David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

“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.

THE NEXT DAY WASjust 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.