“You think she knew we were fibbing?” Dibs asks.
“You see that look she gave me?”
“Oh, yeah.” Dibs nods.
“Momma has a way of knowing things.”
“Like Superman’s X-ray eyesight.”
“Exactly like that.”
July 7, 1947—7:15 a.m.
Grown-ups say stupid things when someone you love dies.
I’m pretty sure they don’t say them purposely to be rude, but what they say is still stupid.
Kids say what they mean. No candy coating.
Grown-ups candy-coat and cover up and sometimes even flat-out lie just so they don’t have to say what they mean.
The top three dumbest things grown-ups say to you when someone dies:
He’s in a better place.
Time heals all wounds.
I understand.
And there are even more I could add to that list if I wanted to.
Kids say it how it is. And even though sometimes it’s hard to hear…it’s better than what the grown-ups come up with because you know that kids really and truly mean it.
No candy coating.
The morning of Obie’s funeral, Spuds’s little brother, Bobby, came up to me and said, “Sorry your brother is dead.”
And he really did mean it.
Gracie Delgado said, “Wish I could have known him better.”
And she meant that, too. I could tell she did.
Even Diego Ramos, who doesn’t have much nice to say about anything, said, “He was the best catcher I knew.”
And he was.
The morning before our second Martian mission is set to begin, Dibs and I ride out to the cemetery to visit Obie first.
“You know what I was thinking about?” I ask Dibs on our way.
“What?”
“Something Joe DiMaggio said on the radio.”
“What?” he asks.
“He said, I want to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee.”
“He said that?”
“Yep.”
He nods. “Sounds good,” he says.
“What’s so good about it?” I want to know.
He shrugs. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You think God’s up there deciding what prayer He’s going to grant and what one He’s not? And then He picks the baseball prayer over all the others when people are suffering all over the world?”
“I don’t know about all that, but I sure bet He likes baseball,” Dibs says.
“Joe DiMaggio?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “God.”
“God?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I bet you God likes it. You know, on His day off. I bet you He likes to watch over a Yankees game now and again…especially when they play the Dodgers. That’s a good game. I wonder if He can order a hot dog with all the fixin’s up in Heaven if He wants it. He’s God and all—if He wants a hot dog with all the fixin’s, He could make one, I suppose…I mean, He parted the Red Sea and created the world in seven days, He could probably make one with just a snap of His fingers. It’s got to be a lot easier than the whole wide world. Might take a little longer if He wanted it with chili and cheese, though.”
I put one hand on my hip. “What are you talking about?” I ask him.
“Ah…hot dogs?”
“We weren’t talking about hot dogs,” I inform him.
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh, right, baseball,” he says.
“Not that, either,” I tell him.
“Weren’t you the one that brought up Joe DiMaggio? Wasn’t that you?”
“Yeah, but we were talking about God.”
“We were?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long while.
“And baseball?” he asks.
I sigh. “Never mind.”
We continue to trot in the direction of the cemetery, me and Pitch out front and Dibs on True Belle lagging just behind.
After a long while Dibs is still on those stupid chili cheese dogs. “How hard do you think we would have to pray to have Him send us down a couple of those chili cheese dogs right now?” he asks. “My stomach sure could use one.”
“We just had breakfast,” I remind him.
“I can’t help it. My stomach has a mind of its own.”
* * *
“Good morning, boys,” calls Mr. Haskell, the Corona Cemetery caretaker, who is busy hoeing the weeds sprouting out around Mr. Knudson.
HUBERT ALLEN KNUDSON
1801–1859
“Good morning, Mr. Haskell,” I call back.
“Early-morning visit today, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods and goes back to his weeding.
“You think they’ll bury the Martians out here?” Dibs asks.
“Shhh,” I hiss, looking over my shoulder to see if Mr. Haskell is listening. But he’s too busy concentrating on his chores, his old crinkled fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden handle of the hoe that he’s dragging through the dirt.
“You think they’ll give them a proper burial?” Dibs wonders aloud, climbing down off True Belle.
“Why wouldn’t they?” I tie Pitch’s reins to the iron gate in the shade of a yucca tree.
“You think Father Kevin would do the eulogy?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t remember Father Kevin saying anything about Martians in the Bible, do you?”
“No, but I think he only does funerals for Catholics. I don’t suppose the Martians are Catholic,” Dibs says.
“Why should it matter?” I say, hopping over Mrs. Hemmingson. “Father Kevin has a heart to love all people no matter what. Just like God wants us to.”
“I have a heart like that, too,” Dibs tells me, watching me hop over another plot. “With one exception…Diego meaner-than-a-snake Ramos.”
“I thought his middle name was Paul,” I say.
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Hey, don’t step on Mrs. Hemmingson,” I tell him.
He stops in his tracks. “Mrs. Hemmingson?” he says. “She don’t care. She’s dead.”
“So? That means she likes getting one of your dirty-foot-in-the-face alarm clocks? And stop saying that word. I don’t want to hear it again. Not one more time.”
He stares down at the large stone marking Mrs. Hemmingson’s place in our world. A reminder she was here and important to someone.
HERE LIES INGA OLENA HEMMINGSON
SEPTEMBER 30, 1834–JANUARY 12, 1904
WIFE AND MOTHER
“Fine.” He takes a big step to the right, and then follows me as we hop over the others.
HERE LIES MAGNUS MCDOUGAL
JULY 11, 1808–JANUARY 3, 1901
A RANCHER AND HUSBAND, FATHER AND GRANDFATHER
YOU WILL BE MISSED.
Sidestepping past:
JUAN SANTIAGO
FEBRUARY 2, 1902–APRIL 12, 1944
DEDICATED RANCHER, LOVING HUSBAND, AND BROTHER
GONE TOO SOON.
Bypassing:
HERE LIES BRITA OLSEN
MARCH 29, 1850–DECEMBER 22, 1910
FRED’S WIFE AND THORA’S MOTHER
SIMPLY TREASURED.
REST IN PEACE.
Until we reach you. Next to Grammy and Pappy Hildago.
Dibs and I stand and stare down at your new home. I crouch in front of the speckled headstone and stare at the script letters scrawled across it, while Dibs cleans the dried leaves off it.
OBIE BROOKS AFFINITO
SEPTEMBER 6, 1934–MAY 27, 1946
BELOVED SON, BROTHER, FRIEND<
br />
WE WILL NEVER FORGET.
If it were up to me, I would have added:
NO ONE BRAVER.
“You missed a real good game on Wednesday,” I tell you, letting my fingers trace the curly letters. “The Yankees took the Washington Senators eight to one.”
Silence.
“Joe DiMaggio got on base twice,” Dibs kicks in.
Nothing.
I lay my body flat on the ground, my bare back against the dirt and rocks, just the way you were lying in the coffin when they lowered you into the earth. I cross my arms over my chest and shut my eyes tight, holding my breath, wondering what it’s like to be dead.
When my lungs ache and my eyeballs feel like they’re going to burst, I gulp in air and cough. And I stare up at the world above me. The sun is already blazing hot up in the sky, shining through the fluffy white clouds swaying softly in the breeze above me. They are worlds away but look so close that I can almost touch them. So close that if I just lie here and search hard enough I might just spot you so I can pull you back down here where you belong.
“What are you doing?” Dibs asks, looking down at me.
“What do you think it feels like to be dead?” I ask him.
He sits down on the ground next to me, picking up tiny stones and tossing each one into the field past the fence.
“I think it feels cloudy…but the white fluffy kind, not the dark, angry monsoon kind. And not the lightning or thunder kind, either. More like peaceful and airy. Just like today’s clouds are.”
“Yeah?”
“Annnnd…” He searches the ground, looking for another stone. “I bet they have every comic book ever written up there.”
I laugh. “You wish,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” He laughs, too. “I do.”
“Do you think people are really happy there?” I ask.
He shrugs. “That’s what the Bible says.”
“I don’t see how Obie could be happy anywhere without us,” I tell him. “It doesn’t seem right. Not one bit of it does.”
Dibs slides over and lies down next to me. And we stay that way, quiet, staring at the swirling cotton-ball clouds above us.
“That one looks like his catcher’s mitt.” Dibs points. “See it?”
“Yeah, I see it,” I say.
Dibs sits up, holding his head in his hand, his elbow on the ground as he stares up at your stone. “We’re going out to Mac Brazel’s field,” he tells you. “There’s a flying saucer sitting out there, if you can believe that. Wish you were here now, going out there with us.”
I pull myself up, too, and face Dibs.
“Hey,” Dibs says. “You think they’ve got Martians up in Heaven? Maybe he already knows about ’em.”
“Maybe,” I say, reaching a hand out and touching the cool stone.
“Guess we’ll see you later, then,” I say, hoisting myself to my knees and wrapping my arms around the stone.
It feels cold in my arms and empty, too, like you’re not here, either. Like you’re lost somewhere out there and I can’t find you.
“You know what?” Dibs asks me.
I let my arms drop. “What?” I ask, pulling myself up next to him.
“When it’s my time to die…” His voice shakes on the last word. “The very first person I hope to see when I get to Heaven is Obie.”
I turn to face him. There are giant drops hanging on the very tips of his bottom lashes, and I watch them fall on his cheeks in two straight lines down to his chin.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me about my brother since he’s been gone,” I tell him.
“Nah,” Dibs says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
“I didn’t mean it to be nice,” he says. “I meant it to be true.”
“I know,” I tell him. “That’s the best part about it.”
July 7, 1947—10:07 a.m.
“It’s on the planet Mongo where Ming the Merciless has perfected the Death Dust that he has spread by rocket ship to humans on Earth. And if you get it on you, then you die instantly with a purple spot on your head.” Dibs is going on to me on our way to meet the others out front of Richards’s farm. “That’s the Purple Spot of Death. Remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, but it doesn’t make it real,” I say. “It’s a movie. Someone made it up.”
“We are on our way out to see a Martian ship that crashed on Earth,” he says. “Anything could be true now. Anything at all.”
“Come on,” I holler over to him, kicking my heels into Pitch’s fat belly. “I can see them all up there waiting for us.”
The plan was to meet at the debris field at ten o’clock. The others are already there, their horses in a line, sweating in the sun—Diego’s Lupe, Spuds’s Bazooka, and Gracie’s Betsy Bobbin.
All three of them are leaned up over a piece of debris while Gracie jots something down on a bright red tablet. Except Diego seems more interested in trying to impress Gracie with his hairy lip than in exploring the Martian pieces.
“My dad says it’s getting so thick that I’m going to have to start shaving soon,” Diego is telling Spuds, but he’s looking down at Gracie while he combs the fuzz.
Spuds squints. “They’re so fine a razor couldn’t cut ’em,” he says.
“Are you blind?” Diego glares at him.
Spuds squints again. “The thing is, you have some hairs here.” He points. “And some over in this spot, but there’s nothing in the middle. You look more like a rabid dog with a bad case of mange,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
Diego punches him. “Get out of here!”
“Oh! Oh! Here’s one you’ll appreciate,” Spuds says then. “Why is the moon bald?”
Diego ignores him.
And Gracie doesn’t seem to give two hoots about lip hair or shaving or why the moon is bald because she’s too busy examining the pieces and writing in her tablet.
“Diego.” Spuds tries again. “Come on, guess, why is the moon bald?”
“I don’t care,” Diego says, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Hey, Mylo, Dibs,” Spuds calls to us. “Why is the moon bald?”
“You get lost?” Diego asks us. “Thought you and Dibsey here must’ve chickened out.”
“We were the ones out here first.” Dibs puffs up his chest. “If anything, you’re the one with chicken parts in you, not us.”
“Isn’t anyone going to guess why the moon is bald?” Spuds asks again.
“H-h-hi, Gracie.” I give her a quick wave.
“About how far does the debris field go?” Gracie calls out to me, getting right down to business. She’s shielding her eyes from the sun with her pencil still in her hand.
“More than a mile in every direction,” Dibs calls out dramatically, waving his hands slowly over the desert floor.
She scribbles in her tablet.
“He has no ’air!” Spuds tells us. “Get it? No ’air. It’s supposed to be hair.” He laughs his stupid head off.
“Those same hieroglyphics on each piece?” Gracie asks.
“Except the thin pieces that look like the foil around candy bars,” Dibs tells her.
She nods and scribbles more.
“What are you writing there?” Dibs asks, slipping down off True Belle.
She shrugs without looking up. “Just taking some notes,” she says.
“Well, maybe write in your little book there that I was the first one to find these pieces.” He points to her tablet.
She ignores him.
“H-hey there,” I say, this time without the wave. “Glad you could, I mean, you know, it’s good you can make it and all…so, ah, yeah.”
She’s still writing.
I can’t help but wonder if there’s any
thing in her tablet about me.
“She’s not looking,” Dibs mouths in my direction.
I give him a glare.
“Let’s get going,” Spuds says. “I didn’t come out here to see pieces, I came out to see Martians. Come on.”
“Wait,” I say, slipping down off Pitch. “I just want to double-check that everyone is sure they want to go out there…knowing what we might see.”
While we all circle around Gracie, she slips her tablet into a cloth purse lying diagonally across her.
“You mean dead Martians?” Diego smirks. “We all know there are dead Martians out there, Affinito. You think we’re hard of smelling?”
“That’s what that is?” Spuds asks. “Dead Martians?”
Dibs gives me a look, and then stamps a bare foot on the ground and points a stern finger in the direction of Diego and Spuds. “Mylo doesn’t want to hear that word,” he informs them. “Not one more time. You got it?”
I feel the hotness creeping up my neck and settling in my cheeks.
“Well, is everyone still in or what?” Diego takes a poll. “Anyone too chicken to go?…Anyone?…Butts?”
“Shut up, Diego!” Dibs shouts. “And stop calling me that!”
“All right, then,” Diego says, reaching up for his saddle horn and slipping his boot into the stirrup.
“Wait,” Dibs says. “Before we get on our way, we’ve got to take care of some official Martian business.” He reaches up to True Belle, unzips a leather pouch attached to the saddle, and pulls out neatly folded blue and red bandannas. “It’s for the smell, and also it catches the snot pretty good. You fold it in a triangle, like this.” He shows them. “Then tie the ends around the back of your head.”
The others just stare at him.
“It’s only going to get worse,” he says. “Believe me. This is nothing.”
I grab my square first, and Gracie and then Spuds follow me. Diego just folds his arms across his chest. We make our triangles, cover our noses and mouths, and tie the corners together behind our heads.
“And,” Dibs says, pulling the squares of aluminum foil from his bib pocket, “these are to prevent Martian mind control in all its forms. Probes, phasers, or the harvesting of brains out your ears. Martians will steal your brains as soon as look at you. You take the foil square like this”—he holds it over his head—“and mold it around your head, like so.”
The Truth About Martians Page 8