Searching for Candlestick Park

by Peg Kehret

  A boy about my age hurried along with his dad. He had a baseball glove on his left hand. They were laughing, and the man took two tickets out of his shirt pocket and handed one of them to the boy.

  A terrible yearning tore at my insides. I stood still and watched until the boy and his dad were out of sight.

  Soon, I told myself, that will be me and Dad, going into Candlestick Park to watch the Giants. Soon. If the train wasn’t possible, I would get to Candlestick Park some other way.

  Foxey scratched at the inside of the box, trying to dig a hole in the bottom. Before long, I would need to let him out to stretch. I hurried away from the stadium, passed the bus tunnel, and walked along the sidewalk.

  This section of Seattle is called the International District; I peered into small shops that sell exotic pastries and colorful clothing. If people can immigrate to the United States all the way from China and Viet Nam, I thought, I can surely find my way from Seattle to San Francisco.

  Three boys passed me on bicycles, talking a language I couldn’t understand. I watched as they stopped their bikes in front of a grocery. Wooden stands full of bananas, mangoes, oranges and kiwis lined the sidewalk outside the grocery.

  None of the boys locked their bikes. They just rested the handlebars against the fruit stands and went inside the store.

  My eyes swept quickly across the three bikes. I chose the blue one because it had a flat place over the back wheel—perfect for Foxey’s box to ride on.

  As I made this decision, I heard Mama and Aunt May, in unison, telling me, “Thou shalt not steal,” but I closed my ears to their imagined sermons, ran forward, and grabbed the blue bike.

  With Foxey’s box under one arm, I pushed off, pedaling as hard as I could. I was all the way to the corner before a trio of voices shouted behind me.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  I skidded around the corner, leaped off the bike, and dragged it into the lobby of a sleazy-looking hotel. I laid the bike on the floor, where it wouldn’t show through the front window.

  I went to the hotel counter, past three whiskery men who looked as if they’d been sitting in the lobby so long they’d put down roots. They stared blankly at me, and I tried to appear casual, though my heart was thundering in my ears.

  The bored man behind the counter glanced away from a TV set and narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously.

  “How much does a room cost?” I asked.

  “You alone?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t mention Foxey, since I would not be renting a room anyway. I stood sideways at the counter so I could see out the front window while we talked.

  “Eleven dollars. Cash in advance. One bed; bathroom at the end of the hall.”

  I pretended to count my money while I watched the window. The three boys—two on bicycles and one trailing them on foot—raced past. Slowly, I put my money back in my pocket. When the boys did not return, I thanked the clerk, and said I could not afford a room.

  As I bent to pick up the bike, I looked out the window. Seeing no sign of the three boys, I pushed the bike out of the hotel and rode away fast.

  I knew which direction was west because that’s where the water is. If you go west in Seattle, you eventually wind up at Elliot Bay, a part of the water of Puget Sound. From that I could figure out which way was south, and I headed south.

  All I cared was that I was going in the right direction. I didn’t have enough time or money or leg muscle to go out of my way. It isn’t easy to ride a bike one-handed and hold a box full of cat under the other arm.

  When I’d ridden twenty minutes with no sign of the boys or a police car coming after me, I stopped and opened the box. I tied one end of the rope to Foxey’s harness and wrapped the other end around my wrist, to be sure he wouldn’t pull it out of my hand.

  While Foxey slunk around on the sidewalk, I poked two holes in the bottom of the box. I cut a piece of the rope, threaded the ends through the holes from the inside, and tied the box to the platform on the bicycle. I would make a lot better time with both hands on the handlebars.

  When the box was secured, I gave Foxey a small piece of cheese. I opened the peanut butter jar full of water that I’d put in my backpack, and poured a little in the lid. He dipped his nose in it, but didn’t drink any.

  Last, I encouraged him to use a patch of dirt for his bathroom. He was too nervous, though, so I put him back in his box, secured it with the rubber bands, and took off again.

  It felt good to ride along on the bicycle, with the wind blowing against my face. I wondered how many miles I could make in a day if I pedaled from the time the sun rose until it set, stopping only to eat, and to exercise Foxey.

  I began to think ahead, to daydream about actually walking into Candlestick Park and circling through the stands, looking for Dad. I imagined his joy when he saw me. I thought how he would hug me and take me home with him after the game and tell me how much he had missed me, especially in the summer, on Saturday afternoons.

  Dad and I used to watch a baseball game together every Saturday at one o’clock. It was a small thing, really. Not like having a dad who actually did stuff with you, such as playing catch, or going hiking, or making projects out of wood.

  Watching TV together is probably not what the child psychology books suggest on how to create a loving relationship with your kid. Still, Dad and I always looked forward to Saturday afternoon. We’d make a big bowl of popcorn and Mama would leave us alone as we cheered and booed and discussed the plays. On summer Saturdays, Dad and I had something in common.

  The first Saturday after he left, I thought for sure he’d be back. Mama had told me when he left that he would not be living with us anymore, but I expected him to visit me on Saturday afternoons.

  It’s up to them whether they can get along together or not, and if they don’t love each other anymore, I can’t do anything about it. But just because Dad left Mama, that doesn’t mean he had to leave me, too, does it?

  That may sound childish for a nine-year-old, which is what I was when he left, but it’s how my thinking went that first week. Probably I was a little out of my noggin, as Aunt May says, which means I was half nuts and not thinking any too clearly.

  It sounds dumb now, but I truly expected him to come home that first Saturday—just long enough to watch the Game of the Week with me. I knew he wouldn’t stay. I knew he and Mama were really through. But I made the popcorn and tuned in the set and stood by the window, watching for his car.

  “He won’t be here,” Mama said. “Do you want me to play cards with you?”

  “It’s Saturday. Dad and I always watch the baseball game together.”

  “Not anymore,” Mama said. “I’m sorry.”

  Not anymore. She didn’t say, “Not this week,” or “Not for awhile.” She said, “Not anymore,” and I knew she meant forever.

  When Dad didn’t come back that first Saturday, I turned off the TV in the fifth inning and never watched baseball again. Not even the World Series.

  Well, I could get back into it easily enough. Once Foxey and I were living with Dad, I would look forward to Saturday afternoons again, instead of dreading them as I had for the last three years.

  I pedaled along. Visions of Dad and me sharing popcorn and yelling for the Giants filled my head. I didn’t see the rock in the road until my front tire hit it. The bike swerved sideways. The back tire scraped against the curb, and the bike toppled.

  I flew over the handlebars and dropped toward the street. I flung my left arm across the top of my head, with my hand on my right ear. There’s a law in Washington State that you have to wear a protective helmet when you ride a bicycle, but the kid I stole the bike from still had the helmet on his own head so I had to rely on my arm to save me from a fractured skull or a concussion or any of the other bad things that can happen to an unprotected head.

  It turned out it wasn’t my head that needed protection; it was my right leg. My shin, just above the ankle, smashed into the curb as I wen
t down. Pain zapped up to my knee and down to my toes like bolts of electricity, bringing tears to my eyes.

  I was afraid I had broken my leg or, at the very least, chipped a bone.

  I reached for the box, which was still tied to the back of the bike, and stuck my finger in one of the air holes.

  “Are you okay, Foxey?” I asked.

  Foxey was quiet.

  I sat up, feeling woozy, and opened the box. Foxey was flattened in the bottom with his ears back. His eyes were huge. I ran my hands over him, digging my fingers into his fur. He didn’t yowl or hiss or try to get away, so I guessed he wasn’t hurt.

  A car stopped and a woman in a green jogging suit got out and hurried over to me. I clamped the top back on the box and slid the rubber bands in place.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I call 911?”

  “I’m scraped up, that’s all.” If I told her the truth, that my leg felt as if I’d just been whacked with a baseball bat, she would call 911 for sure, and they would call Mama, and instead of spending the night in Tacoma, as I planned, I’d be back on Aunt May’s couch. And Foxey would be in a cage at the pound, starting the countdown.

  “Can you stand up?”

  I clenched my teeth and struggled to my feet. When I stood, the blood rushed downward; my leg throbbed. I put all my weight on the other foot.

  “I’m just a little sore,” I said. “Nothing serious.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked. “I have a cellular phone in my car. If you give me your name and a phone number, I can call your family and have someone come to get you.”

  “Nobody’s home,” I said. “They’re at work.”

  “Give me your mother’s work number.”

  “You don’t need to call anybody,” I said. “I’m really okay. And I only live a couple of blocks from here. I’ll push my bike home and then I’ll rest until Mama gets there.”

  The lies rolled off my tongue so quickly that I wondered if lying is one of those skills where the more you do it, the better you get. Like practicing the trumpet.

  “You’re sure? You look pale. I’d be glad to drive you home. The bike won’t fit in my car, but someone could come and get it later.”

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. “I don’t want to leave my bike. Someone might steal it.” Silently I added: It’s already been stolen once today.

  She hesitated a moment and then started back to her car.

  “Thanks for stopping,” I said. “It was nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She got in, and drove away. As I watched her leave, I wondered if I was making a big mistake by not accepting her help. What if I really did need a doctor?

  I pushed the bike a few feet, just in case she was watching me in her rearview mirror. When she turned at the next corner, I flopped down on the curb. I pulled my pants’ leg up and examined my shin. There was a lump the size of a lemon, just above my ankle. It was already turning black and blue, but it didn’t hurt quite as much as before.

  I squeezed the swollen area gently, the way Mama tests tomatoes at the supermarket, and then exhaled with relief. I was pretty sure nothing was broken.

  If I were home, Mama would put ice cubes in a plastic bag and set the bag on my leg. She’d have me lie down, with a pillow under my foot, and bring me a glass of orange juice. “Drink it all,” she would say. “Vitamin C helps a body heal.”

  I thought how wonderful it would feel to stretch out on Aunt May’s couch with my foot up, and let Mama fuss over me. She might even bring my dinner on a tray.

  But Mama would also tell me that I could not go to San Francisco to live with Dad. No way. No time. No how.

  And Aunt May would look at my bruised leg and say God was punishing me for stealing.

  I mounted the bike and started pedaling. Every time I pushed my right foot down, pain climbed my leg. I tried to push harder with my left foot and go easy on the right. It hurt like crazy, but my other option was to sit on the curb all night.

  I left the industrial area, and saw apartments and houses.

  When I came to a small park, I decided to spend the night there. I had hoped to get farther, but my leg hurt badly and Foxey had started yowling again, and the park looked as safe a spot as I was likely to find. There was a children’s play area, with swings and slides, several picnic tables, and a rest room, which I needed to use.

  The park was empty, which suited me just fine. I wasn’t exactly sure what Mama would do when she found my note, but she might call the police and report me missing. My description might be on the evening news, and Buzz and Cissy might nail MISSING posters, with my picture, on all the telephone poles.

  I may not be the child genius of the world, but I could figure out that the fewer people who noticed me, the less likely it would be that one of them would turn me in.

  The woman who had stopped to help me when I fell off the bike would recognize my picture if she saw it on television. The clerk in the hotel might, too. And the two Amtrak conductors. Already four people could identify me, and this was only my first night away from home. I would have to be more careful.

  I put Foxey’s box on a picnic table, and opened the lid. He raised his head cautiously, sniffing the air while I tied the rope on his harness. He stepped out of the box and sat on the picnic table for a couple of minutes, looking all around. Then he stretched, first his front legs and then his back legs.

  I watched carefully, still worried that he might have been injured in the bike accident. He jumped from the table to the bench to the ground and examined the underside of the bench. I decided he was okay, and turned my attention to food.

  I ate an apple, two slices of bread, and a piece of cheese. I gave Foxey some cheese, too, I offered him a bite of bread and he surprised me by eating it. I wished I had a cold glass of milk.

  Foxey began to explore. I let him go where he wanted and I followed, holding the rope. He walked slowly, stopping often to check behind him.

  Once he ate a big bite of grass. I had seen him do that at home, too. I guess cats need salad, the same as people do. Mama always told me to eat my greens.

  Mounds of dirt, where moles had tunneled to the surface, dotted the park’s grassy area. Foxey approached a molehill cautiously, and sniffed the dirt. Then he began to dig, pushing the fresh dirt away with both paws.

  I thought he smelled the mole and was trying to get it. I clutched the rope, ready to pull him away if a mole jumped out. Moles have razor-sharp claws, and I didn’t want a slashed cat on my hands.

  Foxey dug faster and faster, and then stepped forward and squatted over the hole. I laughed, hoping the moles either had an umbrella or were in a different part of their tunnel. When he finished, Foxey carefully scratched the dirt back into place and continued his walk.

  After awhile, Foxey quit walking and just sat, so I carried him back to the picnic table. “If you’re going to sit still,” I told him, “you can do it where I have a place to write.”

  Foxey lay in the grass and I got out the small notebook that I had found in Aunt May’s purse. The first page was a grocery list, which I tore out. The rest of the pages were blank. I wrote: SPENCER’S DEBTS. On the next page I wrote:

  1. Aunt May $14

  one small notebook

  one stamped envelope

  bread, apples, cheese, graham crackers

  rope, knife, soap, flashlight

  maps

  2. Unknown boy: Bicycle

  I had not yet thought of any way to get the bike back to its owner. If I took it to the Seattle police, they’d want to know how I got it. Still, I knew I had to repay that debt somehow.

  When I had recorded my debts, I put Foxey under one arm, and walked the bike over to the rest room. Shrubs grew all around the building. I decided to sleep next to the shrubs, where I wasn’t likely to be noticed by anyone going down the street past the park at night. I found a secluded spot between two bushes on the back side of the building, and prepared to spend the night.

&n
bsp; I didn’t have a blanket, but I did have a sweatshirt and a stocking hat. I put both of them on, for September nights get chilly. I decided to let Foxey be out of the box overnight. With one end of the rope tied to Foxey’s harness and the other end tied securely around my wrist, I lay down on the ground.

  I was glad I had the notebook, to keep track of what I owed. Somehow writing it all down made it official that I was not a thief; I was a person who temporarily needed to borrow from someone else. If an ax murderer got me before I found Dad, the police would find my debt notebook on my body and give it to Mama, and she would know her son was honest to the end.

  Thinking about ax murderers did not help me fall asleep.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Darkness settled around me. On the far side of the park, lights went on in windows, and I wondered about the people who lived in those houses. Were they eating dinner? Watching the news? Reading to their kids? I wondered what Mama was doing.

  When I was little, Mama used to make up stories for me, with heroes named Spencer. No, I told myself. Don’t think about the past. Think about the future instead. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and imagined I was sitting in Candlestick Park with Dad, watching the Giants play baseball.

  I fell asleep, jerked awake, and fell asleep again. Sometime in the night, Foxey growled. My eyes flew open. Instantly, every nerve in my body was alert. What had he heard?

  Foxey was crouched beside my left shoulder, his tail swishing nervously back and forth, brushing against my cheek. I lay still, listening. I was afraid to sit up and look, for fear whoever or whatever was there would hear me move.

  I inched my right hand across my chest and stroked Foxey, hoping to soothe him. He growled again.