“I get that,” Oscar said. “I understand.”
“But he was wrong. What he did was wrong! He cursed all of us in the process.”
“Speak for yourself!” said an oily voice behind them. Oscar knew before he even turned around that it was Weasel-man. He could hear the yipping now and smell the dirty weasels from where he sat. “Do I look cursed to you? I’m a model of American prosperity!” Weasel-man popped off his cap. “What’re a few horns among friends?”
“Weasel-man,” Oscar’s father said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Are you going to ask me where the baseball is?”
“How do you know about that?” Oscar asked.
“I know everything. That’s how I know.”
“Well? Do you know where it is? Seen anything like it?” Oscar’s father asked.
“Finding the ball, that’s how you think you’re going to break the Curse? Don’t you know that the Pooka won’t let that happen?” He handed Oscar the slip of paper, which was nibbled on one corner and slightly ripped.
Oscar read it aloud: “Dear boy by the name of Oscar: Meet me under home plate tomorrow night at the stroke of twelve. I have words for you and for you alone. The Pooka.”
“Be sure to pack lightly. I think you’re in for a bumpy ride!”
“No, he isn’t!” Oscar’s father said, standing up and pacing. “I won’t let him go! It’s too dangerous. He could fall off while they’re up in the sky. No, no, no. Absolutely not.” Oscar wasn’t listening. He was staring at the note, looking for a message to decode. He let his eyes go soft and blurry. He looked at it sideways from one direction, then the other. But there was nothing at all.
“He’s got to go,” Weasel-man said. “The Pooka will only hunt him down. Does he want that?”
His father continued to stomp and fume. “He can’t go!” his father kept saying, while Weasel-man shouted back, “He has to!”
Oscar flipped over the piece of paper, hoping to see a message if he looked at it from the other side. But instead he found Fedelma’s note to the Pooka. He read it. He knew she didn’t like him, but she’d betrayed him? She’d sent the Pooka after him? He balled up the note and shoved it in his pocket.
Oscar looked out into center field. His father and Weasel-man were still fighting. The sun was coming up. The stadium took on a dusty glow. The mist was still coming down, but now it had a glistening shine. And that’s when he saw the Banshee, dancing in the outfield, her long skirt drifting over the grass, her bare feet, her pale hands and cheeks. Beads of rain made her hair look jeweled. Her arms carved letters out of the rain, and the letters formed words.
Go to the Pooka, she danced with the loose cursive of her body. You need to know his secrets.
Oscar looked across the field at the Green Monster, where the Pooka probably was at that very moment. Four slits in the wall brightened. They burned golden yellow. Oscar thought of the Pooka’s eyes, how he’d heard that they glowed.
And then the Banshee let out a moan, a soft cry. This got the attention of Weasel-man and Oscar’s father. The three of them now looked at the Banshee as she faded into the mist. Oscar recognized the sadness of the cry. The Banshee had been the one who’d spoken to him through the wind, and probably the one who’d left a message in the bleacher seats, too. Oscar glanced back to the slits in the wall. The glow dimmed.
Oscar looked at his father and Weasel-man, their faces softly lit by the sun.
“You aren’t going,” his father said. “That’s final.”
Oscar nodded, but he knew that Weasel-man was right and that he would have to disobey his father. I’m going, he thought. I have no choice.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Birthday Party—More Gifts
AUNTIE OONAGH WAS SMILING SO hard that her cheeks seemed to have risen up her face—bulbous, pink, and taut. She clapped her hands loudly to make sure she had everyone’s attention. Even Auntie Fedelma, who’d been scowling at the floor, looked up. “I’ve a surprise for Oscar!” Auntie Oonagh announced.
She walked to the counter and picked up a platter domed with a silver top. The dishes all seemed to have been made of metal plates with numbers from the scoreboard. The drying rack was made of the protective wiring in a catcher’s mask. The place mats and trivets matched the rubber home plates that tiled the floor. The kitchen was small and cramped; and everyone was squished in, trying to pretend he or she was comfortable—except Auntie Fedelma, who would occasionally curse the small space.
Auntie Oonagh lifted the top of the platter. “For you, Oscar,” she said. “I made it myself.” Auntie Gormley raised her gnarled finger. “With Auntie Gormley’s advice,” Auntie Oonagh added. She had molded cotton candy into the shape of a round birthday cake with Cracker Jack trim.
“What’s it say on it there?” Auntie Fedelma asked. “I can’t see it, Oonagh! Why did you write it so small like that?”
“It had to fit on the cake!” Auntie Oonagh said.
Oscar’s father read it: “Happy Birthday, Oscar!” The words were spelled out in M&M’S. Oscar hadn’t had a birthday party since he was little—maybe seven or so. That time, his mother had invited some of the people from the dry cleaners up to their apartment for cake. A soggy, store-bought cake—it had gotten mixed up with someone else’s and read HAPPY RETIREMENT, MRS. COONIG. Oscar’s mother had been really angry about the cake. “I wanted it to be special!” she said to Oscar. The folks from the dry cleaners were uncomfortable. They left early, and his mother felt bad about that too. So, the following year, Oscar asked that they not really do anything. That had been fine with him. Birthdays weren’t his mother’s thing; her own made her cry for a day or two. And his father’s gifts had always been disappointing. In fact, the gift that Oscar had first seen in Pizzeria Uno was sitting on the table behind the cake. His father had rewrapped it in fresh newsprint. But it seemed less awful now that he understood his father’s world. He’d been making the best of what he had all of these years.
He was surprised by how happy he was about Auntie Oonagh’s silly, homemade cake. It was lopsided, and the lettering was uneven. And even though Oscar loved sweets, it seemed as if it would be way too sweet for anyone to eat a whole piece.
“Where are some candles?” Auntie Oonagh asked, clattering through the cupboards, her tiny wings pulsing nervously on her back. “I don’t know where they could be!”
His father had decided not to tell the aunties about the message from the Pooka. Why disturb them? Plus, his father was convinced that the matter was closed, that Oscar wasn’t going. But Oscar’s mind kept flashing on the note: the odd scrawl of the Pooka on one side and Auntie Fedelma’s betrayal on the other. Every time he thought of the note, he remembered his father’s face as he told him about the Pooka’s eyes and hands, and the terrifying rides across the night sky.
“Here,” Oscar’s father said, pushing his gift toward Oscar. “While she’s searching for candles, go ahead; open it.”
Oscar looked over at Auntie Oonagh.
“Go ahead,” she said.
And so Oscar tore off the paper to reveal a mitt. It was shiny and new, the tag still on it. “How did you…”
“Oh, quarters here and there that fall out of people’s pockets,” Oscar’s father said. “Happens all the time. Amazing what people leave behind.”
“It must have taken you forever,” Oscar said.
“Do you like it?” his father asked.
“I love it,” Oscar said.
“You never know when you might need it,” his father said.
“Ha! He’ll never use it. When was the last time any of us played a game here?” Auntie Fedelma said.
“I’d love to see a game one day,” Oscar said.
“And use this to catch a foul ball.”
“Oh, don’t watch!” Auntie Oonagh said. “It’s too painful. It will hurt too much.”
The aunties shook their heads.
“One day when you’ve been through as much suffering as we
have, you’ll understand,” Auntie Fedelma said.
“Well, I don’t have any candles,” Auntie Oonagh announced. “But I have a gift.” She pulled an oddly shaped gift wrapped in newsprint out of her apron pocket and put it on the table, where it clunked down heavily.
“No, no,” Oscar’s father said, already knowing what it was. “You can’t. It was your gift, Auntie Oonagh.”
“What is it?” Auntie Fedelma said with grave irritation. “What’s there? I can’t make it out!”
Oscar looked at Auntie Gormley, who was blinking joyfully, as if a wish of her own had come true.
“It’s for you,” Auntie Oonagh said to Oscar.
Oscar picked it up, peeled back the paper, and there was a key: a gray, wrought iron skeleton key on a faded golden ribbon. Oscar pinched the ribbon and watched the key spin in front of his eyes.
“What is it? Tell me!” Auntie Fedelma said, leaning into the key. “Is he holding something by its tail?”
“It’s the Key to the Past,” Oscar’s father announced.
“The Key to the Past?” Oscar asked, imagining again a grand door—gold and maybe arched with fat columns—that this key might unlock.
“That’s not right!” Auntie Fedelma shouted, pushing her chair away from the table and crossing her arms.
Oscar’s father stood up and paced in a small, nervous circle. “You can’t hand down your gift. What if the boy doesn’t succeed? It’s too much pressure.”
“Oh, but what if he succeeds!” Auntie Gormley signed.
“Too much pressure?” Auntie Oonagh said anxiously, lifting her funnel to her ear. “Is that what you said? Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no,” Oscar said. “It’s got to help. Where’s the door?”
They all turned and pointed to a very short, square door built into the kitchen wall. It looked more like a cabinet with a small black wrought iron keyhole.
“That’s the Door to the Past?” Oscar asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” Oscar’s father said. “It’ll take you anywhere, any time.”
“You have to make up a rhyme about where you want to go and when,” Auntie Oonagh said. “I never could think of a good rhyme! What rhymes with Borneo?”
Auntie Gormley signed, “You’ll need it.” And then she looked at him very seriously. Was she trying to tell him something more?
“You have to be careful with that key,” Oscar’s father said. “Use it wisely.”
“And always, always, always lock the door behind you,” Auntie Oonagh said.
Oscar slipped the key into his pocket. “I will,” he said.
Then there was a small moment of quiet. Everyone was trying to figure out what he or she had forgotten. Auntie Gormley had given Oscar the gift of reading signs. His father had given him the mitt, and Auntie Oonagh had given him the Key to the Past. Suddenly, in unison, they all turned their attention to Auntie Fedelma.
“Fedelma, do you have something for Oscar?” Auntie Oonagh asked.
Auntie Fedelma took a moment to ponder, and then she said, “Yes, I do.” She smirked. “I have a promise to give him.”
Oscar didn’t want to hear the promise; but she was leaning forward, as if she was going to whisper into his ear. He didn’t want her to get that close, so he reared back, forcing her to say it aloud.
“Dear boy, dear, dear boy,” she said, “life is going to reach out to you and offer you an adventure. Take its hand. Take the adventure.” She stared into Oscar’s eyes. Her own were cloudy and gray. “And if your grip on adventure gets loose, just let go. I promise you I will be there to catch you when you fall.”
“That’s not true,” Oscar said. “You want me to fail. You’re lying.”
“What?” Auntie Fedelma shrieked. “You little ingrate! You are the liar!”
Oscar turned to the others. “She wants me to go for a ride on the Pooka, to lose my grip and fall. That’s what she’s saying! But she won’t be there to catch me.”
“Oh, Oscar,” Auntie Oonagh said gently. “Auntie Fedelma is kindhearted. Truly. You don’t really know her yet.”
“She’s right, Oscar,” his father said.
“I know she wrote the Pooka a note,” Oscar said, heat rising in his cheeks.
Everyone turned and stared at her.
“Did you do that?” Oscar’s father asked.
“No! Of course not,” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous!”
Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrinkled, bitten, torn note, slapped it down on the kitchen table. Auntie Oonagh and Oscar’s father leaned in to read it. His father said, “‘Deposit him far, far away? Perhaps in a deep, dark wood?’”
Auntie Oonagh closed her eyes. She hummed a bit too, to make sure that she couldn’t hear a thing. This was too much for her to bear. Oscar’s father covered his eyes with his hand. Auntie Gormley was the only one who didn’t seem surprised. She only glared at Auntie Fedelma, shaking her head.
“I meant that the Pooka would save him by depositing him far away from any dangers in the safety of a deep, dark wood. So, so, so he could get away from all of this curse-breaking business once and for all. I only want to, to, to save him—and all of us—from his certain failure!” Auntie Fedelma stammered. “You must believe me! My promise to Oscar is that I won’t stop trying to protect him! I won’t stop! It is my mission.” She looked at Oscar with her milky, nearly blind eyes. “Trust me, Oscar. Mark my words,” she said. “I will never stop.”
She was trying to comfort him, but the coldness of her voice sent a chill down Oscar’s spine. He tried to look tough, locked in a cold stare with Auntie Fedelma.
Auntie Oonagh clapped her hands and said, “Well, now, I’m glad that’s all cleared up!”
“It isn’t really all cleared up. The Pooka wrote me a note back,” Oscar said. “He wants me to meet him at midnight under home plate.”
“Oh, dear, dear,” said Auntie Oonagh.
“Well, you have to go, I guess,” said Auntie Fedelma. “You can’t ignore a request from the Pooka.”
“Oscar isn’t going for a ride on the Pooka,” his father said. “We’ve already discussed it.”
“He has to,” Auntie Fedelma said, pounding her gnarled fist on the table. “We can’t anger the Pooka!”
“Oh, dear, dear,” Auntie Oonagh said again, grabbing hold of Auntie Gormley’s hand. Auntie Gormley was the only one in the room who seemed calm.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s decided. He isn’t going,” his father said with finality.
Auntie Fedelma gave a snort and turned toward the wall.
The room fell into an awkward silence. And then Auntie Gormley raised her hands in the air as if getting ready to conduct a marching band.
“Oh, yes, let’s sing!” Auntie Oonagh said.
And so they did—Auntie Oonagh and Oscar’s father were boisterous. Auntie Gormley mouthed it with joyful exaggeration. While Oscar was distracted by the song, looking down at the cake, Auntie Fedelma reached onto the table with her gnarled hand, inched over to the note, covered it with her hand, and then closed her fist and stuck the note in her pocket.
When the song was over, Oscar’s father said, “You should make a wish even without candles!”
Auntie Gormley nodded firmly.
“Go on, Oscar,” Auntie Oonagh said.
“Be careful,” said Auntie Fedelma with a fake smile. “Choose very wisely. You need all the wishes you can get.”
“I only have one wish,” Oscar said.
“Oh, we all know what that is!” Auntie Fedelma said. “Now, I’m just trying to protect you, Oscar. And my advice is this: Don’t waste a wish on this curse-breaking business!”
“I don’t think you do know my one wish,” Oscar said, because Auntie Fedelma had been wrong. He wasn’t going to wish to break the Curse. “I don’t need to make a wish for that to come true!” He smiled at his father, and his father smiled back, though a little nervously.
“Go ahead and wish, Os
car,” Auntie Oonagh said.
“For whatever you want,” his father said.
Oscar closed his eyes. He could feel the bulky key in his pocket. He patted it with one hand to make sure it was really there, and he made his wish: that for his birthday next year they would all be together just like now, but with his mother there, too. He kept his eyes closed. “Should I blow on the cake like if there were candles?”
“Sure,” his father said.
And so Oscar blew, but for a second he was scared to open his eyes. He was afraid that if he opened them, he might find that this was just some kind of dream. But he had to and so he did; and everyone was still there, and he was relieved to see them all—even Auntie Fedelma with her scowl.
Auntie Oonagh gave him the first slice. He put a forkful of cotton candy cake in his mouth, but he didn’t chew it. He just let it melt on his tongue.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Past
OSCAR LAY DOWN ON HIS pallet of bases in the crawl space under the bulb attached to the wall. He could hear machinery overhead: the official grounds crew. It was morning, and so for the Cursed Creatures and for Oscar, it was time for bed. He’d been awake all night. He could hear some faint snores drifting up from the aunties’ hammocks below; and his father had tinkered for a while, sorting through various satchels of grass seed, but now was sound asleep.
Oscar was exhausted but couldn’t drift off. He picked up the miniature Fenway Park model and stared into the minifield, the cramped dugout. Game 3 was coming. Later that very day, the Red Sox players would be filling the real Fenway Park—the Yankees, too. It was almost time. The thought of the game itself going on as he’d be nestled below was almost too much to comprehend. The Red Sox, he thought, they need me, even though they don’t know that I exist.
He had to get to the Pooka at the spot below home plate at midnight. But how? How in the world would he be able to slip away from his father at just that hour without his father noticing and stopping him?
His mind felt blurry and useless. Before getting into bed, he’d slipped the Key to the Past into his new mitt and shoved the mitt under his pillow. Now he slipped his hand into the mitt just to make sure the key was still there.
The Prince of Fenway Park Page 10