DISSONANCE
by
Duckling
Chapter 30
The Chapters
“How is he, nurse?” Laura asked quickly, as she stood up quickly from her chair. Fenton rose as well, but much more slowly – suddenly a much older man.
“He’s doing just fine,” the nurse chirped happily. “The doctor feels he’s strong enough for visitors now.”
“That’s a relief,” Laura murmured.
They followed the nurse down the corridor to a room at the end.
“Here he is,” the nurse announced cheerfully, opening the door. “Now, mind you, he’ll probably spend a lot of time sleeping. His body needs it, what with all the poor boy’s been through.”
Laura absently thanked the nurse and crossed over to her son’s bed. She stood gazing quietly at him for several long minutes, taking in every detail: his pallor, the trail of the IV connecting her son to the host of machines attending him, the brilliance of a gold curl against the fair skin.
She hated the thought that this might be her final image of her strong, young, boisterous son. Joe belonged at home with her, not off anywhere else.
Suddenly, an idea began to take shape in her mind. Taking a seat next to the hospital bed, she took her son’s hand in hers and felt his pulse beat beneath her fingertips. Joe would be safe enough with her. It was remaining with Fenton that was hazardous to his health. Well then, she decided, she must take Joe herself. She and Joe could go off somewhere, begin a new life. She still had scores of old friends she could rely on to help her. It would serve Frank right, too, for treating her the way he had. He would no doubt spend the rest of his life in search of his brother, but she would never let him find him. No, she mused quietly, Joe would be hidden even from his older brother. Let that be a lesson to him, she thought scornfully.
Unaware of his wife’s thoughts, Fenton sank into a chair beside her and regarded the silent form of his youngest son. His boy, normally so strong and vibrant, was extremely weak and pale. A bank of machines all but encircled him, their rhythmic beeps and whirrings a sort of modern composition in sound, with Joe as both the visual, and melodic, focal point. Too conflicted to think, Fenton concentrated on watching the rise and fall of his son’s chest; in, out, in, out. Each breath brought him a measure of peace; as he focused on Joe’s soft, even breathing, he allowed himself to relax. There was time enough to sort through the debris left by the emotional storms of the day; now he could savor these minutes with his son, drawing comfort from the boy’s very act of breathing.
**
Frank stood in the center of his brother’s bedroom for the last time. Bix sat patiently on the bed, two packed duffel bags at his feet.
As the boys couldn’t take everything, Frank wanted to be sure to grab what Joe treasured most. The blond boy’s beloved Spider Man comics and classic car magazines took up half of one of the duffel bags. Joe’s impressive and diverse CD collection – ranging from Handel to Metallica – just about topped off the bag. Now if only he could find Joe’s sheet music . . . .
Glancing around the room, Frank’s eyes lit upon a battered folder, tucked halfway behind some books on one of his brother’s shelves. Thinking he had found it, the older Hardy boy reached up and drew it out, brushing dust off the cover. He flipped it open, perfunctorily, to verify its contents, then froze in astonishment as he recognized a bundle of papers addressed to him in Joe’s childish scrawl. These were the letters Joe had written to him when he was so sick and Joe wasn’t allowed to visit. Joe had hated the fact that he couldn’t be with his brother; there were so many things he had wanted to share with him, and he never could quite get through all that he wanted to say on his rare visits to see his older brother. So someone, Mom perhaps, had suggested that he write Frank the letters. That way, Frank could read it even if Joe couldn’t be there.
Frank sat down on the edge of the bed, close to Bix, his eyes soft with emotion. “Joe wrote these to me,” he said in a hushed voice, “when I was too sick for him to visit me.
“When I was ten I got leukemia.” Frank explained softly. “Joe hadn’t even turned nine yet. We were supposed to go on a camping trip for his birthday . . . of course, that never happened.”
“He wanted to stay with me,” he continued, “in the hospital, but he couldn’t. So he wrote me these letters. He would write stories for me, to make me feel better. And jokes. He always made sure to put jokes in each letter. And sometimes he drew pictures to illustrate the stories.”
Frank smiled fondly at the memory. “I wonder why he has them, though,” he mused. “I thought . . . well to be honest, I had completely forgotten about them. I guess I don’t know what I thought happened to them. Once I got well, I guess I no longer cared very much.”
He looked up at his friend and stated briskly, as he suddenly slipped back into his efficient mode: “Well, I suppose if Joe has held onto them this long, they might as well come along too.”
“Now, to find that music – aha!” Frank hopped up and crossed over to another shelf, where he took down some musical scores from a pile stacked on end. “Here we go – Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Scriabin – yep, they’re all here.”
“You mean to tell me your brother plays all that stuff?” Bix asked in astonishment.
Frank grinned over at him. “Yep,” he answered proudly. “He’s not quite the dumb jock most people think him to be.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” began the other boy, but was quickly cut off by Frank.
“Of course not,” he hastily reassured Bix. “I didn’t mean to imply that you did. I just meant that there’s a lot about my little brother that most people never get a chance to know.”
He packed these last few things into one of the duffel bags and cast a quick glance at his watch. “This should be about it. We should head back to the hospital. I don’t care what anyone says, I’m staying with him tonight, even if it’s just sitting outside his room.”
“Right,” agreed Bix as he picked up one of the bags. “Let’s be going then.” Frank slung the other bag onto his back and they tromped down the stairs. The older Hardy boy locked the house up with his brother’s key before they hopped into the van. Within minutes, Frank had swung the vehicle out of the driveway and onto the street.
The boys rode in silence for several miles before Bix reached over and fiddled with the radio in search of a decent station. After several minutes, he finally selected a light rock station and settled back against his seat, just catching the trace of a smile on Frank’s face.
“What?” the burly boy asked.
“Nothing,” Frank responded with a shake of his head, although the smile had widened into a grin. “Just made me think of Joe. He has selecting radio stations down to an art. Irritation-wise that is. He’ll tune into an interesting station, listen to it just long enough to get me into the music, and then switch it to a totally different genre. I mean, I’ll be completely lost in one of Schubert’s piano pieces and – click – baby brother has us listening to some punk metal band. He sets the mood for a long drive with Dave Brubeck or Miles Davis, and the next thing I know we’re listening to polka.”
“Polka?” Bix asked in disbelief.
“Uh-huh,” affirmed Frank with a grimace. “Leave it to baby brother to find a station that plays polka.”
Bix couldn’t help but laugh. “But who – I mean, what radio station – plays polka?”
“Spend four hours in a car with kid brother and you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Polka,” Bix repeated, shaking his head. “Who would have thought?”
“If you ask me,” Frank asserted, “I think he does it on purpose. Why else would he suddenly switch stations?”
“Have you ever challenged him about it?”
Frank looked over at Bix, eyebrows arched in disbelief. “Of course I have.”
“And?” Bix asked, amused.
“And the brat opens those bright blue eyes of his as wide as can be and asks sweetly: whatever do I mean, ‘switching stations like that.’ And then, before I can elaborate he continues to explain in his most innocent voice that he thought I had gotten tired of the other station and wanted a change. Or he launches into a lively commentary on the merits of the chosen station, until he gets me interested again. I don’t know how he does it, but that rascal actually manages to come across as sincerely considerate of my musical preferences and concerned for my musical education.”
Frank looked over at Bix and grinned, before returning his gaze to the road. “And the whole time, we both know he’s doing it on purpose, and getting away with it too. Every single time.”
“This brother of yours sounds like someone worth knowing,” Bix exclaimed with a chuckle.
“He’s definitely a character,” Frank concurred with a smile.
“You know, Frank,” Bix began slowly after a minute or two of silence, “I’ve been wondering about how and when you’re going to take Joe away from here. And I think that I had better leave before any of that happens.”
Frank, with one eye still on the road, shot his friend a questioning glance, his face suddenly serious.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“For a variety of reasons: Firstly, I don’t know if I can miss too many more days of school.”
Frank nodded his head in understanding.
Bix looked over and smiled. “And secondly, I don’t think I could handle having to listen to polka.”
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Disclaimer
The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.