“I attended school here, Stanley. It’s where I grew up. Do you ever pay attention to anything?”
This woman is insulting, exaggerates, and has no faith in her grandson. I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t remember what she just said. Granny flattens her lips, closes her eyes, and heads to the kitchen, sighing loudly.
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Once inside, I hear the low pitch of a man’s voice and I remember Uncle Carl is here. That’s a good thing. It’s always a good thing when another man is around, because all too often I am outnumbered. I wonder if Uncle Carl has brought me any surprises, maybe a new jackknife or the newest Frank Leslie magazine.
As I unbutton my overcoat, however, I spy something that would strike fear in the heart of even a brave lion tamer. A girl’s coat. One I would recognize anywhere.
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How could I have forgotten? Geri. Geri is in my house.
Last time I saw Geri, we were saying good-bye at the lumber camp. I assumed she would be helping out during the river drive before she and her parents returned to Chicago.
I also short-sheeted her bed and put salt pork grease in one of her stockings. And I might have glued together some pages of her medical book.
In my defense, at the time I thought she had been playing pranks on me for three months before that and I was just returning the favor.
Unfortunately, the prankster turned out to be Granny. And I didn’t have time to undo the pranks before we left to come here.
Plus, I thought it was funny.
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Now I’m not so sure.
I tiptoe into the parlor. Geri is definitely the type of person who will return a favor. Or a prank. And she’s devious and sneaky and makes very tasty bacon.
Do I smell bacon?
The parlor appears to be clear except for Old Mr. Glashaw, who doesn’t get along with his wife and thinks his son is a namby-pamby.
His son is a namby-pamby. He yells at us kids every day for running across his yard and scaring his dog, Foofy. I don’t blame Old Mr. Glashaw one bit for not wanting to live with his wife and son.
When I’m old and don’t have to listen to anyone, I’m going to live at a boardinghouse and have someone make my dinners and wash my clothes and change my sheets.
“How is that any different from your life now?” a scratchy voice asks. It’s coming from the room behind me through a crack in the door. I shuffle over and peek inside.
I don’t recognize the person lying in the bed, covered with three worn blankets. I do, however, seem to vaguely remember a hat like that.
Hey! That’s my hat! My very favorite lucky hat. It’s all coming back to me. Stinky Pete gave it to me; he said it made me look manly.
“If it meant so much to you, why did you forget it at camp?” The body rolls over like it’s lying on porcupine quills, slowly and gingerly.
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I squint. “Geri?”
She nods, her eyes closed like even the dim light hurts. Her hair curls around the hat every which way, and her skin looks like wax, hollowed and shadowed in all the wrong places.
She looks bad, but I’m still skeptical. This is a girl who has been known to diagnose me with all sorts of deadly diseases and get me in so much trouble that one time I had to run away from both Conrad McAllister and Lydia Mae at the same time. For entirely different reasons.
It was quite the ruckus.
Geri is always creating ruckuses, so it’s understandable why I’m a bit cautious. But when I hear her cough, her breath shallow and raspy, I know this is not a joke and scoot myself right out of the room.
I am not a very good nurse.
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Does Mama know Geri is in the back bedroom? And that Granny is here? And that Granny is sweet on Gene?
The front door slams. I see Uncle Carl leaving the house with some man who practically tippy-toes down the sidewalk toward State Street.
I know that tippy-toeing guy.
How do I know that guy?
He turns toward town, a spring in his step as he tilts his cap to a lady trotting by in a carriage, his jaw a-flapping at Uncle Carl like a worried bird’s wings.
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It’s Mr. Archibald Crutchley. My enemy. My nemesis. I thought I had left him back at that lumber camp, too.
Why, oh, why are all these people following me? And why, oh, why is it all the people I wanted to leave behind as I started my new life? A life of manliness, danger, and adventure?
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My shoulders slump. I wonder what that man is doing here. I know he and Granny are two peas in a pod and just about as mushy.
Plus, I trust them about as far as I can throw them. And while I’ve never tried throwing Mr. Crutchley, I did try picking Granny up once, only to show her how strong I was becoming. It didn’t end so well. She didn’t budge one inch and gave me a black eye with her rolling pin.
She claims it was an accident, but who hits someone just because his arms are around your legs and he’s trying to lift you off the floor ? And maybe that fellow just so happened to sneak behind you quietly and you were surprised and reacted without thinking.
Hmmm. Maybe that wasn’t such a bright idea.
I meander toward the kitchen but stop as soon as I hear the conversation going on.
It’s about money. It’s always about money.
Or me. And my lack of manners and poor judgment.
“Dear, all I’m suggesting is don’t rule him out,” Granny says.
“I’m not deciding one way or the other,” Mama replies over the clanging of pots. “I’m simply not convinced.”
“Convinced of what?” Granny scoffs. “You’re going to lose everything if your pride gets in the way of your heart. You don’t have that luxury. And was he not a complete gentleman and somewhat charming to boot?”
Who are they talking about? If it weren’t Granny’s voice, I’d think they were referring to me since I’m known to be quite the charmer. And quite the gentleman, I don’t mind saying.
“I will admit that Mr. Crutchley was surprisingly entertaining.”
What? What? “Entertaining” and “Mr. Crutchley” go together about as well as “Sweet” and “Granny.”
“Well, that’s a start, dear,” Granny says.
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“But I’m not planning on marrying him, Mother. How many times do we have to discuss this?” Mama adds.
“Until you get some sense, apparently. Archie is the perfect solution to your problem,” Granny replies. “If you don’t bring in some money and soon, this place is going to the bank. And then where will you and Stan be? There’s no room for you at your sister’s, and you know with Stanley’s poor judgment, if you move him to Chicago, he’ll just fall in with some gang and end up a derelict or beggar on the street.”
Hello! I can hear you!
Except I don’t want her to know I can hear her. Sometimes, when spying, you have to make tough choices. Also, I have a paying job now. I can take care of my mama, thank you very much. I pull the quarter from my pocket and eye its shininess.
“We’re not talking about an extra twenty-five cents here or there,” Granny continues. All of a sudden my quarter doesn’t seem so shiny. “Archie has real funds to invest in order to make this place a success. Why not at least consider him? For Stanley’s sake?”
Mama sighs. “Fine. Fine.” She sounds exasperated. “I won’t rule him out. If things get that desperate, I guess.”
What? No! Rule him out! That sorry excuse for a man can’t marry my mama!
I’m going to have to scrounge up more money. And fast.
How can I scrounge up some more money fast?
I slyly clear my throat to announce my presence. I don’t want them to think I was eavesdropping.
“Were you eavesdropping?” Granny accuses, peering around the door frame.
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One thing I cannot forgive is someone accusing m
e of something I certainly did not do.
Another thing I cannot forgive is someone accusing me of something I certainly did do.
“Of course not!” I scoff. “I didn’t hear a word about that awful Mr. Crutchley or money problems or how you are sweet on Eugene Malone.”
“What?” Granny huffs. “Why, I…”
“Hey! Did you two happen to notice that Geri is sick?” I ask. I’m really glad I can bring this to their attention since they’ve obviously been quite neglectful of her health.
Granny shifts her hips and stares at me. “Oh, really?”
I nod. “Really. She’s in the back room, coughing and hacking like the air is thick as honey.” Geez-oh-pete. Am I the only one with any sense around here?
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Also, where is the honey? I’m hungry.
“Stan,” Mama says. “Watch your language.”
“Yes, Mama,” I say, holding my breath. Is that all? Am I going to get pinched? Am I going to get punished for saying “Geez-oh-pete”? Criminy, I didn’t even know I said that out loud.
Granny glares at me, her arms crossed.
Did I say that out loud, too? I’d better change the subject while I have the chance. “So! Would you like me to do anything for Geri? Mr. Glashaw? Was that Mr. Crutchley I saw leaving the house?” I say casually. Just uttering his name makes me grind my teeth.
“Yes,” Granny answers. “And he’ll be back for dinner, so mind your manners.” She shakes a rolling pin in my face. I flinch. That rolling pin and I are not the best of friends.
“And let Geri rest. She’s come down with a touch of pleurisy. There’s no room for illness on a river drive and the poor Chicago air is no better, so we’re going to nurse her back to health here. Your job is to leave her alone, young man,” Granny warns.
I salute her. But I do it behind her back. If she saw me, I’m pretty sure that rolling pin and I would be reacquainted right quick.
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I tiptoe over to Geri’s door. There’s something strangely eerie and exciting about going where you’re not supposed to go.
Which is exactly why I always end up in those places.
Psst! Geri!” I whisper.
“Stan?” Her voice sounds like the word is scraping her throat.
“Good! You’re awake!” I shuffle into the room and close the door, cringing when it squeaks.
Geri’s eyes are closed. That’s really all I can see of her under the pile of blankets and my hat.
I’m sure my recent hard luck is completely due to not having my good-luck charm firmly on my head.
I want my hat back. My ears have been cold for the past month, and I refuse to wear Mama’s pink hat. She claims it’s red, but she would be wrong. One time wearing that hat and I’d never live it down. My nickname would probably end up being Little Red Riding Stan, and that’s the least manly nickname in the history of nicknames.
“I know you’re faking,” I say, pulling up a chair.
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Geri doesn’t respond. I’ve never known her to be so quiet. I poke her cheek; she grimaces and pulls away like her skin hurts.
“You don’t have to fake it with me, Geri,” I say again, only this time I’m not so hissy and I actually hope she replies with some sort of comment, or at least tells me I’m dying of a weird illness like Jumping Frenchmen of Maine syndrome.
“Boo,” she whispers halfheartedly. I look at her like she’s a few gunmen short of a posse.
“That’s all you’ve got?” I am starting to worry, to be honest.
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Her eyes are still closed, her breathing heavy. She wets her lips and says, “You don’t have Jumping Frenchmen of Maine syndrome, or you would have startled when I said, ‘Boo,’ ” she explains.
I laugh. No one would have startled with that boo. Even a newborn baby wouldn’t have been afraid. Which means one of two things: (a) I might be dying of Jumping Frenchmen of Maine syndrome, or (2) Geri is dying.
“I’m not dying, but I am quite sick. The doctor says it’s pleurisy, but I think it’s a bad case of catarrh.” She swallows like a rock is stuck in her mouth.
“Is it catchy?” I ask, pushing against the back of the chair. The last thing I need is a deadly case of catarrh.
I can’t even pronounce the word, for Pete’s sake.
“Stanley!” I jump. Probably because I have Jumping Frenchmen of Maine syndrome.
“Probably not,” Granny says, lifting me up by my ear. “But you will have Sore Bottom of Michigan syndrome if you don’t heed my words and leave Geri alone.” I notice the rolling pin in her other hand and a smirk on Geri’s face.
Granny shuts the door behind us. “Now go to your room until we call you down for dinner. And I mean it. Leave. Geri. Alone.” She points a finger right at my nose. “She needs the rest, and we don’t need you getting sick as well.”
I’m not so sure it isn’t too late. It would be just like Geri to try to kill me even while she’s stuck in bed.
I tromp up the stairs to the room I share with Mama. Some new magazines lie on my cot, probably a present from Uncle Carl. I flip through them and think about my unexciting day. I wish I were back at the lumber camp with my people. I hate to admit it, but I miss my friend Stinky Pete. He was probably my best friend.
I turn the page. I’ll bet Stinky Pete misses me, too. He’s probably wondering what I’ve been up to. He probably doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he doesn’t have anyone to play euchre or poker or checkers with. He’s probably twiddling his thumbs and losing his ability to carry on a conversation.
I try to lose myself in a story called “Snatched from Death.” I could have written that story; Lord knows I’ve had my share of near-death encounters.
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I’m just at the good part—Explosions! Dynamite! Fainting women and screaming children!—when a loose page falls on my lap, reminding me of my very major problem.
We are dead broke. And even though my twenty-five cents a week may help, it’s gone after a bag of flour and a pound of bacon. I know Mr. Crutchley could buy the entire Mulcrone Meat Market and still have money left over to buy two farms and a lifetime supply of pickles. And that just might be enough to convince Mama to marry him.
If she’s desperate.
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Mr. Crutchley pulls out Mama’s chair. His every movement is squeaky and twitchy like a rat’s whiskers. I glare at him like I’m shooting bullets at his chest. With my eyes. My bullet-shooting eyes.
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Not in a violent way. Just in a way that would make the fellow leave immediately to track down a doctor who would give him many, many painful stitches and he would lose his memory and forget my mama ever existed.
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Granny stands over me with a bowl of mashed potatoes. Her mouth is as flat as the metal ruler the principal uses to swat kids’ behinds.
Not that I know anything about that.
Mr. Crutchley’s head tilts and Mama sits midscooch on her chair. She looks at the ceiling the way she does when she’s either trying not to yell at me or praying she doesn’t kill me before I can prove the gray hairs on her head were all worth it.
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I know this because she reminds me again and again.
“You are giving me many, many gray hairs on this head, Stanley Slater. Tell me again why it’s worth it,” she says.
She actually doesn’t have any gray hairs.
I pull out my chair and sit down, fork in one hand, knife in the other.
“Good food, good meat, good Lord, let’s eat!” I say, ready to dig in. But no one else moves. All three of them are staring at me. Am I missing something?
“Stanley. Please apologize to Mr. Crutchley. Immediately.” Granny’s voice is as clipped as Mrs. Glashaw’s prized miniature poodle, Foofy.
“Sorry?” I say. But truthfully, I’m not sure what I’m sorry for.
“For hoping h
e’d lose his memory and need a doctor?” Granny sets down the bowl and wipes her hands on her apron.
Oh. That.
“Um, sorry,” I say. I’m not sorry, but those potatoes are drowning in melted butter and sprinkled with salt and I am sorry I have to share them with Mr. Crutchley.
“Stan!” Mama says.
“I said, ‘I am sorry my prayer didn’t include Mr. Crutchley,’ ” I say quickly. I hope some mention of religion will get me off the hook. These people are suckers for some religious talk, tell you what.
“Oh! Well! That’s nice of you, son.” Mama bows her head. Mr. Crutchley shuffles quickly to help Granny with her chair before sidling up to the table himself. They bow their heads.
“Stanley,” Granny says.
Do they expect me to say grace?
My mouth is full of potatoes. I quickly swallow and clear my throat. “Good food. Good meat. Good Lord. Let’s eat,” I pray. I say each part slowly and seriously. That’s how Reverend Elliot always prays—really, really slowly. So slowly I almost fall asleep in church.
Mama ahems. I look up to see her looking at me. Her eyes should be closed! I’m saying grace here! She widens her eyes and flicks her head in Mr. Crutchley’s direction. Why is she doing that?
Oh! I said I wished my prayer had included Mr. Crutchley!
“Um. Um,” I say. “Um. Dear God, also, if you could remember Mr. Crutchley and, um, maybe bestow upon him some more hair.” Mama accidentally kicks me under the table.
“And maybe help him grow all over. He’s kind of short for a real man,” I add.
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I nod my head, my eyes closed. I am getting into this prayer thing! I’m starting to see why Reverend Elliot likes to go on and on so much in church!
My Near-Death Adventures Page 3
