My Near-Death Adventures

by Alison DeCamp

  “But that’s not the case now, right? Right?” I’m worried. There’s no one in the world who would like to stab me with a knife, cut me with a lance, or stick leeches on me more than Geri.

  She pauses. It’s a really long pause. Evil thoughts apparently take a long time to wind their way through her brain. “No,” she finally says.

  “So what will we do? I can’t keep dropping things! I won’t have anything left to drop. It will all be broken!”

  “You don’t have dropsy,” Granny says, thrusting a plate of food in my face. Stinky Pete walks by with his own plate, heading straight for his room without a glance.

  I wonder if he’ll be down for our nightly game of gin rummy. Or to read the next chapter of Treasure Island.

  “I’ll be down,” he says. Then he slowly clunks up the stairs.

  Granny peers at me, her arms crossed. “Don’t start with your hypochondria again, young man. You’re as healthy as a horse, and we have too many actual worries to get wrapped up in imaginary ones,” she says, wiping baked beans off my face with her apron. “And don’t get food on the sofa,” she adds as she heads to the kitchen.

  “Did you hear that, Geri? Huh? You should stop making Granny and Mama worry.” I point at her with my fork. It bobbles in my hand and I barely catch it before it falls to the floor.

  I’m still not sure I don’t have dropsy.

  Geri laughs. “I’m not the one causing all the worry, Stan,” she says, getting up from the sofa.

  “What do you mean?” I ask through a mouthful of bread. She’s the one who worried everyone by getting sick. She’s the one worrying everyone now by telling me I’m sick and am going to die.

  “Ha!” Geri snorts. “You’re the only one worried you’re going to die. Granny and your mother aren’t worried about me. They’re worried about you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask through a mouthful of potato.

  “I’m not the one gallivanting around with my ne’er-do-well so-called father, am I?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask though a mouthful of beans.

  “Or the one neglecting his responsibilities for Cuddy,” she adds, scooping up her books.

  “What do you mean?” I ask through a mouthful of pork.

  “Or the one who has all the adults pulling their hair out with worry that you’ll run off or forget to take care of Cuddy or not go to school. You are practically Mr. McLachlan’s second job. And your mother is beside herself that you’re going to turn into a juvenile delinquent,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask through a mouthful of milk. Some of which may have landed on the rug.

  But Geri is already shutting the door to her room. She opens it a crack and peers out like she’s forgotten something important.

  “You’re the reason your mama’s out with Mr. Crutchley tonight, you know.”

  I choke a little on all the food in my mouth. How? What have I done to cause Mama to take up with Mr. Crutchley? I’ve done everything to avoid that situation.

  “Your mother is so worried about your recent behavior, she’s pretty sure the best recourse is to send you to boarding school. And the only way that’s going to happen is if she marries Mr. Crutchley,” Geri says. “Also, you have terrible manners,” she adds, then slams the door.

  I can’t believe she said that. I wipe up the baked beans that have landed on my sock.

  My manners are impeccable.

  I am too young to be burdened with insomnia, the no-good trickster that steals sleep and replaces it with a brain that won’t shut off.

  I wonder if Geri has a cure for that. And if it’s even worth asking.

  Oh, who am I kidding. Geri’s cure would be worse than the illness. She’d probably knock me out with a hammer and then send me a bill.

  Blood thumps in my ears, and thoughts swirl in my brain. Thoughts about my dad and my future and maybe a recipe for snake oil that includes a dead rat and tobacco juice.

  I need to write that one down before I forget.

  Credit 27.1

  Then I think about my dad again. It’s plain as the big nose on Granny’s face that my dad is an important man; people take him seriously, and by “seriously” I mean they might be afraid of him. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, right? That’s just a sign of respect. Like when people are afraid of the police. Or their teachers. Or grandmothers. He’s a man who means business.

  It’s also clear my dad likes having me around. Otherwise why would he ask me to run his errands? Why would he ask me to stop by?

  And why shouldn’t I spend time with my dad?

  But that might no longer be possible now that I’m going to be sent to a boarding school, and if that’s the case, I might never see my dad again.

  I just found the guy. I can’t lose him already.

  I close my eyes and try to get my head to stop speeding along like a runaway horse. Mama rustles in the bed next to me. I don’t think she’s sleeping, either. Why isn’t Mama sleeping? Is her brain spinning, too? Geri seems sure Mama would be better off without me, but I know Mama and can’t imagine that’s true.

  To be perfectly honest, however, if I hadn’t run into Mrs. Carlisle, Mrs. Carlisle wouldn’t have broken her leg. And if Mrs. Carlisle hadn’t broken her leg, she wouldn’t have gotten mad at me. And if Mrs. Carlisle hadn’t gotten mad at me, she wouldn’t have threatened Mama with her doctor bills. And then Mama wouldn’t be doing the Carlisles’ laundry every week. For free. On top of everything else she does.

  Also, if I weren’t here, there would be fewer mouths to feed. Especially if, as Granny says, I’m equal to five mouths.

  Although I’m not sure if she means I talk as much as five people or eat that much.

  Probably both, knowing her.

  Mama didn’t get home until it was almost dark. She slid in the door, snuck a sidelong glance at Stinky Pete, who didn’t look up from our game, then hunched her shoulders and walked up to our room. Stinky Pete stared at her back as she climbed the stairs, his mouth twisted and his eyes worried.

  I have no idea what is going on; they’re both acting like they’ve got something to say but they’ve forgotten how to speak.

  I have never had that problem. I’m going to have to check with Geri and see if some kind of ailment is going around.

  Also, is it really my fault Mama was out with Mr. Crutchley? She can’t be so desperate she would give up all her happiness because of me.

  But maybe Geri’s right and Mama would be happier if I weren’t here.

  And if that’s the case, why am I staying when I could be with my dad, someone who actually does seem to want me around?

  I grab my scrapbook and Treasure Island from the bedside table, throw on my trousers, and sneak toward the door.

  “Stan?” Mama says, her voice thick with sleep.

  “I’ll be right back, Mama,” I say. She rolls over, the bedsprings letting out a creaky moan as she settles back under the covers.

  I tiptoe down the stairs, nab my coat, and jam everything else into my bag.

  I stand on the stoop, looking at the merchandise dock. My insides churn the same way they do when I fling myself into the lake for the first time each year. I’m about to make something happen. I could be a well-known Great Lakes captain or a fearsome outlaw or a heartless fighter. Or a cowboy or an explorer or a rich gold miner.

  It doesn’t matter as long as I’m not Archibald Crutchley’s stepson. Or some chicken-livered whippersnapper.

  I take a step and a deep breath and turn onto State Street. I steal a glance at the boardinghouse. The kerosene lamp in Stinky Pete’s room flickers, and did I see the curtain move?

  Oh, what does it matter? I’ve just taken the first step toward my future. And I am leaving the rest—Geri and her deadly diseases, Cuddy and his never-ending questions, Mad Madge and her never-ending questions, Granny and her bossy ways, Archibald Crutchley and his tippy-toe self, Stinky Pete and…and…his quotes? His twinkly eyes? His pats on my back? Mam
a and her warm hugs? The extra bacon she always sneaks on my plate when Granny isn’t looking? The way she laughs when I tell her a joke?

  I sniff and wipe my eyes. This is not the time to get sentimental. No, real men don’t worry about the past. Not when the future promises to be so exciting.

  I think about the last time I saw my dad, how happy he was to see me and how long it’s taken me to find him.

  I can’t stop now because I might not get another chance.

  I trudge down the street, kicking a rock, my bag heavy, my feet sluggish. My eyes must be tired because they seem to be a bit watery. And maybe my heart feels heavy, like there’s a stone in my chest.

  But I perk up as I near the merchandise dock, because how can I not? There’s my dad! Meandering out of the State Street Saloon, even though it’s really late. Really, really late. And maybe he’s not meandering so much as staggering.

  He sees me, I think. His head bobbles back and forth in my direction like a chicken or binoculars trying to focus.

  “Sthtan!” he slurs. His left eye looks swollen and there’s a red gash on his cheek—a reminder of the fight I was trying to forget.

  Credit 28.1

  “Ha!” he laughs. “You shud see the udder guy! Hic!” He lays a heavy hand on my arm, steadying himself. I stumble.

  “Haf you bin drinkin’, son?” he asks. “C’mon. Leth head to the boat. Gotta get my forty winks ’fore we lif the ol’ anchor, eh?” He tries to slap my back but sways off balance. I grab him so he doesn’t fall.

  What am I doing? I’m not sure I like this version of my dad. I’m not sure Geri isn’t right about him, and I never, ever want to admit to that, so I keep hold of my dad’s elbow.

  “Wha wud I do wifout you, Sthtan?” he asks. I feel like I’m worth something to him. And like he might fall if I let go of his elbow.

  Also, sometimes you get started down a path and it’s just easier to keep going and see where it takes you.

  Sometimes it takes you to the cemetery and you end up lost in a bunch of graves until it gets dark and you’re sure ghosts are going to come and eat you. That only happened once, and then Mad Madge showed up, and even though she called me a toad-spotted giglet and threatened to leave me there, eventually she led me to the road and I made it home before Geri ate all of Granny’s baking powder biscuits.

  But this path isn’t headed to the cemetery—we’re going right to the docks. I adjust my bag, weave my arm under my dad’s shoulder, and help him to the Wanderer.

  We wobble up the gangplank. Jeb waits there, half asleep. He jars awake. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He grins.

  “Fine thith man a bed, wouldja?” my dad says to Jeb, pointing at him but past him, like his aim is a bit off.

  Jeb looks at me and sighs. “Will, do, Cap’n. Joey, take Cap’n to his room!” he snaps.

  Joey scampers over like an eager puppy.

  “Over here. What’s your name?” Jeb motions for me to follow him.

  “Stan. Stanley Slater,” I say, hoping maybe the last name triggers something in Jeb’s brain. “I’m Captain Slater’s son,” I add. I don’t really have much faith in Jeb’s brain.

  “Ah! Another one of them, eh?” he says. I have no idea what he means, so I simply nod. “You can sleep in here.” He thrusts open a door and hooks his lantern inside. The room is about the size of a closet in the boardinghouse, with a bunk and a table and that’s about it. Something scurries under the floorboards.

  “We’re leaving port in about an hour,” Jeb says. He squints his eyes and tilts his head. “You sure you want to do this? Sure you’re up for a life on the lakes?”

  I swallow and nod.

  “You sure?” he repeats. “This is not a life for mama’s boys,” he adds. Is he accusing me of being a mama’s boy?

  “I was made for a life on the lakes,” I say. The boat lurches and I fall on the bunk, my pack still attached, my arms and legs thrown up in the air like an upside-down turtle.

  Jeb snickers. “Obviously,” he says as I struggle to get upright. “Suit yourself, but we won’t be back to these parts for a while,” he warns, and shuts the door. The lantern shakes, sending light quivering along the walls.

  I slide out of my pack, sit upright, and take a deep breath. This is a really small room. I feel like I’m in a broom closet. There’s a broom in the corner.

  I am living in a broom closet.

  It also smells like the wet socks I forgot under my bed for three weeks.

  Credit 28.2

  Credit 28.3

  It’s not what I would call a good smell. But I might as well get used to it.

  I lie down and look at the wooden slatted ceiling. I am now a sailor. I think this is the closest I’ve come so far to being a man.

  Apparently being a man means you don’t always have to be clean—you don’t have to bathe, you can fight and swear and stomp in mud puddles and never wash your hair. You should also have a tattoo.

  I dig down deep in my bag and pull out my pen. I push up my sleeve past my elbow, baring the top of my arm, and draw a heart. I write MOM in the middle.

  There’s a small mirror on the wall above the table. I get up to admire my handiwork. Maybe I can become the ship’s tattoo artist!

  Credit 28.4

  Maybe not. Apparently it’s not as easy as I thought to draw on your own arm. I drew a nice heart, but when I wrote MOM, I wrote it upside down. My tattoo might say WOW.

  I quickly pull down my sleeve.

  I miss Mama. Just a tiny bit. A manly, tiny bit. Not like I’m a mama’s boy or anything.

  I try not to breathe in very deeply, to avoid the smell, and I close my eyes. I’ll need a good night’s sleep for the journey ahead, a journey that is going to completely change my entire life.

  Every morning Stinky Pete comes into the kitchen whistling. “It’s a new day!” he says. “Full of possibilities, Stan!” Like something great could happen at any moment.

  If I can go to sleep, before I know it, it will be a new day. And something great could happen tomorrow.

  But just as my thoughts start slowly swirling, I’m startled by thumps. And shouts. I jump off my bed, almost hitting my head on the ceiling, and crack open the door.

  It’s my dad. He obviously has not slept off whatever it was he was supposed to sleep off. He leans against the side of the ship, hurling words to a group of men on the dock.

  “Come up here and thay that!” he yells. Jeb holds him back so he doesn’t fall off the boat, he’s leaning so far over the edge.

  I count seven lanterns and maybe more men.

  “You can’t break a man’s leg and then walk off like nothing happened!” one of them yells. The others murmur their agreement, but three men stand near the gangplank, lantern light flicking off the knives in their hands.

  “Shur, I can. In fack, I did!” my dad yells, his arm pointing randomly in the air.

  “This isn’t over, Slater,” another man yells. “We want you and your crew gone. You have thirty minutes before the police get here!” Their footsteps fade as they head down the dock toward town.

  Two of the men haul my dad back toward his bunk. He curses and stumbles the whole way.

  “Trewley! Larch! Carmine!” Jeb yells to the crew. “Time to go! Let’s get the supplies loaded!” He keeps barking orders as I shuffle back to my closet.

  My dad doesn’t feel safe. Let’s face it. He’s a criminal, and his crew isn’t any better.

  But I feel trapped, like it’s too late now.

  I lie on my bunk, but who am I kidding. I’m not going to sleep anytime soon.

  Credit 28.5

  I give up, open my bag, and pull out my scrapbook. Immediately something feels wrong.

  I search the pages, my heart thump-thumping. Most of them are blank. What happened to my scrapbook? Did Geri get a hold of it again?

  The first picture I flip to is one of Abraham Lincoln. I’m surprised to see my name written on it in Cuddy’s handwriting.
/>   Hero? Cuddy thinks I’m a hero? He has been listening to me!

  Next to the picture of Lincoln is an ad for insurance. Which is a little worrisome.

  Credit 28.6

  I turn the page. It’s filled with ads for food. And my name again. My stomach grumbles just reading it.

  Credit 28.7

  Why didn’t I grab some bacon before I left the house?

  Pictures of derring-do cover the next page. And my name is on all of them. According to Cuddy, I can climb mountains.

  Save people from burning buildings.

  Credit 28.8

  Or he might think I’m a dog. You never know with Cuddy.

  Best of all, he thinks I’m funny.

  Obviously my sense of humor has been rubbing off on him.

  Credit 28.9

  I’m holding Cuddy’s scrapbook. It looks exactly like mine, except I am much better at the art of scrapbooking. I do like his subject matter, however. And how much he appreciates my many talents.

  Except I’m not all too sure I’ve been living up to what he thinks of me. And it might be too late. I hear the men out on the deck shouting, getting the boat ready to leave St. Ignace. And who knows when it will return.

  I stuff Cuddy’s scrapbook in my satchel and open my door just as some of the crew jog down the dock, untying ropes and yelling at each other.

  “Get inside!” one growls. But I have to get out of here. I have to get off this boat, run home, climb into bed, and pretend this has never happened.

  Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I’ll be a new fellow.

  I try to dodge one of the men, but Jeb grabs my arm. “In your cabin, kid. Cap’n’s son or not, we’ll run you into the floor if we have to.”

  “I need to get off,” I say. “I…I’ve got things to do. I’ve got school in the morning!”

  Jeb scoffs. “All you really need to do is get outta the way.” His grip tightens as he pulls me toward my smelly broom closet of a room.