📖 Part 5 – Saturdays Rewritten
Tommy’s hands were as worn as Harold’s — maybe more. Thick calluses, faint scars, fingers stiff with time. But they still knew a hammer.
They worked side by side beneath the maple tree, no radio, no small talk at first. Just the creak of wood, the thud of nails, the grunt of effort shared between two men too old for pride and too stubborn for apology.
The sky overhead was pewter gray. No rain, just a breeze sharp enough to rustle leaves like soft applause.
By late afternoon, the platform was complete. A floor. Four walls. An opening for a window they hadn’t built yet.
They stood beneath it, arms crossed, inspecting their work.
“It’s crooked,” Tommy said.
Harold grinned. “So were we.”
Tommy laughed. Not a big one — just enough to mean something.
They carried the folding chairs up into the new-old den and sat for a long time in silence. The tree swayed gently beneath them. Birds flitted through the branches. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once and fell silent again.
Then Tommy pulled something from his coat pocket.
It was a worn cassette tape. The label read: Channel 3 — Saturday Morning Mix.
“I made it in college,” he said. “After we stopped talking. Used to play it when I missed home. When I missed you.”
Harold took the tape like it was a living thing.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“I didn’t tell you,” Tommy replied.
They didn’t need to say more. Not yet.
That night, Harold dug out his old cassette player — the one Marianne had insisted on keeping “just in case.” It still worked, if you pressed the play button just right and shoved a paperback underneath the back end to keep it from tilting.
He and Tommy sat in the living room, lights low, couch creaking under their weight. The TV flickered on without being touched. No remote, no button — just that same slow buzz as always.
Tommy stared at it.
“Still works?”
“Channel 3,” Harold said. “Every time.”
They turned to look.
This time, the cartoon was clear.
Tom and Jerry.
The same episode where Jerry hides in a toy train and Tom crashes through a wall of alphabet blocks.
They both chuckled. Then laughed.
Then let themselves fall silent again.
The cartoon ended.
The screen faded to black.
And for the first time in years, neither of them felt alone.
The next morning, they walked to the edge of the backyard where the old tire swing had once hung. The rope had rotted away long ago, but the tire lay in the weeds, half-covered in moss.
Tommy picked it up. “Still got one good swing left.”
“Let’s test that theory before we snap a hip,” Harold muttered.
By midday, it was hanging again — uneven, but familiar. Harold took the first swing. Tommy pushed once, then twice. Just like when they were kids.
By the third swing, Harold was laughing.
“Don’t let go,” Tommy warned.
Harold looked over his shoulder. “You still talk like you’re the older one.”
“I’m taller.”
“You’re balder.”
They laughed again — easier now, like laughter was something you could lose and find again like a dropped marble under the couch.
Later, they sat on the porch drinking lemonade with too much pulp.
Harold looked at his brother.
“You said you were ashamed. Why?”
Tommy turned the glass in his hands.
“Because I left when you needed me. I went off to chase my life while you stayed behind and buried Dad. Took care of Mom. Took care of everything. I ran from it. You didn’t.”
Harold’s face softened.
“I wasn’t mad about that,” he said quietly. “I was mad because I thought I didn’t matter enough for you to stay.”
Tommy shook his head. “You were the only reason I wanted to come back.”
They sat there, two old men in folding chairs, the treehouse behind them, the TV inside flickering like a heartbeat.
Finally, Tommy said:
“Let’s make Saturday breakfast. Like we used to.”
Harold nodded. “You still like peanut butter in your cereal?”
Tommy grinned. “Only if it’s on top of Cocoa Puffs.”
They stood up slowly — not from pain, but from peace.
Inside, the static on Channel 3 was already clearing.
📖 Part 6 – The Cocoa Puffs Pact
Saturday morning broke with the smell of toast and burning peanut butter.
Tommy had insisted on doing breakfast. He rummaged through the cabinets like a raccoon with a purpose, tossing boxes aside until he found a near-expired pack of Cocoa Puffs and a jar of peanut butter with the label peeling off.
Harold watched from the kitchen table, amused. “You always did make a mess just to make something simple.”
Tommy scooped a dollop of peanut butter onto the cereal and poured a splash of milk over it. “Gourmet,” he said proudly, setting the bowl down in front of his brother like it was a sacred offering.
They sat together at the table, legs brushing beneath it like they had when they were boys — though now the table was lower and the knees creaked more than the chairs.
The first bite was awful.
The peanut butter had hardened into clumps, the milk was lukewarm, and the cereal tasted faintly of the pantry.
But they kept eating.
Because taste wasn’t the point.
The ritual was.
“You remember that time Dad caught us watching cartoons before chores?” Tommy said, mouth half-full.
Harold nodded, chuckling. “He pulled the plug out of the wall, nearly took the whole TV with it.”
“He made us haul firewood for three hours.”
“We did it barefoot, just to make a point.”
Tommy snorted. “And Mom was so mad at him, she banned TV for a week. But we snuck into the garage and watched through the window.”
They laughed until their eyes watered.
Then, silence settled in again — comfortable this time.
Tommy reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. He placed it on the table without a word.
Harold stared at it.
“You kept it?”
Tommy nodded.
Harold opened the pouch.
Inside was a silver ring — their father’s. Worn thin on the edges, the initials “G.D.” still etched inside. Glenn Dunn. A hard man. A broken man. But their father all the same.
“I thought you lost this,” Harold whispered.
Tommy shook his head. “I kept it in my sock drawer. Couldn’t wear it. Couldn’t throw it away.”
Harold held it in his palm.
“I don’t know if I hated him,” he said. “But I never stopped missing the good parts.”
Tommy stared at the table. “Same.”
The ring sat between them like a relic from a world they both survived — separately.
“Keep it,” Harold said softly. “You were the last one he said anything to.”
Tommy met his eyes. “He asked about you, you know. At the hospital.”
Harold blinked. “What?”
“He said he wished he’d built the treehouse with us. That he watched from the window and wished he hadn’t been such a damn fool.”
The words hit Harold like a wave — not crashing, but swelling quietly until he had to put the ring down just to breathe.
He nodded.
Then stood.
“I want to show you something.”
They walked out to the barn, the sun slanting low behind them.
Harold led Tommy inside and pulled open a tarp in the corner. Underneath was something he’d been working on for months before the rainstorm brought the TV back into his life.
An old record player. The same model they’d had in the ‘70s. Rebuilt, polished, oiled. The turntable gleamed.
Tommy whistled. “You fix everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything,” Harold said. “But the things that matter.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a vinyl record in a cracked sleeve.
Bobby Goldsboro – Watching Scotty Grow.
He placed it on the turntable.
The needle hissed.
Then the soft, warm chords filled the barn like sunshine.
Tommy closed his eyes.
Harold watched him.
No one spoke.
They didn’t have to.
Because some Saturdays don’t need saving — only remembering.
And some brothers, no matter how long they drift, still find their way back when the tune is right and the static clears.
