DEAD MAN’S ROOM

I wasn’t sure if the heirlooms existed, but if a map existed, the heirlooms might. And if the heirlooms existed, we could sell the heirlooms, and keep our house, and save my brother.

But what about tattoos?

What tattoos?

Grandpa Rose was already (forte)snoring. I took his hands. His hands had white sunspots but zero tattoos. I flipped his hands. His palms had thick wrinkles but zero tattoos. I rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbows. His arms had black hair but zero tattoos. I rolled his pants to the knees. His legs had black hair but zero tattoos. I unlaced his shoes, scuffed loafers with brown laces. I tossed his socks onto the rug. I crouched. His feet had overgrown toenails but zero tattoos. I flipped his feet. His soles had a black stain, a white scar, and a monster wart, but zero tattoos. I stood. His neck had a birthmark the shape of a whirlpool. His neck had zero tattoos.

If the tattoos were somewhere abnormal, like his butt or something, I wasn’t looking there.

I found Grandpa Rose another blanket, and (piano)washed the plates in the sink, and brought my violin in from under the deck. I fell asleep doing homework at the table.

When my mom got home, she sat me up and peeled the homework from my face and led me to the bathroom half-asleep, my forehead smeared with backward numbers.

“If we had the money to keep the house, would we keep it?” I (piano)mumbled.

She washed the numbers from my face.

“We would keep it. But we’ll never have that kind of money again. Not unless your dad got his job back at the factory,” my mom (piano)murmured.

She dabbed my face dry with a rough blue towel.

“I’m going to save the house, and every tree in that backyard,” I (piano)mumbled.

She paused, then set the towel aside, and kissed my head.

“Sorry, but that’s impossible,” my mom (piano)murmured.

She led me to my bedroom. Grandpa Rose was still (piano)snoring. I crawled into bed and fell asleep again.

Before breakfast in the morning, I kicked into my high-tops and grabbed my violin and ran outside to talk to my brother the tree.

On the deck, I paused. A deer with a crown of antlers was standing alongside my brother.

The deer stared at me. The door (forte)slammed shut behind me. The deer sprang into the woods.

WHO WAS THAT? my song said.

JUST A FRIEND, my brother’s song said.

The dirt had paled. The grass had yellowed. We hadn’t had a storm in weeks. When there wasn’t rain, my brother couldn’t drink. I plucked more notes into my violin.

HOW DO YOU FEEL? my song said.

MY ROOTS ARE ACHING, my brother’s song said.

WHEN YOU’RE THIRSTY TELL ME, my song said.

I ran to the garage and rooted around for a bucket. My dad kept a photograph tacked to the pegboard in the garage of my mom pushing me on the swing set, which was majorly embarrassing, because back then my head had been way too big for my body. Actually, my head sort of still was. I filled a bucket at the spigot and poured water around my brother until everything there was muddy and swirling with gray and brown.

SO MUCH BETTER, my brother’s song said.

My brother went quiet then, just gulping the water.

The heirlooms might not exist. But the heirlooms might exist. And if there was a chance I could save my brother, I had to try.

Before yesterday, my chances hadn’t even been 1%.

WHY ARE YOU SMILING? my brother’s song said, but I was already running back toward the house.

For breakfast I ate oatmeal. Grandpa Rose was awake but confused again. From my first to last bite of oatmeal, he just stared through the windows at the birdhouse, his eyes empty.

I had already searched through his suitcase—he hadn’t brought a map with him, at least not a map on paper. But that night before it had almost sounded like he was saying the map and the tattoos were the same thing.

My mom was frying (forte)sizzling eggs at the stove.

“Are the tattoos the map?” I (piano)whispered.

Grandpa Rose blinked. My mom shook pepper into the pan. I took a bite of oatmeal, hunched low over the bowl, staring at Grandpa Rose.

“Are the tattoos the map?” I (piano)whispered.

My mom’s slippers (piano)scuffed against the floor as she carried her eggs to the table. I pretended to count the cracks in the bowl. Grandpa Rose was staring at nothing.

I decided just to ask my mom what she knew.

“Hey, Mom, do we have family heirlooms?” I (forte)said.

My mom frowned, raising her plate and tucking her shirt against her stomach as she slid into her chair.

“Did Grandpa Rose say something about that to you?” my mom (forte)said, glancing at Grandpa Rose. “He kept going on about all of that in the car yesterday. Sorry, kiddo, but there aren’t any heirlooms. I tried to tell you, sometimes he gets confused.”

It wasn’t impossible for parents to be wrong. For now, I decided to ignore her theory about the heirlooms. Basically because I didn’t like it.

My mom blew some hair out of her eyes, reaching for a napkin.

“This afternoon I’m bringing him to the rest home,” my mom (forte)said.

“Can’t he just live here?” I (forte)said.

“He’ll be safest living at the rest home. He needs to live somewhere where he’ll have constant supervision. Even if that means that we have to take out more loans,” my mom (forte)said.

I had seen how grandparents lived there. Woken at dawn. Pills with every meal. Nightly scrubbings in showers the size of coffins. Grandpa Rose wouldn’t be happy there. No one was.

Pulpy orange juice (piano)sloshed from a jug into a cup.

Then, chewing some oatmeal, I suddenly thought of a genius plan.

“I’ll come too,” I (forte)said.

“You want to come?” my mom (forte)said, surprised.

“Yes,” I (forte)said.

He had said not to bring him to the rest home until we had found the heirlooms. But the rest home was maybe the only place I could learn the truth about the tattoos. During showers, the grandparents had to be completely naked—wherever those tattoos were, the nurse there that night for Grandpa Rose’s shower was going to see everything.

“Then we’ll pick you up on the way,” my mom (forte)said.

At school, in the parking lot, Zeke was selling stolen high-tops to a kid with lip piercings. Zeke always wore a plain gray shirt with extra dark jeans, but every day wore completely different high-tops. Today’s high-tops were bright white, with silver laces. Whatever high-tops Zeke was wearing were always up for sale, like an advertisement. If you wanted, he would sell you the high-tops straight off of his feet, then change into another pair.

As I (forte)thumped out of the bus, Zeke trotted over from the garbage bin and shoved a scrap of paper into my hands.

“Our new numbers,” Zeke (piano)murmured.

He ran into school, his dictionary tucked under his arms like a football.

I unfolded the paper. The paper said 08—27—16 in silver letters. The same color silver as the mermaid drawings on Zeke’s arms.

Mr. Tim, the janitor, was doing something to the door of our locker. Little Isaac and Big Isaac were huddled in the doorway of the bathroom, watching Mr. Tim from the hoods of their hoodies. Mr. Tim wasn’t very old but already was bald about 83%.

“This your locker?” Mr. Tim (forte)said.

I nodded.

“Ezekiel told me everything,” Mr. Tim (forte)said. “Here’s my question. For weeks neither of you have been able to remember the combo? For weeks you’ve been afraid to tell me that you forgot the combo? For weeks you’ve been carrying your books around everywhere instead of asking me to reset the combo? Why’s everybody afraid of me? That’s my question.”

I didn’t know the answer.

“You got the new combo?” Mr. Tim (forte)said.

I nodded.

Mr. Tim (piano)grunted, like THIS TIME DON’T FORGET, then wheeled a garbage can toward the choir room. The Isaacs kept huddling in the bathroom doorway. I (piano)spun our new numbers into our locker. I hated our new numbers. Our original combination had been all primes, but our new combination had zero primes, plus only one of the numbers was odd. As I walked to gym class, I tore the combination into shreds. I was afraid the Isaacs would follow me, looking for our new combination, so I threw half of the shreds into a garbage can in the hallway and half of the shreds into a garbage can in the cafeteria.

My mom’s car was parked at the curb after school. Grandpa Rose was in the backseat, wearing gray pants, a leather belt, and a bluish shirt, as per usual, and hugging his suitcase to his chest. I hopped into the car. We drove to the bank, then to the grocer, then past the graveyard with its mossy tombs and its chained mausoleums and on to the rest home.

A mustached guard supervised the door from a booth, (piano)sipping steaming coffee. Grandparents gaped from the doorways of numbered rooms, slouched across wheelchairs, hunched over walkers. My mom (piano)spoke their names, smiling at a balding woman with flapping hands, touching the neck of a blind man with a (forte)stammering voice. The rest home smelled like hair spray, shaving cream, and whatever chemicals my mom used for mopping. We sat on rickety plastic chairs in the cafeteria. My mom vanished into the office. It was five, but dinner here was over already, and the cafeteria was empty.

Grandpa Rose stared at the wall, where a menu had been chalked onto a chalkboard.

• BREAKFAST: FRUIT YOGURT SCRAMBLED EGGS

• LUNCH: HAM SANDWICHES SOUP

• DINNER: TURKEY PEAS CARROTS

A nurse walked through and changed the menu from today’s to tomorrow’s. He only needed to erase three words to change it.

• BREAKFAST: FRUIT YOGURT BOILED EGGS

• LUNCH: TURKEY SANDWICHES SOUP

• DINNER: BEEF PEAS CARROTS

Grandpa Rose blinked. The nurse left again. The meals here sounded rotten.

“When you realize where you are, you’re going to be mad, sorry. But there’s something we need to do here. And my mom was bringing you either way,” I (glissando)said.

In band class, everyone had learned mezzo means “medium.” So mezzo-forte means “play sort of loudly” and mezzo-piano means “play sort of softly.” So from loudest to softest it’s forte, mezzo-forte, mezzo-piano, piano. Everyone learned about glissandos too. A glissando is when you suddenly leap between two notes—like when a boy is talking and his voice cracks. At school kids perform glissandos constantly—some boy will be talking, trying to speak normally, when suddenly, on a random word like “milk,” his voice will leap a whole octave. I can’t stand anywhere near Emma Dirge and Leah Keen without glissandoing. When you glissando, your only move is to pretend that you didn’t, praying that no one noticed. But, obviously, everyone noticed.

Sitting there with Grandpa Rose, I heard a voice, suddenly—a brassy jarring muddy (piano)lilt, the sound bouncing along the hallway and into the cafeteria. I leaned toward the sound, listening.

“I recognize that voice from somewhere,” I (forte)said.

The voice was someone’s from school. A kid’s voice. You never heard that here.

“If I leave you alone, you’re not going to run away again, are you?” I (forte)said.

Grandpa Rose sat clutching his cane, blinking at the chalkboard, quiet^braindead. Trying to get him to answer questions when he was like this was pointless.

“Just don’t move,” I (forte)said.

I snuck off into the hallway.

Jordan Odom was sitting cross-legged on the floor of room #37 (prime). His hands were splayed across the linoleum, stubby fingers that never could have reached an octave on a keyboard. His high-tops had cracking leather, and his jeans were so worn the color had faded almost totally, and his sweatshirt looked like someone’s castoff. He had black scabs under his chin and on his ears from the fight on the bus with Mark “Flatface” Huff. Jordan’s the one who gave Mark Huff the nickname Flatface. Jordan gave everyone their nicknames. That’s half of why no one is friends with him anymore. Jordan was the one who gave the Geluso twins the nicknames Crooked Teeth and The Unibrow (one has crooked teeth but doesn’t have a unibrow, one has a unibrow but doesn’t have crooked teeth). Emma Dirge he nicknamed Gimpy. Leah Keen he nicknamed Smelly.

I thought about heading back to the cafeteria. The showers would start soon. Whatever happened, I couldn’t miss Grandpa Rose’s. But I had to eavesdrop, here. My curiosity was hitting peak levels.

I leaned sideways and peeked further into the room. A bald grandfather was sprawled across a bed, the stripes of light from the blinds perpendicular to the stripes of white on his pajamas. His head was spotted with moles, and he was as gap-toothed as Jordan. I didn’t know then that this talk was noteworthy, but it’s noteworthy, 100%.

“Then I’ll find you a new home,” Jordan (forte)said.

“I don’t want a home. I want euthanasia,” Jordan’s grandfather (forte)said.

“Euthanasia?” Jordan (forte)said.

“A mercy killing. A coup de grace. Like when a dog has cancer, or gets so old that its body hurts all the time, so its owners do what’s humane and just put the dog down,” Jordan’s grandfather (forte)said.

“You mean kill it?” Jordan (forte)said.

“I’m an old dog. I hurt all the time. I don’t want to end up like Don Wilmore,” Jordan’s grandfather (forte)said. “Don Wilmore lived here for nineteen years, until he was so old that his memories rotted away. He couldn’t remember anything. Not even the names of his children. Not even the name of his wife. He had heart attacks, pneumonia, bronchitis, he should have died any number of times, but the nurses wouldn’t let him, they kept saving him, they kept bringing him back. Those last few years, he wasn’t a person anymore. He was an empty shell.”

Thinking about it made me feel nervous^helpless. Grandpa Rose’s memories were rotting away too. I didn’t know how long he had before his memories would rot away totally.

Jordan’s grandfather fumbled for a pair of glasses.

“But let’s talk about something nice. Tell me about school today! What did you learn?” Jordan’s grandfather (forte)said.

Jordan squinted, thinking.

“Well, I learned that if out of total boredom you flush a urinal very quickly over and over and over about a hundred times, the urinal will break and completely flood the bathroom floor,” Jordan (forte)said.

Jordan’s grandfather pretended to be ashamed, or maybe wasn’t pretending.

“I’m sorry, but that does not count as learning,” Jordan’s grandfather (forte)said.

“The janitor about cried when he saw all of that water,” Jordan (forte)said.

Jordan leaned against the radiator. He spotted me in the hallway. He frowned.

“Hey, move along, Boyfriend Of Zeke,” Jordan (mezzo-forte)said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I (forte)said.

“It means move along, so why aren’t you moving?” Jordan (mezzo-forte)said.

“I meant what’s ‘Boyfriend Of Zeke’ supposed to mean?” I (forte)said.

“It means everybody says you’ve been running around together,” Jordan (mezzo-forte)said.

Jordan’s original nickname for me had been Calculator. Boyfriend Of Zeke didn’t seem any better.

“If you aren’t careful, he’ll try planting a kiss on your lips, like he did to Little Isaac,” Jordan (mezzo-forte)said.

“He was just helping me find my grandfather,” I (forte)said.

A woman in a gray papery gown wheeled past, going about half a mile per hour. Her hair was like the hair of someone recently electrocuted. She braked, sat there, made some (forte)hacking noises, then started pushing the wheels again. She seemed as confused as Grandpa Rose.

“Threnody, come down from that boat!” she (mezzo-forte)shouted.

Her wheelchair (mezzo-piano)creaked away toward the cafeteria. Jordan hunched over his knees, gripping his high-tops, glaring at me. Jordan’s grandfather smiled and waved hi.

“Hey, Calculator, didn’t I tell you to move along?” Jordan (glissando)said.

In the cafeteria, the woman in the gray papery gown had braked across from Grandpa Rose. Then she had puked onto his shoes. Now she was crying.

“Worse than prison,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.

“I’m sorry, Hunter, I’m sorry,” the woman (mezzo-piano)cried. Her lips were wet. I wanted to help her, but I was afraid to touch her.

My mom walked past the cafeteria carrying a bent box and saw what had happened.

“You’re okay, Ms. Wilmore,” my mom (mezzo-piano)said. She cleaned the woman’s lips with a napkin. “Let’s get you changed.” She wheeled the woman into the hallway.

I didn’t say anything. I was sort of stunned.

“I used to be stronger,” Grandpa Rose (mezzo-piano)said. “I’m weak now, weaker than a month ago even, the weakest ever.” He punched his legs, like someone stranded kicking a dead horse. “I thought I could find them myself, but I don’t think I can find them alone anymore. If I’m going to find them, I need your help. If things get much worse, I may need you to find them yourself.”

“The heirlooms?” I (forte)said.

“I don’t like to beg, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll beg,” Grandpa Rose (mezzo-piano)said. He clutched the hem of my shirt. “I don’t have much time. Sneak me away from here. Take me back there. Please, kid.”

“You can’t live at the ghosthouse,” I (forte)said, but I wasn’t sure. I thought, when a grandfather and a mom want different things, how do you know who to listen to?

The memories emptied from his eyes, like waves crashing onto shore slipping away again.

“What’s the map?” I (forte)said.

“I tattooed myself,” Grandpa Rose (mezzo-piano)mumbled.

“Where?” I (forte)said.

“To remember,” Grandpa Rose (mezzo-piano)mumbled.

“Are the heirlooms in the ghosthouse?” I (forte)said.

“Everything,” Grandpa Rose (mezzo-piano)mumbled.

“How much are the heirlooms worth? Are they worth enough that we could keep our house? Are they worth enough that we could save my brother?” I (forte)said.

His eyes lit.

“Even more than—” Grandpa Rose (forte)said, but then my mom carried a mop and a bucket into the cafeteria.

My mom (forte)plunked the bucket onto the floor, (piano)slopping some chemicals.

“Ms. Wilmore’s husband died last week. We’re emptying his room now. Then we’ll unpack Grandpa Rose,” my mom (forte)said.

“You’re leaving me in a dead man’s room?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.

I didn’t want to point out that every room was a dead man’s room, here. Kids avoided this place for the same reason kids avoided the ghosthouse. Because people had died there.

“That’s why she was upset? Because her husband’s dead?” I (forte)said.

“No,” my mom (forte)said. She (piano)dunked the mop into the bucket. “Usually she doesn’t even know where she is. Usually she doesn’t even know that he’s gone.”

It was even worse here than I had thought.

Grandpa Rose had room #53 (prime), where Mr. Wilmore had lived a week ago. I tried not to think about whether his scent was still hanging in the air, whether his voice was still echoing against the windows. As nurses walked from room to room, the showers there (forte)cranked, on off, on off, on off. My mom was signing paperwork in the office. A nurse with curly hair and speckled glasses was unwrapping a bar of soap for Grandpa Rose. Grandpa Rose didn’t want to shower. He kept rambling about “rumrunners.” He kept asking for the “warden.” He kept asking where he was. As the nurse helped him into the shower, I started talking. It was time for my genius plan.

“It’s a project for school about relatives with tattoos,” I (forte)said.

A faint whiff of lemony soap drifted across the room. The nurse stood watching Grandpa Rose through the curtain.

“I’d like to avoid seeing him naked, because that’s gross, obviously,” I (glissando)said. “But, you have to look at him naked, which solves my problem. So, the tattoos are somewhere on his body. Whenever you’re ready, I need a list of every tattoo, plus detailed descriptions.”

The nurse squatted to catch a bottle of shampoo that had rolled out of the shower. Water (mezzo-forte)slushed. Something (mezzo-piano)clonked.

“Do you see them? Can you read them? If there are a lot of them, just take them one by one,” I (forte)said.

The nurse reached through the curtain to steady Grandpa Rose. I couldn’t tell if the nurse was listening to me or not. I hadn’t counted on the fact that the nurse might just ignore me.

“So?” I (forte)said.

The water stopped. Grandpa Rose stopped mumbling. The nurse led him from the shower wrapped in a bathrobe. His beard was matted and dripping water. The nurse toweled his face.

“Sorry,” the nurse (mezzo-forte)said.

The nurse checked a box on the clipboard hanging from the wall, then looked at me, finally.

“But your grandfather doesn’t have any tattoos,” the nurse (mezzo-forte)said, and smiled, and then whisked off toward the next room.