“Have you ever been here?” I (piano)whispered.
“Not since that ghost tripped Mark Huff out the attic window,” Zeke (piano)whispered.
The sky was going dark, and getting starry, and everything was transforming into silhouettes. The ghosthouse loomed above the yard. Tattered curtains flapped beyond shattered windows. A dead walnut tree was hunched next to the porch. Weeds had grown through fallen shutters. A bucket swung (piano)creaking from a rope above a stone well. I was freezing, suddenly, and had frozen—was too afraid to get any closer—stood shivering with my knife clutched between both hands.
“Grandpa Rose?” I (piano)whispered.
Zeke crept up the steps, squatted on the porch, then turned and waved a stomped cigarette.
“He must be here,” Zeke (piano)hissed.
I crept up the steps. The wolfdogs prowled below, sniffing the roots of the walnut tree, the raspberries growing along the cellar, a bird’s nest that had fallen from the roof. I kept imagining that any moment a pale dead face was going to appear in a window, shrieking something at us, which was only making things worse.
“You think he went inside?” I (piano)whispered.
“Maybe let’s try looking through the window,” Zeke (piano)whispered.
The wolfdogs had vanished. We crept across the porch, past the door, toward the window. I wasn’t sure if a knife could do anything against a ghost, but I kept my knife out anyway. I was sweating. I was hardly breathing. I couldn’t stop imagining those shrieking faces. We crouched beneath the windowsill, then peeked into the ghosthouse.
Dead leaves littered the floor. White ash littered the fireplace. Jags of glass hung from the frame of the window. Nothing seemed to be moving, except for the (piano)flapping curtains.
Suddenly from the backyard we heard a (forte)banging sound.
Zeke looked afraidafraid.
“What was that?” Zeke (forte)said.
We hopped the railing from the porch onto the grass, peered around a drainpipe into the backyard. The wolfdogs were circling a lopsided wooden shed, (piano)huffing at a smell in the dirt. Past the shed sprawled a grassy meadow of milkweed and thistles, and then woods. Bats flitted over the meadow. Normally, in my neighborhood, by this time of night you would see the lit-up windows of houses everywhere. But here there weren’t any lit-up windows—like the ghosthouse didn’t just scare away people, but even other houses.
All that dark past the shed only made the light that was coming from the shed even freakier. Something was glowing in the shed—a ghostly golden glimmer, streaming through the slats between the wooden planks, burning the dirt around the shed white.
We crept across the backyard, pressed our faces to the slats, squinting into the light.
In the shed, Grandpa Rose was rooting around a cluttered workbench, lit by a rusty metal lantern.
“That’s him!” I (piano)whispered.
Grandpa Rose was (piano)mumbling, “Then key, then trunk, then cog.” Then (forte)shouting, “No! Sinbad, Clemens! No no no!” Then (piano)mumbling, “Then key, then trunk, then cog.” He didn’t sound anything like the Grandpa Rose I had met before. He sounded like a different Grandpa Rose altogether. As confused as my mom had warned me.
“I’ve got to go,” Zeke (piano)whispered.
“But—” I (piano)said.
“I did my part,” Zeke (piano)whispered.
Zeke backed away. He (forte)barked at his wolfdogs, then ran into the trees, his wolfdogs trailing him. He was gone.
I stuffed my knife into its sheath, then (piano)knocked on the shed and cracked open the door. Grandpa Rose stumbled against the workbench, dropping his cane.
“It’s me,” I (forte)said.
Grandpa Rose frowned.
“Who?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“Please, Grandpa Rose, we have to get home,” I (forte)said.
“But I’m looking for something,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“Looking for what?” I (forte)said.
Grandpa Rose looked at the rusted tools hanging from the workbench. He touched a crowbar, a hammer, a saw. He scratched at his beard with both hands. “I can’t remember,” he (piano)muttered. Then he (forte)slapped the shed. He (forte)shouted, “I can’t remember!”
I tried to pretend I wasn’t afraid of him.
“You’re confused, Grandpa Rose. Take my hand. I’ll walk you home, and you can watch television, and everything will be okay,” I (forte)said.
I held his arm. He may have been huge, but he was majorly weak. If you shut your eyes, it was like holding the arm of a kindergartner. That’s how weak he was. I snuffed the lantern, then led Grandpa Rose out from the shed, into the dusk.
Back at the house, I got Grandpa Rose onto the couch and made another sandwich. He bit in, staring at me as he chewed. Pulpy tomato juice dripped between his fingers to the plate. The ragged blanket my mom keeps on the couch was draped over his body. He had barely lasted the walk home—I’d had to help him the whole way.
“I need you to take me back there,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“That’s the ghosthouse,” I (forte)said.
“That’s my house,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“Your house?” I (forte)said.
I didn’t know if this was the confused Grandpa Rose still or if this was the actual Grandpa Rose.
“Mom never said she lived at the ghosthouse,” I (forte)said.
“She didn’t. I did,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
“When?” I (forte)said.
“I have things buried,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
I stared through the window above the couch at the silhouettes of the trees in the backyard.
“I’m like that too. My brother’s buried back there. If we have to sell our house, I’ll never see him again,” I (forte)said.
“Brother?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
I told Grandpa Rose about my brother the tree.
He stopped chewing. He swallowed, squinting. He stared through the window at the trees.
“I don’t know how to be a grandfather,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.
“I don’t know how to be a grandfather either,” I (forte)said.
He wasn’t blinking. Normally when someone doesn’t know something, I try to help, but this was not my area of expertise.
“It’s probably the same as being a father,” I (forte)said.
“Well, I never got that either,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.
He wiped some tomato seeds from the snarls of hair around his mouth, then bit into the sandwich.
“Help me find what I buried, and you won’t lose anything,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said, chewing.
“Find what?” I (forte)said.
“Heirlooms,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said, swallowing. “Your family heirlooms. For twenty-nine years they’ve been buried in the same place. Hidden where they were when I was arrested.”
“Hidden where?” I (forte)said.
“I was in prison, this time, for twenty-nine years,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. “Some of those years were for things I actually did. Most of those years were for things I actually didn’t. But, for twenty-nine years, the only thing I lived for was the thought that if I survived that I could give the heirlooms to your mother.” He handed me the plate. “I had a few other scores to settle after prison. But those are settled now. The heirlooms are my final job.” He wrapped himself into the blanket. “I thought she would understand. But she doesn’t understand. She keeps talking about making me live in a rest home.” He sank into the couch. “I don’t care where you keep me after we’ve found the heirlooms. Put me in the rest home if you want. But not yet.” The blanket rose and fell with his chest. “I wasted my life. Doing wrong, making trouble. I’ve always been selfish. Before I die I want to do one good thing.”
“How much are they worth?” I (forte)said.
He was breathing like someone about to sink underwater.
“I made a map to the heirlooms,” Grandpa Rose
(forte)said.
He clutched my elbow with a weak twitching grip.
“So I would remember,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.
His blinks were changing tempo.
“My tattoos,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered, and then his eyes shut, and his jaw sank, and his head rolled into the pillow. His face was pale. He wasn’t moving. I was almost sure that he was dead.
“Grandpa Rose?” I (piano)whispered.
I bent over his face. I held an ear to his lips. I couldn’t hear anything.
Then a breath (piano)whistled from his chest, like wind whistling from a cave.
He wasn’t dead. He was only sleeping.
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.
If You Find This Page 3
