Essential Maps for the Lost

by Deb Caletti

  And now, H. Bergman, watch out. Sometimes you have to try and try and try again to conquer bad shit. Mads and Billy are ready once again. Billy—naïve and doomed, optimistic beyond reason—sits in his mother’s truck a block away from H. Bergman’s house, trying not to puke from nerves. He waits for Mads. He has another package of ham, and he has his paper clips. It doesn’t seem like much, but he’s also got something you can’t see. He’s got burning desire, which can shoot to the sky, flash like a comet, and make the stars step backward in awe.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I think he’s coming.” Mads grips Billy’s arm.

  H. Bergman’s garage door rises. It’s a one-car garage, which lowers the value of the home. Everyone wants two or three now, but it has an electric opener, at least. Her mind still pretends to care, even though she hasn’t been to class in two weeks, ever since Thomas’s truck refused to go on the freeway at all. Otto Hermann sent a letter. Mads told Claire it was an invitation to a class party. A class party! Can you imagine? Standing around and talking about open floor plans with Ryan Plug (she has no idea what his real last name is), and the scowling Mrs. Chang, who smells like oversteamed vegetables? Linda Erickson could bring her three-layer dip. Mads hopes Linda has moved on to a new friend.

  In the two weeks they wait to steal Casper, Mads calls her mom every morning, same as usual. Then she walks Harrison to the bus stop, gathers her backpack and books, and pretends to go to school. At the library, she looks at college catalogs with images of stately, ivy-covered buildings and brick squares, fall leaves, and serious students. After that, she reads. Madame Bovary, with Emma, who eats a fistful of arsenic. The House of Mirth, with Lily Bart drifting toward suicide as the man of her dreams prepares to ask her to marry him. The reading lulls the ogres to sleep.

  Then, at her regular time, Mads babysits Ivy. She does not drive her to a ferry dock or to the county line, though. Instead, she practice-walks Ivy around the garden, holding her little hands while telling her things she needs to know. After rule number three, The only thing that should curl up on the bathroom floor is a dirty towel. You are not a dirty towel, she lost count. Screw it all up, so you can see how the world loves you anyway. Wear the lipstick called Passion Flower Pink. Turn down everyone else’s voice, but turn the music up. Mads stashes the wad of cash Suzanne gives her, same as Jamie with his card game earnings.

  And she sees Billy. As soon as she’s off work, they meet, and he grabs her so hard that their teeth clack together when they kiss. Kissing him makes her want to be alive. This is not the early-imagined Billy with a dead mother she pulled to the shore. This is the real him, with his own Arms and Armor, with Great Halls filled with what she thinks are masterpieces. Small, regular, daily masterpieces—thoughtfulness, heart, valor.

  All of it—it can make a person forget that it has to end. Sooner than she even imagines.

  “Here we go,” Billy says. H. Bergman’s Ford Escort backs out of the garage. Mads knows she will likely devastate Billy, and her mother, and Claire and Thomas, and even herself. She will likely disappoint Cole, and her friends at home, and Otto Hermann, and Linda Erickson. But she will save this dog if it kills her.

  • • •

  Mads’s head is in Billy’s lap. This would be the perfect time for a joke, but Billy’s concentrating. He’s slunk down and peeking over the steering wheel. She can tell he’s nervous, which is making her nervous. He’s talking fast, like he’s had a double shot at Java Jive.

  “Backing up, backing up . . . Garage door is coming down. Okay, it’s down. Pulling forward . . .”

  “I’m out of here, then,” Mads says. She kisses him quick. He tastes like pancake syrup. She runs to Thomas’s truck, which, bless its little automotive heart, starts up like a dream. She practiced this route with an online map, but just to be sure, she gets the GPS woman talking. Thankfully, the woman (with her robotic patience) is right there this time. Mads’s hands shake. She can practically hear her heart. It sounds like the dryer when she puts her tennis shoes in.

  Driving down Forty-Fifth, she has to stop at every light. She swerves around bikes and parallel parkers. The traffic isn’t helping anything. She’s lost sight of H. Bergman. Every time Billy’s followed him, though, he’s ended up at the same place. Too late, she realizes it’s pitiful information to base criminal activity on. H. Bergman could be anywhere. Fred Meyer, sure, but a million other places. A million other places closer to his house, where he might show up right as Billy is picking that lock.

  Mads prays. It’s a prayer involving the words Please and Fred Meyer, not likely a combo God hears very often. The GPS woman is the only calm one here.

  Your destination is on the left, she says. The lot is huge. Mads scans—Ford Escort, Ford Escort—but only sees shopping carts and children; large SUVs with their back doors opened; cars reversing from spots. MINI Coopers, VWs, Hondas, Hondas, Hondas . . . The place is a madhouse.

  But wait.

  There he is! What a relief—H. Bergman is heading to the automatic doors, wearing his green old-man pants and gray shirt, with his slicked-back hair, and his cigarettes-and-booze face. It’s a clichéd dog abuser face, hardened by meanness, but what are you going to do. Mads can tell he smells bad. Alcohol fumes and long-ago smoke and shut-up rooms. She knows that if she brushed up against him accidentally she would get the creeps.

  Where is his car, though? He’ll only be in the store twenty minutes or less. Enough time to pick up a few groceries, and that’s it.

  Mads drives down the aisle he seems to have come from. No Ford Escort. She starts to sweat; drops actually roll down her sides, like rain on a window. She is going the wrong way, and a Jeep driver glares. Nothing. Up another aisle, and then down another, more nothing. She’s about to cry. She’s afraid to check how much time has already passed. If Billy gets caught and Casper remains a captive, it will be her fault.

  Back down the aisles again. And there, right where the Jeep driver scowled, she sees it. Ford, beautiful Ford. She whispers thanks, pulls into the closest spot.

  “Please help me,” she says aloud, to God or maybe a dog saint or to anyone who might care. Before she made that fateful swim that started hundreds of lies, her list of wrongdoings included parking in load zones and snitching bunches of jam packets at IHOP because Mom only bought the diet kind she liked. Now Mads is about to break the law for real. She has no idea which law, but definitely a law.

  She tries to breathe through her nose to keep the throw-up feeling at bay. She gets out of the truck, which means she’s really doing this. She looks both ways, like an inept bank robber, and approaches the Ford Escort. She doesn’t want to touch it—even the car gives her the shivers. In the back, there’s a green Windbreaker, and a black pop-up umbrella, splayed out and looking like the ribbed wings of a bat.

  An engine starts up nearby; the doors of the store swish open and closed. A woman wheels a cart with a large potted palm in it. Another has more paper towels than you’d ever need in your life. The potted palm sways, heads Mads’s way. A clock starts ticking in her head.

  She pops the hood. That was easy. The engine gapes. Now what? She hunts around in there. She pats her pockets, looks for her glasses. Once they’re on, everything is sharper than sharp and dirtier than dirty.

  This guy, and this guy, she remembers Cole saying, but the engine’s a maze.

  The large palm in the cart clatters and bumps and finally stops next to her. A woman with rainbow-shaped eyebrows opens the back door of her wagon.

  “Car trouble!” Mads says. She smiles the way she imagines the innocent driver of a Ford Escort would smile. Her armpits are drenched. She sneaks glances at the store, hoping H. Bergman doesn’t walk out right then.

  “Oh,” the woman says.

  “It’s the darn spark plugs!”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “You, too! Good luck with your new tree! Ugh, car trouble’s the worst!”

  The woman lifts the plant into the back and
slams the door. Another vehicle has its turn signal on while it waits for the spot. Mads needs to get out of there, fast.

  There. She sees them! The wires. Just pull, then switch.

  “Pull, then switch,” she says.

  It’s easy! She feels almost giddy. It’s thrillingly simple to break whatever law she’s breaking! The first one comes out with a satisfying pop. She is so pleased with herself, she can barely stand it. The wagon leaves, and another car veers in. A short guy gets out. He has thinning dark hair and is sporting sunglasses and one of those untucked Hawaiian shirts men over forty always wear. It’s a shirt that says I was a stud in 1981.

  “Need a jump?” he says.

  “Oh, no. Nah. Got it handled.”

  “Those are the spark plug wires.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m . . . replacing. Replacing one. Them. All of them.”

  “You sure it’s the plugs? Maybe it’s just the battery.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Engine been surging?” Mads has no idea how to answer this. She has a fifty-fifty chance. Her shirt is now stuck to her back with sweat. The sun is beating down. She could swear it’s moved. That’s how much time has gone by.

  “Yeah.”

  “Rough idle?”

  Jesus!

  “Yeah.”

  “Probably the spark plugs, all right. Need a ratchet? I got tools in the car. I once had a Ford that made it to two hundred thousand, but they’re prone to cylinder box problems, so you’ve got to watch that.”

  “Thank you, mister, but I have this handled.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to bite my head off. Fine. Just trying to be helpful.” He takes off, gives one of those loud exhales of disbelief that are actually fury.

  Jerk. Thinks a girl can’t know about cars! Pop! There! Second one, off! See, Mr. Sexist Luau Man?

  The doors of the store open. A woman and two kids walk out. Hurry, hurry! He’ll be coming any minute. Mads shoves a wire in the now-empty hole, does the same with the second. She slams down the hood, just as the doors open again.

  There he is! He’s coming out, all right, carrying one brown grocery sack, one small white pharmacy bag, and a four-pack of toilet paper.

  He’s seen her. She’s sure of it. She strolls to Thomas’s truck. This might be what it feels like to have a heart attack. She’s listening for the yell, the Hey, you! She’s expecting him to grab her arm from behind. But none of that happens. She gets in the truck. Her chest is squeezing. It’s been too long since she’s taken a breath. She risks a glance toward H. Bergman. He’s whistling! She sees his creepy, pursed lips. He’s smiling away with his new TP. Get out of here! she screams to herself.

  Thomas’s truck gives a little skip to keep things exciting, and then, thankyouthankyouthankyou, starts. She is sure H. Bergman’s eyes are burning into her, sure the silky-shirted man is running back outside with his finger pointing, sure that she’s switched some wrong wires, or maybe hasn’t switched them at all. What if she just put them back in the same place? What if the car blows up, like in one of those movies Cole likes? There’s a siren far off, and she’s sure the silky-shirted man has called the police. She’ll be arrested for spark plug swapping and jam packet theft.

  According to their plan, she is now supposed to park on the side of the road and watch the lot. Should H. Bergman’s car start up, she’ll need to alert Billy. Mads’s hands shake. Her legs shake. Her whole body is doing the same trembling dance it did after she’d hauled Anna Youngwolf Floyd from the water. That seems like so long ago. She can almost convince herself it didn’t happen.

  H. Bergman is in his car. He buckles his seat belt. He adjusts his rearview mirror. He sets his hands at ten o’clock and two. Then he leans forward a bit, reaches for the key now in the ignition.

  Rrr.

  Rrr, rrr.

  He tries again. More rrrs, but nothing else. And again. More nothing! Again and again, and nothing, nothing, nothing! Dear sweet God, dear beautiful life, nothing! She’s done it! Mads does a little panicked yet joy-filled car dance. H. Bergman gets out. One thing’s for sure—he won’t be smiling for a long while.

  Soon enough, though, neither will she.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’m outta here, then,” Mads says. She kisses Billy quick, and she tastes like toast and peanut butter. He wants to watch her drive off. That’s the thing—he thinks she’s so beautiful that he just wants to watch and watch every little thing she does, but he has no time for that. He can’t take chances, even if he’s gotten pretty good with the lock. You should see him now, compared to when he was first learning. If he wasn’t such a law-abiding type, he could be like a guy in one of those movies with a safe and millions of dollars and a boat speeding down a Venice canal.

  He tosses a glance up and down the street like he’s in a jillion-dollar suit, about to pull off the heist of his life. All clear. No guys in ultracool sunglasses, no zipping Vespas in sight. He does the high-stakes saunter. Damn Converse is untied, though. After he rises from his knees and brushes the pebbles from his burning hands, he has to search around for the second paper clip. You need a pick and a tension wrench to open the lock, that’s how all the videos show it, but his paper clip tension wrench just skidded across the sidewalk and jumped off the curb, landing too close for comfort near the sewer grate.

  All right. Try again. And look at that, just look at that! Casper. He’s standing, wagging his damn tail. He thought that dog had lost his wag, because he hasn’t seen him do it all this time. But look. There it is, a sweet, half-speed swish, as if he thinks his life’s about to change but he’s afraid to believe it.

  “This is it, boy,” Billy says.

  So far, so good. Billy shakes his shoulders, tells himself to relax. He’s both the trainer and the boxer in the Rocky movie. He has plenty of time. There’s no one in sight.

  The sun is out, and it’s warm, and Billy begins to sweat. The glaciers are melting and lakes are forming right in his underarms, but the padlock is cool in his palm. It’s harder to do it like this, with the padlock hanging. At home, he always practiced with it in his lap, sitting on his bed.

  He sticks paper clip number one into the hole of the lock. Why, why, didn’t he just buy a real pick and tension wrench? A store-bought tension wrench wouldn’t have bent like this homemade one. Why did it somehow seem more wrong to go out and purchase his breaking-in tools? Now this makes absolutely no fucking sense to him. Either way, breaking in is breaking in. Failing will be much worse than taking his stupid conscience over to Ace Hardware and plunking down a few bucks. He gets it finally—that whole idea they read about senior year. Machiavelli—he’s surprised he remembers the dude’s name. The ends justify the means. He didn’t even do well on that test, but now it makes sense to him. Hell, yeah. Machiavelli would have gone to Ace Hardware.

  He straightens the paper clip tension wrench with his thumbs, tries again. He jabs around in there. It’s like he’s a blind dentist, ha ha. Casper starts to whine. Billy’s got to find the pin that will click open the lock. But it’s just nothing and more nothing. Concentrate, he tells himself. Special Ability: Blindsight. Operating effectively without vision. Such sense may include sensitivity to vibrations, acute scent, keen hearing.

  He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and checks up and down the street again. No one, just a crow watching him from a telephone wire, his marble eyes staring and his beak half open like he’s a nosy neighbor about to tattle.

  Tension wrench in, pick in. Feel around. Stay calm.

  And then . . . there it is. There it fucking is! The lock clicks, and the safe door pops open and the bars of gold are all stacked and shiny inside. Look at that, H. Bergman. You are now nothing over no one! Billy wants to whoop with victory. He slips the lock off and edges the gate open. It hasn’t budged in so long, weeds and dirt and shit have grown all around it and he has to really shove his weight against it. Casper gives a half-yelp of excitement. No more prison visiting, no more barriers. Caspe
r’s at the farthest end of his chain, trying to come to him.

  “Casper, boy,” Billy says. He could cry, goddamn it. He could. He has his arms around Casper, and the dog doesn’t mind, and this just chokes him up. Casper doesn’t flinch or whine; he only leans in. “Good boy. Good big boy.” Billy’s voice is high and tight with tears. The dog is smashed up against his legs, and Billy has to feel around down by his big neck for the clasp to that chain.

  The crow caws. To Billy, it sounds mean and threatening, but when he looks back at this day he will wonder if it was something else, a warning maybe. Because what happens next needs a warning: two whoop-whoops, two ear-shattering shrieks of authority.

  There is no mistaking that sound. No! No, no, no! He wants to fall to his knees. He wants to weep. He’s failed. He’s failed himself and Mads and Casper most of all, and now he is also in one big shitload of trouble.

  Really, God? Really? He deserves this?

  He dares to look up from the ground, which he’s been hoping will swallow him. The blue light of the police car is not spinning. The cop has his window rolled down, and he leans on one arm, all arrogant-casual. He’s got his cop sunglasses on, the mirrored kind, where you can’t see his eyes. Billy recognizes him, though. He’s seen him around there sometimes, cruising, sitting at that busy street by the school, pointing his speed radar at traffic. The radio in the police car bleats stuff that sounds important but apparently isn’t as important as Billy himself at that moment.

  Billy’s frozen. He may need CPR.

  “Son,” the cop says. “You stealing that dog?”