The Saturday Boy

by David Fleming

  I must have dozed off waiting for Mom and Jahri to finish talking because the next thing I remembered was a knock on my bedroom door. There were cookie crumbs between the pages of the comic book that lay open on my chest. I took it to the wastebasket and shook the crumbs into it because I didn’t want to attract mice. Mom once told me that she and Dad had had another son before me but that he kept eating chips and stuff in the bedroom and never cleaned and that the crumbs attracted mice and then one night the mice carried him away and they never saw him again. And as crazy and impossible as that sounded, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  “Derek?” said Jahri’s voice in the hall. “You good?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah. Yes,” I said.

  Jahri came in and my room suddenly seemed a lot smaller. He didn’t sit right away. Instead he walked slowly around the room looking carefully at everything, ducking occasionally to avoid running into a model airplane. Putting the big envelope on my desk, he sat in my chair and studied me again for a moment before speaking.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like your daddy?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Naw, I mean just like him. I seen pictures and everything but… damn. How old are you now? Ten?”

  “Eleven,” I said. “My birthday’s in October.”

  “That’s right,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry for staring. It’s just I keep expecting his voice to come out your mouth. I ain’t going to lie, Derek, there’s not a whole lot of truly good people out there—and Lord knows I ain’t one of them—but your daddy definitely was. Something about being around him just made you feel good. Made you happy. A lo-ot of people going to miss him.”

  I didn’t say anything and for a minute Jahri didn’t either. Then he reached back and got the envelope and handed it to me. Whatever was inside shifted a little. Rustling.

  “He loved these but I think he would’ve wanted you to have them.”

  “What are they?”

  Jahri shrugged.

  “Open it,” he said. “They’re yours after all.”

  I fumbled with the envelope’s clasp with fingers that suddenly wouldn’t stop trembling. They’re yours after all? What did that mean? I couldn’t think of anything my dad might have had that belonged to me. Finally I got the clasp undone and I folded the flap back and shook the envelope out.

  Letters. My letters. Tumbling out onto the comforter. The different years bundled together with rubber bands. I recognized my mom’s handwriting on the outsides of the early ones before my own was readable to anyone but her, back when I wasn’t that good at writing and told her what to write instead. Back when I drew pictures. I sifted through the envelopes, seeing my penmanship get better with each one, watching myself grow up in the alphabet.

  When I looked up at Jahri he was blurry.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded. A knot was rising in my throat and any words I might have said would have been trapped behind it. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I’d start crying and never be able to stop.

  “This is yours, too,” said Jahri.

  I took the laminated strip of construction paper from him and unfolded it. It was creased and a little faded and at first I had no idea what I was looking at. Then I recognized my scribbling. It must have been from when I was in first grade or something—two stick figures drawn in peach-colored crayon with dandelion zigzags for hair and brick red smiles so big they went outside the lines. The taller figure was holding the smaller one’s hand and “ILOVYUDADDREK” was scrawled underneath, the letters all squished together because I hadn’t given myself enough space to write. I stared at the picture for a long time, trying to remember having drawn it but it was just too long ago and I couldn’t. Not even a little.

  “He told me that bookmark was the first present you ever gave him. It was for father’s day,” said Jahri. “He kept it in his boot.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s okay. Now you will.”

  “What if I don’t? What if I forget him?”

  “I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  I swallowed hard and spoke carefully. When the words came out they were shaky and quiet.

  “I’m afraid it already has.”

  “Naw.”

  “It has,” I said. “All day today. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t remember what he looked like or what he sounded like. Why can’t I remember?”

  “You going through a tough time now, Derek. A real tough time. Things are going to be different for a while. But they’ll be normal again.”

  “Everyone’s been saying that.”

  “That’s because it’s the truth,” said Jahri. “You’ll remember. Soon enough. You’ll see.”

  He hung out in my room with me and we shot the breeze for a little while. Jahri asked me how my Christmas was and how school was going and I asked him a few questions as well—where was he from? Charlottesville, Virginia. Did he have any kids? No. When I asked him if he’d ever shot anyone he told me that sometimes his job required it. He wouldn’t say any more about it and I didn’t ask. A little while after that he said he had to go so I walked downstairs with him where he said good-bye to my mom and out onto the porch where he and I shook hands again. I stayed there, leaning on the rail as he walked to his car.

  “Thanks,” I blurted suddenly. Jahri stopped and turned around. “Y’know, for bringing the letters back. And the bookmark. I really—I just—thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Derek. Your daddy would have done the same for me. For anybody really. He was something else, your daddy was, and I truly hate that he’s gone.”

  He paused then, studying me. After a moment he shook his head a little and smiled.

  “You worried you can’t remember him? Son, just look in the mirror. For real.”

  Then he saluted sharply, kinda folded himself down into the car, and drove away.

  20

  THE NEXT DAY WAS just a normal day in the week with nothing really to look forward to. It was too late to say “Merry Christmas” and too soon to start wishing people “Happy New Year.” Then Mom stuck a list on the fridge of the thank-you notes I had to write. That was it. The holiday was officially over.

  I sat at my desk with the list in front of me having already done everything I could think of to avoid actually writing them. I’d shoved some stuff around in my closet to make room for other stuff. I’d made my bed. I’d even put my dirty clothes in the hamper and the pile of clean clothes away in the dresser. At least I thought they were clean. There was actually a pretty good chance I’d gotten it backward.

  “Derek, how are those thank-you notes coming?” Mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Good!”

  “Are they finished?”

  I looked at the thank-you card on my desk. I hadn’t written any words yet. Instead I’d drawn a cool superhero called Future Boy who could time travel, which was funny considering that particular ability would really come in handy right about now.

  “Um… almost?”

  I heard Mom coming up the stairs. Then I heard her footsteps in the hallway. Then I heard her knock on my door.

  “Wait! Wait! Don’t come in yet,” I said, shifting Future Boy to the bottom of the blank thank-you card pile so Mom wouldn’t see him. “Close your eyes first!”

  “Why?”

  “I have a surprise!”

  “Are your thank-you notes done? Is that the surprise?”

  “You’ll see. Just close your eyes.”

  “Okay. They’re closed. I’m coming in now.”

  The door opened slowly and I saw Mom standing there with her eyes scrunched tight. She walked a few steps into the room and then stopped. If she went up on her tiptoes her head would touch my model of the Hawker Hurricane. I counted to three and Mom opened her eyes.

  “Hey! Who picked up your room?”

  “I did!”

&
nbsp; “So who’s been writing your thank-you notes?”

  “Mo-om!”

  “Sorry. It was good of you to clean up. And as a reward—here,” she said, handing me a bunch of envelopes and a sheet of stamps. “I wrote the addresses on them so you don’t have to. Could you just stamp them and run them out to the mailbox when you’re done?”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because I have to run a few errands before work.”

  “Couldn’t you just drop them off at the post office? That’s an errand, right?”

  “I could if they were finished,” she said, taking a step forward. I quickly scooted my chair between Mom and the blank cards on my desk. “Are they finished?”

  “Why don’t I just take them out when I’m done?”

  “Good thinking. Remember—the mailman gets here around one thirty so they’ll need to be in the mailbox before then, okay?”

  I looked at my clock. It was noon. I was going to have to work fast. Mom hugged me good-bye and I spun my chair around, grabbed my pencil, and, after finishing the hero I’d been drawing, started writing.

  My hand cramped after a little while but I kept going. The eraser was hard and didn’t really work but I didn’t let that stop me. I thanked people for this. I thanked them for that. My hand was a blur. Smoke rose from the tip of my pencil. If there was a superhero with special thank-you-note-writing powers, it would definitely be me. All I needed was a cape.

  I signed my name to the last card and put my pencil down. My hand throbbed. My back hurt from being bent over for so long and I was tired. But I was done. This is how Hercules must have felt after finishing all those tasks—I was sure of it.

  I slid the notes into the envelopes, licked them shut and put stamps on them. Luckily, they were the self-sticking kind. My tongue couldn’t take any more of the glue. I made a small stack of the envelopes and spun my chair around and looked out my window just in time to see the mail truck pulling up next door.

  It was twelve forty-three. The mailman was early.

  I scooped up the envelopes, bolted down the stairs and out the door. I didn’t stop to put a jacket on. I didn’t even stop for shoes. Pebbles dug into my feet as I pounded up the driveway, hollering and waving the thank-you notes in the air. I caught the mailman’s attention as he pulled up to our mailbox and as I slowed from a run to a walk I tripped and me and the thank-you notes went flying.

  I hit the ground, rolled, and ended up on my back. The driveway was hard and cold. The sky overhead was gray. A few snowflakes drifted down around me. I didn’t think I was hurt but I did feel a little embarrassed so when I heard the mailman’s voice I covered my face with my hands.

  “You all right, kid? That was some digger.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? Let me see your face.”

  I dropped my hands. The mailman was standing over me. He wore a hat with earflaps and had a big mustache. I could see his breath as it puffed out of him. His knees crackled as he crouched next to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “See?”

  “No you’re not. You’re all banged up.”

  “I was like this before I tripped.”

  The mailman looked at me like he thought I was crazy and shook his head a little. Then he helped me up and together we collected the thank-you notes that had been scattered around the driveway. One of them had blown into the yard and I went and got it and brought it to the truck where the mailman was waiting with our mail.

  “You should run along inside now. It’s cold out here,” he said, handing me a bunch of letters that were held together with a red rubber band. “And, kid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your step.”

  Then he slid the door shut, waved at me through the window, and pulled away. I turned and headed back to the house, taking the rubber band off the letters and flipping through them. I skipped a few though because I was starting to not feel my fingers. The mailman had been right—it was cold. I hadn’t noticed it at first but now it had gotten so far inside of me it felt like my bones were made of ice. I stuck the mail under my arm and breathed into my hands as I hurried to the front door, which I had accidentally left open.

  I ran up the steps, pulled the door closed, and tossed the mail onto the kitchen table on my way to the living room where the fire was. I plopped down in front of the fireplace and stuck my hands out, letting the heat chase some of the cold out of me. If there were a way to take a few of the flames and rub them on me to warm up faster I totally would have done it. If I could have sat right in the fire I would have. I was that cold all of a sudden. I heard Aunt Josie come down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “It’s freezing in here! Is the door open?”

  “I went out and got the mail,” I said. “I might not have closed it all the way.”

  “You need to make sure, okay? Listen for the click. If you don’t hear the click, then the door isn’t… um… Derek?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have some mail here.”

  “What is it?”

  I didn’t want to move from my spot in front of the fire. I was warm now, hot even. My cheeks were like embers. I felt like I was glowing. Behind me Aunt Josie coughed a little to clear her throat.

  “Sweetheart, it’s from your dad.”

  21

  I SAT ON MY BED. The envelope was on the quilt in front of me. Unopened.

  I wasn’t warm anymore but I wasn’t cold either. Part of me really, really wanted to read the letter but another part of me almost wished it hadn’t come. I picked up the envelope and looked at my name spelled out in Dad’s blocky handwriting—the letters kinda ran into each other even though it wasn’t exactly cursive. I ran my finger over it and could feel each letter where it had been pressed into the paper as if it was some kind of reverse braille.

  I held it to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like the ninety-one other envelopes in the Knight Rider lunch box under my bed. The only thing different about it was that it was the last one. I wondered if Dad had known somewhere deep down inside that he’d never be writing to me again. And if he did know—had it changed what he put in the letter? I wondered what I’d write if I knew they were going to be my last words. It’d be something heroic, probably.

  I didn’t know what to do. If I opened the letter, then that would be it. I’d have the last words Dad had ever written and they’d say what they said even if it was just a bunch of knock-knock jokes or a grocery list or something. On the other hand, if I didn’t open the letter, it could say whatever I wanted it to say. It could say what I needed it to say. For as long as I needed it to say it.

  * * *

  “Derek, sweetheart, is everything okay?”

  It felt weird talking to Mom while she was at work. Maybe it was because I wasn’t supposed to call her there. I heard beeping in the background and pictured her at the nurse’s station, talking into her cell phone while people with tubes sticking out of them stumbled around asking for medicine.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. Hey, what’s that beeping sound?”

  “I can’t really talk now, sweetie, what is it?”

  “I finished the thank-you notes.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, and I brought them out to the mailbox like you said. Did you know our mailman has a mustache?”

  “Derek.”

  “A really big one.”

  “Derek, listen, I really can’t—”

  “I got a letter from Dad.”

  The beeping in the background suddenly seemed louder. I could even hear the sound of the intercom even though I couldn’t understand what it was saying. Mom hadn’t said anything for a while and her silence was starting to scare me a little. I hoped I hadn’t disappointed her.

  “Mom? Hello?”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Why not?”

  I told her everything that I’d been thinking a
bout. Mom listened without saying anything.

  “Is that weird?” I asked when I was finished. “Am I weird?”

  “No, of course you’re not weird. Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t think most people think the same way I do. Most people would just open the letter.”

  “You’re not most people, Derek, and y’know what? I’m glad you’re not most people. Sometimes it’s better not to do what everyone else is doing. Take lemmings for example—” She stopped and took a breath. “The important thing—the only thing really—is how you see yourself. In the end, that’s all that matters. Opening the letter is your decision, okay? And I won’t think you’re weird if you decide not to.”

  I thought about that for a second, picturing hundreds of lemmings as they charged over a cliff into the ocean except for one that was struggling to go in the other direction.

  “I think I’m going to open it,” I said. “But not because it’s what everybody else would do. It’s what I want to do.”

  “Good.”

  “Plus Dad may have included some special, secret army codes for me to crack, you never know.”

  “No you don’t, do you?” Mom said. “I hate to say this but I have to go now. Are you going to be okay?”

  I pictured the lemming again. It wasn’t any bigger or stronger than the rest but it kept going no matter how many times it got pushed back or run over.

  “Yeah, Mom. I will. I’ll be okay.”

  She hung up and I hung up and I sat there on her bed for a minute not feeling like I might be weird anymore. And so what if I was? If people thought I was weird that was their problem. I got up, went to my room, and tore the envelope open, but when I shook it to get the letter out a picture fell out instead.

  My dad. In his flight suit. His helmet under one arm. Smiling. Giving the thumbs-up. The sun glinted off his sunglasses. The Apache helicopter was a ginormous black hornet behind him. I remembered this one time Dad told me that the ground troops always said they felt safer when they heard an Apache overhead. Now I knew why.