Searching for Candlestick Park by Peg Kehret Page A

and I wasn’t nearly far enough away to want her to know the distance.
    I stood with my hand on the telephone receiver and a quivery feeling in the pit of my stomach. It had seemed strange to hear Mama’s voice. I had pretty much convinced myself that if I never saw Mama again, it would be just fine with me, after the way she treated Foxey. But somehow, standing there by the drugstore, with the cars driving by and a faint breezeblowing, I was sorry the call didn’t last longer. It was good to hear Mama’s voice again, even though she was mad at me for running away.
    “Want to call back?” Hank’s voice snapped me out of my homesickness.
    “No.”
    “Nothing wrong with changing your mind,” he said. “Maybe running off was the right thing to do last week. Maybe going back is the right thing to do this week.”
    “I can’t take Foxey back to Aunt May’s.”
    “I could probably find a good home for Foxey.”
    “Foxey
has
a good home. With me.”
    Hank started to say something, changed his mind, and instead went in the drugstore and ordered two chocolate ice-cream cones for us to eat on the way home.
    “How come you’re being so nice to me?” I asked.
    “I’m lonely. I miss having someone around to talk to. And you remind me of myself, when I was your age. You’re a thinker, like I was.”
    When we got back to Hank’s house, he cut a small hole in the bottom end of a brown paper bag and put the bag on the floor. Foxey instantly went inside the bag to investigate. Then Hank tapped the outside of the bag with a pencil, right next to the small hole. Foxey’s paw shot out through the hole, feeling for the pencil. Hank tapped the other end of the bag, and Foxey did a quick
U
-turn.
    Hank handed the pencil to me. “No sense spending money on expensive cat toys,” he said. “All cats love a paper bag with a hole in the bottom.”
    Hank sat at his table, whittling a piece of wood. I sat on the floor, playing with Foxey. When Foxey tired of the bag-and-pencil game, Hank gave me a piece of string. I trailed it across the floor, and Foxey chased it.
    “I worked all my life as a cabinetmaker,” Hank told me. “Always did like to make things out of wood. Had to retire a few years back because of a heart attack, but I still whittle a couple of hours every day.”
    “Did you make those?” I asked, pointing to the carved wooden cats in various poses that lined Hank’s windowsill.
    “Yes.”
    “Did you copy your own cat?” I asked.
    “Yep. He was a good cat. My wife named him Butter, because of his color.” Hank sighed. “Those were good days,” he said, “when Lois and Butter were still with me. But I can’t go back to the past.”
    I knew exactly what he meant. There were good days in my past, too; days of story heroes named Spencer, and Saturday afternoon baseball games. But I couldn’t go back anymore than Hank could.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

    I took a hot shower and went to bed early. It felt wonderful to sleep on a mattress, with a pillow under my head. I didn’t hear a thing until eight o’clock the next morning.
    I found Hank in the kitchen frying hash-brown potatoes while Foxey rolled around biting his piece of string.
    “You want to stick around a couple of days?” Hank asked. “Learn how to whittle?”
    I was tempted. I could picture Foxey and me settling in with Hank, but I knew if I wanted to get to Candlestick Park before the baseball season ended, I couldn’t dawdle about.
    After breakfast, Hank fixed some sandwiches for mybackpack. I laid them carefully on top of the boxes of cat food. Foxey was not at all happy about getting in his box but I told him there are some things in life you have to do whether you like it or not.
    Hank watched as Foxey growled and struggled to get out of the box. “Last night, you said Foxey has a good home. I’m not so sure Foxey would agree.”
    I looked at Hank. Foxey took advantage of my inattention and leaped out of the box. He ran behind Hank’s