If You Find This

by Matthew Baker

  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, quietbraindead. 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 nervoushelpless. 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.

  EVERYONE SHOUTED

  I’m the worst at soccer. It’s because of what happens when everyone’s shouting. I’ll get the ball, and I’ll think, pass it!, and everyone (forte)shouts, “Shoot it!” but I pass it anyway. Then everyone’s mad at me for doing the wrong thing. When everyone shouts at me, I want to listen to them, but I can’t. The kids on my team (forte)shout, “Shoot it shoot it shoot it!” but I was already thinking, pass it!, and once I’ve thought something, I can’t stop myself from doing it.

  My brain shouts at me sometimes too, like it’s kids on my team. My mom will bake cherry scones for someone’s birthday at the rest home, and I’ll stand over them on their tray, and look at them, and sniff them, and the kids in my brain will (forte)shout, “Don’t eat those scones, they’re not for you, they’re for someone’s birthday!” but I’ll eat some anyway, five or seven of them. I’ll pack a snowball with ice and dirt and rocks, and I’ll watch someone’s grandmother drive past in a van, and the kids in my brain will (forte)shout, “Don’t throw that snowball!” and I try to listen to them, I want to listen to them, but I throw it anyway, and the snowball (forte)thuds into the van’s bumper as I run into the woods and the grandmother stomps on the van’s brakes.

  That night, at the rest home, the kids in my brain were shouting like never before. Grandpa Rose was sitting on his bed, wearing that bathrobe and borrowed slippers, begging me to sneak him away to the ghosthouse. My mom was still signing paperwork. He wanted me to lie to her. He wanted me to hide him. He didn’t want me to tell her where he was, so we could look for the heirlooms together. I still hadn’t found any tattoos, I didn’t know where the map was, my plan had failed totally. I needed additional information—even if the only place to get that was in the ghosthouse. The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Don’t listen to him, listen to your mom, she knows what she’s doing!” but even while everyone shouted, I was thinking, I’ll sneak you away, I know exactly how to do it.

  KIDNAPPERS

  The next day, before band class started, kids tightened bows, greased cork, swabbed keys, squirted slide oil at each other, peered squinting through mouthpieces, tinkered with the cymbals and the xylophone and the tambourines. A pair of girls with trumpets were (mezzo-piano)running through their parts, the countermelody to the melody, their bells stuffed with rubber mutes. I sat doing nothing, totally dazed.

  People at the rest home were going to freak if Grandpa Rose escaped.

  My mom especially.

  But Grandpa Rose was counting on me.

  I was so worried I could have puked.

  Home after school, I packed a backpack for the breakout. Then I sat at the table, pretending to solve homework equations, sketching the floor plan of the rest home instead. My mom was wearing some sweatshirt of my dad’s, with an emblem of crossed hockey sticks.

  “You aren’t visiting Grandpa Rose today?” my mom (mezzo-forte)called, plucking her keys from the counter, snatching her purse from the armchair.

  “Homework,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  She grabbed her uniform, kissed my head, and then flew out the door.

  A spotted turtle was hanging around my brother. It still hadn’t rained. I watered my brother, snatched my backpack, and ran to the graveyard.

  I crouched against the XAVIER mausoleum. Brown geese lurched through the gravestones, (forte)braying. I eyed the rest home through the fence, watching the windows.

  Jordan Odom shuffled alone into the rest home. His lip was split again. His wrists were bruised. Dead leaves were stuck to his sweatshirt, his backpack, his hair, like he had been fighting somewhere on the ground.

  My mom was mopping the cafeteria.

  The mustached guard was sipping a cup of coffee.

  I broke into the rest home through the window of room #53.

  The breakout ended up being more of a kidnapping. Grandpa Rose was confused again. He didn’t remember me, was using words so bad that they can’t be written, (forte)swearingunwritable.

  “What’s this you’re plotting?” Grandpa Rose (forte)shouted.

  “Quiet, Grandpa Rose,” I (piano)hissed.

  In the room
next door, someone (forte)shouted something about sewers.

  I emptied my backpack, shaking out the disguise. A flowery shawl. A floppy straw hat. A wig of curly white hair that I had worn for a play, once, playing the part of a dead composer.

  I yanked the wig over his hair, yanked the hat over his wig, wrapped him in the shawl.

  “You devil,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.

  “You agreed to this idea!” I (piano)hissed.

  I tossed his suitcase out the window, boosted him through. He slipped, tripped, fell onto the concrete. His palms were scraped and bloody when I helped him stand.

  Jordan Odom was gaping at us through the window of room #37.

  I gathered the suitcase, then led Grandpa Rose off toward the ghosthouse.

  We moved at about half a mile per hour. Grandpa Rose hunched over the cane, knuckles white, (mezzo-piano)panting. He seemed < confused now. He yanked the hat lower onto the wig, as the shawl snapped about in the wind. I could smell cookouts—grilling meats—and someone burning leaves. The road wound through swaying maple trees, passing squat houses. High school kids loading the trunk of a car. Middle school kids teetering across a plank of wood, leaping from a treehouse into gold leaves piled below. Elementary school kids sitting in a driveway, ripping heads from dolls, tossing the heads into the grass, (mezzo-forte)singing a song about babies. No one’s as weird as elementary schoolers.

  “We’re being tailed,” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.

  “What?” I (piano)whispered.

  The suitcase (forte)whacked against my knees. I glanced backward. An old man was hobbling after us. It was Jordan’s grandfather. Jordan was dragging him by his arms.

  “Can we shake them?” Grandpa Rose (piano)muttered.

  “We’ll cut through the woods,” I (piano)whispered.

  Taking a corner in the road, we ducked into the trees. A branch hooked the shawl, snatching snarled strands of gold thread. Grandpa Rose wrenched the shawl from the branch. I glanced backward, but there was no one behind us, now.