Martians (from the Munich Tales)

MARTIANS
By Michael Kroetch

He could not go on pretending. He was not able to anymore. He had run out of places in his head to hide. She was gone. Three weeks gone. And she wasn´t coming back. He looked at their bedroom door, then straightened the abstract crayon drawing that hung there on a thumtack. In the frontroom he could hear humming from the young artist who had made the drawing, most likely hard at work on another masterpiece. Lately his daughter had grown obsessed with Martian creatures and drew them almost non-stop. He had no idea where a three year-old girl would come in contact with the concept of Martians. She didn´t watch TV. He wouldn´t let her. He tried to discipline her. He tried being strong. He tried to keep her safe, hugging her close and kissing the top of head, not letting her see his tears. He had to admit he was rather happy about the Martian invasion. Since they had come and taken over the household, her questions about her mother had diminished. He had tried to tell her that mommy was lost, but he didn´t think she believed him. She´d said mommies can´t get lost. She said she could get lost and Martians can too, but not mommies. He had asked why mommies couldn´t get lostand she looked at him as if it was the dumbest thing he´d ever said. Then she´d responded simply “Because it´s their job.” Until that moment he had not even known she had the word ´job´ in her vocabulary. It seemed every day she was changing on him, growing smarter and faster and more adult. He was sure within a few months he would be the one asking her questions and advice. She was already so sensible and practical. He wondered what she would say if he told her the truth, that her mother had run away. Saying her mother was lost was close to the truth, but it took the willfulness away. Maybe it would be just as truthful to say the Martians came and took her mother away. The note had said nothing of a new lover, but he guessed there had to be one. Younger than him, more exciting. Probably a musician. She´d always had a weak spot for them. Martian, musician… He didn´t see it made that much difference. She wasn´t coming back. He knew he was partly to blame. The toilet seat thing. Him not fixing the toaster like he promised. Too much beer and not enough kissing. The list went on. And on. He put his finger up against the thumb tack that held the Martian in place on the door. He wished he could have had some kind of thumbtack to have kept her here. He thought their daughter would have been enough even if he were not. But apparently she´d known herself well enough to know that even with all his faults he was still the better parent. It´s what she´d written in the note. Something like that anyway. He didn´t have the note anymore. First he´d torn it up, then burned the scraps in an ashtray and flushed the ashes down the toilet. His actions seemed extreme to him now, going that far to get rid of her stinging goodbye, but he loved her. He still did and no nice words on some scented piece of stationery was going to make that pain go away. Maybe the Martians had a special ray gun that could. He would have to ask his daughter. She would know.