THE PRISONER LIVES

Everything started when I got home from school and my mom shouted, “Nicholas, come into the kitchen, there’s something you need to know.” Actually, everything started when the Isaacs found me at school and said, “Meet us tonight, the graveyard at sunset, and don’t even think about not coming.” Or, actually, everything started with locker partners.

Seventh grade means riding a different bus, means having a new building, means sharing lockers with locker partners. Everyone else in my grade was thirteen or twelve, but because I skipped kindergarten, I was still only eleven. Seventh graders are in their own building across from the high school. Everyone had to choose a locker partner. No one wanted Zeke Song, so we were assigned to each other, because no one wanted me either. Zeke is a thief. He steals high-tops from the locker room, backpacks from the choir room, and instruments from the band room. Then he sells everything for money. He keeps the money in a gold backpack on the floor of our locker.

It’s not because he’s a thief that everyone avoids him. Everyone avoids him because he draws mermaids on his arms in silver marker and because sometimes he barks at teachers like he’s a dog. Actually, he probably still would have friends, even with the mermaid drawings and the dog barking, except for that once in fifth grade he kissed Little Isaac on the lips. That’s why everyone avoids him. You can’t cross Little Isaac like that and still have any friends.

I never saw Zeke at our locker normally—during school he was always sneaking around, stealing. So a few days ago I was unlocking our locker to get my sack lunch (my parents couldn’t afford to buy me cafeteria lunch anymore) when I decided to unzip the gold backpack. Just to count the money. Everyone was already in the cafeteria. The hallway was empty. As per usual, the gold backpack was on the floor of our locker, and Zeke’s dictionary—a thick one, with a stained cover—sat on the shelf above.

I unzipped the gold backpack halfway. Then I spotted Little Isaac and Big Isaac walking down the hallway. The Isaacs aren’t brothers—they’re just both named Isaac. Little Isaac is the one who dribbles the ball down the court. Big Isaac is the one who stands under the basket.

“There you are,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

In band class everyone had learned new terms. Forte means “play loudly.” Piano means “play softly.” Da capo means “return to the beginning,” means “play the song again.” In band class I play the violin. I already knew about forte and piano and da capo from taking violin lessons, but some kids learned just that morning.

I rezipped the backpack, shut the locker, spun the combination.

Big Isaac poked the locker with a thumb.

“Unlock it,” Big Isaac (forte)said.

“But I’m going to lunch,” I (forte)said.

“He told you to unlock it,” Little Isaac (piano)said.

Sometimes when people talk piano, that means they’re afraid of you. Sometimes piano means that only you’re supposed to hear what they’re saying. Sometimes piano just means that they’re tired. But when Little Isaac talks piano, that means he’s giving you a warning.

The choir teacher came around the corner carrying a stack of songbooks, glancing at us.

The Isaacs raised their eyebrows, and shifted their eyes.

“Never mind the locker, Isaac,” Big Isaac (forte)said.

“Isaac, you’re right, never mind the locker,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

Little Isaac smiled a fake smile. Big Isaac smiled a fake smile. I tried slipping past them. They grabbed me. I’m abnormally skinny, which makes me easy to grab.

“But you,” Little Isaac (piano)said, frowning now. “Meet us tonight, the graveyard at sunset, and don’t even think about not coming.”

Why did they want me to meet them? After school, on the bus, I tried calculating an answer to that question. I live in a village on the shore of Lake Michigan, in the Lower Peninsula, obviously. The lake is the size of a sea, takes a whole day to cross in a sailboat. When our bus passes the wharf, you can see the lake through the trees, just more and more and more water that never ends. Michigan has 64,969 bodies of water (prime). You’re never more than seven miles away from a body of water (prime). Anything that isn’t water, it’s trees. I realized suddenly that maybe the Isaacs were going to ask me to check their math homework. Sometimes kids ask that, because they know my brain is like a calculator. I decided to hope that’s what the Isaacs wanted. I was staring through the window with my nose pressed against the glass.

Just then, a fight erupted in the seat across from mine. I didn’t know then this fight was noteworthy, but it’s noteworthy, 100%. The fight started between a pair of kids in my grade, Jordan Odom and Mark “Flatface” Huff. In sixth grade, Jordan had been friends with Mark Huff. In sixth grade, Jordan had been friends with everyone. But on the bus that afternoon Mark Huff suddenly vaulted over his seat into Jordan’s. They wrapped around each other like they were hugging, except they were punching each other’s ribs. The Geluso twins vaulted over their seat, and then they were punching Jordan too. One Geluso head-butted Jordan’s chin. One Geluso bit Jordan’s ear. By now, everyone was (forte)cheering, all rooting for Jordan to lose.

Mr. Carl, our driver, yanked the bus over to the side of the road.

“Knock that off!” Mr. Carl (forte)shouted.

The bus had stopped on the empty stretch of road across from the ghosthouse. From the road, all you can see of the ghosthouse is its roof poking above the trees, half of the shingles missing, half of the shingles bleached white by the sun. Kids used to explore the ghosthouse on dares, but no one’s dared to go there since a ghost tripped Mark Huff out the attic window.

“Hey, I said, knock that off!” Mr. Carl (forte)shouted, getting angry now.

Everyone quit cheering. The Geluso twins scrambled to their seat. Mark Huff limped to his. Jordan has messy red hair and a gap in his teeth. Now he had a bloody ear, a split lip, and a cut under his chin too.

“You’re dead,” Mark Huff (piano)muttered.

Jordan didn’t say anything—just stared at his shoes on the floor.

At home, I gathered the mail from the mailbox, ran up the driveway, then gathered the newspaper from the stoop. My mom’s car was parked in the driveway instead of the garage, which meant she must have gone somewhere earlier and was leaving again soon. There were acorns, dark green and pale brown, that had fallen from the trees above the car and gotten caught in its hood.

I knew this was going to be a year of Big Events. I was eleven years old (prime). Plus I was in seventh grade (prime). Plus I was taking an eleventh-grade math class (prime). Plus the year was 1999 (prime). After my dad lost his job and had to move to the Upper Peninsula, the next Big Event of the year was when my mom planted a FOR SALE sign in our yard. My parents said we weren’t making the money we needed to keep our house anymore. I had been afraid of this. Lots of people in our village had been losing their jobs, had been losing their houses to the banks. The houses sat empty, waiting for someone with the money to buy them. No one had the money to buy them. I liked our house, but I could have been happy living anywhere. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that my brother the tree was buried in the backyard, and we couldn’t take him with us.

I was avoiding looking at the FOR SALE sign, because seeing it there in our yard always made me feel helpless, and doomed, and kind of dizzy. But I could hear it anyway, swaying in the breeze, (piano)creaking, like it wasn’t going to let me forget that my days here were numbered. I slipped into the house, as the door (forte)thunked shut behind me.

Inside, I slid onto the piano bench, I was dying to play a song, but before I could even get my fingers onto the keys I heard my mom (forte)shouting, “Nicholas, come into the kitchen, there’s something you need to know.”

Our kitchen smelled like cinnamon, as per usual, plus cigarettes, which was new. Mom smokes now? I thought, but I didn’t say anything. Parents have all sorts of secrets. When you live with them you’re always finding out new things about them. I piled stamped envelopes on the counter, alongside the newspaper.

“Dad call today?” I (forte)said.

“He’ll call his next day off,” my mom (forte)said. “The usual schedule.” She was (forte)chopping green tomatoes on the cutting board. She doesn’t normally make me a sandwich after school, but it looked like she was making me a sandwich. She was wearing her uniform, plus her name tag, which says BEA. She works at the rest home, changing sheets and sweeping floors. We both have tangled hair and upturned noses. “Nicholas, your grandfather is here.”

I shoved a lock of hair out of my eyes.

“Grandfather? What grandfather? I thought he was dead?” I (forte)said.

“Grandpa Funes is dead. This is Grandpa Rose,” my mom (forte)said.

“Your father?” I (forte)said.

“Yes,” my mom (forte)said.

“You said he was dead,” I (forte)said.

“I never said he was dead,” my mom (forte)said.

“You definitely said he was dead,” I (forte)said.

“He wasn’t,” my mom (forte)said.

“Where has he been?” I (forte)said.

“Prison,” my mom (piano)said.

My dad’s nickname for Grandpa Rose was The Prisoner. I had never understood the nickname until now.

“Prison? Since when? This whole time?” I (forte)said.

“Twice. Once before I was born. And once since I was fifteen,” my mom (forte)said. She nicked a finger with the knife. She (piano)gasped, like THAT HURT. She cranked the faucet and held the finger under the water. “And if I told you he was dead, that’s because everybody said that this time he would die before his sentence ended, and I thought it would be better for me and for you and for everybody to pretend that he was dead already, than to talk about him being in prison.” She wiped her hands with a faded towel. “But he didn’t die. He had cancer but survived it. He had a stroke but survived it. He had another stroke but survived it. He somehow survived everything, and his sentence ended, and today he called me from the train station to tell me that he was home.”

My mom hardly ever talked about Grandpa Rose. And she never had said anything about him being a criminal. Or about him being in prison. Or about him being alive.

“Now he lives here?” I (forte)said.

“He’s eighty-nine, Nicholas. Sometimes he gets confused. He can have problems remembering where he is, or what he’s doing, or who he’s talking to,” my mom (forte)said. “When I drove to the train station, Grandpa Rose wasn’t there anymore. I searched the phone booths. I searched the ticket counters. I searched the train platforms. I begged a worker to search the bathrooms. He wasn’t anywhere. I drove home again, worried sick something had happened. Then I saw him. Walking along the road, covered with dust, dragging a suitcase. Headed the completely wrong direction. It took me an hour to get him into the car. He didn’t remember calling me. He didn’t even remember who I was.” She laid the tomatoes on the sandwich. “He can’t live here. We can’t take care of him. Especially with your dad gone.” She handed me the plate. “I’m late already. I can’t miss work. I need you to watch him. Tonight I’ll ask about getting a room at the rest home. The sandwich is for him. There are leftovers if you’re hungry.”

I wanted to say, “I can’t watch Grandpa Rose because I have to meet the Isaacs at the graveyard and if I don’t then they’ll hurt me,” but I couldn’t tell her that.

“If he offers you a cigarette, say no. If he offers to teach you how to steal a car, say no. He might get confused, but if he tries to leave, just sit him down again and turn on the television,” my mom (forte)said. “He can sleep on the couch, okay? Call me if you have questions. Do your homework, brush your teeth.” She kissed my head, which I don’t allow unless we’re alone. Then she threw open the door and sent me scooting onto the deck.

Grandpa Rose was sitting on a chair there with a cigarette pinched between a pair of fingers. He had a thick gnarled beard, white with streaks of gray, twisted into snarls across his cheeks, curled over his lips, in knots under his jaw. He was wearing gray pants, a leather belt, and a bluish shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. Beyond him the wind was tearing gold leaves from the oak trees, floating the leaves off into the woods. My mom shut the door without saying goodbye.

I brought him the sandwich.

“I hear you’re a whiz with numbers,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. He bit into the sandwich and stared at me as he chewed. Everyone says my eyes are the color of limes, but my dad has brown eyes and my mom has brown eyes, so I always thought that my green eyes hadn’t come from anyone. But Grandpa Rose’s eyes were that exact same green as mine. He was huge and skinny, and his skin was wrinkled and veiny, and his face was freckled with white sunspots. He was the best grandfather I ever could have imagined. I was too afraid of him to speak or even breathe. “A math whiz. Like Grandma Rose. Your Grandma Rose was a whiz with numbers too. Bring me my cane, would you, kid?”

He was scratching at the beard like it was a sweater he wasn’t used to wearing. I brought him the cane that was leaning against the house.

“Naptime for this grandpa,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. “I have a big trip to make later, so I’m going to need my energy.” He swallowed the rest of the sandwich and hobbled into the house. I wanted to know if he had ever killed anyone. I wanted to know if he remembered my name.

Grandpa Rose was (forte)snoring already on the couch. I took my violin from my backpack and hopped the railing and ran to the woods to talk to my brother the tree. We talk with music. Whenever I have a question, I ask my brother. My brother always has an answer. When I’m not home my brother talks to the birds, who have been everywhere and seen everything, and to the older trees, who are majorly wise.

I sawed my bow across my violin, making notes that meant, BROTHER OUR GRANDPA ROSE IS ALIVE SOMEHOW AND AT OUR HOUSE. I AM SUPPOSED TO WATCH HIM BUT I AM SUPPOSED TO MEET THE ISAACS AT THE GRAVEYARD TOO. SO NOW WHAT?

My brother uses the wind to make music with his branches. Also sometimes the birds help him with his songs.

My brother’s song said, MEET THE ISAACS. BUT TAKE YOUR KNIFE. I WILL WATCH OUR GRANDFATHER FROM HERE.

My knife was back in the house, in my bedroom, in my closet somewhere. I didn’t have time to get it. The sun was setting. The Isaacs were probably already waiting. I hid my violin under the deck and ran down the driveway.

Our road runs from the wharf, past the ghosthouse, through our neighborhood, into town. I was heading toward town, obviously. I crossed the stone bridge over the creek, where the woods finally die off into lampposts and sidewalks, and kept running. Downtown in our village is just one strip, lined by shops with square signs and diamond windows. Just before the shops is the graveyard, with hundreds and hundreds of tilting gravestones and crumbling monuments, sprawling over hills overgrown with weeds. The rest home sits across the street from the graveyard, its door facing its gate. I’ve never had a grandparent who lived at the rest home, only a mom who works there. I (forte)clattered into the graveyard over its spiked fence.

Gold clouds were drifting above the graveyard. Below, Little Isaac and Big Isaac were leaning against a tomb topped with a stone boy. The stone boy was naked except for some stone leaves. Beyond the tomb sat a chained mausoleum, the sort of building where whole families were buried, that said XAVIER 1847–1913.

“Hi,” I (forte)said.

“Consider yourself tardy,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

Big Isaac grabbed me and dragged me behind the tomb and shoved me against the stone boy, while Little Isaac stooped in the weeds for a wound coil of moldy rope. I (forte)shouted for help as the Isaacs tied me to the stone legs.

Big Isaac hit me in the ribs.

“Stop screaming,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

“You’re acting like a kindergartner,” Big Isaac (forte)said.

“All we want is the combination to your locker,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

The Isaacs peeked around the tomb as a truck (forte)sputtered past the graveyard. The Isaacs were wearing black basketball hoodies. Basketball hoodies have names and numbers printed on the back. Little Isaac’s said ISAAC 17. Big Isaac’s said ISAAC 19. Little Isaac’s pouch was bulging with something that had edges like a knife’s.

“Now there aren’t any teachers around, let’s try this again,” Little Isaac (forte)said.

“Are you going to take Zeke’s money?” I (forte)said.

“You think we need Zeke’s money?” Little Isaac (forte)said. “We don’t need anybody’s money. Our parents give us anything we want. No, your locker partner stole something from us, something we need.”

“You’re going to take Zeke’s money,” I (forte)said.

Big Isaac hit me again. I made myself think about music so I wouldn’t have to think about hurting. I thought, forte means loud. I thought, piano means soft. I thought, da capo means return to the beginning, means play the song again. Big Isaac hit me again. Kids love the Isaacs. The Isaacs are as mean as Jordan Odom, but he’s mean to everyone, which is why everyone hates him. The Isaacs are only mean to kids like me, kids who don’t have any friends. Every year the Isaacs have to buy extra yearbooks, because so many kids sign their original yearbooks that there isn’t any room for more signatures. Big Isaac hit me again. I didn’t want to give the combination to the Isaacs. I was trying to protect Zeke.

Little Isaac unlaced my high-tops and twisted them off and tossed them behind a tomb, as Big Isaac lifted a boot to stomp my toes, and I braced myself against the stone boy, already wincing.

“Just say the combination,” Little Isaac (piano)said.

Then I thought of a way to tell them the combination without telling them. I shouted the combination, but in a language they didn’t speak. I shouted the combination in square roots.

“The square root of 529! The square root of 49! The square root of 2,209! That’s the combination!” I (forte)shouted.

Big Isaac stomped my toes anyway. I (forte)shouted the square roots again. Little Isaac reached into the pouch of his hoodie.

“Saw that coming,” Little Isaac (forte)said, taking a calculator from the pouch. “I might not be a genius, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use a calculator.” He punched different numbers into the keys of the calculator. “23. 7. 47. That’s the combination? 23. 7. 47.” He (piano)snorted. “Thanks, sucker.”

The Isaacs stalked into the graveyard, vanishing beyond some mossy tombs.

I jerked against the rope until I could wriggle loose. Then I sat against the XAVIER mausoleum, peeking under my shirt. My ribs were marked with newborn bruises. I knew what this was for the Isaacs. This wasn’t the end of anything. This was the da capo. I was a song they would want to keep singing.

I found my high-tops behind an urn of flowers. I limped home carrying a high-top in each hand.

I picked my way through scattered rocks, fallen acorns, rosy shards of glass, in my socks. Trees swayed above the road, as squirrels leapt between branches. I was crossing the stone bridge, back over the creek again, when I spotted something flickering through the woods. A glint of jean, a wink of shirt. Someone creeping through the trees. It was my locker partner.

Zeke slipped from the trees into the road. His dogs were there too, three wolfdogs with bright eyes and thick tongues. Zeke has dark hair like mine, but buzzed to the scalp. His arms, as per usual, were scrawled with drawings of mermaids.

“Did you give them the combination?” Zeke (forte)said.

“I didn’t mean to,” I (forte)said.

“Coward,” Zeke (forte)said.

He had never spoken to me before. His voice was reedy, sort of growly. One of his wolfdogs (piano)huffed.

“What did you steal from them?” I (forte)said, but Zeke and his wolfdogs had trotted into the trees, had (piano)splashed across the creek, had vanished already. Now he hated me too.

And when I got home, Grandpa Rose wasn’t napping on the couch, wasn’t sitting on the deck, wasn’t anywhere. His cane was gone. He was gone. Gold leaves had blown into the house through the door he hadn’t shut.

I had lost him.

I didn’t even know where to start looking.