Searching for Candlestick Park (13 page)

“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 containing 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.”

Hank was dead. Foxey was gone. I had lost my two best friends in the whole world, and I would have no choice now but to go back and live with Mama. I felt dizzy, and reached for the card table to steady myself.

“I think you need to sit down,” Byron Mills said. “This has been a shock.” He took my arm and led me to a white Lincoln that was parked just down the street. “Sit in here,” he said, as he opened the door. “I’ll bring you a drink of water.”

I sat in the front seat, leaned my arms and head against the dashboard, and wept.

I should have stayed with Hank, I thought. If I had been here, I could have called for help sooner. The doctors might have been able to save Hank if they had more time. And I would have shut Foxey in my bedroom before the ambulance came. He would have been safe in there, hiding under my bed, and I would have been here to calm him down after they took Hank to the hospital.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I took a deep breath, and looked up.

Mr. Mills held out a glass of water. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me.

I wiped my eyes and nose, and drank the water.

“There is business we need to talk about,” Mr. Mills said. He got in the driver’s seat and started the car.
“I’m going to take you to my office. Your letter from Hank is there, and I need to call your parents.”

I didn’t argue.

When we got to Mr. Mills’s office, he opened a file cabinet and took out a white envelope. “Here’s the letter,” he said. “I opened it, since I did not know how to contact you.”

I took the envelope. Across the front it said, “Spencer Atwood.” There was a single sheet of notebook paper inside.

I put the letter in my lap, and closed my eyes. Oh, Hank, I thought. I’m so sorry I didn’t stay with you.

“Even though it is handwritten, the change he made to his will is legal,” Byron Mills said. “He had two of his neighbors come over to witness his signature. I will manage your money in a trust fund until you’re twenty-one, unless you need some for living expenses now or for college, if you choose to go.”

Right then, I didn’t care if I had inherited 10 million dollars. I just wanted Hank and Foxey back.

I
need your address and phone number,” Mr. Mills said.

I wrote down Aunt May’s address and phone number.

“It’s my aunt’s address,” I said, as I gave it to him. “Mama’s staying with her.”

“And you live with them?”

I hesitated a moment. “Yes,” I said. “That’s where I live.”

“I’ll call your mother and make arrangements to get you home.”

“Is it okay if I stay in Hank’s house for a day or two?” I asked. “I want to try to find my cat.”

Mr. Mills looked doubtful.

“Please?” I said. “I promise I won’t leave.”

“I’ll have to make sure it’s all right with your mother,” he said. “Would she be at work now?”

“Wednesday’s her day off.”

Mr. Mills had a speaker phone in his office, and he explained that both of us could hear and talk.

Aunt May answered.

“This is Byron Mills, an attorney in Grafton, Oregon. Spencer Atwood is with me, and I’d like to speak to his mother, please.”

It was no surprise to me when Aunt May started screaming, but Mr. Mills jumped about six inches.

“Spencer’s in jail!” Aunt May hollered. “I knew it! I knew that boy would end up in trouble! He’s in jail and some lawyer wants to talk to you!”

Mr. Mills turned down the volume on the speaker phone.

In the background, I heard Buzz and Cissy asking, “What did he do? What did he do? Did Spencer rob a bank?”

Finally Mama’s voice, sounding scared, said, “Hello? This is Leona Atwood.”

“Your son is not in trouble,” Mr. Mills said.

“Is he all right?”

“Yes.” Mr. Mills told Mama his name. “Spencer is with me,” he continued, “because I represent the estate of Henry Woodworth, and Spencer was named in Henry’s will.”

There was a moment of silence. “Who’s estate?” Mama said.

“You don’t know him, Mama,” I said. “He was a friend of mine.”

“Mr. Woodworth has left your son some money and personal property here in Grafton,” Mr. Mills said.

“An inheritance?” Mama said. She sounded incredulous, and Spencer smiled.

“The personal property is being sold,” Mr. Mills said. “The proceeds will go into a trust fund for Spencer. I will administer the trust fund.”

“How much money are you talking about?” Mama asked.

“Approximately twenty-five thousand dollars.”

There was a clattering sound, as if Mama had dropped the telephone.

Aunt May screamed. Then she shouted into the telephone, “She’s fainted! What did that boy do, to make his mama faint dead away on the floor?”

“When she comes to,” Mr. Mills said, “tell her I’ll call back later.” He hung up.

“Do you see why I wanted to stay with Hank?” I said.

He laughed. “You and your mother will be able to have a place of your own now,” he said.

He made a copy of Hank’s letter and put it in the file. He smiled at me. “Since I didn’t make arrangements for you to go home,” he said, “I guess you’ll have to stay at Hank’s house tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“The sale goes until four o’clock today,” Mr. Mills said. “We plan to hold another sale on Saturday. We’ll have an ad in the paper for that one; today we just put out signs. In a small town like this, sometimes the signs are enough to draw a crowd.”

I nodded. Mama often followed Yard Sale signs in Seattle, hoping to find bargains.

“If I had known you would show up so soon, I would have waited to have the sale, even though Hank’s instructions said to do it immediately. There may be some things of Hank’s that you want to keep.”

“The cat carvings,” I said. “He carved some cats out of wood; they were on the windowsill.”

“You’re in luck,” Mr. Mills said. “We didn’t put those in the sale because we wanted to have them appraised first. Most of Hank’s belongings were ordinary used household items, but the wooden cats seemed to be authentic folk art. I have them at home; I’ll see that you get them.”