My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!) Page 6

  Who’s to say he’s not a lumberjack?

  I grab my plate and Geri’s. I finish her potatoes.

  Waste not, want not.

  “Get over here and help dry the dishes,” Granny barks. Everyone except Geri pitches in. We clean the kitchen and the dishes and sweep the floors and I’m plain tuckered out. I don’t know how I will ever get up and go chop trees in the morning, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  Granny, Mama, and I stagger into our room. It’s cold, even though the woodstove is hot when you touch it.

  I stick the tip of my finger in my mouth. It still hurts.

  I open the door to the outside and wind whips my face with tiny, hard pellets of snow. I’m not going to trudge to the outhouse in this weather. I look behind me and see Granny occupied at the washbasin. Mama is behind the curtain, changing into her nightclothes.

  Naturally this is the perfect opportunity to pee out the door. I’m at a lumber camp. This is how we men do things here.

  “No, we do not.” Granny grabs my ear and twists it.

  “Do you not see that I’m busy here, missy?” I yelp.

  “Oh, I certainly do see that you’re busy.” She twists my ear again for good measure. Or simply because she’s evil. “This will not happen again. You see that over there?” She points through the night to a building neither of us can see in the dark, swirly snow. “That’s the outhouse. Otherwise known as the ‘necessary’ or ‘privy.’ I don’t care what you call it; just use it. We aren’t animals.”

  I nod, button up my trousers, and try not to catch her eye, then splash my face with the water in the washbasin. My woolen underdrawers aren’t very warm, but they’ll have to do under the pile of blankets.

  I pull down the covers, heave myself quickly into bed, and snuggle in. Except I can’t actually snuggle in too far. It’s like my feet are trapped midway to the bottom of the bed, the blanket stopping them like a wall.

  “What in the Sam Hill?” I mumble as I try again to jam my feet under the covers.

  “Stanley Slater! Did I hear you reference the devil himself?” Granny roars.

  Credit 12.1

  “Uh, no, Granny,” I respond, thinking quickly while trying to get safely beneath the blankets. “I just wondered if, um, you had a pain pill.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Mama peers over the railing with concern. I have my knees pulled to my chest and am trying to force them toward the bottom of the bunk with no luck.

  “Yes. I’m. Fine,” I mutter. Mama surveys the scene, trying not to smile, but the corner of her mouth turns up like a fish caught on a lure. Except she’s obviously enjoying herself a whole lot more.

  Credit 12.2

  “Um, I think someone has short-sheeted your bed, honey,” she says, peeling back the blankets. Sure enough, the bottom one has been folded in half so every time I try to draw the blanket over me while pushing down with my feet, I’m basically folding myself into a pasty.

  “Geri,” I say with a scowl.

  Mama’s eyes dart to Granny. “I do believe your granny was correct when she said you won’t be bored here.” She fixes my bed and tucks me in. “Say your prayers,” she reminds me with a kiss.

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep

  If I should die before I wake

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  This is not my favorite prayer because it gives me the jimjams. I have a hard enough time getting to sleep thinking about loups-garous, ways to outwit Granny and Geri, and finding my father, so this prayer doesn’t help. I don’t like to think I might die before I wake; that idea kind of makes me not want to go to sleep, just in case.

  “Alice, did I just hear the boy say he doesn’t like to pray? I fear for his very soul. Let me out so I can box his ears.” The bunk jiggles a bit and I curl myself all the way under the blankets so that Granny’s pinchy fingers can’t reach me.

  Mama murmurs something soothing as I drift off to sleep, and I say a little prayer of thanks that Mama and Granny share a bed and Granny is next to the wall.

  Distantly I hear Granny mutter that I’m sure to turn into a bad egg. Or did she say she’s shipping me off to Winnipeg? Or cutting off my one good leg?

  I’m so tired, I honestly don’t care.

  Sure enough, when I wake up, I’m dead.

  The horn of the angel Gabriel himself has called me home to Heaven. It’s so loud, I jerk awake and almost knock my head on the beam above me, although it probably wouldn’t hurt, seeing as I’m dead and all.

  A soft whistle might be nice when called to Heaven. Or a warm breeze and a hug from Mama. This horn business is too dad-blamed loud. Who wants to be called to Heaven like Conrad McAllister has slugged you in the face?

  “Roll out the dead bodies, daylight in the swamp!” someone yells.

  It’s not just me. We’re all dead. This day is not starting off so well.

  Half-asleep, I yank up my wool pants and tuck them into my socks. The bite in the air surprises me; I guess I thought Heaven wouldn’t make my nose all cold and drippy. I wipe it off with my sleeve, which I’ve learned is a manly thing to do, and realize that if it were too hot in here, I would probably need to worry about my very soul. I push open the door to the kitchen, ready to meet my maker.

  Unfortunately, the first thing I see is Granny. And then I know.

  This ain’t Heaven.

  “Gabriel horn wake you?” Uncle Henry asks, stuffing bacon into his mouth.

  What is it with this family and bacon?

  “How did you know? Did you hear it, too?”

  “Hear it? Why, I blew it!” Uncle Henry declares.

  Uncle Henry is the angel Gabriel. Who would have thought? This information certainly would have come in handy when I was alive. Especially when it was time to take a test, or the last time Conrad McAllister threatened to beat me up; he thought I had called him a “dizzy-eyed barnacle,” when the truth is…Well, that is the truth. I did call him a “dizzy-eyed barnacle.” That’s no reason to beat someone up, though. Good thing I can run fast and Conrad is not exactly skin and bones.

  Uncle Henry laughs, a deep, hearty laugh that sounds like Aunt Lois’s homemade noodles smothered in real butter. He throws an arm around my shoulders and gives me a hard squeeze.

  Credit 13.1

  “It’s just a Gabriel horn, son. It’s what you’ll hear every morning around this time to wake up the shanty boys, get them fed, and send them off to work.”

  Credit 13.2

  “Stan, grab these flapjacks and put them on the table.” Aunt Lois hands me a plate loaded with more flapjacks than I have eaten in my entire life. Fried potatoes, sowbelly, baked beans, some molasses syrup, and pork sausages weigh down the table.

  I’m hungry, but when you think you’re dead and you suddenly find out you’re not, it takes a minute to sink in and can really affect your appetite. I hope I don’t lose my ability to eat altogether, or I’m sure to waste away to nothing.

  Men shuffle in. Some pull up suspenders, and others tie red sashes around their waists. One of the men says something to Mama. No, make that two of the men say something to Mama. She smiles a little from behind the stove and her cheeks turn a pretty pink.

  I’m not sure I like it.

  I survey the scene, searching for someone who might be my father. I see a guy with a beard. And there’s another guy with a beard. And a guy with a really bushy beard. And a guy with so much facial hair, I swear he has a beard growing on top of his beard. I’m pretty sure my father’s own mother wouldn’t be able to pick him out of this crowd; they all look so much alike, it’s apparent I need to come up with another plan.

  Credit 13.3

  I grab the teapot and start pouring; then I spy an empty seat and quietly slip into it.

  I might have spilled some syrup and knocked over a couple of plates, but other than that I was really quite quiet.

  “Hello, son,” the man on my left says, elbowing
me lightly.

  I look at him and realize with a shock that he’s the guy Geri said was a cold-blooded killer. He nods at me. “Name’s Peter,” he says, his mouth full of food. Not only has he killed a man, he has a pathetic name for a criminal, and horrible manners to boot.

  I point at his chest. “I’m onto you, Stinky Pete,” I say. Only I say this in my head. And I don’t actually point at his chest with my finger, but I do stare at it really hard. He knows that I know, and he is afraid. Or maybe I am.

  I turn to my right. “Hi,” I whisper. I know there’s no talking, but finding my father and getting myself to the river drive are more important than that harebrained rule. Eyes peer at me from above lifted forks. It appears “No Talking” is taken very seriously. Then I notice Granny heading in my direction; I have to be quick.

  “Does the name Stanley Slater mean anything to you?” I hiss to the man next to me.

  “Are you Mrs. Slater’s son?” the guy asks.

  “Yes! Yes, I am!” First try and I’ve found my father. “You know her?”

  “Since yesterday. We all know her, boy. She’s the only woman to set foot on this property since we arrived in October. Not counting Lois, of course. She’s off-limits.”

  This is sounding much less promising.

  “I’m Stan, by the way.”

  “Cager.”

  It’s pretty clear he’s not my father, but if I were going to change my name, that’s the exact name I would choose.

  Men start pushing themselves away from the table. Some pull their bright wool socks up over their trousers or retie their leather boots. Cager nods to me and starts to get up, which is okay because Granny is trying to maneuver her way through the shanty boys to get to me—a clear sign that I need to go in the opposite direction. Fast.

  “Give a good word to your ma for me.” I think Cager is smiling, but it’s hard to tell under all the hair.

  I freeze when two hands land on my shoulders. Scratchy hair tickles my cheek.

  “Put in a good word for me, too, eh?” My heart drops to my shoes when I look into the sinister, twinkly eyes of Stinky Pete, cold-blooded killer. He lightly squeezes my shoulders and gently pats my head—a warning of things to come, I’m sure. And what happens next only confirms my suspicions.

  “Hey, if you’re up for it, I’d be happy to play you in a game of cribbage later,” he says with a grin.

  Credit 13.4

  “Watch out for that guy,” Cager says. “He will murder you at card games.”

  I knew it! I am a whiz at first impressions, I don’t mind saying. Even when they’re more like second impressions.

  Stinky Pete winks at me, then ominously whistles his way into the dark.

  He should probably keep walking straight out of the lumber camp, because there ain’t no way I’m letting a dangerous man like him near my mama.

  What was that all about?” Granny’s arms are crossed in front of her chest. “You’ve been carrying on like an old biddy.”

  Which is hardly fair.

  I don’t look anything like an old biddy.

  I squint at Granny. Her eyes are worse than I thought. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She squints at me. “Two. Why?”

  “Hmmm. Just checking your eyesight.” It appears to be okay, although she might have simply had a lucky guess. “Have to go eat now. Great chat, Granny!” I pat her arm and run off to the stove to finally fill up my plate.

  “What were you talking about with the boys?” Granny murmurs into my ear. That woman is fast for her age. She’s got to be forty-five years old if she’s a day. I look around for someone to save me, but they’ve all plopped themselves down to eat.

  I see how things are here; it’s every man for himself.

  “Well”—I take a deep breath—“if you really must know, they were asking me about Mama.”

  Granny perks up and looks around like she’s lost all the pieces of a puzzle and they’re scattered about this room. “Yes. This is a perfect place to find exactly what Alice needs,” she mutters to herself. “Why didn’t I think of that? Alice needs a reliable man around, and where better to find a man but a lumber camp filled with them?”

  She grabs her plate and marches over to the table.

  I’m a little in shock. On the one hand, Hey! I didn’t get in trouble! On the other hand, What does she mean, “Alice needs a reliable man around”?

  Credit 14.1

  I sit down to eat, thoughts swirling around my brain. Somehow I think my plan for adding a man to the family is a bit different from Granny’s—I’m just planning on adding the one who already belongs. And if I can’t manage that, I’m simply going to have to become a man myself. Fast.

  Geri passes me the sugar. I pour it into my tea and take a giant gulp.

  “Pfft!” It isn’t sugar. Someone put salt in the sugar bowl.

  Credit 14.2

  Geri is bent in half, laughing. Granny mutters something about wasting food, a tiny smile curling her lip. I’m so mad, I pick up my plate and head to my room.

  I don’t need these people. I’ll just eat by myself.

  Mama comes up behind me. “Don’t pay them no never mind,” she says. Her voice is smooth and calm, and her eyes are as clear blue as Lake Superior two days after the ice melts.

  “Mama, I’m going to kill that tickle-brained pumpion,” I sputter. “She is plain off her chump.”

  Mama rubs my back. “Well, honey, you don’t know for certain that Geri pulled that little prank.”

  I look at her like she’s got mush for brains.

  “Honestly, pranks in lumber camps are hardly unusual,” she says. “Last year when Granny was helping Lois at the camp in Grand Marais, they told me about a prank that left a shanty boy bald and headfirst in a snowbank.” She winks at me. “He was new and apparently had criticized Granny’s biscuits after spitting tobacco juice on her clean floor.” We both nod knowingly. That was not a good idea. “Also, if it is Geri, you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing it bothers you.”

  I know this trick. I know it’s just a way to make sure there’s not an all-out prank war between us, but I’m not sure I’m sold on the reasoning.

  “Oh, grow up,” Granny says from the doorway. “Don’t be such a mama’s boy. Now finish up and get in here and help us clean. We don’t have all day. And don’t even think of trying to get back at Geri. That girl has more bad thoughts in her head than Attila the Hun. If you try to out-prank her, I can pretty much guarantee you’ll be cooking your own goose.”

  Credit 14.3

  I shake my head, because as much as I hate to admit it, the old biddy has a point.

  I have been swindled. Hoodwinked. Bamboozled. After waking up dead, the disappointment of not finding my father yet, a face-to-face conversation with a cold-blooded killer, salt in my tea, and being told I am this close to being a dead duck, the worst thing of all happens.

  Granny makes me go to school.

  Technically, she brings school to me, but it’s the same thing, except I don’t have any friends around. Unless you count Geri, and we all know Geri is not my friend.

  “Focus on the material, Stanley,” Granny drones. I try, but I’m as bored as a pacifist’s pistol.

  “I am no longer Stanley,” I announce. “From now on I will be referred to as Bat.”

  Geri looks up over her tea and snorts. “Like the mammal?”

  “No,” I answer. “It’s a nickname. We men like our nicknames, because they make us sound tough.” Do I have to explain everything to these people?

  Credit 15.1

  “What’s it short for? ‘Bats in the belfry’?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” I might have to pick another nickname.

  “Stanley. Focus. Read this portion aloud.” Granny points to a section in the McGuffey Reader and proceeds to pace behind me while everyone else preps dinner in the kitchen.

  “On the stool is a basket of fine apples. They seem to say, ‘Won’t you have
one?’ ” I pause. Why, if you were an apple, would you invite someone to eat you? Although the talking apple is interesting, I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to learn from this.

  “Continue,” Granny orders. I read about the Brown family. These people have the worst lives of anyone I’ve ever encountered in all my livelong days. Apparently the dad comes home from work and reads by himself. The kids come home from school and read by themselves. Mrs. Brown mends some socks. They go to bed. Not one of them even mentions an ax.

  I would rather drink a cup of salt than spend an evening with the Brown family.

  Geri sits across from me. She looks overly cheerful. She doesn’t have to do any of this, but Granny lets her sit and watch and listen.

  “Perhaps a little education will rub off,” Granny says before heading back to knead her dough.

  Geri groans. Not out loud, but her eyes very clearly roll back in her head. She’s reading Home and Health and Home Economics. I think she stole it from the library.

  Geri laughs, which makes me realize two things: (a) I spoke out loud. Again. And (2) she is completely guilty of the act of thievery.

  “You know it’s legal to borrow books from the library, right, Stan? That’s the whole reason behind the library?” she snipes.

  “Yes,” I reply, “but you’re not allowed to keep them forever.” I point at her. “You, missy, are going to jail.”

  Credit 15.2

  Geri shrugs and returns to her reading; then her head snaps up and she looks at me intently. “Hmmm.” She tilts her head to the right. She looks down at her book and then quickly at me.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  There’s nothing that means less than nothing than when someone says “Oh, nothing.”

  “That makes no sense.”