MISSING MEN

PAWPAW isn’t an island—PAWPAW is a ship,” Jordan (forte)said.

“A ship?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

“Was a ship,” Zeke (forte)said.

Zeke (forte) unfurled a map over the porch, like someone unfurling a sheet over a bed.

“Is a shipwreck,” Zeke (forte)said.

We weighted the map’s corners with the lantern and our knees. Grandpa Rose hobbled into the circle of light, hunched over his cane, wrapped in a blanket. Grandpa Dykhouse squatted alongside the map.

“My map has a list of shipwrecks, with the number and the letter that matches the box in the grid where each ship sank,” Zeke (forte)said. “But I had never thought to check the list of shipwrecks, until Jordan saw the ship’s name on a crate.”

Zeke marked the map with a silver X next to a tiny brown island in Lake Michigan.

“The ship sank here, just along this island,” Zeke (forte)said.

“Which island?” Jordan (forte)said.

“There isn’t a name for it,” Zeke (forte)said.

“The island’s unnamed?” I (forte)said.

“Nobody bothers to name islands as small as that,” Zeke (forte)said.

Grandpa Dykhouse tapped the X with a thumb.

“So the key’s there,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said.

“On that island somewhere,” Zeke (forte)said. His jeans were torn from being chased through the tunnels. His shirt was sandy from hiding waiting for us in the dunes. He chewed a lip, measuring the distance between the island and our village with his fingers.

“Those crates probably weren’t from the actual PAWPAW,” Grandpa Dykhouse(mezzo-forte) said. “Smugglers sailing illegal vessels often would mark their cargo with the name of a legal vessel, to sneak their cargo in and out of harbors.”

“I have a memory,” Grandpa Rose (forte) said, clenching and unclenching his fists, the blanket hanging from his shoulders, “of your Grandma Rose scrubbing dirt from potatoes, begging me to take a job. A job at a sawmill, a job at a factory, a job anywhere. A job in town. Anything. Begging. But I didn’t. I was selfish. I liked being away. I liked meeting strangers. I liked breaking laws, ducking punches, cities with bars. When I was home, all I thought about was everywhere else. When I was everywhere else, all I thought about was home. She didn’t mind, had never minded, loved me for my troublemaking. But this, she said, was different. A kid would need more than that, a father around, some better life. I can remember her, whatever months pregnant, scrubbing dirt from potatoes. I can see the curtains. I can see the flyswatter. I can see the knuckles of her fingers, the color of her dress, the hair against her neck. But I can’t see her face. Ana, in every memory, her face is missing.” He wrapped himself into his blanket. “Kid, I want to see her face. Will you bring me a photo?”

“Sorry, but we don’t have any, remember?” I (forte)said.

He had already forgotten. His whiskers glinted in the gold light of the lantern. The tattoos underneath had almost entirely disappeared. He (piano)swore^unwritable, then (forte) said, “I was the worst father I could have been. A nobody father. We have to find the heirlooms. One good thing.”

Grandpa Dykhouse hooked his glasses to his sweater.

“Little sidenote?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. “We’re out of peas.”

“Bigger sidenote?” Jordan (forte)said. “Today the newspaper printed your photos. MISSING MEN: EDMOND DYKHOUSE AND MONTE ROSE. The rest home is offering a reward. Probably because my parents are talking about suing if the rest home doesn’t find you.”

“Biggest sidenote?” I (forte)said. “My house is still for sale. There have already been showings. After there’s been a closing, it won’t matter whether we find the heirlooms. Tomorrow we’re digging for the key.”

Jordan scratched his head, like he would during math class when something had stumped him.

“How are we getting to the island if we don’t have a boat?” Jordan (forte)said.

Zeke gathered the map.

“We’ll steal one,” Zeke (forte)said.