Saturday Boy (10 page)

“Mom?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Our house is on TV.”

“I know.”

“Why is our house on TV?”

“Because they're vultures!” spat Aunt Josie, storming into the room and stabbing the television off with her finger. The telephone rang and Aunt Josie stomped off to get it. I overheard her say a few words I probably shouldn't have. Mom was sobbing now and it was hard to tell who was holding who anymore.

I could see myself reflected in the blank TV screen—my small, white face peeking over my mom's shoulder and my hands clasped around her neck. Even in the reflection you could tell she was shaking.

Words floated in my head—words the news people had said—words I knew the meaning of but wished I didn't. Words like “missing” and “body.” There were others, too, like “rocket.”

And “dead.”

I let go of Mom and stood up and found the batteries and put them back in the remote. Then I sat on the couch, pointed it at the television, and pressed the power button. The news came back on. My dad's picture was back in the corner. The news people were talking about him.

“Derek, don't,” Mom said. Her voice was tiny and weak and for some reason I thought of baby birds, alone and blind and helpless. “I don't want you to hear—”

“I want to watch cartoons.”

Mom was still kneeling on the floor in front of the television. Her shoulders were slumped and her head was down.

“Derek, I—”

“Cartoons.”

She straightened up a little and turned, pulling her hair out of her face with her fingers and putting it behind her ears. Her cheeks were wet and her bottom lip was bleeding. She must have bitten it. Some hair fell back in her face but this time she didn't move it.

“I meant to—I didn't know how—”

“
Cartoons!
” I exploded, screaming so loud I hurt my neck. “
Cartoons, cartoons, cartoons!
”

Mom jumped and in the kitchen Josie dropped something. It broke. I could tell by the sound. Mom took the remote from me and entered the code to unlock the kid channels. I sat on the couch with my arms folded and my chin all down into my chest like I was a turtle hiding in its shell.

The Adventure Kids channel was on and some kid in one of those safari helmets was letting a big tarantula walk up his arm. It was orange and black and moved slowly, its two front legs feeling the air. The kid was saying how its legs were covered in these tiny hairs and how they itched and tickled him at the same time.

Mom still knelt in front of the television and the way she was kneeling made me think of a marionette with the strings cut. If you put a lamp on her head she'd be a table. I laughed at that. I couldn't help it. On TV the tarantula was now on the kid's face. I laughed at that, too. I probably would have kept on laughing forever if I hadn't suddenly thrown up all over the table.

WE DIDN'T EAT DINNER
that night. Nobody thought to make it and I didn't think any of us were hungry anyway. Mom went from kneeling in the living room to sitting in the kitchen. The phone rang a lot and after a while Aunt Josie stopped answering it. I think she may have gotten tired of me asking her who it was.

“It's people who heard about your dad calling to say how sorry they are,” she said.

“Why are they sorry?” I asked. “They didn't do it.”

“It's called sympathy, Derek,” she said. “They feel bad for us because we lost your dad.”

“But we didn't lose Dad,” I said.

“Oh, Derek.” Aunt Josie blinked a few times fast. If she was trying to hold back tears it didn't work. “You do know he's . . . gone. You understand what that means, right?”

“Yeah, but he's not lost.”

“Derek, sweetheart, yes he is.”

“No, he's not. He
was
lost,” I said. “But then they found him. He was in a cave.”

“That's different.”

“No it's not. Lost is when you don't know where something is. We know where Dad is. So he's not lost.”

Aunt Josie sat back in her chair and wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers. Mom cleared her throat and spoke. Her voice was soft but even.

“Isn't your show on now, Piggy?”

“What show?”

“With the special episode?
Zeroguy
?”

“You mean
Zeroman
?”

“That's it.”

“Aren't I still punished?”

“You've been punished enough.”

Her face was pale in the kitchen light. Except for her eyes, which were red with dark circles underneath. She started to smile but stopped. Maybe she realized it was stupid to smile and pretend everything was okay when we both knew it wasn't.

“Why don't you go to the living room and watch your show, okay?”

“Can I just go to my room instead?”

“Of course you can but I thought—I mean, you've waited so long to watch your show.”

“I know. It'll be on again though.”

I didn't want to look at my mom so I looked at my hands instead. They were sort of dirty. My pen had leaked at school today and there was a big blue ink smudge on my finger, and out of my ten fingernails, six needed cutting.

“Don't bite your nails,” Mom said, “you'll get worms in your belly.”

I put my hand back in my lap, not liking the way Mom was looking at me. It seemed like she was studying me, trying to guess what I might do or say next. I was used to people at school looking at me like that but I didn't expect it from her. I always thought she knew me better.

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry.”

“Can I go to my room, please? I really just want to go to my room right now.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

I heard her but didn't answer. Instead, I stood up and left the kitchen and when I heard her say she loved me I didn't respond to that either. The phone rang again as I climbed the stairs to my room and the last thing I heard before closing my door was Mom's tortured cry and the sound of the phone being torn from the wall.

Dear Derek—

How's my guy?

I'm writing this in my bed in the field hospital. Don't worry though I'm fine. Your daddy just did kind of a dumb thing. I woke up the other day with a bellyache and I didn't tell anybody right away and it got worse and worse until I couldn't even walk. The doctor said I had a bad infection in my belly called peritonitis and they had to do an operation to fix it.

Now I have to wait until I'm better before I can fly again and guess what—it's called being “grounded.” Funny, huh? I didn't think grown ups could get grounded, did you? Anyway I hope getting better doesn't take long. The longer I'm here the more missions I'll be passed over for and I don't like not doing my part.

I hope school is going well and that we'll see each other soon!

Much love,

Dad

The Knight Rider lunch box was on the floor—on its side and empty. I'd taken all of the envelopes out of it and all of the letters out of the envelopes and my bed was now a sea of paper. I was adrift in the middle of it, clinging to the last one hundred and fifty-five words my father had written me—hanging on to the letter as if it were a life raft. He'd used six hundred and thirty-three letters and had written seven paragraphs including the salutation and whatever the part where you put “sincerely” was called.

When I finished reading the letter I read it again. Apart from comic books, the letters from my dad were the only things I read more than once. I usually read them two or three times each time I sat down with them. I had even memorized whole parts of them completely by accident.

I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes, the letters crinkling loudly underneath me. Then I rolled over and faced the wall because I didn't want to see the helicopter model when I opened them. I saw it anyway. In my head. Only it wasn't the model, it was the real thing and it was getting hit with a rocket over and over again and spinning to the ground and crashing.

I didn't want to think about my dad but I couldn't help it. In my head he is struggling with his safety harness. His hands are shaking. I imagine the strong smell of gasoline from a busted fuel line. He calls out to the gunner but the gunner doesn't answer because the gunner is dead. Black smoke starts to fill the cockpit. It is thick and oily and it smells bad because the gunner's body is starting to burn.

I shook my head and shut my eyes and tried to think about something else. I tried to put all fifty states in alphabetical order but I'd only gotten as far as Delaware before I was imagining my dad dragging himself across some sharp rocks to get away from a burning helicopter. His legs are bent funny. His hands are covered in dirt and blood.

Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Idaho . . .

The sun is going down and the sky is red. Dad is pulling himself toward a split in the rocks. I imagine his flight suit has been torn away at the elbows and the flesh underneath is like raw hamburger.

. . .
Illinois, Indiana, Iowa . . .

The cave is small. Light from the last bit of sunset has found its way inside but it will be gone soon. My dad has drawn his sidearm and is sitting with his back against the cold rocks facing the entrance. His face is covered in sweat. He is sitting in a puddle of blood. The puddle is spreading quickly.

. . . Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana . . .

His sidearm becomes heavy and he puts it down. After a while he closes his eyes.

. . . Maine . . .

A little while after that he stops bleeding.

I DIDN'T REMEMBER
falling asleep but I must have because the next thing I knew it was morning. I tried to roll over but I couldn't. Somebody was in bed with me and their arm was around my waist, pinning me down.

I tried to wiggle out and heard a crinkling, crackling sound and that was when I remembered there were letters all over the bed. That was also when I remembered about my dad.

I stopped wiggling then. I just lay there on my side facing the wall. The arm around my waist felt heavy. I had a feeling it was Mom's because on cold mornings when I was little I'd get into bed with Mom and Dad and she'd hold me like this under the covers and I'd feel warm and safe. I didn't feel very safe this time though. I felt whatever the exact opposite was.

I breathed. I blinked. I stared at the wall. After a while I smelled coffee. Mom woke up and moved her arm leaving a cold spot on my side. She shifted. The letters crackled. I didn't move.

“Derek?”

I didn't want to talk. I pretended to sleep.

“I know you're not asleep.”

“How'd you know?”

“I didn't but now I do.”

“You tricked me?”

“A little.”

“You shouldn't be tricking me at all,” I said. “I'm just a kid.”

“I know. You're right. I'm sorry.”

I wished I wasn't against the wall because I wanted to get up and leave. I couldn't though, because Mom's arm was across me again and I just knew she wasn't about to let me move it. She meant to have a Talk. And when Mom meant to have a Talk there wasn't much you could do about it even if you weren't pinned to the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

We lay there for a little while and didn't say anything. I thought maybe she'd fallen asleep again.

“Derek?”

“I'm not sure,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I scratched my arm and thought for a second. What
did
I mean?

“I dunno,” I said finally. “I feel kinda . . . empty. Is it okay to feel empty?”

“Any way you feel is how you feel and that's okay. Especially now,” Mom said. “And when those feelings change, the new ones will be okay, too. People will understand if you're sad or if you're angry—”

“But I'm not sad or angry. I told you, I'm not feeling anything. Just empty. And my head hurts. That's how I'm feeling.”

She moved her arm from around my waist and started stroking my hair with her hand. I pictured her with a worried look on her face, her lips pressed together so you couldn't see them.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“No thanks.”

I listened to her breathe for a minute or two. Her breath was a little bit choppy and I was pretty sure she was crying. Or trying not to. She kept on stroking my hair.

“Would you like a song?”

I hadn't had a song in a long time. Dad usually sung them to me.

“Yeah.”

“What song do you want?” she asked, clearing her throat a little.

“‘Sunday Morning Coming Down
.
'”

“What? How do you know that song?”

“Dad sings it to me.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. It's Johnny Cash.”

“I know who it is. I'm just not sure you're old enough to—why don't we do ‘Ring of Fire' instead?”

“What about ‘Boy Named Sue'?”

“‘Boy Named—'?” She laughed. I think it surprised her. “Is there anything your father won't sing to you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The Jonas Brothers.”

We finally agreed on “Walk the Line” and she cleared her throat again and started to sing. She didn't really know all the words, though, so she sang the ones she did know and la-la-la'd the rest. I was warm with her body pressed against mine. Her fingers were in my hair.

“How many days did they search before they found Dad?” I said.

Mom stopped singing.

“What?”

“Those people on the news said they found Dad after days of searching. How many days was it?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“Was it four days?”

“I—I don't know.”

“A week?”

“Stop it.”

“Ten days?”

“Derek, stop. It wasn't ten days,” Mom said. “It was . . . it was nine. Nine days.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly I didn't feel so warm anymore. It was like the whole room had gotten colder even though I knew it hadn't. I curled into a ball and hugged my knees but it didn't help. At that moment I didn't think anything would.

“How do you know?”

“There was a man—a soldier—an . . . officer. He came to the house last week while you were at school,” Mom said. She was playing with my hair, twirling it around one of her fingers. I didn't think she knew she was even doing it.

“What day?”

“Thursday.”

“I had rehearsal that day with Violet and Mr. Putnam.”

“Okay.”

“We went over the blocking for our scene.”

“Okay.”

“Blocking is how the actors know where to go onstage.”

“Okay,” Mom said. “Is there anything else?”

“Violet doesn't have a television.”

“Derek.”

“Isn't that weird?”

“Derek, don't you want to hear my story?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already know how it ends.”

I reached out and placed my palm flat against the wall, feeling the plaster that was a little bit rough in some places and a little bit smooth in others. It was cold. I could hear Aunt Josie moving around downstairs. I held my palm against the wall for as long as I could, until it got too cold, then I put it between my legs to warm it.

“I'm going to tell the story anyway,” Mom said. “For me. You don't have to listen.”

I held my palm against the wall again. Longer this time. Till I was sure my fingers would snap off. I pictured them breaking like twigs, coming off neatly at the knuckle and falling between my bed and the wall. I imagined them being carried away by mice.

“An officer came to the house last week,” Mom started again. “His name was Llewellyn Moore. He was a captain. He told me that your father's helicopter had been shot down in Afghanistan and he was missing and that they were looking for him and he was sorry.

“After he left I stood there. In the doorway. Just staring down the driveway for I don't know how long. At first I told myself it was all a mistake and that I was standing there because I knew he'd come back and apologize but deep down I knew it was because if I let go of the doorknob I'd fall down.”

Mom kept talking, telling me the story of the worst week of her life—how she panicked every time the phone rang, how she stopped eating and couldn't sleep without having nightmares. She told me that one day she even tore the house apart looking for hidden cameras because she'd become convinced that she was on a reality TV prank show and that Aunt Josie had come home and found her sitting on the kitchen floor crying in the middle of a pile of broken dishes.

“But Aunt Josie said she—”

“I know she did,” said Mom. “She was covering for me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want you to worry,” Mom said. “I've never felt so helpless and scared. It crushed me. It almost killed me. Not knowing if your father was alive or dead made me sick. I just couldn't do that to you.”

“Oh.”

“Then yesterday morning Captain Moore came back and well . . . now I know. I was going to tell you. I swear I was. I never, ever meant for you to find out that way.”

I didn't say anything. It was kinda hard to breathe. My chest suddenly felt like someone was sitting on it.

“He's actually a very nice man.”

“Do you think he was scared?”

“I don't know about scared—a little nervous maybe. It must be hard to give such bad news to a complete stranger.”

“I'm not talking about
that
guy. I don't care about him,” I said. “I'm talking about Dad.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think Dad was scared? Y'know—in the end?”

It was Mom's turn to not say anything. Maybe she hadn't thought about that. I thought about that kind of thing all the time.

“I don't think he was scared,” I said. “I bet he was brave.”

“Fear is natural, Derek. There's nothing wrong with being afraid.”

“Budgie says only wussies say stuff like that.”

“Budgie's an idiot,” Mom said. “Would you like to know what true bravery is? True bravery is all about
conquering
fear; so in order to be brave you have to be afraid first. You can't have one without the other.”

I thought about that for a minute. Then I remembered a couple of things Budgie had done that I thought were brave but now I wasn't so sure.

“What about the time Budgie made those wings and jumped off his garage?” I asked.

“That wasn't brave. That was stupid,” Mom said. “But getting back to your father, I
do
think he was scared but only because he was in a scary situation. I do
not
think, however, that he would let fear stop him from doing what he needed to do.”

What she said about bravery made sense. What she'd said about Budgie had also made sense. He
was
kind of an idiot. Now that I thought about it, making wings out of two old umbrellas and jumping off a garage had never seemed stupider.

I thought for a little while about fear and courage. I thought about my dad and wondered what it must have been like toward the end. Had he known he was dying? Did his life flash before his eyes? Was he thinking of me and Mom? Of home?

In the movies the dying soldier always pulls out a picture of his family and traces the surface of it with a trembling, bloody finger. Then, right before he dies, he says something like, “I'm sorry we never got to build that tree house, Billy,” and the picture slips from his hand and the camera follows it to the ground.

I didn't know if Dad even
had
a picture of me with him. If he did, I hoped it wasn't the goofy one from first grade where my hair's all messed up and I'm missing my two front teeth. That would be embarrassing.

“Does your life really flash before your eyes right before you die?”

“That's what they say.”

“All of it or just parts?”

“I don't know.”

“And does it happen with all types of death or just the ones where you have time to think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Because if it happened suddenly like in a car crash and only
parts
of your life flashed before your eyes and they all happened to be the bad parts, then well . . . don't you think that'd be kind of a rip-off?”

“I suppose that would be a rip-off. That's why I think probably only the good parts flash by. Like a highlight reel.”

“What's a highlight reel?”

“It's like a movie of only the best parts.”

“Hm.”

“Indeed.”

“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.”