Free Searching for Candlestick Park by Peg Kehret Page B

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.

CHAPTER
TEN

    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. Showsyou 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 ofsunlight 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