My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!)

by Alison DeCamp

  Actually, I don’t think I really have looked at my knuckles before.

  I watch my bendy fingers wrinkle and unwrinkle and feel Mama’s body stiffen. She sighs, and then lifts my chin and makes me meet her eyes. Even after hours working in the kitchen, even after getting little sleep in the bunk she shares with Sawmill Granny, even after having to deal with my near death from a fatal blow of an ax—even after all that, her skin looks like cream just poured from the bottle, and her eyes are clear and shiny.

  “Honey, I don’t know where you got your information.…”

  “Unc—”

  She puts two fingers to my lips. “You know I didn’t really desert your father. At least it’s not quite like that.” She looks down like maybe there’s a spot of dirt on the floor, and when she looks back up, her eyes are all floaty. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Sorry about what?” I’m worried that she’s going to tell me something bad, something like I’m going to be Granny’s kitchen slave. Or she’s marrying Mr. Crutchley.

  I don’t know which is worse.

  “Just, well, that I don’t have a father for you.” She lowers her head, and her shoulders shake. “I never imagined…I always wanted…It’s not what…”

  I pat her like she might break, then do the only thing I can think of.

  I hand her a hankie.

  “Can you tell me anything about him?” I ask.

  Mama gently blows her nose. “Well, he was handsome.”

  “Of course.” I nod, and Mama smiles and messes up my hair. “But what is he like? Does he read? Is he rich? Does he hunt rhinos in Africa? Did he explore the North Pole?” I’m on the edge of my seat.

  “Honestly, he might do all those things, honey,” Mama replies. I nod furiously because, well, I knew it! “Or none of them,” she continues, but I choose to ignore that part. “He was funny and impulsive”—she looks at me knowingly—“and loved to travel, which made his job on the railroad so perfect for him. He was not one to be tied down.”

  I nod. I completely understand not wanting to be tied down.

  Credit 24.3

  “And where is he?” I stare at her intently, but Mama just squeezes her lips together and shakes her head.

  “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you, but I just don’t know.” She shrugs. “And honestly, maybe I don’t wish I could tell you. There’s a big part of me that’s afraid he’ll hurt you, not know how great you are, not see in you all the traits that will make you a wonderful man and father someday.”

  I can’t bring myself to ask her how I’m supposed to know what a good man or father is like when no one has ever been around to show me.

  “Maybe you can look at all the men in your life who are solid examples of good men who appreciate you, and worry less about the one man who doesn’t. Or just imagine your father as the best kind of man there is,” Mama continues as if she’s reading my mind again. Which is a little worrisome, to tell the truth. There’s a lot of stuff in there no one should know. “But don’t expect him to return, Stan. Just don’t set yourself up for that. I know how that feels. You are a good, good son. You always ask me if I need help peeling potatoes or setting the table, you make sure I have my coat when I run outside, and you make me laugh like no one else in the world.” My heart feels warm the more she talks. “And trust me when I say that if being a good son means you’ll be a good father, you have nothing to worry about.”

  I must say, I feel a little relieved to know I probably won’t grow up to become a rapscallion, scalawag, or hooligan (unless I want to, of course). But this entire conversation has me feeling a bit like I have mud between my ears. I thought the more I knew about my father, the closer I would be to finding him. But I don’t even know him as well as I know Stinky Pete. And I have no better idea about what makes a man manly than I did before I came here.

  Credit 24.4

  Sometimes it seems fun: you get to swear and spit and smell like bathtubs were never invented. Other times it seems like being a man is bigger than that, like when Stinky Pete swept the floor after I dropped a plate, before Granny even caught me. Or when Uncle Henry told Mr. Crutchley it was his fault Ole Oleson got hurt out on the site. I happen to know from overhearing all the guys at dinner that Ole had told Cager that he “grew on people—just like a wart.” Cager slugged him a good one, and Ole was out for two days. If Mr. Crutchley had known about the fight, Ole and Cager might have been out for good.

  I’m not sure I’m ready for the not-fun part of being a grown-up.

  I did write down that wart joke, however. I need some new material for insulting Conrad McAllister.

  Mama squeezes me next to her. “My little man,” she says, smiling. Which is true. Except for the little part.

  “Now can we go to the river drive?” I ask. I’m very hopeful this time will be a big, fat yes.

  She looks me right in the eye and grins. “No. No, no, a thousand times no. You dodged a bullet with that last accident, Stan. I am not pushing our luck.”

  I’m speechless. Which doesn’t happen often.

  “Plus, I have plans for us. Big plans that will change our lives. Now go get ready and hop into bed or we won’t have any time to read.”

  I’m afraid to ask what the big plans are. I’m pretty sure they will not involve a wanigan but a man, and I don’t mean a “somewhat” man like me.

  When I snuggle up to Mama and hear all about Huck Finn’s adventures on the mighty Mississippi, it sounds so much like how I imagine the river drive would be, it’s more than I can take. So I pretend to fall asleep.

  Fake sleeping is a tried-and-true way to learn all sorts of things—things adults would never say in front of you if you were awake. I keep my eyes closed except I can see a little bit through the fringe of my eyelashes.

  “Here you go, honey. It should help.” Granny pulls money from her apron pocket and secures it in Mama’s hand. She is buying me for her work slave, I just know it. Or to trade for pickles.

  “What is this?” Mama holds the money like it’s a poisonous snake.

  “It’s for you. I’ve been saving it,” Granny says in her no-nonsense voice.

  “For what?” Mama keeps staring at the money like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

  “I know your plans, and I fully approve. Stanley’s accident simply confirmed the fact that it’s time for you to leave. It’s my small way of helping, and I’ll hear no ifs, ands, or buts about it,” Granny says.

  “So you think it’s the right thing to do?” Mama asks.

  My eyes pop open. Of course it’s not the right thing to do! I don’t deserve to spend the rest of my life as that woman’s slave! And I’m worth a whole lot more than pickles.

  Granny puts her arm around Mama’s shoulder like she hasn’t heard me say a thing. Because, guess what? She hasn’t heard me say a thing! I’m getting good at this thinking-in-your-head business. “Of course it’s right. Stan will be just fine in St. Ignace.” Granny gives Mama a squeeze. “A fresh start for both of you, without anything stopping you or anyone talking behind your back, is a good thing. It’s time to stop waiting and make your own destiny. And it’s hard to pass up such an opportunity.”

  St. Ignace? Where in the heck is St. Ignace? And who thinks we need a fresh start? I’m perfectly content with my life and friends in Manistique. Especially Lydia Mae and her dark, curly hair. I’m not so sure I’d miss Conrad.

  But I’m frozen to the mattress, even though the straw is poking me in the cheek.

  “And when you and Archibald get married…”

  I’m like a corpse awakened from the dead. My eyes pop open and I’m about to yell when Mama says something I never thought I would hear her say.

  “No, Mother, I am not going to marry Mr. Crutchley.”

  I can tell Granny is taken aback. Her head jerks and she looks at Mama like lightning has struck her and set her hair on fire.

  “What did you say?” Granny’s tone is sharp, her eyes are slits,
and her breath looks like icicles could form on her very words.

  But I have to hand it to Mama. She draws herself up, taller than Granny by a head, and repeats: “No, Mother.”

  Granny’s mouth drops. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I thought you were enjoying his company. Archibald Crutchley is a fine man who will provide for you and Stanley. It is apparent both of you need a man around. You cannot handle that boy on your own, and I don’t know what you would have done these last months if I hadn’t been keeping that boy’s mind occupied. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’ remember.” Granny’s face is all pinchy. “I’m more than a little surprised that incident with the ax didn’t knock half of Stanley’s brains out.” She peers at Mama over her spectacles. “We both know that boy can’t afford to lose any brains.”

  I close my eyes, at least most of the way, and roll my eyeballs.

  “You’re right, Mother. You were, and are, a Godsend. But Stan and I don’t need a man right now. We’ll be fine.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  “And if you don’t approve and would like your money back…” Mama holds out the wad of cash.

  Granny ignores her. “You will agree that he needs to be in school. Education is important.”

  “Of course! He’s too smart not to be in school,” Mama agrees.

  Truer words have never been spoken. Except, wait. School?

  “And college…,” Granny prods.

  Credit 25.1

  “That’s the plan.”

  Whose plan is this?

  “And a man would definitely help facilitate this. Why, Archibald Crutchley is an educated…”

  “Mr. Crutchley is a fine man, Mother, but you picked my first husband, and I will be picking my last. Plus, he might be a little too refined for my taste.” And with that, Mama kisses Granny on the cheek and returns to the kitchen to finish preparing tomorrow’s breakfast.

  I peek at Granny. Her evil scheme to keep me from the river drive has apparently worked. But we’re not packed up just yet.

  My head spins with ways to foil her dastardly plan to ruin my future and stand in the way of my destiny. Unfortunately, my head is also spinning because I’m dizzy again and because I’m tired. Last night I heard terrible howls, a reminder of the wild creatures that live in the surrounding woods.

  I will not admit to a soul that my death-defying accident with the ax or my wariness of howling creatures has left me slightly under the weather, but as I scoot out of the bottom bunk, I stumble a little. Granny rushes to steady me.

  “Stanley Slater!” she barks, shaking her head. “I knew it was too soon after your accident to be bouncing around like nothing has happened. You need rest, my child.” She acts like my brush with death was my fault.

  Also, I am not her child. And rest is for mama’s boys. And I am quite obviously not one of those.

  Granny steadies me as I climb into the top bunk. I slink my covers up and my feet down to the bottom of the mattress, where my toes touch the hairy stubble of something cold. I scream like a little girl, I am not afraid to say it. It’s either the head of a frozen lumberjack or the head of a frozen loup-garou, but either way, it’s not good.

  Granny jolts like a snake bit her, and Mama runs in with Aunt Lois and Geri right behind. I glare at all of them.

  “There. Is. Something. Hairy. And. Frozen. IN. MY. BED!” My knees are drawn up all the way to my chest and I am scrunched in the corner, as far away from the terrifying head as I possibly can be. Geri doesn’t even try to hide her guilt; she starts laughing then and there. Granny reaches under my covers with a smile and pulls out a frozen, dead raccoon.

  Credit 25.2

  “Never a dull moment,” she says with a smirk and a wink at Mama.

  “Is that the raccoon the shanty boys snuck into Hoot Mitchum’s bunk last night?” Aunt Lois asks, peering more closely.

  “Could be.” Granny nods as she pitches the dead animal into the night. She is laughing, Aunt Lois is laughing, and even Mama is laughing.

  I’m disgusted. “Geri,” I hiss, “when you least expect it, expect it!” I roll over to go to sleep. Mama reaches up and rubs my shoulders, slow circles that could calm a savage beast, while those villainous, tickle-brained pignuts cackle their way back to the kitchen.

  I plot my revenge, but I dream about bacon and wanigans.

  It is certainly not in my nature to question a man’s character. Even if that character isn’t as bad as what you used to think that character was.

  I am a whiz at judging character, I don’t mind saying.

  But when a certain someone whose name rhymes with “inky feet” sits down on the bench beside you, it is nothing less than a life-or-death situation. I am a mouse stalked by a cat. I am a hen, and he is the fox. Stinky Pete is not a person I need or want to know. He always tries to talk to me when we play cribbage, when he helps me peel potatoes, or when he ruffles my hair and tells me he thinks I’ve grown a foot in the last few months. He asks about my day, what I like to do, how my mama is doing. What does he want from me?

  And he should stop asking questions about my mama.

  He’s about as interesting as a slice of bread.

  Credit 26.1

  “Huh?” Stinky Pete says as he galumphs his big self down. “Did you say something?”

  “Um,” I answer through my teeth, “I said, ‘I have known a catcher named Fred.’ ” I am going to keep this conversation short and sweet. Or at least short.

  “Oh! How did I not know you’re a fellow baseball fan? Who’s your favorite player?”

  The last thing I’m trying to do is engage a man of Stinky Pete’s reputation in casual conversation.

  Actually, the last thing I’m trying to do is inhale through my nose. The guy did not earn that name for nothing.

  “Well.” I scratch around my brain for a name. I am not a follower of baseball, let’s be honest. “Well, I am a big fan of Sherlock Holmes!” I immediately realize my mistake, but it’s too late, and someone named Stinky Pete probably doesn’t read much anyway.

  “You mean, the detective in the Arthur Conan Doyle books?” Stinky Pete stares at me with a puzzled look.

  “Um, no, the other one! The catcher for the Chicago Colts?” I wince and hold my breath. I do know that’s a real team, at least. Uncle Henry can’t stop talking about them.

  “Hmmm. Can’t say as I’m familiar with him.” He scratches his head. “And I thought I knew all the players on that team. There’s Malachi Kittridge and Cap Anson and Pop Schriver…”

  Credit 26.2

  I interrupt before he goes through the whole lineup. “Well, enough about me. Who is your favorite?”

  Before I know it, I am having a conversation with a known killer. And even worse than that, a guy who is sweet on my mama.

  “I’m a pretty big fan of Jimmy Ryan, although I understand why so many people love Cap Anson. Hard to argue with his averages. I went to a game last summer at West Side Grounds. One of the best nights of my life.”

  I change the subject before he goes into a reenactment of the entire game. The guy loves his baseball, that’s for sure.

  But I have other plans for my day.

  “Oh, sorry for talking your ear off,” Stinky Pete says with a wink. He sits back suddenly with a grin. “You go ahead and get those plans under way. I like to take a few minutes to myself each day, anyway.”

  Stinky Pete reaches down into his boot and pulls out a little slip of paper, yellowed and crinkly. I am completely not interested in what’s on that piece of paper, but my eyeballs just can’t help glancing in that direction.

  I scoot a little closer. Stinky Pete unfolds the paper carefully, and a tiny bit falls into the dirty snow at our feet. His big sausage fingers smooth a crease and he silently mouths the words in front of him:

  Stinky Pete has his elbows on his knees and is stooped forward like his shoulders are holding up the entire sky. He twists his massive neck to look at me. “Not a bad motto, don�
��t you think?” he asks.

  I nod. I can’t seem to help myself, because it might not be too late to be a man, but it is becoming clear it very well might be too early. The river drive. Fathers. Manly manhood. They are so far ahead of me, it’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

  “I want to be a lumberjack,” I blurt. This guy has a way of weaseling into a fellow’s skull and making him spit out his brains.

  He is so sneaky.

  “But I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to be who I want to be.”

  Stinky Pete leans against the wall. He stretches his legs, looks down at his paper, and says, “Seems to me you’re young enough that the whole world is before you. No regrets, no mistakes, nothing but possibility.”

  “Huh,” I scoff. “You don’t know my granny.”

  “Cora?” Stinky Pete asks with a grin. “Sweet little Cora? I’ll tell you something—there’s more to that woman than meets the eye.”

  “You must be thinking of someone else.”

  Stinky Pete folds his arms behind his head, closes his eyes, and smiles. “So I’m a pretty good listener. You know, I used to be a preach—”

  “Killer? Yeah. I know. But your secret is safe with me.” And the fourteen other people I told.

  Credit 26.4

  Stinky Pete opens his eyes. He is obviously shocked I know his secret. “Well, that’s not exactly what I was going to say.…”

  “Granny and Mama won’t let me go on the river drive,” I say. “They think it’s dangerous and something bad will happen to me. Geri can go, and if I had a father, a real honest-to-gosh father, I could go. But I don’t. So I’m being shipped to some town to go back to school.” This guy is really, really good at getting a fellow to spill his guts.

  “Hmmm,” he replies.

  “And I just don’t want to! I’m this close to going to the river drive,” I say, my pointer finger and thumb a hairbreadth apart. Because I really am that close. There’s less and less snow every day, the ice on the river is now only a jagged edge on the banks, and I don’t have to turn on my kerosene lamp to read until Mama and Granny crawl into their bunk.