Saturdays Child

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He awoke in the first gray light of an October dawn, and he was immediately alert, remembering it was Saturday, knowing it was not like other mornings. This day had a special size and texture, so that it was impossible for him to take a breath that seemed deep enough; yet he could think of no planned event, no anticipated surprise that should give it this flavor. There was no school, of course, but it seemed to be more than a Saturday. If there was some special thing about this day, it was something you had to go out and find, before it had vanished.

He dressed in jeans, sneakers, T shirt, and an old gray sweater. Looking out, he saw the flame of the big maple in the yard, autumn color showing through a mistiness of morning, like an old painting of holocaust.

As he reached the kitchen, he became a bandit, closely pursued by the police, faint with hunger and exhaustion, who had broken into a home where the family sleeps. He looked around the kitchen and made shrewd estimates about this unknown family and cunning guesses about where the food would be kept. Moving with stealth, he made himself three huge peanut-butter sandwiches and put two of them into a paper bag. He stood at the sink and ate the third sandwich and drank two glasses of milk, listening for the screaming of sirens in the distance and for any stir of life within this house that was the home of strangers.

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