David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

“Don’t bite your nails,” Mom said, “you’ll get worms in your belly.”

I put my hand back in my lap, not liking the way Mom was looking at me. It seemed like she was studying me, trying to guess what I might do or say next. I was used to people at school looking at me like that but I didn’t expect it from her. I always thought she knew me better.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Can I go to my room, please? I really just want to go to my room right now.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

I heard her but didn’t answer. Instead, I stood up and left the kitchen and when I heard her say she loved me I didn’t respond to that either. The phone rang again as I climbed the stairs to my room and the last thing I heard before closing my door was Mom’s tortured cry and the sound of the phone being torn from the wall.

Dear Derek—

How’s my guy?

I’m writing this in my bed in the field hospital. Don’t worry though I’m fine. Your daddy just did kind of a dumb thing. I woke up the other day with a bellyache and I didn’t tell anybody right away and it got worse and worse until I couldn’t even walk. The doctor said I had a bad infection in my belly called peritonitis and they had to do an operation to fix it.

Now I have to wait until I’m better before I can fly again and guess what—it’s called being “grounded.” Funny, huh? I didn’t think grown ups could get grounded, did you? Anyway I hope getting better doesn’t take long. The longer I’m here the more missions I’ll be passed over for and I don’t like not doing my part.

I hope school is going well and that we’ll see each other soon!

The Knight Rider lunch box was on the floor—on its side and empty. I’d taken all of the envelopes out of it and all of the letters out of the envelopes and my bed was now a sea of paper. I was adrift in the middle of it, clinging to the last one hundred and fifty-five words my father had written me—hanging on to the letter as if it were a life raft. He’d used six hundred and thirty-three letters and had written seven paragraphs including the salutation and whatever the part where you put “sincerely” was called.

When I finished reading the letter I read it again. Apart from comic books, the letters from my dad were the only things I read more than once. I usually read them two or three times each time I sat down with them. I had even memorized whole parts of them completely by accident.

I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes, the letters crinkling loudly underneath me. Then I rolled over and faced the wall because I didn’t want to see the helicopter model when I opened them. I saw it anyway. In my head. Only it wasn’t the model, it was the real thing and it was getting hit with a rocket over and over again and spinning to the ground and crashing.

I didn’t want to think about my dad but I couldn’t help it. In my head he is struggling with his safety harness. His hands are shaking. I imagine the strong smell of gasoline from a busted fuel line. He calls out to the gunner but the gunner doesn’t answer because the gunner is dead. Black smoke starts to fill the cockpit. It is thick and oily and it smells bad because the gunner’s body is starting to burn.

I shook my head and shut my eyes and tried to think about something else. I tried to put all fifty states in alphabetical order but I’d only gotten as far as Delaware before I was imagining my dad dragging himself across some sharp rocks to get away from a burning helicopter. His legs are bent funny. His hands are covered in dirt and blood.

Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho…

The sun is going down and the sky is red. Dad is pulling himself toward a split in the rocks. I imagine his flight suit has been torn away at the elbows and the flesh underneath is like raw hamburger.

… Illinois, Indiana, Iowa…

The cave is small. Light from the last bit of sunset has found its way inside but it will be gone soon. My dad has drawn his sidearm and is sitting with his back against the cold rocks facing the entrance. His face is covered in sweat. He is sitting in a puddle of blood. The puddle is spreading quickly.

…Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana…

His sidearm becomes heavy and he puts it down. After a while he closes his eyes.

…Maine…

A little while after that he stops bleeding.

I DIDN’T REMEMBERfalling asleep but I must have because the next thing I knew it was morning. I tried to roll over but I couldn’t. Somebody was in bed with me and their arm was around my waist, pinning me down.

I tried to wiggle out and heard a crinkling, crackling sound and that was when I remembered there were letters all over the bed. That was also when I remembered about my dad.

I stopped wiggling then. I just lay there on my side facing the wall. The arm around my waist felt heavy. I had a feeling it was Mom’s because on cold mornings when I was little I’d get into bed with Mom and Dad and she’d hold me like this under the covers and I’d feel warm and safe. I didn’t feel very safe this time though. I felt whatever the exact opposite was.

I breathed. I blinked. I stared at the wall. After a while I smelled coffee. Mom woke up and moved her arm leaving a cold spot on my side. She shifted. The letters crackled. I didn’t move.

“Derek?”

I didn’t want to talk. I pretended to sleep.

“I know you’re not asleep.”

“How’d you know?”

“I didn’t but now I do.”

“You tricked me?”

“A little.”

“You shouldn’t be tricking me at all,” I said. “I’m just a kid.”

“I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I wished I wasn’t against the wall because I wanted to get up and leave. I couldn’t though, because Mom’s arm was across me again and I just knew she wasn’t about to let me move it. She meant to have a Talk. And when Mom meant to have a Talk there wasn’t much you could do about it even if you weren’t pinned to the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

We lay there for a little while and didn’t say anything. I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep again.

“Derek?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I scratched my arm and thought for a second. What did I mean?

“I dunno,” I said finally. “I feel kinda… empty. Is it okay to feel empty?”

“Any way you feel is how you feel and that’s okay. Especially now,” Mom said. “And when those feelings change, the new ones will be okay, too. People will understand if you’re sad or if you’re angry—”

“But I’m not sad or angry. I told you, I’m not feeling anything. Just empty. And my head hurts. That’s how I’m feeling.”

She moved her arm from around my waist and started stroking my hair with her hand. I pictured her with a worried look on her face, her lips pressed together so you couldn’t see them.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“No thanks.”

I listened to her breathe for a minute or two. Her breath was a little bit choppy and I was pretty sure she was crying. Or trying not to. She kept on stroking my hair.

“Would you like a song?”

I hadn’t had a song in a long time. Dad usually sung them to me.

“Yeah.”

“What song do you want?” she asked, clearing her throat a little.

“‘Sunday Morning Coming Down . ’”

“What? How do you know that song?”