My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!) Read online

  This is a girl who didn’t flinch when Conrad McAllister spit at me and it landed on her shoe back in October. A girl who punched Conrad a good one and then held a hankie on his nose until it stopped bleeding. A girl who once cut apart a cockroach just to see how it was put together. She sent me its legs in an envelope with a note that said, “A delicacy in South America!” I think it’s one of the only things I haven’t saved in my Scrapbook. That envelope went right in the garbage.

  So if Geri doesn’t want to go in the bunkhouse, it sounds like the perfect spot to escape from her in an emergency. It also sounds like the exact place you would find someone looking for adventure. Someone like my dad. Or me.

  Guess which shanty boy killed a man,” Geri whispers.

  I immediately look up from stoking the woodstove.

  “Hush.” Granny’s sour breath cuts between us, and she gives Geri her death stare. “Geraldine, you are well aware Stanley has no control over his imagination. Any information like that and he’ll conjure up some outlandish fantasy about a murderer on the premises. And we just got over those ridiculous werewolf nightmares.” She takes a deep breath and looks me square in the eye. “Don’t let your thoughts run away with you, child.”

  I nod, but truthfully, it’s too late. I’m already on the lookout for a killer.

  And I’m not a child.

  Uncle Henry sidles up to the stove, hugs Aunt Lois, and kisses Geri on the head before stealing a roll. He messes up my hair, winks at me, and puts a finger to his lips. When you’re the boss of a place, you can get away with things.

  Men trudge into the cook shanty. No one speaks, although a couple of them nod at Uncle Henry. More than one man takes a glance at Mama, she being new and all. They’re quieter than I would expect a bunch of rowdy men to be; for some reason, Uncle Henry doesn’t allow any conversation, and that kind of strikes me as strange.

  “Conversations lead to fistfights,” he says as we watch the shanty boys pile in for dinner. Each man takes a spot at the long tables like they’ve been assigned seats.

  “They have been assigned seats.” Geri snorts. “They’re like a bunch of wild animals. Some of them are hiding from the sheriff.” Her eyes widen at me. Mine are going to pop out of my head.

  Then I see him.

  Bushy eyebrows and a grizzled black beard hide the man’s probably pockmarked cheeks, and his eyes are so dark you can’t see the pupil. A sash, red as blood, is tied around his waist. He’s not especially tall, but he’s broad like a capital letter T and looks exactly like the man in the Wanted! poster hanging in the post office back home. Except maybe that guy is tall and skinny. And has blond hair. And doesn’t have a beard. Other than that, they could be twins.

  Credit 9.1

  I freeze. I am living with a cold-blooded killer. A man with a heart so black he took the life of another human being. My life is definitely in danger, but I can’t stop myself staring at him. Little pieces of food dot his beard. He rubs his eye and stabs some pork with his fork.

  Granny nudges me. “Get to work. Those plates are not going to fill themselves,” she orders, pointing to the rapidly vanishing food.

  Credit 9.2

  Salt pork disappears. Aunt Lois’s baked beans are fast becoming a baked bean. Geri runs around filling up mugs as grunts of approval mix with the scraping of plates. I know we have to wait until the lumberjacks are done before we can eat, but I think I might need to hide some food for myself or else it will all be gone. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse and chase the rider.

  Instead of food, however, Granny hands me a pail. “Run to the river and bring in some fresh water,” she orders.

  Credit 9.3

  Making my way through the dark, I hear the men kidding each other as they return to the bunkhouse. So far I’ve learned that lumberjacks swear, spit, and scratch under their arms, as well as other unmentionable places. It feels like I shouldn’t be listening, but if I study these men, manly men who are brave, adventurous, and not afraid of a little danger, maybe I can learn their secrets and stop being just “somewhat” a man.

  Also, I feel like someone should warn these guys that if Granny hears their language, she will wash their mouths with soap. And that stuff tastes really bad.

  Not that I would know anything about that.

  I sneak a glance at the cold-blooded killer, because it is always good to be prepared. He laughs and talks with his friends, pretending he’s all innocent, but I know differently.

  I will be keeping my eye on him.

  So, Alice,” Uncle Henry asks Mama, “what’s the plan?” He shovels some baked-bean-soaked bread into his mouth. The table jiggles a little when Aunt Lois kicks Uncle Henry for some reason, and the way she glares at him, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an accident.

  “Well, Henry, I’m going to play it by ear, if that’s okay with you.” Mama looks down at her lap.

  “Of course it is, honey,” Aunt Lois says, piling meat onto Mama’s plate. “You’re welcome as long as you want.”

  I’m focused on getting as much food into my belly as I can. Granny grabs my arm. “Slow down,” she orders between her teeth. I glance over at Uncle Henry, cramming food into his craw like it’s fixin’ to disappear any moment. Granny sees me. “He’s a man, Stanley.” She smiles sweetly at Uncle Henry. “More beans?”

  What is going on? Uncle Henry doesn’t need manners. He doesn’t answer to Granny. She ignores his swearing, his dirty hands, even his burping at the table. Now that I think about it, she never tells any man what to do.

  I need to grow up. Fast.

  “Alice, do you think you’ll be around for the river drive?” Uncle Henry asks through a mouthful of pork.

  “No,” Granny says sharply.

  Mama’s head drops for a second before she lifts it and says, “Well…”

  “No,” Granny repeats. “Taking Stanley on that wanigan, surrounded by those river pigs—hopping on logs, showing off their stupidity with dangerous stunts—it’s not the appropriate environment for a young boy. Stan will return to school by the time the ice melts.” She looks at me like that’s a statement I would agree with. “You’ll thank me when you’re older,” she says to me with a smirk.

  Mama glares at Granny, her mouth slightly open, and I see Aunt Lois gently lay a hand on Mama’s arm. “I know you want a say in your own child’s life, but she has a point, Alice,” Aunt Lois says quietly.

  Mama nods in reluctant agreement. “I know, I know. I would be a nervous wreck with Stan on that river. It’s just that every once in a while it might be nice for Mother to treat me like an adult, not a child.”

  Aunt Lois smiles sympathetically. “We all know that in regard to academics, Stan is whip smart, but common sense is not his forte, and a wanigan is no place for cavorting.”

  Did she say “cavorting”? Why, Aunt Lois doesn’t know beans about cavorting. As if I would ever cavort.

  “Do you even know what that means?” Geri leans over and whispers to me.

  “Of course,” I reply. “But I’m not going to discuss it in front of the ladies,” I add politely.

  And what about this “wanigan”? I’m not going to pretend to know what that might be, but it sounds like something I would enjoy. I imagine myself talking to Lydia Mae, telling her what I did while I was gone, how I killed myself a wanigan. Or maybe I tamed one. Or I rode a wanigan like a wild mustang through the woods, carrying a load of green gold to the river, one-handed, while waving an ax.

  “You are such a beef-witted apple john.” I turn to see Geri shaking her head at me, arms crossed. “A wanigan is the raft we live and cook on during the river drive. What a ninny you are,” she says, half to herself, but I can plainly hear her.

  Credit 10.1

  “I knew that,” I scoff. “I was just seeing if you did.” Truth be told, I didn’t even know I was thinking out loud. I have to stop doing that.

  Geri looks at me skeptically.

  “So what was last year’s river drive like?” I a
sk. I pretend to brush dirt off my trousers and try to keep the eagerness out of my voice, when really I’m dying to know the details of such a dangerous and amazing adventure. I can already imagine getting to live and cook while floating on the river—I would practically be Huck Finn.

  Credit 10.2

  “Well, Elijah Stewart challenged Harley Garland to a contest to see who could chop a piece of wood the size of a matchstick off a log.”

  “That’s not even possible,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Yes, yes, it is. And they both did it with one swing of an ax.”

  “Pshaw. I think I could probably do that, too, if Granny would let me have my own ax.” I look around nervously. She would immediately dismiss that idea if she heard me, and probably the brain it came from.

  “Don’t be daft. You couldn’t do that. You don’t even have the muscles to pick up an ax, let alone swing it over your head.”

  “Your cheese has slipped off your cracker if you think that, missy,” I say. Sometimes I find if I say something like I believe it, it almost becomes true.

  “Then why don’t you show me?” Geri challenges.

  “I, uh, I will! As soon as a spare ax shows up.” And Granny is nowhere near. I act like I have all the confidence in the world, but really the thought of picking up an ax makes me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I will be keeping track of any spare axes, just to make sure I hide them before Geri challenges me to a dare I can’t ignore. “So what else happened during this river drive?” I say, changing the subject.

  “The best thing was when Emil Johnston and Dennie Cheeseman challenged each other to see who could roll a log in the water for the longest period of time,” Geri tells me.

  This I would love to see. “And?”

  “They began at the crack of dawn on a Wednesday and didn’t stop rolling until Saturday, when Emil fell in the drink, smashed his leg between two logs, and had to be dragged out with a cant hook. Lost his peavey, too.” She shakes her head. “It was a real shame.”

  “What?” I look around to make sure no one is hearing the language coming from Geri’s mouth. Also, I can’t for the life of me imagine how much it would hurt to lose your peavey. I cross my legs at the thought. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  She peers at me disbelievingly. “What are you talking about?”

  I glance around again and lower my voice. “A girl of your background should not be using such a word.”

  Geri’s eyes take on a defiant gleam. “What word? ‘Peavey’?”

  I gasp. And to think I thought she was a lady.

  “Stan,” she says, “a peavey is a pole with a sharp spike at the end. It’s used to roll and handle logs in the water. What did you think it was?”

  I uncross my legs. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Credit 10.3

  I’m not even going to get into what a dumb tool a cant hook must be. It apparently can’t hook and doesn’t have a dangerous point.

  Credit 10.4

  So it’s of no use to me.

  Geri stands. “There’s never a dull moment on the river. Too bad you won’t be there,” she gloats.

  I know she doesn’t give a hoot that I won’t be going on the river drive. I wish beyond wishing I didn’t give a hoot, either, but I can’t stop myself wishing. “Why do you get to go and I can’t?” I ask desperately.

  Geri looks around, making sure no one is listening. Mama and Aunt Lois are deep in conversation, their foreheads practically touching. Granny has hopped up and started on the dishes, and Uncle Henry has already left. “For a couple of reasons.” She sits back down next to me. “First of all, Daddy says I can, and Granny never, ever tells a man what to do, especially when it concerns raising his child. And second, Granny doesn’t care what I do.”

  Credit 11.1

  This is true. Granny hardly pays attention to Geri except to remind her to act like a lady, and it’s always been obvious Granny likes boys more than girls, but who wouldn’t? And even though I surely don’t want her attention, Granny is a lot more protective of me than she is of Geri. But why?

  “Because I’m a girl. Sometimes it’s better to be a girl,” she says smugly.

  Now that I think about it, Mama always complains that Granny gives her sons more attention than her daughters. Something about daughters just needing to find a good husband and sons needing to support a family, maybe? Something about sons, and I suppose grandsons, being the future of the family and therefore needing more so they can be strong and competitive?

  Maybe it would be easier to be a girl. I rack my brain trying to imagine ways of becoming a girl without actually becoming a girl. The closest I come up with is a picture I once saw in the Little Lord Fauntleroy book Mama read to me when I was a little kid.

  Somehow I don’t think that would go over too well out here.

  Credit 11.2

  Geri leans into her chair, so full of herself; if she weighed less, her swelled head could float her up to the ceiling. I have a strong urge to stick a pin in her to deflate the superior look on her face.

  And that’s when I can’t help the words spilling from my mouth. “Well, Granny might leave you alone because you’re a girl, but I can be a doctor and you can’t!” To be honest, I don’t have the teensiest desire to be a doctor. Last I checked they don’t even carry anything sharp in their little black bags—though I didn’t get much of a look in Dr. Wilson’s bag because the one time I had a chance to search it, he walked into the room and almost caught me.

  Geri sits up so quickly I’m afraid her chair will crack. “What did you say?” Her eyes are blazing and I can tell I hit a nerve.

  “I am simply stating the facts: girls aren’t cut out to be doctors. Boys are.” I shrug because, hey, I don’t make these rules.

  Geri shakes a finger at me. “Have you never heard of my hero, Elizabeth Blackwell?”

  “You want to be an ax murderer?” I gasp. Also, I’m a little scared. My life might be in serious danger.

  Credit 11.3

  The famous rhyme gets trapped in my head: “Lizzie Blackwell took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks.” I won’t get a lick of sleep tonight. And someone might want to say something to Aunt Lois. We certainly don’t need another cold-blooded killer at this lumber camp.

  “You are nuttier than a squirrel’s cheeks in October. Not Lizzie Borden, you idiot. Elizabeth Blackwell.” She says the name slowly, like that will help.

  Credit 11.4

  I shake my head and shrug, though I do feel a bit relieved that her hero isn’t an ax murderer.

  “What? You’ve never heard of Elizabeth Blackwell?”

  Geri exhales, long and slow like her patience with my stupidity is coming rapidly to an end. “She’s only the first woman to become a doctor in America,” she prods, hoping to jostle my memory.

  I look at her, my face blank. I vaguely remember Granny mentioning this Blackwell person, but I’m not owning up to it.

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “Still nothing.”

  Geri sighs loudly. “And this is why women have trouble advancing in the sciences,” she says.

  “Or maybe they just aren’t created for such academic work,” I suggest not so innocently. “Perhaps it’s best if the woman stays in the home where she rightfully belongs.” I wait for Geri to respond. She’s usually as cool as a cucumber, so to see her riled up tickles my funny bone.

  I might have smiled a little bit. At the corners of my mouth. You couldn’t even see my teeth.

  Credit 11.5

  Geri’s shoulders hunch, and I can practically see steam coming from her ears like a train barreling down a track. That’s when she utters the words that hurt me the most.

  “At least I have a father,” she snarls, and stomps off.

  A shadow seems to pass over the low-lying sun. For years no one has mentioned hide nor hair of my formerly dearly departed father, so I tended not to think about him much. Sure, there were times
when it felt like part of me was missing, like I had lost three fingers from my left hand, fingers I’d never used much but wished I still had.

  And sure, Mama tries to do everything two parents would do, but to be perfectly honest, she’s a girl. Most moms are. And girls don’t understand boy stuff like peeing in the snow or the sudden need to jump a fence blindfolded. Moms just shake their heads.

  But now, in a matter of weeks, my dad’s been like the return of a memory I never knew I had—still fuzzy, but definitely stuck in my brain. He appears like a niggling feeling of doubt right in that twitchy time before I fall asleep, when I close my Scrapbook and shut the envelope tightly between its pages. As much as Mama says I’m the peaches to her cream, I sometimes can’t help thinking that my father isn’t dead; he just hasn’t tried to find me. And I’m not even the one who’s lost.

  Granny always says you can’t miss what you’ve never had. But you can still want what you’ve never had. I’ve never had a bicycle, but I long for one like I long for fresh air after a full day stuck in school.

  Sometimes wishing for something is worse than missing it.

  Credit 11.6

  Unfortunately, as much as I love Mama, she’s not enough to get me to the river drive, an event so amazing men are willing to risk their peaveys for a chance to go. For that I need a father. Well, there are fifty men in a bunkhouse next door, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one of them is my dad. After all, Granny was very clear: my father may be lost, but he’s alive and he could be anywhere. Or, I guess, anyone.