Joey and the Magic Map

by Tory Anderson

  Beezer gazed for a minute in the direction of the house, then pushed up his glasses with his finger and looked at Joey. “You can know things without knowing them,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, but it sounded like he was joking.

  “Don’t tease me,” Joey said. “You say Glory is going to be fine. How do you know that?” Joey spoke the words earnestly, almost angrily.

  “Joey, I meant what I said. You can know things are true for certain without having any proof to show for it. I know Glory is going to be just fine.” He picked a long blade of grass and put it between his lips.

  “How can you know something like that? Is it more magic of yours?” Joey was angry now. He felt like he had crossed a line telling Beezer he knew he was magic. Beezer looked at Joey. Joey tried to look away, but found himself drawn in by those blue eyes that were so magnified by the thick lenses. There was a deepness to his eyes—Joey felt like he was looking into the sky on a clear night. There was tenderness there, too, that made Joey feel like crying again.

  “Yes, it is a kind of magic, I guess,” said Beezer. “But it’s not my magic. It’s your magic. It’s Story’s magic.” He reached over and tousled Story’s hair. There were tear stains in the dust on Story’s face. “You will believe and learn how to use it, or maybe you won’t; but this magic is the source of everything that’s right with the world.”

  Joey didn’t understand this, or maybe he did just a little, because suddenly he knew that there was definitely something right with Beezer.

  Story, who had been sitting quietly, scooted on his knees to Beezer’s side, but he was staring at Joey. There was something in his dark-brown eyes that made Joey uncomfortable.

  “Where were you?” he asked quietly, so quietly that Joey wasn’t sure he heard the question.

  “What?”

  “Where were you?” Story repeated. “We went looking for you. That’s how we found the pond. Glory slipped and fell in. You weren’t there!”

  He started crying again, big tears dropped from his eyelashes directly to his shirt. “I thought she was going to die!”

  Story leaned into Beezer. He rubbed his face against Beezer’s shirt leaving tear and snot trails there. Beezer patted Story on the back and looked at Joey waiting for an answer to Story’s question.

  Joey’s face burned. He looked down at his hands, empty in his lap, too ashamed to say where he had been; too ashamed to say why he hadn’t been there. Finally he found words that were right. They weren’t just right—they were true. “I’m sorry, Story. I’m really, really sorry. I won’t ever leave you alone again.”

  He reached out to Story. Story flinched away from Joey. He grabbed Beezer tighter. This sent a pain through Joey’s heart so deep he thought he would never find the end of it. Then Story let go of Beezer and nearly leaped into Joey’s arms. The pain that went so deep into Joey’s heart turned to joy so deep that Joey thought he wouldn’t be able to stand it. This had something to do with the magic Beezer had talked about. Joey knew it.

  “Come on,” Beezer said. “Let’s go see what your Mom has in the cupboard for lunch.” He grunted to his feet and started through the tall grass toward the house. Story sprang to his feet, ran to Beezer’s side and took his hand. Joey got up more slowly. He still felt weak from his struggle in the pond and his struggle with his emotions.

  There was the tinkling of chimes—a happy little sound on a playful breeze. Joey looked even though he knew he wouldn’t see any chimes.

  “Thank you,” he said out loud, but softly.

  Beezer had heard the chimes, too. He smiled. “Yes, yes, you done well,” he muttered.

  Chapter 8

  Joey followed Beezer and Story into the house. The screen door slammed behind him like it always did. This time it sounded different—hollow. Mrs. Johanaby and Glory weren’t there.

  “You know, you smell like a muskrat,” Beezer said. Maybe you should take a shower and change clothes.”

  Joey nodded and went upstairs. On the way to the attic stairs he stopped at Glory’s room and looked in the door. Her bed was made, although not very neatly. The quilt lay crooked across the mattress. The quilt was special. Mrs. Johanaby had made it out of Glory and Story’s old baby clothes. There were frilly dresses, miniature jeans, t-shirts, and even socks. Sitting side-by-side against the pillow at the head of the bed were Glory’s dolls. Joey stared at them for a moment. It seemed like one was missing. Had she taken one with her to the pond? On her nightstand was a plastic slinky, three bottles of finger nail polish, an empty box of Nerds, and a framed snapshot of her and Story cheek to cheek mugging for the camera.

  After his shower Joey returned to the kitchen to find Beezer in his Mom’s yellow apron that said, “I only have a kitchen because it came with the house.” It fell at a sloping angle over his pot belly. There was a cookbook open on the counter. Next to it sat an open can of Spaghettios. Joey could smell burning tomato sauce. Beezer stirred frantically at what was in the pan.

  “I cook salads a lot better,” he said. Turning off the stove he brought the pan to the table.

  Joey could see that Story had set the table because he had chosen the right bowls from their mismatched set. Story had the chipped green one that had eyes, nose, and a mouth sticking out on one side. Story had chosen the thrift store bowl for Joey. They had bought it for a nickel. Some child, for an art project, had painted “Papa is great” on the bottom.

  Beezer dished out the slightly scorched Spaghettios. Story put a spoonful in his mouth and burned his tongue. They sat in silence for a moment letting them cool. Beezer sat in Mrs. Johanaby’s seat. Glory’s seat was glaringly empty. Joey tried to ignore the empty chair, but even when he wasn’t looking the emptiness tugged at him. Story noticed the emptiness, too. He sat unusually still. Suddenly he got up and pulled his chair around the table next to Joey’s chair and sat down. Joey pulled Story’s bowl and spoon across the table to his new spot.

  This act of companionship wasn’t lost on Joey. Story wasn’t used to being alone. What touched Joey was that Story had chosen to sit beside him instead of Beezer. It felt strange to have his brother sitting next to him. He didn’t often feel like he had a brother. Story had always been one of the twins—Glory’s brother.

  “I have a brother,” Joey mumbled. He glanced at Beezer. Beezer winked one magnified eye.

  Story tested his Spaghettios once more. Finding they had cooled he began slurping them hungrily. Beezer hadn’t made him wash. His face was still dirty—the tear tracks still there.

  Joey felt like he was seeing Story for the first time. Glory got all the attention and pretty much represented both of them. This was odd since Story didn’t look like Glory’s twin at all. Mrs. Johanaby had explained they were fraternal twins—they didn’t come from the same egg even though they came at the same time. Joey pictured Glory and Story hatching from chicken eggs.

  Glory had bigger eyes. Story’s eyelashes were longer. They were so long they were almost pretty. His hair was sandy yellow and was just a little bit wiry to the touch. Mrs. Johanaby normally buzzed his head so closely he was almost bald. It had been months since she last did this. His hair was unusually long—over his collar and ears. Today it was all tousled and tangled. He was shorter than Glory, but proudly weighed ten pounds more than her. Glory was as skinny as a stick.

  Story scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon getting the last of the O’s. He picked his bowl up and licked the remaining sauce. He set down his bowl and looked in the pan. It was empty. He looked so sad Joey almost laughed.

  “Have mine,” Beezer said, emptying his bowl into Story’s. “I’m not sure why your Mom bought these. They don’t seem right. I’ll have a green salad with cherry tomatoes when I get home.”

  When they had finished eating Beezer said, “Well, I guess I had better do the dishes.”

  “We’ll help,” Joey said.

  After drying a dish Story scratched his cheek with wet fingers creating smeary lines. Beezer noticed and said,
“Looks like you are drawing a map on your face.”

  “Like a tattoo?” Story asked, trying to see his reflection in a wet bowl.

  “A tattoo don’t hold a candle to what I’m thinking,” Beezer said. “Come here.”

  Story, in his dirty striped shirt and knee length cutoff’s stood expectantly, trustingly, in front of Beezer. Beezer turned Story’s head to the side and studied the smears closely. He took a fork from the drainer, dipped the tines in the water in the sink and started drawing in the grime on Story’s cheek. Story did his best to hold still, but finally a giggle bubbled out.

  “Hold still or you are going to change the world,” Beezer said.

  “Tickles,” murmured Story.

  “There,” said Beezer, proudly, standing back and giving a critical eye to his work.

  “What?” Story asked, looking up at Beezer and then over at Joey.

  Joey looked at what Beezer had done. It was a map—a very detailed map—drawn in the dirt on the side of Story’s face.

  “Whoa!” Joey said, getting closer and holding Story’s face by the chin. “That’s our house, and the garage, and cellar door, and the tree, and the fence, and the field.” It was all there on Story’s cheek, done as clearly as fine-point pen on paper.

  Story could barely contain himself. “I wanna see! I wanna see!” he said bouncing up and down. He slapped Joey’s hand aside and ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. “COOOL,” came echoing back down the hall. Then, “What’s the ‘X’?”

  “What ‘X’?” Joey yelled. There was the sound of short, running footsteps in the hall. Story came through the kitchen door.

  “Right here,” he said, touching a spot near his ear.

  “Don’t touch it or you’ll smear it,” Joey said. There was an “X”, and there was writing too. Neither had been there when he looked the first time. The writing said, “Ten paces.” An arrow indicated the direction. It pointed away from the lilac bushes by the garage and pointed toward the bird feeder that stood on a pole. Another arrow pointed from the bird feeder into the yard. “Three paces” was written next to it.

  “What’s this?” Joey asked, looking at Beezer.

  Beezer rolled his eyes and said, “What do you think?”

  “TREASURE,” Story yelled. “It’s a treasure map!”

  “Well, sure,” Joey began, “but—”

  “Let’s go get it,” Story interrupted.

  Joey looked at Beezer asking with his eyes, “How did you—?”

  Beezer looked a little ornery. “I’m glad there’s one child in the world who knows what to do with a treasure map,” he said.

  Story was off like a shot. The screen door slammed before Joey had taken two steps.

  Outside Joey stood on the steps wondering where Story went. Story came running around the corner with a shovel. The shovel had a long, yellow, fiberglass handle twice as tall as he was.

  “Come on,” he yelled. “I can’t see the map.”

  Joey checked the map again and then led the way to the far side of the garage where the lilac bushes were. He found the bush on the end and faced away from it. The words said to take ten paces, but how big of paces?

  “It itches,” Story said.

  “Well, don’t scratch,” Joey said looking over. He saw why it was tickling. More writing had appeared.

  “Your paces,” it said.

  It was a real-time map. Joey was tempted to wonder how this could be, then decided not to. He just muttered, “That’s a really good map.”

  Joey counted ten paces towards the bird feeder on the pole. Story dragging the shovel as he hung onto Joey’s back pocket. He was afraid of getting left behind. Joey turned 90 degrees and took three more paces. “Right here,” he said. There had been lawn here a long time ago. Now it was just dirt and wild grass.

  Story did his best to dig a hole. The ground was mainly clay and hard to dig in. After a few minutes he only had a hole three inches deep and no wider than the shovel blade. Panting and impatient he handed the shovel to Joey.

  Digging the hole was hard work. Joey had to jump on the shovel to make any progress. After twenty minutes Joey finally had a hole two-feet wide and almost a foot deep.

  “There’s nothing here,” Joey said, breathing hard.

  “Ohhh,” Story complained, afraid Joey was going to give up. “We have to go deeper.”

  “But Beezer never even left the house after he drew the map. How would he get treasure here?”

  “Hello,” said Story, sounding just like Glory. “He hid it before he drew the map.”

  “He didn’t know he was going to be drawing a map,” Joey muttered. He knew none of the usual restrictions applied to Beezer.

  “It’s itching again,” Story said.

  Joey looked and saw the message, “Get back to work.” He looked around expecting to see Beezer nearby. There was no sign of him.

  “Alright already,” he said, placing the shovel in the hole. He jumped on it. Little chimes, like laughter, tinkled from somewhere overhead.

  Joey stopped and looked up. There was nothing but blue sky. “Do you hear chimes?” Joey asked.

  “What chimes?” responded Story, following Joey’s eyes up into the sky.

  “Never mind,” Joey said. He began digging again. He had the distinct impression that someone was laughing at him.

  Joey was sweating. The sun was hot and the air was sticky with humidity. Story was sweating too. He paced impatiently on the other side of the hole. Every three minutes he begged for another chance to shovel. Each time Joey gladly gave Story the shovel. It didn’t matter that Story knocked more dirt into the hole than he got out; Story’s turn gave Joey a chance to rest. Joey worried that Story’s sweat would wash away the map, but the map stayed as if it really were a tattoo.

  About forty minutes after they started digging, Joey jumped on the shovel and heard a distinct, metallic, “Chink.”

  His exhaustion fled as a thrill went through his body. They had found the treasure. It wouldn’t matter what it was. When someone else buries something and you dig it up, it is treasure.

  Story let out a squeal of excitement. “We found it! We found it! Hurry, dig it out.”

  Story jumped into the hole to start brushing at the square inch of exposed metal with his hands.

  “Get out of the way,” Joey said.

  “But the treasure’s here,” Story said, brushing harder. Joey had never seen Story so excited.

  “It’ll take until Christmas that way,” Joey said. “Get out of the hole so I can dig.”

  Story hopped out of the hole. He knelt next to it on his hands and knees to keep a close eye on the work.

  It took another ten minutes to find the edges and dig around them. A metal box with an arched lid slowly revealed itself. It was about one foot in diameter and a foot-and-a-half wide. It was a perfect, little pirate treasure chest. There was a decorative skull with a keyhole for a nose.

  Joey tried to imagine what might be inside. He had started out with the attitude that this was just a game to amuse Story. If there hadn’t been such a fantastic map he wouldn’t have participated at all. He had expected to find some rusty bottle caps or a crusty quarter that had dropped from someone’s pocket. Finding a treasure chest sparked his imagination. It would be Colonel Horsebaum’s gold. Maybe there were rubies or diamonds . . . or . . . or . . . Joey was too excited to think.

  “Stop bouncing and help me,” Joey said.

  “Okay,” Story said. He bounced even harder in his excitement.

  There wasn’t enough room in the hole to stand in it with the chest. They reached down and tried to lift it out by the handles on each side.

  Story grunted “It’s stuck,” he said.

  “No, it’s just heavy,” Joey answered. Joey lifted his side. Story couldn’t lift his side even an inch off the ground.

  “I can’t do it by myself,” Joey said, dropping his side with a muffled thump.

  “Where’s Beezer?” Story asked,
panting. “We need his help. I’ll get him.” Story took off, his arms swinging and his short legs pumping wildly.

  Joey lay on his belly on the hot dirt next to the hole. He ran his fingers along the top of the chest. It had been cool when they had first uncovered it, but it was growing hot in the sun. The chest was made entirely of steel. He fingered the keyhole in the skull’s nose.

  “That is going to be a problem,” Joey thought.

  He sat up and pulled on the lid. It didn’t even wiggle. What if they couldn’t find the key? He thought of the time his father had taken him to a lake in Maven State Park. After a day of hiking, rock skipping, and picnicking they had returned to their truck to find they had locked the key inside. Joey had panicked almost to tears. His father patiently held him and said,

  “It’s going to be okay, Joey. There are always options other than fear. Think, what could we do about this?”

  Taking strength from his Dad, Joey thought for a moment. “We could break the window,” he said.

  “See,” his dad said. “That is an option. But I wonder if there is an option where we don’t have to break the window.”

  Joey thought some more. “There’s the park ranger station up the road where we came into the park. Maybe he has a phone and we could call for help.” Joey’s confidence started to grow.

  “Yes, an even better option!” His father gave him a high five. “But there is an option that I know about that you don’t.”

  Mr. Johanaby lay down on his back and scooted under the truck a little way. When he came out from under the truck he had a little black box in his hand. He slid the top off and inside was a spare key to the truck.

  “I’ve locked my key in my truck before,” he said with a wink. “Preparation is the best option.”

  Joey was fingering the keyhole remembering his father when Story came skidding around the corner of the garage. Beezer followed at a more leisurely pace.

  “It’s right here!” Story shouted excitedly.

  “Of course it is,” Beezer said, proudly. “My maps are never wrong. The only time they can’t get you there is if you choose not to see or you quit too soon.” He looked at Joey and raised an eyebrow. Joey looked away.