabbing both her arms. “Where’s Moon Shadow? We have to get her to J. Moon right now!”

  May 27, 1946—2:13 p.m.

  Obie’s eyes didn’t want to stay open on that horrible day.

  His breathing was wet and soggy with weak coughs that couldn’t muster the energy to hack away at whatever was keeping him from breathing right.

  I didn’t leave his side.

  And neither did Shortstop.

  Not for the endless parade of casseroles and baked goods brought by neighbors or others who came by with positive prayers and a friendly howdy. I didn’t even go to the bathroom. I held it all day.

  I just read.

  Starting with Volume One of the Affinito Brothers’ Superhero Duo series, I kept readin
g without once stopping, even though sometimes I knew he wasn’t awake to hear it. I kept reading anyhow.

  Momma was in with a new cool washcloth for his head every few minutes. Dr. Shaw was there and Father Kevin, too, in and out of the room, checking on him. But I didn’t want to look at them. Their faces were long and I knew what that meant.

  But I just kept reading.

  I prayed, too.

  I prayed over and over.

  I begged and pleaded with God to make him better.

  Everyone said God would make him better as long as I prayed on it. So I did that. I prayed night and day on it, just in case God might have missed one of the messages.

  On that horrible day, Obie woke up just after two o’clock, his eyes parting only a crack.

  “Obie,” I said. “Obie, are you okay? I’m reading our comic books. Did you hear it?”

  He nodded, the edges of his mouth curling.

  “I haven’t finished my latest one yet,” I told him. “But I will, and it will be a good one, too. The way endings are supposed to be.”

  “Promise you’ll finish it?” he asked me, his voice rough.

  “Yes, I promise,” I told him. “And I promise you that you’ll get better. I promise you on a spit shake.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You have to promise me something, too,” I told him. “You have to promise me you’ll always be here for me.” I wiped at the tears finding their way out of the corners of my eyes. “Because I need my big brother here with me…I need you.”

  “Promise,” he whispered.

  He had been too weak to lift his hand, so I spit in the middle of my palm for both of us and touched it against his.

  There’s nothing more binding than a spit shake, but I don’t think either one of us really believed that what we were saying was true.

  I watched his eyes close again.

  I didn’t know that it would be the very last time.

  * * *

  Momma, Daddy, and me sat next to his bed for a long while as Father Kevin prayed over us.