Nah. That can’t be it.
Maybe, aside from being lost, he has been really busy with important, top-secret business. Or trapped. Or on tour with a famous traveling show, one that only stops at towns with really bad post offices. I can just imagine the letters he would have written, all of them probably lost in the mail:
That’s got to be what happened. It makes perfect sense.
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Mama’s voice cuts through the darkness, sharp and crisp. “I’m rethinking this entire plan, Mother,” I hear her say. “There’s no logical reason for me to drag Stan away from school to a rough-and-tumble logging camp in the middle of nowhere. If nothing else, he’ll be bored to tears and underfoot.”
“My dear,” Granny says in a voice that certainly does not feel “dear,” “we’ve already gone over all of this. May I remind you that you have the tendency to fret over the wrong things? You can’t sustain your current work hours and keep a watchful eye on that boy of yours; he’s spending much too much time unsupervised. Who knows what kind of trouble he’s been getting into? Just last week I saw him throwing snowballs at that nice McAllister boy. Plus, I think it’s more important to concentrate on how you’re planning to feed yourself and Stan.”
Even through the layers of blankets I can feel the rumble of my empty stomach. Someone does need to feed me, that goes without saying. And someone needed to throw snowballs at that “nice McAllister boy,” too. He had it coming to him after he asked me if my name was Maple Syrup and then called me a sap.
“Without the additional money from Arthur coming in,” Granny continues, “you can’t keep food on the table and a roof over your heads. This job at the lumber camp will pay three times as much as you make at the general store, and you’ll have the support of family besides. And I am more than happy to sacrifice my time until you have a man to look after you and keep Stan in line.”
We don’t need some random man to take care of us! Mama and I have done just fine on our own, thank you very much. And what about Granny complimenting my “somewhat” manliness just yesterday—has she forgotten this so soon? And isn’t she the one who let me believe my father was dead and then offered no help finding him? She is well aware I already have a father. I poke my head out of the covers to shout a reminder but catch my breath in the cold.
I’ll remind her later. And remind myself to act even manlier than I normally do.
“Stan will not be bored,” she says. “In fact, I practically guarantee it.” I hear a threat in her words, but I can’t hear Mama’s mumbled reply because of the banging and scraping that interrupts Granny’s huffy lecture.
Apparently Mama’s reply wasn’t enough, because six hours and fourteen minutes later, I’m shivering under a worn, woolen blanket, my knees knocking together with each bump of the sleigh over the icy dirt road. Mama sits up front with Uncle Carl, both shadows against the teeth-chattering dark, leaving me with Granny in the back.
Crates holding our belongings crush my feet. I try to make room to stretch my legs when my hand brushes against something furry. I’m pretty sure it’s a cat. Or Granny’s leg. Her hairy loup-garou leg.
I glance at the too-early morning moon, sifting through clouds as we slip our way out of town. It’s only a fingernail, so we’re safe. For now.
“Safe from what?” Granny demands. Her voice is as unpleasant as a spoonful of cod-liver oil. “You’re not still in a stew over that loup-garou story, are you? Because I am not having you waking me up at all hours with nightmares again, you hear me?”
A couple days ago, Lydia Mae told me how her uncle Charlie was a loup-garou and ate everything he came across during a full moon. He tried to gobble up Lydia Mae’s aunt Martha, but she hit him over the head with a broom and immediately left to go live with her sister in Duluth. I asked Lydia Mae why I hadn’t heard about that little happening, and she claimed it took place in San Francisco or somewhere.
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Basically, I think she’s a liar, but after I spotted a stray hair on Granny’s chin, I’ll admit I haven’t been able to sleep very well.
Now that I’m the newly appointed “somewhat” man of the house, however, that behavior is over. “Pshaw, old lady,” I mutter. “I never did that. You must have been dreaming.”
“Don’t be so rude. And anyway, that’s complete balderdash. The Lord does not bless a lie, Stanley,” she scolds. “Now, while you’re poking around for who-knows-what, find my muff. My hands are cold.”
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I’m dutifully pushing some boxes around when I pinch my fingers in the hinge of a crate. “Drat!” I cry. Before I can say Jack Robinson, Granny reaches out and grabs my ear.
“Dad-blame it, woman! That hurts!” I wail. It’s true. Granny’s fingers are like a crab’s claws. “I can see stars!”
“That’s for your horrible language, young man. Don’t let me hear such profanity again,” Granny warns as I rub my ear. “And of course you can see stars. You’re in the dark, surrounded by them.”
Granny’s wrinkly fingers look innocent, but I know they are deadly weapons. Rumor has it those fingers killed more than one Confederate soldier during the War of Rebellion, and I believe it with all my heart.
Either that or I started the rumors myself.
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“Have you found my muff yet?” I feel around some more and finally come upon a ball of fur. I give it to Granny and she tucks her hands into each end.
“Now, for the love of Pete, can you please just shut that trap of yours so we can rest a bit before we get to camp?” It sounds like a question, but we both know it’s an order.
She’s pure evil.
Mama says no one is 100 percent evil, but I’m not so sure about that. If I think about it, I can remember one time when Granny spit on her hankie to wipe jelly off my face, which is kind of disgusting but also kind of nice, depending on how you look at it. And if you ignore the spitting part. So maybe Granny is only 99.9 percent evil.
Uncle Carl hums through the cold. He says humming takes his mind off his troubles. I can’t imagine what troubles he has, however. He lives down the street from us, alone, as in no bossy women around, and works for the lumber company, carting supplies and people to and from the camps. What could be easier? Plus, when Granny comes to visit, she stays with us, and Uncle Carl can escape her anytime he wants.
Icicles cling to his beard and his breath forms little clouds that rise up in the thin moonlight. He has said three things since we got on this sleigh: “Hey!” “Oof!” and “Yah!” When I get to that logging camp and pick up my ax, I’m going to be like Uncle Carl, except with a lot more words. I will start a life of adventure, like my dad, and will be a lone wolf, taking care of myself and Mama. And I might grow a beard, chew tobacco, and drink coffee. And understand things apparently only men can understand. The first step of my plan is to…
“Okay, okay.” Granny sits up quickly and straightens her bonnet. “Stop blathering on and on and tell me your plan already. Then can we get some sleep?”
“What makes you think I’m planning anything?” I ask. I’ve got to stop blurting things out.
“I’ll tell you what you should plan on doing: practicing discipline, learning your lessons, and honing your manners, as well as forgetting any foolish notions involving that father of yours. These next few months will be a great opportunity to work on being less dramatic, impertinent, and impolite. Not to mention less ridiculous.”
Surprisingly, this is not what I have in mind, unless by “less dramatic, impertinent, and impolite,” she means “more adventurous, manly, and dangerous.” I have no idea what she means by “ridiculous.”
“I know this is not what you have in mind,” Granny continues, “and that’s exactly why we will be working on improving the evil aspects of your nature.”
Who is she calling evil? Just because I have a taste for danger doesn’t mean I’m evil. Believe you me, I know evil by name, probably because it’s sitting right acro
ss from me. And its name rhymes with “Fanny.”
“We will also work on your inability to hold your tongue and use proper English. I cannot abide the slang you toss out of that mouth of yours like spit on a frying pan.”
I think about spitting on a frying pan.
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Granny keeps talking about all my shameful habits. I’m disrespectful. I eat too much and too loudly. My hair is unruly. I don’t bathe often enough. Blah, blah, blah.
“Please and thank you can get you a long way, and proper table manners should never be taken for granted. You’d be surprised how something as simple as using the correct spoon can open doors that might otherwise remain shut.”
I imagine jimmying open a stuck door using a spoon. I am pretty sure the spoon would bend, and maybe even break, but I will not be sharing this thought with Granny. If she wants to go around breaking spoons in doors, that’s her business.
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Her words grate like a sliver under a fingernail, and I don’t know how much longer I can suffer the woman’s torture. I have never before had the urge to commit an act of lawlessness, but Granny’s voice might force me to give up my law-abiding ways, skip town, and start a life of crime.
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“And how might you plan on skipping town?” Granny asks.
“Why?” I respond.
“Well, I’m not planning on stopping you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She seems awfully lackadaisical about the fact that her only grandson may soon be running away to join a band of outlaws.
“First of all, they would never take you.” Granny’s body rocks with the wagon like a puppet on a string.
I snort. “What are you talking about? Have you seen me handle a gun? I am a whiz at the gun handling, I don’t mind saying.”
“You’ve never handled a gun, Stanley,” Granny says.
I begin to protest, but then remember it’s true. The only gun I ever handled was a cap gun, and even then I had to borrow it from Lydia Mae.
“And you get scared when we walk down Maple Street and your mother isn’t holding your hand.”
That only happened once.
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“Last week,” Granny reminds me. To be fair, Mama had slipped on the icy road and I was just lending a hand to help her balance. “And we’re deep in the woods. It would take you days walking to get anywhere near civilization. You’d be wolf food before you got that far, I suspect.”
I shudder. I’m not sure what to expect for the next few months, but hopefully it does not include my becoming wolf food.
I prefer to be the one doing the eating, thank you very much.
We weave through the woods, tunneling among the trees. The farther away from town we get, the less of a road we seem to be following and the more the forest seems to swallow us, only occasionally letting in a thread of moonlight. Apparently we’re just trusting the horses to get us where we need to go.
Branches rasp the side of the sleigh, grabby tentacles reaching in. Every once in a while we pass large, scarred areas of stumps scattered like gravestones. More trees. An abandoned logging camp falling in on itself in the shadows. Roads that still bear ax wounds.
Something scrapes up my back like bony fingers, my collar tightens, and I feel myself being lifted from the sleigh. If wolves don’t get me, apparently skeletons will. Granny’s head snaps in my direction so sharply her bones click in place. Whatever is trying to grab me should go for her instead, because I am sure as eggs are eggs, anything that tries to attack Granny will have the worse end of that deal.
Plus, I’m almost positive she has rabies.
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Granny reaches toward me, her bony fingers coming closer, most likely ready to pluck an eyeball out of my head. I scrunch my eyes up real tight. None of my options right about now seem very good, so I am going to have to hope for the least painful death.
And that’s when Granny pulls a branch from behind my neck.
“My, aren’t we overdramatic,” she says. Her voice is flat, as if nothing scary has just happened. As if I didn’t almost lose my life.
Uncle Carl turns around. “Branch getcha?” It sounds like the hint of a smile might be lurking at the edge of his mouth.
I straighten up. “I got everything handled here, Uncle Carl. Don’t you worry.” And I wink at him, man-to-man style. He can’t see me since my eye is covered with my hat and it’s still very dark, but we men have our own secret language. He knows.
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“You okay?” Mama turns her head, her eyes searching my face.
“Pfft,” I reply. The little lady shouldn’t worry herself over any of it.
“Alice, you have got to get that boy’s imagination under control,” I hear Granny huff to Mama, but my mind drifts to the horses’ hooves and their snorting breath. I’m not even sure that’s exactly what she says. I’m feeling a little foggy. Maybe she says, “You have got to get that boy new underdrawers and send him to the North Pole.”
Or even, “You have got to wipe the snot off that boy’s nose.”
I glance at Mama. She’s haloed in horse breath and her head nods to the beat of their hooves. Uncle Carl hums, but I don’t think his humming is enough to put a smile back on Mama’s face.
Uncle Carl really can’t carry a tune.
I was not sleeping. And I most certainly was not drooling. Babies drool. Lydia Mae’s little brother Charlie, he’s a baby and he’s disgusting. And he drools.
Plus, once I caught him eating my shoe.
It was still on my foot.
I sneak a peek at Granny. Her little beady birdie eyes stare at me.
“Is that drool?” she asks.
“Sheesh!” I look away and casually wipe my face with my itchy mitten, the one Granny knitted. I don’t know where someone would find yarn as scratchy as sandpaper, but Granny apparently did. “You are seeing things. You need to get yourself some eyeglasses.” I cautiously raise my head and sit up.
“I am wearing eyeglasses.”
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I squint my eyes to examine her face more closely. “Oh. Well…” How did I miss something so obvious as glasses? “Then it’s clear you need new ones.”
“Look, Stan.” Uncle Carl points. “Camp.” He throws words over his shoulder like he has to pay money to use them.
Pencils of smoke rise up from shacks at the edge of the forest. The dawn is pewter, and the surrounding woods are a smudgy outline.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. The lumber camp makes Manistique look like New York City. Or what I imagine New York City looks like from the postcard Mama’s other brother, Uncle Erick, sent last year: every inch of the photo is filled with life—sidewalks of people, streets with horses and carriages, tall buildings with waving flags, moving and swaying, folks buzzing along like bees around a hive.
Uncle Erick went to the big city to make his fortune, but when I told that to Granny, she mumbled, “More like drink away his fortune.”
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I don’t know how you drink a fortune, but it had better taste really good.
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What I see before me now is a hodgepodge of tar-paper shacks, apparently slapped together with whatever was lying about, plunked down willy-nilly around a snow-covered clearing. The camp is quiet but for the clop of our horses and the ping of metal on metal coming from a building off in the distance. Everything appears abandoned but for the capped chimneys poking out from roofs, smoke popping the caps and then freezing in the cold air.
It all reminds me of Mr. Weston, the banker. I sit behind him and his bald head in church. And right now I feel like I’m in the middle of Mr. Weston’s bald spot surrounded by a scraggly fringe of forest.
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The camp is horribly quiet. Where are the cows running loose through the streets or the chickens tripping you up as you stumble off to school? At home, all sorts of sounds greet you in the morning and sin
g you to sleep. The creaky tram car sends chills up your spine, while down by the water, scows chug out in the bay to dump sawdust into Lake Michigan. And through it all is the hum of the sawmill. Granny says silence is golden, but for me, when things are quiet, it just means someone needs to make some noise.
Mama turns, gathers the blankets covering our laps, and starts folding them.
“So when we pull into camp, should I start sharpening axes? Chopping some wood? Cutting down trees?” I ask eagerly. Forest surrounds the camp, so I know my help is definitely needed. These lumberjacks don’t even have the sense to chop down the trees right in front of them.
“No!” Mama and Granny immediately answer together. It’s the first time I’ve ever thought they really are related. “For one thing, these trees aren’t worth the effort to cut them down.” Granny waves at the woods surrounding us. “They’re all hardwoods.”
“Anyway, Geri will want to show you around the camp,” Mama says softly as she straightens my hat. The mention of my cousin makes me about as nervous as a june bug in a henhouse. When I last saw her in October, I ended up limping for a week and had nightmares for a month.
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Granny spins me to face her and ties my scarf like she is tightening a noose. “No axes for you,” she pronounces.
“Would you consider a little saw?” I attempt to negotiate.
“No.” Granny turns to Mama, dismissing me. “We’ll drop off our bags, the boys will unload the wagon, and we’ll head to the kitchen and help your sister get the lunches ready. Carl?” My uncle leans his head back to indicate he’s listening. “How far off are the shanty boys working this week?”
“Well, when I was here on delivery last week, they were a couple miles west. Take about an hour to get the lunch sleigh to ’em.”
My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!) Page 3
