The Saturday Boy Novel (Chap. 1)

A Fiction Novel for Reluctant Readers (12-18)

Word Count = 18,513

 

THE SATURDAY BOY

By Richard & Esther Provencher (c) 2010-2021)

 

In Memory of: Adelard Donat Provencher Jr. (1919-1999)

 

CHAPTER ONE – HOW IT ALL BEGAN

I'M JUST a kid, nothing less nothing more. And my last 13 years taught me not to worry about what's going to happen next.

 

My dad once told me life is like an autumn leaf hurrying before morning’s gust of wind. "No matter how high you get in life,” he said, “it's how you handle yourself when you begin to fall.” 

 

I thought of him often since he left mom and me three years ago. I figured I'd never see him again. Now, he’s coming back into my life.

 

From my bedroom window I hear crows caw-call. Alarm clocks, as mom prefers to call them. Sounds better than pesky feathered creatures, which are probably her truer feelings.

 

Mom thinks I can handle any pressure. But sometimes, I can’t.  I had a hard time in school for a couple of years after dad buzzed off.

 

I’m glad she’s strict with me. I know I needed it. It helped take away a real bad hurt in my heart.

 

Now I’m confused. After all this time, after things finally settled down, my father is coming back.

 

My mother once said I used to be such a happy kid. She said my blue eyes could lighten up dark corners, and my perfect white teeth could sure crack a smile. “Like December snow," she said. 

 

But now that I’m older, I know my thick lips and high cheekbones kind of spoil my looks. Maybe I shouldn’t look in the mirror so much. I know I have to stop running myself down. And stop being so negative. Maybe be like that kid I used to be.

 

People tell me I must have Native ancestors, with my dark skin. I wouldn't mind if I was related to a Nova Scotia Mi’kmaq. That would be neat. I enjoyed hearing stories and legends about their Native God, Glooscap, and his adopted son, Marten. 

 

My father’s stories all came to an end when he left. At the time I wished Glooscap would adopt me. A boy needs a father. I know. I don't remember much about why it happened. "Don't all parents argue?" I used to ask myself.

 

After dad left, my aunt Jessica visited more often. She told me she couldn't understand how my parents stayed together. “They fought a lot,” she said, “like two WBA wrestlers, except it was all tongue wrestling.”

 

But that was three years ago. My father wants to see me. Some of my friends say 'pop' or 'my old man.' I think that's gross. Sometimes my father would ask me to call him 'dad' instead of father.

 

But I liked calling him ‘Father’ because of my prayers at night. When I was a little squirt, "Dear Father" made me think of someone great and powerful. Later I pretended he came back into my life. And now he is.

 

Maybe it’s time to call him Dad, because I do miss him and maybe he won’t leave again. He is great and powerful. He's smart and he loves me. That's why he's coming back.

 

I just know it.

 

And I still love him a lot, too.

 

When my parents’ split up…I can't understand why they call it 'divorced.’ It was more like a 'split' in a large rock that doesn't exist anymore. Once we were just like that big rock.

 

Anyways, my father phoned mom from Toronto and they had a long talk. More phone calls followed saying he was coming to see her. And me.

 

I remember a little about that day. I was looking out the window like I'm doing right now, and this shiny blue car pulled up, a neat Hyundai Elantra wagon, plum colored.

 

I knew it was my father. I can feel things. Sometimes it scares me. Before people say something about someone getting killed or hurt, I know.

 

Many times I can also sense when good things happen. It was that kind of feeling. My father was here.

 

I didn’t want to be a ‘suck’ and run downstairs to say it was great to see him. I'm not like that. Father used to tell me, "Take it easy, nice and slow." Okay, so I was cool.

 

It was strange. Somehow we all sat together like one happy family with pancakes and sausages for supper. I thought that was supposed to be a meal for breakfast. Considering how my life was now turned upside down, it seemed to fit properly.

 

Well, father and mom explained the new situation to me. This stranger I hadn't heard from for three years was now supposed to spend Saturday's with me. “What about my friends or my own plans? Gee whiz, mom!”

 

Inside, I was glad but, "Where were you when I needed you?" I almost said.

 

There was an agreement between them and their lawyers for Saturday visitation rights. Was I lucky or was I lucky? It was supposed to be a chance for my father and me to be 'pals' again. I think it stinks.

 

But, it was up to me if I wanted this arrangement.

 

What could I do but go along with it? It did seem weird, about seeing my father only one day a week. But, how could I complain? I was still a kid, and not really sure about the right thing to do. The rest of the week I was supposed to pretend everything was normal.

 

Mom and I had a good talk later that night. She's great, mom is, but sometimes I think she gets confused about boys.

 

About how to be honest with them, I mean. We can take it. I know I can. But then, she worries about me a lot. That’s why she and I have become good pals for the past couple of years.

 

And now, out of the blue he’s back in my life. Strange isn't it, a father only spending time with his son on Saturdays. People might start calling me 'The Saturday Boy' or something.

 

My birthday was coming up in a couple of months and I began to feel much older already with everything going on in my life.

 

Gazing out my bedroom window was like looking at the past.

 

Some of my memories were wonderful, some not so. And knowing the difference hurt a lot. When I was just a baby everyone told me what to do and when to eat. I didn't have to worry or think so much, like now.

 

It was finally my decision about us trying to be friends again. Inside my gut, I was still angry at him for leaving. But I would give it a try.

 

It used to be a safe world, full of adult faces and caring.        

 

Before, it was dad and mom and I, Jason. I was named after my grandfather. He had been coming more often to visit with me since my dad left. "A boy needs a father figure," he told me. And I was sure glad he was there for me.

 

I gripped the windowsill and looked down at the grass. "I have to trim you again," I said to the sky and the wind.

 

If I pretend real hard, the old pain can be cut away again, just like that grass. Then those hurting thoughts can be put on a shelf, again.

 

I have to give my dad another chance.

 

Maybe we can be a father and son, again.

 

But I don't want all the sadness to go away. So much was hidden next to my heart under my shirt. It was my way of dealing with the pain.

 

I never want those memories to go away. They are part of me, always and forever. My father is coming back into my life, almost like a runaway train.

 

And tomorrow I have to meet him for our first visit. My heart is pounding.