David Fleming - The Saturday Boy

“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.?