And now I’m lying here. Thinking about what she said.
Mama breathes evenly and slowly, and I time my breath with hers. I stare at the ceiling. Eugene murmurs to the cats behind the house, and a train hoots in the distance.
Would Mama be better off without me? Am I a liar? A thief? Am I like my dad? And is it really so bad to be a rich, smart, infamous criminal?
I’m not going to fall back to sleep, no matter what I try. I pull out my scrapbook, some magazines, and scissors—it’s the best way I know to forget my troubles, or figure them out.
The full moon gives just enough light, and I work quietly so as not to wake Mama.
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I must have drifted off and can immediately tell from the light through the window that I’ve slept in late. The first thing I notice when I wake up is my lucky hat—the one Geri stole, I stole back, and then she stole from me.
It’s a very popular hat. And I’m glad to have it returned in one piece.
But I also notice my open scrapbook littered with loose pages stuck here and there all willy-nilly. I definitely did not leave my scrapbook in such a condition, because this is not the way you treat something so valuable.
I put my hat on, but when I start straightening the pages, I become suspicious. These aren’t my scrapbook pages. Someone else has made these and stuck them in my book next to the pages I created last night. Someone has been busy. And that someone has nice, girlie handwriting.
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Geri. These letters have Geri written all over them. Especially the part where she accidentally wrote Geri and then crossed it out.
I flip to the next page. I have to admit, I am a little curious what other preachy things she’s included.
I read the first sentence and all becomes clear:
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Mad Madge. And Geri. Is this the project they’ve been working on? And are they mind readers? How else would they know I would fill my pages with letters from so-called criminals?
Oh! Right.
I’m 99 percent sure these letters aren’t real. And I’m 99.9 percent sure Geri and Mad Madge do not bring out the best in each other.
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Mad Madge and Geri have sullied my scrapbook, but there is no way I’m tricked into thinking any of these guys have actually written me a letter. No, not one of them would be so preachy. Or have such nice handwriting.
They also defaced one of my earlier entries:
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Neither one of these girls would know a real hero if he came up and bit her on the nose. Which, I’ll admit, would not be a very heroic thing to do, but I wouldn’t blame him for doing it.
I brought Cuddy to our house after school today. His mother doesn’t seem to mind, it’s a cheap way to feed him (which means I can keep the money we use for treats along with my weekly twenty-five cents), and if he’s distracted, it’s very possible I may be able to sneak away for a few minutes.
These people around here have been watching me like a hawk. I feel like a prisoner in my own home.
“Well,” Geri says, sitting down on the couch, “if you’d stop running away from your responsibilities every time we look aside for one minute, we wouldn’t have to follow you, now, would we?”
Cuddy removes his satchel and plops himself next to Geri. He likes to be as close to her as possible.
“She smells better than you do, Stan,” he says, closing his eyes and taking a whiff of the air around Geri.
“If you like the smell of bitterness,” I mumble. “And deceit.”
“What was that?” Geri asks sharply.
“Um.” I think fast. “I said, ‘If you like the smell of sweetness and meat.”
That’s some quick thinking right there.
Cuddy nods frantically. “That’s exactly what I like, Stan! Sweetness and meat! Bacon, especially.”
Geri glares at me but can’t help laughing at Cuddy, which makes her a lot less frightening.
“Look what I brought, Stan!” Cuddy says. He reaches into his bag but keeps his eyes on me. They’re like saucers, no, dinner plates. Excited dinner plates with eyebrows that move up and down like bouncing parentheses. And his left knee jumps up and down so quickly I’m afraid a leg is going to break off the sofa.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
Cuddy reaches in slowly and pulls out…
“My scrapbook? What are you doing with my scrapbook? That is sacred, Cuddy! No one takes a man’s scrapbook,” I say, snatching it from his hand.
“Ha! Ha, Stan! This is the surprise I’ve been trying to show you! It’s my very own Mark Twain Self-Pasting Scrapbook! See, Stan? My uncle Cuthbert sent it to me. It’s just like yours! Look!”
My heart races as I fall into the chair. My scrapbook isn’t valuable, and it probably isn’t even interesting to anyone but me, but in that brief moment when I thought Cuddy had taken it, I realized it’s priceless.
“Hold on one minute,” I say. Geri and Madge have already defaced my scrapbook once, so I know I can’t be too careful.
I run upstairs to check on my own, invaluable scrapbook. Sure enough, it’s on my bedside table. I grab it and bring it downstairs to remind Cuddy what a real scrapbook is like. A manly scrapbook.
Also, I don’t really want it out of my sight.
When I get back to the parlor, Cuddy has his scrapbook open, showing Geri whatever it is he has collected in its pages. Probably old, sticky pieces of candy. Or a picture of some weird animal or a list of the Five Wonders of the World.
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I’m a whiz at history, I don’t mind saying.
“Obviously you don’t mind saying you’re a whiz at anything. You’re always reminding us. But it’s seven, Stan,” Geri says.
“It’s seven? How can it be seven already? Cuddy, we have to get you home!”
“No, Stan,” Geri says. What now? Does she want to button up Cuddy’s coat? Remind me to tie his shoes? Give me a map to his house? It’s high time she realizes he’s my responsibility. She might smell better than I do, but I’m the adult here.
Geri throws her hands to the ceiling. “Fine,” she says in that voice that means anything but.
“What about my scrapbook, Stan?” Cuddy asks as I push him out the door.
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I dart back in and grab it, because I know what it’s like to miss your scrapbook. Like when someone takes it right from under your nose and vandalizes it.
I glare at Geri, grab Cuddy’s scrapbook, and stuff it in his bag. Which is still attached to him so he bobs a bit like a cat trying not to fall off a fence.
“Stan.” Geri leans toward me like she’s going to take the scrapbook, and I jam it farther into the bag.
“What? What now? Are you going to ruin Cuddy’s scrapbook, too?” I challenge. She knows I’ve got her over a barrel, that she’s as guilty as any outlaw or swindler or con man or murderer or any bad person in the history of bad people. “And don’t touch my scrapbook,” I warn.
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Geri tilts her head. “Fine, Stan. Go. I’m done trying to help you.”
Is that what she’s been trying to do? If that’s her version of help, I am 92.3 percent sure I’m better off without it.
Finally! Geri is going to leave me alone! But why this makes me feel nervous instead of relieved is more than a bit worrisome. Does she know something I don’t?
“She’s just special, Stan,” Cuddy says wistfully. “She’s an angel, she is. So she probably does know things we don’t.” A little smile plays at his mouth and his eyes look off into the distance. I have to steer him away from any mud puddles because he’s obviously not paying attention.
He needs to pay attention.
It’s the first time I’ve noticed the days getting longer. The sun is strong and the air is heavy, like it’s clinging to my skin.
<
br /> No, actually, that’s just Cuddy.
“Why are you holding on to me so tightly, Cud?” I ask.
But he just grasps my arm, his little fingers digging in. “I just want to go home, Stan. Can we go home?” he asks. “Now?” I follow his gaze to a pair of men on the street, arguing, a group gathered around them. Some men guide the lady folk away from the ruckus. The rumbling of the crowd makes me feel like I’m outside in a thunderstorm. I completely understand why Cuddy wants to leave.
Cuddy pulls me away from all the uproar. “Whew. That was a close one, Stan. Did you see those men? Did you hear what they were saying? Did you hear one of them say d—” I clamp my hand over Cuddy’s mouth. All I need is for Mrs. Law to hear swearwords coming from her dear grandson’s lips and I before I could say Jack Sprat, I’d be kicked to the curb and Mama would be heading down the aisle with one Archibald Crutchley.
“Don’t use those words, Cuddy. I’m not sure about men who use those words,” I say.
He nods, his eyes wide and serious, and I remove my hand, open the door, and usher him in.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes five times.
“Your clock is off by about two hours, Cuddy,” I say, helping him remove his satchel and laying it on the hall bench.
“No, Stan. Nope. It’s five o’clock,” Cuddy says. “I can tell because my tummy growls right at five and that means it’s time for dinner. That’s when I eat, Stan. Five o’clock. And my tummy is never wrong.”
“Then why did Geri tell me it was seven?” I wonder out loud.
Cuddy shrugs. “I think she was talking about the Wonders of the World. You said there were five, Stan. There are Seven Wonders of the World. Do you want to hear about them?” he asks eagerly.
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It doesn’t really matter what I say. Cuddy is going to tell me about them anyway.
“There are the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.” Cuddy holds up a finger.
“Time for dinner, Cuthbert.” Mrs. Law looms large in the kitchen doorway. She hands me a quarter. “Carry on, Stanley,” she says, waving me toward the door.
“Um, maybe next time, Cuddy?” I ruffle his hair. “Right now you have to get to dinner, right?” Cuddy nods. “Okay, buddy! I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound cheery. I slug him in the arm like my dad likes to do to me. Cuddy holds it like it hurts.
“Okay, Stan. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His stomach growls as he makes his way to the kitchen.
No. That’s my stomach. Except for once I’m not sure I’m hungry—I haven’t been down to the docks in more than a day, and I know any minute my dad and his wandering Wanderer could up and leave. And once again, I’ll be without a father.
I tromp down Cuddy’s steps. I’ve been so busy with Cuddy I haven’t even had time to get rich quick. I haven’t had time to find any bricks of gold or sell soap or pick Eugene’s brain for more ideas. But I have made some money. Not fast and not a lot, but when I hand over my twenty-five cents to Mama and she tucks it in her pocket, I feel pretty good.
Stinky Pete always says his heroes are honest men doing honest work. And I guess I see what he means. It’s obvious I am his hero.
He also says, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” which is the worst thing I’ve ever heard, so I’m not so sure Stinky Pete should be giving out advice.
As I walk home I realize I have time to spare—two hours more than I thought. Time enough to be my own wanderer without suspicious eyes watching my every move.
Also, I learned something today; there are Seven Wonders of the World, not five. Who knew?
Wait until I tell Geri.
“Tell Geri what?” I jump. Of course it’s Madge. She has slithered from an alleyway to join me.
“I didn’t ‘slither from an alleyway,’ ” she says. “Honestly, Stan. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why you jump like water on a hot griddle every time I show up. I always call your name three or four times before I get to you.”
It’s like she’s insulting my intelligence. Or my lightning-fast reflexes. Or she’s implying I don’t pay attention.
“Watch the pole!” Madge yells, throwing out an arm.
I almost ran into the pole. It may or may not have been the first time this has happened. But even the most intelligent, attentive, manly men sometimes walk into poles.
It’s been proven by science.
“I doubt it, Stan,” Madge says. We’re approaching State Street, where it seems more folks have gathered since I dropped Cuddy off. People are yelling. Some gather around a man, handing him money while he writes something in a notebook.
“Look!” I nudge Madge. “He’s just like you, writing stuff down even in the middle of a ruckus.”
“You’re kidding, right? He’s nothing like me.” Madge snorts. “He’s taking bets, not trying to get to the bottom of this story.”
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Her eyes light up. “Want to get closer?” I do not want to get closer. I’m pretty sure the hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up, the air feels so charged, but how can I say no? Only a yellow-bellied mama’s boy would do such a thing. So I follow Mad Madge as she dodges under arms and past elbows and swearwords. Because of the fight going on, no one notices two less-than-tall people snaking through the crowd.
I shimmy up to the front, Madge right behind me, and immediately feel like I can’t swallow.
Two men. Scrapping and clawing like cats fighting over a dead fish.
And one of them is my dad.
Let’s go, Stan,” Madge says. She shoves her notebook into her pocket and takes my hand. But she is a lousy leader, because as soon as we break away from the crowd, she leads me right straight into a solid brick wall of a man.
The man lifts my chin.
“Ready to head home?” Stinky Pete asks. Madge pats my arm, then pulls out her notebook before diving back into the throng of people.
I nod to Stinky Pete. He slings his arm around me and guides me down the street.
“Were you dropping Cuddy off?” Stinky Pete asks. His voice is light, but his words seem serious.
I nod again.
“And what is Cuddy up to?” Stinky Pete asks.
I shrug. I can still hear yelling, pulling me back and pushing me away at the same time.
What was my dad doing? Why was he fighting? Will he be okay?
“Your dad will be okay, Stan,” Stinky Pete says as we turn toward the boardinghouse. Then he stops. He stops walking. He stops talking. He doesn’t even tell me how he knows my dad will be okay.
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Instead, he can’t seem to find any words. And I immediately see why, because when I look up the street I lose all my words, too. Here comes Mr. Archibald Crutchley, trotting off in his new carriage, tipping his hat as he passes us. And next to him, in her nicest dress and fanciest hat, is my mother. She looks the other way as they go by.
Stinky Pete’s eyes follow them as they move in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Some days, Stan, I wonder if it’s all worth it,” he says.
Once we step in the door, we’re immediately met with Granny’s cheery whistle and a smirk from Geri, who looks like she’s eaten the last piece of pie.
“Well, yes, I did in fact eat the last piece of Granny’s pie,” Geri says. She licks her lips.
I feel like punching her.
Oh, no. I don’t really want to punch her. Or do I? Is it in my blood to want to punch people? Did I get that from my dad? The punching part?
“Probably,” Geri answers. It’s spooky how she can read my thoughts.
“Only the thoughts that come straight out of your mouth,” Geri replies. She’s reading another medical book. A new one, it looks like.
“That’s quite observant!” Geri says. “Especially for you! Yes, yes, it is a new medical book. It has all the latest diseases and cures. I’ll probably be able to cure your dropsy, but it might be too late.” She gnaws on the end of her pencil
thoughtfully.
I don’t have dropsy. I know I don’t have dropsy. I’m absolutely 100 percent sure I don’t have dropsy. I look toward Stinky Pete; I can trust him to tell me I don’t have dropsy, but he left the room. I hear him mumbling to Granny in the kitchen.
Then I remember how I dropped my satchel the other day on the way to school. And I dropped the salt during dinner. The saltshaker didn’t break, but it did spill. I tried to throw some salt over my shoulder, but Granny said that was a ridiculous superstition; also, there was enough salt all over the floor and maybe I could just clean that up. And then I said that was a woman’s job, and then she said it was also a woman’s job to swat the behinds of poorly behaved children, which I would soon learn if I didn’t get up and get sweeping lickety-split.
I wasn’t scared at all by her big talk, but I did think it was a good idea to clean up the salt, just in case.
Stinky Pete helped me.
And yesterday I dropped my slate during arithmetic and it shattered all over the floor. Miss Wenzel said Marshall, her pet, would never have done such a thing and why can’t I be more like Marshall?
I can’t be more like Marshall. It’s not in my nature to be more like namby-pamby Marshall. Because apparently I come from a long line of fighters.
And obviously I am dying from dropsy.
“Can you come up with a cure soon?” I’m desperate. “Because I’ve got things to do,” I add.
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“It was thought that bloodletting or leeching or lancing would help,” Geri says, her nose still in her book. “And I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”
My Near-Death Adventures Page 12