Saturday Boy (15 page)

“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.

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!”

“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.”

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 about. 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.

I looked at the picture for a little while. Then I turned it over to see if he'd written anything on the back but he hadn't so I put it aside and slid the letter out of the envelope. I hadn't taken a breath in what seemed like a long time. For some reason the letter was trembling as I unfolded it.

Derek—

Guess who's not grounded anymore?

I'll be flying a sortie in a little while and wanted to write before I left to wish you good luck in your play. I'm sorry I won't be there to see it. I know you'll be great and I'm proud of you for trying something new (even if it's only because there's ghosts in it).

I was sorry to hear from Mom that Budgie's giving you some trouble. I bet she's telling you to be the bigger person, right? It's a good idea but honestly, an idea won't stop him from bugging you. Don't give up though—every problem has a solution, even if it's not clear at first. You'll find it.

Zeroman sounds really cool. I can't wait to watch it with you. It might not be for a little while, though, so you'll have to fill me in on all the details when I get home, O.K.?

Love,

Dad

P.S. How do you like my chopper? Her name's Buttercup.

When I finished reading it I read it again. I studied the way each letter ran into the next, the way his
n
's sometimes looked like
h
's and how there were some letters that didn't look like letters at all but were weird squiggles instead and the only way to figure out what he meant was by reading the stuff around it. I had joked with Mom about it but Dad's letters really
were
written in a kind of code. It was just a code I'd gotten used to cracking.

I put the letter and the picture back into the envelope and put the envelope under my pillow. Then I lay back with my hands behind my head and stared up at the hook where my Apache helicopter used to hang. Maybe it was because it was directly overhead or maybe it was because it was the only spot on my ceiling that didn't have a model hanging from it but the empty space seemed huge. If it were a voice, it'd be yelling. I didn't like being yelled at.

I got up, went to the linen closet, and found the hook-ended stick we used to pull down the attic stairs, reminding myself to get out of the way this time. The door
sproinged
downward and the steps came clattering out.

“Derek!” Aunt Josie called from downstairs. “Are you okay? What was that?”

“Nothing!” I shouted back. “I'm just getting something from the attic!”

“The attic? Why? What are you getting?”

But I was already halfway up the stairs and pretending I didn't hear her. It was cold in the attic and my breath came out of me in little clouds as I felt around for the pull string that would turn the light on. I almost went back down for a sweater but then my fingers brushed the string and I grabbed it and gave it a tug. The light came on, dim at first, but getting brighter as it warmed up and I watched the shadows retreat into the corners. I wasn't scared—I just hoped what I was looking for wasn't back there in the dark.

It wasn't.

The Apache helicopter had fallen behind some boxes and the fishing line was all knotted and tangled but luckily nothing was broken. I picked it up and used part of my shirt to dust it off, figuring I could untangle the fishing line in my room where the light was better. Then I clicked the light off and hurried down the stairs before the shadows could jump out and get me.

* * *

Untangling the fishing line didn't take long and when I was done I got a sock from my dresser, put it on my hand, and wiped the rest of the dust off the helicopter. Then I took the chopper into the bathroom, got a Q-tip, and cleaned the spaces in between the missiles where they attached to the wing pylons and where the rotors snapped into the body—anywhere I hadn't been able to reach with my dusting sock. I held the helicopter up and the light seemed to bounce off of it. I'd swear it was cleaner than it had been when my dad and I had first put it together.

I went back to my room, sat at my desk, and went through my drawers until I found my modeling paints and a brush. Using white paint, I very carefully wrote the word ‘Buttercup' underneath the cockpit on both sides, twisting the bristles into a point with my fingers each time before dipping it in the paint so the letters would be sharper. It was taking a long time but I stuck with it. I mean, drawing the scales on the piranhadiles had been harder and this meant way more to me than that did. After the paint was dry I stood on my bed and put the helicopter back on its hook. I looked at it for a while as it twisted slowly back and forth and was so focused on it I almost didn't hear the tapping at the door.

“Derek?” Aunt Josie said. “You've been up here for a while. Everything okay?”

“Yup.”

“Can I come in?”

I opened the door and we looked at each other for a moment or two without saying anything. Aunt Josie searched my face while I looked at the ring in her nostril, deciding it must've hurt when she got it even though she'd said it hadn't. She must have found what she was looking for because she smiled.

“You've got some updog on your shirt,” she said.

“What's updog?”

“Not much, what's up with you?”

“Hardly har-har.”

“Isn't it
hardy
har-har?”

“Not this time.”

“Ouch,” she said. “Hey, what's that paint all over your hands?”

“I was painting my Apache helicopter. Y'know—the one Dad and I built? The one Mom took down without asking? I painted ‘Buttercup' on it.”

“You painted flowers on a war helicopter?”

“I painted the
word
‘Buttercup.' That's her name. Dad said so in the letter.”

I showed
Buttercup
to Aunt Josie and I showed her the photograph. I didn't show her the letter though, because it was private and none of her business. But not in a bad way. She told me I did a killer job on the lettering and that a lot of tattoo artists didn't like to do it because it was really tough to get just right.

“I've gotta get dinner started,” she said. “Wanna come give me a hand? I totally get it if you don't want to though.”

I told her I'd be down in a few minutes and she gave me a hug and said okay. When she was gone I hung
Buttercup
back on her hook, lay down on my bed, and watched her swing. When she stopped moving I went downstairs and found Aunt Josie in the kitchen chopping carrots, humming along to a song on the radio.

“What're you listening to?”

“Oingo Boingo,” she said. “C'mon—dance with me!”

“What? No, wait . . . what are you doing?”

“The Shopping Cart.”

“What?”

“You've never heard of the—oh, you poor boy.”

She showed me how to do the Shopping Cart. And the Sprinkler. And my favorite—the Fisherman. Then we just held hands and twirled around the kitchen and even though I hadn't wanted to dance at first I was kinda sad when the song ended and we stopped.
I grabbed a piece of carrot off the cutting board and popped it in my mouth.

“Save some for the salad, please,” she said.

Aunt Josie picked up the cutting board and dumped the carrots into a big bowl that already had lettuce and sliced cucumber in it. She scratched the side of her nose and stared into the salad.

“What's missing? What's missing?” she mumbled. “Blue cheese!”

Aunt Josie opened the fridge and practically dove inside. I hoisted myself onto the counter, sat, and snagged a carrot from the salad bowl, popping it into my mouth and chewing quickly.

“Blue cheese, blue cheese . . . I could've sworn . . . aha!”

Aunt Josie emerged from the fridge with a plastic container. Then she pulled the lid off and shook some crumbled cheese into the salad bowl.

“Wait! Stop!” I said. “I think the cheese went bad.”

“It didn't.”

“But it looks all moldy.”

“That's because it
is
moldy.”

“Aunt Josie?”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else for dinner?”