WHICH UNDERWORLD
My mom didn’t come home until dawn. I heard the door being (piano)eased shut, the (piano)patter of footsteps, keys (piano)tinkling on the table. When I had kidnapped Grandpa Rose, I had felt = a hero, but now I felt < a hero. I pretended I was asleep. I didn’t want to see her upset.
She had called earlier, just as I had come running through the door. Majorly frantic, she interrupted me to say that Grandpa Rose had wandered away from the rest home, and then asked whether Grandpa Rose had come back here. When I said he hadn’t, she said to call the rest home if he did, that she had to go, and not to worry, and then she hung up.
Now she was in the doorway. Facing away, curled in my sheets, I saw her shadow glide across the wall. She knew I wasn’t asleep somehow, but I kept pretending.
“We spent all night driving around, trying to find him,” my mom(piano) said.
She sat on the bed. Bedsprings (glissando)squeaked. I tried to breathe normally.
“We didn’t find him,” my mom(piano) said.
The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Tell her where he’s hiding!”, (forte)shouted, “Say something, say anything, tell her the truth!”
She kissed my head.
“Don’t worry, kiddo. He may be old, but he’s tough. He’ll be okay until we find him,” my mom(piano) said.
Now I felt < a nothing. She was worried about me, she was worried about my feelings, and I was the one who knew where Grandpa Rose actually was.
When I woke again, my mom was asleep on the couch, clutching a faded photograph, her hair rayed around her head. In the photograph, a young Grandpa Rose was smoking a black cigarette under birch trees, alone, clean-shaven, wearing a buttoned shirt and tight suspenders. I had seen photographs of Grandpa Rose before. I had never seen a photograph of Grandma Rose though. My mom had said Grandma Rose had never let anyone take her picture.
I ate some toast. I grabbed my high-tops, my backpack, my violin. I ran through the fog and the dew and sat at the roots of my brother the tree.
I HAVE HIDDEN GRANDPA ROSE IN THE GHOSTHOUSE WHERE WE WILL HUNT FOR OUR FAMILY HEIRLOOMS, my song said.
FALL IS HERE. THE SNOWS ARE COMING. YOU CANNOT HIDE OUR GRANDFATHER FOREVER. HE CANNOT STAY WARM IN A HOUSE WITH NO WINDOWS, my brother’s song said.
I was quietthinking.
IT’S TIME YOU KNEW THE TRUTH, my song said. OUR PARENTS ARE TRYING TO SELL OUR HOUSE. THEY SAID WE CAN’T TAKE YOU WITH US.
My brother’s roots gripped the dirt.
IF WE CAN’T FIND OUR FAMILY HEIRLOOMS, WE’LL HAVE TO MOVE AWAY AND LEAVE YOU FOREVER, my song said. BUT KIDS HAVE BEEN TAKING THINGS FROM THE GHOSTHOUSE FOR YEARS AND YEARS AND YEARS, TAKEN EVEN THE DOORKNOBS FROM THE DOORS, TAKEN EVEN THE DOORS FROM THE CUPBOARDS, THEY’VE TAKEN ALL OF IT AWAY, AND WHAT IF OUR HEIRLOOMS WERE STOLEN BY KIDS YEARS AGO, OR WHAT IF THE HEIRLOOMS WERE NEVER HIDDEN IN THE GHOSTHOUSE, WHAT IF GRANDPA ROSE NEVER REMEMBERS WHERE THE MAP IS, WHAT IF THE TATTOOS DON’T EXIST, WHAT IF FOR ONCE I HAD A CHANCE TO FIX EVERYTHING AND I COULDN’T, WHAT IF I FAILED, WRECKED EVERYTHING, MADE EVERYTHING WORSE THAN BEFORE?
DO NOT FEAR THOSE THINGS, my brother’s song said.
The dew on my brother’s branches flashed in the sun.
My brother’s song said, I BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN SAVE ME.
At school, I (forte)thumped off the bus, Mr. Carl (forte)bellowing goodbye.
In the parking lot, Little Isaac and Big Isaac were (forte)banging on the garbage bin with sticks. Zeke’s dictionary was on the pavement next to the garbage bin, like it had been dropped there.
“Come out, come out, Freaky Zekey!” Little Isaac (forte)shouted, stick (forte)clanging against the garbage bin.
Zeke was crouched against a silver van, peeking at the Isaacs. I crouched there too.
“Why are the Isaacs fighting that garbage bin?” I (piano)whispered.
“They think that I’m inside,” Zeke (piano)whispered. “They were chasing me saying they were going to kill me, so I jumped into the bin, and they were too grossed out to jump in after me, so they shut the lid and ran away to get some sticks. I snuck away again before they got back.”
The Isaacs (forte)shouted Zeke’s name again. Above the garbage bin, the school was scarred with initials kids had carved into the brick. VF + BR floated there, my parents’ initials, wearing a lopsided heart. My dad had scratched the same thing into the metal side of a drinking fountain, into the corner of a mirror in the cafeteria bathroom, into a sideline in the floor of the gym, back when this had been my parents’ school.
“I’ll help you find the heirlooms, but when we find them, I get half of them,” Zeke(piano) said.
“Why would I want your help?” I(piano) said.
“I have a blueprint of the ghosthouse,” Zeke(piano) said.
“Where did you find that?” I(piano) said.
“Borrowed it from some high schoolers,” Zeke(piano) said.
“Does ‘borrowed’ mean ‘stole’?” I(piano) said.
I didn’t want to give away half of the heirlooms. But I didn’t know if I could find the heirlooms alone. And half of everything was more than all of nothing.
“If the heirlooms are hidden in the ghosthouse, we’ll need that blueprint,” Zeke(piano) said.
“There’s a map somewhere,” I(piano) said.
“I don’t have time to wait for your grandfather to remember where the map’s at. And we don’t need a map anyway. I’ll bring a hatchet. We’ll tear apart the ghosthouse. We’ll find those heirlooms before sundown tonight,” Zeke(piano) said.
Mr. Tim jogged from the loading dock into the parking lot, (forte)shouting at the Isaacs to leave the garbage bin alone. Little Isaac’s stick (piano)snapped. Little Isaac (forte)kicked the garbage bin. Big Isaac (piano)sworeunwritable, and the Isaacs yanked their hoods over their heads and stalked into school.
I found Jordan at his locker, spinning the combination. Someone had written TRY BEING LOCKER PARTNERS WITH DAVY JONES on his locker in black marker.
“How old is your grandfather?” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“Seventy-something? Seventy-one, seventy-three? What do you care?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.
Seventy-three was a prime. Whatever age he was, though, he was almost young enough to be Grandpa Rose’s son. Grandpa Rose was eighty-nine (prime). He wouldn’t be a prime again until he was ninety-seven. He wouldn’t have another year of Big Events for almost a decade.
“How’d he get the nickname King Gunga?” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“Technically, it’s short for King Gunga, The Viking Raider, Beloved By All Animals, And Feared Throughout The Seven Seas,” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.
I was so jealous I could hardly stand. The nickname was even better than I had thought.
“Would you go away?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.
He (piano)yanked on the handle. It stuck. He had spun in the wrong numbers.
“Just don’t tell anyone about the heirlooms,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“Tell anyone?” Jordan (forte)said.
He (piano)spun in the numbers again.
“Sorry, Calculator, but that treasure of yours doesn’t exist,” Jordan(mezzo-forte) said.
During band, the band director vanished into the office to dig for sheet music. Sheet music is like the bones of a song—music bars with notes marked between—that you bring to life with your instrument. The band director keeps boxes of it stacked in the office.
The second the band director shut the door, three of the drummers started (forte)singing “The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen.” Emma Dirge and Leah Keen don’t take band, but kids think it’s funny to sing even when Emma and Leah aren’t around.
“The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen” is a song about Emma Dirge and Leah Keen and a pair of escaped circus monkeys. During the song Emma and Leah fall in love with the monkeys. Then other things happen that I probably shouldn’t say.
It’s the number one meanest song anyone’s ever written. Which means that it was written, obviously, by Jordan. He wrote it during the winter of sixth grade, back when Emma Dirge was still his friend, and Leah Keen was still his friend, and Mark Huff, and the Geluso twins, and the Isaacs. Even more than the nicknames, that’s why everyone hates him—everyone loves Emma and Leah, and whenever Emma and Leah hear someone singing the song, they run into the nearest bathroom together to cry about it.
Some of the tubas started (forte)singing along with the drummers, doing the motions that went with the song. Kids hate Jordan for writing the song, but they still like to sing it.
I was studying notecards during math when Jordan snuck over. This week I was learning about imaginary numbers, like “i,” which is the square root of–1. “i” doesn’t exist, but mathematicians use it anyway, because it’s useful for solving certain problems.
“Did you ask Boylover to come to the ghosthouse again tonight?” Jordan (piano)muttered, crouching by my desk.
“Zeke’s going to help me find the heirlooms,” I(piano) said, still looking at the notecards.
“I don’t trust that thief anywhere near the ghosthouse while my grandpa’s there,” Jordan (piano)muttered, pretending to fix a shoelace.
“Noted,”(piano) said.
The first few weeks of school, I took my eleventh-grade math class at the high school, with eleventh graders, obviously. But in the hallway after class, the eleventh graders would shove me, and throw bottles at me, and once locked me in a locker. So now instead once a week the eleventh-grade math teacher walks over and teaches me that week’s concepts and leaves me that week’s homework.
So during other school days I sit in a normal seventh-grade algebra class, and while Jordan and Leah Keen and the Geluso twins learn about graph trees and bound variables, I work through my homework at a desk in the back. No one is supposed to bother me. I’m supposed to concentrate on the calculus.
“I’ve always hated that kid,” Jordan (piano)muttered, still fiddling with the shoelace.
Then the math teacher spotted him and (forte)called him to the chalkboard to solve a problem for the class.
My mom’s car was parked at the curb, across from the buses. She was wearing hoop earrings and a gray sweatshirt. She had the day off.
“Let’s grab groceries,” my mom (forte)said.
I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t say no. When my mom gets upset, she likes to buy green tea, dark chocolate, and yogurt, and then eat them all together. As upset as she was about Grandpa Rose, we were going to be buying a whole cartload of chocolate bars. I got into the car.
“Another man wandered away from the rest home yesterday,” my mom (forte)said. She dug through her purse. “His name is Edmond Dykhouse.” She handed me a photograph of Grandpa Dykhouse. “If you see him anywhere, Nicholas, you need to tell someone.”
I looked at the photograph. I sat very still. I handed her the photograph.
“I memorized his face,” I(glissando) said.
A fact is something that’s the same at any age, but a belief is something different. That’s the hardest thing about being eleven. Before you’re eleven you’ll believe whatever your parents tell you, but once you’re eleven you have to start choosing what to believe, and sometimes that puts you at odds with your parents. My mom worked for the rest home. She loved it—she believed in it—but I had come to stand against it.
“They’ve been reported missing persons,” my mom (forte)said.
We drove to the grocer. The grocer is downtown, across from the arcade and exactly the same size. Some grandfathers in raincoats were perched on a bench there, probably waiting for some grandmothers. The raincoats were majorly illogical. The sky had zero clouds.
My mom eyed the grandfathers through the window while we shopped, like she thought that if she kept staring one of them might transform into Grandpa Rose.
“I printed flyers with his picture, spent all day going from door to door, looking for somebody who had seen him,” my mom (forte)said. “People hardly glanced at the flyer. Everybody was busy with their own problems. One woman, she wouldn’t take the flyer of Grandpa Rose, but she made me take a flyer of her missing parrots.”
My mom wheeled an empty cart. I realized suddenly that even if my mom didn’t believe that the heirlooms existed, she still might remember something that could help us find them. But I knew I had to be careful what I asked about. If I asked the wrong question, or phrased a question the wrong way, or spoke in the wrong tone of voice, she might get suspicious. I would have to be sure never to ask too many at once.
I tried to keep my voice casualchitchat.
“Grandpa Rose was born here, in this town?” I (forte)said.
“Yes,” my mom (forte)said.
“And grew up here?” I (forte)said.
“In town somewhere,” my mom (forte)said. “He never talked about his childhood.” The cart’s wheels (mezzo-forte)rattled across the tiles. “Neither did Grandma Rose. Grandpa Rose was never home, and she wouldn’t talk about him when he was gone. It was like she would pretend he didn’t exist.”
“Why wasn’t he ever home?” I (forte)said.
“He didn’t like being there,” my mom (forte)said.
“What was wrong with him?” I (forte)said.
“I don’t know,” my mom (forte)said.
My mom stopped the cart at a crate of acorn squash. She (piano)rapped her knuckles on the skin of a squash, like ARE YOU RIPE? I had probably hit my limit for research questions. Also, the answers were making me sort of upset. I moved on to the next job on my agenda, which was gathering provisions.
“Mom? Can we get some canned vegetables? Like peas or yams or something?” I (forte)said.
“Since when do you like canned vegetables?” my mom (forte)said.
My mom wouldn’t eat anything unhealthy anymore, after what had happened to my brother. The doctors had said what she had eaten during the pregnancy wouldn’t have changed anything, but, still, now all she would buy were things like acorn squash and fiddlehead greens and heirloom tomatoes. We hadn’t ordered a pizza in over three years.
“I’m really really really in the mood for peas. Can we get, like, fifty cans?” I (forte)said.
I crossed the yard through (mezzo-forte)warbling grasshoppers and (mezzo-piano)buzzing wasps with an armful of blankets and jackets and canned vegetables. Sunlight spiked through the birch trees onto the brown grass. The leaves that had fallen onto the yard formed overlapping shapes of pale gold and dark gold and bright maroon. The ghosthouse sounded as empty as usual. The door (piano)creaked open. Grandpa Rose was eating raspberries on the staircase, with that rusty metal lantern from the shed sitting alongside him, unlit.
“Hey kid,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“I’m mad at you,” I (forte)said.
“Me?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
I dumped everything in the entryway.
“Why didn’t you like being home when my mom was a kid?” I (forte)said.
“I did,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“You weren’t,” I (forte)said.
“I wanted to be there. I wanted to be away,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“That’s impossible. Those are opposite. You can’t have felt both,” I (forte)said.
“Don’t you know about contradictions?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“I can’t handle contradictions,” I (forte)said.
Grandpa Rose frowned.
“I’ve only ever felt contradictions,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“Contradictions basically break my brain,” I (forte)said.
I turned away to stack canned peas against the fireplace, still kind of mad.
“Hey, I warned you, kid, I never tried being good before,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
I lobbed a bar of soap into the sink, still not talking. Grandpa Rose tilted his head, trying to catch my attention. I pitched a roll of toilet paper toward the bathtub, still not talking. Grandpa Rose slid across the stair, trying to sneak back into my line of sight. I rooted through the crumpled blankets.
“Your Grandma Rose used to ignore me like that sometimes, too, so I already know this can’t last forever,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said, (piano)laughing.
I threw a jacket at Grandpa Rose.
“Don’t get it dirty,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“This is your father’s?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“Correct,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
Grandpa Rose shrugged on the jacket. He buttoned the buttons, touched the pockets, (fermata)sniffed the collar. In band class, everyone had learned new terms. Fortissimo means “play very loudly” (even louder than forte). Pianissimo means “play very softly” (even softer than piano). Fermata means “hold that note.” So if you’re playing a song and you see a note with a fermata, you just blow and blow and blow the note until you run out of breath.
“What’s your father like?” Grandpa Rose(mezzo-forte) said.
“I don’t know,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“What’s your mother say?” Grandpa Rose(mezzo-forte) said.
“I don’t know,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“He treats her alright?” Grandpa Rose(mezzo-forte) said.
“Like she’s queen of everything,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
Grandpa Rose nodded, (piano)grunting, scratching at his beard with both hands.
“He would rather sleep on a couch in the Upper Peninsula than disappoint her,” I(mezzo-forte) said.
I wasn’t mad anymore, already. Grandpa Rose was freakishly good at that. His eyes had this way of sucking any mad straight out of you, until you liked him again.
Jordan stumbled in the door, carrying pillows, boxes of toothpaste, bent metal spoons. His hair was matted with sweat. He grimaced.
“I can’t stay long,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Why?” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“I’m grounded,” Jordan (forte)said.
“What did you do?” I(mezzo-forte) said.
“My sister found the dead flies I was keeping in the freezer,” Jordan (forte)said.
He dumped everything in the entryway.
“And then the dead frogs,” Jordan (forte)said.
He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Anyway, I told my parents I kidnapped Grandpa Dykhouse,” Jordan (forte)said.
“You what?” I (fortissimo)shouted.
“Relax, Calculator,” Jordan (forte)said. “I knew they wouldn’t believe me. Last night we drove all over town, checking different spots for Grandpa Dykhouse. We must have driven past this place like five times. Anyway, I got bored, so I stuck my face between their seats and said, ‘Uh, by the way, I kidnapped Grandpa Dykhouse.’ After I told them, they just yelled at me and said it wasn’t funny. ‘Grandpa Dykhouse going missing is a very serious thing, Jordan.’ Whenever I say anything, they think I’m just trying to bug them. I tell them all sorts of things they would want to know, but they always ignore me.”
Jordan tossed a pillow at Grandpa Rose.
“Grown-ups never care about kids’ stories,” Jordan (forte)grumbled. “They never listened to Grandpa Dykhouse either. Whatever he said, they would ignore it, or laugh it off, or tell him he didn’t know what he was talking about.” He dug through his pockets, searching for something. “They think what happens to us doesn’t matter, like we’re too young or too old to be important. But what happens to us is important. What happens to us are the most important things.”
Grandpa Dykhouse hobbled in the door with the wooden bucket from the well, water (piano)swashing in the bucket. His jeans had dirt at the knees. His jaw was lined with stubble. He looked 300% happier than the night before.
“That was the worst night of sleep I’ve ever had,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“Did you see any ghosts?” Jordan (forte)said.
“No,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“I brought the scissors you asked for,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Hey, that reminds me, when was the last time you got your allowance?” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
He nodded toward a scrap of paper hanging from a nail in the wall.
“Because I need some things from the pharmacy too,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
Jordan frowned, craning toward the list, squinting, mouthing words.
“Creams? Ointments? Lozenges? Pills? What do you need all of this stuff for?” Jordan (forte)said.
Grandpa Dykhouse (mezzo-piano)set the bucket on the fireplace, straightened his glasses.
“You know how you kids get things like hangnails, dandruff, pimples?” Grandpa Dykhouse (mezzo-forte)said. He leaned in, making a face like someone about to get to the freakiest part of a campfire story. “Well, old people have things like that, but a hundred times worse.”
Jordan looked horrified.
“Alright, I’ll get you whatever you want, just keep the details to yourself,” Jordan (forte)said.
Jordan (mezzo-piano)tore the list from the nail.
“Anyway, listen, don’t wander too far from here. Everybody’s on the lookout for you. My parents have been passing around photos,” Jordan (forte)said.
“We can stay busy here. Monte has a new project,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“Monte?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Mr. Rose,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
Grandpa Dykhouse shoved a pile of paper at Jordan. Pages torn from moldy manuals, mildewy handbooks. Someone had scrawled pencil across the pages.
“What is this?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Monte’s memories,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said. “Whenever he can remember something, he tells me the memory, and then I compile the memories here.”
“We’re low on paper. Bring some, will you?” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered, fumbling with a can of peas.
“I’ve always wanted to write a book,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said. “When I was a kid, I wanted to write a book on the history of our town. But Monte’s story is better than history. It’s like a crime novel. I love books like that, about the underworld.”
“Underworld? You mean where dead people live?” Jordan (forte)said.
“No, you know, the underworld. Bootleggers, kidnappers, assassins. The criminal underworld,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said. His glasses had slid down his nose when he had bent toward the pages. He eyed us over the thick silver frame. “I’ve had to take some liberties with the story. Some of the memories from when he was younger are quite vivid, but most of the memories from when he was older have completely deteriorated. And then there are memories he remembers one way, and then later remembers a different way altogether.”
I squatted above the pages. It was like music—with a memory, there was an original performance, when the memory was composed. But afterward, even if you had notes about the original performance—pictures, diaries, mementos—every performance of the memory was somewhat different. The memory was never quite the same.
“Is there anything about the heirlooms?” I (forte)said.
“Nothing yet about where the heirlooms were hidden,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“What are these heirlooms, anyway? A bunch of silverware or something?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Monte said one of the heirlooms is a golden hammer,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“A golden hammer?” Jordan (forte)said.
“In Michigan, in the past, there was a tradition that if you built your own house—dug your own basement, laid your own plumbing, wired your own electric, everything—the governor would award you a golden hammer. Only the head was gold. The rest was wood. I’ve never seen one, only heard the stories,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.
“Pipe by pipe. Brick by brick. Shingle by shingle. That’s how he built this house,” Grandpa Rose(piano) muttered.
Dogs (forte)barked. Something (fortissimo)clopped. Zeke peeked in the window.
“Hey,” Zeke(mezzo-forte) said.
“Who’s this?” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.
“Zeke. My locker partner. You met him last night, remember?” I(mezzo-forte) said.
Grandpa Rose (piano)mumbled, confused again.
Grandpa Dykhouse shoved the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows.
“Alright, time to wash up, Monte,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. Grandpa Dykhouse helped Grandpa Rose stand, then led the way to the bathroom, lugging the bucket. I heard water (mezzo-piano)sploshing as Grandpa Dykhouse washed Grandpa Rose’s face.
Zeke hopped through the window with a (mezzo-piano)jangling duffel bag. His wolfdogs (mezzo-forte)scrambled through the doorway. He (forte)barked at the wolfdogs, and the wolfdogs flopped across the floor.
“Did you just bark, Boylover?” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke frowned, then (forte)barked at Jordan.
“What a freak,” Jordan (piano)muttered.
Jordan wasn’t wrong. But all of us were freaks. I was a misfitbrainy, Zeke was a misfitweird, Jordan was a misfitmean. We were all misfits of some power.
Zeke emptied the duffel bag along the staircase. A stolen horn. A stolen oboe. Half of a stolen clarinet. Then—in a range of sizes—eleven pairs of stolen high-tops.
“What?” Zeke (forte)said. “If you get to stash your grandfathers here, I get to stash some goods here too.”
“Are those Mark Huff’s high-tops?” Jordan(mezzo-forte) said.
“That blue pair? They were. Do you want to buy them?” Zeke(mezzo-piano) said.
“I have enough problems with Flatface already,” Jordan(piano) said. “I can’t even imagine what he would do if he caught me wearing his shoes.”
Zeke unfolded the blueprint against the fireplace. The ghosthouse had been drawn on it in white lines—the front of the ghosthouse, the side of the ghosthouse, the back of the ghosthouse—but so you could see through the walls in some places, like the house itself was a ghost. Notes had been added in the margins, signed with my great-grandfather’s initials.
“There’s extra space under the floorboards in the bathroom, and in the kitchen, and in this room here. There’s a door in the side of the staircase, which somebody wallpapered. There’s a crawlspace under the porch. There’s the cellar, which somebody locked,” Zeke (forte)said.
“A waste of time,” Jordan (forte)said.
“What?” Zeke (forte)said.
“There isn’t any treasure,” Jordan (forte)said.
“When we’re rich, we’ll buy you a brain,” Zeke (forte)said.
Zeke got the crowbar from the shed. We tore apart the floorboards in the bathroom, found empty space below. We tore apart the floorboards in the kitchen, found empty space below. We (forte)stomped upstairs to the room Zeke had marked on the blueprint, tore apart the floorboards there. We found a bent nail, the handle of a screwdriver, a nest made of torn bits of paper. We didn’t find any heirlooms.
Strips of maroon wallpaper hung from the walls, like bark peeling from a tree.
“This must have been a bedroom,” I(mezzo-piano) said.
“Once,” Zeke(mezzo-forte) said.
We (forte)stomped downstairs. The grandfathers had vanished. Jordan was sitting cross-legged on the fireplace, eating a can of peas.
“Didn’t you say you were grounded?” I (forte)said.
“So?” Jordan(fermata) said.
Both sides of the staircase were wallpapered with a faded pattern of bluish vines. Zeke studied the blueprint, paced along the staircase running his fingers across the wallpaper, found the edges of the door buried there. I took my knife, cut into the wall, (mezzo-forte)sawed the outline of the door. We (mezzo-piano)tore the wallpaper from the handle. Jordan was watching us, had stopped chewing.
“Ready?” Zeke(piano) said.
We gripped the handle. Zeke nodded. We heaved.
The door budged, stopped.
“Weak!” Jordan (forte)called.
We gripped the handle with both hands. Zeke nodded again. We heaved.
The door shot open, black dust flew at our faces, a broom (forte)clunked to the floor.
Jordan was dying (fortissimo)laughing.
“The heirloom was a broom?” Jordan (forte)laughed, knuckling tears from his eyes.
We dug through the room under the staircase. Aside from empty barrels, mildewed curtains, and another broom, the room was empty.
“Let’s try the crawlspace,” Zeke(piano) muttered.
We wiped the dust from our faces. Zeke got the lantern. We hopped through the window onto the porch. Grandpa Rose was perched on a stool there, surrounded by a circle of white hair. Grandpa Dykhouse was standing behind the stool, (mezzo-piano)snipping hair with metal scissors. Jordan wandered onto the porch, through the doorway, his hands on his hips.
“King Gunga, you can cut hair?” Jordan (forte)said.
Grandpa Dykhouse was the sort of grandfather who had a totally silent laugh.
“We never spent money on barbershops, when your mom was younger. Once a month, it was me who cut her hair. She hated it, but it was fun for me,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.
Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered something about poorhouses, confused still.
We rounded the porch, studied the blueprint, tore at the wall of weeds. We found the entrance to the crawlspace. Jordan wandered around the porch. He frowned. He (mezzo-piano)sniffed.
“Boylover, are you wearing perfume?” Jordan (forte)said.
“One squirt,” Zeke (forte)said.
“Listen, just keep your hands to yourself. You try to kiss me, I’ll drown you in the well,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Kiss?” Zeke (fermata)said.
“Isn’t that what you do? Kiss boys?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Only ones I think are cute, and only boys who like boys too,” Zeke (forte)said.
“Little Isaac doesn’t like boys,” Jordan (forte)said.
“He pretends he doesn’t,” Zeke (forte)said.
“Little Isaac hates you for kissing him,” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke(mezzo-piano) lit a match, cupped a hand around the flame, lit the lantern. Sunlight flashed across the silver mermaids on his arms. He crawled into the crawlspace, dragging the lantern.
“And who says I’m not cute?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)muttered.
I crawled into the crawlspace. Brown weeds and monster cobwebs were lit by the light of the lantern. Farther ahead, the soles of Zeke’s high-tops. I could hear Grandpa Dykhouse (piano)pacing the porch above, Grandpa Rose(pianissimo) murmuring.
Zeke tossed a rusted can. The can (piano)clattered into a patch of weeds.
“Nothing?” I (forte)said.
“Let’s try the cellar,” Zeke (pianissimo)muttered.
We crawled from the crawlspace, wiping cobwebs from our high-tops.
Zeke got the hatchet from the duffel bag. We took turns hacking apart the cellar door. Jordan just watched, despite that out of the three of us he was the only one with actual muscles. He had his teeth bared, kept poking the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth. Whenever the hatchet (forte)struck the door, the lock (glissando)rattled on its chain.
“Calculator, what would you use the treasure for, if the treasure wasn’t fake?” Jordan (forte)said.
“My brother,” I (forte)said.
“Brother?” Zeke (forte)said.
I told them about my brother the tree.
Jordan squinted, leaning forward to peer at me like at a bizarre creature in a museum display.
“Don’t you think that’s sort of weird to just tell to people?” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke glanced at me, then glared at Jordan.
“What’s so weird about that?” Zeke (forte)said.
“You really don’t think there’s anything weird about that?” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke swung the hatchet, sending wood splinters flying. The blade was stuck in the door. Zeke jerked on the handle, (mezzo-forte)ripped the hatchet out again.
“No. I can relate to it, actually. That same thing almost happened to me,” Zeke (forte)said.
“A miscarriage?” I (forte)said.
Zeke took his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face, chin to hairline. “No,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)said, talking through the fabric. His tone had changed, like now he was talking only to me. “But I am still really lucky to exist. My dad didn’t want my mom to have me.” His shirt dropped. His face had left blotches of sweat along the hem. He gripped the hatchet, grimaced, swung again. “This was before they were married. My dad had the money even. He gave her the money and made her swear to abort me. Then he left for boot camp, to become a soldier. My mom used the money to buy a crib. She wanted to have me.”
“I like soldiers normally, but, sorry, your dad’s evil,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Evil?” Zeke (forte)said.
“You must really hate him,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Just for that?” Zeke (forte)said, frowning.
“Yup, killing an unborn baby, you’d have to be a monster to do something like that,” Jordan (forte)said, folding his arms together and nodding.
Zeke shook his head. “My dad, other soldiers, they’re paid to kill people every day. How can killing babies be wrong, but you let them grow up, and you pay our soldiers to kill them, and then it’s right?” Zeke (forte)said.
Jordan shrugged. “Those aren’t our kids. Those are just the grown-up kids of other countries,” Jordan (forte)said.
“Those countries are like you, or me, or him,” Zeke (forte)said, pointing with the hatchet, grip suddenly majorly tremolo. “Maybe none of the other countries are friends with them, but that doesn’t mean that bullying them isn’t wrong.”
Jordan grinned—poking the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth again—then (forte)said, “The only thing I like about you is how easy you are to rile up.” He pointed at the cellar. “Now that you’ve got some adrenaline, would you hit that with some muscle, and finish this already?”
Zeke scowled. His cheeks were flushed. He planted his high-tops, gripped the hatchet so tight his knuckles went white, then swung.
The hatchet (fortissimo)split through the door.
“Finally!” Jordan (forte)said.
We (fortissimo)kicked the planks out. We wriggled through the hole into the cellar. In the dusty light there, we found dirt, cobwebs, and a pair of crumpled socks.
Zeke chewed a lip.
“A waste of time,” Zeke (piano)muttered.
Grandpa Rose’s hair was less messy than before. Grandpa Dykhouse was (piano)snipping at the beard now.
“Listen, King Gunga, maybe he wants to keep the beard,” Jordan (forte)said.
“He acts like the beard bothers him,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.
Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered something about housebreakers, confused still. The sun was vanishing into the meadow beyond the ghosthouse. The shadows of the birch trees, the stone well, the ghosthouse, stretched across the grass. Loons (piano)hooted on a pond somewhere. I stunk of sweat.
Zeke threw the blueprint into the grass.
“We’ll never find the heirlooms without the map,” Zeke (piano)muttered.
“There isn’t any map,” Jordan (piano)muttered.
“The curse of being a memory factory,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.
Even Jordan looked upset, like some part of him had believed in the heirlooms all along.
“Prison,” Grandpa Rose(mezzo-piano) said. His fingers twitched, like the fingers of someone dreaming. “In prison usually nobody knows it’s your birthday. On my eighty-third birthday, a doctor tested me. The doctor said my mind was failing. The doctor said my memories were fading. The doctor said happy birthday. Even I hadn’t known. I had forgotten. My cellmate was a younger kid with skin made of tattoos. An arm of stingrays, an arm of jellyfish. A chest with a diagram of a ship. The kid kept a needle, bottles of ink, hidden under his bed. My mind was failing. My memories were fading. There were things I needed to remember. That night, while the kid was sleeping, I tattooed myself with ink and the needle.”
Grandpa Rose wrung his hands.
“Where the tattoos would be impossible to miss,” Grandpa Rose(piano) said.
Grandpa Rose blinked, tilted his head, blinked again.
“What were the things I needed to remember?” Grandpa Rose (pianissimo)said.
I (forte)kicked the porch.
“It’s a fake memory!” I (forte)shouted. “I kidnap you, I hide you here, I lie to my mom, I lie to everyone, and all for nothing! You said the tattoos were the map to the heirlooms! And the tattoos don’t exist! Which means we don’t have a map! Which means we can’t find the heirlooms! If the heirlooms even exist!”
Grandpa Rose looked at me like someone watching a storm through a window.
“There were things I needed to remember,” Grandpa Rose (pianissimo)muttered.
The scissors (pianissimo)snipped. Clumps of matted white hair drifted from the scissors to the porch. Patches of skin surfaced where before there had been beard. A pair of wrinkles surfaced. A blemish. A letter. A number. More numbers.
The scissors stopped. Grandpa Dykhouse squinted. The breeze caught another clump of snipped hair, blew it away, revealed another number. Jordan was making (piano)stuttering noises. Zeke was making (forte)yelping noises. My mouth was moving, but noises weren’t coming out. We gaped at Grandpa Rose.
It wasn’t a fake memory.
He had tattoos on his cheeks.