The Saturday Boy

“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.

“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.”

21

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.”