“Where are you going?” asked Joey.
“Where does it look like I’m going,” she said. “Come on, Story. Let’s go hunt for fairies.”
Joey grabbed the gate and shut it. “You can’t just go onto someone’s property like that. It’s trespassing. Mom would be angry.”
“I can to. It’s only Beezer!” She pulled on the gate, but wasn’t strong enough to overcome Joey’s hold. “You are such a dweeb!” she yelled. She was determined to go into the garden and nothing was going to stop her. She began to climb the vertical iron bars of the fence. Little arrowheads adorned the top of each bar. The points were blunted in little iron balls so they weren’t too dangerous.
“Let’s go, Glory,” Joey said. “We aren’t even supposed to be in the woods let alone trespassing on Beezer’s property.” Glory slipped down, let out a growl of frustration and started pulling herself up again.
Joey recognized the feeling inside him that told him this was going to end badly no matter what he did. This made him angry. He was only trying to do what was right. He could already hear his Mom yelling at him for whatever was about to happen.
Desperate, he tried a different approach. “Maybe we could ask Beezer. If he and Mom say it’s okay we could come back and play in his garden.”
Reasoning with Glory was like throwing a rubber ball at a brick wall and expecting the wall to move.
“I’m going in now!” Glory said. “Story, help me!” She tried to swing a leg up on top of the fence. Story didn’t move. He just stood calmly, watching her.
When it looked like she was going to be successful Joey pulled her leg down and grabbed her arm to pull her away from the fence. She grabbed an iron bar with her other hand and hung on. Now it was a tug-o-war between Joey and the fence with Glory as the rope.
“Come on!” Joey grunted as he pulled. The fence shook, but Glory did not let go. Keeping a hold of her arm he pulled her thumb free of the iron bar and then was able to pull her hand free. Joey began dragging her down the path toward home.
When Glory realized she was losing she lost her temper. “You idiot,” she screamed. “I hate you! I wish you had died instead of Dad.”
These words brought tears to Joey’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Did he really care what she thought? The tears made him angry. He grabbed her arm with both his hands and dragged her down the trail. She sat down trying to make it harder and he pulled her backwards over the rusty dirt.
“Ow, ow! You’re hurting me,” she yelled after they had gone twenty feet this way.
“Then stand up,” Joey said, yelling the words.
“I will. I will,” she said. She was crying now. “Just stop pulling.”
Joey stopped pulling but kept a hold of her arm.
“Let go my arm,” she said.
“You’ll run,” Joey said.
“I won’t,” Glory yelled. “Let go.”
Joey let go ready to tackle her if she tried to run back to the cottage. She didn’t. She got up and slapped at the dirt on the bottom of her pink pants. She wiped the tears on her cheeks leaving muddy streaks. She glared through her tears into Joey’s face. It was then she noticed Joey’s tears. Joey flushed with shame. She had seen his weakness. He waited for her attack. Instead of an attack, he saw her face soften just for a moment. The moment passed and the imp came back into her eyes.
“You are going to be in so much trouble,” she said. She stepped around him and ran down the path toward home.
“Race you,” Story said. He sprinted past Joey and down the path after Glory.
Joey didn’t run. He walked slowly wiping his own tears away. The wood was silent in the late afternoon heat. He stopped and looked around him. Other than leaves and tree trunks he didn’t see another living thing—not even a bird or a squirrel. He was alone. He liked the feeling. Glory couldn’t torment him now. His mother couldn’t yell at him while he was here. He could sit down and think about his father and cry. No one would see.
Not seeing a rock or a log anywhere, he sat down in the middle of the path. He had always felt that if he was alone enough and needful enough his father might come visit him. He desperately wanted it to be that way. He opened his mind to memories of his father unafraid of the tears that would come.
He was at his father’s side at a Kiwanis club luncheon. He had come home from school for lunch. His father was just leaving for the luncheon and, on a whim, took Joey. The other men had exclaimed that he was a fine looking boy. His Dad had proudly agreed. He felt so big there; so special with his dad.
The smell of the wood brought him to the morning he woke up in a sleeping bag underneath a pine tree. His dad was standing over him.
He handed Joey a cup of hot chocolate and asked, “You going to sleep all day?” Joey sat in his bag and woke up slowly sipping the sweet, steaming drink. Later that day they had caught three small brook trout and cooked them over a fire in tin foil.
Tears came. He closed his eyes to try to catch every detail of these memories. The memories he had were sweet, but there should be more. There should be lots more. He had spent eleven years with his father and now he had only a few minutes of memories. How could that be? It wasn’t right. The thought that he was forgetting his father made the sweet memories turn bitter with grief. People had told him his father would always be with him. They said as long as he carried his father in his heart he would always live.
“Well, guess what?” Joey said with misery. His voice sounded flat in the woods. “I am forgetting. And then what?” He curled up on the ground pulling his knees to his chest. “My dad will really be dead.”
Joey sobbed. He felt he could cry for hours, but after a few minutes his tears ran out. He laid there feeling empty. He wondered if the rest of his life was going to be like this.
In the silence after his sobs he heard the chimes. There were two notes at once this time. The chimes were far away, but the notes wended their way through trees to his ears without losing their clarity. Joey sat up to listen more closely. Where were these chimes? He had to find them.
Another sound met his ears—footsteps and a voice. It was Beezer coming up the path. He was talking to someone as he came. Joey stood up just as Beezer came around a bend in the path. Beezer stopped short when he saw Joey. Joey looked behind Beezer to see who he was talking to. There was no one there. Beezer had been talking out loud to himself? With Beezer, this was believable.
Beezer noticed Joey’s tears and Joey blushed. Beezer didn’t say anything. He just lifted his hand and tousled Joey’s hair. Stepping around Joey he continued on his way.
As Joey turned his head to watch Beezer he smelled lilacs. Through the trees he could see Beezer open his gate, walk through his garden and into the house. There were no lilacs at Beezer’s cottage. Looking back the other way he half expected to see whoever Beezer had been talking with still standing there. The path was empty. Disappointed he walked slowly towards home.
Dinner consisted of undercooked spaghetti with sauce that had been burned to the bottom of the pan. Mrs. Johanaby’s day at the computer had gone badly. She didn’t understand computers and her progress in her course was going far slower than expected. What started out as occasional moodiness over the past few weeks had turned into full-time frustration. Everyone knew better than to comment on the dinner—everyone except Story.
“The spaghetti tastes funny,” he said.
“Shut up and eat it,” Mrs. Johanaby replied, crossly. The silence that followed was deafening. The only sounds were those of forks scraping against plates as they picked at their food.
Glory was reaching for her glass of grape juice when Mrs. Johanaby saw bruises on her forearm and wrist.
“Where did you get those?” she asked. Joey knew things were going from bad to worse. He hadn’t seen the bruises until just now, but he knew where they came from. His heart sank. Glory had him now. The proof of his brutality was right there for his mom to see.
Glory glanced at Joey but said nothing. She
took her grape juice and began drinking. There had been an uncertainty in her eyes that confused Joey. Where was the impish spark; the malicious grin?
“I asked you where you got those,” Mrs. Johanaby said, raising her voice.
“Joey,” answered Story. He, too, seemed confused at Glory’s hesitation to drop the bomb. There was no maliciousness in his voice when he answered. He just seemed worried about Mrs. Johanaby’s building wrath.
“Joey?” Mrs. Johanaby echoed. “Joey what? What is that supposed to mean?”
There was silence around the table as everyone except Mrs. Johanaby stared at their plates to avoid eye contact.
“Someone better tell me where these bruises came from!” yelled Mrs. Johanaby. She was scary when she yelled like this.
Joey sensed that the issue of the bruises had just gone up one level in severity due to the delay in response. Was this why Glory hadn’t answered at first—to make it worse for him? He looked at her. She had picked up the doll that had been on her lap while she ate and held it close to her chest. The bruises on her wrist were clear and distinct. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He didn’t know he had.
“I grabbed her today when she wouldn’t come,” Joey said. The words came out fast stumbling over his tongue.
“You grabbed her?” asked Mrs. Johanaby. It wasn’t a real question, but the start of an angry lecture. “Those aren’t ‘just grabbing her,’ –those are abuse!”
“No, Mom. She was trying to climb the fence into Beezer’s garden and wouldn’t stop.”
“And so you attacked her?” asked Mrs. Johanaby
“I didn’t attack her. I had to pull her away from the fence because she wouldn’t come.” Joey expected Glory to jump into the attack now due to his accusation, but she remained silent. She held the doll in front of her intently studying the doll’s face. If she heard what was going on, she showed no sign of it.
“I told you this morning you were never to use physical force on your brother and sister. Why do you ignore me? Do you like aggravating me?
“No, Mom. I was doing my best. You just don’t know Glory.”
At this Glory glanced at Joey, but still said nothing.
“I don’t’ know my own daughter? Is that what you are telling me?”
It did seem ridiculous put like that, Joey had to agree. But it was true that Glory was not the same Glory around Mrs. Johanaby as she was around Joey.
“No . . . yes,” Joey said, confused.
“You apologize right now,” Mrs. Johanaby said.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said.
“Not to me, to your sister.”
Joey looked at Glory. She glanced at him again before returning her attention to her doll. Joey was confused. Typically she would be eating this up—her big brother was in big trouble. There was no sign of the imp in her brown eyes now. Joey looked at the brownish-bluish finger marks on her wrist. They looked sore.
“Well?” Glory said glancing at him and then at Mrs. Johanaby. There, that was more like it, Joey thought.
“I’m sorry about those,” he said. He meant it, too, although his pride kept him from sounding like he meant it.
“Now go to bed,” said Mrs. Johanaby.
He didn’t move. He wasn’t defying her, but she had never punished him like this before.
“Go!” she said, raising her voice. She wasn’t looking at him but at her plate.
Joey got up and went to his room, tears of shame brimming in his eyes.
Joey sat on his bed letting the tears run down his cheeks onto his shirt. He forgot all the good things of the day—the sunrise he had seen that morning, his mother’s smile when he walked into the kitchen for breakfast, the sweet taste of the popsicle he had eaten after lunch, the clouds he had watched that afternoon. He only remembered that he had to baby sit twins all day, every day; that he had hurt Glory; that he had made his mother angry; that his father was dead.
Joey’s eyes were drawn to the cinder block shelves he had built against the wall. Sitting on top were two model ships he had built with his father’s help: the frigate with its tall masts, the battleship with its powerful guns. Three cars sat on his desk ready to race: the Corvette, the Porsche, and the souped-up Ford Mustang.
On his dresser were the rockets. The tall one with two stages was painted orange with a black stripe. It was his favorite. He had flown it several times. The first stage took it high and the second stage took it almost out of sight. He often dreamed of making a real rocket and escaping to another planet. Tonight the rocket seemed to mock him. It was only a toy. There would never be any real rocket to take him to freedom. His anger flared suddenly and he picked up his shoe and threw it. It flew straight, hitting the rocket knocking it to the floor. Two fins snapped off and lay at odd angles on either side. Guilt and shame replaced his anger.
Joey was getting up to retrieve the broken rocket when sounds of movement on the stairs distracted him. Joey hurried and got out of his clothes and into bed. He pulled on a string he had rigged up to turn out the light.
Joey was disappointed when no one came up the attic stairs. He half-hoped his mom would check on him. Instead it was Glory and Story going to their room to get ready for bed.
Joey lay there listening to the rhythm of their muffled voices and the sound of running water. Story laughed at something. His laugh sounded like a musical machine gun. It almost made Joey feel better.
The soft sound of his mother’s footsteps in the hallway below gave him hope. Joey heard her stop at each bedroom door and say goodnight. He held his breath dreading, and hoping, to hear her steps on the attic stairs. There they were. He counted the twelve steps she took to the attic door.
When he heard the door open he wanted to roll over and call out to her. He wanted to tell her again what had happened that day, how he hadn’t meant to hurt Glory. He wanted her to understand that he was doing his best. He wanted her to say, “I know, Joey.”
None of this happened. Instead, Joey didn’t move. He lay on his side with his back to her. Mrs. Johanaby, thinking Joey was asleep, shut the door gently. Joey’s heart fell as the door shut. His father was dead, so he couldn’t talk to him. His mother was alive, so how come it wasn’t easier to talk to her? The disappointment was sharp in his chest.
It was just a crescent moon tonight, but in its dim light Joey could see the fallen rocket lying on the floor. Slipping out of bed, he picked the broken rocket up and gently laid it on his desk next to the cars.
The window next to the desk was open. He could smell the rich, warm, night air. Crickets in the field formed a community orchestra and chirped a discordant song. Through the tree branches he could see the stars twinkling as happily as ever. They didn’t seem to care how he felt. In the dark he could just make out Beezer’s rocket hanging on its branch.
A peculiar sound attracted his attention below. It was a soft sound—like when you pull a fingerful of cotton candy off the stick. Joey looked down toward the garage where the sound came from. He caught his breath at what he saw. Colorful lights flickered on the ground behind the garage. They must be coming from Beezer’s room. The lights mesmerized Joey. They were—Joey searched for the word—unearthly. It was like firelight, but in so many more colors. Sometimes lights flickered almost as bright as a flashbulb; other lights were soft like a candle.
Joey wondered what Beezer was up to. His mouth dropped open when glowing bubbles of light floated right through the garage roof—pink, red, green, and yellow. There were many other colors he didn’t know the names of. They swirled around like soap bubbles in a gusty breeze as they floated into the night sky. Joey watched them until they mixed with the stars.
He looked back down to find it now dark behind the garage. His heart sank. He wanted to see more. He swallowed his disappointment as Beezer stepped out through the garage door. Beezer was just a shadow in the night, but his glasses glinted in the moonlight. He leaned against the garage for a minute as if he were exhausted.
As Joey’s
eyes adjusted to the darkness he realized Beezer was glowing. A bluish green light surrounded him, lit like fog on the night of a full moon. Beezer bent over and brushed his pants as if they had gotten dusty. With each slap of the hand red, yellow, or green light mushroomed out and slowly dissolved into the darkness. When he finished brushing himself off, Beezer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. This sent glowing, purple dust swirling away. He wiped his glasses.
Joey lost him for a moment when he walked behind the garage. Beezer reappeared as he climbed the steps over the fence and started across the field toward the woods. With each step there was flash and glow. It reminded Joey of heat lightning on the horizon at night.
Joey knew that no one would believe him when he told them about what he saw. They wouldn’t believe him unless they saw it too. Joey turned and ran down the stairs.
Glory, Story,” he whispered as he ran into Glory’s room.
“Story isn’t here,” said Glory. “He wet my bed last night.”
Ignoring her Joey said, “Quick, look out the window. Beezer is doing strange things.”
Glory quickly slipped out of bed and went to the window.
“What is it?” she asked, expectantly.
“See? Right there, going into the woods,” Joey said, pointing.
Glory looked just as Beezer disappeared into the trees.
“I don’t see anything,” Glory said.
“You should have seen it. Glowing bubbles, all a different color, floating up out of Beezer’s room in the garage. When Beezer came out of the garage it was like he was a thundercloud with lightning coming off his body.”
Glory listened closely as Joey spoke. His excitement intrigued her. She looked out the window again hoping to see something. “Really?” she asked.
“Yes!” Joey said, almost jumping up and down with excitement.
“Well, I didn’t see anything!” She sounded disappointed. “Why didn’t you get me sooner?” Now she was a little angry.
Joey and the Magic Map Page 7
