Searching for Candlestick Park (6 page)

I talked to Foxey some more. He meowed again, but didn’t move.

I took the flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on. I could now reach the end of the rope and, holding the flashlight under one arm, I began untangling it. Twice I had to break off a small branch in order to free up the rope. When I finally had it all loose, I tugged gently, urging Foxey to come down toward me.

Foxey scowled at me and stayed where he was.

I tugged again. On the third try, Foxey stood up, stretched, and hopped down to the branch next to my shoulder. I scooped him off the branch, held him against my chest, and buried my face in his fur.

After putting the flashlight in my pocket, I backed down the tree, holding Foxey with one hand and hanging onto branches with the other.

When I reached the bottom branch I sat down and
let my legs dangle over. I could see the ground, but it was too far to jump, especially with my sore leg.

I wasn’t sure I could climb from the branch to the picnic table and hold onto Foxey at the same time. I decided to let Foxey go first. I tied the end of the rope around my wrist and, holding Foxey with both hands, I leaned over as far as I could toward the picnic table, and let go.

Foxey landed with a light thud and scampered down the table to the ground. As he did, I hung from the branch and jumped, feeling for the table with my feet. They landed too far to one side, and the table tilted away from the tree trunk.

Instead of sliding down the table, as I had planned, I jumped forward as the table crashed sideways to the ground. I landed on my hands and knees in the grass.

The noise and sudden movement startled Foxey and he bolted away. The rope yanked on my wrist, as Foxey thrashed wildly at the other end.

I scrambled to my feet and ran toward him, but as soon as there was slack in the rope, he took off again.

Fortunately, he ran toward the bushes beside the rest room, and when I reached the building, I reeled him in like a fish, picked him up, and held him close. I felt his heart thumping.

“I’m sorry, Foxey,” I whispered. “I’m sorry you got so scared.”

After he quieted down, I settled into the spot where I had been asleep earlier. This time I put Foxey in the
box; I thought he might feel safer that way. I didn’t put the lid on, though, since the rope was still tied to us both. I lay on my side, curled around the box, petting Foxey.

It took me a long time to fall asleep. I kept listening for the jingle of dog tags.

I
awoke at dawn with a stiff neck. It took me a second to remember where I was. As soon as I did, I looked in Foxey’s box. It was empty.

I sat up, and saw him under a bush, watching a bird.

“How about some breakfast?” I said, as I opened the backpack. We shared bread and cheese, and I ate one of Aunt May’s apples. After a walk around the park, during which Foxey made good use of another molehill, I tied the box to the bike, put him in, and started on our way.

Although my leg still hurt, I peddled the bike at full speed, using both legs equally. There were a lot of cars on the streets, but the drivers paid no attention to me.
They were no doubt on their way to work and thought I was on my way to school.

At noon, I stopped at a Plaid Pantry and bought a box of cat food ($1.69), a quart of milk ($1.10), and two Rice Krispies cookies ($1.50). Mama says you pay more at a convenience store, but I didn’t want to leave Foxey out of my sight while I walked through a big supermarket. At Plaid Pantry, I could see my bike through the front window the whole time.

I sat on the sidewalk in front of a French restaurant that didn’t open until three, and ate the last of my bread and drank the milk. I ate one cookie and saved one for later. Then I counted my money.

Yesterday morning, I had sixteen dollars and seventy-five cents. Fourteen dollars came from Aunt May’s purse; the rest was left from my lawn-mowing money. Foxey’s harness cost $3.20, and the bus to the King Street Station was seventy-five cents, so I had actually left Seattle with $12.80 in my pocket. Now I had only $8.51.

I put some cat food in Foxey’s box, but the traffic noise made him too nervous to eat. I poured the last bit of milk into the jar lid and put it in the box. While Foxey drank the milk, I studied the Washington map. I knew I couldn’t ride my bike on the freeway; I had to find other roads.

As the day wore on, my leg hurt more. After lunch, I rode for only an hour and then I had to rest. The
second time I stopped, I was near an on-ramp for Interstate Five.

I stood near the freeway on-ramp, watching the cars approach. A traffic light controlled when the next car could merge, and a line of cars waited. It would be easy to hitchhike from here, I thought. Each car stopped briefly at the light; they were heading south, the way I needed to go. Maybe I should just go out on the side of the road and stick my thumb in the air.

The thought of hitching a ride scared me silly. What if I got picked up by a criminal or a drunken driver?

On the other hand, I would get to California a lot faster in a car, and without wrecking my leg. My bruised shin hurt more now than it had when I first fell. All the bike riding was making it worse.

I did some quick calculations. If a car went sixty miles an hour for four hours, and I was in it, I’d be 240 miles closer to Candlestick Park by dinnertime.

I stepped closer to the curb, looking at the vehicles in the line. I needed a big car, so that my bike would fit. And I needed a driver who did not look as if he had a police record.

The fourth car back seemed perfect: it was a full-size van, with a white-haired woman behind the wheel and a little kid in the front seat. Grandma and grandchild, I guessed. The back seat was down; my bike would fit easily.

I waited until the van was second from the stoplight. Then I put out my thumb.

The woman noticed me right away, and rolled down her window. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. The first one I tried was going to give me a ride.

But instead of telling me to get in, the woman started yelling at me.

“Does your mother know what you’re doing?” she shouted. “It isn’t safe to hitchhike, and it isn’t legal, either. What’s your name? Where do you live?”

The control light turned green. The pickup truck behind the van honked. “You go home this minute!” the woman called, as she drove onto the freeway.

The pickup honked again, and I realized he was not honking at the van; he was honking at me. The driver was a man in a red baseball cap. He jerked his hand toward the back of the truck, signaling me to hop in.

There wasn’t time to think it over. It was do it, or get left. I hoisted the bike into the back of the truck, and climbed up beside it. As the truck picked up speed, I untied the box from the bike, and held it on my lap so Foxey wouldn’t be riding along tipped on his side.

I scooted forward until my back rested against the cab. I wondered if the woman was right, that it’s against the law to hitchhike.

Foxey meowed, letting me know he wanted to get out of the box.

“Sorry,” I told him. “You’re safer where you are.”

But am I safe? I wondered. Was this a smart move or the most stupid thing I’d ever done?

I looked over my shoulder, through the window, at the driver. His chin had not been near a razor for several days. His T-shirt sleeves were rolled up and I saw a large tattoo of a dragon on the arm nearest me. Aunt May would take one look and scream. Mama would say he has an ax under the seat, for sure.

What if Mama was right? I had put out my thumb for the grandma in the van, not for this man; why had I been so quick to hop in his truck?

I decided that the minute the truck got off the freeway and stopped, I would jump down and take off on the bike. But what if he didn’t stop until he was in some remote area? I began to envision a cabin in the wilderness, where kids are tortured.

Twenty minutes later, the truck slowed. As it exited the freeway, I quickly tied Foxey’s box back on the bike and slid over to the tailgate, ready to make my getaway. The driver turned at the first corner, pulled over, and stopped.

I jumped down and opened the tailgate. Before I could get the bike off, the man came around to the back of the truck. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t leave Foxey.

“This is as far as I go,” the man said, as he helped me lift the bike to the ground. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. I took a deep breath, and felt my knees shaking with relief. “Thanks for the ride.”

He climbed back in the truck and drove off.

You were lucky this time, Spencer, I told myself, but you might not be so lucky again. I made up my mind that I would not hitchhike anymore, even if I had to crawl to Candlestick Park on my hands and knees. It was just too risky.

Instead, I climbed on the bike and started pedaling along the service road that ran parallel to the freeway. Toward evening I reached a town where I found a large park. Except for a man pushing a toddler on a swing, the park was deserted. I chose a picnic table away from the swings, near a grove of trees.

I ate the last apple and Aunt May’s graham crackers for dinner. I intended to eat only half the crackers and save the rest for breakfast, but I was famished after riding my bike most of the day. I kept taking one more and one more, and before I knew it they were gone.

I ate the second Rice Krispies cookie, but I was still hungry. Even Foxey’s cat food looked good to me. It looked good to Foxey, too, and he crunched down a lot of it.

While Foxey ate, I wrote a letter.

When I finished my letter, Foxey was washing his paws and whiskers. I watched the man take the toddler out of the swing, put him in a stroller, and walk away.

“Time for your walk,” I told Foxey. I didn’t see any molehills. We’d have to find a patch of dirt.

Foxey took his own sweet time about walking anywhere. First he had to look at the bottom of the picnic bench. Then he had to smell the wind, turning his head in every direction. Finally, after I nudged him in the rear with my toe, he slithered along the edge of the trees.

We had walked about five minutes when a boy my own size stepped out of the trees a few feet in front of us. Foxey and I stopped.

“Hey, Cat Man,” the boy said. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a walk.”

“You alone?”

I nodded.

“Me, too,” he said.

There was a long pause while we looked at each
other. He wore jeans and a Mariners’ sweatshirt. I wondered if he meant he was
really
alone, like I was, or if he was alone here at the park.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“San Francisco.”

“You planning to walk all that way with your cat?”

“I have a bike,” I said.

There was more silence while he appeared to think that over.

“You got folks there?” he asked.

“My dad.”

“I don’t know where my dad is,” he said. “Or my mom, either. I live with my sister.”

“Around here?”

He pointed behind him. “Six blocks that way. I’m on my way to get dinner; this is the shortcut. You like spaghetti?”

“I love it. But I can’t afford to eat at a restaurant.”

“This place is cheap. If you carry the food out, you get a huge plate of spaghetti and two pieces of garlic toast for two dollars.”

My mouth watered as I listened. “Is it plain spaghetti sauce or meat sauce?” I asked.

“Plain. Meatballs are an extra fifty cents each.”

The boy dug into his pocket, pulled out three dollar bills, and showed them to me. “I’m getting two meatballs tonight,” he said. He put the money away. “Usually, I only get the spaghetti.”

It would be worth it, I decided. I needed a good meal, to keep my strength up, and I couldn’t get that much food for two dollars at a grocery store.

“How far away is this place?” I asked.

“Four blocks. You want to come with me?”

I looked down at Foxey, who was tentatively scratching at a bare spot in the grass.

“I really need to walk my cat first. He’s been shut in his box all day. Tell me how to get there; I’ll go later.”

“The restaurant closes at seven,” he said, “and it’s past six-thirty now. That’s why the spaghetti is so cheap. The rest of the day, the same meal costs $4.95, but the owner starts fresh every morning, so the last half hour, he cuts the price.”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to make Foxey go back in the box before he had some exercise and a chance to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, a plate of spaghetti sounded great.

“I could get yours for you, if you want me to,” the boy said. “I always bring mine back here and eat at a picnic table.”

I thought it over. I didn’t know anything about this kid. What if I handed over my two dollars and then he took off and I never saw him again?