The Martian

Mrs Flanagan had been here twice this week. The fact poked him somewhere between his ribs, and he peered through the shelves at her, willing her to fall dead that very instant. 

She didn’t, of course. Mrs Flanagan was probably immortal. Or dead. Either way, as she loomed over the stack of new arrivals, it didn’t seem like she would have dealings with the reaper anytime soon. He resigned himself to hating her face instead of her imaginary gravestone.

She had already been here twice this week, and now she was here a third time, and there was was no way he was getting his hands on The Martian’s new issue because she would take it, like she took the others, like she took everything- with the wretched hobbling of her stooped back and a few callous swishes of her purse.

His father was sometimes surprised at how much hatred one could carry in such a small body, but adults often underestimate how good children are at being vicious- how pure and encompassing their loathing can be.

Not that he was a child. He was almost a man, the grown up kind. The kind that ignored itchy feelings between their ribs and didn’t need to be babied. 

Still, he rubbed absentmindedly at the prickling in his eyes. It was only dust, that’s all. If she had waited just one more day, he’d have scraped together enough to buy the book, for once in his life. He’d have owned it. A real issue of The Martian. It would have been his. His to roam his grubby hands over, and his to fold, and his to throw, and tear, and ruin, and cherish- 

it would have been his, but it wasn’t. 

And that didn’t matter. 

The back of his knuckles felt slightly wet, and he shot Mrs Flanagan one last glare from his spot behind the shelves.

It didn’t matter at all.

___

He nodded solemnly at Brooks as he was leaving. He’d seen his father do that sometimes, and it made him look quite fantastic and serious. Like a man. He would have liked to be a man sometimes, so that he could go to a bank and get enough money to buy all issues of The Martian ever printed, and Mrs Flanagan wouldn’t be able take them away.

Not that Brooks would appreciate his manliness. Brooks rarely paid attention to anything, even though it was his store. Brooks’s eyes were always red, and his jaw was always busy making loud chewing noises. He was sure if his father ever met Brooks, he’d forbid him from coming to the store ever again.

(Actually, his father had already forbidden him from coming to the store on three separate occasions, but he wasn’t around enough to enforce his restrictions, and that was another one of those things that didn’t matter.)

A peanut hit the back of his ear, and he spun around in startled indignation.

“Oi, lil’ shit, you can’t keep glaring at my customers.”

Brooks, that fat oaf. How dare he. And of course, that was another one of his annoying qualities. Brooks would be quite glad if everyone could just leave Mrs Flanagan alone, thank-you-very-much. Not that the old witch deserved peace.

“Why do you care anyway, she keeps calling you ‘The Black One’. I tried that once and you threw me out !” 

Something flashed in Brook’s red rimmed stare, before the vacant expression returned. 

“I’ll tell ya’ kid, the day you manage to buy something from me, you can call me whatever the fuck you want.” 

He tried his best to sneer at Brooks, but the man just blinked at him. Brooks was like that. He saw Brooks every day, and he always moved with this practised ease. Like a large stillness in the middle of a storm. The only part of his face that moved was his eyeballs, and when you called to him, he had a deliberate lethargy to his response. Some days, he was sure Brooks was a feral animal pretending to sell comic books, but most days Brooks was just a coward who would sell his soul for cash.

“She’s evil !” He shouted, finally, after Brooks remained unaffected by his manly sneer. He regretted it immediately, since his voice came out all high and squeaky, and now Brooks bloodshot eyes were laughing at him.

“Kid, that old coot might be certifiably insane, but she gives me more business than the rest of you runts combined. And anyway” -he said, popping a few more peanuts into his mouth- “hasn’t your mama taught you it’s bad to stare at people ?”

“My mom’s dead.” he said.

“Well whoop-de-fucking-doo, but don’t trouble my customer”

Something like fury alighted in his chest,and he told himself that holes between your ribs were things only babies cared about. But the feeling stayed. Like fury, but sadder.

“She doesn’t even read them! She just takes them away because she’s rich and evil. And I- I would have bought it. I swear. I’ve been saving up all month!” and then, in the silence that followed, he felt the insecurity of revealing too much, too much, and his father told him real men never lost control like that. 

He heard the silence like fifty trampling elephants dancing on his heart, and looked at Brooks’s stupid, blank face face, feeling his father’s disapproval like physical stings on his palms. Brooks was useless, really. He only tolerated Mrs Flanagan because she brought a pretty lady to help her to the store, one that Brooks liked to make eyes at whenever possible.

A peanut hit him square in the forehead, but Brooks was looking at the old store sign with an uncharacteristic alertness. All American Comics. 

“She’s been coming here since before I got the place. Back when ol’ Joe who moved to Atlanta had it. She buys them for her kid- the comics. Fucker got himself blown up years ago, in the war, but she keeps buying them for when he’ll come back, I guess.”

Brooks didn’t say anything else, and went back to making horrible chewing sounds. He waited for Brooks to tease him about his height, or tell him to go straight home- but there was a strange silence that entered the hole between his ribs and settled right on top of his lungs.

It didn’t matter that Brooks didn’t say bye, stupid. 

Things like that don’t matter.

___

He had gotten lost, but that was only because the evil old bat had cursed him. It’s not like he was thinking about upsetting Brooks and he’d missed a turn. Real men never missed turns and ended up in unfamiliar places.

(They ended up in unfamiliar places on purpose- after leaving their home and their wives and coming to the land where dreams are realised)

He stepped resolutely on the pebbled grey sidewalk, trying to convince himself that he was The Martian- strong and brave and never, ever scared.

If he was resolute enough, the ghosts would not bother him, and the monsters would go back inside their closets, and maybe the Grim Reaper would answer his prayers and finally find Mrs Flanagan.

“Hello there, are you a bit lost ?” 

He whipped his head around to look at the pretty lady who Brooks made eyes at, and wondered, for the first time, whether she too was a witch. Her eyes were large and pretty, and her skin was ebony black. There was a bright scarf wrapped around her head, and he imagined Mrs Flanagan using it to find her in a crowd. Her young face seemed the opposite of the old witch’s in every way, but now he realised they must be some sort of villainous duo- they were always together. 

“You want to come inside for a minute, sweetie ? I’ll see if we can call your mommy, okay ?”

He blinked at her in confusion, feet rooted on the sidewalk. He did not have a mommy, nor did he need one. The affront that he wanted to convey was distracted by her offer- and he glanced once again at her large eyes and the colourful scarf around her head, looking for things to mistrust. 

The house behind them was old, but hardly witchy. It was well kept, and the garden had yellow flowers in it. The door was open. Mrs Flanagan, his mind betrayed, was probably waiting for her son.

___

Somehow they were walking towards the house, and the lady was talking about tea time. Did he like cookies ? She hadn’t baked often, but Mrs Flanagan liked baking, and had taught her. She used to be a certified Nurse, actually, back in her own country; but Americans- she told him, with a tinkling laugh- were made up of entirely different stuff inside, and so her training was worthless.

“Mrs Flanagan needed a caretaker, and she was kind enough to employ me.” She said, ushering him inside.

For a witch’s lair, it was unimpressive. The centre table had flowers on it, and the cushions had lace. Every available surface was littered with stacks of comic books.

Mrs Flanagan was sitting in a plush chair, staring out of a window, as if she knew she had lost her mind and was waiting for it to poof into existence beside her yellow flowers. He thought vaguely about all the money that it would take to live in this part of town, the kind that had houses with yellow flowers and tall shelves filled with comic books. The new issue of The Martian was laying on the table in front of her.

“Do you like comics ?” The old witch said, without the slightest intention of actually wanting to know the answer. Adults only pretended to ask, they thought they already knew all the answers. 

Her eyes narrowed towards his face squinted her face, and then turned back to the window. 

“I’ve heard you oriental types just study all day, but I suppose even little chinese boys are just boys after all”

He was from Vietnam, he wanted to say- but she laughed and handed him the comic. He roamed his grubby hands over it, wondered what she would do if he took it and ran all the way back to familiar things. He thought about Brooks and kept his mouth shut.

“It’s for my son, you know. He’s about your age, terribly fond of these super people and such. He’s on a fishing trip with his father now, but he’ll be back any day !”

She turned to face him, and he took note of the deep crevices in her face, and the dull milkiness in her eyes. Her smile and too many teeth in it.

“Any day now, just you see. And he wants to join the Army- what nonsense. I’d never let him, no-I’d never- he’s so patriotic too, just like his grandfather- he was a military man, back in Ireland, I’ll tell you- but oh, how the days go by, how they do, don’t they ?”

She looked at him again, and he blushed at the attention, clutching the comic possessively. 

“It’s about The Martian”, he mumbled, for lack of anything else to say. She listened to him with rapt attention though- the way people listened to his father. As if he had something worthwhile to say. He took it as a sign to continue.

“He’s from another planet, see ? He looks a bit different, and he’s a different colour, but he’s earth’s hero, ‘cause he was so little when he came here he doesn't really remember being from mars. And he’s never afraid, and everyone loves him, because he’s strong and he can protect them.”

Mrs Flanagan nodded patiently, as if agreeing with his assessment. She told him about her husband, who’s also brave and loved- and he’s on a fishing trip now, with her son- but they’ll both be back any day, just you see- and would he like cookies ? There’s no juice here, but there is some coffee, and perhaps he’d like some ?

He looked at the warm mug in front of him, remembering the silky hair of a different woman. The feeling in his lungs was heavier, now. It hurt to breathe.

It was wrong. 

Everything was wrong here, in the land where dreams are realised. Mrs Flanagan should be alone and evil. Brooks should be cool and content. The pretty lady should be a real nurse. His father-And the coffee!

The coffee was wrong.

It should be cold, said some fleeting memory. 

Cold and sweet.

Mrs Flanagan looked at the comic book, and he pressed both his palms into the warmth of the cup. All American Comics. The Martian had saved the earth again. Someone had asked The Martian if he ever wanted to visit his home, and he had replied that he was already there. Without a single doubt, and utterly perfect. Like a superhero. 

“Do you think,” she said, quietly, “that he misses his mother ?”

It doesn’t matter, his heart thundered. It never does. 

From this distance, Mrs Flanagan’s skin looked pale- like she was already dead. Like the Reaper had found her, but she didn’t have anything left for him to take. Her bones seemed brittle and weary, her back bent with the weight of her hopes.

He tried to conjure up her looming shadow as it snatched up all of his dreams. Broken and infinite, like a river of glass. But the wisps of hair on her brows were just white, and her teeth weren’t sharp at all. Her cheeks were stretched into a smile that remembered being beautiful. 

From this distance, she didn’t look formidable- she just looked old. 

And it didn’t, it didn’t matter. The Martian didn’t miss his mother, did he ? He was brave and loved and capable of belonging to a world where people looked different than he did. It shouldn’t matter.

But the thing between his ribs and on top of his lungs surged forward to his throat, towards old Mrs Flanagan and her yellow flowers, towards the lady with the ebony skin and almond eyes, towards Brooks and his practised indifference. The feeling surged up, and he thought about his father’s apartment, cold and tired. He thought about his father’s hand on his shoulder, and his mama’s grave, and reminded himself that good men don’t lie.

Do you think he misses his mother ?

“Yes,” he said, smiling at Mrs Flanagan, resigning himself to the immortality of memory. 

“He probably misses her lots.”