Saturdays: part one

By Uozumi

 

Author’s Notes:  This is a spin-off of “We Always Spend Saturdays Together.”  I just thought that I'd compile some random shorts on what those Saturdays must have been like for Ash and Eiji.  Excuse me if my timing is off, but all I've read is the first and eighth book, so if something significant was supposed to happen on the Fourth of July, I'm sorry that it didn't.  I'm also going to assume that Shorter's still around, because when I went to this one site that had scans from 2001 Pulp, it seemed like *spoiler* would have been after the Fourth of July.  Also, I think that the reason I'm so drawn to this series is the fact that I was born on January 14, 1985.  I guess it being my birth year just gives me warm and fuzzy feelings.  I own nothing.

 

----

One: Saturday, July 6, 1985

EIJI

I wake early and look out the window.  New York City is beautiful in a sense if I don't think about everything that is going on, and why I'm in this dingy apartment room and not in the hotel where many would think I should be.  Ash brought me here, and hasn't asked me to leave, but sometimes I wonder if I'm just a burden to him as I must be to Ibé-san.

 

Hearing a soft noise, I look over my shoulder, then smile slightly.  Ash finds his only peace at night, but sometimes he finds his deepest horrors.  One night he screamed so loud that Shorter burst into the room, and even between he and I we still could barely clam down Ash, who never woke from the private hell of his dream.

 

Sometimes he talks in his sleep, and I catch small words or phrases.  He calls out for his mother, or he starts whispering "no" until he's shouting it at the top of his lungs before he either dissolves into tears, or he wakes up with a start, and I pretend to be asleep.

 

Turning my eyes back out to the cityscape, I dimly run over all the events that have lead up to this point.  It seems like forever ago that I arrived in America with Ibé-san, and this place is growing on me, even if I've only been here months.  The only factors that remind me that I am not truly from this place is the fact that I still predominantly think in Japanese, and I still don't understand most of what happens around me when I'm not running for my life, or caught up in a gang confrontation.

 

Sighing, I bring my right leg up, and hang my arm off it, the other resting on my left leg that's curled up.  This scene makes me feel so pensive, but relaxed, even if at any moment someone could jump into this apartment of Shorter's and shoot me dead.

 

"How you want your food?  Burnt, or recognizable?"

 

Jumping, I turn around, and see Shorter smirking at me.  He owns this apartment that Ash and I are staying in, and have been in for quite some time.  Ash wants to retool his next plan, and seems distant a lot lately.  I don't like the way his eyes glaze over and get such a distant and pained look.  It's almost as though he doesn't want to even proceed breathing, but he's still planning all the same.  What's he's thinking, I can't tell you, but I can say that it isn't something he would like to do.

 

"Ano . . . ah . . . how about carry out?"

 

Shorter laughs, then smiles, "Good one. The food's on, but I've got business."  He turns from the door and speaks to someone in the kitchen, "You going anywhere?"

 

"Maybe."

 

I blink.  When did Ash get out of the bedroom and into the kitchen?

 

"Well, anyway," Shorter turns back to me, "you're in luck.  Ash's cooking, so you don't have to worry," and then he walks away.  "See you two later," and I hear the apartment door close in his farewell.

 

Standing, I stretch, then sigh.  What time is it?  What's for breakfast?  Those and other necessary questions run through my mind as I walk into the dingy kitchen where Ash is perched on a chair at the small table.  "'Morning."

 

"Ohayo," I nod as he glances at me slightly.  "Ah . . . good morning," I amend, then look around.

 

"What?"

 

I blink, and swallow my next question.  I don't want to sound like a spoiled little prince, but the only thought in my head right now is, 'Where's breakfast?'

 

"Nothing," I shrug, then start poking about the kitchen.  After rooting around, I scrounge up some tofu, tea, and rolls that were secured on the last grocery run about a week ago.  There's also some Spam, Wonder Bread, rice, and canned corn, but I think those will make better later day meals than breakfast.  Securing the skillet, some plates, a teapot, and some mugs, I begin preparing breakfast in the silence of the morning.  When I was really small, I used to pester my mother about cooking, and so she taught me, and many times I woke early and made her breakfast.  I guess that I grew really attached to her because my father died when I was four . . . .

 

I don't remember much about him, but Mother tells me that I'm built like him, only he was taller (as is everyone it seems), and his eyes were a unique gray due to his distant Russian heritage.  I, however, have a mostly Japanese look, but she still insists that I look like a brown-eyed and shorter version of my father.

 

". . . ji . . . EIJI!"

 

Flying across the small room, I look up in time to see flames and a flurry of whites, yellows, and blues fight them.  Finally, the skillet is smoldering, and Ash is panting, resting his hands on the counter, his eyes shut as though he's reliving one horrible nightmare.  From where I'm resting in a corner, still in the position I landed there, I gaze up at Ash as he swallows, then looks down at me.

 

"Don't space out like that!  What the hell were you thinking about anyway?!  You could have burnt yourself, or blown the whole damn place up!"

 

I look away, "I don't know, I just went onto autopilot."

 

Ash studies me a moment, then helps me up, "Don't go on autopilot when operating a gas stove.  What were you thinking you were doing anyway?"

 

I look over at the stove more closely, then blink.  I was so half-asleep, it never hit me that this is a gas stove and not an electric like I have at home.  I was going through the wrong motions, and almost started a fire!

 

"I thought I was using an electric stove," I answer truthfully, watching as some of his fear and anger slip away.  "I should have been paying more attention."

 

Ash sighs, assessing the damage.  "Well, you aren't touching the stove for a while," he murmurs, "but I think that all the damage was done to the skillet, so we'll live."

 

I watch as he freezes, his green eyes gazing off somewhere faraway as he studies the ruined cookware.  "Ash . . . ?"

 

Snapping awake mentally, he almost hits me with his body's violent shudder, and then he grasps up the skillet.  "Well, here's one for the trash.  I hate to throw it out, but it's of no use now."  Walking over to the window, we recoil slightly, the dank, sweaty, and putrid July air emanating from the trash heap bellow becoming more acute as we check out the window before Ash drops the skillet into the trash bags below.  Here there is an ordinance about dropping things out of your window, but if you pay enough attention, you won't get caught, and won't have to worry about what happens if we stop lying low in the apartment.

 

After hurrying away from the window, I go to take a closer look at the kitchen, but then note that he's moved away from the kitchen and disappeared.  Sighing, I check the stove, remembering how our old one worked back when I was thirteen and a first-year in Nakano Boys' Academy, my junior and high school.  Satisfied that it's right, I consider making tea, then begin to feel the hot and sticky July morning get to me through the window, no breeze to stifle the claustrophobic humidity and pure heat.

 

Rummaging back through the cabinets, and small refrigerator, I finally find what I want.  Studying the blue container a moment, I follow the directions, grab two glasses, and put in some of our lovely New York City "sewer water" as the gang typically refers to it.  We still drink it even if it's probably knocking a few years off our lives, because we need water for practically anything we want to eat since milk is so expensive and our refrigerator is just small enough to house the bare essentials.

 

"Ash . . . ?" I call out tentatively, which is pretty stupid.  The apartment is very, very small, and if he's not in the kitchen, he can either be in the bathroom or the bedroom.  Hearing no reply, I set the glasses down, and step towards the two rooms.  "Ash, where are you?"

 

Both doors are open, so I'll bet on the bedroom.

 

Sticking my head in, I take in the room as quietly as possible.  This wouldn't be the first time that Ash gets up and then goes right back to sleep after eating something to replenish his blood sugar.  Expecting to find him curled up under the blankets where he's sure to roast himself alive, I stop short when I see him face down on the bed, crying silently into his pillow.  Frozen, I'm not sure what to do, this being only the second time I've ever seen him cry while not sleeping.  Most would think it hard, or impossible, but I think I understand Ash enough to know that he's kept so much inside that it would be a miracle if he never cried.

 

Now I can't think of what I should do.  I'm never good at this, even if most say or think I am.  Before I went away to college, I was chosen captain of the track and field team, not only because of my skill at pole vaulting, but also because of my personality.  They could turn to me and I would listen, but like then, I still feel absolutely helpless.  I don't know how I help people if I don't even know what I'm doing!

 

Now I'm gently sitting on the bed, and I guess I'm letting my subconscious take over.  That's what I always do whenever I'm faced with such a situation like this, I just go somewhere else, and something inside of me takes over. It's as though I were a guidance counselor or something like that in a past life.

 

Having déjà vu to dealing with my pre-teen cousin, I sigh inwardly.  Why are so many people hurt like this?  Why do people tear each other apart from the inside out?  This is much more than I ever would deal with if I were back in Japan and dealing with Akemi-chan, but still, I can't just leave Ash crying here.

 

"Ash."

 

He stops shaking, his whole body freezing as though the last thing he expected was for me to be in here.  I know he's trying to compose himself and act like it was nothing, that he was sleeping.  He wants to appear strong always as though he has something to prove, or perhaps that if he were to let his weakness show, Arthur would only come in and do something so twisted, none of us could make our next move.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

That was a dumb question, but why admit that I knew he was crying?  He might not want to admit it to himself!

 

"Yeah," his voice is slightly shaky, but I will give him extra points for making it sound almost normal.

 

"Do you want anything?"

 

"No."

 

It is just like talking to Akemi-chan!  At least, I won't have to launch into the "You Are a Great Girl, and Why He Can't See That Is His Loss" speech.

 

"Would you like me to go?"

 

Insert long pause here.

 

It's so weird how I can compare Ash to Akemi-chan. It's just so . . . so . . . .

 

"Don't."

 

I blink, the answer coming directly after my question, and not after a long pause as expected.  "Eh . . . ?"

 

"Do what you want," he amends, that second of want gone, replaced by his normal self.

 

"Then I shall stay here."

 

He says nothing, but as I sit there and he lies there, his head still buried in the pillow, I know that he's getting better.  I don't have to give him a speech or use words to calm him, because I know that he's getting back to where he wants to be just by us being here as we are right now.

 

 

ASH

I used to love July, long ago back when sparklers and fireworks were the best parts of the month.  I can remember being very little and sitting on Mom's lap as Griff, who had to be about fifteen or sixteen, drew words in the air with a sparkler.  He drew my name, then his, and soon I too wanted to wield a sparkler, but they promised that when I turned five, I could.

 

My birthday is in August, so I turned five just a month after the Fourth of July, and Griff had promised me long ago that when I got old enough, we could write our names with the sparklers and make cool designs together.  Shortly after, he went to Vietnam, and I passed on sparklers that year because I wanted to play with Griff when I finally got to use one.

 

Naturally, I have yet to have a sparkler in my hands.

 

Thursday was the Fourth, and Shorter and Eiji watched fireworks from the bedroom window while I locked myself in the bathroom and pretended to be invisible.  When Griff got back from Vietnam, he had already been pumped with Banana Fish, and the first violent flashback I ever saw him have was on the Fourth of July in 1974.  I was scared stiff, and it still haunts me.  Watching your older brother, your idol, have a full blown grand mal seizure while sputtering and mumbling something about "Banana Fish" over and over is something that no six-year-old should see.

 

In the bathroom during the fireworks, I screamed silently and relieved that horrible moment over and over. Griff's flashback had been triggered by fireworks as we were watching them in our backyard, and I screamed, and dad wasn't sure what to do, and Mom . . . .

 

Sitting up, I blink a few minutes and then sigh, running a hand through my hair.  Now I'm in the room I share with Eiji at Shorter's apartment, and it's Saturday, July 6, 1985, and that long ago day eleven years ago is far behind me.  Looking over to my left, I watch as Eiji studies the brownstones outside our bedroom window.  It's amazing to watch his child-like wonder at the skyline every morning.  It's like he muses about it until we break him from it, or he breaks himself, and someone makes breakfast.  I always hate to be the one to bring him back to reality, because when he's thinking as he's staring out the window he looks so at peace as though he's letting all of our hell drop away, but if he wants to eat, he can't stare at NYC forever.

 

Getting up quietly, I yawn, then steal out into the kitchen, careful not to disturb him.  It's Saturday, and I plan to spend the day in the apartment with him, lying low when most would think us to be outside due to the record heat and record humidity.

 

"Hey, I was just going to leave you a note," Shorter brings me from my thoughts from where he's standing at the table.

 

"What for?" I walk over as he puts the pen and paper away.

 

"I have business," he offers. "Chinatown shit, they think Arthur's going to make a move on them since you and Eiji could be hiding among us.  Of course, they don't know about you and Eiji really, it's just they've gotten wind that Arthur's planning on coming our way."

 

'Just what I need.'  I glance out the kitchen window, envisioning a multitude of thugs raiding the streets.  I hate how my imagination can run away with me sometimes.

 

"Anyway, I have things to organize, and plans to start implementing . . . you know, do my version of what's going on in your head," Shorter shrugs, then glances at the bedroom door. "Eiji up?"

 

I raise an eyebrow.  "Yeah, why?"

 

He just looks at me, "You were just thinking harder than usual, and being more careful."

 

I raise an eyebrow and he crosses the small area to stand in the doorway to the bedroom, "How you want your food?  Burnt, or recognizable?"

 

I sit down at the table and roll my eyes.  Shorter normally cooks for us, and he's horrible, but he always tries to get better, and I think he's also trying to compensate for what's been going on.  Why?  I don't know, but he's always been like this.  Also, his undying love for cooking doesn't help the fact that he keeps trying to make what always is a disaster into something edible.

 

Half-listening, I hear Eiji reply softly, "Ano . . . ah . . . how about carry out?"

 

Shorter laughs, then continues, "Good one.  The food's on, but I've got business," then he addresses me, turning away from Eiji, "You going anywhere?"

 

"Maybe," I shake my head.  He knows better than to ask that!  I guess that he's just letting Eiji know that I'm out here and not in there.

 

"Well, anyway," Shorter turns back to Eiji, "You're in luck. Ash's cooking, so you don't have to worry."

 

I glower slightly at him as he goes to the door.  I'm not hot on cooking with a gas stove, so many things can go wrong.  Only Eiji and Shorter can really use it without worrying, and only Eiji can cook on it, but still it just makes me ill at ease.

 

Winking, or what that motion has to be behind his sunglasses, Shorter leaves through the door, "See you two later," and I hear the apartment door close in his farewell.

 

I hear Eiji moving about as he heads into the bathroom, then comes out a little later as he comes over to the table.

 

"'Morning."

 

"Ohayo," he answers me with what has to be Japanese for what he clarifies it as, "Ah . . . good morning."

 

Glancing around, he looks a little helpless, and I know he's wondering where breakfast is.  I know that Shorter said I was making it, but I'm just too tired to get up, and I'm not hungry, minimizing my motivation to make some.

 

"What?"  I test to see if he'll voice what's on his face.

 

He stares a moment, 'Where's breakfast?' clearly written on his features as he shrugs it off as, "Nothing."

 

I raise an eyebrow, then watch as he starts rummaging through the kitchen.  He complies a grocery list whenever we have enough money to make a run, and then one of Shorter's men grab the stuff for us.  Watching as he pulls out tofu, rolls, and tea, I feel my stomach flip in disgust.  I really could never eat oriental food.  Tofu just makes me squeamish, and then tea just makes my stomach feel warm and slosh, but rolls doesn't sound half-bad.

 

I kind of wish he'd fry something other than tofu up though.

 

Letting my mind wander, I watch him closely.  He's off in Eiji land again, back to whatever he thinks about when he runs off on autopi . . . .

 

"Eiji!" my eyes widen as an orange flame lights up the skillet.  "EIJI!"  Shoving him aside, I use what I learned from observing some cooks a few times in my life as I put out the skillet fire and bring it under control.  I hate gas ovens!  If I hadn't gotten here soon enough . . . .

 

Closing my eyes, I try to banish what's running through my head.  I can hear her screaming again, and see that look in her eyes.  She was hiding her panic, but she got us out of there as she tried to do what I just did . . . .

 

Glancing down at Eiji, who's still stuck in the corner from where I had tossed him aside, I frown, feeling anger surge.  He could have burnt or killed himself!  What the hell was he thinking?!

 

"Don't space out like that!"  I start yelling before I can fully comprehend what I'm about to say, "What the hell were you thinking about anyway?!  You could have burnt yourself, or blown the whole damn place up!"

 

He glances away, he wants to say he's sorry, "I don't know, I just went onto autopilot."

 

I sigh.  A flash of fire running through the kitchen before my eyes, but with a blink it's gone.  Holding out a hand, I help him up, using a stern, but quiet voice, "Don't go on autopilot when operating a gas stove.  What were you thinking you were doing anyway?"

 

He stares at the stove, his eyes slowly widening.  "I thought I was using an electric stove.  I should have been paying more attention."

 

I'm still mad, but I bet that he always has used an electric one at home, so when he went on autopilot, his brain went through the motions of using that stove and not this one.  Observing the ruins, I sigh again, "Well, you aren't touching the stove for a while, but I think that all the damage was done to the skillet, so we'll live."

 

Touching the handle of the skillet, I feel a flash of that distant memory again.

 

Mom . . . .

 

"Ash . . . ?"

 

Jumping, I stare, then glance down at the skillet, Eiji having brought me back to the problem at hand.  Groaning, I can't believe we have to throw it away.  It's not like we can go out and get a new one.  It's not time for me to extort money from Dino yet, it's still time to lay low.  I'm not even sure if that plan could become reality, we'll just have to wait a little longer.

 

"Well, here's one for the trash.  I hate to throw it out, but it's of no use now."  I walk over to the kitchen window, for once glad that it is over the alley's garbage pile.

 

Checking for a sign that no one's around, I drop it directly onto a trash bag so it doesn't make a clanging noise and give us away.

 

"Boys, out -

 

"Griffin, take Aslan -

 

"Hurry!"

 

I freeze as Eiji starts studying the oven closer.  Slipping past him, I can hear her voice pounding in my head more and more.  I thought that I had forgotten, I was only four, but her voice, so clear . . . .

 

Mom . . . .

 

Before I know it, I'm face down on my pillow, tears streaming, the whole hell flying through my head.

 

It was July 4, 1972 . . . .

 

"Hey, Mom, when will we do the fireworks start?"  I look up from my drawing.  It's of Griff, Mom, Dad, and me in front of a gigantic flag.  I hope that I put as many stars as is supposed to be on it.  I can only count to twenty thanks to Sesame Street.

 

"In a few hours.  First we will have supper, and then we will go see them."

 

Some of our neighbors have cookouts tonight, but we always have special American pies which are stuffed with chicken and vegetables.  Right now she's boiling the filling.

 

"What you drawing there, Aslan?"  Griff looks over my shoulder as I drum my marker-capped fingers on the table, unsure of what shirt color I want Dad to wear in my picture.

 

"A picture.  It's secret."

 

He smiles, then ruffles my hair.  "Don't forget to tell me when it's done."

 

"I won't."  I smile back.  My brother is twelve years older than me and is seventeen.  He's my hero, and I want to be just like him.  He's on the baseball team, and is really good at schoolwork.  Mom and Dad say he's a genius and his IQ's 178, whatever that means.  Next school year, I'm going to be in kindergarten, and he's going to be a senior in high school.  He's really excited, but I wish I could go to college with him.

 

"Griff, honey, could you go get -" Mom suddenly freezes, and I see some weird shadow dancing behind her.  I'm on the other side of the kitchen from her, and can't see whatever it is, but it reminds me of sparklers sort of and how their shadows look weird when Dad goes to light them with his lighter.

 

Turning, she lets me see what's behind her - fire! It's really big too, and it seems to be . . . .

 

"Boys, out -"

 

Griffin's frozen, his gray-green eyes wide in horror.  I don't really understand why, I mean, a lot of people cook food over fires today.

 

Then, it starts climbing up the kitchen wall, and Mom's trying to smother it out as she shouts at us, "Griffin, take Aslan, and get out!"

 

I feel Griff pick me up as I suddenly become aware that our house is burning down!  Just like they talked about one time in a TV show when they said these men called firemen come and save your house by using really powerful hoses!

 

"Hurry!"  Mom screams, and Griff is out the door with me, and running to the various neighbors until we find one at home.  It's the McAlaster's and their daughter Bekki is my age.  She is watching a musical special about today, and invites me to watch too as Griff calls someone on the telephone about our house.

 

"Yes, it's 1515 West Willamsburg Street -

 

"Kitchen - yes, it's gas stove -

 

"Thank you," he hangs up, then looks to me, "Aslan, stay here, I'm going to go with Mr. MacAlistair and help keep the fire from spreading," and then he's out the door.

 

I was asleep after watching the fireworks from Bekki's house, a rise of smoke coming form where mine is.  Bekki said not to worry, and that firemen were coming and would save our house like they said on TV.

 

I hear Dad's voice from downstairs, and leave quietly so I won't wake Bekki, and silently go to see him.  Griff's talking too now, but I can't hear Mom's voice.  She's the most talkative of all of us, except me, according to Grandma.

 

" . . . save her," Dad finishes after I reach the bottom of the stairs.  They're in the kitchen, so I have to go through the family room to get there.

 

"I'm sorry," I hear Mr. MacAlistair say, "She was a fine woman."

 

"When will you tell Aslan?"

 

"I don't know. . . how can I tell him? You don't drop a bombshell on a kid like that," Dad's voice sounds weird, like he's been crying, but Dads don't cry.

 

"I can tell him, Dad," Griff also sounds like he's been crying, and Griff never cries either.

 

"When?"

 

"The morning? I don't know - When do you tell a little kid that their mother is dead?!"

 

Dead?

 

Dead . . . .

 

Dead . . . .

 

Dead . . . .

 

"Ash . . . ?"

 

Blinking, I get an eyeful of pillow as I become aware that I'm almost eighteen and not almost five.  I'm lying face down on my bed in Shorter's apartment.

 

"Ash, where are you?"

 

I close my eyes again.  It's only Eiji.

 

Maybe if I pretend that I'm invisible . . . .

 

I feel the bed shift to the left as he sits on it, his hand resting on my head in a comforting manner.

 

"Ash."

 

I freeze.  It's a defense mechanism from when I was very young.  Whenever someone worried about me like this, I would just turn very still and act invisible.  I know it's ridiculous that I still do it thirteen years later, but that's just how I am.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

'Good job,' I silently snort into the pillow, but respond automatically, "Yeah."

 

"Do you want anything?"

 

I consider it, feeling very small, but that could be because I just relived my first personal hell, "No."

 

I have this distinct feeling that he's smiling.  Why?  I don't know.  I don't think it's because I feel miserable, he's probably just made some weird connection.  He's always making weird connections.

 

"Would you like me to go?"

 

"Don't."

 

That came out of my mouth before I could even register the question.

 

"Eh . . . ?"

 

I guess Eiji wasn't expecting it either. I think I'll re-word it, "Do what you want."

 

"Then I shall stay here."

 

I go to say something to make him leave, but can't.  I don't want him to, but I also don't want to keep him here if he doesn't want to be here.  Yet, I can't say the words, and simply lie here, buried in my pillow, Eiji's hand still on my head in that "It's going to be all right" kind of way.  I feel safe, and don't know why, although, I wish I had the will to get my face out of my pillow.

 

I think I'm suffocating.

 

THE END