My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!) Page 2

  Of course he wants to be found! Especially when he could pass all his secrets on to his son. Like how to find gold and herd cattle.

  Granny’s eyes soften, which is not a look I’m familiar with. “Your father is the type of man who…” She pauses to think. “Doesn’t like to be tied down.”

  “Of course not! Who wants to be tied down, Granny? Conrad McAllister tied me down to the tree next to the schoolhouse once. Believe me, it is no fun. I couldn’t move my arms, and when it started to rain, everyone ran inside and I got soaking wet.” I completely understand why my father would not want to be tied down.

  Granny lifts my chin so my eyes meet hers. “You’ll better understand when you’re a man,” she says, and hurries from the room.

  But I don’t have time to wait to become a man, not now that I know my father’s out there somewhere, lost and just waiting to be found.

  I can always tell when Mrs. Cavanaugh raps on the door; it’s a knock as demanding as the sneeze you try to hold back in church. I open the door slightly, only to spy a pile of letters in one hand and another dreadful vinegar pie in the other. I sure hope she doesn’t notice the two partially eaten ones still sitting on the stove, and I cringe at the thought of Mama making me eat more of that pie. “We are not in the position to waste good food,” she says. I want to point out that vinegar pie is the opposite of good food, but I don’t think it will help the situation. Plus, lately she hasn’t really been paying close attention to whether I’ve been cleaning my plate. Actually, lately she hasn’t really been paying attention to much. She even shooed me out of the house yesterday to go play with “that nice Conrad McAllister,” which made Lydia Mae and me laugh so hard I almost thought it was funny.

  Reminder: there’s nothing funny about Conrad McAllister.

  “I’ve brought your mail and a nice pie for your dinner,” Mrs. Cavanaugh says, barging in. Granny says Mrs. Cavanaugh is “big-boned” and has “ears like an elephant and a memory to match.” She also claims her “tongue wags more than a dog’s tail in a room full of bones.” I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m pretty sure it’s not nice.

  Credit 3.1

  Mrs. Cavanaugh thrusts the pie at me and fans herself with our mail. Her neck cranes around, the ridiculous flower on her hat bouncing about like her eyes, darting from the frayed rug at our feet to the hall mirror to the parlor. I set the pie on the table and reach for the letters.

  Some letters, I have learned, may hold secrets. Important secrets, say, about a certain someone’s long-lost father.

  I am a whiz at secrets, I don’t mind saying. Although, I will admit, I might not be such a whiz at keeping secrets.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh clutches the mail to her chest. “Stan,” she says seriously, looking over the rims of her spectacles, “that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said. We all know keeping your mouth shut is not your specialty.”

  I get ready to argue, but I am pretty sure this difficult human will only insist on bringing up the time I may or may not have mentioned to Conrad McAllister that Mrs. Cavanaugh’s rather enormous pink bloomers were hanging on the line. The very same Conrad McAllister who may or may not have alerted all the neighborhood kids to witness these large underdrawers. And the exact same Conrad McAllister who taught the whole neighborhood to chant:

  Mrs. C. wears bloomers so giant,

  Even David couldn’t beat this Goliath.

  They’re so big and so pink

  And they probably stink.

  I think it is time for a diet.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh is not known for her sense of humor, but what can I say? It’s a rough neighborhood.

  “What do you have there?” she asks, leaning toward the old envelope I’ve absentmindedly pulled from my pocket. It appears to be like a piece of steel and she is a magnet—when I wave the envelope around, her head bobbles with it. I quickly tuck it away.

  “Oh, nothing,” I answer casually.

  “Did I notice that your grandmother arrived a week ago? I was wondering why. I like to keep a watchful eye on my neighbors, you know. Especially when there’s no man around. And lately I can’t help noticing you seem to be left unsupervised more than is appropriate.” She pinches her lips together. “I haven’t seen your grandma Cora since old Percy Marvin’s funeral. Was that two years ago?”

  “Well,” I respond, “Granny was just in town at Thanksgiving—don’t know how you missed her. And I’m sorry to say, but I’m not all too familiar with this Percy Marvin fellow, Mrs. Cavanaugh, although he sounds quite, um, dead-ish.” I have been taught to be respectful of the dearly departed, seeing as my father was one of them until recently. “And, yes, ma’am, we have the pleasure of another visit from Granny,” I add, thinking that a visit from Granny is about as pleasurable as a visit from the plague doctor.

  Credit 3.2

  “And who was the man driving the wagon that dropped off your grandmother?” Mrs. Cavanaugh’s eyes widen.

  I think for a minute. “Do you mean Uncle Carl…?”

  Her interest immediately fades. “Oh, by the way, here’s your mail.” She stretches an arm toward me, but right before I can snatch up the letters, she pulls back and examines the one on top. “Hmmm. One from Omaha? Who could be from Omaha?” Her eyes sparkle dangerously. “Isn’t your father from around there?”

  “I…I don’t know,” I say cautiously. Is my father from Omaha? And if I act dumb, will Mrs. Cavanaugh tell me more about him?

  She tut-tuts. “He certainly was a ne’er-do-well, that man. I forgot he skipped town right before you were born. After spending his entire winter’s earnings at the saloon, that is.”

  I glare at her. The old windbag couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel. “You must have him confused with someone else,” I say through gritted teeth. I have a hard time imagining my father spending all our money in a saloon. I’m pretty sure he’s a rich cowboy or exploring the wilds of the North Pole, unable to contact us because of life-or-death matters or because he’s been sworn to secrecy by a Russian tsar, facts that will all be proven when I find him.

  “May I help you, Margaret?” Mama asks in a very-not-helpful voice. She grabs the letters from Mrs. Cavanaugh and immediately tucks them under her arm. Mrs. Cavanaugh seems a little taken aback at Mama’s rudeness. Come to think of it, I’m a little surprised, too. Mama always says to love thy neighbor, but she is definitely not acting the part today.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she continues, flipping through our mail, “but Arthur was indeed raised in Omaha. Since then, however, you could say he is from a lot of places. The letter, by the way, is from my cousin Bertha,” she says, her voice as cold as the frost I like to scrape off the windows with my fingernail.

  I scrape some frost off the window with my fingernail. Smoke from Indian Town slithers lazily off to the west, and two-story company houses line the street like dominoes. Mama says it’s strange a lumber town like ours doesn’t have a tree in sight, but when Mr. Weston, the boss of the entire Chicago and Weston Lumber Company, says to cut down the trees because he’s afraid of fires, no one is about to argue.

  I scrape off more frost and watch the guy on the boardwalk in front of the house, the one leaning against the Perkinses’ cow, Buttermilk, while lighting his coffin nail for a smoke, and remember that my father could be anywhere, even here. That man could be my father! He could be waiting for me, ready to take me to Mr. Weston’s office to talk about man stuff, or to the general store to buy some bullets to shoot tin cans, or Mrs. Cavanaugh’s pink underdrawers.

  Credit 3.3

  I watch the man’s smoky breath. His hat is cockeyed, his wrinkly coat dirty and unbuttoned, one pant leg rolled halfway up, the other halfway down, a hand scratching his left butt cheek, a thread of brown spit landing on the road, melting into the dirty ice.

  No, now that I think about it, that certainly could not be my father.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh’s voice jerks me to real
ity. “I see your mother has arrived, Alice. I’m sure you must be thrilled and delighted by Cora’s unexpected visit.” She looks at Mama eagerly.

  “She’s here to see us, Margaret. It’s perfectly reasonable for a mother to visit her daughter and grandson, wouldn’t you think?” Mama says icily, and turns to me. “Stan, thank Mrs. Cavanaugh and see her out, please.”

  “Thanks for this cracker jack pie, Mrs. Cavanaugh. It’s our favorite. You really should give us the recipe,” I say, ushering her toward the door.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh stops short. “Well, Stan, I can surely see you all could use a little more meat on your bones, what with money being scarce. Just doing Christian charity for my fellow human beings in need. And by the way”—she leans in—“what in the world is up with that mother of yours?”

  “I have no idea what you mean, ma’am.” I open the front door and gently push Mrs. Cavanaugh through it. I know, however, exactly what she means. Ever since the arrival of that mysterious envelope, Mama has not exactly been acting like herself. Then again, I haven’t quite been acting like myself, either.

  My breath appears like a ghost in front of me when I enter my room—the heat from the woodstove seems to have lost its way to this part of the house and the window leaks cold air, even through the rags Mama stuffed into the cracks. I sit on my bed, turn up the wick on my kerosene lamp, and take the Scrapbook from my bedside table, flipping through to find an empty spot.

  My new tube of glue makes me as happy as picking a scab, but to be perfectly clear, I much prefer library paste. Mama has forbidden its purchase, however, since I may have tasted the tiniest bit of it a long time ago when I was little. This new glue doesn’t taste nearly as good.

  Or so I’ve been told.

  I place the envelope firmly next to a picture for the bang-up new bike I will be requesting for my birthday. When I saw the advertisement, I made sure to show it to Mama in case she didn’t know what to get me. “Stan,” she said, “you just had your birthday two weeks ago.” Like that was important.

  “It’s always good to be prepared,” I replied. Because that right there is the gospel truth. Plus, eleven months and seventeen days can go by very quickly. Except when it doesn’t, like when you’re waiting for your twelfth birthday.

  Credit 4.1

  When Granny saw the picture, she made a sound like air was leaking from her ears. “Pfft. I’m not sure about this fly-by-night contraption. Just seems like another thing Stan could kill himself on. It’s not safe, Alice.” Granny’s voice was dark with warning.

  I gave Mama a charming, sweet smile, the kind no one can ever resist. Except maybe Granny, and she doesn’t count because she doesn’t know a good thing when she sees it.

  “Mama,” I said, “you know I’m the safest almost-twelve-year-old in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Why, remember when I saved Lydia Mae from that wolf?” I blinked innocently.

  “First of all, you’re barely eleven,” Mama responded. “And are you perhaps referring to the time you ran screaming from Mrs. Cavanaugh’s doorstep when her toy poodle, Snookums, showed up at the door, and you grabbed Lydia’s hand from fright and pulled her halfway around the block?”

  “Well, she didn’t get bitten, did she?” I grumped, and stomped off to my room.

  The same room Granny enters right now without knocking. “Here’s a satchel. Start packing. Your uncle Carl will be here at four-thirty.”

  “Today? Why?” I squeak. I’m feeling a bit bamboozled. The last time Uncle Carl set foot in this house was to deliver Granny like an unwanted package, so it’s understandable if I’m not exactly looking forward to his appearance.

  Unless he’s coming to pick her up, in which case he is most welcome.

  “Listen. You are eleven years old and somewhat the man of the house.” Granny thinks for a minute when she says this, like she’s not quite sure it’s true, then takes a deep breath and continues anyway.

  “You are old enough to know money has become increasingly tight and a situation has arisen”—she says the word “situation” like it is written in fancy letters—“making it both desirable and necessary for us to spend some time at your uncle Henry’s logging camp.”

  “What?” I look at her like she has just grown fangs, which, to be perfectly honest, is a rather strong possibility.

  Sure, Mama has been stingy with the kerosene for our lamps and I’ve had to heat up baked beans for dinner more often than I’d like, but Granny is uttering a shovelful of poppycock. Also, that logging camp is awfully far away in Grand Marais. Lydia Mae said her uncle Charlie went there last year and never returned.

  Credit 4.2

  “That was last year’s camp, Stan,” Granny says. “The Grand Marais camp has no more trees to fell. Your uncle Henry’s camp is closer to Germfask, about four hours from here.” She gazes off through the frosty window. “Four…cold…hours from here,” she mutters, half to herself.

  A lumber camp. With real lumberjacks. I’ll admit I paid little attention to Uncle Henry and Aunt Lois when they passed through in October. And I paid absolutely no attention to their devious daughter, Geri, who tried to frame me for everything from starting a fire in the dried leaves out back to breaking the window in the kitchen. I vaguely gathered they were headed to a lumber camp filled with masses of men carrying sharp axes and snaggletoothed saws, but the few times a year I am graced with Geri’s presence, I must stay so alert, so on my toes, I can’t focus on anything else. I do recall thinking those lumberjacks surely had no idea what was in store for them with Geri wandering around camp. Nine times out of ten, she is up to no good, and I will be surprised if that camp is still standing by the time we roll in.

  “Thanks for the invitation, Granny, but I can’t leave Manistique. I have some big plans and friends who will miss me, and I will be happy to quit school and get a job to help with any money problems,” I say reasonably. I am not thinking about myself here. Conrad McAllister won’t get a lick of exercise if I’m gone—who will he run after at the end of the school day? And it really is too much to ask Lydia Mae to eat all her lunch by herself. Someone needs to help her with the delicious stew her mom packs in her dinner pail, and don’t get me started on the baking-powder biscuits. Without me, Lydia Mae would weigh at least three hundred pounds.

  Granny looks at me. She is not amused. “Stan, I am not amused. You, believe it or not, have no say in the matter. Sometimes we have to do what is best for everyone involved, not just ourselves.”

  Sometimes it seems like I’m always forced to do what’s best for everyone else involved. When will it be time to do what’s best for me? And who exactly is going to this lumber camp? Granny and me? “Does this have something to do with that envelope I saw lying around?” I ask.

  “Why?” Granny asks intently. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Where is it?” Her eyes lose focus. “If I could just see that postmark again, I’d remember exactly where in Texas that low-down, unreliable excuse for a man was last seen.…”

  Would she track him down? Do I want Granny to track him down? I quietly close my Scrapbook lying on the bed behind me. Talk about unreliable—Granny already lost my father once; who’s to say she won’t lose him again? Plus, it’s completely possible she would scare him away. “Woman, I have no idea what you are talking about. So, four-thirty, eh?”

  Credit 4.3

  Granny eyes me suspiciously. “In the morning. We need to arrive in time to make lunch,” she says. “Pack everything, because it’s so cold up there even the squirrels wear knickers.” I gasp. I have never before heard that woman mention something so unladylike, and she continues as if the word “knickers” comes out of her mouth daily. “The three of us will be stuck in the camp cook shanty for the winter, so be prepared.”

  Credit 4.4

  I am beginning to put two and two together, and it equals approximately three and one half. This little chat has cleared up some of the conversation I overheard. I now understand the talk about a “fresh start” and “money
” and “camp,” but I’m still not sure about my father’s connection to all this, and I am utterly befuddled about the pickle. There is a 56.9 percent possibility that Granny is planning on selling me and using the money to support a bad pickle habit. But I’m 43.1 percent not sure about that.

  At least I know I won’t be alone with Granny. That right there is worthy of a sigh of relief. But with the prospect of Granny in my life for the next few months, it now seems very possible I might not live to see the spring. She might be little, but she’s one tough cookie who loves to remind everyone that “if you spare the rod, you spoil the child.” Usually she says this while slapping a wooden spoon on her palm and staring in my direction.

  I make a list of some of the times Granny has disciplined me on the off chance I can avoid these situations a second time:

  All those things happened just yesterday.

  I grab my other pair of trousers, my two flannel shirts, and my woolen union suit and stuff them in the satchel along with another pair of socks. I remind myself not to forget my toy soldiers as I pick up my Scrapbook to stick it in the bag.

  I can’t help opening the Scrapbook again, carefully keeping one eye on the door. The mysterious envelope has a stamp, my mama’s name, “Manistique, MI” scrawled in a slant across the bottom, and that Texas postmark. Would it be possible to get to Texas and find him? Would he still be there? Or would I end up in Texas looking for my father while he is in Michigan looking for me?

  I realize my father held this very same envelope in his hands, hands that might look a lot like mine. I slide my finger across the opening and peer inside. For something so empty, it holds so many questions.

  Who is my father? Where is my father? Why did he leave us? Could it be he doesn’t want a son?