Credit 8.10
So my moral dilemma seems to be cheating people or dying of boredom. And I just can’t decide which option is worse.
I turn off my kerosene lamp, tuck myself into bed, and stare at the ceiling. Moonlight bounces off the dresser mirror. I wish my life were easier. I wish my life were like Cuddy’s, a guy whose biggest concern is whether or not his uncle actually saw a mermaid off the coast of Canada.
Credit 8.11
When I finally fall asleep, I dream about mermaids and turpentine and Archibald Crutchley and Canada, and when I wake up, it’s clear: Mermaids scare me, weird things happen in Canada, and turpentine surely isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be.
Also, Archibald Crutchley must be stopped.
Mama says, “Absolutely not,” when she spies me with the turpentine. Then she grabs it and hides it somewhere I will never look. Like Granny’s underwear drawer. So I’m left on my own to come up with something awful.
“I am not drinking that. It smells like cat vomit,” Geri says forcefully.
“But it will cure what ails you!” I insist. Does she want to get better or not?
“Not if I have to drink that!”
I dump my magic concoction out the front door, where it melts into the mud.
Credit 9.1
Granny says, “Are you insane, child?” when she spies me with the ammonia. “That stuff will make you blind!” Then she hides it somewhere I will never look. Like her underwear drawer. So I’m left on my own, again, to come up with something even more awful.
“I am not drinking that! It looks like the tub after Granny gets done with her bath, and it smells like Tucker Lester’s fish market!” Geri peers at it with a scowl. “What did you put in there? Soap? Who eats soap?”
Credit 9.2
Who eats soap, indeed. Why, perhaps curious, imaginative people eat soap.
It was only once, and I wouldn’t recommend it.
I dump my ingenious potion out the back door. One of the Billys sniffs it and starts hacking up a hair ball.
“Stan, you can’t be serious. Who would ever ingest something that looks like you’ve scraped it off the bottom of your shoe? Plus, it smells like Eugene Malone on a bad day.” Geri’s nose wrinkles in disgust.
“I’m trying to cure you, Geri! I’m spending all my precious time trying to come up with a cure for whatever it is that ails you!” I wave my cure in the air for emphasis. Geri jumps like I might spill some on her.
As if I would ever spill anything.
“I appreciate your concern,” she sighs, “but I’m almost positive I simply have influenza and there’s nothing we can do medically to cure it. A mustard plaster…”
Mustard! I should have used mustard! It tastes bad and smells bad and would be perfect in my next cure-all!
Credit 9.3
“Are you even listening to me?” Geri’s voice is soft but firm. It makes me think she’s feeling better, but then her chest heaves and her gasp of breath reminds me of a stick scraping up a washboard.
Granny bustles in and thumps Geri on the back so hard I think she might knock out some teeth.
If we’re lucky, she’ll knock some sense into her.
“Now is not the time for your silly jokes, Stanley. Go fetch some water,” Granny commands.
Fortunately, she has not noticed the jar of hair-bally pig’s-foot oil I’m holding. It really is disgusting. I drop the entire thing into the trash and pour Geri a glass of water.
I wonder if I should add something to it. Maybe some alcohol? I haven’t tried that yet. Or what about some kerosene? That’s got to taste awful.
“Stanley! What on earth is taking you so long?” Granny yells.
I hustle back with the water. My entrepreneurial spirit is squashed in this place and not at all appreciated in this family.
But when I see Geri bent over, Granny’s forehead grooved with worry, I have to admit I feel sad for her. And I wonder about me.
Do I really want to earn my fortune from the suffering of others?
And how do I make sure to avoid my own suffering?
My good friend Stinky Pete always says that life is a series of choices. And if I have a say in the matter, my choices aren’t going to include boarding school or a Mr. Archibald Crutchley.
Unfortunately, I don’t usually have a say in the matter.
Mondays are the worst. There’s school, of course. Even though the school year is nearing its end, Mama and Granny still make me go. As if I’m going to learn anything I don’t already know in these last few weeks. It’s a well-known fact the most important things in life can’t be learned in school. Such as:
Credit 10.1
These are the times in my life when I wish I had a dad around. And by “dad” I mean my dad. The one I’ve never met. Who obviously doesn’t know of my existence or he never would have left. But I could also mean a guy like Stinky Pete, my dangerous friend from the lumber camp. The one who said he would stop in and visit Mama and me when he got done with the river drive. The one who taught me it’s never too late to be what you might have been.
I’ve never been rich, and I sure hope it’s not too late for that.
Cuddy waves a picture in my face. “Can you see it, Stan? Can you see the optical illusion? Can you see both things? Can you?” Cuddy waves the picture so wildly I can’t see anything but blurs.
Credit 10.2
“Hold on! Let me look at it more closely.”
“Now see what it says, Stan? See! There’s a wife and a mother-in-law in the picture!” Cuddy points to the bottom of the page, but I’m not a fellow who reads the fine print. I’m a lone wolf, making my way through the world by himself. Quietly. Like a spy. Never even recognized.
“Hey, Stan!” Mr. France waves hello.
Sneaky. So unnoticeable, I’m practically a ghost.
“How ya doing, Stan?” Mr. Standish tips his cap my way.
A man winding his way through life and the wild, a stranger in a strange land. Exploring roads never before traveled.
“Stanley.” Martha Standish bats her eyelashes at me as she steps off the curb. I lend her a hand. “Nice seeing you at church on Sunday.”
I nod and return a smile. Now. Where was I?
“For someone so lonely, you sure know a lot of people, Stan,” Cuddy says.
“And he’s quite the ladies’ man, it appears,” a gruff voice says from behind me. I know that voice! I swing around to see the bearded, ruddy face of Stinky Pete, cold-blooded killer.
I can’t help myself. I fling my arms around him like he’s the last branch on a tall, tall tree and a grizzly bear waits for me at the bottom.
Stinky Pete hoots and wraps his solid arms around me.
If I were a girl, I probably would have cried when I saw that guy. But I’m not a girl, no matter what Nincompoop says. And even though Stinky Pete’s coat looks like something wet might have landed on it in the general area where my eyes were, I did not cry on his jacket.
It was probably wet before I even hugged him.
I wipe my eyes as Stinky Pete grabs me.
“Let me take a look at you! I think you’ve grown three feet in the past month! You’re becoming quite the man,” he says with a grin.
He always knows just what to say. And, in this case, it’s the truth.
“Oh, he’s not a man, sir. He’s only eleven. And he’s not even as tall as my mother,” Cuddy says.
“And who do we have here, Stan? A new friend?” Stinky Pete wraps his arm around me in a manly kind of way. I had forgotten about Cuddy for a moment.
“Cuthbert Carlisle the Third, sir,” Cuddy says, thrusting out a hand. “But you can call me Cuddy.”
“Well, nice to make your acquaintance, Cuddy,” Stinky Pete says, wrapping Cuddy’s pudgy hand in both of his.
“I’m Stan’s best friend,” Cuddy says.
My best friend, I realize, is a seven-year-old.
“And I will be marrying his cousin Geri in a few year
s, so then we’ll be related, too!” Cuddy jumps up and down with excitement. It’s the first I’ve heard of this plan.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” Stinky Pete says, his eyes all a-twinkle.
When he turns back toward me, I instantly remember how old my other best friend is….
I don’t actually know how old Stinky Pete is, but I do know he’s my other best friend.
“What are you doing here, Stinky Pete? Have you seen Mama? Just to warn you, Granny and Geri are at the house, too.” I feel it’s necessary to let him know.
“I figured. Geri was pretty sick at camp. She feeling better?” Stinky Pete asks.
“She’s beautiful,” Cuddy says, looking wistfully off in the distance.
Stinky Pete laughs. “Oh, I know that feeling, Cuddy, my boy.” He punches his arm gently.
I shrug. “I’m trying to cure her and make a lot of money in the process, but I’m not having any luck,” I say. Although she does seem to be feeling better, despite the fact that she hasn’t even taken a sip of my cures.
Credit 10.3
“Luck has very little to do with making money, Stan. There’s no substitute for hard work,” Stinky Pete says seriously.
“Yeah, well, what about Cuddy’s uncle who went to Alaska and tripped on some gold lying on the ground and next thing you know, he’s rich?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure there’s more to that story,” Stinky Pete says.
“No,” Cuddy says. “That’s exactly what happened. And then someone stole all of Uncle Cuthbert’s fortune and Father had to wire him a lot of money so he could buy a railroad ticket home.”
“Hmmm. I see,” Stinky Pete says.
“And then he made a lot of money selling soap,” Cuddy adds.
I look at him like he’s grown a third ear on top of his noggin. “Soap, Cuddy? Like the stuff we just picked up for your mother?”
Cuddy nods his head so hard, if he actually did have a third ear, it would have flown off and landed in the street.
“How does someone make money selling soap?” Also, I might need to know this.
Stinky Pete doesn’t look surprised. “Was he out in Colorado?”
“Yep! See, Stan! I told you!” Cuddy punches a finger my way. “Mr. Pete has heard of it!”
“Have you?” I ask.
He nods. “Sure have.” He looks over at Cuddy and adds, “Wouldn’t be my choice for how to earn an honest dollar, but I can tell you more about that at dinner.”
“And you’ll tell me how I can make my fortune selling soap?” I ask. How dishonest can it be? It’s soap!
Credit 10.4
“And then we’ll talk about the best ways to make money,” Stinky Pete agrees.
“I don’t have to make any money,” Cuddy says. “Father has lots of it. Although he says if Mother’s good-for-nothing brother doesn’t stop asking for money, we’ll end up in the poorhouse.”
But I’m not really listening. I’m looking at the ground, hoping to trip on gold. And coming up with a soap recipe that will make me rich.
I’ve already figured out one ingredient, and that would be soap.
Stinky Pete grins and says again how glad he is to see me.
“Are you leaving? You’re not leaving, are you?” I’m trying not to sound desperate, but truth be told, I’m desperate.
“I’m leaving for now. Got to get back to work. Money doesn’t grow on trees,” he says with a wink. “I’ll see you at dinner, though!”
Stinky Pete tips his cap to Cuddy and me and whistles his way down the street.
“Do you need money, Stan?” Cuddy asks. He looks as concerned as a seven-year-old can, and I decide, as the mature one in this relationship, not to worry him over my problems.
“Nah, Cuddy. I’m fine. We’re fine,” I reassure him.
But I must not have sounded very convincing, because as we head toward the mercantile to pick up some things for Mrs. Carlisle, he says, “Because there’s always organized crime, Stan. That’s one way to make some money. And fast.”
I quickly brake on my heels. What does Cuddy know about organized crime?
Also, I might not be a whiz at being organized.
“I know a lot about a lot of things, Stan. And I keep all that information in my—”
“But,” I interrupt, “what do you know about organized crime and making a fast dollar?”
“Well,” Cuddy replies, “I would not recommend a life of organized crime, but if you’re interested…” His eyes spark like a match when first lit.
Credit 10.5
Not that I would know, since I don’t play with matches. Except for the one time I lit my eyebrows on fire.
But I don’t want to talk about that.
“So, Stan, organized crime in this country started in New York. Do you know where New York is, Stan?” I nod. “The Forty Thieves made up one gang. My uncle helped form them. He’s really dangerous.” I steer Cuddy away from the group of businessmen smoking cigars and chatting on the corner. Cuddy’s voice is loud, and if I’m going to start a life of crime because I have no other choice, I don’t need people to know about it.
Credit 10.6
“Then some Italians formed the Mafia and started stealing things and then selling them. That’s one way of making fast money, Stan!” Cuddy looks excited.
I’m worried, however. First of all, why is Cuddy so excited about stealing things? And, two, I don’t feel very good about stealing. Even if we do need money, I’m almost positive that’s not the way to make it.
“Oh, I’m not saying it’s a good idea. In fact, I think it’s a bad idea. Unless you want to end up going to prison. And prison is not a very nice place, Stan.”
Credit 10.7
Cuddy kicks a stone down the road into the path of an oncoming buggy. I pull him back before he runs into the street after it.
I saved his life. I wish someone would pay me every time I had to do that. I’d be a millionaire.
Cuddy keeps talking as we weave through town, stopping to get a shaving stick and toilet soap, some other things I’ve already forgotten. I hurry him out of Steinberg’s when the phone rings. I cannot be seen with a corset on my arm again and continue to call myself a man.
“You’re not a man,” Cuddy kindly reminds me. I don’t even have time to stick up for myself before he starts carrying on again. About organized crime and Boss Tweed.
And his uncle who sold gold bricks that weren’t really gold but that people bought anyway.
Credit 10.8
How can someone sell gold bricks if they aren’t actually gold?
And how can they do it without getting caught?
“Oh, they all get caught, Stan.” Cuddy’s sticky again from the gumdrops Mr. Steinberg gave him. I should be paying closer attention. I haul him down by the dock as he chatters on and on, wet my shirtsleeve, toss his gumdrops into the sand, and wipe his face.
Don’t think I don’t realize for a minute that this is exactly something Granny would do to me.
“Hey! I wasn’t done with those!” Cuddy complains. I rub his face to get all the sticky off.
“Yeah, well, we’ll get you more tomorrow. We’ve got to get you somewhat cleaned up before I take you home, or your grandmother will never let me near you again.”
Cuddy’s eyes brim with tears, but he doesn’t argue. “We can’t have that happen, Stan! You’re my best friend!”
I dry his face as best I can with my other sleeve, pick up the packages I’ve set on the dock, and point Cuddy toward the hill leading to his house.
“We’ll be okay,” I assure him. “We’ll be fine.” This time I think I’m trying to reassure myself.
“Can you come in today and see what my uncle got me? Huh, Stan? Can you?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, Cud. I’ve got to get home for dinner. Maybe tomorrow?” I add. Stinky Pete will be at dinner and will hopefully have some get-rich-quick ideas for me. He did say he’d tell me the secret for making mone
y.
“It’s like yours!” Cuddy says. I have no idea what he’s talking about because I’ve got other things on my mind. Major things. Things manly men think about, like organized crime and gold and soap, a miracle cure for whatever ails you, and bacon, because I can’t ever stop thinking about bacon. Even while I’m eating it.
Nothing worth having comes easy, Stan.” Stinky Pete acts like he’s talking to me, but he’s gazing at Mama, a lopsided grin on his face.
Credit 11.1
Mama holds out a bowl of baked beans, a dreamy smile on her lips. Baked beans do that to some people. Granny glares at both of them, her arms crossed.
“I saw Archibald today. In a new carriage. He seems to be doing very well financially,” Granny says, her voice as clipped as Cuddy’s hair after a trip to the barber.
But no one is listening to her.
“I hear you have a job, Stan,” Stinky Pete says. “Your mother says you’ve been working hard, taking care of Cuddy and contributing to the family piggy bank. That’s got to feel good, right?” He looks at me while sopping up some baked beans with the bread heel.
You know, it does feel good. I sit up a little straighter. And I’m pretty good at that job, I realize. That also feels good.
Geri coughs from the other room. She finally got out of bed for a little while today. At least long enough to tell me I had dark circles under my eyes and looked like I might be coming down with something. That’s how I knew she was feeling better.
But I’ve been worried I’m dying ever since.
Then she ate some soup and went right back to bed.
I peeked in to look at her. I told her she looked so bad she’d better not go outside or the dogcatcher might pick her up.
My Near-Death Adventures Page 6
