Essential Maps for the Lost

by Deb Caletti

  Of course she knows the line. Jamie says it just after Claudia chooses him to accompany her on the greatest adventure of their lives. She knows what comes next, too.

  “Here’s the plan. Listen carefully,” she says.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Don’t tell me. You’re in love.” Gran pours some food into Ginger’s dish. At the sound, the dog runs in like she’s got the winning lottery ticket. Billy feels sorry that brown crunchy stuff is as exciting as things get for Ginger. If he could, he’d give her a hundred dog butts to sniff, or a steak a day. He swirls the last of his morning coffee in his cup.

  “Why do you make that sound like a bad thing?”

  “You look like a goon, is all, the way you’re smiling.”

  He hears it—the jab of the dagger, the vial of poison, the accusation. Still, he makes a face. His mother would have been drawn right into this fight. But Billy won’t. No way. He only crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. Here you go, old woman, love looks like this, and this, and this. He rams his fingers in his armpits and gives an apelike scratch, ooh-ooh-oohs like a stupid goon, because he’d rather be the biggest and most hopeful fool than a bitter, hardened person too scared to risk passion. He has his mother’s face and his father’s lean build, but he’ll tell you something right now. He’s his own self. His mom and dad dropped an egg on the earth, and it cracked open, and out he came, made from them but different from them. He has to be. He will be.

  “Well, as you prance around, just remember all the good love did her,” Gran says.

  She means Mom, in that blue-gray urn on the mantel. Billy’s last swallow of coffee suddenly tastes like ass water. Why, why does Gran do this every time he feels okay? The dagger slices now, and he feels his guts about to spill. He could cry, but he also feels fury rise up his throat. He wants to push Gran down, smother her with the couch cushion so he never has to hear another word from her pinched, mean mouth.

  And look at that. In spite of his good intentions, she got him. No contest. She’s a master. In the past, he only watched this from the stands. All these years, he thought he could do better, just like most spectators.

  He was wrong. He gets it now. He’s sorry, so sorry, he didn’t get it before. And you know what? His mom shouldn’t have to stay here, locked in battle with Gran forever. Neither should he. The thing is, if you try and try to drive people away, you shouldn’t be surprised when they finally go.

  “I thought you told me I should live my life.”

  “What are you saying?” Gran looks up from the cupboard where she’s fetching a pan to fry up some eggs. He can’t believe how indignant she looks. It’s funny what happens when you call people on their bullshit. The worst offenders always feel the most wronged.

  “I’m saying, you always tell me to live my life, but then you remind me I’m living my life.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You little shit,” she says. But it’s all disbelief, not anger. She looks like she might cry. Bullies always crumple.

  The weakness kills him, though. Give him meanness and the blade anytime. Right then, her old eyes fill with tears and for one second, one split second, he understands feeling like such a disappointment, such a worthless ghost-child, that you could walk to the rail of that bridge and fling your legs over. “Gran, I’m sorry. But, come on. You keep . . .” He doesn’t even know how to sum up what she keeps doing. It’s all strange stuff he can’t even describe in regular words. “I’m seeing a girl, so? So, yeah, I like her a lot. So what?”

  “I’m asking questions, is all. Who is she? Where’d she come from all of a sudden? You don’t even know her. She just showed up and now you’re all off in your own world.”

  “Maybe it’s fate, Gran. Maybe God. Maybe Mom.”

  She snorts. He should never have said it. Still, none of those things—not fate, not God, not Mom—should be snorted at.

  “You think being paranoid about everyone is gonna keep you safe?”

  “You safe.”

  Now he snorts. “I gotta go to work.”

  “I’m just asking a question. I’m only looking out for you. I don’t get why she never comes around here. You never bring her around.”

  “Look at you! You gotta ask? My mother is in a fucking vase. . . .” Jesus, why did he say that? Why, why, why? He wants to take it back. It makes him hate himself. He wants to slice his arms and gouge his eyes for being so horrible.

  He’s got to get out of here. He can’t stand it anymore. At first, he had nowhere to go. Gran needed him. They only had each other. But lately, with her, he can feel the real-life Night Worlds around him, the dark chambers of loathing. Shame and rage duel, and the blood of that ancient pair soaks through the layers of his skin and sinks into his spirit. The creature who emerged from the cracked shell—he has to start walking if he wants to survive.

  “You never even told me her name.”

  He can’t say Mads here. It’d be like opening his cupped hands and letting a butterfly loose, only to see it smacked dead with a shoe. “Amy,” he says. “Her name is Amy.”

  “Sounds like a cheerleader name.”

  “She was never a cheerleader.” He’s not even sure about that, but he’ll find out. When you love someone this much, you should know everything.

  “I’m just saying you better watch out.”

  “I better watch out, huh?” He puts his cup in the sink. Now he’s late for work.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m just going to end up hurt, right? Something like that?”

  “People always have motivations, Billy. And any girl who lets herself be hidden has something to hide.”

  “One, I don’t care. Two, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Poor Billy.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but he will soon: Even bitter old ladies are sometimes right.

  • • •

  It’s not the best part of the job, but someone has to do it. Jack and Lisa have the dogs in the dayroom, so Billy cleans out the pens. Everyone takes turns. It’s a shitty job, heh heh, but he tries to look at it this way: He’s making a better home for them. He’s giving them the kindness and respect they deserve.

  He hoses everything down. And then he fills water bowls and carts the puffy dog beds back from the big dryer. After that, he heads over to the indoor playroom. The dogs are inside, because Jane Grace is getting the outdoor enrichment ready. Enrichment includes fun and challenging stuff like hidden treats, puzzle balls, and blocks with food tucked in them. It’s the same with dogs as it is with people—if you aren’t doing what you’re capable of, you’re probably going to get yourself into trouble.

  Halfway down the hall, he smiles. You should hear those dogs in there—they’re having a blast. Every now and then a couple of them get into it, but flare-ups are fast and forgotten. Dogs know how to work stuff out. They tell each other what they’ll take and won’t take, and that’s that. He respects that about them. You might even say it’s a personal life goal of his.

  He’s surprised when he sees Amy there, not Lisa. He’s barely seen Amy at all, thanks to Jane Grace. But now she bops over in those shorts and that T-shirt with the shooting star on it. Bodhi follows her as if she’s a vision in beef.

  “Hey, stranger. Stranger McWolfie.”

  “Hey.”

  “Where’ve you been? Alex said he hasn’t seen much of you, either.”

  “Just busy.”

  “Yeah, busy with a girl. A girl who’s not me.” She flicks his chest with her finger.

  “Yeah, well.”

  Jasper spots him. He runs over, bumps into Billy’s legs, and circles him in greeting. “Jas boy. Way to be a great dog.” Billy scratches him a good one on his neck, right where Jas likes it.

  “Did you hear about Lulu? Getting adopted?”

  “Really?” Billy says. Amy seems honestly happy about it.

  “Really. Two kids. Fenced yard. The jackpot.”

/>   “That’s awesome.”

  Jack whistles, using two fingers. Bodhi’s just made a big puddle, and now he’s jumping on Rocko’s back, and Jack’s supposed to head outside to the yard now. Rocko is already looking better. Sometimes Billy’s sure that Rocko smiles back at him.

  Amy punches Billy’s arm. “You better get the mop.”

  His phone buzzes in his pocket as he slops the floor. Jane Grace doesn’t mind cell phones as long as you don’t look at them every minute. He’s hoping maybe Mads sent him a text. Probably it’s Gran saying she broke her hip or something, just so he can really feel like shit.

  He gives it a quick glance. It’s not Mads or Gran. Amy’s sent him a picture from across the room, a close-up of Jasper’s nose and black lips. She grins at him from over there, and he gives her a thumbs-up. Maybe ten minutes later, his phone buzzes again. Another picture, this one of Bodhi in the time-out box, looking like a hockey player who just wants back in the game. Amy grins again, and Billy shakes his head to say Can you believe that guy? She sends a couple more. Lulu scratching at the floor with her paw; Runt barking his damn head off.

  The pictures make him happy. He’s even having fun with Amy. That’s the thing. Sometimes you can actually like the people who annoy you the most.

  • • •

  Jane Grace is at the front desk, and Billy’s in the adjacent storage room, unpacking a shipment of supplies. Food, treats, toys, medicine, cleaning stuff, laundry detergent, it’s a mess back there, and Jane Grace wants it tidied up. Jane Grace is an organized person, but not one of those organized people who drive you crazy because of how organized they are.

  “I heard about Lulu,” he calls to her as he hauls and stacks bags of kibble.

  “Great news, huh?”

  “Yeah. The best.” He doesn’t even have to ask if that asshole Mr. Woods ever came by to look for her.

  “You’ll love the people. They’re coming on Friday to get her, after the background check comes through.”

  “Awesome.” He slings another fifty-pound bag of food.

  “Hey, Billy?” Jane Grace is in the doorway now. She folds her arms. Her eyebrows bend into a serious V. “I had a young couple . . .” She stops. “This is hard.”

  “What?”

  “I had a young couple who were interested in Jasper.”

  It’s a sock in the gut. A blow. Jasper is his boy. His, ever since he first spotted the dog in that yard with all the junk—old refrigerators and car parts and tricycles, massive televisions and ditched stereo speakers, stuff people had bought with pride, now discarded and forgotten. Jasper lay in front of a stack of tires, the chain (always some chain) hooked around the Y of a trailer hitch. Right away, Billy saw the patches of bare skin that let him know the dog had been locked up there a long time. It killed him, the way Jasper was curled up. A body did what it could to shelter itself. He looked right at Billy, though. Sometimes the dogs won’t even dare. They duck their heads, getting ready for what your hand or foot might do. But Jasper met his eyes. And those eyes spoke to him, swear to God.

  “I told you,” Billy says to Jane Grace. “I was going to get my own place. . . .” Yeah, well, that plan got derailed, didn’t it? Oh, his mother said. In his head, she said it again and again and again. Oh, oh, oh.

  “I know. I know you were. What should we do, huh? I mean, we can’t keep him here forever. It’s not fair to him. He needs a home.”

  “I was going to get a place with a yard.”

  “Man, with what I pay you?” She rolls her eyes, laughs a little. Heartland is mostly run on donations, and she’s right; he barely makes anything. Jack, who helps run the place, doesn’t get paid at all. He’s got a dot-com past, so he doesn’t even need to work. He’s just there because he cares. It’s not a job you even do for the money.

  “Yeah, well.”

  “And . . . you, either,” Jane says. “You don’t want to stay here forever. We’ve got to think about what’s next. We need to get some ideas going for both you and Jasper. I was talking to Dave. He said he could get you a good construction job with Stein Reynolds. You could do really well.”

  “Construction?” He stares at Jane Grace and she stares back and they both know that him working construction is as likely as him becoming president. Those guys are built like trucks. Worse, though—they stand up on high girders and look down.

  “Maybe not out in the field? Maybe the office.”

  “I was going to call my uncle,” Billy says. He didn’t even realize he’d been thinking that, but it seems to be true. “My half brother works for him. He tests games and stuff.”

  “You’d be great at that.” He loves Jane Grace, that’s all there is to it. This talk—it’s mostly about him, not Jasper. He sees what she’s doing. She wants him to have a future beyond no-money-an-hour and Gran and bridges and loss.

  “If I worked with my uncle, I could maybe do this on the side.”

  “Exactly right, because this place would not be the same without your face in it.”

  “I wouldn’t be the same without my face in this place.”

  “I get that. Do I ever.”

  “Jasper’s mine.”

  “Okay.”

  “I got a plan.”

  “Okay, Billy.” She holds one hand up, as if it’s been decided.

  “I need a little time.”

  “Sure. And you know what else might be good?”

  “Don’t say college. I’ve got to get a place to live first.”

  “Something I’ve told you before. Something you should do before you settle in to make the big bucks. It involves a certain piece of paper in your back pocket.”

  “Oh.” He laughs. “Road trip.”

  Jane Grace nods. “Can’t think of anything better for the spirit than making a dream come true.”

  • • •

  Two weeks ago, they were ready. Billy had his small but powerful weapons—two paper clips, a little knowledge; and Mads had hers—a little knowledge, her glasses. The idea was simple: Mads would follow H. Bergman to Fred Meyer, switch the spark plug wires, while back in H. Bergman’s yard, Billy freed Casper from his cell. Billy had been practicing, using a padlock from his old high school locker. He was nervous.

  They held hands in Billy’s mom’s truck, their eyes glued to H. Bergman’s garage door. Mads’s palm was sweaty, or maybe Billy’s was. A half hour passed, an hour. Something was wrong. That asshole wasn’t coming out. Mads had skipped class for this, and Billy felt bad.

  “Let’s hope he’s dead,” Mads said. “Let’s hope his heart got sick and tired of being so evil.”

  The house just sat there, closed up. The windows looked like sleeping eyes, and the door like a yawning mouth. Casper heard Billy’s truck coming, and he stood there, waiting. The sound of that particular truck meant food, but Billy believed it meant him, too. He could feel their connection, and anyone who says dogs only care about food is wrong and narrow-minded besides. He was glad he had that ham he picked up from the deli counter at QFC, though. He was going to give it to Casper once they’d gotten to the truck, but now it was another care package lobbed over the fence.

  “I hope H. Bergman pissed himself in his last moments,” Mads said.

  “We’ll come back in two weeks, is all. Same place, same time.”

  “We’re not giving up,” Mads said.

  See? Right there. That’s where the doctor in his head is wrong, wrong, wrong about her and him. That flash of fire and anger, the kind of fire and anger you’d never expect with those freckles—the girl has fight.

  And H. Bergman isn’t dead. Three days later, Billy spots him hauling his garbage cans to the curb, honking into a handkerchief. Who even has those disgusting things anymore?

  Until they can try again, he and Mads see each other every night. Right after Mads gets off work, they meet, and they practically have a whole weekend together, except for the few hours Mads has to help out with yard chores.

  Yard chores! It’s so awesom
e. Afterward, Mads smells like grass, and she has an arc of sweet suburban-like dirt under her fingernails, and it all makes his heart fucking sing. Chores and order and grass stains are so different than brown splotches of forgotten, rented lawn.

  The love, the grass, the mission—it all becomes part of a secret he has now. A plan. Since Billy spoke those words to Jane Grace, I got a plan, it’s become true. He has one. The plan feels like a fragile living thing with feather wings, emphasis on living. Jesus, love makes clichés true, because he wants white-fence grass stains with that girl, and a kitchen. He can maybe cook three things, but they could have their own stove and a refrigerator with their own food in it, and a bed, God yeah, he wants their own bed most of all.

  This is Plan A, even if Mads keeps talking about going home after her licensing test. That’s a hurdle. So what? The doctor in his head should shut up about it, too, because Billy thinks she’s stopped going to class. He’s afraid to ask. The plan is a baby bird, and those guys drop out of trees and crash into windows and get eaten by hawks. All he knows is, she used to spend some of their time together doing homework. Studying. Wearing those cute glasses. But lately? Nada. So there, Doc. How high is the hurdle, huh?

  There’ve been no textbooks at Gas Works Park, or Green Lake, or the University of Washington campus, all the places they go, anywhere with grass, anywhere he can lay an old blanket on the lawn and wrap them up in it. Goddamn, no wonder he’s so fond of grass stains lately. Even the words get him hard. Jesus. Mouths on mouths, hands shoved down pants, if he doesn’t get them a bed soon, he’ll go crazy. Being at Gran’s anymore makes him feel twelve years old, and worthless, too. Plus, he needs his own bed, not just one at Alex’s place. It sounds stupid, but he wants to be a man about it. He wants to take his time, and then maybe she’ll stop talking for good about going home.

  Baby bird, hell—the plan is airborne, yeah, but powerfully airborne, all burning gases and interplanetary thrust. He believes a bed and so much more is in their future. See, Mads hasn’t run off with Ivy even once since that day at Bartells. And she doesn’t have that look in her eyes, either. Instead, you should see the way she checks him out. She does, all the time! She’s crazy about him, and he knows it. He’s not an idiot. He knows he can’t cure her or fix her (and that she can’t cure him or fix him). He knows that even love (the biggest weapon, atomic and forever) isn’t enough by itself. But maybe the love plus her own fire plus grass-stain hope, saving-Casper hope, hope in general, no matter where they find it—maybe that has a chance against despair.