Joey and the Magic Map

by Tory Anderson

  His mother helped him bring up the chest of drawers from the little bedroom. Next they brought up a coffee table from the parlor that would serve as a desk if he sat on the floor.

  “I’ll get you a pillow to sit on,” Mrs. Johanaby said.

  After they had finished they both stood admiring the arrangement.

  “This is so cool, Mom!” he said and put his head against her chest and hugged her tight.

  “It is, isn’t it,” she said. “I’m glad it’s working out this way. You’ve been trying so hard with Dad gone and all—you deserve it.” She tousled his hair.

  “Where did you find the bed?” he asked. The brass was shiny and the springs were firm. It was a great bed.

  “It’s kind of funny,” she said. She backed away from the bed a few steps for space to tell her story. “When I was making supper the house keys were sitting on the counter. This old key was sticking out from the rest. I hadn’t noticed it before. It occurred to me that it might be the one to the locked door at the end of the hall. So I took the keys,” she was pantomiming now. Mrs. Johanaby, when she was happy, would speak with her whole body. “And I went upstairs. I put the key in the lock . . .” Mrs. Johanaby showed him just how she did it, “and it didn’t go in. That made me mad.” She pursed her lips. “But then I wiggled it and it went in. I opened the door. It was so quiet. Did you notice how quiet the door is?” she asked. She waited for Joey to respond. He nodded. “Then I came up the stairs and there it was.” She spread her arms in front of her.

  “My bed?” Joey laughed. This was the most playful his mother had been since his dad had died.

  “Yes, right there.” She lifted her hand and poked her finger at the bed.

  “You mean, right here?” Joey said, patting the bed.

  “Sitting right there as if it were waiting for you. It wasn’t even dusty.”

  Goose pimples ran up his arms in spite of the heat of the room. He remembered the way he had felt that morning when they had first pulled up to the house. It was as if the house had recognized him. The feeling had gone away. Now his Mom had said the bed had been put here for him? Well, she hadn’t said exactly that, but there was something strange about this house.

  “It’s way old,” Mrs. Johanaby said, referring to the house. “But I feel there is something good about this place. I think things will get better here.” She said the words so confidently that Joey’s goose pimples slowly sank back into his arms.

  “Yeah, Mom, I think you’re right.”

  Later that night the moon rose. It was nearly full, just one day more. The house and grounds were lit with bright, soft light. The windowpane pattern crept across the attic floor. Eventually it rested on the foot of Joey’s bed. The pattern disappeared as a cloud rolled in front of the moon. More clouds came. A breeze picked up and danced softly through Joey’s open windows. In his sleep Joey sighed at the relief the breeze brought.

  Lightning flashed a long way away. Thunder followed rolling softly along the horizon. The lightning drew nearer with the thunder in tow. While the thunder grew louder it never grew sharp, but instead purred like a giant cat.

  The breeze, the flashes, the rolling rumble gently roused Joey from sleep. It was that other sound that woke him entirely—something in the thunder, or was it in the breeze—chimes. They tinkled softly. It was a pleasant sound. Joey opened his eyes unafraid, but curious. He sat up in bed and listened more closely. He heard a large drop of rain plunk against the west window. Joey got up to close it a ways. As he slid the window down lightening flashed. As clearly as pen on paper he saw the words on an upper pane, “Welcome Joey.”

  He sucked in a breath and stepped back. It had been written with a finger in the dust on the window. The letters were rounded and pretty, like how his mother wrote. Of course, his Mom had written the message. Joey’s fright changed to pleasure. He didn’t notice that the words were written backwards on the outside of the window.

  Joey smiled as he lowered the other three windows and went back to his bed. He closed his eyes and listened to the erratic patter of the rain. Soon it made a steady drumming that lulled him to sleep. In just a moment the dust on the outside of the window was washed away and with it the welcoming words.

  Chapter 2

  The sun shone brightly through Joey’s east window. He opened his eyes to the dazzling goldenness of his room. He squinted in the brightness. It filled him with happiness. For just a moment he felt a perfect peace—like nothing had ever gone wrong in his life. Then, he remembered. His father had died. His mother had been laid off. They had been forced to move. Inside him the golden color slowly faded to grey. When he sat up and looked around his room the colors started to glow again. He had a golden room in the attic with a brass bed in the middle and a window in each wall.

  Joey slipped out of bed and looked through the south window. Outside stood a large, weeping willow tree. The tree filled the entire view with branches dangling long, leafy, willowy whips toward the ground far below. The branches reached toward his window, but stopped too far away to touch. If he stood on the windowsill and leaped he was pretty sure he could grab the ropy willows and swing like Tarzan then slide to the ground. Something told him that trying that would probably be a bad idea.

  Down through the limbs of the tree Joey could make out a low building that sat on the other side of the driveway. Mrs. Johanaby had said it was the garage. Joey wondered why it sat on the other side of the driveway instead of at the end of it. Joey heard a door shut followed by the soft, but incredibly clear, tones of a wind chime. The sound of the door came from the garage, but the chimes—were they up in the tree or coming from the front porch? He couldn’t tell. Their gentle sound carried softly on the morning air like a downy feather. Hadn’t he heard these chimes last night?

  Joey noticed movement down below. Briefly, through the limbs, he saw a figure. A balding man walked beside the garage. Just before turning behind the garage the man stopped and looked over his shoulder. He looked up through the limbs into Joey’s eyes. Frightened, Joey backed away from the window.

  “Who was that?” Joey thought he should tell his mom. Needing to use the bathroom Joey hurriedly pulled on his clothes. Before he went to the stairs he opened each window. It was going to be a warm day. At the west window he remembered the message written there last night. He looked for it as he pulled the window up. It wasn’t there. Stepping back Joey stared hard from one angle then another trying to get the light right so he could see the words. They were gone. “How . . . ,” he thought. Had it just been a dream? No, he was sure the words had been there. A shiver ran through him. He quickly made his bed and ran down the stairs.

  After using the bathroom he looked in Glory’s room. It was just as he thought. He found the twins asleep in Glory’s bed. Glory was sleeping on her side, her arm around a doll pulled tightly to her cheek. Story slept on his back, mouth open with his hands behind his head. He had kicked the covers off like usual. They were cute when they were asleep. He left them and went downstairs.

  His mother was in the kitchen stirring a pot of Cream of Wheat on the stove. She was in her pajamas—cut off sweat pants and a loose t-shirt advertising a long-ago country music festival.

  “Hey, Joey,” she said. “I see you survived the storm. Did it wake you up? Were you afraid?”

  “There’s something—” he thought for a moment wondering which story to tell. Then he decided. “There’s something not scary about that room,” he said.

  His mother gave him a long, considering glance as she turned off the stove. She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a happy room.” She took the pot of hot cereal to the table.

  “Why is it happy?” Joey asked.

  “The paint color, the windows, the brass bed,” she said, hunting for the brown sugar. “I think it’s called Feng Shui.”

  “I think it’s something more than the paint,” Joey said, thoughtfully. He wanted to talk about it more, but Mrs. Johanaby’s mind was elsewhere.

 
“Get the bowls, okay? I think they’re in that box over there.” She pointed with her elbow. “Then go get the kids before this gets cold and gunky.”

  Joey was setting the bowls on the table when Glory and Story dragged into the kitchen. Glory’s shoulder length hair was all a tangle. It reminded Joey of the Greek Medusa he had seen in a book with writhing hissing snakes coming out of her head. She held the doll tight to her chest. There was sleep in Story’s eyes. He had bed hair, too.

  “It’s the Dynamic Duo,” Mrs. Johanaby said. Glory and Story stood in sleepy silence. “Have you used the bathroom yet?

  Joey rolled his eyes. They were eight and shouldn’t have to be reminded to use the bathroom. Glory shoved her doll into Joey’s hands.

  “Hold her,” she said. She turned to run toward the kitchen door. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Nicely!” she ordered when she saw Joey holding the doll at his side by one leg.

  Joey wanted to throw the doll at her. He didn’t. Story ran out of the kitchen after his sister in a race to get to the bathroom first. Joey heard a scuffle on the stairs, an exchange of complaints, then running footsteps down the hallway.

  At breakfast Mrs. Johanaby delighted them all by bringing out a bag of gummi bears to put in their cream of wheat. If the cream of wheat was hot enough the gummi bears would melt and make multi-colored polka dots in the cereal. Mr. Johanaby had started the gummi bears tradition when he heard the kids complaints that hot cereal was gross. The gummi bears brought Joey mixed feelings of delight and sadness.

  Glory and Story cleaned their bowls and got up to leave. “Let’s go explore outside,” Glory said.

  “Beat you there,” Story yelled. He bolted for the door.

  “First you have to take your bowls to the sink,” Joey said.

  They both stopped. “You’re not our boss,” Glory said. “Right, Mom?”

  “You know he’s right,” Mrs. Johanabysaid.“And after you take your bowls to the sink I want you to go to the library and sit on the couch. I need to talk to you all together,” she added.

  “Aw,” Story said. “We wanted to go outside.”

  Glory stuck her tongue out at Joey as she passed. She somehow communicated superiority and dominance when she did that. Joey hated her tongue.

  The library wasn’t a big room but the walls had built-in shelves that were filled with old books. There were fat books, skinny books, tall books, short books, red books, yellow books, and lots of brown books. Although the books were pretty, the kids weren’t interested in them. There didn’t seem to be a kids’ section. Joey noticed a long series of books each with letters of the alphabet on them in perfect order—the Encyclopedia Britannica. They were old. Some of the spines were cracked. Mrs. Johanaby liked the room. Joey watched as she ran her finger along a row of books as she passed by. She smiled in pleasure.

  A lamp, a big reading chair, and a couch sat in the middle of the room. The black leather couch was big. It looked like it weighed more than an elephant. It had big sloping arm rests the kids tried to slide down.

  “Stop it,” said Joey. “This is a library, not a playground. And you might break the couch.”

  The twins laughed. They were about to climb up again when their mother gave them the evil eye.

  “Everyone sit on the couch properly,” she said.

  Joey sat down on one end of the couch. Trying her mother’s patience Glory did a somersault over the arm of the couch onto Joey before scooting to the other end. Story followed Glory landing on his back on Joey’s lap. He laid there for a moment grinning up at Joey.

  “Hi! Just dropping in,” he said.

  Joey grinned in spite of his annoyance. Glory patted the space next to her and Story scooted over.

  Mrs. Johanaby sat in the chair across from them.

  “Well, how are you going to like living here?” she asked.

  “It’s gonna be great,” said Glory.

  “Yeah, love it!” agreed Story.

  Joey shrugged. His Dad wasn’t here so how could he like it? When he thought about his room a warm feeling betrayed him.

  “Well, I think we are going to do all right here,” Mrs. Johanaby said. “We’ve got plenty of room inside and almost too much room outside. You kids shouldn’t get bored all summer.”

  “We’ll never get bored here,” said Glory.

  Joey didn’t believe it for a moment. She could get bored at Disneyland. She could make you miserable when she was bored.

  “No, this is better than Heaven!” Story said. “We won’t ever get bored.” Both Mrs. Johanaby and Joey gave Story a long look.

  “NO! It’s not,” Joey said. Heaven was where Dad was. Dad wasn’t here. This wasn’t Heaven.

  “It’s okay, Joey,” Mrs. Johanaby said. In her eyes Joey saw, “He’s only eight.”

  Mrs. Johanaby cleared her throat. Joey could tell this was going to be official. “As you know with your father gone I need a job.”

  Joey and the twins stared and said nothing. They always did this when she brought up the loss of their father.

  “Well, I have the possibility of a good job, but I have to pass this course on medical transcribing first.”

  “Medical what?” asked Glory

  “Writing boring stuff,” said Joey. His mother had told him a little about this already.

  “Well, yes,” said Mrs. Johanaby. But if I work hard I can get certified by the end of the summer and we’ll be on our way,” she said, happily.

  “Well,” Joey said, mimicking his mom’s overuse of the word. “On our way to where?” He was feeling mean suddenly.

  Mrs. Johanaby meant getting back on their feet after the loss of Mr. Johanaby. Joey knew that. He knew she was right. His mother was strong. Joey knew she missed his dad, but was learning to move on without him. Even though he knew this was right and good he still had to fight feelings of rebellion at the idea of moving on without his dad.

  Mrs. Johanaby set her jaw and looked at him. She said nothing. Story, feeling the tension did the only thing he knew how—he whacked Glory in the head with the couch pillow.

  “Stop it,” Glory said, slapping his arm with each word.

  “I’m going to need total concentration to do this,” Mrs. Johanaby said sharply. “I need a system to look after you kids. There is so much room in this house and too much room outside. I won’t be able to keep track of you.”

  I know!” cried Glory. “We could each carry a walky-talky like the FBI and check in with you every fifteen minutes, Mom.”

  “We would each have to have a watch, too,” added Story, liking the idea very much. They both bounced up and down on the couch making dust rise.

  “Hey, that’s a great idea,” said Mrs. Johanaby, “but you know what? I think instead we are going to use a system that has been in use for thousands of years. It’s called Big Brother.”

  “Big Brother? What’s that?” asked Glory dubiously. She raised one eyebrow glancing unhappily at Joey.

  “It’s Joey,” said their mother.

  “Joey?” Glory and Story spoke in unison.

  “Ohhhh,” said Story hitting himself on the head with the pillow. Glory just glared at him.

  “Yes, Joey,” their mother answered. “He’s twelve-years-old and a very responsible young man. During the day while I’m studying he is going to be chief.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Glory, looking suspicious.

  “It means when I’m not around you have to obey him like you obey me.”

  Glory’s mouth dropped open. Story hit himself in the head with the pillow again. As for Joey, his stomach dropped. His Mom had always taken care of Glory and Story. He didn’t get along with them very well, especially Glory. Mrs. Johanaby had always been a buffer between them. Now she wanted him to take her place? Just like that?

  Glory was staring hard at Joey in a way that scared him a little. She looked like a rattlesnake about to strike.

  “We don’t need him,” she said, dangerously. She spoke to
Mrs. Johanaby; she looked at Joey.

  “Oh yes, you do,” said Mrs. Johanaby decisively.

  “Now you two run along outside and play while I speak with Joey.”

  The twins were gone in a flash. Their feet sounded in the hall followed by the slam of the screen door on the back porch. Silence took the twin’s place.

  Joey remained on the couch. His mother sat in the chair. Joey laid his hands in his lap. His mother crossed her legs. They looked at each other feeling awkward.

  Joey’s mother was pretty. Joey couldn’t imagine a prettier mom in the world. Her long, dark hair was held back behind her head with a barrette. A strand of hair escaped the barrette and fell down along her face. Her dark-brown eyes reminded Joey of root beer. Her mouth was big. He liked her mouth. Dirk, one of his friends from his old neighborhood, told Joey that his mother’s mouth was too big. Joey had slugged him and given him a fat lip. Dirk had slugged Joey back and given him a bloody nose. Slugging Dirk was the only brave thing Joey had ever done in his life.

  “But I do have a big mouth,” his mother had said when she was helping Joey wash the blood from his face. “When I was a kid my classmates use to call me Molly the Mouth.”

  “Didn’t that make you feel bad?” asked Joey.

  “I used to go home, throw myself across my bed and cry. Then I would look in the mirror and make my lips do this,” she said pursing her lips, “so that my mouth would look smaller.”

  Joey laughed at the funny face she made.

  “My Dad, your Grandpa Mulligan, asked why I thought my mouth was too big when maybe all my friends’ mouths were too small? ‘Think about it,’” she said, in a deep voice, imitating Grandpa Mulligan. “‘You are more highly evolved than your friends. You can put more food in your mouth at one time. You can yell louder. It’s easier for you to brush your teeth. Most importantly, nobody can smile as big. You just wait,’” he told me. “‘That smile of yours will get you places that your friends will only dream about.’ Ever since then I’ve been proud of my mouth. Grandpa was right—all the girls were in love with your father, but he chose me. He said my smile outshined them all.”