The Saturday Boy

“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.

“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.

20

THE NEXT DAY WAS just 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?”