But he’s right. She does look pretty. Even wearing an apron speckled with grease and a smudge of flour under her right eye, her cheeks are flushed and her skin is like the alabaster doll Geri uses for her science experiments.
The spark in her eye makes me want to take a step back, however.
“Alice, Alice, Alice,” my dad says, approaching her with his arms wide. She sticks a hand in his face.
“Stay away from my son.” She makes each word sound like a threat.
My dad startles, his eyes darting between Mama and me, then landing on me with a thud. His mouth drops and his head bobbles slightly, until he nods slowly, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I stop breathing. Mama’s arm falls to her side like she’s a knight throwing down a gauntlet.
Credit 20.4
But my dad, my strong hero of a dad, broadens his shoulders quickly and switches his gaze toward Mama. “You mean to tell me, Alice,” he says, “that this boy here—this young man, I should say—is my son?” His tone makes it sound like a question, but he knows the answer. I know he knows the answer. And I think he might like the answer.
Mama swallows. Slowly, like her throat hurts. And nods. Slowly.
“You don’t say!” he says, looking at me with a half smile. He cocks his head and one eyebrow. “He sure does favor your brothers, don’t he?”
“You left, Arthur. Remember? You left,” Mama says quietly. But it’s her quiet voice that sounds like her yelling voice, only much scarier.
I reach over and squeeze her hand. Twice. Because I don’t want her to ruin this for me.
“Yup. I did. I did leave,” my dad says agreeably. “But I didn’t know what a fine fellow I’d be leaving, now, did I?”
My insides feel happy and scared, like I’m inhaling bubbles and they’re jumping around in my belly. I can’t help grinning into my dad’s smiling face, the face that makes me think I’m looking in a mirror, we look so much alike. Except for the fact that his eyes are blue and mine are brown. And he’s got lots of bristly whiskers and I only have whiskers if I draw them on with a fountain pen. Also, his jaw is square and his nose is pointy. But other than that, we could be twins.
“And you can’t keep a man from his son, can you, Alice?” My dad directs the question toward Mama, but he’s looking right at me.
I know Mama is not pleased. Her arms hang at her sides, the steam from her anger floating off her like sighs. When I look at her, I feel a little like a kite with no wind.
“Arthur, he has to go to school. He has missed three days this week, and I know it’s because he’s been down here with you,” she says.
“Oh, yes. Oh, school is important,” my dad reassures her.
She takes a deep breath and grabs my hand. My dad squeezes my shoulder one more time and winks.
We both know school isn’t important, but we also know not to worry the little lady about it.
“Come see me tomorrow, son,” he says. Did he just emphasize the word son?
“After school,” my mother reminds both of us. We nod in agreement. “You have your job with the Carlisle family,” she says sternly. “Mrs. Carlisle still can’t get around that well, and I don’t want to remind her why that is the case.”
She hauls me down the dock, mumbling about how keeping a boy from his father is not a good idea. As if she’s trying to convince herself.
She doesn’t have to convince me. I turn around for one last look. My dad salutes me, then rubs his hands together like they’re cold.
It all leaves me feeling like I’m a rope in a tug-of-war contest. The last time I participated in such a battle, Conrad McAllister pulled the rope so hard and so fast I ended up dragged through the mud and had dirt in my teeth for two days.
I sure hope this doesn’t end up the same way.
Today Miss Wenzel was her usual ornery self. She rarely let me out of her sight from the minute I dropped Cuddy at his classroom until now, when she takes Cuddy’s hand and puts it directly into mine.
“Now, Stanley,” she says, “mind Cuddy and get him home in a timely fashion. And should you need to run errands, please be sure to do them like a responsible young man and valuable member of this society.” She pinches both of my cheeks and tilts my head up. “And your mother says to stay away from the docks.” Then she pushes both of us toward the door.
“Thanks, Missus Wenzel! Thank you!” Cuddy hollers, skipping outside. Here we find Geri, leaning against the building and eating some bacon that’s probably been in her pocket all day.
I’m hungry. I would like some bacon.
Geri hands a slice to Cuddy, who grabs it greedily. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have eaten all of yours at lunch,” she says.
“ ’Ere, Sthtan! Dew can had sthom of mine,” Cuddy says. He obviously has stuffed the entire piece into his mouth. Someone needs to teach that boy some manners.
“Where are you all going?” Madge asks, sliding in next to Geri.
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“What’s with all the questions?” I hiss. And why is everyone always following me?
“All good journalists ask questions, Stan,” Geri says huffily. “Also, we’re not supposed to let you go down to the docks.”
I stop abruptly and stamp my foot with a snort. “I am not some baby who needs to be followed or watched all the time. Leave me alone!”
Cuddy stops chewing long enough to stare at me. Geri sighs. Madge pulls out a pencil and a pad of paper and starts taking notes.
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Fine. I get it. I’m acting like a baby who needs to be followed or watched all the time.
I do have a list of errands to run for Mrs. Carlisle, but it’s the usual: soap, a razor for Mr. Carlisle, the mail.
Geri and Madge and Cuddy never leave my side. And the folks at the stores seem a bit less talkative than usual. Oh, sure, they still chat with Cuddy because most people have no choice, but I no longer hear a friendly “Hello, Stan!” or “What can I do for you, son?” No, now all the storekeepers and staff see me, barely nod, hand me my merchandise or mail, don’t make eye contact, and turn the other way.
It all started on the first day I ran that errand for my dad. Do they know who my dad is? Is that why they’re acting this way? Is that why they’re treating me so special?
“Pfft,” Madge snorts. Or maybe it’s Geri. Or both of them. It’s not Cuddy because he’s over at a puddle stirring a leaf into the mud with a stick.
“You would make a lousy journalist, I’ll tell you what,” Madge says. “They’re all treating you so special because they’re afraid of what your dad might do to them if they don’t.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“As I keep telling you, I’m a journalist. My eyes and ears are always open. I have my finger on the pulse of this town,” Madge says.
“Also, Granny found out your father has been warning all the shopkeepers to be extra respectful to his son, Stan, or they’d have to answer to him,” Geri adds.
“He did?” I ask. I’m amazed. He did that for me?
“That’s not a good thing,” Geri says. “All these people look out for you on a day-to-day basis. They know your family, ask about your health, keep an eye on Cuddy when you’re distracted by, oh, anything. They are the people who have been here for you when your dad has not. And now they’re scared of you, Stan.”
That’s certainly not a good thing, and I’m kind of sorry about that, but to have my very own father looking out for me is a feeling I’m not used to. He might seem gruff. He might be rough and tumble and drive a hard bargain. But he can’t be all bad, right? Mama married him, and she wouldn’t have married some good-for-nothing bum. And he must really be glad he’s my father if he took the trouble to talk to all the shopkeepers about me.
“Well, that’s one way to look at it,” Geri says in a voice that means she’s looking at it in a completely different way.
I gather up Cuddy and his stick and aim them both toward our next stop but can’t help glancing down
the dock. Sure enough, leaning against the depot is my dad, smoking a cigarette. He salutes as we pass.
“Stop by when you’re done with errands, son!” he yells.
I wave back, my heart beating so fast I can hear it in my ears.
“Brrr,” Madge says, shaking her body from head to toe. “That man makes my flesh crawl.”
“What? What can you possibly mean?” I ask.
Madge and Geri exchange a glance. Geri shakes her head almost unnoticeably. Except I notice.
I’m a whiz at noticing things, I don’t mind saying.
“Stan! Watch out for that puddle,” Cuddy says, skirting it himself.
Except for puddles. I’m up to my ankles in cold water. Apparently I don’t always notice puddles.
“At least it’s just a puddle, right, Stan? And not a lake, right?”
I stomp my feet and listen to Cuddy recite all the bodies of freshwater in the world, starting with the Great Lakes.
“There’s Lake Michigan, Stan, and Lake Huron, and…” But as we get farther from the docks, all I can think of is how to return there. How can I get rid of these people? How can I just check in with my dad so that he won’t forget me? So he’ll want to spend more time with me? So he’ll want to stay here in St. Ignace? Or so if he does leave, he’ll come back?
“Um, Madge and Geri, I’ve got it from here. I know you two have some, um, girl stuff you probably want to get to.” These are two of the least girlie girls I’ve ever met, but doesn’t every girl have girl stuff to do?
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“How long have you known me?” Geri asks.
I want to say “Too long,” but I know better. Cuddy wiggles his eyebrows at me. He knows me. And he knows better, too.
Fortunately, Geri doesn’t wait for me to trip on my words. “We are hardly frivolous girls with nothing to do. But it just so happens Madge and I have a project we’ve been working on”—they share a glance—“and since we can see Cuddy’s house from here, I think it might be okay to leave you by yourself for the few minutes it should take to drop him off and come right home.”
Madge nods, and the two of them head to the boardinghouse.
“But don’t you dare go down to the docks,” Geri warns. “Because I will tell your mama, don’t think I won’t.”
And then there’s just Cuddy and me.
“And there’s Lake Baikal, Stan. Ever hear of that lake, huh? I bet you haven’t. Because it’s in Russia, Stan. That’s way far away. Farther than Mackinac Island.”
I have heard of Russia, of course. And I can see Mackinac Island from where I’m standing right now, at the bottom of Cuddy’s steps, so I’m pretty sure I know Russia is farther away than Mackinac Island, but who am I to tell Cuddy this? Plus, who am I to interrupt the guy? That’s about as impossible as pushing a wet noodle up a hill.
“Well, I know about it, Stan, because my uncle Cuthbert—you know, the guy I was named for?—he was working on the Trans-Siberian Railway and wrote me a letter telling me about this huge freshwater lake. And Father says it’s all true. He acted surprised, but he said what Uncle Cuthbert wrote was all true.”
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He keeps talking as I push open the door to his house, nodding along but thinking my own thoughts. I’m still worried about money. About my dad. About Mad Madge and Geri and why they looked so suspicious. About my dad again. For some reason, the guy I know the least is the one I think about the most.
“Very well.” Mrs. Law stops me before I can step foot in the foyer. “Your work is done for the day.” She glances at my muddy shoes, her lips pinched like she just bit into a lemon. She hands me a twenty-five-cent piece and shuts the door.
Cuddy is probably still listing bodies of water, not yet aware I’m stuck outside. I hear him knock on the window, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes buggy and his tongue halfway out his mouth. I laugh and wave until Mrs. Law pulls him by the collar, away from my view.
Poor bugger. I know exactly what it’s like to have a granny with no sense of humor.
I saunter toward town. Leisurely. Casually. Like I haven’t got a care in the world.
I have lots of cares in this world. Mama. The boardinghouse. Mr. Crutchley. Money. Geri. Cuddy. Mad Madge and her one-man gang, although she no longer seems so mad, and I can’t remember the last time I ran into Nincompoop.
And, most of all, my dad, who is still at the depot, smoking a cigarette. I know I’m not allowed on the docks, at least if you ask Mama, but the depot is not the dock, really. It’s where the trains come in, not the boats, and we all know trains and boats are two entirely different things. Just like docks and depots. So if I happen to meander near the depot and my dad happens to see me and want to talk, it would be rude not to.
“Hey, son!” my dad yells. He sounds like fog and thunder and waves crashing against the wharf. “Come on over here!” he orders. And who am I to say no? I’ve been taught to respect my elders, and I’m pretty sure that must include my dad.
“How was your day at school?” he says with a wink. He elbows the guy next to him, one of the men I recognize from the Wanderer. “Not that any man needs school, eh, Jeb?” He elbows his friend again. “None of that ed-u-ma-cation for us real men, eh?” He winks at me again, laying his meaty hand on my shoulder.
For some reason I remember Stinky Pete saying something like “He who opens a school door closes a prison.”
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“Yep. I did. It’s a Victor Hugo quote, can’t take credit for it myself,” says someone behind me. Obviously it’s Stinky Pete. I can tell by his twinkly voice. Except right now it doesn’t sound so twinkly, and when I look up at his ruddy face, he doesn’t look twinkly, either.
He looks like Granny did last time I stole a plate of food to take to the kittens. And Eugene.
He looks mad.
He’s also not looking at me.
“I don’t think I’ve met you fellows,” Stinky Pete says.
My dad thrusts out an arm to shake hands; Jeb leans against the depot building, one leg bent like the number four. He spits something brown and thick into the dirt at Stinky Pete’s feet.
Stinky Pete glances at the spit and then at Jeb. “And I don’t think I need to meet you,” he says, placing a hand on my back. His hand is warm through my coat as he aims me toward Main Street.
I keep an eye on my dad as we turn.
“Hey!” my dad says. He sounds like a freshly sharpened razor when he yells. “That’s my son.” My eyes water and my throat thickens when I hear him call me “son.” “You don’t have the right to take him away from me! You hear me? I’ve got some work for him. Make him a man, not some namby-pamby professor.”
Jeb snorts.
Stinky Pete’s grip tenses and his jaw tightens, but I can’t help glancing at my dad and Jeb. Jeb smiles a crooked smile, and my dad stands straight and squared, like a high-strung racehorse shut in a starting box. He looks so threatening I feel like I should warn Stinky Pete, but I don’t really know what I’m warning him about. Or if I’m selling out my dad if I do.
Stinky Pete guides us toward the boardinghouse. “You don’t have to warn me about Arthur Slater, Stan,” he says. “I know exactly what kind of man he is.”
I nod. I might know exactly what kind of man he is, too. And even though I’m not so sure I like him, I really want him to like me.
Lying in my bed, in the dark, I imagine the entire thing. My future. Unless I die of dysentery first.
Geri told me I have it. Granny said I just have a stomachache and gave me some cod liver oil, which did nothing but make me burp fish.
I still have a stomachache, so I’m pretty sure Geri is right.
When Stinky Pete and I got home, all I could think about was that my dad had work for me. Work. Work means money, and money means saving Mama and me from the unsavory Mr. Archibald Crutchley.
“I think your mama might need to be saved from you,” Geri said. She was eavesdroppi
ng again. “It’s not eavesdropping when we’re sitting right next to each other on the sofa and you’re talking out loud.” Geri snorted.
But I’m pretty sure it was a private conversation.
And why would my mama need to be saved from me?
“Well, because all of your recent shenanigans are making her sick with worry, can’t you see that? Everything your mother does is so you will have a better life. But instead of making it easier for her, you do things like forget Cuddy after school or run down to the docks to see your no-good father, not to mention the irresponsible behavior that started all this in the first place,” Geri said as she jotted notes from her medical textbook.
The one she stole from Dr. McKinnon.
Geri threw down her fountain pen. “I didn’t steal it, Stan! I don’t steal things! It’s not in my nature to take things that aren’t mine,” she said pointedly. She really did point at me. Her finger almost poked out my eye.
“What do you mean?” I was insulted. Was she implying I steal things?
“I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying I’m starting to think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Her eyes glared, and her cheeks flushed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I didn’t even understand that statement. Where else would apples fall? It’s not like they have legs or anything. Or wings.
“It’s a saying, Stan. It means maybe you’re not so different from your dad.” But she said it like it’s a bad thing.
Is it a bad thing to be like your dad?
“It is when your dad is a liar and a thief! And scares people into giving him things,” Geri said. Then she scooped up her book and fountain pen and paper and stormed off to her room.
“At least my parents want me!” I yelled. “They didn’t ship me off somewhere with Granny and then forget to make arrangements for me to come home!”
Geri’s door flew open so fast I’m pretty sure the hinges almost caught fire. “For your information,” she said, “my parents have sent a train ticket for my return. But they care about my health, and we all know the poor air quality in Chicago is not good for my lungs.” Then she slammed the door.
My Near-Death Adventures Page 11
