David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

“As nice as a funeral service can be, I suppose,” Mom answered. Then she chuckled a little. “Jason would have said all the sad people really brought the place down.”

“Like a trip to Dragsville, Ohio,” I added.

“Or breakfast at the International House of Bummer.”

“God, he could be such a dork sometimes,” said Aunt Josie. “I mean, seriously? IHOB?”

Then it dawned on me—we were driving home after burying my father and we were all laughing . It didn’t feel inappropriate. It wasn’t disrespectful. It was exactly the opposite. And in a weird way I’d never felt better. We got some strange looks at a stop light and it wasn’t until we’d driven away that I realized we hadn’t yet taken the FUNERAL sign out of the window, which, for some reason, made us laugh harder. We were still giggling when we got home but it tapered off as we turned in from the street to find a car in our driveway.

Aunt Josie pulled in next to it and turned off the engine. I could see somebody in the driver’s seat—a big somebody who didn’t so much step from the car as shrug himself out of it like he was taking off an overcoat. Sunlight winked off the brass buttons and badges pinned to his jacket.

“Can I help you?”

“Annie Lamb?”

“Yes,” Mom said. “And you are?”

“Sergeant Jahri Glover, ma’am,” said the soldier. “I served with your husband and came to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

Mom unlocked the front door while Sergeant Glover leaned back into his car and got a big manila envelope from the passenger seat. He saw me when he straightened up and seemed to be studying me as he pushed the car door closed.

“You’re Derek,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s so good to finally meet you. My name’s Jahri.”

He put his hand out and when I took it mine disappeared completely. Seriously. It looked like my arm ended at the wrist.

“It’s good to meet you, too,” I said. “You knew my dad?”

“Sure did. Hey, your mom said something about a cup of coffee—mind if we go inside and see about it?”

Jahri took his hat off and was careful to wipe his shoes on the mat when we came in. I kicked mine off and went into the kitchen. I hadn’t been hungry lately but now that the funeral was over and everybody had said what they’d come to say my appetite had returned. And not a moment too soon—Mom had just put a plate of cookies out on the table. Her voice stopped me as I reached for one.

“Derek, don’t be rude,” Mom said. Her back was turned and she was getting coffee mugs down from the cabinet. “Offer the cookies to Sergeant Glover first.”

“His name’s Jahri, Mom.”

“Oh, is it?”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I prefer it, actually.”

“The coffee will be another minute but please have a seat and help yourself to some cookies.”

Jahri pulled out a chair and sat down, putting the manila envelope on the table. It bulged. Full of something. I sat down across from him and waited for him to take a cookie. He was looking at me—studying me again the way he had in the driveway.

“You should have a cookie,” I said. “They’re awesome. Really.”

He smiled and reached for the plate. Then he seemed to have second thoughts and sat back again.

“What?” I said. There was something in the way he was looking at me that made me want to tell him everything I’d ever done. Mom came around and put coffee mugs, a little thing of milk, and the sugar bowl on the table. Jahri turned around in his chair.

“Can I help with something?” he asked.

“No. Please sit. The coffee’s nearly—see? There we are.”

Mom grabbed the coffeepot before the machine had even stopped beeping. She filled Jahri’s mug first, then Aunt Josie’s, and then her own. Jahri thanked my mom and blew on his coffee before taking a sip.

“Derek,” he said as he put the mug down, “would it be okay with you if I talked with your mom for a little while? Why don’t you go to your room and I’ll come find you when we’re done, cool?”

“Yeah. Cool. Totally.”

“Let me put you out your misery first, though,” he said, smiling again and taking a cookie from the plate. He put his fist out as I went by and I bumped it with one of mine. Of course I had to shift a few cookies in order to do so. “See you in a little while, partner.”

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.