A DUEL WITH THE ISAACS
In the morning I ran outside to talk to my brother. The wind had torn the last of the leaves from the other trees—all that was left were the birds’ nests, made from the trees’ twigs, tucked into the trees’ branches, the nests that had been hidden there before the leaves had fallen. It was like suddenly you could see into the trees’ heads, and the nests were the trees’ thoughts, hanging there exposed. But my brother was a pine tree—he never lost his needles—so his nests stayed hidden. I loved that about him. You never knew what he was thinking until he said it aloud.
I plucked notes that meant, BROTHER WE ARE GETTING CLOSE TO FINDING THE HEIRLOOMS AND SAVING THE HOUSE SO THAT WE WILL NOT HAVE TO LEAVE YOU.
IF I COULD HELP I WOULD HELP, my brother’s song said.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO. I’M THE OLDER ONE. THAT’S WHY I’M HERE, my song said.
BUT THEN WHY AM I HERE, WHAT DO I DO, I SHOULD BE HELPING SOMEHOW, my brother’s song said.
My brother (fermata)thrashed with the wind, flinging pinecones, throwing a tantrum. Younger brothers didn’t like getting helped. Sometimes even when they needed it they didn’t want it. A pair of squirrels scrabbled into a pine, (glissando)screeching.
My brother quit thrashing.
DO YOU REMEMBER, WHEN WE WERE YOUNGER, THE MORNING OUR FATHER TOOK YOU AWAY CARRYING FISHING POLES AND TINFOIL LUNCHES? my brother’s song said.
I didn’t.
I REMEMBER, my brother’s song said.
The sky was still starry.
I REMEMBER YOU LEAVING, my brother’s song said.
I started to pluck more notes, but my brother spoke again.
I HATE BEING STUCK HERE, my brother’s song said.
Before school, I went walking through the neighborhood with my mom, helping to search for Grandpa Rose. I usually avoided going, because helping to search for someone when you know exactly where that person is can be minorly nerve-racking, and also can make you feel horrible. We walked toward downtown, as far as the stone bridge, and then back home. My mom kept (staccato)whistling, trying to mimic birds’ songs—maybe trying to call the birds, maybe trying to call Grandpa Rose. Her whistle was totally off-key. As we trudged up the driveway, she finally quit trying.
“You don’t have any other memories of Grandpa Rose?” I (mezzo-forte)said.
The door (forte)whooshed shut. My high-tops had tracked dirt clods into the house. My mom saw the dirt, opened the closet for a broom.
“I remember wanting a normal father. Somebody who mowed the grass, chatted with neighbors, washed cars in the driveway. Came to dance recitals. Was home at night. Grandpa Rose wasn’t. He was never home. When kids asked about him, I said that he was dead,” my mom (mezzo-piano)said. “Then, one day, Grandpa Rose appeared at school at the fence. Wearing the same clothes, carrying the same suitcase, he always wore and carried. Like a mirage. He was away, hadn’t been home now for months. We were on the swing set when he appeared. I remember my friends soaring past me, forward, backward. My swing had stopped. I hadn’t noticed I had stopped kicking.” She started (pianissimo)sweeping the dirt. “I ran to the fence to talk to him. He gave me something. A toy, a book, I don’t remember. Afterward, my friends asked about who he was. I said he was an old neighbor.”
She stopped sweeping.
“Isn’t that awful?” my mom (mezzo-piano)said.
The phone (fortissimo)rang. My mom ran to her bedroom. I heard a (piano)murmuring. I (forte)zipped my backpack. I scooped my house key from the counter. Kids were lined at the bus stop already.
My mom danced into the kitchen with the broom.
“Somebody made an offer on the house!” my mom (forte)said.
“Who?” I (sforzando)said.
“Named the Yorks,” my mom (forte)said.
The couple in the suits.
I stared through the window. I imagined all of the trees chopped down. An empty pool where the trees had been before. My brother hacked apart, stacked against the fireplace.
“Did you say yes?” I (crescendo)said.
“I’ll call Dad next,” my mom (decrescendo)said.
Before school, Zeke sent a note to Little Isaac.
In band class, I overheard a pair of kids talking about me while they pieced together their flutes.
“It’s kids like him,” the girl (piano)muttered.
“That make everybody think that band class is for losers?” the boy (pianissimo)whispered.
“He’s like a living breathing black spot on the orchestra’s reputation,” the girl (piano)muttered.
As per usual, I ate lunch in a bathroom stall.
After lunch, Little Isaac sent a note to Zeke. The message said,
I ACCEPT YOUR DUEL
FREAK
JUST SAY WHEN AND WHERE
FISTS ONLY
I WIN, YOU GIVE US WHAT YOU STOLE
YOU WIN, YOU KEEP IT
BUT YOU WON’T
“You’re actually going to duel?” I (mezzo-forte)said.
“Tonight. At the island. A proper holmgang,” Zeke (forte)said.
I gaped.
“You told the Isaacs about the island?” I (mezzo-forte)said.
“Sorry. But I can’t row out to an island by myself. The duel had to be tonight,” Zeke (forte)said.
“How are we going to look for the heirlooms with the Isaacs there?” I (mezzo-forte)said.
“I’ll tell the Isaacs to meet us later, to give us time,” Zeke (forte)said.
Zeke asked me to be his second.
“Does that mean that I would have to fight Big Isaac?” I (mezzo-forte)said.
“I asked Jordan first, but he said that he wouldn’t,” Zeke (mezzo-forte)said.
The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Don’t say yes!” (crescendo)shouted, “Big Isaac will break your ribs!”
“Actually, Jordan said, ‘Never, Boylover, never in a trillion years,’ ” Zeke (mezzo-piano)said.
“I’ll be your second,” I (mezzo-piano)said.
Zeke uncapped a silver marker. He wrote FRIEND on my arm. He trotted toward the bathroom. No one had ever called me a friend before.
A kid in a hooded coat walked past (piano)rapping “The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen.” Leaving school, I saw Emma Dirge and Leah Keen sitting cross-legged in the gym, (fermata)cheering as the Isaacs shot baskets from the keys.
I found Jordan out by the buses, under the flagpole, across from my parents’ lopsided heart.
Jordan frowned at the FRIEND on my arm.
“Congratulations, Calculator,” Jordan (forte)said.
“You don’t sound like you mean it,” I (forte)said.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jordan (forte)scowled.
“Friends are like brothers. A forever thing. An infinity,” I (forte)said.
“Friends are temporary. Brothers are the forever,” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke ducked through a crowd of backpacks, kids in bright jackets trudging to buses. I told Zeke what Jordan had said.
“Brothers are temporary. Friends are the forever,” Zeke (forte)said, glaring at Jordan. “You just don’t know how to be an actual friend.”
“Of the three of us, I’m the only one who’s had any actual friends. I’ve had lots of them, I’ve lost all of them,” Jordan (forte)said. “You only think brothers are temporary because you’ve never actually had one.”
“I have three brothers, and Nicholas had one—”
“Has,” I (forte)said, “has one.”
“—so we know about brothers.”
“Brothers and friends are the same,” I (forte)said. “I think, once you’ve had them, you always have them, even if eventually they hate you or die or move to another country. Either way they’re a sort of infinity. Just, when you have them, they’re an infinity, and after they leave, they’re an infinitesimal.”
“Infinitesimal?” Zeke (forte)said.
“A number that’s infinitely small,” I (decrescendo)said.
“And I’ve never seen either of you fight Mark Huff for me, so don’t tell me I’m the one who’s temporary,” Jordan (glissando)muttered.
Everyone else was already on the bus. Mr. Carl (forte)shut the door, pretending he was going to leave us behind, the same trick he always tried to get kids to hurry up.
“Are we going to the wharf already?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Meet me at your house—I’ll bring what we’ll need to steal a boat,” Zeke (forte)said.
“Why can’t we meet at your house?” Jordan (forte)said.
“That place is totally off-limits—nobody’s ever allowed to go there,” Zeke (forte)said.
Zeke vanished toward downtown, without even a wave goodbye. The grooves between the sidewalk squares extended like ledger lines into the distance.
“Let’s tail him,” Jordan (piano)hissed.
“Zeke?” I (piano)said.
Mr. Carl (piano)cracked the door back open, peering out at us, pouting.
“Aren’t you dying to know where he lives?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said.
“I’m not going to follow him home!” I (mezzo-forte)said.
“You’re going to make me follow him alone?” Jordan (forte)said.
Mr. Carl (fortissimo)honked, like GET ON THE BUS, but we ditched the bus and flew after Zeke. Our high-tops (allegro)smacked against the pavement. Our backpacks (adagio)thudded against our backs. In band class, everyone had learned new terms. Allegro means “play quickly.” Adagio means “play slowly.” Caesura means “time stops here,” means “everything is quiet.”
Zeke stole a fistful of flowers from the grocer.
“Those flowers for Little Isaac?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)muttered, (piano)laughing to himself.
We followed at a distance, crouched low to the sidewalk. Zeke hurried into the graveyard, the flowers bobbing in his arms. Today’s high-tops were a glassy silver, with emblems stamped onto the heels. Zeke paused, stepping off the path into the graves—tilting his head, like a dog hearing a distant whistle—then frowned, and trotted off through the gravestones. We ducked from mausoleum to mausoleum, VANLOON 1753–1823 to BRANDER 1811–1867 to XAVIER 1847–1913, using the tombs to hide from Zeke. A nest of doves was (piano)cooing from the branches of a hickory tree with hollow knots.
Zeke laid the flowers on a hunched gravestone between tombs that said OBETTS and DEBOER. The OBETTS tomb (5 NOVEMBER 1931) had a man in a stone sweater and a stone helmet reaching for a stone football. The DEBOER tomb (1861) had a stone soldier strapped to a stone rifle tipping a stone cap at the sky. The gravestone between the tombs said HYO WAEGU SONG. Underneath the name was 05–21–97, like the combination to a locker that now no one could open.
Zeke stood over the flowers with his fingers knotted together behind his head.
“I told you to meet me later,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)said, still looking at the gravestone.
We were peeking around the backside of a mausoleum coated with tangled vines. Jordan looked at me, stunned. I shrugged. Jordan jabbed a finger at me, scowling, like I was the one who had given us away. I shook my head, pointed at Jordan. Jordan rolled his eyes, mimed a laugh, then (sforzando)kicked some leaves at me.
We shuffled out from behind the mausoleum, both pretending that we had meant to get caught.
“What kind of name is ‘Hyo’?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Korean,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)said.
“It sounds like something out of a cartoon,” Jordan (forte)said.
Zeke shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m half Korean,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)muttered.
“I’m half Italian,” I (forte)said.
Jordan didn’t say anything.
“What are you?” I (forte)said.
“Danish. Finnish. Swedish. Norwegian. Whatever,” Jordan (mezzo-piano)muttered.
“I bring flowers for my grandfather on the twenty-first of every month,” Zeke (piano)said.
“What was he like?” I (piano)said.
“Big,” Zeke (piano)said.
“Fat?” Jordan (fermata)said.
“Big. Not fat. Big,” Zeke (sforzando)said. He touched the grooves of the letters on the gravestone. “The rest home kept him alive for years and years and years, until he couldn’t talk or move or anything. The only way you knew he could hear you was, if you asked, he would blink his eyes. My mom said it was time, when he died, but I wish the rest home could have kept him alive longer.” He chewed a lip. He swiveled to face us. He pointed at the palm of his hand. “My dad’s missing hand. That’s what it’s like for me. A phantom limb. He’s gone, but you still feel him sometimes, in the place where he was.”
(caesura).
Zeke (forte)said, “You were wrong, what you said before about ghosts. It’s not what could have been that haunts us. It’s what was.”
Zeke said to meet at Jordan’s house, then hurried off beyond some mossy tombs.
“Alright, Calculator, come on then,” Jordan (mezzo-piano)sighed.
We cut through the woods, passing beneath abandoned treehouses with rotted planks, passing abandoned outhouses topped with (forte)mewling cats, hopscotching stones across the creek. In the garage of a three-story house, high schoolers in hoodies and bandannas were (mezzo-forte)stapling streamers to a homecoming float on a flatbed trailer. A boom box (fortissimo)sang garbled clips in major and minor keys.
When we got to Jordan’s, Jordan’s mom was measuring Genevieve with a yardstick from heel to shoulder.
“Do you have to do that in here?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)grumbled.
I stopped and watched as Jordan’s mom knelt on the carpet, (mezzo-piano)counting numbers off from the yardstick. Genevieve’s arms were outstretched, hands rigid, fingers pointed toward opposite walls.
When I turned around, Jordan had vanished, suddenly, had just left me there alone. I felt uncomfortablecastaway. Jordan’s mom was staring at me. Genevieve was staring at me. I ran upstairs.
I passed a bedroom littered with muddy dresses, then passed a shut door that said TY in uneven letters, then found Jordan’s bedroom. There was a bed with a faded quilt, a dresser with some missing drawers, a lamp, a chair, a desk, and not much else. A few sweatshirts hung from wire hangers, but otherwise the closet was totally empty. Jordan’s backpack was slumped against the desk. Jordan was perched there, (piano)carving JORDAN into the wood of the desk with a knife.
I wanted to know if we were friends, like how Zeke had written FRIEND onto my skin, but I didn’t know how to ask, plus I thought we probably weren’t.
“Do you hate me?” I (forte)said.
“What?” Jordan (forte)said.
“Do you hate me?” I (forte)said.
“No, I don’t hate you. Why are you just standing there? Would you sit down or something?” Jordan (forte)said.
“So you like me?” I (forte)said.
“I don’t feel anything about you,” Jordan (forte)said. “You’re just a person that I know. Who says I have to feel something about everybody? I don’t feel anything about anybody. Except for Grandpa Dykhouse. And maybe Ty.”
Jordan had photographs of his ex-friends taped to the walls, all of the kids who hated him—Jordan and the Geluso twins leaping from the pier, Jordan and Emma Dirge and Leah Keen hugging someone’s dog, Jordan and Mark Huff and the Isaacs dressed as outlaws for a play, Jordan and Mark Huff building snow forts, Jordan and Mark Huff destroying sand castles, Jordan and Mark Huff poking at a campfire with sticks. I felt bad for him. He still loved all of the friends he had lost. I felt bad for myself, too. All of these kids had so many memories together, and I had never been there for anything.
“My sister has scoliosis. If you’re wondering why my mom was measuring her shoulders, that’s why, Calculator,” Jordan (piano)said.
I didn’t say anything.
“Do you know what scoliosis is?” Jordan (mezzo-piano)said. “It means the bone in her back is all curvy.” He (staccato)carved a sharp zigzag shape into the wood of the desk. “Like that. Her backbone is shaped like a snake. What’s wrong with her is on the inside, but you can see it on the outside. Her shoulders are tilted. The head of the snake forces one higher than the other. The first time she got x-rayed, her backbone was curved 19°. 19° is bad, but isn’t that bad, because you don’t have to wear a brace unless your backbone is more than 20°. Every month since then my dad has been taking her for checkup x-rays. You can see her backbone, in the x-rays, like the ghost of a snake charmer’s snake rising out of some basket in her hips.” He (sforzando)carved another jag into the zigzag. “Last month the ghost rose a little higher. This time when she got x-rayed, the snake was 23°. She’s going to have to wear a brace now. She’ll only have to wear it a few years, and even with the brace, she can still have sleepovers, play volleyball, go out on dates. But she says her life is over. No one is ever going to want to date a cyborg, she says. So every day after school she makes my mom measure her shoulders. She’s hoping that maybe her shoulders will shift back to normal. That maybe her body will fix itself.”
Someone (crescendo)clomped upstairs. Jordan stopped talking, watched the doorway. Something (piano)clumped in the hallway. Zeke peeked into the room.
“What’s that look for, Boylover?” Jordan (mezzo-forte)said.
“What’s your mom doing to your sister?” Zeke (mezzo-forte)said.
Jordan frowned, hopping down off the desk.
“I tried to tell her, some people really like cyborgs,” Jordan (mezzo-piano)grumbled.
Zeke dragged in a lumpy duffel bag.
In the bag were a metal snorkeling mask with a pair of flippers, a wooden snorkeling mask with zero flippers, a pair of chipped trowels, a brass spyglass, and fireworks.
“Where did you get all of this?” Jordan (forte)said, rooting through the bag.
“Stole the fireworks. The rest was my grandfather’s,” Zeke (forte)said.
“These were Yo-Yo’s?” Jordan (forte)said, waving the spyglass.
“His name was Hyo,” Zeke (decrescendo)said. “And he was an architect, which is just as important as a librarian.”
“Why the fireworks?” I (forte)said.
“For the duel. Since we don’t have pistols,” Zeke (forte)said, snatching the spyglass.
“Didn’t the Isaacs say fists only?” I (forte)said.
“Little Isaac doesn’t make the rules,” Zeke (crescendo)said, gathering up the bag. “If he wants a duel, he’s going to have to risk taking a firework in the chest.”