But she didn’t even reply. So then I felt really bad, which is not a feeling I’m all too familiar with, especially concerning Geri. So I brought her a magazine. One that didn’t even have much cut out of it. And I read her a story about artistic house furnishing and then one about the art of knitting and then started on about misses’ and girls’ fashions until she growled at me that she didn’t want to be a seamstress, she wanted to be a doctor.
“A doctor, Stan!” she said so strongly I’m pretty sure it sapped her of a week’s worth of energy.
I didn’t have the heart to remind her she’s a girl and girls are better suited to doing girlie things, like sewing. Instead, I read her a story called “Love on Leaden Wings” until she fell asleep. Or until I fell asleep.
I might have fallen asleep.
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“Are you listening, Stanley?” Granny raps her knuckles on the table, bringing me back to the present. She can’t bear disrespect, even if I’m not doing it on purpose. Or even if I might have been sleeping.
I nod. Nodding is not lying.
Okay. Nodding is lying a little bit, because I really wasn’t listening. But nodding is lying with your whole head rather than your mouth, which makes it better.
“That’s how you make money, Stan,” Stinky Pete says. He reaches for the vinegar pie Mrs. Glashaw dropped off for her husband earlier today.
I can’t escape vinegar pie, apparently. First Mrs. Cavanaugh in Manistique would force them on us, and now Mrs. Glashaw.
What have I ever done to deserve such torture? And did Stinky Pete just give me the secret of how to make money and I wasn’t listening?
Why, oh, why don’t I listen to people? Why have I been tormented with a brain so quick and clever that I can’t focus on the little things in life?
“Ahem.” Granny passes me a piece of pie that I’m obligated to take since we are in no position to turn down food.
I’m doomed. My life is one misery after another.
“Oh, please,” Granny says. Her eyes are rolled up so far in her head they’re mostly white. She throws up her hands. “You have to be the most entitled, underappreciative, overdramatic child….” Mama reaches over and pats Granny’s hand.
Stinky Pete grins and winks at me before taking a giant bite of pie.
I can’t help smiling at that guy.
“So what do you think about what Mr. McLachlan said?” Mama asks, setting her empty plate to the side.
Hmmm. What do I think about what Stinky Pete said? I shovel pie into my mouth to give myself a chance to think.
It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.
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I chew. Very slowly. It is nothing short of torture. And I still don’t know what I think about what Stinky Pete said. Mainly because I didn’t hear what Stinky Pete said. I swallow. Very slowly. And clear my throat.
“I think,” I say. “I think Stinky Pete has a point.” I’m pretty proud of myself for that answer. It’s not a lie. In fact, it’s the truth, and it sounds like I’ve been listening all along.
Granny, Mama, and Stinky Pete stare at me as if they want me to keep talking. I take another bite.
I don’t know what’s worse, Mrs. Glashaw’s vinegar pie or trying to figure out what Stinky Pete said while everyone stares at me.
Stinky Pete leans in his chair, his eyes twinkly, his mouth curled at one end. He rests a hand on my arm. “Stan, I said, ‘Hard work is the only honest and honorable way to make money.’ ”
I set down my fork and nod like I agree.
“Archibald Crutchley certainly works hard,” Granny says. “And he has a lot of money,” she adds, picking up dishes and taking them to the sink.
Stinky Pete’s gaze drops to his hands.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to work hard. I need to make money the fast way or else my name will be Mudd.
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Or Crutchley. My name will be Stan Crutchley, a thought so vile my stomach churns.
Or maybe it hurts from the vinegar pie, but either way, I feel sick.
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Last night, in the middle of the night, I had a brilliant idea. I also had a stomachache.
Vinegar pie. I think vinegar pie could cure Geri. It tastes awful, so it has to be good for you!
I took a piece to Geri early this morning and waved it under her nose, but she didn’t flinch. And then I tried to put it in her mouth. Gently. But she would have nothing of it and I made a mess of the sheets and Granny yelled at me later about muddling up Geri’s bed.
Also, Geri might still have been asleep.
Then she would have nothing to do with me or the vinegar pie, so it’s another of my brilliant ideas gone to waste.
Luckily I had another brilliant idea during arithmetic class. We were doing the nines times table and one of the questions was “I bought 3 pounds of raisins at 9 cents each. How many cents did they cost?” Which made me think about raisins and then that made me think about rabbit droppings because they look just like raisins.
Rabbit droppings don’t taste like raisins, however. Not that I know anything about that.
Then I thought about the time I kicked some rabbit droppings from behind the boardinghouse and all of a sudden I almost jumped out of my coat because a snake quickly slithered through the grass right under my feet.
Which naturally made me think of snake oil. And if I can get some snake oil, my dream of creating a cure for what ails Geri (and making myself rich in the process) is not dead!
Also, those raisins in that math problem ended up costing 27 cents. At least that’s what it said when I peeked at Marshall Curtis’s paper.
Lucky for me, as Cuddy and I are walking back from getting him a treat and picking up the Carlisles’ mail, what should I spy but a real, live snake? It’s tiny and cute and slithery. And so harmless.
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“Cuddy!” I say, pointing. “Look! It’s a snake!” I act excited because it’s not every day you see a snake sliding along the street.
Cuddy recoils. “It’s a snake, Stan! They are dangerous! My uncle was bitten by a snake once and almost didn’t live to tell the tale. And he lost a leg and then had to become a pirate.”
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I have known pirates, and I have no idea why losing a leg would force Cuddy’s uncle into becoming one, but that’s none of my concern right this moment. I need that snake, or more specifically, I need his oil.
Just how do you get oil from a snake?
“Um, pick him up, Cuddy,” I urge, elbowing him. “My hands are full or I would do it myself,” I assure him, spreading the two pieces of mail into both of my hands while moving away from the slimy creature.
Cuddy looks at me like I smell bad and have stolen his last piece of candy.
“You did steal my last piece of candy, didn’t you, Stan?” he says seriously.
I shake my head and swallow. The candy almost gets stuck in my throat, so I swallow harder and try to smile innocently at the same time. This isn’t easy, but somehow it works. I open my mouth to show Cuddy how empty it is of any type of candy. He looks at me skeptically.
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“I would have given it to you if you had just asked, Stan. Really,” he says.
“Well, now I’m asking you to pick up that tiny, cute, harmless snake,” I say.
Cuddy finds a stick in the grass and nudges the snake. It’s actually not very little. It’s about the size of the stick. And it’s pretty slimy. And its tongue darts out, hissing. It’s all I can do not to squeal and run away like a little girl. I stand on one foot, leaning as far from the deadly viper as I can without looking cowardly.
“Pick it up, Cuddy,” I yelp. How in the heck am I going to get oil from this thing?
“I can’t, Stan! I can’t!” Cuddy drops the stick and jumps like he was just stung by a wasp.
“There are wasps around here?” he cries. Cuddy turns around, flailing his arms and brushing off
his hair.
His antics have distracted me. Usually I am attentive, my senses as sharp as knives lying on a bed of nails. But not this time.
“What do we have here?” Mad Madge has snuck up behind us and now holds the snake in her two hands, peering into its face. I take a quick glance around to make sure Nincompoop isn’t nearby.
“Nicholas is helping his dad bring in fish down at the docks,” she says dismissively.
Now she can read my mind, too?
Mad Madge tears her adoring gaze from the snake to look me square in the face. “Stan, your mind is an open book. Mainly because nothing ever stays secret in that brain of yours. Every thought you have comes straight out your mouth.”
Should I argue this with her?
“No, Stan,” Cuddy says, shaking his head. He’s still waving his arms, shooing off imaginary wasps. “There’s no need to argue. She’s right.”
Madge smiles, switching hands as the snake slithers between them. She leans down to set it free in the grass.
“No!” I yell, stepping closer. Madge stops.
“Why not?” she asks.
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“Well, if you must know,” I say, using my most educated voice, “the oil of snakes is known to prevent illnesses. And I am planning on oiling this snake.”
Mad Madge snorts. “Pfft. How do you oil a snake?” she asks.
Hmmm. That’s a good question. I hadn’t gotten that far.
“Of course you hadn’t. Also, garter snakes aren’t the type used for snake oil medicines,” she adds, lowering the snake to the ground.
“How do you know, missy?” I huff.
“I investigated a medicine show that was in town a year ago. I wrote a letter to the paper, signed it Mr. John Jones, and that show was run out of town twenty-four hours later. It was one of my proudest moments. Too bad no one would have taken me seriously if I had signed my own name.”
Madge brushes her hands on her dress before tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. When she’s not threatening me with bodily harm, she actually looks kind of pleasant. And now that I’m close to her, I can admit she doesn’t smell too bad. In fact, she smells good. A little like the lilac bush behind the mercantile.
Wait! What am I thinking here? We’re talking about Mad Madge! Violent criminal! Head gangster! Thief! Bully!
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“You think I smell good?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s accusing me or flattered.
“He does,” Cuddy says, his hands still flailing. His arms have got to be getting tired. “And he always says your hair looks like the shiny coal we pick up along the train tracks. You know, how it sparkles and…Hey!” Cuddy says as I push him to the ground.
“Oops!”
It was an accident. Kind of.
I made sure he fell on a soft spot where the pale grass is already sprouting up and the dirt below is no longer frozen.
At least I hope it was a soft spot. He hasn’t moved since he accidentally fell.
Mad Madge eyes me thoughtfully. I clear my throat. Cuddy lies on his back, spread eagle, moaning.
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“I’m injured, Stan! Help me! I’m dying!”
“There are snakes in that grass,” I remind him. He immediately hops up, brushing dirt from his trousers.
“So why do you need snake oil?” Mad Madge’s eyes squint. I know that look. It’s the one that always comes before a bunch of nosy questions.
“Um, n-no reason,” I stammer. “Uh, see you tomorrow?” I grab Cuddy’s arm and drag him toward his house.
“Bye, Mad Madge!” he yells. I jerk him a little. “She doesn’t look that mad, Stan,” he says, stumbling to keep up.
“We don’t say that to her face,” I hiss. I sneak a glance at Mad Madge. She catches my eye, her mouth hooked in a slight smile.
Which, for some reason, makes me feel more scared than when she was threatening to beat me up.
Can you come in today, Stan? Is today the day? Can I show you what Uncle Cuthbert got me? You will be surprised!” Cuddy wiggles his eyebrows as he jumps from foot to foot.
“Sure, Cuddy,” I laugh. That guy can be such a card. Also, Cuddy can’t keep a secret to save his life, so a surprise is certainly unusual. We climb the steps to his house. The door swings open before I can even reach for the handle, and there is Mrs. Law, staring at us over the rims of her spectacles.
“You’re late,” she pronounces. She reaches between Cuddy and me and ushers Cuddy in, then points a finger in my face. “I’m not sure why you’re still needed, but if it were up to me, Cuddy would no longer be in your care.”
I hear Cuddy protest, but arguing with Mrs. Law is like playing chess with a cat; no matter how good you are at chess, sooner or later the cat will just knock over all the pieces and act like he’s won. Before I know it, I’m staring at a large wooden door.
I have a feeling Mrs. Law has never lost an argument. Or a chess game.
I take each stair slowly and sit for a minute on the bottom step. I have failed at all my moneymaking schemes and might end up losing the only real paying job I’ve ever had. I am not, apparently, cut out to be a gangster or a snake oil salesman. I don’t have time to make money through hard work, which is a ridiculous idea anyway, no offense, Stinky Pete.
I pick up a handful of pebbles and fling them into the street, one by one, trying to hit the lamppost across from the house. Ping. Ping.
“Yes, well, Margaret.” I hear Mr. Carlisle’s voice booming from the open window behind me and pause midthrow. “I appreciate the fact that you want me home, but Captain Slater has the Wanderer moored at the docks and I can’t leave him alone down there.” Mumbles follow as Cuddy’s mom responds, but I’m no longer paying attention.
Did Mr. Carlisle say Captain Slater? As in Arthur Slater? Hero of the seas? As in my father? I drop the rest of the pebbles, pop up from the step, and hightail it to the docks.
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I knew it! I knew my father was someone special, great, and heroic! Because where else would I have come from?
“Maybe your mother?” I jump. Mad Madge is leaning against the bank building, cleaning her fingernails with a jackknife. She’s as sneaky as, well, as I was when I stole my lucky hat back from Geri.
To be perfectly honest, it is my lucky hat. And since I retrieved it, my luck has changed already! I found my dad! Also, Geri doesn’t even need the hat anymore. She’s feeling so much better that yesterday alone she diagnosed me with five different illnesses and one I’m sure she made up.
“Oh! So that’s where the hat went! I wondered.” Geri appears from behind Madge, her hands in her pockets, her hair trying to escape her braids. How do these two know each other? The only thing that could make this scene any worse is if Nincompoop and Granny showed up. I peer around cautiously, planning my getaway.
“Oh, Nicholas isn’t here. He had to mind his brothers,” Madge says, folding up her knife and sticking it in her coat. “And Geri and I met the other day at school. Remember? You introduced us.”
I think I would have remembered that.
“But what’s this about your father?” she asks in her journalist voice. I’m pretty sure she’s one step away from grabbing her notebook and pencil.
I don’t dare look at Geri. She’s been hearing misinformation about my dad since before I even knew he was still alive, and I can practically hear her eyes cranking up into her head.
“Well, I overheard Cuddy’s dad saying a Captain Slater is down at the docks.” I feel like springing out of my shoes with excitement.
Madge scratches something into her notebook. “Go on,” she says without looking up.
“Stan,” Geri says in her warn-y voice. Her warn-y voice is very annoying, I don’t mind saying. Actually, her entire voice is very annoying.
I don’t mind saying that, either.
Madge and Geri glare at me.
Did I say that aloud?
“Yes, yes, you did, Stan. Apologize.” Madge st
eps toward me.
Geri lays a hand on Madge’s arm, stopping her midstride. “We are not going down this road again, Stan. Do you hear me?”
I glance up and down the street. Of course we’re going down this road again. It’s State Street! You can’t get anywhere if you don’t go down this road.
Girls. Sheesh. It’s true, as Mr. Crutchley is fond of saying, that lady folk just aren’t very good with directions.
“Stan.” Geri’s shoulders hunch, her palms open and flailing. “What will it take for you to realize your mother is the best thing you’ve got going? And Peter McLachlan would walk over burning hot coals for you. And Granny”—I cock my eyebrows at her at the mention of Granny—“okay, we’ll leave Granny out of it. But, my point is, your father is not worth knowing, Stan.” Her voice cracks, and I nod as if I agree. But Mama, Stinky Pete, and Granny aren’t my father, my real, honest-to-goodness father. For one thing, two of them are girls, and the other has “stinky” in his name.
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“Are you listening to me, Stan? I will tell Granny if you even think about going down to that dock and seeing someone who may or may not turn out to be your father. And then you probably won’t be allowed to set foot outside the house except to go to school and bring Cuddy home.” She shakes a finger at me. I nod like I see her point.
I don’t see her point.
I let her and Mad Madge steer me toward the boardinghouse. They chatter on about becoming a doctor like Elizabeth Blackwell and a journalist like Nellie Bly. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t even take the time to remind them these are not occupations for ladies.
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Instead, I take a peek at the docks as we walk by. Tall masts jut over the fishing boats and poke over the top of the steamships, bouncing on the waves like fingers beckoning, and I just know my dad is there, waiting for me.
My Near-Death Adventures Page 7