“And if you could perhaps make his breath smell better…”
Credit 5.5
“Amen!” Granny interrupts. “Archibald, would you like some stew?”
“Hey!” I say. I think it must be some sort of sin to interrupt a person while he is praying for someone who obviously needs a lot of praying for.
“Youch!” Mama kicks me again. I’m starting to think she’s kicking me on purpose.
“Here,” she says, handing me a plate. “Take this to Geri.” I reach for the food and do as I’m told.
I’m a whiz at doing what I’m told, I don’t mind saying. Unless I’m told to do something I don’t really want to do. Then I’m a whiz at NOT doing what I’m told.
Either way, I’m pretty amazing.
I sneak into Geri’s room. I can tell she’s sleeping by the rasp in her chest as she breathes. It’s wheezy and steady at the same time. Only part of her face is showing under all the blankets.
I set the food down on the chair, the one I saw Granny sitting in earlier today. She held a cool rag to Geri’s cheek and kissed her forehead to check her temperature.
Remind me never to get that sick.
Geri’s eyes are shut, of course. They sink into her face like they’re melting into her skull. Her skin is almost see-through; even her freckles seem faded.
She hardly seems like the same girl who told me I was dying of yellow fever just a couple of months ago. Or dared me to stick my tongue to the frozen light post in front of our house in Manistique. She left me there, and I couldn’t move or yell for help and would probably still be there today if Mama hadn’t found me and loosened my tongue with some warm water.
No, this hardly seems like the same person. I think I prefer the Geri with a bit more life in her.
I leave her room, my hand on my growling stomach. I don’t want to wake her, and I certainly don’t want to hear how my growling stomach could be a symptom of some deadly disease.
That’s all I need.
Credit 5.6
As I get closer to the kitchen, I hear Mr. Crutchley blabbering on and on, and an occasional “Oh, you don’t say!” from Granny, which only seems to encourage him. I slow down. I’m hungry, but I’m in no hurry to spend a perfectly good dinner with someone like Mr. Archibald Crutchley. He’s enough to ruin someone’s appetite.
Credit 5.7
As if that were possible.
“Well, I’m not one to bring up money matters,” Mr. Crutchley says, “especially around the fairer sex.” He snorts. “But I am more than capable of helping with the boardinghouse, Mrs. Slater, should you allow me to.” I can practically hear him patting his little tuft of hair and straightening his tie. I peek around the door. He looks smug, like someone waiting for an award or like Marshall Curtis when Miss Wenzel holds his paper up in front of the class as an example of neatness.
Mr. Crutchley glances between Mama and Granny. Granny’s eyes flash, and her leg taps the floor. She might as well just yell “Cha-ching!” like a cash register making a sale.
Credit 5.8
Mama, on the other hand, keeps shoveling food in her mouth, as if she won’t have to say anything if her mouth stays full.
Hey! I know that trick! I use it all the time. Especially when I’m having lunch next to Mad Madge. I’ve never known someone to ask so many nosy questions, and I never know if what I say will set her off. Also, she can make a regular, old pencil look like a very threatening weapon.
“Well, now!” Granny’s voice brings me back to the present. Her voice has that sparkle to it that only shows up when Mr. Crutchley is present. “That’s a lovely offer! Isn’t it, Alice?”
Mama swallows. Hard. She places her fork solidly on the table and stands up with a long exhale. “I hope to make a go of it myself, thank you very much, Mr. Crutchley.” I know that tone of voice. It’s the same one she uses when I come home with bad marks from school or a note from the principal.
Credit 5.9
To be fair, the worms on Mad Madge’s desk weren’t only my idea. In fact, they weren’t my idea at all. Cuddy wanted to dig up night crawlers for fishing later that week and so my pockets were full of them. I just needed somewhere to store them for a minute or two. Or five. And Mad Madge’s desk seemed empty. And wormless.
It was an accident.
Only the principal and Mama didn’t quite see it that way. And the tone of voice she’s using right now is the exact same one she used that day.
Although for some reason I don’t think she’s going to send Mr. Crutchley to his room without any supper and make him write an apology to Mad Madge.
Credit 5.10
Granny jumps into the conversation. “But we won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Archibald!” She lays a hand on Mama’s shoulder. “Let’s just see at the end of the summer how our finances are, shall we, dear?”
Mama seems like she wants to reply; her mouth hangs open, words lying on her tongue, waiting to leap all over Mr. Crutchley and his harebrained idea.
He is a ridiculous excuse for a human being.
Granny leans close to Mama and whispers something I can’t quite make out, but I swear she mentions my name. Mama shuts her mouth and nods. “Um.” She hesitates, looking at her shoes. “Um, yes, Mr. Crutchley, although I do hope to make it on my own without any help, if need be, come September I would welcome your offer.” She smiles at him tightly.
Mr. Crutchley practically dances out of his clean, pointy shoes. “That’s wonderful! Oooh! So wonderful!” He claps his fingertips together. He can’t even clap the right way.
“Now, Archibald, let me see you out,” Granny says as Mama’s shoulders drop. I step into the hallway, where I can still hear but can’t be seen. Granny’s hand rests on Mr. Crutchley’s back, their heads almost touching. I can barely hear them, but I hear enough.
“Marriage is inevitable,” Granny says.
“She’ll need the money,” Mr. Crutchley replies.
Granny nods. “Stan,” she says. That word I hear loud and clear.
“Boarding school,” Mr. Crutchley says.
Of course I could have misheard everything. That may have happened before. Once. Or five times.
Granny could have said, “Your carriage is terrible.”
And Mr. Crutchley could have said, “I agree wholeheartedly.”
Credit 5.11
Credit 5.12
But I’m positive I heard “Stan.” And “boarding school.” Three words that should never be said together.
I need to act. Soon. I need to find a quick way of making money so Mr. Archibald Crutchley is not part of my not-so-distant future. And is definitely part of my far-flung past.
But how?
I’m going to be rich. Rich, rich, richie rich,” says a very determined voice next to me. I look up to find Mad Madge plopped down much too closely at the picnic table; her black hair, neatly plaited in two braids, shines in the noontime sun. She’s so close I can’t help noticing she smells surprisingly good, like bacon.
Mad Madge peers at me from the corner of her eye. “Are you sniffing me?”
I don’t like her tone. It sounds like she’s accusing me of something.
“Pfft. No,” I scoff. “I think I have a cold.” I sniff a few more times to throw her off track.
I usually go home for lunch, but today I didn’t feel like it. Too many women telling me what to do—Stan, wash your hands! Stan, clean your fingerprints off the glass! Stan, pick up your clothes! Stan, you can’t wear those dirty pants! Stan, take a bath! Stan, clean out the tub! Stan, wipe your feet! Stan, sweep the parlor!
What do they want from me?
Mad Madge’s lunch pail gives me about two inches of room to sit, but I will admit, I’m a bit afraid to touch it in case it reminds her how much she really doesn’t like me and then I end up wearing the pail as a new hat.
Mad Madge moves the bucket to the ground and I relax a little. She doesn’t seem so mad here at lunch.
“Where is your goon?” I ask through
a mouthful of cheese.
“Excuse me?” I take it back. Mad Madge still seems mad.
I swallow slowly. I think I swallowed my cheese all in one hunk. “Umm…I said, ‘Who’s got a spoon?’ ” Madge looks down at my lunch. I have another hunk of cheese, some bread slathered with butter, and a piece of Mama’s pound cake.
“Why do you need a spoon?”
“Umm, I like to eat my bread with a spoon?” I am a whiz at improvising, I don’t mind saying. Leah Tettinger hands me a spoon. I am not a whiz at eating bread with a spoon, however. It’s hard to scoop out the bread without making a mess of crumbs.
Credit 6.1
Madge smirks between bites of her sandwich.
“Stan! Stan!” Cuddy yells from the doorway. He’s heading into the school with his class. “Wait till you see what I got from Uncle Cuthbert! It’s just like yours!” His teacher takes his hand and drags him through the doorway.
What in the world could Cuddy have that would be just like something of mine? What would I have that he would even want? He already has his own ornery grandmother, although he can certainly have mine. He has a mother, and he has his own bed. An annoying cousin? Is that what his uncle brought him? Because I should warn him not to accept that gift.
“How’s your bread?” Mad Madge asks.
I scoop some with my spoon and smile at her while taking a bite. A spoonful of crumbs falls into my lap, but fortunately, Madge doesn’t notice. Her interest is drawn to the magazine she’s spread out on the table. She punches a page with her finger. “Aha! That’s the ticket!” The headline jumps off the page: “How to Get Rich.”
I nod as I skim the article over her shoulder.
Credit 6.2
“I only need a penny!” Madge says. She looks at me, but I’m confused. How poor is she if she only needs a penny? Although, thinking about it, after giving Mama my weekly, hard-earned twenty-five cents, I don’t have a penny, either. Which might mean I’m also poor.
But this isn’t about me.
Madge stares at the magazine, a look of despair on her face. I know the feeling. I’m desperate to get rich, too. I have no idea why Madge needs money, but I’m sure she can’t need it as much as I do.
Stanley Arthur Slater should not be sent to boarding school. And Stanley Arthur Slater’s mama should not have to marry someone as evil as Archibald Crutchley. And Stanley Arthur Slater certainly should not have to claim such a person as his stepfather. For one thing, I already have a father. Granted, I may not have any idea where he is, but he’s out there. And he’s doing amazing things.
Like magic.
Credit 6.3
Credit 6.4
Or heroic things, like saving people from drowning.
Or making sure all the bad guys are locked up in jail.
And until he gets here, I need to hold down the fort. And the fort needs money, apparently.
“Hey!” Madge protests as I snatch the magazine from her grasp. I can’t help it. I have to know how I can make some money and get Archibald Crutchley out of our hair for good. She grabs it back.
“Hey! I need that!” I say.
“Why do you need my magazine?” Mad Madge asks, holding it at arm’s length from me.
“Why would I need it? Why would you need it, is a better question,” I say, reaching for it. Mad Madge looks mad. I can see why she earned that nickname.
She peers at me. “You do realize no one calls me Mad Madge but you, right?”
I did not realize that.
“And that you’re lucky I put up with it, because I would have pummeled most people into a mess of bones for calling me something other than my given name.”
I just nod. I might be a tiny bit afraid of saying anything. I realize that sometimes I should probably keep my mouth shut.
“That’s a fact,” Madge says. “Also, not that it’s any of your business, but I need money.” Her attention drifts. “I want to travel the world, not end up stuck here like all the women in my family. I want to be like Nellie Bly.”
Nellie Bly. Nellie Bly. I rack my brain. Never heard of her.
Mad Madge doesn’t blink. “Why am I not surprised, Bedpan,” she says. Her calm voice is soft and scary. “Nellie Bly, for your information, exposed asylum abuse and traveled the span of the entire earth in only seventy-two days. Does that ring a bell?”
Not another one. First Geri, with her highfalutin notion of becoming a doctor, and now Mad Madge. I thought she was smarter than that.
“Ah! Yes!” I respond as if I know what she’s talking about. It is not a good idea to rile your personal bully—mine has a nasty temper and a goon of a cousin, and she’s not afraid to use either one of them.
Madge rubs her nose and sniffs. “I’m going to get out of St. Ignace, Bedpan,” she says. “See the world. There’s got to be more than this.” She waves a hand between us and around us. “I will never, ever, ever be poor if I can help it. No matter what it takes.” She crumples up the magazine, tosses it under the table, and stomps off.
I finish my bread (without a spoon, because that’s a ridiculous way to eat a piece of bread), throw the rest of my lunch in my mouth, and collect my pail. As I get up, I pick up the magazine. Maybe I can get rich, too. It doesn’t ever hurt to gather information, and it’s free! Which is a good sign, I think. It all seems so easy. Until I read this part, the part I didn’t see earlier:
Credit 6.5
Arithmetic. My sworn enemy.
Getting rich might be harder than it looks.
Now I am in a pickle.
“I’m hungry, Stan. Stan! I’m hungry,” Cuddy moans, clutching his stomach dramatically.
“I know, Cuddy!” But I don’t have any money because somewhere between lunch and now I lost the nickel Mrs. Carlisle gave me for Cuddy’s snack, and I haven’t quite figured out how to get around this problem. I drag Cuddy across the dusty street toward Chambers’s Cigar Store. I hold my breath as I barrel in, Cuddy in tow. The hazy smoke makes it seem like everything has been half erased—it’s all I can do to focus.
Credit 7.1
Cuddy coughs—his lungs can’t tolerate smoke—so I hurry and grab Mr. Carlisle’s box of cigars before dragging Cuddy out. I don’t want to lose him or else Mama and me will be up a creek without a paddle faster than you can say…
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Stan the Bedpan himself.” It’s Nincompoop.
“Look, Stan! Look! It’s your friend Poopy Pants!” Cuddy says cheerily.
Nincompoop’s eyes narrow. He throws the toothpick he had dangling from his lip onto the boardwalk.
“What did you call me?” he asks.
“Poopy—” I clamp a hand over Cuddy’s mouth and think quick.
“Um. He didn’t call you anything,” I answer. “He said, ‘Look at my goofy dance!’ ” I smile at Cuddy. “Go on! Show him your goofy dance, Cud! It’s a good one,” I assure Nincompoop.
“Huh? That’s not what I said, Stan.” Cuddy is not so good at embellishing the truth.
“You mean he’s not so good at lying?” Nincompoop asks, stepping toward me.
“Great chat!” I grab Cuddy and pull him behind me like I’m a horse hauling an unwilling load.
Credit 7.2
Nincompoop starts after us, but the James sisters cut him off at the corner and start asking him about his mother, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about that guy it’s that he’s much too polite for a career as a gangster.
“But! But!” Cuddy protests. “I’m still hungry! There’s no food this way! And you know how I get when I’m hungry, Stan! I could faint.” He groans, his body going limp. I’m simply trying to get us out of Nincompoop’s sight before he follows us. I lug Cuddy quickly around the corner of the bank, right past the Dunham House, where Mrs. Campbell must be making some of her delicious apple pie. One whiff and I have a brilliant thought. I can take Cuddy to my house! Mama and Granny have been making cake all morning. Sure, it’s for the boarders, but it will shut Cuddy up—an
d his never-satisfied stomach—and hopefully prevent him from telling his mother I didn’t buy him anything to eat after school.
I am a genius. Plus, I’m hungry, too, and a piece of pound cake is just what the doctor ordered.
“What doctor, Stan? Are you taking me to the doctor? Because I do feel sick, Stan. Or hungry. I don’t even know anymore,” Cuddy wails.
“We’re going to my house to get some cake, Cuddy! Doesn’t that sound good?” I ask. As we get closer I remember Geri and how I have been commanded to be quiet. No, quieter than quiet. I have been told to be silent. As silent as a mouse. And Cuddy has never, ever been quiet. I’m pretty sure his favorite color is loud. I stop him at the walk leading to the door.
“Cuddy,” I say, “my cousin Geri is in there. She is mean as a snake and ornery to boot, and she will probably run out of her room and punch you in the noggin if she hears you in the kitchen eating her pound cake.” Cuddy’s eyes grow larger than they usually are. “So we need to be quiet. Very, very quiet.” Cuddy nods. I pat him on the head and nudge him toward the door.
Credit 7.3
“Come on in,” I say. I drop the cigars on the table and usher Cuddy into the kitchen. A lovely golden-yellow pound cake is cooling for dinner.
“Hi, boys! Stan, is this Cuddy?” Mama asks, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Ma’am,” Cuddy whispers with a slight smile. He hastily removes his cap and twists it in his hands.
Mama smiles back at him. If you didn’t know Cuddy, you might think he’s cute.
Oh, who am I kidding. He is kinda cute.
“Would you two like some pound cake?” Mama grabs the knife and cuts a couple of pieces. We pull up to the table and dig in.
“Thank you,” Cuddy whispers.
“You are more than welcome,” Mama whispers. “And you are always welcome in this home.” She squeezes his shoulder.
My Near-Death Adventures Page 4