My Near-Death Adventures

by Alison DeCamp

  We both inhale our cake.

  “Now what, Stan? Now what?” Cuddy asks. Crumbs cling to his cheeks and sprinkle his mouth. I place a finger to my lips.

  “Shhh!” I whisper.

  He nods but starts kicking the table leg, which is definitely not an activity that will go unnoticed. I have to come up with more ideas to keep him quiet.

  “Aha!” I have a great idea! “I’ll be right back, Cud! Don’t move!” I run upstairs, grab my scrapbook, and dash back down.

  “Look what I have, Cuddy!” I place my most-prized possession on the kitchen table and open it. Cuddy sits on his hands and looks at the scrapbook like it’s the Holy Grail. Right then and there I realize he’s never seen a scrapbook filled with pictures of far-off places and inventions, heroes and desperadoes. He’s only seen the blank book I picked up at the post office.

  “Where did you find all these pictures?” he whispers. “If there was a scrapbook prize, you would win first place.” He looks at me. “There should be a scrapbook prize, Stan.”

  I appreciate his admiration. It is pretty special. And I agree. There should be a scrapbook prize.

  For twenty-two and a half minutes, Cuddy doesn’t move except to say, “Go to the next page, Stan. Can we go to the next page?” and I flip through, pointing out the outlaws and pirates, the ads for stockings and pictures of logging camps.

  When it’s time for me to take him home, Cuddy just sits at the table, speechless.

  “Ready, my man?” I ask, holding open his coat. Cuddy stares at me as if a stiff wind blew in and froze him to the chair. “We have to get going, Cuddy, or your mom may worry.” And your grandmother may hoist me by my breeches and hang me up like a porch swing.

  “Stan, this has been the best day of my life,” Cuddy says, plopping off the chair. He slides an arm into his sleeve and looks up at me. “Thank you for showing me your scrapbook, Stan. It’s even better than I thought it would be.”

  I smile and help him with his other sleeve.

  “You are my favorite person in the world, Stan. You are. And I want to be just like you when I get old.”

  I place his cap on his head, making sure it covers his ears. “You’re pretty great yourself. Now, let’s get you home.” And let’s get out of here before our luck changes. We haven’t seen Geri this whole time; I’m feeling pretty proud of my quiet, sneaky self. Also, I’m a whiz at taking care of Cuddy, I don’t mind saying.

  But as I grab the cigars off the table and we’re halfway through the door, a voice stops us in our tracks—a voice thick and dark, as scratchy as a cat covered in sandpaper, and as scary as Granny holding a spoonful of cod liver oil.

  Credit 7.4

  “Where are you going?” the voice asks. Cuddy has a look of horror on his face. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. He knots his fingers through mine.

  There on the sofa sits Geri. The kerosene lamp casts a shadow over her and the gargantuan book propped on her lap. Her skin is so transparent it almost glows. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and herd Cuddy out the door before he thinks my home is inhabited by a creepy, sinister ghost.

  Credit 7.5

  “What was that?” Cuddy asks. He stumbles along like an old man who’s lost his memory.

  “That was nothing,” I answer, hoping Cuddy will soon forget this experience. I’m also trying to come up with an acceptable story I can tell his mother when he comes home with that spooked look on his face.

  Should I mention Cuddy’s overactive imagination? His inability to tell fact from fiction? His impulsiveness?

  “That certainly wasn’t nothing,” Cuddy replies.

  “Yes, yes, it was!” I insist. I wave to Mr. Mulcrone clopping down the street in his fancy new carriage with the lights on the sides.

  Credit 7.6

  “How can you say that?” Cuddy stops and confronts me. I take a deep breath. Apparently I won’t be able to make him forget such a frightful sight so easily.

  “Cuddy, what you saw in there was scary, I’ll admit,” I admit.

  “Scary, Stan? Scary?” Cuddy practically yells. This is worse than I thought.

  “I know! I know! But it’s really not as bad as you think,” I insist. “I promise! She’s not usually so frightening!”

  Well, that’s a lie. She’s always frightening. But if it will calm Cuddy down, I’ll say anything at this point.

  “Frightening, Stan? Frightening?” Cuddy yells.

  Credit 7.7

  I panic and clutch Cuddy’s arms, forcing him to look at me. “What do you think about what you just saw?” I ask.

  Cuddy lets out a sigh. “Only that I just laid eyes on the most beautiful creature God ever put on this earth,” he says.

  You have got to be kidding.

  Cuddy is in love with Geri.

  I am now so much in a pickle I smell like dill, my face is green, and I have little bumps all over me.

  Either that, or I dropped a jar of them, feel like throwing up, and am breaking out in hives simply thinking about the mess I’m in.

  I didn’t dare walk Cuddy in—I just dropped him off at the door and skedaddled.

  “I want to show you what my uncle got me, Stan,” Cuddy pleaded. But I certainly couldn’t afford to run into Mrs. Carlisle. What if she asked about the nickel I lost? If she found out about the nickel, it’s very possible I would lose my job watching Cuddy.

  I winked at Cuddy and promised I would see his surprise soon, when we had more time. Then I called him Champ, which always makes him happy, and dashed back home before anyone could stop and question me.

  But the truth is, I’m worried. I don’t have a job like Archibald Crutchley—I can’t earn enough as a child minder to keep Mama from marrying that guy if money becomes an issue. My quarter dollar is a drop in the bucket, though you wouldn’t know it when I hand it over to Mama—she smiles at me like I’ve given her the moon and everything is going to be okay.

  Everything will not be okay, however, if Mrs. Carlisle finds out about that nickel—I need to pay her back, and I’m afraid that’s not possible.

  I need a plan. A plan to get rich. And a way to do it quickly. I pull Mad Madge’s magazine from my pocket and smooth it out on my bed. It’s from New York City, a place where people make their millions every single day. I’m pretty sure. There must be something in here for me. Something that doesn’t require math.

  Credit 8.1

  I flip past an article about politicians and a picture of Washington Hesing and his whiskers, past all the ads for shoes and pianos.

  Also, I wish Geri would stop her hacking; it’s making it difficult to concentrate.

  There’s nothing in these pages that will help me solve my problem today. Betting on the Kentucky Derby wouldn’t bring any kind of reward until May, a whole month away, even if I did have money to place a bet.

  I’m ready to toss the magazine on the floor in disgust when I see something that won’t help me but certainly might help Geri.

  It’s not in my character to help someone so devious and disagreeable, but if it will stop her cough, I’m willing to try it.

  It’s an ad for a remedy so amazing it promises to cure colds, catarrh (whatever that is), and nervous disease (whatever that is), and it will make you smarter. Which Geri certainly could use. I run to show Mama. I think I’ve found a cure for what ails Geri!

  Credit 8.2

  “Mama! Look!” I holler, careening down the stairs and into the kitchen. But when I turn the corner, I’m met with a hand to the chest that nearly knocks me back to next week.

  “Oof!” I can barely catch my breath.

  “Stanley Arthur Slater,” Granny hisses. “You will hush up immediately. This is a boardinghouse, a place where businessmen pay good money to live, and they certainly won’t stay here if they are constantly disturbed by a boy who cannot control his impulses!” She nods toward Mr. Glashaw napping in his chair. That old coot couldn’t hear an explosion if it went off next to his head.

 
Credit 8.3

  “But, Granny!” I yell. She glares. “Um, but, Granny?” I say in my church voice.

  “I found a cure for Geri!” I thrust the magazine at her. Granny takes the wrinkly paper in two fingers.

  “Right here! Right where it says ‘Crosby’s Vitalized Phosphites.’ See it? Look! The ‘vitalized’ is even underlined! See where it cures everything? We should order it! We should order it right now!” I poke the paper for emphasis.

  Granny smiles. It’s a sad smile. A smile that basically says, “Oh, you poor, ignorant child.”

  “No, that’s not my smile that said that, Stan. That was my mouth.”

  Oh.

  “And this is simply snake oil, Stan.”

  “Nope. It’s ox brain. See? It says it right here!” I point to where I’ve circled “ox brain.” That seems important. And disgusting. “I don’t care what it’s made of, Granny. If it works, it could be snake poo and I’d make Geri take it.”

  Granny looks like she’s smelled snake poo.

  “Can we order it? Can we?”

  “Stan, snake oil isn’t from a snake; it’s simply a term for something a salesman tries to pass off as a cure-all, when it might end up being a vial of water and lemon or turpentine or mineral oil. It doesn’t actually help; it takes money from good, hardworking people, creates hope, and leaves folks in despair. It’s a scam.” She hands the magazine back to me.

  I am disappointed.

  “Come to think of it, that’s how Eugene made his fortune,” Granny says, looking toward the backyard as if she can see him through the walls.

  Eugene “Genius” Malone?

  I’m instantly interested, because if I can cure Geri and make money, that’s a situation where everybody wins!

  Credit 8.4

  “How, Granny? How did Eugene Malone make his fortune?”

  “As I remember, he went out West and then came back and sold questionable medical remedies at medicine shows. Made a ton of money.”

  This is all I need to hear. If Eugene can do it, I can, too. I’ve met that guy and, no offense, he’s not a genius.

  But my plan is, if I do say so myself. And it’s so clever, it just might save Mama and me from a fate worse than death: a future with Mr. Crutchley.

  All I need is a recipe, a willing patient, and some bottles, and we’ll be rich! I’m off to start my new business venture!

  “It’s also the reason Eugene almost ended up in prison,” Granny says as I head up the stairs.

  But that’s not important. No one puts rich people in prison. Also, my medicine will work.

  I can practically count the money already.

  Credit 8.5

  After dinner I throw scraps outside for the cats. Granny loves them. She’s even named all of them. There’s Billy. And the white one with a limp is called Billy. And the big one that always meows the loudest is named Billy. Actually, they’re all named Billy. Granny has never been known for her keen imagination, which might just be why she doesn’t appreciate mine.

  “Clem!” I hear from near the tracks. “Clem!”

  I sigh. “It’s Stan, Eugene. S-t-a-n.”

  “Yep. That’s what I said.” Eugene meanders over, all grime and matted hair. “What’s the news on the streets? I see old Archie’s been over quite often.” Eugene winks at me like he knows something I don’t.

  He must know something I don’t.

  “Do you know something I don’t, Eugene?”

  “Well, Clem, I know that Archibald Crutchley is a bit of a namby-pamby who is sweet on your mama.”

  That’s common knowledge. Once again, I’m thinking Eugene’s nickname of “Genius” is wishful thinking on someone’s part.

  “And I know he’s got money. When I had money, I was much more attractive to the ladies, if you know what I mean.” He winks again.

  I do not know what he means. But I do know he used to be rich. And he used to be rich because he sold “medicine.” And I need money. Some might say I’m desperate for money.

  “Well, I certainly know that feeling,” Eugene says, drawing a hand through his hair and slapping his cap back on his head. “I have to say, not having any money is somewhat more freeing than having a lot of money.”

  “Pfft,” I scoff, waving a hand at him. What kind of nonsense is this?

  “No, really, Clem! I’ve got nothing to lose!” He spits and rubs it into the dirt with his shoe.

  Suddenly I have an idea. “Eugene,” I say slyly. I reach down for a daisy and start picking off the petals, pretending to be completely caught up in this meaningless activity.

  “She loves you, she loves you not,” Eugene says with each petal I toss to the ground.

  Credit 8.6

  “Huh?” I ask, confused.

  “Who are you sweet on, eh, Clem? You can tell me! We’re just guys on the stoop shooting the breeze, you and I.” He sits on the step next to me, cats weaving themselves through his legs as he pets them. “Hey, Billy,” Eugene purrs.

  I have a pang of sudden guilt. I just gave a plate of good food scraps to a bunch of cats when we have a hungry man living a few feet from us. Why didn’t I give the plate to him?

  Eugene claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m set, Clem. Don’t you worry about me. Anyway, you seemed like you were about to ask me something. Women problems? I’m kind of an expert on women, if I do say so myself. Speaking of which, how’s that Granny of yours?” Eugene winks at me again.

  I pretend I don’t hear that last part. “Um, anyway, I was thinking about medicine, Eugene.” I’m actually thinking about how to avoid boarding school, but one thing at a time.

  “Boarding school’s not all that bad,” Eugene says. A cat perches on his shoulder, and three more lie at his feet. “It was great for me. Intellectually stimulating, some great guys. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  I’m really starting to question this guy’s mental capacity. “Um, anyway, Eugene, what I was wondering is, my cousin Geri is very sick and I heard through the grapevine that you know a thing or two about medical cures.” I scratch circles in the dirt with a stick.

  “True, true. The key is actual snake oil; it really does have curative properties, but it’s quite hard to get, especially here in Michigan. I used to buy it from Chinese railroad workers when I was out West.”

  “Can I get some of that oil, Eugene? Do you have the address of any of those Chinese railroad workers? It’s kind of urgent.” I am on a deadline here, mister.

  Credit 8.7

  Eugene shakes his head slowly so as not to knock Billy off his perch on his shoulder. “Nope. Sorry, Clem.”

  He has called me Clem so many times now, I’m starting to answer to it. “Why not?”

  Eugene leans back on his hands, the cats adjusting themselves accordingly. “I don’t have those connections anymore, see. Also, you don’t want to be selling snake oil treatments. It’s a business that preys on people’s hopes and dreams, and the money you make at the expense of other people is certainly not worth it.”

  “But what if it works? Then isn’t it worth it?”

  “Well, without the actual snake oil, chances are it won’t work….”

  “But what if it does?”

  “I guarantee today’s snake oil medicines are fraudulent. Why, they add turpentine….”

  “The stuff that takes off paint?” Turpentine is nastier than a flea on a flea on a tick.

  “Yessir. I think Hamlin’s Wizard Oil has some ammonia in it, too. And alcohol.”

  I shudder. It sounds nasty. But then I remember I won’t be taking it. Geri will! So the nastier, the better!

  “What else?” I ask eagerly. I’m listing all the ingredients in my head so I can rummage through the cupboards later and create my first batch of Stanley Slater’s Incredible Cure-All! A doctor in a bottle! I imagine all the money I’ll make. How we’ll fix the roof on the boardinghouse, along with the fence and the front porch. Then we’ll buy new furniture for the parlor and hang some curtains….

/>   “And that’s about it,” Eugene says, gently shooing cats from his lap as he gets up.

  “What’s about it?” Did I miss the last few ingredients? Wait!

  “See you around, Clem.” Eugene smiles. His teeth are amazingly white, gleaming from his grimy face.

  “But I missed some of the ingredients!” I say. Eugene apparently doesn’t hear me, however, as he whistles his way down the tracks, probably on his way to Reverend Elliot’s.

  I suppose I can make some of this up. It can’t be that hard. I try to think of the most disgusting things I can possibly come up with because medicine always tastes terrible, so something awful has got to work really well.

  I run up to my room, pull out my scrapbook and some magazines, and start brainstorming the worst-tasting ingredients possible.

  Credit 8.8

  Here’s where it gets tricky.

  Credit 8.9

  I set down my pen. Would I really make Geri take this? And, even if I could, why would I give it to innocent people who have never done anything to me?

  This is one of those moral dilemmas my teacher, Miss Wenzel, is always talking about, one of those times when you have to make a choice but you don’t really like either option.

  Moral dilemmas make my head spin, but I can’t help wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I could make bucketloads of money from my new snake oil invention and solve all our problems. But if the medicine doesn’t work, people will spend their own hard-earned money on something that doesn’t actually cure anything.

  The other option is to do nothing, and if I do that, Mama becomes Alice Crutchley, I refuse to become Stan Crutchley, I am sent to live at a boarding school where I’m forced to wear a tie and clean pants and end up dying of boredom and unbearable cleanliness. Then Mama and Mr. Crutchley have lots of Crutchley babies (all of them with names starting with the letter A) and my poor grave will be forgotten and overgrown with weeds.