Caged Eagles (13 page)

At least I had the choice of going outside. The women and girls, who made up most of the people in the building, were in a line that stretched much, much further than the one I'd abandoned. Of course, everybody in the line stood there, quietly and patiently, waiting their turn. I'd been back at the stall, lying down trying to sleep, for more than an hour before everybody had finished and returned.

I hoped that because it was later, and most people had already headed for breakfast, the line wouldn't be too bad now.

Up ahead I spied the washroom doors. There were maybe a half dozen women and children extending out of the open door of the one washroom. The other door, to the men's, was closed. If there was a line, it certainly couldn't be too long.

I pushed open the door. There were four boys, all of them much younger than me, standing at the sinks.

It looked like they'd been splashing each other, playing, but they stopped when I entered. I was sad I'd disturbed their fun. A fifth boy, no older than six or seven years of age, stood off to the side, a towel draped over his shoulder, waiting his turn. There were legs peeking out from under two of the four washroom stalls. The other two were empty and the doors gaped open invitingly. I took the invitation.

Closing the door and sliding the latch into place to lock it, I slipped down my pants and sat down.

Other than the sound of splashing water in the sinks outside the stall, there was no other noise. I was suddenly struck by the thought that this was probably the first time I'd been out of sight of other people completely since we'd first got on the fishing boat to come down the coast. There was nobody with me or watching me for a brief moment. I was grateful that there was nobody waiting for the stall because I had the urge to just sit in there for a while, by myself.

That certainly wasn't possible on the boat, and even less of a reality here in the park.

It would be so nice now to just go for a walk in the woods by myself. That was something I used to do all the time. Walk through the woods, or down by the shore, or maybe even climb up on the rocks that overlooked the village. I'd give anything to just get away, instead of being locked up here. Maybe I should take Sam up on that offer and head out of the park for a while. I wouldn't be alone — and being with Sam meant never having more than a few seconds of silence — but at least I'd be able to walk where I wanted to go.

Then again, maybe he didn't really know a way out, and he was just trying to impress me. I didn't know if he was
all
talk, but I did know he was a
lot
of talk. I'd never met anybody as talkative as him. I would have bet he talked in his sleep … or at least chewed gum in his sleep.

I heard the door creak open again. One of the sinks might be free, or maybe other people were lining up for it and I didn't have time to wait much longer, or — “What are you doing in there?” called out a voice as a fist pounded against the door of my stall.

I practically jumped to my feet, my heart leaping up into my throat. Who was it and what did he want? I'd started to fumble with my pants before it struck me who it was — Sam.

“Come on, Tadashi, hurry up!” Sam called out.

I wanted to yell something back, open the door and smack him for frightening me like that, but I didn't want to let him know how much he'd actually scared me. I took a deep breath.

“What are you doing in there, anyway?” Sam asked.

“Guess.” He must have seen me coming into the washroom.

“I don't want to guess. I want you to hurry.”

“Why, are they going to run out of food?” I asked, as I opened the door.

“They won't run out of food, but they
will
run out of places on the field,” he said, holding up a baseball glove in one hand.

“I can't play baseball until I've washed up and eaten.”

“No time.”

“What's the rush?”

“I told you. If they pick the teams before we get there, then we won't be able to play until somebody leaves. That could take till lunchtime. Just throw some water on your face and come on.”

“I still have to have breakfast.” After not eating much last night, I had woken up very hungry.

“No need to go for breakfast,” Sam said. “Breakfast has come for you.” He held up a paper bag. “Here.”

“I don't want candy for breakfast,” I said, recognizing the bag he'd been passed in the kitchen last night.

“Candy? I wouldn't get you candy for breakfast … not that I haven't had it myself a few times. Have a look.”

I took the bag and opened it up. There was an apple, a hunk of yellow cheese and a big slab of white bread. The bread was so fresh it still had steam rising from it.

“Thanks,” I said, taking out the bread and taking a big bite. “But we have to stop at the mess hall on the way so I can tell my mother what I'm doing.”

“The mess hall isn't on the way, it's in the completely opposite direction, and you don't have to tell your mother because I already did.”

“You did?”

“I ran into them on the way here and told them.”

Sam smiled. “Now can we get moving or do I have to wash your face for you as well?”

“I think I can handle that by myself,” I replied.

It was hard work keeping up with Sam, taking a quick bite, chewing and swallowing as we moved. There was no way I could eat, breathe, move fast and talk, so I didn't say a word as we trotted along. Occasionally I'd grunt out a response to one of Sam's continual questions or comments. It quickly became apparent that the only thing that moved faster than Sam's feet was his mouth. This boy could hold both sides of a conversation and still keep interrupting himself.

We cut between a cluster of buildings. There certainly were a lot of buildings here, and I wondered if I'd ever be able to find my way around. All around us there were people moving or standing or squatting on the ground, but while they seemed to be sticking to the paths, we were traveling between and around the backs of the buildings. At first I just thought that Sam was taking us along the shortest route to the field.

Then, when we took a few turns that seemed to lead us back in what I felt was the wrong direction, I figured that he really didn't know his way around this place as well as he'd bragged.

We left behind the last of the buildings and cut across a field. This looked familiar. This was the way we'd come back yesterday after getting the ice cream.

That meant that the racetrack was just over to the left.

I peered off to that side and saw the grandstand in the distance. It was reassuring to know my way around at least a little bit.

How strange it was to be in a place you didn't know.

I'd spent my whole life in the same village. The shore, the rocks, the paths through the forest were all so second nature to me. And even if I was in a part of the forest I didn't know, I still knew where the sun was in the sky and how to get back to where things were familiar. This was all so different.

“Damn!” Sam cursed, skidding to a stop.

“What's wrong?”

“Look. They've already started playing,” he said, pointing up ahead.

We were coming at a baseball field, directly behind center field. There was a waist-high chain-link fence that curved around the whole outfield. Behind that was the green of the outfield, the infield glistening brightly, ref lecting the sun, then a backstop and bleachers, maybe ten or fifteen rows high. On the field was a team, and a batter was in the box. The pitcher let loose with a throw and I heard the sound of the bat cracking out a hit. I couldn't see the flight of the ball at first, but watching the reaction of the right fielder I caught sight of it just before it flew into his glove.

Beautiful catch!

“We might as well go back,” Sam said, turning around.

“But aren't there two more fields?”

“There are, but they're not playable. They've started to store vehicles in the outfields of both. Let's go back.”

“Wait,” I said, putting a hand on his arm. “Let's go closer and have a look.”

“What's the point?” he said with a shrug. “The game has started, and we might as well do something else. We can come back around noon when some of the guys will want to leave to get something to eat.”

“How about if we stay for a while? Watching baseball isn't as good as playing, but what else do we have to do?”

I thought about suggesting to Sam that we head out under the fence, the way he'd suggested yesterday, but I chickened out. Maybe later.

“I guess we could stay and watch. Who knows, maybe somebody will get hurt and we can get into the game.”

We walked along the outside of the outfield fence. I watched the game as we walked. The batter hit a little dribbler to the shortstop, who tossed it to first for an easy out. It must have been the third out of the inning, as the one side trotted to its bench while the other team took to the field. There were probably twenty or thirty people sitting in the bleachers — mainly men, but also a couple of kids around our age, who were probably waiting for a game as well. We settled into the stands, a few rows back behind first base, just as the pitcher took the first warm-up pitch of the inning. He reared back and unleashed a pitch that hit the catcher's glove with a loud smack. He looked like he had some stuff. The pitcher — and, actually, all the players I could see — were at least a few years older than me and Sam. It might be better for us to watch at first until I at least saw how good these guys were.

The first batter of the inning settled into the box. The pitcher reared back and let loose. The ball hit the catcher's glove a split second after the batter swung and missed. That ball had a lot of heat. The catcher tossed it back out to the pitcher. The second pitch came in high and tight, and the batter jumped back and hit the dirt. The batter leaped to his feet almost as fast as he'd been knocked down. He said something to the pitcher — it was Japanese, but I didn't know the word. Apparently the pitcher did understand. He took a few steps toward the batter, said some words back, also in Japanese, and while I knew what he was saying, I also knew it was physically impossible for the batter to do what he'd suggested. A few of the players, from both sides, called out for them to get back to playing.

The pitcher turned and went back to the mound, while the batter settled into the box. The pitch came in hard and flat, and the batter threw out his bat, catching the ball against the end. The ball squirted out, threading itself between the shortstop and third baseman, almost as if it had eyes. The batter, his eyes only on first base, sprinted full out for the bag, not even daring to turn his head to look, not knowing that he'd lucked out a bloop single.

I had to admire the way he ran down to first, hoping that something good would happen, that maybe it would get through like it did, or the shortstop would boot the ball or fumble it, or maybe the throw to first would sail high and wide. What was he doing now?

The runner had taken a wide pass at first and had made the turn toward second. The outfielder hadn't come up hard enough on the hit, figuring it was a guaranteed single but that nobody would try to stretch it into a double. And now the runner was trying to make his dribbler into an extra-base hit. His hat flew off as he came barreling toward second. The second baseman scrambled over, covering the bag, ready to take the throw, as the outfielder ran forward, scooped the ball bare-handed and whipped a throw. It was a perfect strike, right into the second baseman's glove!

He had the ball and position at the bag well before the runner got there. I expected the runner to hit the dirt and try to hook a foot to the base to avoid the tag, but instead he stayed upright, on his feet, and collided with the second baseman. A split second after I saw the collision, both bodies flying, I heard the crunch of the impact. The second baseman lay dazed in a crumbled heap five feet behind the bag, the ball loose and still rolling away, while the runner got back to his feet and placed one foot on the bag, yelling that he was “safe” and pointing to the ball on the ground.

There was a pause, no more than a second or two long, when nobody and nothing moved, and even the ball stopped dead in the long grass. Then all hell broke loose.

The shortstop came charging over like a bull and broadsided the runner, sending him reeling backwards, and all the players on the field and all the players on the bench came running together into a huddle around second base. There was screaming and swearing and pushing and shoving, and two men started wailing away at each other with their fists. And then the people in the stands, even the old men who had been sitting there in their shirts and hats and ties, scrambled off the bleachers. I stood up and Sam forcibly grabbed me by the arm.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.

“I was just going to —”

“Going to get yourself beaten up?” he interrupted.

“It's not our fight.”

“I wasn't going to fight anybody!” I protested.

“But how do you know that some anybody isn't going to fight you? Let's stay clear.”

That made sense. It had already started to settle down out on the field, and what was I going to do out there anyway? The players who had wanted to fight were being separated by those who were more calm and by the old men who had waded out onto the field and were hollering out orders for everybody to behave.

The poor second baseman, forgotten in the scuffle, was still in the same spot where he'd fallen but was now sitting up, rubbing his jaw. He started to his feet, uneasily, and that brought attention to him. He was offered support and helped off the field. Players started milling around, picking up fallen hats or reclaiming gloves that had been abandoned on the ground.

“I've never ever seen a baseball game become a fight,” I said.

“I have. Three times,” Sam answered.