Searching for Candlestick Park (9 page)

I decided to stay at McDonald’s for awhile, and offer to clear the tables for other people. There was probably a lot of wasted food in a place like this, and there was no reason why it shouldn’t go in my stomach, instead of in the garbage can.

I wandered slowly from one end of McDonald’s to the other, watching to see who was almost finished and what they might be leaving behind.

It took nearly an hour, but I managed to get most of a banana muffin, part of a chocolate milk shake, and two more half-full containers of French fries. I soon discovered that little kids were my best chance for leftovers, and I smiled whenever a family with small children placed an order.

Through all of this, I kept a close watch on my bike. Foxey’s box was tied to it and I didn’t want anyone bothering him.

It was past sunset before I left McDonald’s and began to search for a place to spend the night.

For the first time since the boys had stolen my money, I felt optimistic. There had to be plenty of fast-food places between where I was and Candlestick Park. Maybe I could scrounge enough food each day to keep myself going.

I couldn’t find another park to sleep in, so I settled for a schoolyard. I figured it would be quiet at night,
and there was a soccer field where I could walk Foxey.

Foxey gobbled up the little girl’s hamburger and then refused his cat food. I should have given him the cat food first, and saved the hamburger for dessert. I had refilled the water jar at McDonald’s and he was glad to get a drink.

He seemed glad to explore the schoolyard, too. He trotted along, as if he knew where he was going, stopping once to sniff at the bottom of the slide.

It was almost dark by then, but a streetlight allowed me to see where we were going.

There was sand under the swings and Foxey decided it was the world’s largest litter pan. When he finished, I used the napkin from the hamburger to pick up his deposit and throw it in the trash barrel. I didn’t want some kid stepping in it the next day.

We bedded down against the back of the building. I had kept track of the days, and I knew the next day was Saturday. With any luck at all, no one would arrive at the school until I was wide awake and out of there.

For once, everything went as I had planned. I did not open my eyes again until daybreak. Foxey was already up, rooting around and trying to get in the backpack. He probably smelled his cat food.

With no hamburger to dull his appetite, he was plenty happy to eat the cat crunchies, and I gave him a long walk before I put him back in his box and started off.

I was more hungry than I had ever been in my life. I used to ask Mama for a snack before dinner and when she said
no
, I complained that I was starving to death. But I had never experienced true hunger before, and believe me, it isn’t much fun. The leftover French fries seemed a lifetime ago.

I walked my bike through the business section of town, hoping for another fast-food restaurant where I could be the unofficial busboy. I didn’t want to go back to McDonald’s. I had ridden at least a couple of miles beyond that, and the last thing in the world I needed was to go backward.

When I reached the outskirts of town without spotting another restaurant, I went into a Quick Stop gas station/grocery store and looked around, hoping to find something I could afford. I saw nothing. There was a display of cookies on the checkout counter and I longingly eyed the individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies. They were huge—about four times the size of the ones Mama made. They were also seventy-nine cents each.

“May I help you?” asked the young man behind the counter.

“Do you sell anything for twenty-seven cents or less?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Just these,” he said. He pointed to a fishbowl filled with chocolate-covered mint creams. “They’re two for a quarter.”

It would have to do. I took two mints and he rang
up the sale. Including sales tax, it came to twenty-seven cents. I handed it over and walked out.

I took tiny bites of mint and sucked each bite until it dissolved, making the candy last as long as possible, but my stomach did not even realize it was being fed. When the last piece of mint was gone, my belly hurt just as much as it had before I spent my money. My right leg felt okay, though. At least only one part of me hurts at a time.

All right, I told myself. There will be a McDonald’s or a Burger King or something else in the next town.

It was time to put some miles on the bike. I rode hard all morning, stopping twice for water and to let Foxey out.

At the city of Longview, I crossed the Columbia River. The high, narrow bridge had no separate bike lane, so I had to ride on the shoulder. I pumped hard to get up the steep approach to the bridge and rode nervously across with cars whizzing by on my left and the long drop to the river on my right. By the time I reached the other side, I was dripping with sweat. But it was worth it; I was now in Oregon, and that seemed lots closer to my goal than Washington had.

It was past noon when I came to the town of Grafton. I walked my bike along the sidewalk on Main Street, looking down. Maybe I would get lucky and find some money. When I passed a pay telephone, I put my fingers in the coin return, just in case someone had forgotten to pick up their change. It was empty.

I passed an appliance store that had a row of television sets in the window. All of them were tuned to the same channel: a baseball game. I stopped to watch, and a tingle of excitement ran down the back of my neck.

“It’s the Giants,” I told Foxey. “The Giants and the Pittsburgh Pirates.” My spirits rose and I stood close to the window, staring at one of the screens. It showed the score, and I saw that the Giants were batting in the bottom of the seventh. That means the Giants are home team, I thought. This game is being televised from Candlestick Park.

I took it as a good omen, and I watched carefully, hoping the camera would zoom in on the crowd. Maybe I would see Dad at the game! Wouldn’t that be something?

That’s where I’m going, I told myself. In another week, I’ll be there, sitting in the stands with Dad, watching the Giants in person. We’ll take along a big bag of peanuts in the shell, and later Dad will buy me a frozen malt or a soft drink.

“Are you a baseball fan?”

I jumped at the voice. An older man had joined me on the sidewalk. He held a bag of popcorn.

“Yes,” I said. “Especially the Giants.”

“Me, too. Used to play some ball myself, years ago. Never made it to the majors, but I had a great time anyway.” He ate a handful of popcorn.

He wore a plaid shirt, and suspenders held his pants
up. His face looked like Santa Claus without a beard.

“Have some popcorn?” he asked, extending the bag toward me.

I heard Mama’s voice in my mind: Never talk to strangers. Never accept food or money from someone you don’t know.

I could smell the popcorn.

I stuck my hand in the bag. “Thanks,” I said.

We watched the rest of the inning in silence. When the commercials came on, the man said, “Haven’t seen you around before. You new in town, are you?”

“Just visiting,” I said.

He offered the popcorn again, and this time I accepted immediately.

“You think the Giants have a chance at the World Series?” he asked.

“They’re a cinch,” I said.

He laughed. “I hope you’re right.”

We watched another half inning and then the man said, “I’ve had enough popcorn. Do you want the rest, or should I toss it?”

“I’ll take it,” I said. “Thanks.”

He handed me the half-full bag, and I gobbled up all but the last inch, which I saved for Foxey. Right at that moment, popcorn tasted even better than Mama’s macaroni and cheese.

The man watched me eat, but said nothing.

Pittsburgh went down one-two-three in the top of the ninth, which ended the game.

“Why did you save some of the popcorn?” the man asked, pointing at the sack, which I had carefully folded so the popcorn wouldn’t spill.

“It’s for my cat.”

“Is your cat hungry?”

“Not right now. I have some cat food, but it might not last as long as it needs to, so I feed him other things when I can.”

“My cat died not long ago,” the man said, “and I still have a couple of boxes of cat food at home. If you want to come home with me, you can have them.”

I hesitated. What if the old man was some sort of crazed child molester? What if he locks kids in his closets and lets them starve to death? I had been too gullible when I believed that Jay was going to buy me a plate of spaghetti. I couldn’t afford another bad choice.

“You wouldn’t have to come inside, if you don’t want to,” the man said. “I know your folks have probably told you never to go anywhere with a stranger.”

I nodded.

“It’s just a few blocks,” he said, and started off down the sidewalk.

What if he’s an ax murderer? I thought. What if I’m making another stupid mistake?

But free cat food doesn’t come along every day of the week.

I followed the man home.

H
e lived in a small, old house with a front porch. Three-story apartment buildings crowded close on both sides.

“You can wait on the porch, if you like,” the man said. “I’ll bring it out.”

I sat on the steps while the man went inside. Soon he returned with a bag containing three boxes of cat food. One was half full; the other two had never been opened. In his other hand, he carried a small tray that held a huge slice of cheese pizza and a glass of apple juice.

“I thought maybe the cat wasn’t the only hungry one,” he said, as he set the tray on the step beside me.

“Thanks.”

“My name is Hank Woodworth.”

I took a bite of the pizza.

“When I was sixteen years old,” Hank said, “I ran away from home. Thought I’d see the world, be independent.”

I stopped chewing and looked at him.

“It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Ran out of money after only three days.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back home. My parents were so glad to see me that they didn’t even wallop me, but you know something?”

“What?”

“I regretted going back so soon. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried a little harder to make it on my own before I gave up. ’Course, I was older than you. It’s easier to find work when you’re sixteen.”

I opened Foxey’s box and poured some of the cat food into it.

“Wouldn’t he eat better if you took him out of that box?”

“He gets nervous in a strange place.”

“You could take him inside, in the kitchen. It would be quiet and he could prowl around a bit.”

I hesitated. I knew Foxey would love to be off the leash for a little while but I’d learned the hard way not to be too trusting.

“Look,” Hank said. “I admire your caution. Shows
you aren’t a fool who believes everything he’s told. But there’s a time to have faith, too, and this is one of those times.”

I remembered an old movie I’d seen, where the sheriff said, “Look ’em in the eye. You can tell if a man’s shifty or honest if you look ’em straight in the eye.”

I looked into Hank Woodworth’s eyes. They were a deep gray-blue and there were lots of crinkly lines at the edges, as if he smiled a lot. He was not my idea of an ax murderer.

“Foxey would like to eat in the kitchen,” I said, and followed Hank Woodworth into the house.

Later, after Foxey had polished off a good bit of cat food and I had finished a second piece of pizza, I told Hank Woodworth the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Who I am, where I was going, and why.

Hank listened quietly, nodding occasionally. Not once did he tell me I should not have lied to my mother. Not once did he warn me about the dangers of traveling alone. Not once did he suggest that I was a stupid, headstrong kid who didn’t know what was good for him. There aren’t many adults like Hank, I can tell you. All he said was, “Why don’t you rest here overnight? I have some chores that need doing, so you’ll be expected to earn your keep.”

I mowed the lawn, weeded the front flower bed, and swept the sidewalk. Foxey jumped on and off the kitchen chairs, chased his tail, and rolled in a patch of
sunlight on the linoleum. It felt good to both of us to move around without looking over our shoulders all the time.

While I worked and Foxey played, Hank cooked. When I went inside to tell him I’d finished all the chores, the house smelled like Mama’s spaghetti. I sniffed appreciatively.

“You like polenta?” Hank asked.

“I’ve never had it,” I said and then quickly added, “but it smells good.”

“It’s like spaghetti and meat balls, except there’s cornmeal instead of meat.”

“Sounds great. I don’t eat meat, anyway.”

“Neither do I,” he said. We grinned at each other.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I waited.

“After we eat, I want you to call your mother.”

I shook my head.

“She must be worried about you. It isn’t right not to let her know you’re okay.”

“I sent her a letter.”