My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!)

by Alison DeCamp

  Geri looks at me and shakes her head. “You are such a fool.”

  Credit 21.5

  “But you just said…”

  She closes her eyes and waves her hand like she’s brushing away mosquitoes. “You have such selective hearing. Your mother is not a deserter in the War of Rebellion. In fact, she’s not a deserter at all. She just told your dad to write whatever he wanted on the divorce papers so that she and you could get on with your lives.”

  I look at her skeptically. “How do you know?”

  Her shoulders drop and her head tilts at me. “Are you serious? This is all news to you? My mother has been talking about what a useless, lazy bum your dad is since I was knee high. And no one else seems to have much of a problem with your mother’s situation. There are at least three men vying for Aunt Alice’s hand right now. I thought you knew all this—honestly, it’s so obvious.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask through a mouthful of bacon.

  “Well…” She sticks up her finger and starts ticking them off. “First there’s Peter.…”

  “You mean Stinky Pete? He’s a murderer! He killed a man!” Plus, he’s been spending what little free time he’s had with me; he hasn’t had any time to court Mama.

  “In the War of Rebellion, you chucklehead. According to Daddy, Peter’s father was off fighting, a wayward rebel showed up, and it was either kill or have his family farm burned to the ground and his mother and sisters taken prisoner. And you are aware no one but you calls him Stinky Pete, right?” She hands me another piece of bacon. “Why do you do that, anyway?”

  “Have you ever smelled him?” I ask. I must admit, it’s a relief to hear Stinky Pete probably won’t be murdering anyone in their sleep, but I’m still watching out for that guy. You never know, he might have an evil side.

  Plus, it’s more fun this way.

  “They all smell the same,” Geri replies.

  “Well, I just think we need to keep an eye on him,” I say. “Call it a hunch.” I point bacon at her for emphasis and then cram it in my mouth.

  “Then there’s Cager.” She gets a swoony look on her face and says his name the way I say “apple pie.”

  Credit 21.6

  “What about Cager?”

  “Well, he’s certainly making an effort to get to know your mama.” Geri looks at me like she knows something I don’t.

  Which, apparently, she does.

  “What kind of poppycock are you spouting now?” I mumble. “When have they even had time to spend together?”

  “How about when you were in the bunkhouse? How about Sundays when you’re off learning card tricks or playing cribbage with Mr. McLachlan? How about evenings when you’re huddled under your blankets reading whatever it is you’re reading?”

  I gasp. “Mama has been spending all that time with Cager?” I am truly shocked, although that might explain why she hasn’t been around much.

  “Well, to be fair, it’s not only Aunt Alice and Cager. My ma and Granny are usually there, but he’s always around. And he’s just so fine-looking.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes.

  I am puzzled. “How can you tell he’s ‘fine-looking’? They all have those beards and bushy eyebrows. They all look alike.”

  Credit 21.7

  Geri ignores me as she sticks up a third finger. “Finally, Mr. Crutchley. There’s a man who can provide the finer things in life for both you and your mama: bikes, books, proper medical care.” She pauses to think. “And he just might be the best man to convince Granny you’re ready for a little trip to the river drive. Although,” she adds, “it’s quite doubtful you’re actually up for that adventure.”

  Is this what it has come to? Mr. Crutchley as a stepfather? Is the river drive worth that much? Worth losing my mama to a man who waxes his mustache, squeals when he steps in horse manure, and wipes his mouth with a hankie instead of his sleeve?

  But then again, just last night Pepper Steffel told me he has a bet with Mac MacDonald that he can stay on a log in the middle of the river longer, and that’s something I would sure like to see. I also imagine challenging Geri to a similar contest. And winning, of course.

  But I don’t want Mr. Crutchley around permanently. Maybe, just maybe, I really don’t need a father, but what I do need is a man—a man who knows his way around Granny, a man who doesn’t act like a namby-pamby even if he has to wear a flowery apron, a man who can almost burp the entire alphabet, or at least will be able to if he can escape his granny long enough to get some practice in.

  After being at this lumber camp for a few months now, I think I know just the man.

  Me.

  It should come as no surprise to anyone that manly men do manly things like crush cans with their bare hands.

  “Stan, what are you doing with that can of corned beef?” Geri asks.

  “Just, uh, crushing it with my bare hands,” I grunt, bending over and gripping the can.

  “Why don’t you wait until after we actually eat the beef?”

  I hesitate. That might not be such a bad idea. “Well, if you insist,” I say, standing upright. Women. I will never understand them.

  “Let’s finish up here and then go see if we can help in the barn. They might let us feed the horses,” Geri suggests. Anything to avoid Granny. I set the corned beef on the counter to deal with later and follow Geri outside.

  “So,” she says, “did you happen to hear Knut Knutson’s cough at dinner last night?” Her hands are shoved in her pockets even though the day is warm for March, and she leans forward in thought. The only thing I heard last night was the sound of belching shanty boys, followed by Granny’s snores, which would rival any sawmill.

  It goes without saying I am a wee bit tired and I stifle a yawn, but Geri keeps right on talking.

  “I am concerned,” she continues. “It could be pleurisy, I suppose. Or perhaps typhus? You were near him, Stan. Did you notice any red spots on his body? Was it a dry cough, would you say?”

  I remember Knut coughing, but I am pretty sure it was because of the piece of ham caught in his throat. He was fine after Angus Murphy slapped him on the back a few times, but I am not telling this to Geri and spoiling all her fun. Plus, if she’s busy diagnosing the shanty boys, then she’s not diagnosing me.

  We pass Cooter the blacksmith, who’s in his open doorway, flailing his arm up and down, hammering on a hot piece of metal. Pings sail out of the shop like sparks from a fire.

  And then I see it. I hope Geri does not see it, but the glint of the sun off the metal is like a lighthouse beckoning a crew of seasick sailors. It’s shining so brightly, I’m pretty sure it just woke up fifteen hibernating bears and a couple of woodchucks.

  In other words, it’s hard to miss.

  A brand-spanking-new ax, fresh from Cooter’s anvil and awaiting its owner.

  It’s sharp. It’s shiny. And it scares me to high Heaven.

  “Oh, Stan?” Geri stops dead in her tracks. “Do you see that?” She flips her head in the direction of the ax.

  “What?” I play dumb just in case she is referring to something else, like a bunny. Or an unusual snowflake. I look around, trying to find something, anything, to divert her attention because I know what’s coming next.

  Credit 22.1

  Geri makes a beeline for the ax. Of course. She grabs the handle and tilts it in my direction. “Hmmm. Probably too heavy for you. Probably no way you could pick up this ax and cut a piece of wood the size of a matchstick off this stump right here.” She throws her leg up on the stump all Annie Oakley style, her black stockings sliding down her leg and her ankle boots a mess of mud.

  Her eyes have the same glint as the sun shining off the ax, and I’m 87.6 percent sure she and the ax are equally dangerous.

  “Pfft.” I exhale. “Me using an ax is the same as you playing with your paper dolls.”

  Geri looks indignant and her foot slips, causing her to momentarily lose her balance. “What, Stanley Slater, are you talking about? I�
��m a professional! I do not play with paper dolls.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” I reply. Actually, that’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve never heard of her playing with paper dolls or anything else a normal kid would play with, and that’s God’s honest truth. She is weirdly grown up. But my attempt to throw Geri off track appears to be working. Or at least I’m throwing her off balance. Literally.

  “I think you’re just afraid you can’t do it,” she answers, quickly regaining her balance.

  “Fine.” I make my way toward the ax, walking slowly while praying someone is nearby to stop me.

  Cooter’s banging is so loud, he’s practically deaf, so he’s of no use. Where is Granny when you need her?

  Geri starts to let go of the ax handle, her face smug. I muster all my strength and reach to grab it before it hits the ground.

  Granny’s gnarly hand appears in the corner of my eye and a smell attacks my nose. It is so foul I have obviously returned from the dead simply to deal with it.

  “Well, the smelling salts seem to be doing the trick.” Granny’s voice seems far-off.

  “Is he awake?” Mama leans over me, and her voice slides through my head like a half-tied ribbon as the dining hall comes into hazy focus.

  “Stand back,” a stern male voice commands. Cooter peers into my face. In his grubby left hand is a needle trailing a long thread. His blackened fingers slowly make their way to my eye.

  “Arrrgh!” I yell, thrashing my arms. A shooting pain lights up my skull. Without thinking, I reach up to my forehead, and when I pull my hand away, it’s covered in blood.

  “Arrrgh! I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot!”

  Mama reaches across me, stopping my arms from flapping all over the place.

  “You have not been shot, Stanley,” she says firmly, holding my head between her hands. “You’ve had an accident.” This time her voice is quieter, and her eyes are as reassuring as rain in June. But when I try to nod at her, the pain shoots through my brain like a bullet from a revolver, so I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, I see my hands, tinted red.

  “My head has been chopped off!” I’m in shock, I’m dying, and my arms go every which way. Out of the corner of my eye I see Granny, who throws her hands up in the air and rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Good Lord, Alice. I say let him die.”

  Mama leans over me again with a gentle hand on my arm. “Honey, you just had a little accident with an ax. Cooter is going to stitch it up quickly before you even know what has happened.” Cooter peers over Mama’s shoulder with a smile. Half of his teeth are missing, and the grime from the blacksmith shop speckles his face like a spotted egg.

  Credit 23.1

  “Yup.” He nods. “Ready? This will only hurt for a split second.” He turns his head to spit on the floor and uses his pinkie to pick something black out of his teeth.

  I pinch my lips together. There is no way Cooter, with his grimy hands and toothless grin, is going to touch me. I shake my head.

  “Nope,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “This is not an option, Stan,” Mama warns.

  “I won’t let him do it.” I look at Mama, my eyes a teensy bit damp.

  “Well, you must. You need to have the cut stitched up in order for the bleeding to stop.” She looks at me pleadingly as I shake my head.

  “Then let Geri do it,” I say.

  Mama pulls back in shock. “What?” she asks.

  “I said, let Geri do it. Let her stitch me up.”

  “Well…” Mama hesitates.

  Granny starts to protest loudly. “No. No, no, no! Geri is a child, not a doctor.…”

  “Neither is Cooter, and Geri is very practical,” Mama says slowly.

  “No! I forbid it.”

  Mama turns to Geri. “Do you think you could do this, Geri? Do you think you could stitch Stan’s head up?”

  Geri nods so hard I think her head is going to pop off her neck. “Oh, yes, ma’am! I have been waiting for this day my whole, entire life.”

  Mama looks me in the face. “This is what you want?”

  I nod. “I won’t even make a fuss. She is very good at sewing up chickens.”

  “Okay, then,” Mama agrees.

  Granny stomps off in a huff, and Geri washes her hands. Just like I knew she would.

  And that’s how I became Geri’s first, and best, patient. Sure, the stitches are a little uneven and my head still hurts, but even Granny nodded her approval when Geri was done. Either that, or my head was all wobbly.

  What, in the name of all that is holy, is on your face?” Granny stops kneading bread to look at me disbelievingly. She should be a little more polite. After all, I almost died just yesterday.

  “Well, woman, this right here”—I stroke my chin—“is what we men call whiskers or facial hair.”

  She studies my manly stubble. “Hmmm…looks like someone dipped a pen in the inkwell and drew on your face.”

  “Humph. Shows how much you know, woman. Now where is my chow?” I do my best impression of a man. I even clear my throat and spit on the floor.

  Granny hands me a towel. I take it and clean up the spit.

  “Dad-blame it, but this is women’s work right here. Yes siree, Bob.” It’s possible I’m overdoing it, but being a man is not as easy as it looks.

  “Thank you,” she says in clipped tones as I hand her the towel. “And your ‘chow’ is with everyone else’s. In the oven, ready to be eaten after the lumberjacks finish their dinner. Now set the table.”

  “Woman, I’ll set the table when I’m goldang ready,” I reply in my manliest voice.

  Granny’s eyes sizzle, but it’s Mama who grabs my collar and swings me around. “That’s enough. You do not use such language or speak to your grandmother that way. When she asks you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. Do you understand me?”

  I nod, and she lets go of my collar and gently moves my hair to examine my stitches. “Hmmm,” she says, and hurries to stir the baked beans like nothing has happened.

  I have decided; I’m ready to set the table now.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Geri asks. She’s peeling potatoes over the sink. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”

  “I’m a quick healer,” I reply proudly.

  I am a whiz at being a patient, I don’t mind saying.

  Credit 24.1

  “What are you talking about? You’re an awful patient! Three grown men had to lie across your body, and one had to hold your head steady. Plus, the screaming made us all pretty near deaf.” Geri stares at me.

  I wince because, honestly, she is loud, my head still hurts, and I might feel slightly dizzy. “Well, you can’t deny I’m your first patient. Also, real men don’t need much time to heal. Especially men who have been hit in the head with an ax.” I nod knowingly. “That kind of near-death experience will change your life. And it will make you a man.” I hope Mama is listening.

  Geri stops peeling potatoes and stares at me. “You realize you didn’t get hit in the head with the blade of an ax, don’t you? You tried to pick up the ax off the ground, stumbled, and fell, cutting your head open on the wooden handle.”

  “You tell the story your way, I’ll tell it mine,” I say, and stomp to my bunk to lie down. It’s been a trying afternoon.

  After dinner, Mama applies kerosene to my face. She’s smiling as she tries to scrub the ink off.

  “Please tell me that you know drawing whiskers on your face does not make you a man,” she says.

  I nod. Obviously I was just trying to encourage some manly beard growth.

  “And that real men don’t spit or swear? That’s not what makes a man a man.”

  She kisses my forehead, lifts my chin, and examines my face. “Well, that will just have to do. Now stop torturing your granny, and stay away from any matches. Your face may be flammable. Better yet, go and wash.” She tweaks my nose.

  Even when I try my hardest, I fail at
being a man. The visit to the bunkhouse didn’t help. The trick with the ax simply gave me a headache and some pretty exciting stitches. And the whiskers left me with a face that could burst into flames at any minute.

  This is the furthest I’ve ever felt from being a man. All I really want to do is cuddle up in bed and have Mama read me a book. Or play with the toy soldiers still lined up on my windowsill in the apartment house. But I can’t. Because that’s not manly, and being manly is the only way I’ll ever understand my father, maybe know why he left and never returned, have a chance to go on the river drive, and keep Mama away from unwanted suitors.

  I wonder if I’ll ever be enough: old enough, manly enough, worth enough.

  “Why don’t we cuddle up in my bed and read Huck Finn?” Mama asks, like she’s reading my mind. I nod my head up and down so hard, water flies from my eyes. I have all sorts of bubbly nerves popping around in my chest, and I feel like they might explode through my ears. I lean against Mama and feel her lean into me, like we’re the last two pieces of a puzzle.

  “Mama, why can’t we go on the river drive?” I hurry to finish my thought before she shoots me down. The warmer weather and the melting snow remind me daily that I don’t have much time to convince her and Granny that we should stay longer. “I would be a lot of help in the wanigan, and I could keep Geri out of trouble, and we could make some more money to get through the summer, and…it might be fun.”

  Credit 24.2

  “Well, all those things are true,” Mama says, resting her head on top of mine. “You are a lot of help, and we would make more money, but you left out the dangerous parts—the mass of logs that usually hurt at least one boy, if not kill him outright. And after your accident, I would be holding my breath the whole time we were there. To be perfectly honest”—she sweeps the hair off my face—“I’m tired of holding my breath.”

  I take a deep breath of my own. Mama’s voice is like a swimming hole on a hot summer day—I know if I jump in, I’ll feel better. “Why did you desert my father?” I study my knuckles as if I’ve never seen knuckles before.