A taste of a New Novel: Dead Dad Beat

Chapter One

There was a screen when David opened his mailbox. For the past six days, he had been receiving birthday cards for his eighteenth birthday. Almost every relative he had sent h a card and a check. The envelopes were usually crisp, and his name was typically written across the front in swooping letters. During those six days, his mother had been joking that he'd have to pay the rent, because he had the most money in the house. And though she meant it as a joke, he had more money than her generally, but he didn't want to embarrass her.

It was hard enough for her to raise a child on her own, she didn't need to be reminded that he made more money than her. No. Instead, he took her out once in a while on mom dates, just so she was reminded that he loved her. She never really questioned the dates, because they were spread out far enough.

This time, a week after his birthday, things were similar. The top two envelopes were from relatives trying to give him birthday wishes. He tore them opened and found a grand total of $50. Not bad. It was the kind of money he expected from great aunt's and uncles, since they grew up during a time when gasoline and soda were the same prince.

The third and finally letter in the stack was jet black with a stark white sticker across the front. It had his name embossed across the front, David Meyer or resident. This time, he happened to be both.

It had a different kind of weight. It wasn't a check or cash. The black letter was he one that drew him in. He tore that one open, and it wafted a clean smell into his lungs. Artificial like a hospital. It was the kind of thing, he expected from a hospital.

Inside was a short letter and an article out of a newspaper.

The letter stopped him in his tracks, hitting him like a cold breeze in a hot summer day. It started simply with:

Dear David,

I'm your father. And I'm going to die soon.

Before he could read anymore of the letter, he slid it back into the envelope and tucked it into his cargo shorts. For David, his was the first time he had ever gotten a letter from his father. In fact, it was the first time that he had been contacted by his father at all. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want to deal with his deadbeat dad asking for money. In fact, he could only hope that he'd get another letter saying his father had passed away. At least then, he wouldn't have to worry about what the man wanted.

He climbed the wooden steps up to the apartment door. It was faded from the bright red when they had moved in, resembling more of a pink instead. He nudged it open with a crack and tossed his father's letter onto their table. He had every intention of throwing it away but not in that moment.

He needed to start dinner before his mom got home from work. Tonight, he was thinking about making something simple. Maybe a casserole.

A quick check indicated that his best bet was a breakfast casserole. He yanked the pans from under the stove, and the eggs from the fridge. As he went to crack his first egg, there was a knock on the door. It caused him to break the egg in hand and dropped the yolk on the floor.

“You in there?” It was his friend Jamie. She was always coming around at the most inopportune time to talk about her latest gaming conquest.

“Door’s unlocked as usual.” Jamie shoulder her way into the apartment and stopped short of walking in.

“What's with the death letter?” The letter was still sitting on the dining room table.

“Who told you?”

“Told me what?”

“That the letter is from my dying father?”

“I didn't know that. I just took a stab in the dark. That's awesome. I mean…” Jamie paused to calculate. “No. I'm not going to switch it up, it's awesome"

“Don't touch it.” David cracked an egg into a bowl.

“I definitely didn't already open it.”

“I swear to God!” David said, cracking another egg. The shell fell to the floor smashed to bits. David heard Jamie's echoing footsteps behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to catch Jamie holding the letter from before.

“You really shouldn't swear to God. I can't imagine that's good for health.” David smashed the remaining egg in his hand and let the yolk fall away.

“Put the letter down.”

“Don't you want to know how he's dying? Cancer? War injury? Execution?”

“No.” David grabbed the letter from Jamie and tore it to bits. He let the wet egg white soak into the letter fragments, blurring the ink in his palm.

“I could still tell you, if you really want to know.”

“I don't.”

“You might though.”

“I won't,” David said.