by Peg Kehret
I had gone through half the lower level when it occurred to me that Dad would probably buy a less expensive seat, especially if he came every day. I walked up to the second level, where I knew seats would be cheaper. By the bottom of the fourth inning, I had strolled through every upper-level section where anyone was sitting.
It would be easy to miss him, I told myself. Maybe he was in the bathroom when I passed his seat, or out buying a hot dog. Just because I didn’t see him the first time around, doesn’t mean he isn’t here. Or maybe he does sit in the lower level.
I went back to the lower box seats and started where I had left off. The ushers didn’t seem to be checking tickets anymore. Maybe by that time in the game, they didn’t care whether people were in the right seat or not.
I was near the Phillies’ dugout when I heard his voice. “To your right,” he said. “Second aisle down.”
I whirled around. He wore gray slacks, and a jacket that was black on the bottom, and half orange and half white on top. A photo ID hung around his neck and his black and orange baseball cap said “Guest Services.” Dad was an usher!
I stood only six feet away, and saw him direct an elderly couple to their seats. Then he turned to watch the game.
My throat felt tight. Although I wanted to rush over and fling my arms around him, I was suddenly shy. Dad was shorter than I remembered—or was I just taller? He was thinner, too. But the face was the same and I realized with a jolt how much I resemble him.
He must have sensed someone staring at him, because he looked away from the field, directly at me. Surprise flashed across his face. “Spencer?” he said.
My shyness evaporated. I ran to him, and hugged him hard.
He laughed, stepped back, and looked me over from head to toe. “I almost didn’t know you,” he said. “You’re nearly as tall as I am.” He looked over my shoulder, as if expecting someone else. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Where’s your mother?”
“She isn’t with me. She’s still in Seattle.”
We moved to the top of the aisle, where we wouldn’t block anyone’s view.
“Who brought you here?”
“Nobody. I came alone, to find you.”
“What? You ran away?”
“Mama didn’t have the rent money, and we had to move in with Aunt May, and Mama said I couldn’t keep Foxey.”
“Foxey? You still have that orange cat?”
“Mama said Foxey had to go to the pound, so I took him and left.” I talked faster and faster. “I knew I’d find you here,” I said. “I knew if I could just make it to Candlestick Park, you’d let me and Foxey live with you.”
“You came alone? All the way from Seattle?”
I nodded.
“How did you get here?”
“I rode a bike part of the way, and then a man gave me money for bus fare.”
“Whoa,” Dad said, and rubbed his chin. “Does your mother know where you are?”
“No. But she knows I’m okay. I sent her a letter, and I called her once.”
He shook his head. “Leona must be having fits,” he said. “She probably thinks you’re lying in the gutter, hacked to death by an ax murderer.”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh again.
“How did you know where to find me?” Dad asked.
“You sent a postcard of Candlestick Park. Remember? So I knew you’d be here. And I knew you’d let me keep Foxey, because you let me have him in the first place.”
“Where’s the cat now?” Dad asked.
“My friend, Hank—the man who gave me bus money-is keeping Foxey until we send for him.”
Just then a foul ball dropped into the seats ahead of us. Three fans scrambled to catch it, falling over each other as if the ball were solid gold. Dad hurried forward to make sure that nobody had been hurt in the scuffle.
When he returned, he said, “You took me by surprise, you know.”
“I tried to call you; there wasn’t any number listed. And I didn’t have an address, so I couldn’t send you a letter.”
“Well, look,” Dad said. “I need to keep working. You sit down and watch the rest of the game.”
“Great,” I said. I got out my ticket and looked to see where my seat was.
“There are empty seats in this section today,” Dad said. “Sit right there.” He pointed to a seat not far from where we stood.
I sat down, but I couldn’t concentrate on the game. I was too happy, and too relieved. I felt as if I had just hit a tie-breaking grand slam. I wanted to clench my fists and shake them over my head, or give high fives to everyone around me. When it was time for the seventh-inning stretch, I sang, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” as loudly as I could.
I watched as Dad helped people who were lost, and again when another foul ball came into our section.
Pride surged through me as I looked at him. Dad was living his dream; he spent every day at Candlestick Park, just as he had always wanted to do. It didn’t matter that he was an usher, instead of a player. He was still here, still important. He had done what he set out to do.
And so had I.
Sunshine burned the fog away; flags fluttered over the center-field seats; a small airplane with an advertising streamer behind it flew across the blue sky beyond the stadium. I felt more alive than I ever had before, as if I could see and hear more clearly. I smelled the hot roasted peanuts; I felt the hard orange seat beneath me; I heard the sharp crack of the bat as it met the ball. I will never, I thought, forget this afternoon.
When the game ended, Dad stood at the bottom of the aisle, watching people leave. When our section was empty, he said, “I have to do what we call a ‘clean sweep’ before I leave. That means I walk up every row in my section, and gather what people left behind.”
He let me help by walking the row next to his. We found an umbrella, a diaper bag, two seat cushions, and a purse-all of which Dad turned in to the Lost and Found. While we worked, he told me about one day when there was a minor earthquake during the ball game, and so many frightened fans rushed away that when the game ended, Dad found seventeen pairs of binoculars in his section!
Another day he found a wallet containing two hundred dollars. Every time I come with Dad, I decided, I will help him do the clean sweep.
We left the ballpark at Gate B because Dad had come by bus. Since he was an usher, he had arrived earlier than I had.
We took a different bus than the one I had come on. As we boarded, I planned to ask Dad to tell me more of the interesting things that had happened to him as an usher.
Instead, as soon as we were seated, he said, “It’s great to see you, Spencer, and I want you to spend the night with me, but I’m afraid it won’t work for you to live here.”
I couldn’t answer.
“I don’t live alone,” he said. “I share an apartment with my girlfriend, and we only have one bedroom. I’d like to have you stay with us, but it just isn’t possible.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
I stared down at my hands.
“You couldn’t find my phone number,” Dad said, “because the phone is in Sharon’s name.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I said. “I can’t take Foxey back to Aunt May’s. Cissy is allergic to him.”
“Even if we had room for you to stay here, you wouldn’t be able to keep the cat,” he said. “Our landlord doesn’t allow animals.”
I wanted to ask, can’t you move? Isn’t your son important enough for that? But I already knew the answer.
“When we get home,” Dad continued, “I’ll call your mother and tell her you’re here. Then tomorrow, you can take the bus back to Seattle.”
“What about Foxey?” I said.
“He can stay where he is. Let the guy who’s taking care of him keep him.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
I felt even sicker when I met Sharon. She listened to Dad’s explanation of who I was and how I got there.
�
��So you ran away from home,” she said to me. “What an idiotic thing to do. Where’s your brain, boy? In the seat of your pants? Do you know how many perverts and thugs are on the streets?”
At least she didn’t say ax murderers. As Sharon yammered on about how stupid I was, I knew Dad was right; it would never work for me to live with him, even if he wanted me. And the sad truth was, he didn’t want me.
I took a much-needed shower and then Sharon and Dad ordered a pizza delivered for dinner. It was a pepperoni pizza. Dad doesn’t know I am a vegetarian; Dad really doesn’t know me at all. I picked off the meat and said nothing. I wasn’t hungry, anyway.
Dad called the Greyhound station and found out what time the bus leaves for Seattle, and how much a ticket cost.
“We can’t afford this,” Sharon complained.
“Knock it off, Sharon,” Dad said.
“I’ll pay you back, after I get a job,” I said.
“No,” Dad said, glaring at Sharon. “You don’t have to.”
I felt a tiny bit better to have him stand up to her about the money. He must care for me a little, or he wouldn’t bother to pay my way back to Seattle.
“Do you have May’s phone number?” Dad asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk to your mother, or do you want me to?”
“You can.”
He dialed the number. “Hello, May,” he said. “It’s Jerome Atwood. Spencer is here with me.”
He made a face and held the phone away from his ear; I could hear Aunt May screaming. Then Mama apparently got on the line, because Dad said, “Hello, Leona. Yes, he’s here. He is fine. We’re in San Francisco.” There were brief pauses between each sentence, and I knew Mama was asking questions.
“He came alone,” Dad said. “No, I didn’t know he was coming, but I’m sending him back first thing tomorrow morning on the bus.”
I listened as Dad told Mama when I would arrive. There was no regret in his voice, no hint that he was sorry I had to leave. He might have been making arrangements to ship a package via UPS.
After he hung up, he said, “Your mother will be there to meet the bus when it gets in.”
Sharon started putting purple nail polish on her toes.
Dad asked me about school but there wasn’t much to say. He asked again how I had managed to get to San Francisco by myself and this time I told him about sleeping in the park, and the boys who took my money, and about eating leftovers at McDonalds.
“Oh, gross!” Sharon said. “You should never eat a stranger’s food. You could get AIDS.”
I was glad when it was time to go to bed.
Dad gave me a blanket and pillow, and I slept on the living-room floor. I could hear him and Sharon talking in the bedroom, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I stared at the ceiling. The idea of me and Dad living together, and going to watch the Giants play baseball, had been a wonderful dream. But in order for it to come true, Dad had to want me with him always, no matter what. The trouble with my dream was that I had to count on someone else to make it happen, and other people don’t always act the way we want them to.
I realized that the Candlestick Park I had struggled to reach isn’t a real place; it was only a ballpark in my mind, where everything was okay again. There is no more Candlestick Park; there is only 3COM Park. And I needed a new dream, something I could make happen by myself.
Early the next morning, Dad drove me back to the Transbay Transit Terminal building in downtown San Francisco. He didn’t go in with me. He had to hurry back so Sharon could have the car to get to work. He stopped where the city buses and taxis stop, and handed me some money. “This is enough for your ticket and a couple of meals,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Dad got a funny look on his face. “It was good to see you, Spencer,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.”
I nodded, knowing he wouldn’t.
I wanted to hug him, but that was awkward in the car. Dad put out his hand, and I shook it.
“Good-bye, Dad,” I said. I jumped out of the car and hurried toward the door of the bus terminal. I looked back once, to wave, but Dad had already driven away.
I rode the escalators up to the Greyhound ticket counter. “Does the nine o’clock bus to Seattle stop at Grafton, Oregon?” I asked.
“No. It’s an express run. The next bus to Grafton leaves at ten o’clock tonight.”
I would have to wait around the bus station all day, but instead of buying a ticket to Seattle, I bought one for Grafton. Foxey and I would live with Hank.
The ticket to Grafton was less expensive than a ticket to Seattle, so I had extra money. I went back downstairs and across the street to a bagel shop. I bought two bagels, sat on a concrete bench in front of the terminal, and shared the bagels with a flock of pigeons.
When the bagels were gone, I walked to the Mosconi Center, and strolled around the gardens. I ate lunch, read a discarded newspaper, and sat on the grass by the waterfall, watching the other people.
I was glad I had left Foxey with Hank. The traffic noises—air brakes, horns honking, tires squealing—would have frightened him.
I saw a cluster of pay phones and thought about calling Hank, to tell him I was coming, but I decided not to waste the money. I knew Hank would be there, and I knew how to find him. Best of all, I knew Hank would be glad to see me. Hank wanted me to live with him; he wanted Foxey, too.
Funny. I felt more welcome with a man I barely knew than I did with my own father. And it would be a relief to live with someone who understands me.
Mama and I are different in so many ways, and I get the feeling she thinks the differences are my fault. Sometimes when Mama looks at me I know she is wondering how she produced a kid like me. She would probably think the hospital accidentally switched babies when I was born, except I look so much like Dad.
Well, it will be easier for Mama without me. I eat a lot, and I keep outgrowing my clothes. If I’m not there, Mama can work the dinner shift at Little Joe’s. The tips are better then, but she usually worked days because she didn’t like to leave me home alone after dark.
Maybe Mama will stay at Aunt May’s; they are good company for each other and Mama gets along with Buzz and Cissy. Lots better than I do.
Eventually I would let Mama know where I was. Maybe I could even go visit her some time.
I returned to the Transit Terminal. While I waited, I made plans. Next week, I would go back to school. I wondered if there was more than one school in Grafton. Probably not. It isn’t a very big town.
As soon as I got settled in school, I would look for a part-time job. I couldn’t expect Hank to pay for everything, and I had to repay all the money listed in my debt journal.
Maybe I could get a paper route. If not, I would mow lawns or wash cars or baby-sit. Or maybe I could start a pet-care service. I could take care of people’s dogs and cats when the people were not home and get paid for doing what I love to do.
By the time I finally boarded the bus, my head was full of plans and ideas.
As the bus drove away from San Francisco, I thought, Good-bye, Candlestick Park. It hurt to leave the dream behind, but I had a good new destination. Hank would be glad to see me; Foxey and I could stay together.
The bus ride soon lulled me to sleep, and I slept most of the time until morning. By then we were in Oregon, and I followed our progress on my map. The bus pulled up to the health food store in Grafton at two o’clock in the afternoon.
I smiled all the way to Hank’s street, imagining his surprise and delight when he opened the door and saw me. And Foxey! I could hardly wait to nuzzle my nose into Foxey’s thick fur and breathe in the special cat smell of him, and hear his happy purr.
I had left Foxey with Hank on Sunday and I returned to Grafton on Wednesday, but I felt as if half a lifetime had passed.
I trotted the last block, turned the corner, and stopped. Several cars were parked in front of Hank’s house, and long tables contai
ning household goods sat in Hank’s front yard. A young couple came out of the house carrying Hank’s radio, and a woman in a flowered dress emerged with her arms full of sheets and towels.
As I hurried closer, I saw a big yellow HOUSE FOR SALE sign in Hank’s front yard. My smile vanished.
A man sat at a card table, collecting money for the items sold. Dread walked with me toward the man.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“Estate sale,” he replied. “Lots of bargains inside.”
“Where’s Hank?” I asked.
The man looked up. “Hank Woodworth died, three days ago. He had a heart attack Sunday afternoon. He managed to call 911, but when the ambulance got here, it was too late. He was already gone.”
I stared at the man, not even trying to stop the tears that ran down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry, son,” the man said. “I didn’t realize you were a friend of Hank’s.”
“He was taking care of my cat for me,” I said. Where was Foxey? The shock of Hank’s death was pushed aside by fear. What had happened to Foxey?
The man abruptly stood up. “Byron!” he called. “The cat boy’s here!”
A man in a business suit hurried over. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Spencer Atwood. Hank had my cat, Foxey. Do you know where he is?”
“I haven’t been able to find the cat. I suspect he got spooked by the ambulance and all the commotion with the medics, and ran away. I’m Byron Mills, Hank Woodworth’s attorney. He left a letter for you.”
After the words, ran away, I barely heard the rest of what he said. Numb with grief, I took the business card he handed me and stuck it in my pocket.
Gone. Foxey was gone.
He’s always been scared of loud noises. Whenever he heard a siren, he ran under the bed. Sometimes he stayed for hours, even when I tried to coax him out with a treat or his catnip mouse. He must have been terrified when the ambulance came, and the medics rushed in. In an emergency like that, nobody would notice if a cat got loose.
“Has anyone looked for him?” I asked.
“He isn’t in the house, I’m sure of that,” the cardtable man said. “We went completely through yesterday, when we priced everything.”
