If You Find This

by Matthew Baker

  “Nothing to worry about,” Mr. Tim (forte)said. “Only a couple of backpacks.”

  My mom’s car was parked at the curb, across from the buses. She was wearing her uniform, plus her name tag, plus a gray jacket with black buttons. She had a bit of something leafy stuck between her teeth. A stack of flyers had spilled across the dashboard, all with the same picture of Grandpa Rose.

  “Don’t forget that there’s a showing today. Do you want to come along to the rest home for a while? We aren’t allowed at the house during the showing,” my mom (forte)said.

  “I’m going to a friend’s house,” I (forte)said.

  “What friend?” my mom (forte)said.

  “I need a new backpack,” I (forte)said.

  “What happened to yours?” my mom (forte)said.

  Sometimes your mom will give you this look where you can tell she’s thinking about who you used to be. She wants you to be the you you were when you were younger, the smaller one with no secrets, but you can’t help getting older, you’re getting bigger every day. That was the look my mom gave me now.

  “Nicholas, we can’t afford another backpack,” my mom (forte)said.

  I had to get home before the showing started. I (forte)shouted goodbye and flew onto the bus and dropped into a seat just as Mr. Carl shifted the bus into gear.

  When I got home, a black station wagon was parked in the driveway.

  The showing was already happening.

  The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Don’t peek in, don’t sneak in, you’ll get in trouble!” but as per usual I couldn’t help ignoring.

  I tried my bedroom window, which was locked. I ran around the house. My brother was talking to a salamander with golden speckles. The dirt was drier, the grass was deader than before. It still hadn’t rained. I poured a bucket of water onto my brother’s roots. Then I peeked through the kitchen window.

  In the kitchen, a woman in a polka-dot dress was burping a baby in polka-dot overalls. A man in a black sweater was laughing at someone’s joke, the laughter muted by the window. The agent my parents had hired was showing the family our stove, yoyoing the door of the oven.

  I propped the bucket against the house.

  I dropped through the bathroom window.

  I crouched in the bathtub, where I had landed, and listened. Then I noticed the bathroom.

  My towel had vanished. My toothbrush was missing from the sink. The shelf above the bathtub was empty—my mom had hidden our soaps, our razors, our shampoos. It looked like we had already moved out.

  The door to the oven (forte)slammed in the kitchen. I could (mezzo-piano, piano, mezzo-forte)hear voices. My own house, and I had to sneak around like a thief. I slid from the bathtub onto the floor. I tested my high-tops. I took a breath.

  I crept through the bathroom, my high-tops (pianissimo)squeaking against the tiles. I bolted through the kitchen, where the woman in the polka-dot dress was peering under the sink, my high-tops (pianissimo)scuffing against the wood. I crept through the hallway, my high-tops (pianissimo)padding against the carpet. I shoved a lock of hair out of my eyes and took a breath again and ducked into my bedroom.

  A kid in a blazer was sitting on my bed. An elementary schooler, a third grader, maybe. I had never seen him before. His nose was crusted with snot.

  “Who are you?” the kid (forte)said.

  “Your worst nightmare,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “Do you live here?” the kid (forte)said.

  “Yes,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “I like your room,” the kid (forte)said.

  “You do not,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “I do too. I like this whole house. It has neat windows,” the kid (forte)said.

  “You hate this house,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “My mom thinks it’s too small—”

  “It is,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “—but my dad thinks it’s perfect.”

  I dug through my closet for my knife. The kid stared at me like he was afraiduncertain. I belted my knife to my leg.

  “Here’s what they won’t tell your parents,” I (piano)hissed. “We have ghosts in our attic, and monsters in our woods, and the skeletons of children bricked into our walls.”

  The kid stared at me like he was more scared than before even.

  But as I dropped through the window, the kid (forte)shouted, “I think ghosts are neat too!”

  That night at the ghosthouse, Grandpa Rose and Grandpa Dykhouse sat at the top of the staircase, chewing handfuls of raspberries. Grandpa Rose was (piano)talking, something about someone getting shot over gambling debts. Grandpa Dykhouse was scribbling notes about the memory with the stub of a pencil, his glasses hooked to his sweater. The lantern flickered between them, each of the steps darker and darker toward where the staircase turned into floor. New supplies lay dumped in piles there at the bottom—reams of paper, a plastic bag from the pharmacy, scattered library books, some bent cans of peaches.

  I was perched on the fireplace, fiddling with the broken music box. Zeke was sprawled across the floor, his head propped on a wolfdog. Jordan was peeing from the porch.

  “Shouldn’t we start on PAWPAW ISLAND?” Jordan (forte)shouted.

  “Theoretically,” Zeke (forte)shouted. “But I can’t find anything about a PAWPAW ISLAND. I looked at my map of the lakes, at the index of the islands, but there wasn’t a PAWPAW. The index went from Parry Island to Pelee Island with nothing between.”

  “So now what?” Jordan (forte)shouted.

  “We may have to search the islands one by one,” Zeke (forte)shouted.

  “Do you know how many islands there are in Michigan?” Jordan (forte)shouted.

  “34,981,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “He meant approximately, but, yes,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)muttered.

  “Prime number,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “Like, a lot of islands,” Jordan (forte)shouted.

  Jordan stepped over a wolfdog back into the ghosthouse.

  “We’ll all be grandfathers before we’ve searched every one,” Jordan (forte)said.

  Jordan (mezzo-forte)sawed open a can of peas. Zeke frowned at a water stain on the ceiling, running his fingers over his stubby bristles of buzzed hair. I wound the music box, the music box making the same sound it always made, (piano)click (piano)click (piano)click (piano)click (piano)click, trying to play its music with whatever parts it had left. Grandpa Rose was (piano) telling a story about someone with a lisp double-crossing someone with a toupee, while Grandpa Dykhouse scribbled notes.

  “I’ve been trying to solve the other clue, about the trunk, X18471913,” I (forte)said. “X is the twenty-fourth letter of the alphabet, so the clue could mean 2418471913, like a phone number—241-847-1913—but when I tried calling it, it didn’t ring, just made a beeping sound instead.”

  “What’s the language where letters mean numbers?” Zeke (forte)said. “Like I means one, V means five, X means ten. Maybe the X means ten, so the clue means 1018471913.”

  “I tried that number too,” I (forte)said. “Or another theory is the X represents a multiplication sign, which would mean we’re supposed to multiply something by 18,471,913.” I wound the music box again. “Or another theory is the X represents a decimal point, which would make the number .18471913, which is approximately equal to a ratio of 2,309/12,500, which you can’t simplify any further because 2,309 is a prime number.”

  Jordan threw the empty can at me.

  “You’re so smart that you’re dumb,” Jordan (forte)said.

  Jordan squatted.

  “Here’s what you’re missing,” Jordan (forte)said. “Are you ready, Calculator?” He jabbed me with a finger. “The X doesn’t mean anything! The numbers are the clue! The X marks the spot!” He held his arms out, like someone after a performance awaiting a shower of bouquets.

  Zeke shook his head.

  “You’re so dumb that you’re dumb,” Zeke (piano)muttered.

  I looked around from person to
person. I was eleven, and Zeke was thirteen, and Jordan was thirteen, and Grandpa Rose was eighty-nine, and Grandpa Dykhouse was seventy-three. All of us were primes. All of us had Big Events coming. If we were going to find the heirlooms, this was the year.

  Grandpa Rose was (pianissimo)describing a memory about a tunnel collapsing and marooning someone underground.

  “We don’t even know what the heirlooms are worth,” Zeke (mezzo-piano)said. “A gun, a clock, a hammer, how valuable can they be?”

  “I don’t know,” I (mezzo-forte)said. “But they better be worth at least as much as a house.”

  “And a boat,” Jordan (forte)said. “A house and a boat.”

  Zeke didn’t even bother saying anything about a flight to Italy.

  “We’re late for the seance,” Zeke (forte)grunted, rousing the wolfdogs.

  “See you, King Gunga, we’re off for some treasure hunting,” Jordan (forte)called.

  “You’re coming?” Zeke (forte)gaped.

  “Calculator didn’t tell you? I’m hunting for the treasure now too. A third of that treasure’s mine,” Jordan (forte)cackled, wriggling into a sweatshirt.

  As the others headed for the porch, (forte)bickering, Grandpa Rose waved me over to the staircase.

  Climbing the steps, I suddenly thought of another theory.

  “Hey, Grandpa Rose, you can’t read music, can you?” I (forte)said.

  “Kid, I’m hardly smart enough to read a magazine,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.

  The X clue could have meant a sequence of ghost notes—on sheet music, ghost notes look just like normal notes, except ghost notes have X’s where normal notes would have heads. During performances, ghost notes get played almost totally silently—so that the notes are still there, but barely there at all—like notes hovering somewhere between the realms of living sounds and dead silence.

  But how could ghost notes lead to a hidden trunk? What were you supposed to play them on? Where were you supposed to play them?

  Anyway, if Grandpa Rose couldn’t even read music, that must not have been the answer.

  Just then, I noticed how anxious Grandpa Rose looked. He had his jacket buttoned to his chin. His fingers were streaked with raspberry. He wouldn’t even look at me.

  “Kid, I have to tell you something embarrassing, and somewhat disgraceful,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said. He fiddled with a button. He quit fiddling. “The truth is that, lately, I’ve been having trouble remembering your Grandma Rose’s face.” He hesitated, and hung his head. “Okay, truthfully, I haven’t been able to picture her face for some time now. Not at all. Believe me, that’s been the worst part about the last few years. Worse than anything.” He knit his hands together, like someone begging for some money. “Tomorrow, will you bring me a photo of her face?”

  “We don’t have any,” I (forte)said.

  “You don’t have any?” Grandpa Rose (forte)said, hunching forward, frowning.

  “My mom says Grandma Rose never let any photos of herself be taken. I was three months old when she died. I can’t remember her face either,” I (forte)said.

  Grandpa Rose stared off toward the fireplace, still frowning.

  “So, you don’t even know what you’re missing,” Grandpa Rose (piano)murmured.

  In the gold light of the lantern, the tattoos on his cheeks looked almost black. He blinked. He turned back toward me, and smiled, rapping his knuckles against my chest.

  “You’re lucky,” Grandpa Rose (forte)said.

  I flew down the staircase, shot through the doorway out onto the porch.

  “Finally finally finally, let’s go!” Jordan (forte)said.

  Grandpa Dykhouse peeked out through the doorway, the lenses of his glasses smudged with spiraled fingerprints.

  “Have you kids ever heard of holmgangs?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  We stopped on the steps.

  “Wait,” Jordan (forte)said, squinting at Grandpa Dykhouse. “I know that look. You’re in librarian mode, aren’t you? You’re going to make us listen to some boring fact!”

  “Do you want help looking for the heirlooms or not?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “Okay, but this had better be mind-blowing, and don’t add any extra details,” Jordan (forte)said.

  “I can guarantee that you’ll like it, because it’s about fighting,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “Alright!” Jordan (forte)said, folding his arms together and nodding.

  Grandpa Dykhouse leaned against the doorway, moonlight gleaming on his head.

  “A holmgang was a duel,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. “A duel that you had on an island. If you didn’t like someone, or if you got into a quarrel, you would meet on an island with your pistols and your seconds. Then you would duel until somebody was dead.”

  “What’s a second?” Zeke (forte)said.

  “A second was a friend you would bring along, to make sure the fight was fair,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “Could the seconds fight each other?” Zeke (forte)said.

  “Sometimes the seconds had to,” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said. “The Scandinavian settlers who built this town, they would have holmgangs all of the time. Somebody would fall in love with somebody’s wife, and then—holmgang—they would row to an island and shoot each other. A roof would collapse and kill somebody’s kids, and then—holmgang—whoever’s kids had been killed would challenge the roofer, and they would row to an island and shoot each other.”

  Zeke (piano)murmured something about the Isaacs. I didn’t know then that this murmur was noteworthy, but it’s noteworthy, 100%.

  “Anyway, I keep thinking. Those skeletons are everywhere on the islands. Maybe that’s where Monte hid the key. Maybe BONES FROM BOW means the bones of a dueler?” Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said.

  “Let’s ask!” Jordan (forte)said, but Grandpa Dykhouse (forte)said, “I’ve tried already. Monte won’t say anything, except, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out of my house!’ ”

  “Sorry,” I (mezzo-piano)said.

  “It’s not your fault,” Grandpa Dykhouse (piano)said.

  Grandpa Dykhouse stepped into the ghosthouse, shivering, and waving goodnight.

  “It’s not even Monte’s,” Grandpa Dykhouse (pianissimo)said.

  We slipped through a meadow of (forte)chirring mosquitoes and (forte)trilling crickets, tightroped a tree across a creek of (fortissimo)droning frogs, crossed an unpaved sandy road to a dead-end neighborhood of one-story cottages. The wolfdogs kept bumping into each other, sniffing at the road.

  “Why did you draw those pictures of the Gelusos today?” I (forte)said.

  “I didn’t,” Jordan (forte)said.

  “The Gelusos thought you did,” I (forte)said.

  “Anything mean anybody does at that school, everybody assumes it was me. ‘The Ballad Of Dirge And Keen,’ I never wrote that either,” Jordan (forte)said.

  Zeke (piano)laughed, like someone disappointed by a magician’s trick.

  “Laugh if you want. But I’m not lying. Half of the things I’m blamed for I never did,” Jordan (piano)muttered.

  Zeke ducked through a curtain of hanging ivy, unlatched the gate of a stone cottage. The gate (piano)tocked shut behind us. The wolfdogs (piano)huffed, then flopped onto the road, resting their snouts on their paws, staring at the gate, looking moody about getting left behind. Zeke led us along a path of stones.

  “This will be my first and hopefully last ever seance,” Jordan (forte)said.

  No one said anything.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Boylover?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Really, after you’ve experienced something personally, you can’t help but believe in it,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “You’re saying you’ve seen a ghost?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Well, maybe not ghosts exactly, but related phenomena, definitely,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Okay. Here
. So, an example is, my dad is missing a hand,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “You’re lying. Like, how, from war?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “A spider bit him,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “A spider bit him. Then, what? The hand just fell off? You can’t lose a hand to a spider, that’s completely impossible,” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Not for this kind,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “What kind?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “A violin spider. It bit his hand, and the skin on his hand turned necrotic, and so the doctors had to cut off the hand. Some people call the spiders fiddlebacks,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “Necrotic?” Jordan (forte)said.

  “Dead. Necrotic. It means the skin on the hand was dead, even though the hand was still alive,” Zeke (forte)said.

  Jordan pretended to puke, disgusteddelighted.

  “Anyway, have you heard of phantom limbs?” Zeke (forte)said. “If your hand gets cut off, afterward sometimes you’ll feel the missing hand. You’ll feel it tingling, or cramping, or hurting, like it’s still there. You’ll feel something pinching it. And my dad always said the worst part is that you can’t fix it. Because it’s not actually there. Nothing’s actually pinching it. So you can’t fix it, you have to keep feeling it, until the pinching stops on its own.”

  Jordan stopped dead on the path.

  “I really hate to agree with you, but now that you say it, this creepy thing happens to me sometimes,” Jordan (forte)said. “In kindergarten, I used to have this sort of mullet. You know, where your hair is short in front and long in back? But, the creepy thing is, even now that my hair is normal, sometimes I still feel something bobbing around back there!”

  Zeke buried his face in his hands.

  “It’s phantom limbs, not phantom haircuts,” Zeke (forte)said.

  “I swear, sometimes I get this ghost mullet!” Jordan (forte)said.

  Jordan was still (forte)rambling about mullets. Zeke (fortissimo)knocked on the door. I was peeking through an unlit window.