Searching for Candlestick Park

  Aunt May’s scream jarred me awake. Nerves jangling, I sat up and looked to see what was wrong.

  Aunt May and Mama stood beside me. They both had their hands on their hips. Aunt May glared at Foxey. Mama glared at me.

  “How did that cat get here?” Mama demanded. “You answer me, Spencer Atwood. How did that fool cat get here?”

  Foxey cowered under a chair, with his tail swishing from side to side.

  “I won’t have it,” Aunt May said. “I have enough work without cat fur all over the house.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Aunt May,” I said. “He won’t be any trouble for you.”

  “How did he get here?” Mama repeated.

  “I’ve heard of cases,” I said, “where a cat walked hundreds of miles and found its owner.”

  “Are you trying to make us believe that fool cat made its way clear across Seattle and found you?” Mama said.

  “Foxey is very intelligent.”

  “Well, you aren’t,” Mama said, “if you think I’ll buy that story. You sneaked out last night, didn’t you? You went back to the old house and found that cat and brought him here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I figured I might as well admit it. I could see Mama wasn’t going to let up until I did.

  “Then you can take him right back,” Aunt May said, “because he isn’t staying here. Cissy’s allergies might act up again.”

  “I can’t take him back,” I said. “There’s no place to take him. Last night two men were painting the kitchen, and there was a big snarling dog on the back porch.” I saw no reason to tell Mama that the big, snarling dog was Bosso.

  Mama and Aunt May glanced at each other. Mama looked determined but I could tell Aunt May was weakening.

  Just then Foxey came out from under the chair. He rubbed against Aunt May’s ankles and purred. I knew Foxey was smart, but I didn’t know he was that brilliant.

  “If you can’t take him back,” Aunt May said, “you’ll have to find a new home for him.”

  Foxey turned around and rubbed on her ankles again.

  “He likes you, Aunt May,” I said. “Usually he only does that to me, but he likes you.”

  “Don’t you try to butter your aunt up, young man,” Mama said.

  Aunt May said, “He can stay here just until you find a home for him. Maybe it won’t bother Cissy.”

  Mama threw up her hands. “You’ll be sorry, May,” she said. “Where’s he going to find anyone silly enough to take that cat?”

  “Thanks, Aunt May,” I said. “I’ll do extra chores, to make it up to you. I’ll wash the dishes every night and weed your garden and . . .”

  “You’ll do that anyway,” Mama said, “to repay May for letting us stay here. You have three days to find a home for the cat. Do you hear me, Spencer? Three days and then the cat goes to the Animal Control pound. And don’t you sneak out at night again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Three days. How was I going to find a home for Foxey in only three days?

  I wasn’t. Not in three days, not in three weeks, not in three years. I wasn’t going to find a new home for Foxey, ever. Because I wasn’t going to try.

  On the morning of the third day, Mama said, “Have you found someone to take the cat?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “No maybes. Did you find someone or didn’t you?”

  “A kid at school wants him.”

  “Fine. He can come get him this afternoon.”

  “He might not be able to come until Saturday.” I was stalling, of course. No kids at school had said they wanted Foxey. How could they? Since I had no intention of giving him up, I had never mentioned him to anyone.

  “If he wants the cat, he had better come today. Cissy had a sneezing attack last night and had to take her allergy pills.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Foxey’s fault,” I said. “Maybe she’s allergic to Buzz.”

  “I know this is difficult for you,” Mama said, “but if the cat is still here when I get home from work this afternoon, I’ll have no choice but to turn it in to the pound.”

  I looked hard at Mama. I could tell that she meant it.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Mama isn’t always so mean. I knew she was still angry at me for sneaking out to find Foxey.

  “I’m working the breakfast and lunch shift,” Mama said. “I’ll be home at four o’clock.”

  “Foxey will be gone,” I said. I did not add that I would be gone, too.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  My mind galloped, trying to make plans. I knew I couldn’t just run away. It’s no good to run away from something. You have to run to something, or somewhere, or someone. But where could I go?

  As if to say he was sorry for causing so much trouble, Foxey jumped in my lap. His purr rumbled out of his throat like a car whose engine idles too fast. I leaned down and scratched behind his ears, remembering back to that long ago day when I found a scrawny kitten cowering in the Target store parking lot.

  “Dad!” I had said, pointing to the kitten. “Look!”

  Dad liked animals, too, and he helped me calm the frightened kitten and carry it home.

  When Mama saw it, she shook her head, no, but Dad said, “Oh, let the boy keep it,” and eventually Mama gave in.

  Dad moved out a few days later, so he had never seen how big Foxey got, and how beautiful.

  Dad wasn’t much for writing letters but sometimes I got postcards. The cards said things like, “Happy Birthday. I’ll bet you’re so big I wouldn’t recognize you.” They never told anything about himself.

  Except for last time. The last one was postmarked June 15, San Francisco, and had a picture of Candlestick Park on it. Dad wrote, “Watch for me when the Giants are on TV. I’m here every day.”

  I showed the card to Mama. “He probably works for the Giants,” I said. “Maybe he got hired as the batting instructor or the pitching coach.”

  “With no experience?” Mama said. “No coaching or playing, even in the minor leagues? Not likely.”

  I had to admit she was right about that.

  Mama said, “Instead of buying baseball tickets, he should send support money.”

  I knew that wasn’t likely, either, but I didn’t say so.

  Dad is not an ordinary, everyday baseball fan. Dad is a baseball nut. He played baseball in high school and if a broken wrist that failed to heal properly had not made him give up the sport, he would surely have gone on to play professional ball.

  He would have played for the San Francisco Giants. It would not have mattered how much money another club offered him, Dad was a Giants fan, first, last and always.

  Dad played center field and to hear him tell it, he was a center fielder right up there in quality with Willie Mays and Ken Griffey, Junior.

  Mama always said, “Talk is cheap,” when Dad started going on about his baseball skills, but I knew Dad wouldn’t lie to me, not about something so important.

  As I thought about Dad and that postcard, I knew where Foxey and I would go.

  Mama put on her coat and started for the door. She said, “I’m sorry about the cat, Spencer, but this is May’s house and I don’t have any choice.”

  The spoonful of Wheaties stopped partway to my mouth. Those may be the last words you ever speak to your son, I thought, and my stomach felt twisted up like a pretzel.

  “We can’t be responsible for making Cissy sick,” Mama added.

  I felt like saying, “Why not? Cissy and Buzz make me sick,” but I didn’t want my last words to Mama to be fighting words, so instead I said, “You look pretty today, Mama.”

  “Sweet talk won’t change my mind,” Mama said. She picked up her purse, and hurried out to catch her bus.

  I left for school as usual but instead of getting on the school bus with Buzz and Cissy, I told them that I felt like walking that day and I took off by myself. I went around the block and quietly opened Aunt May’s door.

  When I stepped inside,
I heard the shower running. Quickly, I went to the small table where Aunt May piles all of her real estate books, maps, fliers about houses for sale, and lists of potential customers. I took a map of Seattle and another that had Washington State on one side and Oregon on the other. Eventually, I would also need a map of California but I figured I would worry about that after I got close enough to need it.

  After putting the maps in my backpack, I took Aunt May’s purse out of the closet. I couldn’t start on a long trip with empty pockets.

  With my fingers on the purse’s zipper, I hesitated. This is stealing, I thought. For the first time in my life, I’m going to steal something.

  I closed my eyes, feeling guilty and ashamed. Even though I intended to repay her as soon as I could, it was wrong to take Aunt May’s money.

  But it would be wrong to leave Foxey at the pound, too. Foxey loves and trusts me. How could I abandon him to fear, and possibly death? That choice seemed even more wrong than taking money without permission. Money can be replaced; a living creature cannot.

  I unzipped Aunt May’s purse, and lifted out her wallet. Aunt May had sixteen dollars in cash. I took fourteen. I also took a little notebook and a pencil.

  I replaced the wallet and the purse, and hurried into the kitchen, where Aunt May has a small desk. I found some envelopes and postage stamps and helped myself to one of each.

  The shower stopped. I slipped out the back door, leaving it unlocked, and hid on the side of the house until I saw Aunt May go out the front door, get in her car, and drive away.

  While I packed a few clothes and as much food as I could carry, I went over my plan. I would go to Candlestick Park and find Dad. There were still three weeks of baseball season left; I could get to San Francisco in three weeks, even if I had to walk the whole way.

  Dad would be there; I was positive of that. He wouldn’t leave when the Giants were still in the pennant race. Maybe Dad and I would go to the World Series together. Wouldn’t that be something?

  After I found Dad, Foxey and I would move in with him. Dad had been willing to let me have Foxey in the first place; he would let me keep him now. Foxey and I would live with him while I finished school. No more listening to Mama’s complaints. No more worrying about money. No more moving out in the middle of the night. It would be wonderful.

  I knew I had to leave Mama a note. If I didn’t, she would worry herself into an early grave. Even though Mama got cranky, I never doubted that she loves me and I didn’t want her thinking I had been kidnapped and hacked to pieces by an ax murderer. Outside of not having enough money, ax murderers are Mama’s biggest concern.

  I chose my words carefully.

  Dear Mama:

  I am on my way to Hollywood. Foxey is going

  to star in some cat-food commercials. I

  will let you know which channel to watch.

  Please do not try to find me. Do not worry

  about me; I will be careful.

  Your loving son,

  Spencer Atwood

  This would throw Mama off track, since I had no idea in the world of going to Hollywood. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know how hard it is to break into movies or television. Even though Foxey is the smartest and most handsome cat in the universe, it could take a few weeks to get him on a commercial.

  Although I wasn’t trekking to Hollywood on a wild cat chase, I figured if Mama thought I was in Hollywood, she would not be as likely to find me in San Francisco.

  In my mind, I heard Mama’s voice, loud and clear: “Thou shalt not tell a lie.”

  I left the note on the kitchen table.

  I cut some air holes in a cardboard box. I wished I had a regular cat carrier with a handle, but the box would have to do.

  It wasn’t too hard to get Foxey inside the box but the minute I put the cover on, and slipped rubber bands around it, he went berserk. He clawed at the inside of that box and yowled. He stuck his paws out through the air holes and scratched me. He thumped and jumped until the whole box rocked. I could see it was not going to be easy to carry Foxey all the way from Seattle to San Francisco.

  I decided Foxey would have to learn to walk on a leash. I let him out of the box and he bolted under a bed while I cut an eight-foot length of Aunt May’s clothesline rope. I tied one end around Foxey’s collar and held on to the other end. It took him two seconds to wriggle his neck out of the stretchy collar.

  Next I tied the rope around his middle but he thrashed and jumped like a fish on the line until I feared he would hurt himself.

  There was a shopping center two blocks from Aunt May’s house. I walked over there and bought a cat harness. It pained me to spend so much money but I could tell it was the only way I was going to get Foxey all the way to Candlestick Park. When I buckled the harness around Foxey, he flattened his ears and tried to bite it off.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I told him.

  I don’t think he believed me.

  While Foxey rolled on Aunt May’s floor, trying to escape from his harness, I looked at Aunt May’s maps. There’s no sense starting on a trip if you don’t know which way to go.

  I ran my finger down the map, through all the towns between Seattle and the California border. Olympia, Longview, Portland, Eugene, Medford. It wouldn’t be an easy trip, especially on foot. And carrying a cat.

  As I stared at the map, I wasn’t sure I could make it in three weeks. I needed a faster way to travel.

  “Foxey,” I said, “we’re going to take a train ride.”

  I knew where the trains stop because once, in the happy times, Dad took me to see the Seattle Mariners play baseball, and we saw a train at the King Street Station, right there next to the ballpark.

  I double-checked my supplies, and added a bar of soap, a flashlight, and a small knife.

  “Good-bye, Mama,” I whispered, as I left Aunt May’s house.

  I waited at the bus stop until the first bus came along and then asked the driver how to get to the King Street Station. “Get in,” he said. While I dropped my money in, he stared at Foxey’s box, but he didn’t ask me what was in it, and Foxey kept his mouth shut. Either he was all tuckered out or he had decided it didn’t do any good to yowl and struggle.

  I got off at the downtown bus tunnel and went up the steps. The King Street Station, an old brick building with a clock tower, was just across the street on my left. I crossed the street, which goes over the train tracks, and walked down the stairs into the station.

  At the foot of the stairs, a vendor was selling popcorn, muffins, and other snacks. My stomach told me it was lunchtime, but I knew I couldn’t afford to buy any food there; lunch would have to wait.

  The large room with high ceilings held a feeling of anticipation. A line of travelers snaked away from a ticket counter. People with bags and boxes of belongings at their feet sat in rows of black chairs down the center of the room.

  A lighted sign on the back wall announced arrivals and departures. I read the list, noting that trains went to Portland several times daily, including the train scheduled to depart next through Door #3. If I could sneak on board a train and ride to Portland, I would be 150 miles closer to San Francisco in just a few hours.

  Door #3 was open. I walked out onto a small concrete area surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. An opening in the fence faced the train tracks.

  On the closest track, the Amtrak Superliner waited for passengers. The silver cars, each with a red and blue stripe, were higher than I expected. The door of the car closest to me was open; a yellow footstool stood below it, to help passengers step up into the train.

  The open door of the Amtrak Superliner was only about thirty feet from where I stood. I swallowed hard and looked around. Two men, both wearing black pants, white shirts, and black vests, stood farther down the platform. One man held a clipboard and they studied the papers that were attached to it. Their backs were to me.

  No other passengers had come outside. There was no conductor or ticket-taker, either. I co
uld dash across the platform, step on the yellow stool, and be inside the train in only a few seconds. As long as the two men didn’t turn around, no one would see me. Once I got on the train, I planned to hide in the bathroom until the train started moving. I had never ridden a train before, but I didn’t think anyone would check the tickets again after we left the station.

  Clutching Foxey’s box in both hands, I sprinted toward the open door of the train. I had one foot on the stool and one foot on the bottom step of the Amtrak car when I heard, “Hey! You boy! What do you think you’re doing?”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw the two men in black vests running toward me.

  “Get down from there,” the taller one said.

  I stepped back to the platform. “Isn’t this the train to Portland?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as scared as I felt.

  “It is,” the man replied, “but we aren’t boarding yet.”

  “When will you be boarding?” I asked.

  “Let me see your ticket,” the other man said.

  I made a show of feeling in my pockets before I said, “I must have left it on the sink in the rest room.” Then I hurried back through Door #3 into the station.

  I went into the rest room, just in case the men were watching me. I washed my hands for a long time, while I waited for my breathing to return to normal. A few short hours ago, I had been an honest boy. Now I was a thief and a liar. I didn’t like the way it made me feel.

  When I came out of the rest room, I looked quickly around, afraid the men in black vests and a police officer might be waiting to question me. But the men had not followed me.

  Even so, I wanted to get out of the train station. Instead of going up the stairs and leaving the station the way I had come, I quickly went out a door on the lower level.

  At the corner of the station, I looked to my left and saw the train. The two men now stood on either side of the yellow stool like bookends.

  Not wanting them to see me, I turned my back and walked away from the King Street Station. I was now in the Kingdome parking lot. It was nearly full of cars, and crowds of people hurried toward the gray dome-shaped stadium. Many wore blue Mariners’ baseball caps. I realized the Seattle Mariners were playing an afternoon baseball game. Logos on T-shirts and sweatshirts said, REFUSE TO LOSE and MARINER MAGIC. Some fans carried bags of peanuts or seat cushions.