Puddlejumpers (13 page)

The beefy security guys lifted Ernie by his armpits and marched him along the concourse. When they reached the gate, the chief wrenched the autographed ball from his grip. “You're not taking this with you, that's for sure.”

“I didn't want it anyways,” Ernie blurted.

Outside the park, the goons manhandled him into the custody of two Chicago police officers. The cops tossed him up against their car and frisked him like he was Al Capone himself.

It wasn't the first time Ernie had been in the backseat of a police car. He didn't care about that, or even the McGinty punishment he knew was coming, but he did care about being thrown out of Wrigley on his very first visit. And that jerk had stolen his autographed baseball.

The police car made its way slowly against the flow of Cubs fans still arriving at Wrigley. Ernie stared out the window at a father and son walking side by side. The kid was about his age and wore an authentic Cubs baseball jersey with Rocky Harmon's number on the back. He said something to his dad, and whatever it was, it made them both laugh. Ernie wondered what it would be like to have a dad who appreciated the smart stuff you might say, or even the stupid stuff, or just anything at all.

The police car pulled to the curb in front of the Lakeside Home for Boys. The cops hustled him up the steps. To Ernie, they might as well have been walking him straight into the Cook County jail. He'd already been to the precinct station, where they got his fingerprints and took his picture. When they'd called Mrs. McGinty to come and get him, she'd refused.

The officer rang the bell and waited. Ernie could hear her heavy footsteps approaching the door.
This is going to be bad.
The door flew open and McGinty loomed on the threshold. The officer offered a crooked smile and handed her a clipboard. “Got a customer here for you, Mrs. McGinty.”

“And a truer embarrassment you will not find,” she seethed. She signed the paper that acknowledged his arrest. “Unfortunately, this little delinquent simply refuses to accept authority.” She turned her attention to Ernie. “Next time I won't be signing anything, and they can take you straight to the Youth Authority,” she threatened. “How'd you like that?”

Ernie stared right back.

She pinched his cheek and gave it a good shake. “And don't be giving me that look.”

Shrugging her off, he slipped past her and down the hall. She shouted after him, “Ernie Banks, you wait in my office. In-my-office! Do you hear me?!”

He didn't answer. McGinty struggled to control her temper as she turned back to the officers. “Any property damage?”

In the dim corridor, Ernie paused beside her office. He looked inside. The room was intimidating and cold, just like McGinty. Ernie decided he couldn't bear to hear another lecture, especially after all he'd been through with the police.

He started quickly up the stairs, nearly colliding with Kathryn, the social worker. “Oops, Ernie, hi,” she said, smiling. “They miss you at the pool. Mr. Alvarez asked about you today. He hopes they let you come back this winter.”

Ernie was afraid if he opened his mouth he might start to cry.

“Hey, I thought you were going to the game. What's up? You okay?” she asked sympathetically. She reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, but he turned and fled up the stairs.

Ernie entered the fifth-floor dormitory on a mission. He knew his dorm would be locked, with everybody still at the game. The younger boys stopped what they were doing as he flung open a window and jumped out. They rushed over to get a look. The number one rule in the dorm was to never go out onto the fire escape, and now Ernie Banks was doing it twice on the same day.

He stepped off the metal grating. With his back pressed against the building, Ernie shuffled along the ledge, then shinnied up the drainpipe toward the roof. Halfway up, he stopped to acknowledge his fellow orphans by thrusting a defiant fist in the air. Twenty fists answered, along with shouts of encouragement.

Mrs. McGinty burst into the dorm. “Get away from those windows!” she screamed as she shoved away a clutch of boys and bellied up to the sill.

Ernie hoisted himself onto the roof. He could hear sounds from the elevated train and a roar from Wrigley Field, but McGinty's voice cut through it all.

“Ernie Baaaaanks!” she thundered.

Ernie looked down to see McGinty screaming through cupped hands. Every window was crowded with excited boys.

“If I have to call the fire department again, you'll be one sorry boy! Do you hear me?! Now get down from there!”

Ignoring her, Ernie sprinted across the roof to leap the chasm onto the adjacent building. He tumbled on the hard surface but jumped up running. He could barely hear McGinty's voice. “Ernie Banks! Don't make me come up there!”

Out of sight, he ran to his hideaway in the abandoned water tank. He pulled back the sheet metal, crawled inside, and found his portable radio. It was right where it was supposed to be, hidden inside an old milk carton.

Ernie crawled back out and sat on the parapet overlooking the street. Wrigley's infield grass was visible three blocks away. From his vantage point, the Tigers third baseman looked like an ant, but it was better than nothing. He turned on his radio. First static, then the announcer's voice squawked from the speaker, “Rocky Harmon calls for time as he digs in at the plate. Now he's ready.”

“Get a hit, Rocky,” Ernie whispered to himself.

The announcer rattled on. “The big left-hander looks in for the sign. Here's the windup, the pitch, and it's a weakly hit ground ball to the second baseman. He scoops it up and tosses to first. Another one-two-three inning for the Cubs. After seven innings in the not-so-friendly confines, it's Tigers three, Cubs nothing.”

Ernie clicked off the radio with a weary sigh. He removed a loose brick from the facade, reached into his secret stash, and withdrew a single baseball card. He deftly snapped it faceup. It was the original Ernie Banks card, his most cherished possession—that and the Crystal Acorn he still wore around his neck. Those were the two things that proved he really did belong to somebody, somewhere.

A peal of thunder lifted his gaze to the sky. Huge black clouds were sweeping across the lake, accompanied by sheets of driving rain. It looked like the biggest storm he'd seen in a while.
This is going to be good.
He returned his Ernie Banks card to the stash and replaced the brick, then stuffed the radio under his shirt. At Wrigley, the ground crew was running onto the field with a big white tarp. It billowed up behind them like an ocean wave as they covered the infield. Ernie stood up on the ledge, preparing to meet the storm, and waited. Soon the rain pounded down, drenching him, while thunder and lightning cracked the sky with an awesome light. He felt like shouting, but didn't know what to say.

In the distance, he could hear the approaching sirens.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Good-bye, Ernie Banks

F
OR ONLY THE THIRD
time ever, Mrs. McGinty demanded a meeting at the downtown corporate office of the Lakeside Home for Boys. Unfortunately, the first and second meeting had also been about Ernie Banks.

“I swear that boy will be the death of me! It took three firemen on a hook and ladder to get him off the roof. By God, I can't tolerate a boy who won't abide by the rules,” Mrs. McGinty fumed.

Ernie sat wedged between his accuser and Kathryn Moss, the social worker, who was usually smiling, but not this morning. McGinty had been ranting for what seemed like forever and she wasn't losing any steam. On the other side of the desk was the person who would decide his fate, the Lakeside director, Antonio Vellani. A debonair sixty-year-old with a soft Italian accent, Mr. Vellani was a patient man with a natural sense of fairness, but the name Ernie Banks had come to his attention three too many times.

Vellani finally stopped McGinty's tirade with a raised hand. “All right, Annie, just a moment,” he said, then turned calmly to Ernie. “Do you hear what Mrs. McGinty is saying?”

Ernie nodded.

Vellani tapped his pen on the desk. “And what do you think I should do?”

He thought about begging for one last chance, but figured it didn't matter anymore.

“If you won't talk, I can't help you,” cautioned Vellani. “Do you realize what this could mean?”

Ernie felt like his chest was about to explode, but he just stared defiantly.

Vellani closed the Ernie Banks folder with a weary sigh. “Then you leave me no choice. I'm going to recommend you be placed under the supervision of the Illinois Youth Authority.”

Ernie felt the floor go out from under him. He'd heard the stories from other kids about the Youth Authority. It was a prison for juvenile delinquents. Bad things happened there.
Real bad things.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
I might as well be dead.
He knew everyone was watching him, especially her, so when he opened his eyes, he looked straight at Mrs. McGinty and simply muttered, “Whatever.”

“Okay, then. Wait outside,” Vellani instructed.

Ernie shuffled out of the room. When the door closed, Mrs. McGinty nodded with satisfaction. “Thank you, Tony, thank you. And good riddance to him.”

Vellani looked at his hands and sighed. “That's too bad. I can't help but feel like we've failed when a boy goes to the Y.A.”

Kathryn sensed her opportunity. “Mr. Vellani, couldn't we try to place him in another foster home—just one last time?”

McGinty countered before Vellani could answer. “He's had more chances than most, and frankly, no family would even consider a boy his age, not with his record.”

“Over the hill at thirteen?” asked Vellani, smiling ruefully.

“If we send that boy to the Y.A., he'll get crushed. He needs our help, not a prison,” Kathryn pleaded.

“Maybe if you spent more time in the dormitory you'd be singing a different tune,” snarled McGinty.

“Folks, folks, please,” said Vellani, trying to keep the peace.

Kathryn suddenly had an idea. “What about the Summer Farm Program? Don't we still need to fill Doug McQuaid's spot?”

McGinty groaned. Every summer a few lucky orphans from Lakeside were chosen to spend some time on a working farm. The program had been running for several years and was a big success. Orphans from all over the state had benefited from the kindness of the Illinois farming community.

“You really think a few weeks in the country will make a difference?” asked Vellani.

“Honestly, I don't know. But it might give him something to feel good about, something to hope for,” reasoned Kathryn.

Vellani turned to McGinty. “Annie, what about it?”

She was outraged. “Right now I could give you the names of fifty boys far more deserving than that hooligan.”

“Maybe so, but I doubt you could name one who needs this chance more than Ernie Banks,” appealed Kathryn.

Vellani sat back in his chair and weighed the decision.

The next day it was announced that Ernie Banks would spend three weeks in the country as a participant in the Summer Farm Program. When Mrs. McGinty gave the news to Ernie, she looked mad enough to spit. “Last Chance Texaco,” she seethed. Ernie understood exactly what she meant. If he got in trouble at the farm, nothing and no one would be able to save him from the Illinois Youth Authority.