retroactively, the years he had been gone. Occasionally, they got letters: Drew was in Alaska, hiking with the Inuits! He was in Santa Cruz, selling blown glass vases his friend made. He was bartending in Florida, he was hitchhiking across the plains, he was married, he was separated, he needed cash, he was silent.
He stood, tried to take a step, but his own body seemed infinitely far away, his feet so small that they seemed beyond control, bouncing like electrons, circling the unsteady nucleus of his head. He fell, his vision going in and out so fast it was as if his blackout were on a propeller, spinning in front of his sight. For weeks he had worked on the problem in his brotherâs roomâat his deskâthinking that something about working there was lucky. There was something about the roomâthe objects so settled in the deep hush, the way even the light seemed to hesitate at the window, casting itself in modest rays that didnât touch anything, didnât even reach the bedâthat seemed anticipatory, matching the mood in which he always worked. And he likedtouching the things in the room, bumping the shoes with his shoes, running his hands down the duvet cover, opening the closet and clapping the old sport uniforms, Sunday slacks, and sport coats covered in plastic between his hands. He always sat back down to the problem refreshed.
He shut his eyes and relaxed into the earth, which swayed and arched up around him, so at some moments he felt a wall of vertical grass behind his head, sometimes under his chin, and sometimes pressed to his face, damp and gentle as a hot cloth dabbed on his forehead. Afternoons in his brotherâs room, he would lie on his back on his brotherâs made bed, imagining the figures and forms of the conjecture playing themselves out on the swirled plaster above. He kept his visits to his brotherâs room from his parents, only working in there when they were outside or away. He knew that occupying the space would only make Drewâs absence more keenly felt, whereas the empty shrine of a room, always shut, was like a brilliant idea waiting to be thought. The ceiling fan revolved but there was no breeze, as if the air in the room were gelatinous, pinching closed the moment the blade passed through. Every now and again a new angle would come to him, and he would reach over to the nightstand and scribble it on the thick block of his brotherâs neon notepaper. Sometimes he rumpled the duvet when he napped; he drooled on the pillow made to look like a softball. When he left the room for the day, no evidence of him remained. He even made sure the pencils were all pointing the right direction in the pencil holder, the calculations picked from the trash.
Something crawled over his nose. He snatched at his face, sending his head vibrating like the blur of a dogâs scratching foot. He pressed his hands over both ears, trying to stop the movement. When he was younger and his brother would get in trouble he would put both hands over his ears and listen to the sound, the ticking and settling of his head, like an old house at night. He honestly didnât remember much about his brother. They were six years apart, and Aaron was twelve when Drew left. All his memories of Drew were memories oftrying to remember him. He used to feel guilty about how little he remembered, so he would steal into the empty room, look at his brotherâs stuff, and half-create, half-recall things that had happened between them, using the objects in the room to star in these inventions. The ant farm in Drewâs closetâdidnât they mix carpenter and regular ants to see what would happen? Didnât the two colonies burrow from opposite sides, through the sand, so they met and rumbled in the very center while he and Drew made opposing bets on who would win? It was as if the objects held the memories, as if all he had to do was concentrate on a photograph, ball, or toy and an
He stood, tried to take a step, but his own body seemed infinitely far away, his feet so small that they seemed beyond control, bouncing like electrons, circling the unsteady nucleus of his head. He fell, his vision going in and out so fast it was as if his blackout were on a propeller, spinning in front of his sight. For weeks he had worked on the problem in his brotherâs roomâat his deskâthinking that something about working there was lucky. There was something about the roomâthe objects so settled in the deep hush, the way even the light seemed to hesitate at the window, casting itself in modest rays that didnât touch anything, didnât even reach the bedâthat seemed anticipatory, matching the mood in which he always worked. And he likedtouching the things in the room, bumping the shoes with his shoes, running his hands down the duvet cover, opening the closet and clapping the old sport uniforms, Sunday slacks, and sport coats covered in plastic between his hands. He always sat back down to the problem refreshed.
He shut his eyes and relaxed into the earth, which swayed and arched up around him, so at some moments he felt a wall of vertical grass behind his head, sometimes under his chin, and sometimes pressed to his face, damp and gentle as a hot cloth dabbed on his forehead. Afternoons in his brotherâs room, he would lie on his back on his brotherâs made bed, imagining the figures and forms of the conjecture playing themselves out on the swirled plaster above. He kept his visits to his brotherâs room from his parents, only working in there when they were outside or away. He knew that occupying the space would only make Drewâs absence more keenly felt, whereas the empty shrine of a room, always shut, was like a brilliant idea waiting to be thought. The ceiling fan revolved but there was no breeze, as if the air in the room were gelatinous, pinching closed the moment the blade passed through. Every now and again a new angle would come to him, and he would reach over to the nightstand and scribble it on the thick block of his brotherâs neon notepaper. Sometimes he rumpled the duvet when he napped; he drooled on the pillow made to look like a softball. When he left the room for the day, no evidence of him remained. He even made sure the pencils were all pointing the right direction in the pencil holder, the calculations picked from the trash.
Something crawled over his nose. He snatched at his face, sending his head vibrating like the blur of a dogâs scratching foot. He pressed his hands over both ears, trying to stop the movement. When he was younger and his brother would get in trouble he would put both hands over his ears and listen to the sound, the ticking and settling of his head, like an old house at night. He honestly didnât remember much about his brother. They were six years apart, and Aaron was twelve when Drew left. All his memories of Drew were memories oftrying to remember him. He used to feel guilty about how little he remembered, so he would steal into the empty room, look at his brotherâs stuff, and half-create, half-recall things that had happened between them, using the objects in the room to star in these inventions. The ant farm in Drewâs closetâdidnât they mix carpenter and regular ants to see what would happen? Didnât the two colonies burrow from opposite sides, through the sand, so they met and rumbled in the very center while he and Drew made opposing bets on who would win? It was as if the objects held the memories, as if all he had to do was concentrate on a photograph, ball, or toy and an
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