Today was the dumbest day of my life.
“You mean, today you were the dumbest you’ve ever been in your life?” Geri asks. Cuddy snickers, and I give him the evil eye. Which only makes him giggle even more. He starts choking on his cinnamon stick.
I, apparently, am not a whiz at the evil eye. I smack Cuddy on the back. He coughs before licking his candy again.
“No, that’s not at all what I mean,” I clarify. Cuddy slinks his hand into mine. “What I mean is that the day was so looong.”
“Well, at least you didn’t have to endure forty-five minutes of Mr. Servis’s lecture on human nature and science, which was so out of date I swear he said the earth is flat and the sun revolves around us,” Geri says, her words a rapid-fire exhale.
Now that she’s feeling better, she insists on attending school even though there are only a few weeks left. Who does that?
“And the school doesn’t even have any lab equipment! How will I do experiments?” She throws her arms up in frustration. Her hair looks like an experiment; stray curls stick out from under her hat every which way. “And then he started talking about miasma and how we should avoid bad air because it will make us sick, so I, of course, mentioned that germ theory is in general acceptance by anyone knowledgeable in the scientific community, and he just patted my head and dismissed us for lunch.”
Cuddy licks his fingers and sticks his hand back in mine. I try not to think about germs.
We near the docks, busy with freight and fish and trains. I stop in my tracks. A two-masted schooner bobs next to the merchandise dock like an apple in a barrel of water.
“Oh. I don’t like that bobbing-for-apples game, Stan,” Cuddy says. “I almost drowned once playing it.” I pull on his hand to go closer to the ship. It’s one I haven’t seen before, and Wanderer is plainly painted on its stern.
I’m drawn toward it like a fish in a net being hauled in, helpless.
But apparently I’m more like a fish on a hook snagged on a rock, because I’m not moving. Cuddy is surprisingly strong for someone so little.
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“I can’t go on the docks, Stan,” Cuddy reminds me. “Remember? I’m not allowed.” He tugs on my arm.
“You are not going there, Stan,” Geri says, her voice a dead-on impression of Granny. She glares at me. Cuddy pulls me toward town, yanking me with his sticky, germ-infested hands.
“Let’s go. Cuddy needs to get home. Now,” Geri says firmly.
I look at the ship. Men amble up and down the dock, some of them stopping to slap each other on the backs, others hauling crates on and off boats.
These are my people. I should be there, slapping people and hauling things.
“Oh, I’m happy to slap you, if that’s what you’re missing in your life,” Geri says.
I flinch. She’s so violent for someone who wants to be a doctor.
“Stan!” All three of us swing our necks around to see who is calling me. Could it be my dad? Did he recognize me?
“Over here!” I peer down the railroad tracks and spy Stinky Pete, his shiny teeth sparkling in the spring sun.
Geri relaxes when she sees him, and Cuddy jumps up and down, waving with both arms.
“Hey, I’ve gotta go see Stinky Pete,” I say, jogging off in his direction. “Um.” I turn to Geri and point at Cuddy. “See that he gets home, okay?”
“Stan! Don’t you dare!” Geri warns.
I wave, ignoring Geri’s openmouthed expression and Cuddy’s slumped shoulders, and head toward my friend.
“Just going to spend some time with Stinky Pete!” I yell behind me.
When I get closer to Stinky Pete and can no longer hear Geri’s protests, I slow down and take a quick peek at Cuddy and Geri returning to town. She is holding Cuddy’s hand. I’ll bet he is over the moon.
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At least that’s what I tell myself, because right about now I don’t feel so good. I feel a little like the time I told Nincompoop his mother must have a really loud bark.
He stood there with his arm cocked and his fist ready to slug me in the gut, but the minute I said that, he froze, dropped his arm, squeezed his eyes shut, and grimaced like I had slugged him. Then he ran off down the street.
“What did you just do?” Mad Madge said accusingly.
“Listen! He was about to punch me in the stomach!” I protested.
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“Nicholas’s mother just left them!” Madge said. “He can’t sleep at night. He can’t focus at school.” She took her ever-present pencil and thrust it in my face. “Nicholas wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if I weren’t a lady I’d slug you myself.”
I feel now like I felt then. Like a punch in the gut might have been a better option.
Stinky Pete saunters up and sets a crate down on one of the rails. “What’s up, my man?” he asks with a smile.
“Oh, um, just taking Cuddy home from school and, well, you know, keeping Geri out of trouble.” My eyes dart toward the Wanderer. Some sailors are by the ramp leading up to the ship. Is one my dad?
I’m well aware I can’t let Stinky Pete see my gaze. He’s overly cautious about keeping me safe, especially since that unfortunate dynamite accident at the lumber camp.
Although we both know it was certainly not my fault the uncoordinated Archibald Crutchley fell in the river and almost died.
“Except for the fact that you kind of pushed him in,” Stinky Pete reminds me.
I wave him off with a shake of my head. “Well, he shouldn’t have been standing so close to the shore,” I say.
Stinky Pete nods good-naturedly. “Let bygones be bygones, hey, son?” he says, jacking the crate onto his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I ask. I wonder if he is going on the dock. And if he is, perhaps I can tag along. And if I tag along, maybe I can get close to the Wanderer and my father. And then…I don’t know what will happen then.
But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I’m a whiz at crossing bridges, I don’t mind saying.
“I’m delivering some freight,” Stinky Pete says. “Wanna come along?”
I nod so hard my eyeballs feel jittery.
“Well, c’mon then, but stay right with me. There are a lot of ways to get in trouble on the docks,” Stinky Pete says seriously. I’m just about sure I would never get in trouble.
“How about last week when you got in trouble with your teacher for writing fake love letters to people who didn’t even like each other?” Stinky Pete asks.
I put my hand over my mouth to muffle a laugh. That was so funny. I put a love note on Miss Wenzel’s desk from Mr. Servis, and when she opened it her face turned the color of Mad Madge’s red woolen scarf.
I hadn’t realized, however, that Mr. Servis is a married man. Or that Miss Wenzel would recognize my handwriting. Or that Mama would tell Stinky Pete.
But I have seen the light and come to Jesus. And I asked forgiveness and I wrote “Stanley Slater will not forge notes or anything else ever again or risk expulsion” one hundred times on the blackboard. Which is a poorly constructed sentence, if you ask me. But, of course, no one ever asks me.
“Yeah, well, that was, um, an accident?” I say.
Stinky Pete shakes his head, but his mouth turns up and he walks along like a fellow with a song in his head. He nods for me to follow him.
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I’m on the docks. I’m on the docks. I’m on the docks.
I’m actually facedown on the docks because I tripped on a railroad tie, but I’m still on the docks.
I sure hope my dad didn’t see that. I don’t want him to think his son is clumsy.
Stinky Pete chuckles and lends me a hand, hauling me up with one arm. “You hurt?” he asks.
“Nah,” I answer, brushing coal dust off my trousers.
Stinky Pete takes off, whistling and talking about the latest news and how when he returned to the real world after the river drive, he was sad to hear ab
out Frederick Douglass’s death.
“He was an amazing man, Stan,” Stinky Pete says. “Brave and intelligent. A big supporter of women’s suffrage.”
“He wanted women to suffer?” I ask. I can think of a few women who could stand to suffer a little bit, but for the most part, I don’t think suffering is a good thing.
Stinky Pete laughs. “No, no. It means he supported a woman’s right to vote,” he explains.
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“I heard Mr. Crutchley talking to Granny and both of them think women aren’t smart enough to vote.”
Stinky Pete suddenly stops. A big sigh escapes his lips like smoke from Mr. Glashaw’s cigar. “Let’s take a moment and think of the women and girls in your life. You’ve got your mother, Geri, that Madge girl…” Stinky Pete ticks off names. “You think they aren’t smart enough to vote?” He picks up his pace again.
To tell God’s honest truth, they could probably run the entire country and arrange the stars in the heavens to spell out Bible verses, if they put their minds to it. But I’m afraid cat’s got my tongue right at the moment. Now I’m the one suddenly stopped in his tracks. On the railroad tracks. And not because I don’t want to admit girls are smart, either.
I really don’t want to admit girls are smart.
No. The real reason is I’m next to the Wanderer. And next to the Wanderer is my father. Another wanderer.
Who is now found. And doesn’t need to wander any longer.
How do I know that’s my father? Because everyone gathers around him in wonder like it’s dark and he’s a firefly stuck in a jar.
Oops. I need to let those fireflies out as soon as I get home.
Also, he’s the biggest man on the docks—strong, brave, and manly.
Just like me.
And he’s wearing a captain’s hat. And I overheard someone call him Cap’n Slater.
I pull myself together and slink behind the closest stack of crates. I briefly think about Stinky Pete, wondering if he’s still talking about all that unnecessary information like voting and women and people who have died, but he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself; I can’t always be taking care of everyone.
“Woo-hoo! So, Cap’n, we off until morning?” I hear spit hitting planks and the smack of hand against skin.
“Wha—? What was that for?” a voice asks. I peer carefully around the crates to see the good captain with his hands on the sailor’s collar, glaring nose to nose into his eyes. The sailor looks like a boy, almost like Nincompoop, smaller still, standing next to the captain. My dad. The boy holds a hand to his cheek.
“You mind all of your manners, Joey, even if you have very few. At least while we’re in town. And keep a low profile. No spitting. No hollering. You hear?” the captain hisses. “We can’t afford attention.”
Joey lowers his hands carefully, shoving them in his pockets and hunching his neck into his shoulders. He reminds me of one of the kittens at home, the runt who can’t get any milk. The one Geri brought inside and has been hand-feeding.
I might bring the guy some milk. But he’ll have to feed himself.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” he says, staring through the cracks below his feet.
“Sorry, nothin’,” my dad answers. I’m not positive this is my dad, now that I think about it. I don’t think my dad would be so mean. I rise from my crouch only to sink back down when I see a lady strolling the dock, arm in arm with a nicely dressed gentleman.
It’s Mr. and Mrs. Angell, the photographer and his wife; she is the biggest flibbertigibbet in all the town. Last week, when Geri and I were walking to school, I may or may not have called Geri a spleeny, fly-bitten hedgepig. In my defense, she said there was no more bacon and then proceeded to pull three pieces from her pocket and wouldn’t share.
Anyway, Mrs. Angell happened to hear me, and by the time I got to school Miss Wenzel knew the entire story, made me write “I will not call people spleeny, fly-bitten hedgepigs” one hundred times on the blackboard, and then made me stand with my nose in the o of the word “not” for a half hour.
That’s a long time to stand with your nose in an o. Especially when Mad Madge kept asking me questions: Who did I call a name? Why did I choose that name? How did Miss Wenzel find out? On and on, jotting notes the whole time.
Also, I wasn’t calling people a name; I was calling Geri a name. And I was hungry.
The captain, my dad, is still shouting at Joey, who looks smaller and smaller every time I sneak a peek at him. “You take even one minuscule step out of line, boy, and I swear on my good mother’s name you will be food for the fishes.” I hear another smack, a sharp breath, and my father again. “I swear, calling you stupid would be an insult to stupid people.” Then he actually does swear.
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I should probably curse more. It’s apparently a family trait.
Mr. and Mrs. Angell come closer and I hide, peeking my head just a teensy bit out the side. My dad still holds Joey’s collar. Joey’s head hangs loosely, his hat twisting in his hands, when all of a sudden my dad loosens his hold, straightens up, and beams a grin so bright I swear the temperature rises fifteen degrees. He clamps an arm around Joey like they are the best of buddies.
I’m not sure I like this sudden friendship.
Plus, what just happened?
“Ma’am?” my dad says. His voice is as sweet as the candy that makes Cuddy so sticky. He tips his cap with a smile. All of a sudden he seems to be a completely different fellow from the one threatening Joey just a minute before.
Joey smiles, too. Until the Angells walk by with a nod. Then my dad knocks Joey on the side of his head and turns toward town.
“Don’t you dare leave this post,” he tosses over his shoulder. “I’ll be back later.”
Joey rubs his neck and sits on a crate by the gangplank with a sigh. I know the feeling. I stand up with a sigh, my dad a fair distance ahead of me.
I have to follow him.
Far off at the other end of the dock, I spy Stinky Pete talking to Mr. and Mrs. Angell, gesturing frantically and looking all around like he’s lost something valuable. I leave him alone for five minutes and he’s already lost something. I briefly wonder what he’s lost, but I pretend not to see him as I sneak around barrels and crates and keep my dad in my sight. I don’t have time to worry about Stinky Pete right now. I have a father to follow.
I spot him, straight ahead, tipping his cap to all the ladies he approaches. They smile in return. One lady even curtsies and giggles behind a gloved hand.
Why is he paying all this attention to the ladies? What about the dog tripping along behind him?
Just as I think this, my dad stoops down, pulls something from his pocket, gives it to the dog, and pats him gently.
He is a hero. He is a hero who cares about stray dogs. He probably has a heart of gold and that business with Joey was an accident.
My dad keeps patting the dog while glancing at all the people on the street. When Miss Beasley approaches, he takes a second look before standing up again.
He should be careful. Everyone says Miss Beasley could talk the ear off a donkey. Which I wouldn’t mind seeing if I didn’t feel so bad about the donkey.
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As we get closer to town, however, I start to notice something else. None of the men seem to want to talk to my dad. In fact, they move away from him as if he’s Moses and they are the Red Sea.
I’m not sure I understand. I love my mama, but I certainly didn’t get my charming personality from her. And if that’s the case, I must have inherited it from my father.
But the men seem to be trying to avoid charming Captain Slater, hero of the seas. Even the bicycle club, barreling down State Street—all nine of them seem to spy my dad at the same time and veer so sharply around him, one runs into the boardwalk in front of the Central Hotel.
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Instead of lending the poor guy a hand, my father skips up the steps and opens the door to the billiard room
, releasing a cloud of smoke. A man leaving the hotel spies my dad and draws back like he’s spied Genghis Khan himself and he’s wearing a captain’s hat.
Let’s make this clear. My father is not Genghis Khan. He’s the captain of a ship, a manly man, a hero. And perhaps in his off time, he’s a sheriff and these men are all wanted by the law.
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Or he’s a detective and these men are all wanted by the law.
Or he’s a well-respected preacher and these men all need their very souls saved. Because they’re all wanted by the law.
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I’m pretty sure he’s one of these things.
I run and help the fellow onto his bicycle, and he rides away with a brief thanks and no retreating glance. I gingerly step toward the window, the one with TOLEDO AND MILWAUKEE BEER SOLD HERE on the front, and peer in.
Not obviously, of course. I am sneaky. I’m sly as a fox. As sneaky as one of Pinkerton’s detectives.
I’m a whiz at being sneaky, I don’t mind saying. And unseen. I should be a detective.
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Except someone has seen me. And his large, solid hand plops onto my shoulder like a poached egg on toast. Except not as runny. I look up to see Stinky Pete.
Also, I’m hungry.
“You can’t take off on me like that, Stan. Especially on the docks. You near ’bout gave me a heart attack.” He looks stern. Or about as stern as a guy with twinkly eyes can look. “C’mon. Time to get home before your mother kills us both.”
I reluctantly turn from the window but not before I catch a last glimpse of my father. He’s alone at the bar talking to the bartender. His finger points at him like a pistol and the bartender is unmoving, midswipe of the counter, like a man before a firing squad. He looks like he might cry.
What kind of fellow cries?
My Near-Death Adventures Page 8