Mrs. Johanaby smiled at Joey now. It was a big smile and made him feel good.
“So, what do you think? Do you want the job?” she asked.
“No,” Joey answered.
“I need you, Joey,” she said. “The family needs you. It may not be fair asking you to do this, but there it is.”
“They don’t listen to me,” Joey said. “And Glory, she makes me so mad.”
“They’ll learn. You’ll find a way.” The smile on his mother’s face faded and she got a far-away look in her eye. “You know as well as I do that ever since your father died it’s been hard. Not having any money, losing our home . . .”
Joey saw his mom swallow. He swallowed too. It was a way to keep from crying that worked for both of them.
“But now I have this opportunity and we inherited this old house. It makes me wonder if your father’s on the other side pulling strings for us.”
“You think so?” Joey asked. He liked that thought.
His mother smiled again. “I think so, Joey,” she said. “Anyway, we have a chance to pull our world together, and we have to make the most of it.”
Joey felt proud with his mother talking to him like a grown up. Then he felt uncomfortable, because he wasn’t a grownup. He was a kid.
Her face became serious. “I need to be honest with you, Joey. This job scares me a little bit. I’m not real good with computers and this whole course I’m taking is on-line. It’s going to be hard for me. I need to concentrate. That’s why your job of looking after your brother and sister is so important. If I have to worry about them getting hurt or in trouble I’ll never get anything done.”
“I’ll take care of them,” Joey said, resigning himself to the unpleasant task.
Mrs. Johanaby was silent a moment. Then she said, “I knew I could count on you.”
Joey blushed.
Mrs. Johanaby went on. “Now the rules are that they are to be ready for meals at seven a.m., twelve noon, and six in the evening. They need to wash their hands before they eat. They need to rinse their plates when they’re through. They are to play outside most of the day. If they play inside, they have to play quietly. They are not to climb trees, play near water, or cross the highway. Bedtime is eight o’clock and lights out at eight-fifteen.”
“For me too?” asked Joey.
His mother thought a moment and then said, “For you lights out is at nine.”
Joey smiled. He hesitated a moment and asked, “What happens if they don’t obey me?”
“If they are being ornery and won’t do what they’re supposed to, you just tell me and they’ll lose their dessert or some other privilege, okay?”
“Okay,” Joey answered. He was skeptical about how well this was going to work out.
“You start immediately,” said his mother.
Joey stood up and headed for the door.
“Joey,” she said. He stopped and turned around.
“Come here.” She stood and hugged him. She smelled like cinnamon. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he answered. Reluctantly he left the comfort of his mother and went to find the twins.
Chapter 3
Joey couldn’t help feeling a little excited as he stepped outside. He knew he had plenty of reasons not to. His father was still gone. The responsibility of looking after Glory and Story would lead to trouble. He was spending the summer, maybe the rest of his life, in an old house in a new place where he didn’t know anyone. On the other hand Mrs. Johanaby’s pep talk on a new life here sparked a small hope in him that things might get better. In the golden sunlight the colors of the world danced brightly. The leaves of the trees were a cool green, the dirt driveway was rusty brown, and the sky was turquoise.
Amid all this color there was only one problem—Joey didn’t see the twins anywhere. He started around the house looking for them. He felt good and broke into a run. The morning air was cool against his face and rushed past his ears. He ran around the house three times before he tired and stopped. With hands on his knees he sucked in deep breaths of sweet air.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. He looked up. Through the warped and dusty panes of the library window he saw his mother setting up her computer. It was an old computer that still had a floppy disk drive. A neighbor had given it to them before they moved. Mrs. Johanaby said it was something to be thankful for, not complain about. Joey smiled and waved at her and she waved back. Her voice muffled by the glass, he heard her ask, “Where are the twins?”
In all his running around he had forgotten who he was looking for. He took off running again, this time keeping a sharp lookout for the dynamic duo. The yard around the house was empty. They couldn’t have climbed the oak trees because the lowest branches grew too high from the ground. An old weeping willow billowed high against the sky in the backyard. Its whip-like limbs cascaded down from the top of the tree like water from a fountain. Lower branches close to the ground made this tree easy to climb.
Standing next to the trunk he looked into the waterfall of yellow limbs and narrow grey-green leaves. It was a perfect climbing tree. There was nobody up there. He wanted to climb it right then, but he remembered his mother’s rule about climbing trees. He wondered if that meant him too.
Leaving the tree, but not forgetting it, he walked across the backyard. Next to the screened back porch two, big, wooden doors lay on a slant covering the entrance to a cellar. He pulled on one. It wasn’t locked, but it was heavy. Pulling hard and adding his own grunts to the groaning and creaking of the door, he opened it.
A wet, musty smell licked his nose. Crumbly brick stairs led down into blackness. Goose bumps, which were getting quite familiar by now, ran up his arms like ants. He knew he was never going down those steps. He let the door slam shut. The twins were too little to get those doors open. They wouldn’t be down there.
East of the house was a rusty wire fence held up by rotting wood posts that tilted different directions. A field of tall grass and weeds grew on the other side. Beyond the field grew thick green woods. They could have gone out there.
Joey started walking toward the fence when he thought of the garage. Joey stopped suddenly when he remembered the man who had come out of the garage that morning. He hadn’t told his mother as he had planned. Joey fought an urge to run straight to his mom.
“Get a hold of yourself,” he mumbled. Taking a big, shaky breath he started for the garage. As he neared it he heard a BANG that made him jump. Frightened, Joey turned to run back to the house to get Mrs. Johanaby. He stopped when he heard giggling. It was the twins. They didn’t sound like they were in danger.
Curious, but cautious, Joey walked to the big sliding doors in the front of the garage. They were open a crack—just enough for two skinny twins to slip inside. There were windows on the doors but they were too high to see through.
Joey heard another BANG followed by the excited laughter of Glory and Story. He pulled on the door and it slid further open with a horrible grating sound. The interior lay in deep shadow. He could hardly see a thing. Grimy windows on both sides of the garage let in dirty, gray light.
“Glory! Story!” he called. There was no answer—not a sound. The heavy smell of grease and oil hung in the air. He could almost taste them. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw a large room with piles of stuff. He could make out an engine block hanging from a chain connected to the rafters. There was no sign of the vehicle it belonged to. Boxes of engine parts perched on a bench nearby. An old riding lawn mower missing its wheels sat forlornly on its belly. Four or five bicycles lay in a pile—petals and rusty spokes tangled.
The garage reminded him of his dad. Mr. Johanaby had taken the engine of their old pickup truck apart in their little garage back in Oakley, Idaho. He “rebuilt” it hoping to make it run better. It didn’t run better but Joey had a good time helping his dad.
Some scuffling on the other side of a big pile of junk caught his attention. “Glory! Story!” he y
elled again. “I know you’re in here.”
The scuffling stopped. There was no answer. Joey stepped into the garage and walked slowly between the piles of greasy parts. He almost tripped over the frame of a large motorcycle. The stuffing in the seat was pushing out through holes in the leather like filling does from a jelly-filled donut when you bite it. A chain from another motorcycle lay across the oil-blackened floor like a snake.
On his right was a stack of old crates, one of them filled with used spark plugs. Sitting on shelves on the wall were messy cans of paint and other things that looked sticky and smelly. Mayonnaise jars full of nuts, bolts, and nails appeared to be floating in the air just below the shelves. Joey knew they weren’t floating. The lids of the jars had been nailed into the bottom of the shelves and the jars screwed back into them. His father had done this in their garage. “Keeps the jars from getting knocked off the workbench and breaking,” he had said.
An old mattress leaned against two wooden beams. Holding up the mattress were cardboard boxes full of yellowed newspapers. There was no sign of the twins. He felt the old annoyance rising in him. The twins were in here and they shouldn’t be. It wasn’t his fault, but somehow Glory was going to pin it on him. When there was a question of blame she always won. Always.
“Glory!” he called. “I see you so you might as well come on out. Don’t make me come over and get you.” Silence. Glory had called his bluff.
At the back of the garage was a heavy, wooden workbench. Odds and ends lay scattered across it. One item was a metal box covered with buttons, switches, and dials. It was old and the glass on the dials was smashed. Still, it was cool looking. He forgot the twins for a moment as he reached up and pulled it off the workbench to study it. It was heavy. There was a red button on the front of it. He pushed it.
BANG!
Joey dropped the gizmo and leaped back. He whirled around to see the twins standing beside the mattress they had been hiding behind. The remains of a popped balloon lay on the floor.
“We scared you. We scared you,” sang Glory through her laughter.
“You almost hit the roof!” laughed Story.
They had scared him and, worse, they could see it. He hated them.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” asked Glory.
“I’m looking for you,” answered Joey. “I don’t think you should be in here.”
“You are not the boss,” said Glory.
“I am too,” Joey said. “You heard Mom.”
Glory stuck out her tongue. Story was struggling to blow up a balloon. His cheeks bulged, his face red.
“Where did you get the balloons?” Joey asked.
“Found’em,” Glory said. She pulled a balloon out of a torn plastic bag and started blowing it up. Story already had his going, but Glory quickly caught up.
“Now pop it,” said Glory with a sinister giggle. Story pushed a nail against his balloon. It didn’t pop. Instead it fizzled and hissed as air escaped.
“Ahh,” Story said, disappointed.
“Here, let me,” Glory said, taking the nail. Her balloon popped with a satisfying bang. She squealed with delight.
“I’m getting a headache,” said Story, putting his hands to his head.
“At least you are scaring the rats away,” said Joey.
“Rats?” asked Glory, looking around her nervously.
“Sure. There are always rats in dark old places like this,” Joey said.
“There’s no rats,” said Glory still looking around her.
“Sure there are. See where the stuffing is coming out of the motorcycle seat. That’s where rats have been getting stuffing for their nests.”
“Oh,” Glory said. She walked over to Joey and took his hand. She was scared now. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling on his hand. For a moment Joey felt the joy of victory. It was quickly replaced by guilt. When she wasn’t being bossy and mean, she could be almost sweet.
“I’ll get them,” Story said. He went over to the motorcycle frame and took a swing at the seat with a broken shovel handle he’d found. Dust and stuffing swirled up into the rays of sunshine coming in through the open door. “Ha Haaa!” Story said, making his voice husky. “You don’t stand a chance against my power.” He took another whack.
“Hey, let me!” Glory let go of Joey’s hand, forgetting all about rats. She tried to take the shovel handle away from Story. He resisted. A tug-o-war ensued with them both complaining that they had it first.
It was then that Joey noticed the door in the back wall of the garage. Leaving the twins to their battle he walked over and turned the handle. The door opened noiselessly. Joey found himself staring with wonder. The room was bright and colorful and clean. It was lit by sunlight streaming through three large picture windows on the other side of the room. Through them Joey could see the long grass of the field and the woods beyond. Then Joey saw what was in the room.
“Oh, wow,” he whispered.
On tables and shelves lining the large room were models of ships and planes and rockets and trains. These weren’t the plastic kind of models that Joey put together, but models made of wood and steel. In the corner was a rocket that stood higher than Joey. It was the kind of rocket that shot high into the air, higher than any of his rockets. It had been carefully painted and had official numbers on the side. Hanging from the ceiling were several models, put together and painted with the same care as the big rocket. Joey’s models always ended up with glue smears on the plastic, cracks between the parts, and decals that were crooked.
There was a B-29 flying super fortress with its long wings and four powerful engines. Flying escort around it was a sleek P-51 Mustang; a powerful P-48 Thunderbolt; and a twin tailed, twin engine P-38 Lightening. Joey could almost hear the drone of their engines and the sounds of their voices over radios as they sighted, “Bandits! 12 O’clock high.”
In the corner near the door was a gigantic balsa wood model of a Cessna 172. The wings and body were covered with thin paper. Joey could see each of the pieces of balsa wood that had been carefully cut out and glued together.
On top of a low table sat a British Man O’ War. It was almost two feet long. Rows of cannons stuck out of little square hatches on the side of the ship. Sails were secured to tall masts. Strings representing ropes went every which way. On the deck were figurines of sailors. One was climbing the rigging and others were scrubbing the deck. On the poop deck the captain was talking to the First Mate. The helmsman was at the helm and the lookout was in the crows’ nest. The lookout was pointing to a model pirate ship on the other side of the table. It was elaborate like the Man O’ War. Instead of the Union Jack, it flew the ominous skull and cross bones on black. It wasn’t nearly as well armed as the Man O’ War, but was sailing boldly toward it anyway.
Joey smiled. Pirates weren’t afraid of anything.
Suddenly the twins were pushing by him into the room.
“What is it?” said Glory with a shove.
“Whoa!” said Story, his arms hanging limply at his side as he slowly scanned the room. Glory, too, stopped with her mouth hanging open.
“Don’t go any far—” Joey started to say. The twins scampered in before he could finish the sentence.
Glory found a switch and clicked it. A perfectly miniaturized train whistled, and began its journey across a highly detailed countryside. It was on a large table that took up almost a quarter of the room. There were miniature hills and trees, a lake with real water, roads with tiny cars, telegraph poles and wires, and a complete city with school, church, stores, houses, water tower, train station, and many other things.
“Wow!” Joey said.
“Isn’t it neat,” said Glory. Story rested his chin on the table on the other side and followed the train with bright eyes as it rolled past.
“Yoyo!” Glory yelled.
Joey turned to see Glory picking up a bright yellow yoyo off the arm of a couch that sat in front of the
window. She put it on her pointing finger and gave it a whirl. The yellow yoyo spun down to the end of the string and hit the floor—the string was longer that Glory was tall.
“Dang!” she giggled.
“On Guard! Story said.
Joey turned to see Story confronting him with a detailed wooden sword. The curved, blunted blade was polished and shiny. Story danced forward a couple of steps like the sword fighters he had seen in old movies and poked at Joey.
“Hey,” Joey said. He backed away from Story until he bumped into a shelf. He felt the shelf rock unsteadily. Before he could turn to steady it a replica musket fell into his out-stretched hand. He stared in surprise at the pistol. Doing the only natural thing he pointed it at Story and said, “Bang!”
Story had stopped in surprise at the sudden appearance of the pistol. Not one to miss an acting opportunity he quickly moved into his death routine. He groaned loudly, stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth, spun around once and fell onto his back, dead.
Joey laughed. He felt the happiest he had been since his father’s death. The bright room filled with wonderful things, Glory’s concentrating on winding that long string back around the yoyo, Story playing dead at his feet—it was all so good.
The happiness Joey felt faded suddenly when Joey remembered the man coming out of the garage that morning.
“Guys, we have to get out of here,” he said, with sudden urgency.
“You are such a pooper party,” Glory said frowning at him.
“Party pooper,” Story corrected, sitting up.
“I like ‘pooper party’ better,” Glory said, making progress with the yoyo.
“No, I mean it.” Joey said. “I saw a man coming out of here this morning. This must be his room.”
“You mean him,” Glory said. With a tilt of her head she indicated a man standing in the doorway. She continued winding the yoyo for a second more, then stopped, looked at the man, and screamed.
Joey and the Magic Map Page 3
