My brothers were like a pack of wolves. They tested each other constantly, with scuffles breaking out every time some young pup hit a growth spurt and dreamed of moving up. When I was young these tussles usually ended with Mother screaming over a broken lamp or vase, but as I got older there were fewer things left to break. Mother said weād owned a TV once, when I was a baby, until Shawn had put Tylerās head through it.
While his brothers wrestled, Tyler listened to music. He owned the only boom box I had ever seen, and next to it he kept a tall stack of CDs with strange words on them, like āMozartā and āChopin.ā One Sunday afternoon, when he was perhaps sixteen, he caught me looking at them. I tried to run, because I thought he might wallop me for being in his room, but instead he took my hand and led me to the stack. āW-which one do y-you like best?ā he said.
One was black, with a hundred men and women dressed in white on the cover. I pointed to it. Tyler eyed me skeptically. āTh-th-this is ch-ch-choir music,ā he said.
He slipped the disc into the black box, then sat at his desk to read. I squatted on the floor by his feet, scratching designs into the carpet. The music began: a breath of strings, then a whisper of voices, chanting, soft as silk, but somehow piercing. The hymn was familiar to meāweād sung it at church, a chorus of mismatched voices raised in worshipābut this was different. It was worshipful, but it was also something else, something to do with study, discipline and collaboration. Something I didnāt yet understand.
The song ended and I sat, paralyzed, as the next played, and the next, until the CD finished. The room felt lifeless without the music. I asked Tyler if we could listen to it again, and an hour later, when the music stopped, I begged him to restart it. It was very late, and the house quiet, when Tyler stood from his desk and pushed play, saying this was the last time.
āW-w-we can l-l-listen again tomorrow,ā he said.
Music became our language. Tylerās speech impediment kept him quiet, made his tongue heavy. Because of that, he and I had never talked much; I had not known my brother. Now, every evening when he came in from the junkyard, I would be waiting for him. After heād showered, scrubbing the dayās grime from his skin, heād settle in at his desk and say, āW-w-what shall we l-l-listen t-t-to tonight?ā Then I would choose a CD, and he would read while I lay on the floor next to his feet, eyes fixed on his socks, and listened.
I was as rowdy as any of my brothers, but when I was with Tyler I transformed. Maybe it was the music, the grace of it, or maybe it was his grace. Somehow he made me see myself through his eyes. I tried to remember not to shout. I tried to avoid fights with Richard, especially the kind that ended with the two of us rolling on the floor, him pulling my hair, me dragging my fingernails through the softness of his face.
I should have known that one day Tyler would leave. Tony and Shawn had gone, and theyād belonged on the mountain in a way that Tyler never did. Tyler had always loved what Dad called ābook learning,ā which was something the rest of us, with the exception of Richard, were perfectly indifferent to.
There had been a time, when Tyler was a boy, when Mother had been idealistic about education. She used to say that we were kept at home so we could get a better education than other kids. But it was only Mother who said that, as Dad thought we should learn more practical skills. When I was very young, that was the battle between them: Mother trying to hold school every morning, and Dad herding the boys into the junkyard the moment her back was turned.
But Mother would lose that battle, eventually. It began with Luke, the fourth of her five sons. Luke was smart when it came to the mountaināhe worked with animals in a way that made it seem like he was talking to themābut he had a severe learning disability and struggled to learn to read. Mother spent five years sitting with him at the kitchen table every morning, explaining the same sounds again and again, but by the time he was twelve, it was all Luke could do to cough out a sentence from the Bible during family scripture study. Mother couldnāt understand it. Sheād had no trouble teaching Tony and Shawn to read, and everyone else had just sort of picked it up. Tony had taught me to read when I was four, to win a bet with Shawn, I think.
Once Luke could scratch out his name and read short, simple phrases, Mother turned to math. What math I was ever taught I learned doing the breakfast dishes and listening to Mother explain, over and over, what a fraction is or how to use negative numbers. Luke never made any progress, and after a year Mother gave up. She stopped talking about us getting a better education than other kids. She began to echo Dad. āAll that really matters,ā she said to me one morning, āis that you kids learn to read. That other twaddle is just brainwashing.ā Dad started coming in earlier and earlier to round up the boys until, by the time I was eight, and Tyler sixteen, weād settled into a routine that omitted school altogether.
Motherās conversion to Dadās philosophy was not total, however, and occasionally she was possessed of her old enthusiasm. On those days, when the family was gathered around the table, eating breakfast, Mother would announce that today we were doing school. She kept a bookshelf in the basement, stocked with books on herbalism, along with a few old paperbacks. There were a few textbooks on math, which we shared, and an American history book that I never saw anyone read except Richard. There was also a science book, which must have been for young children because it was filled with glossy illustrations.
It usually took half an hour to find all the books, then we would divide them up and go into separate rooms to ādo school.ā I have no idea what my siblings did when they did school, but when I did it I opened my math book and spent ten minutes turning pages, running my fingers down the center fold. If my finger touched fifty pages, Iād report to Mother that Iād done fifty pages of math.
āAmazing!ā sheād say. āYou see? That pace would never be possible in the public school. You can only do that at home, where you can sit down and really focus, with no distractions.ā
Mother never delivered lectures or administered exams. She never assigned essays. There was a computer in the basement with a program called Mavis Beacon, which gave lessons on typing.
Sometimes, when she was delivering herbs, if weād finished our chores, Mother would drop us at the Carnegie library in the center of town. The basement had a room full of childrenās books, which we read. Richard even took books from upstairs, books for adults, with heavy titles about history and science.
Learning in our family was entirely self-directed: you could learn anything you could teach yourself, after your work was done. Some of us were more disciplined than others. I was one of the least disciplined, so by the time I was ten, the only subject I had studied systematically was Morse code, because Dad insisted that I learn it. āIf the lines are cut, weāll be the only people in the valley who can communicate,ā he said, though I was never quite sure, if we were the only people learning it, who weād be communicating with.
The older boysāTony, Shawn and Tylerāhad been raised in a different decade, and it was almost as if theyād had different parents. Their father had never heard of the Weavers; he never talked about the Illuminati. Heād enrolled his three oldest sons in school, and even though heād pulled them out a few years later, vowing to teach them at home, when Tony had asked to go back, Dad had let him. Tony had stayed in school through high school, although he missed so many days working in the junkyard that he wasnāt able to graduate.
Because Tyler was the third son, he barely remembered school and was happy to study at home. Until he turned thirteen. Then, perhaps because Mother was spending all her time teaching Luke to read, Tyler asked Dad if he could enroll in the eighth grade.
Tyler stayed in school that whole year, from the fall of 1991 through the spring of 1992. He learned algebra, which felt as natural to his mind as air to his lungs. Then the Weavers came under siege that August. I donāt know if Tyler would have gone back to school, but I know that after Dad heard about the Weavers, he never again allowed one of his children to set foot in a public classroom. Still, Tylerās imagination had been captured. With what money he had he bought an old trigonometry textbook and continued to study on his own. He wanted to learn calculus next but couldnāt afford another book, so he went to the school and asked the math teacher for one. The teacher laughed in his face. āYou canāt teach yourself calculus,ā he said. āItās impossible.ā Tyler pushed back. āGive me a book, I think I can.ā He left with the book tucked under his arm.
The real challenge was finding time to study. Every morning at seven, my father gathered his sons, divided them into teams and sent them out to tackle the tasks of the day. It usually took about an hour for Dad to notice that Tyler was not among his brothers. Then heād burst through the back door and stride into the house to where Tyler sat studying in his room. āWhat the hell are you doing?ā heād shout, tracking clumps of dirt onto Tylerās spotless carpet. āI got Luke loading I-beams by himselfāone man doing a two-man jobāand I come in here and find you sitting on your ass?ā
If Dad had caught me with a book when I was supposed to be working, Iād have skittered, but Tyler was steady. āDad,ā heād say. āIāll w-w-work after l-l-lunch. But I n-n-need the morning to s-st-study.ā Most mornings theyād argue for a few minutes, then Tyler would surrender his pencil, his shoulders slumping as he pulled on his boots and welding gloves. But there were other morningsāmornings that always astonished meāwhen Dad huffed out the back door, alone.
ā
I DIDNāT BELIEVE TYLER would really go to college, that he would ever abandon the mountain to join the Illuminati. I figured Dad had all summer to bring Tyler to his senses, which he tried to do most days when the crew came in for lunch. The boys would putter around the kitchen, dishing up seconds and thirds, and Dad would stretch himself out on the hard linoleumābecause he was tired and needed to lie down, but was too dirty for Motherās sofaāand begin his lecture about the Illuminati.
One lunch in particular has lodged in my memory. Tyler is assembling tacos from the fixings Mother has laid out: he lines up the shells on his plate, three in a perfect row, then adds the hamburger, lettuce and tomatoes carefully, measuring the amounts, perfectly distributing the sour cream. Dad drones steadily. Then, just as Dad reaches the end of his lecture and takes a breath to begin again, Tyler slides all three of the flawless tacos into Motherās juicer, the one she uses to make tinctures, and turns it on. A loud roar howls through the kitchen, imposing a kind of silence. The roar ceases; Dad resumes. Tyler pours the orange liquid into a glass and begins to drink, carefully, delicately, because his front teeth are still loose, still trying to jump out of his mouth. Many memories might be summoned to symbolize this period of our lives, but this is the one that has stayed with me: of Dadās voice rising up from the floor while Tyler drinks his tacos.
As spring turned to summer, Dadās resolve turned to denialāhe acted as if the argument were over and he had won. He stopped talking about Tylerās leaving and refused to hire a hand to replace him.
One warm afternoon, Tyler took me to visit Grandma- and Grandpa-over-in-town, who lived in the same house where theyād raised Mother, a house that could not have been more different from ours. The decor was not expensive but it was well cared forācreamy white carpet on the floors, soft floral paper on the walls, thick, pleated curtains in the windows. They seldom replaced anything. The carpet, the wallpaper, the kitchen table and countertopsāeverything was the same as it was in the slides Iād seen of my motherās childhood.
Dad didnāt like us spending time there. Before he retired Grandpa had been a mailman, and Dad said no one worth our respect would have worked for the Government. Grandma was even worse, Dad said. She was frivolous. I didnāt know what that word meant, but he said it so often that Iād come to associate it with herāwith her creamy carpet and soft petal wallpaper.
Tyler loved it there. He loved the calm, the order, the soft way my grandparents spoke to each other. There was an aura in that house that made me feel instinctively, without ever being told, that I was not to shout, not to hit anyone or tear through the kitchen at full speed. I did have to be told, and told repeatedly, to leave my muddy shoes by the door.
āOff to college!ā Grandma said once we were settled onto the floral-print sofa. She turned to me. āYou must be so proud of your brother!ā Her eyes squinted to accommodate her smile. I could see every one of her teeth. Leave it to Grandma to think getting yourself brainwashed is something to celebrate, I thought.
āI need the bathroom,ā I said.
Alone in the hall I walked slowly, pausing with each step to let my toes sink into the carpet. I smiled, remembering that Dad had said Grandma could keep her carpet so white only because Grandpa had never done any real work. āMy hands might be dirty,ā Dad had said, winking at me and displaying his blackened fingernails. āBut itās honest dirt.ā
ā
WEEKS PASSED AND IT was full summer. One Sunday Dad called the family together. āWeāve got a good supply of food,ā he said. āWeāve got fuel and water stored away. What we donāt got is money.ā Dad took a twenty from his wallet and crumpled it. āNot this fake money. In the Days of Abomination, this wonāt be worth a thing. People will trade hundred-dollar bills for a roll of toilet paper.ā
I imagined a world where green bills littered the highway like empty soda cans. I looked around. Everyone else seemed to be imagining that too, especially Tyler. His eyes were focused, determined. āIāve got a little money saved,ā Dad said. āAnd your motherās got some tucked away. Weāre going to change it into silver. Thatās what people will be wishing they had soon, silver and gold.ā
A few days later, Dad came home with the silver, and even some gold. The metal was in the form of coins, packed in small, heavy boxes, which he carried through the house and piled in the basement. He wouldnāt let me open them. āThey arenāt for playing,ā he said.
Some time after, Tyler took several thousand dollarsānearly all the savings he had left after heād paid the farmer for the tractor and Dad for the station wagonāand bought his own pile of silver, which he stacked in the basement next to the gun cabinet. He stood there for a long time, considering the boxes, as if suspended between two worlds.
Tyler was a softer target: I begged and he gave me a silver coin as big as my palm. The coin soothed me. It seemed to me that Tylerās buying it was a declaration of loyalty, a pledge to our family that despite the madness that had hold of him, that made him want to go to school, ultimately he would choose us. Fight on our side when The End came. By the time the leaves began to change, from the juniper greens of summer to the garnet reds and bronzed golds of autumn, that coin shimmered even in the lowest light, polished by a thousand finger strokes. Iād taken comfort in the raw physicality of it, certain that if the coin was real, Tylerās leaving could not be.
ā
I AWOKE ONE MORNING in August to find Tyler packing his clothes, books and CDs into boxes. Heād nearly finished by the time we sat down to breakfast. I ate quickly, then went into his room and looked at his shelves, now empty except for a single CD, the black one with the image of the people dressed in white, which I now recognized as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Tyler appeared in the doorway. āIām l-l-leaving that f-f-for you,ā he said. Then he walked outside and hosed down his car, blasting away the Idaho dust until it looked as though it had never seen a dirt road.
Dad finished his breakfast and left without a word. I understood why. The sight of Tyler loading boxes into his car made me crazed. I wanted to scream but instead I ran, out the back door and up through the hills toward the peak. I ran until the sound of blood pulsing in my ears was louder than the thoughts in my head; then I turned around and ran back, swinging around the pasture to the red railroad car. I scrambled onto its roof just in time to see Tyler close his trunk and turn in a circle, as if he wanted to say goodbye but there was no one to say goodbye to. I imagined him calling my name and pictured his face falling when I didnāt answer.
He was in the driverās seat by the time Iād climbed down, and the car was rumbling down the dirt road when I leapt out from behind an iron tank. Tyler stopped, then got out and hugged meānot the crouching hug that adults often give children but the other kind, both of us standing, him pulling me into him and bringing his face close to mine. He said he would miss me, then he let me go, stepping into his car and speeding down the hill and onto the highway. I watched the dust settle.
Tyler rarely came home after that. He was building a new life for himself across enemy lines. He made few excursions back to our side. I have almost no memory of him until five years later, when I am fifteen, and he bursts into my life at a critical moment. By then we are strangers.
It would be many years before I would understand what leaving that day had cost him, and how little he had understood about where he was going. Tony and Shawn had left the mountain, but theyād left to do what my father had taught them to do: drive semis, weld, scrap. Tyler stepped into a void. I donāt know why he did it and neither does he. He canāt explain where the conviction came from, or how it burned brightly enough to shine through the black uncertainty. But Iāve always supposed it was the music in his head, some hopeful tune the rest of us couldnāt hear, the same secret melody heād been humming when he bought that trigonometry book, or saved all those pencil shavings.
ā
SUMMER WANED, SEEMING TO evaporate in its own heat. The days were still hot but the evenings had begun to cool, the frigid hours after sunset claiming more of each day. Tyler had been gone a month.
I was spending the afternoon with Grandma-over-in-town. Iād had a bath that morning, even though it wasnāt Sunday, and Iād put on special clothes with no holes or stains so that, scrubbed and polished, I could sit in Grandmaās kitchen and watch her make pumpkin cookies. The autumn sun poured in through gossamer curtains and onto marigold tiles, giving the whole room an amber glow.
After Grandma slid the first batch into the oven, I went to the bathroom. I passed through the hallway, with its soft white carpet, and felt a stab of anger when I remembered that the last time Iād seen it, Iād been with Tyler. The bathroom felt foreign. I took in the pearly sink, the rosy tint of the carpet, the peach-colored rug. Even the toilet peeked out from under a primrose covering. I took in my own reflection, framed by creamy tiles. I looked nothing like myself, and I wondered for a moment if this was what Tyler wanted, a pretty house with a pretty bathroom and a pretty sister to visit him. Maybe this was what heād left for. I hated him for that.
Near the tap there were a dozen pink and white soaps, shaped like swans and roses, resting in an ivory-tinted shell. I picked up a swan, feeling its soft shape give under pressure from my fingers. It was beautiful and I wanted to take it. I pictured it in our basement bathroom, its delicate wings set against the coarse cement. I imagined it lying in a muddy puddle on the sink, surrounded by strips of curling yellowed wallpaper. I returned it to its shell.