“I do,” Stinky Pete says, steering me toward the boardinghouse. “There’s no shame in crying.”
I like this guy, I really do, but I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t cry. Although it seems like people around him might.
I’m not sure which is better.
Where did you go? And why did you forsake your responsibilities for Cuddy and just assume I would pick up the slack? I demand an explanation.” Geri is one inch from my nose, and her eyes bore into mine.
She might be the one related to my father, because she is scary. Scary Geri.
Geri’s chin drops. “What did you call me?” Her lips barely move.
“Um. I said, ‘Hail Mary.’ Yep, that’s what I said.” I nod forcefully and look at her without blinking.
“Hail Mary? Like the prayer?”
“Exactly!” I’m glad we understand one another.
“We’re not even Catholic!” she splutters. I nod again. That’s true, but that doesn’t mean we can’t pray. “I swear, if I wasn’t worried about how much stress your mother is under, I would go to her immediately and tell her the shenanigans you’ve been up to.”
I keep my mouth shut. Sometimes, I’ve found, that’s the only way to win with Geri.
And by win, I mean not have her tell your mama things you’d rather she didn’t know.
Geri leans in so close our foreheads practically touch, and I breathe in her hot breath. “Don’t you dare neglect Cuddy again, Stan.” I nod. “Because it is very, very important to be a responsible member of society, not someone who leeches off everyone else. No one likes leeches.” She turns on her heel and marches off to her room. Probably to read some boring medical book and find a disease she can kill me with.
“She’s right, you know,” Stinky Pete says. I hadn’t seen him sitting there in the dark living room. He’s been staying at the boardinghouse since he took a job at the Martel Furnace Company. I will admit, I like having him here, and not just because of the bossy women who show up every time I blink, but also because if he wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have anyone to beat in cribbage. Mr. Glashaw usually forgets we’re playing halfway through our game, gets up to use the washroom, and then doesn’t return. Which is bad sportsmanship, if you ask me.
But I’m not too happy with Stinky Pete when he agrees with Geri. We’re supposed to be on the same side here.
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“But she’s right,” he repeats. “You have a responsibility to the Carlisle family, and caring for someone’s child is nothing to take lightly. You should always do what’s right. You might not get recognition for it, but you will be able to sleep at night.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m a whiz at sleeping, I don’t mind saying. In fact, I could take a nap right now.
Stinky Pete pats the sofa. “C’mon. Have a seat.”
I plop down next to him, not even stopping myself from leaning my head against his shoulder, his solid, plaid shoulder.
Stinky Pete wraps his arm around me and opens his book, settling into the sofa like he’s one of the cushions.
I don’t feel good about today, that’s a fact. I don’t feel right about abandoning Cuddy to Geri and her wily ways. But I couldn’t help it. I had to find out more about my father, because what if this is my last chance? What if he sails away and I never see him again?
Stinky Pete shifts and flips the page. I glance down at his lap. His bookmark is a tattered piece of paper, worn with use. I don’t care what it says, of course, but my eyes are pulled to the writing, scratched in black ink and faded:
I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s too much. Do I even know what’s right? And is this Confucius guy saying I’m a coward?
He has the perfect name, because Confucius is confusing.
My brain spins like an out-of-control top. I think about taking care of Mama. About my dad. About money. About how maybe my dad might be the answer to our problems with money. About someone named Confucius and how you get to be one of those people known by one name. I might want to be one of those people. Stanucius. Maybe someday Stinky Pete will use one of my quotes as a bookmark.
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I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. One of Granny’s crocheted afghans covers me and I smell bacon wafting in from the kitchen.
What time is it?
“It’s five minutes until we leave for school, you ninny hammer.” Geri sits on the stool near the door, tying her shoes. I rub my eyes, my poor, tired eyes.
Wait! Who on earth is she to call me a ninny hammer?
“Well, you’re a…you’re a…”
Geri stops tying her shoe and stares at me. “Go on. What am I?” she challenges.
“You’re a girl!” It’s all I can come up with on such short notice. Plus, I’m a slow waker-upper.
Geri raises an eyebrow just as Mama comes out of the kitchen with three slices of bacon between a couple pieces of toast. “Here you go, honey. Take this with you. You’re going to be late picking up Cuddy.” She hands me my coat and hustles me through the door so quickly I barely have time to tie my shoes.
“Your shoes are untied, Stan,” Geri says primly. Like she’s so perfect. Also, have you ever tried to tie your shoes while holding two pieces of dry toast and some bacon in your mouth?
“No, can’t say as I have,” Geri responds. “Nor will I probably ever have the opportunity, seeing as I’m always prepared and never running late.”
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We trudge on toward the Third Ward School. I chomp on my bacon and choke down my toast and always, always keep my eyes peeled for Mad Madge, of course. I’m always very alert.
It’s my natural spy ability.
Also, I don’t feel like answering her endless questions this morning.
“Boo!” I nearly jump out of my skin. Mad Madge comes up behind me—sneaky Mad Madge.
“You should not sneak up on people,” I huff. “It’s not polite!”
“I hardly snuck up on you,” she replies. “I’ve been calling your name for the last block.”
Hmmm. Maybe I should work on my hearing.
“I was just waiting to see how long it would take you to notice,” Geri says. She hands Madge a slice of bacon from her pocket and sticks her nose back in her book. “Morning,” she says. They share a smile.
“So do you have last night’s homework done?” Madge asks.
Is she talking to me?
“Yes, I’m talking to you.”
Homework? As in work to take home? What kind of evil plot is this?
“Yes, homework.” She emphasizes each syllable. Slowly. As if I don’t know what she’s talking about.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Well, I hope you do have it done; otherwise you’ll miss recess and have to stay after school,” Madge warns.
I hope I have it done, too! I can’t stay after school. I have to get Cuddy and then go spy on my dad. I have business to attend to.
“Hey, where is your no-good excuse for a cousin?” I suddenly notice Nincompoop is missing.
Madge shrugs. “He’s done with school for the year. And I don’t know if he’ll come back in the fall. His dad needs help on the fishing boat.”
Now, this is some interesting news! What if my dad needs help on his boat? Would I be able to quit school and spend my days on the high seas instead? Would I be the next Captain Slater, hero of the Great Lakes?
“Ha!” Geri scoffs. “You’d be lucky if the crew didn’t throw you off as bait.”
I glare at her.
“Wait. Your dad isn’t the same Slater who’s the captain of the Wanderer, is he?” Madge asks, stopping midstride. Probably because he is that famous. And amazing.
I nod. Perhaps a little proudly.
Madge’s jaw drops. “Wow.”
I nod. Even a little more proudly. “I know,” I say knowingly, even though I’m not exactly sure what I know.
“He’s famous,” she whispers.
“He is?” I
gasp.
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“Yes,” she continues. “Or should I say infamous?”
She can say whatever she wants because this is great news! Plus, what’s the difference between famous and infamous? They’re both obviously amazing.
“There’s a big difference between the two words, Stan,” Geri says, shooing us along. “Being famous is a good thing. Being infamous means almost the same thing, except rather than being known for doing good, you’re famous for all the bad stuff you do.”
“What is my dad known for?” I ask. I rub the spot between my eyebrows. Do I even want to know?
Madge glances at Geri, then looks at me. “He’s a criminal, Stan. A mean-as-a-snake, ruthless criminal.”
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A criminal? “What? What has he done?” I ask.
“He’s done a lot of things, Stan. But the reason he’s in town now, restocking his ship, is that he’s a timber pirate.”
“Pfft,” I snort. This can’t be right. She’s making it all up. These are the Great Lakes, not Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, where pirates sail the seas with their peg legs and parrots. My dad didn’t have a limp or an earring or any birds perched on his shoulder.
“No, he’s more like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Geri mumbles.
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“Awful Arthur was not given that name for nothing,” Madge adds. She clutches her books and picks up the pace. I huff to keep up.
“Who calls him Awful Arthur?” I ask. That’s not a very complimentary name, even I must admit.
“All the guys down at the docks. Just not to his face.”
Okay. Now I understand. Madge is definitely making this up to scare me. To make me think my dad is something other than a manly, trustworthy hero. Geri probably put her up to it.
“Oh, he’s successful. No one can catch him red-handed, and word on the docks is that he’s got ties to gangsters in Chicago,” Madge adds. Geri nods in agreement.
“How do you know this?” I stand in the middle of the street, exasperated. They are girls. They can’t have spent time on the docks; no self-respecting girl would be seen down there.
“First of all, as a future journalist, it’s my job to find things out. And second, all my brothers plus my dad work on the docks, and they gossip more than your grandmother’s quilting group down at the church.”
What? Granny is part of a quilting group? Why don’t I know any of these things?
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“Where do you think the new quilt on your bed came from?” Geri sighs. She holds her book like she’s about to hit me on the head with it.
I never really thought about it. Sure, that quilt showed up on my bed last week unannounced and very appreciated. But I don’t like to ask too many unnecessary questions—usually they lead to other unnecessary questions. And those usually lead to me getting in trouble.
Madge shakes her head. “There’s no such thing as an unnecessary question, Stan. Also, Geri, I owe you an apology; he is as thick as a tree trunk.”
“I accept,” Geri responds.
I try to pretend they don’t exist. Which isn’t easy since they’re standing right next to me and don’t ever stop talking. But Madge knows things about my father and I am curious.
“So what can you tell me about this timber pirate you obviously made up?” I ask. At this point I don’t even care—I’ll take any information about my father, even lies.
Madge exhales like Geri does when talking to me for more than three and a half minutes. “Facts are facts, Stan. Your dad is bad news. Timber pirates steal wood from wharves and storehouses and boats and then unload it in places like Chicago. I think you should stay away from him. Although,” she says, a bit of sneak edging her voice, “if you want to arrange an interview for me, I would be forever grateful.”
“No!” Geri says forcefully. “Both of you. Stay away from that man.”
Madge shakes her head as if coming out of a bad dream. “Oh, of course! You’re right, Geri. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She turns to me. “Listen to Geri, Stan. Stay away.”
Like I would take advice from my personal bully. Or my cousin, who is always trying to infect me with deadly diseases.
“Stan!” Why are people always calling my name? And why do they always do it when I’m busy with other things? Important things, like making a decision about what my name should be when I turn to a life of crime: Stan the Atrocious? Stan the Horrible? Stan the Hun, whatever a hun is? Fearless Stan? I need something that will strike terror in the hearts of namby-pamby, so-called men.
“How about Fearful Stan?” Madge mutters. I choose to ignore her, however. It’s not polite to punch a girl, plus, I’m pretty sure she can beat me up.
“Stan!” I look up the street and see Cuddy running our way, his stubby legs churning down the muddy road.
“I was afraid you were going to be late, so I told Mother and Grandmother I heard you coming,” Cuddy wheezes. I notice mud on his trousers. I’ll probably be blamed for that when I drop him off. “And can you come in after school to see my surprise?” He trots after Geri like a faithful puppy. A very talkative, faithful puppy.
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“Hi, Geri,” he sighs. She smiles and pats his head.
I nod, but my mind is on other things. My dad is a criminal. A gangster. Also, last night after dinner, Mama went for a ride with Mr. Crutchley in his new carriage. Stinky Pete clomped up to his room without saying a word for the rest of the evening, and I was left with Geri and Granny and a drip of water that kept plopping on my head as I washed dishes. Granny said it’s because we need a new roof.
I know we don’t have the money for a new roof. I know Mr. Crutchley definitely does have the money for a new roof. I know I don’t want Mr. Crutchley’s money and everything else that comes with it, so I have come up with some brilliant moneymaking ideas. The problem is, they might not be completely legal.
I’ve decided that school is for lily-livered milksops. And we all know I am not one of them.
Plus, my homework wasn’t done and I might soon be leaving for a life on the high seas. Or lakes. Or any body of water that will take me.
I told the girls I needed to see Cuddy to the door of his classroom, and then snuck out the back of the school. Now, for some reason, I find myself lingering on the street in front of the merchandise dock, watching my dad’s ship rise with the swells. I take a deep breath and step onto the dock. It seems like it’s rocking with the waves, or maybe it’s just my nerves.
I have nerves of steel. I probably inherited them from my dad.
Except all of a sudden I feel like I have to go to the privy. Here comes my dad. Straight for me, his gaze as sharp as Madge’s pencil and just about as pointy. His finger is aimed directly at me, and his mouth is set in an unbending line.
I have nowhere to hide. I am frozen to this spot. My dad’s finger is scarier than Granny’s head before she straightens her hair in the morning.
“Son!” Did he really call me that? Did he recognize me from my ruggedly handsome good looks? Or my witty sense of humor? Or my steely, manly nerves? I wave, but I still can’t move.
“You, boy!” he says as he gets closer. “I need you to do me a favor.” He smiles and his whole face changes, like when Mama pulls back the curtains and the bedroom loses its shadow and feels as welcoming as a warm slice of fresh bread.
My stomach growls. I would like a warm slice of fresh bread.
“Well, I might be able to do something about that.” My dad grins, clamping me on the shoulder. His arm feels heavy, like the oxen yoke I once tried on at the Heberts’ farm back in Manistique.
I couldn’t get it off and Geri wouldn’t help me, even though she supposedly wants to be a doctor. Then Old Farmer Hebert showed up and yelled at me, but he also loosened the bow so I could get my head out.
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Then I ran home. And Geri called me Stuckley in front of all my friends and I couldn’t leave the hou
se for one month and four days without someone reminding me of that unfortunate accident.
“You’re an honest-looking young man. How’s about you run a little errand for me, son?” my dad asks. I nod so forcefully blood rushes to my ears. He called me “son”! I would run to Steinberg’s wearing a corset for this guy! “Great! Although the corset is not necessary.” He smiles, grabs both my shoulders, and looks me right in the eye.
“I need you to go to Mulcrone’s and get a crate of dried beef. Can you handle that?” Of course I can. I don’t want my dad to think I can’t handle something as minor as a crate of dried beef.
“I thought so,” he says, ruffling my hair. I flinch a little, thinking about how he smacked poor Joey, but I also can’t help smiling. My dad grins back. “You’d make a dad proud,” he says, and my breath catches a little.
Does he know I’m his son? I wait to see if he wants to continue, but he just waves a hand. “Okay, go on now. And if they ask who sent you, tell them Captain Slater.” He smiles, his eyes flat and steely. “They’ll know who you’re talking about.”
I skedaddle toward town, half excited, half nervous, half feeling like I still need to use the privy, which I know equals three halves, but that’s how many feelings I’m having.
Of all people, Mrs. Law, Cuddy’s grandmother, is leaving the store as I enter. I duck my head, hoping she doesn’t see me, but no such luck.
“Mr. Slater,” she says crisply. I raise my eyes to hers. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I nod because technically, yes, I should be. But I don’t want to start a discussion with this woman about how school is stunting my ability to earn money for my mama and avoid a future as Mr. Crutchley’s stepson.
“Archibald Crutchley?” Mrs. Law asks, eyebrow raised. I nod. “Hmm,” she says. “He would be a good match for your mother. And for you.”
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My Near-Death Adventures Page 9
