The Saturday Boy

“So what’s on your highlight reel?”

“Let’s see—my highlight reel,” said Mom, sniffling a little. “The day I met your dad, obviously. Our wedding day. God, we were so young.”

“What else is on it?”

“The day you were born and every day since.”

We were quiet for a little while then.

“Do you think I was on Dad’s highlight reel?”

“Derek, I think you were Dad’s highlight reel. He was so proud of you. It was like you were all he ever talked about.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Mom. “And frankly I got sick of hearing it after a while.”

“Really?”

“Of course I didn’t get sick of it. Turkey.”

“But he did talk about me?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“All the time.”

It felt good to know my dad had spoken of me because it meant he’d been thinking about me as well and it was nice to be thought of. And if he’d been thinking about me in the end, then he hadn’t really died alone after all. Not really.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Why did he go have to go back?” I asked. “I thought he was finished.”

“He was.”

“Then why did he go back?”

“Because when he enlisted he signed a piece of paper saying he would if they needed him,” said Mom. “And I guess they did. I know it doesn’t seem fair.”

“That’s because it’s not fair. So he signed a piece of paper—so what? It’s not like he took a blood oath or anything. Wait, he didn’t, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” said Mom. “But he gave them his word.”

“So?”

“So sometimes in this life your word is all you have,” said Mom, “and if you are an honorable person—a person with strong character—you will stick by your word even if you don’t want to.”

“And did Dad?”

“Did Dad what?”

“Want to?”

“No of course not,” said Mom. “But he did. And I know for a fact it was the hardest thing he ever had to do.”

“How?”

“Because having to say good-bye to your father again was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”

The phone rang and I heard Aunt Josie answer it. Then I heard her coming up the stairs and down the hall. My bedroom door was open so she knocked a little on the frame.

“You guys awake up here?” she asked. “Annie? It’s for you.”

“I’m with Derek right now, Jo. Can I call them back?”

“I think you’ll want to take this. It’s the army.”

Mom rolled over and got out of bed, taking the phone from Aunt Josie and stepping into the hallway. Josie stood there like she didn’t know what to do—like she was wondering if she should stay in here with me or go join her sister. In the end she stayed standing right where she was and offered me a sad kind of smile. I did my best to smile back. I’m not sure it worked.

Mom came back in and sat down on the bed, the letters crackling underneath her. She took my hand. Held it. I didn’t let go because I figured that, at that moment, she needed somebody to hang on to. Aunt Josie sat on Mom’s other side and took her other hand. We stayed like that for a while. Connected. Just being there.

Mom started to say something but she stopped and cleared her throat a little. Then she tried again.

“Jason’s coming home,” she said.

14

MR. HOWARD MET ME when I got off the bus on Monday morning. It was cold and windy and his bald head was chapped. I wondered how long he’d been standing there. He was wearing big wool mittens and a matching scarf and it didn’t look like his little beard was doing a good job of keeping his face warm because the tip of his nose was red and drippy.

“Good morning, Mr. Lamb,” he said. “How are you feeling today?”

The wind yanked the breath from his mouth and carried it off.

“Okay I guess. A little tired.”

Kids moved quickly around Mr. Howard and me as we walked to the door, and I caught a couple of them looking back over their shoulders at me. They must have thought I was public enemy number one to have the principal meet me at the bus like that. I wondered what they thought I’d done. I hoped they thought it was something cool.

“Could I speak with you for a moment in my office?”

“I don’t want to be late.”

“I’m the principal, Derek. It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll give you a note for you to give to Ms. Dickson when we’re done.”

Mr. Howard put his hand on my shoulder and steered me into his office. He closed the door and pulled his mittens off and started to unwind his scarf. It was longer than I thought it’d been. It just kept going and going. When he was finished he sat down and opened a binder on his desk and looked at a page. Then he pushed it away and leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Derek, I—that is to say—we here at the school—the administration and the faculty have—” he said, pulling the binder to him and checking the page again. When he looked up it was right into my eyes.

“We were all so very sorry to hear about your father, Derek, and I wanted to let you know that if you needed to talk or—or anything—that we’re here to listen. My door is always open.”

“Okay.”

I think Mr. Howard expected me to say more things but I didn’t so we just looked at each other instead— almost like a staring contest. We stayed like that for a while.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Of course.”

“It’s something I’ve been wondering about.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“Why do you keep paper clips in your candy jar?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It says ‘candy’ right on it but there’s no candy,” I said. “That seems a little bit like cheating.”

“It used to have candy in it,” Mr. Howard said. “But I noticed the same few students were turning up here more and more often—twice, sometime three times a week, and I suspected it was because of the candy. So when I ran out I filled it with paper clips and I haven’t seen them since.”

I didn’t have any more questions and there wasn’t anything I felt like talking about. Mr. Howard told me again how his door was always open if I needed anything. Then he wrote a note to Ms. Dickson and handed it to