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

  “By the way, have I told you how nice it is to have another man around here? In the cook shanty, I mean,” Uncle Henry says. “Obviously we have enough men on the premises. But those women…” He gives me a knowing smile as we load the last of the pails and climb onto the sleigh. I know exactly what he means.

  Uncle Henry snaps the reins. For a long time he doesn’t say much as we follow a bumpy path out of camp, but sometimes he hums a jaunty tune that is the exact opposite kind of music you should be hearing as you wade into the thick, shadowy woods. Anything could be hiding in these quiet trees: desperadoes, wolves, cold-blooded killers.

  “Did you hear the wolf last night?” Uncle Henry finally speaks, keeping his eye on the path and ducking branches that threaten to pull off his cap.

  I had heard that wolf, and I wasn’t so sure it was simply a wolf. The dark and dangerous surroundings are making me feel a little spooked.

  “How much do you know about the fellas here?” I ask, picking at a patch on my knee.

  “Well,” Uncle Henry says thoughtfully, “a lot of them come back every year. Some farm in the summers, log in the winters; some are running from things they’re not so proud of; some have pasts they can’t quite escape.…”

  “I heard that Stinky Pete killed a man,” I blurt out.

  “Huh?” Uncle Henry asks. “Well, technically, yes, he did. If by ‘Stinky Pete’ you mean Peter McLachlan?”

  “Yeah. Stinky Pete. I knew it! I never did like the cut of his jib.” I shake my head.

  “You do know that he used to be a preacher, not a pirate, right? And that no one calls him Stinky Pete?”

  “They don’t know him like I do, Uncle Henry.” I squeeze my lips together and say a little prayer for his soul.

  “Peter is one of the best men I’ve got, a true man in every sense of the word. Any discussion regarding his past is off-limits and Peter won’t talk about it—he was just a boy—so do not bring it up. The War of Rebellion was hard on a lot of folk, men and women. My uncle Jeb returned a different man.” He shakes his head. I feel like all our head shaking is going to knock our brains back to Sunday, and I’m not sure if my head is shaking in disbelief or because after an hour in this sleigh, on this rough path, everything feels shaky.

  Uncle Henry looks directly at me. “And how, son, do you think you know Peter better than I do?” He shoves his cap up and scratches his head. “You just met him about six weeks ago.”

  Credit 18.3

  “It doesn’t take long to get to know a man like that. I can tell by his eyes.” I point to each of mine just in case Uncle Henry doesn’t know what eyes are. He appears to want to say something, but then thinks better of it.

  Probably because there is no arguing with that kind of logic.

  I do agree that Stinky Pete is kind of nice. For a cold-blooded killer, that is. I am proud to say I am too smart for that trap. No matter how many times that guy messes up my hair, slips me a peppermint, or shows me a new card trick, I am not going to be fooled. That’s usually when the killers get you, as soon as you let down your guard.

  As we get closer to where the men are working, we pass through bare spots where cutting was done earlier in the year. Trees spring up at random, lucky not to be chosen for felling, surrounded by the remains of the giants that stood around them. Branches, stumps, and pine needles sprinkle the snowy ground like dark stubble on a pale man’s chin.

  “Timberrrr!” shoots through the forest, the earth shakes, and the sound of a tree falling, shredding everything in its path, is like a cannon.

  Uncle Henry looks me square in the eye. “Now, Stan, don’t you dare wander off.”

  I am just about sure I have never entertained the thought of “wandering off.”

  “Oh, yeah? What about the time your poor mother couldn’t find you in Mason’s Department Store because you had gone behind the counter to pour yourself a fountain drink, eh?”

  Credit 18.4

  “Pffft,” I assure him. “I was so little then.”

  “Stan,” Uncle Henry says seriously, “that happened when we were at your house in October, four short months ago.”

  “Right. That’s when I was ten. I’m practically twelve now. Big difference, there, Uncle Henry.”

  Uncle Henry gives up arguing. “Regardless, stick right with me. If something happened to you, your mama would kill me. Not to mention your grandma Cora. It’s dangerous, even for the most skilled of men. Why, just last month Ferguson’s camp lost three. One of ’em died from a log rolling right over him. Crushed his skull, it did.”

  A team of horses approaches, and the teamsters yell at Uncle Henry, “Save some chuck for us!”

  “Looks good, boys!” Uncle Henry yells to them as they clop by. “Not bad. Not a World’s Fair load, but can’t complain.” He looks pleased.

  The whole state was proud of the picture of the load of lumber headed to the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, a load so high the horses look like big dogs in front of a skyscraper. Postcards of it were sent coast to coast.

  Credit 18.6

  We pull into the logging operations, and Uncle Henry jumps from the sleigh to survey the scene.

  Pale piles of sawdust cover most of the snowy ground. Two men stand on either side of a giant felled log, sliding a crosscut saw back and forth like wheels hitched together on a locomotive. Another guy chops the limbs off a tree lying on the ground, while above my head, dots of red are spattered throughout the trees, from high in the branches to deeper in the woods, and I stare all around me.

  Blood.

  “That’s not blood, Stan,” Uncle Henry reassures me. “That’s the shanty boys’ clothing—their sashes and checkered caps and socks. Easier to see them that way. And when it’s easier to see them, there’s less likelihood of an accident.”

  So much is going on around me, I can’t keep it all straight. Uncle Henry bends to my level and points. “See over there? That’s Danny O’Sullivan and Ole Oleson. Best sawyers in all the Upper Peninsula.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’re getting your money’s worth out of them, Uncle Henry.” I pat his arm sympathetically. Those guys aren’t doing anything but walking around a tall tree, then walking around it again in the opposite direction. Then they look up into the sky and nod to each other.

  I could do that. I am a whiz at looking up into the sky, I don’t mind saying. And I’m even better at nodding.

  “Just watch.” Uncle Henry sits on a felled log and stares at Danny. All of a sudden, Danny walks around the tree, whips out his ax, whacks bark off the tree, and chops a V in the trunk. Then he and Ole move on to another pine.

  “See that? Right there! A couple of bang-up sawyers.” Uncle Henry slaps his leg with a satisfied laugh and starts building a fire.

  “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Uncle Henry,” I say modestly, although the guy obviously needs some tips, “but in case you haven’t noticed, the tree is still standing. I thought the whole purpose of this operation was to cut down the trees.”

  Uncle Henry sighs. “That’s just the first step, Stan. They have to figure out the best direction for the tree to fall, chop off the bark, notch it, and then when they return they’ll use their crosscut saws to cut down the tree. Bam! The tree will drop exactly where they want it. It’s almost magical, really.” He looks all dreamy.

  Sure enough, Danny and Ole return with a large two-handled saw and wordlessly start sawing into the pine, making sure the saw doesn’t get pinched in the cut of the tree, sawdust shedding on the ground like blood from a wound.

  “Now go get those lunches.”

  In a matter of minutes Uncle Henry has the fire going and coffee simmering over it. I’ve pulled all the food off the sled and started slapping baked beans, mashed potatoes, and roast beef onto cold tin plates. Once Uncle Henry clangs his triangle, I know the food will be gone like…

  Credit 18.7

  “Like my last paycheck?” Cager sneaks up behind me with his plate and fork. He squats
next to me, ready to be the first to dig in. “Didja put a good word in for me with that mama of yours?”

  I want to like that guy, but it would be a lot easier if he would keep my mama out of it.

  We get to camp as dusk turns the sky from milky blue to dull gray. I help Uncle Henry with the horses and head to the kitchen just in time for dinner prep. As I near the cook shanty, a silvery noise seems to skip over the snow like moonlight on snowflakes. It almost sounds like Mama’s laughter, but I’m not sure—it’s been a long time since I heard her laugh.

  When I enter the kitchen, I realize that while I might have a hard time liking Cager, this guy is much worse. He’s standing with his back to me, talking to Mama. Her hair curls around her face like a fancy frame, and her cheeks are tinged with pink. Her eyes sparkle like the lake on a bright summer day as she lets out a little giggle.

  I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  “Oh, Stan!” She spies me. “Come meet Mr. Archibald Crutchley. He’s here from town, checking on the camp for Mr. Weston.”

  She makes me face this intruder.

  “How do you do, Mr. Slater,” Mr. Crutchley says slowly like I don’t understand English or would like to be called Mister. He sticks out his clean hand with a smile. His thin mustache is crisp, his bowler hat is squared perfectly on his round face, and his long coat shows just the hint of a glistening gold chain attached to his pocket watch.

  I glare at him but shake his hand anyway. I’ve got manners, despite what Granny says.

  “We were just talking about you,” Mama says.

  Credit 19.1

  I whip my head toward her. “What exactly were you saying?” But she’s already forgotten me as she picks up the conversation where they left off. She seems like she barely touches the floor as she sets the tables. Mr. Crutchley’s eyes follow her.

  It’s inappropriate.

  “So you’re here for a couple of days, Mr. Crutchley?” she asks.

  He nods and smiles as he takes a dainty sip of tea.

  I slink away to our room only to find Granny.

  “What’s going on in there?” Granny is flipping through a Harper’s Weekly. The issue is an old one with a monkey on the cover.

  I would like to own a monkey. And a tarantula.

  A monkey would be a very entertaining companion out here in the woods—definitely more fun than Geri. And even a poisonous spider would be more enjoyable than Granny.

  Credit 19.2

  “Just Mama talking to some dumb man,” I reply.

  Granny looks up from her magazine. “Who?” she asks with more interest than is necessary.

  I guess I should be glad it’s not Stinky Pete.

  “You do realize no one calls him Stinky Pete, correct?”

  I close my eyes. What she doesn’t know won’t kill her. Unless Stinky Pete kills her; then what she doesn’t know will kill her. It’s all making my head spin. I’m bone weary from my day with Uncle Henry and want to take off my boots and grab a little snooze.

  “You have about half an hour, and then we have to get dinner on the table. Go ahead and climb into your bunk, Mr. Overdramatic.” Granny seems surprisingly unruffled this afternoon.

  I hear laughter from the other room. It’s Mr. Crutchley, and it makes me want to slug him in the jaw.

  “Oh, settle down, boy,” Granny snipes from behind her magazine.

  I sit at the table while I loosen the ties on my boots.

  “Take your socks and hang them on the rail,” Granny orders without looking up.

  “You know, I’m not the only one who stinks in this place,” I say. “It might be nice to spray a little of that good-smelling lady stuff around from time to time.” I give her a knowing look as I peel the socks from my feet. Granny wrinkles her nose and waves her hand toward the door. It’s true. These socks are pretty ripe. Then again, so is Granny.

  Credit 19.3

  “Excuse me? Would you care to repeat yourself?” Granny drops her magazine and glares at me, her pinchy fingers at the ready.

  “I said, um, ‘Where’s a pen? Sums are dandy!’ ” Which is not the finest example of thinking on my feet. And is the reason I am now doing arithmetic rather than curling up in my bunk reading Huck Finn in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp.

  Credit 19.4

  One of these days I will learn to keep my mouth shut.

  “I highly doubt it,” Granny says.

  I pull out my copybook.

  I bought candy for 10¢ and a knife for 25¢. What was the cost of both?

  Honestly, this is nothing short of mental torture. I don’t have two pennies to rub together. I can’t buy candy or a knife, so what kind of question is this? One to bring me down into the depths of depression, that’s for sure. I drop my head in my hands, and Granny flicks the top of my ear.

  “Youch! You are one mean old woman!” I yelp.

  “All you have to do is add ten plus twenty-five. How did you become so melodramatic? You’re worse than Geri.”

  Humph. I go on to the next problem:

  Credit 19.5

  Whoever wrote this book does not know what a real problem is. A real problem has to do with bossy women, finding a father, or coming up with a quick way to prove you’re a man and get to a river drive, all while wearing a flowery apron. It does not involve dealing with birds in a shed. Do you know what I’d do if I had a bunch of those birds in my shed? I’d grab a broom and whoosh them out of there, that’s what. Problem solved.

  Laughter from Mama and that Crutchley person shimmies in through a crack in the doorway. It’s the absolute truth to describe the laughter as completely and utterly sinister. That would not be an exaggeration.

  “Do you hear them, Granny? That Crutchley fellow is up to no good, I tell you. You should have seen the way he was looking at Mama,” I say.

  Credit 19.6

  “I will remind you your mother has not been this happy in quite some time, and Mr. Crutchley is a fine, respectable gentleman. You are working yourself into a stew for nothing. The two have just met, and Mr. Crutchley returns to town in a couple days.”

  I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Granny’s right. One afternoon of conversation does not mean anything. Granny has earned herself a reduced Evil Rating of 90.8 percent. Compared to Mr. Crutchley, she’s an angel.

  Um. Don’t quote me on that.

  “Although an educated gentleman such as Mr. Crutchley might be a good match for Alice, and a wonderful influence on you.” Granny nods at me and then heads to the kitchen.

  I can’t even begin to mull over what she said. It’s still possible for my real father to return, but I’ll admit, time is ticking. The river drive is getting closer, and since I haven’t been very good at proving my own manliness, I might need to find a substitute dad to get me where I need to go. A “somewhat” father. But I’ll definitely need to be the one to choose him. Judging by Mama’s recent actions, I’m starting to doubt her taste in men. And I have a hunch Granny would not be helpful in this matter, either. I think we can all agree she is not to be trusted.

  No, I much prefer the father whose letters are in my Scrapbook. I may have made him up, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.

  Hoots slip across the icy streets of camp and into the kitchen, where I’m once again peeling potatoes. Mama is at her regular post, stirring pots at the stove and washing dishes, quietly humming some hymn. She smiles at me briefly and tweaks my nose, her eyes a bit shinier and her smile a bit more ready than just a few weeks ago.

  “In the name of all that is holy”—Granny closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose with her floury fingers—“can’t those nincompoops next door go one Sunday without causing a major ruckus? I have had it up to here with those pathetic songs the shanty boys all sing. I just thank the good Lord alcohol is not allowed on the premises.” Granny kneads the cinnamon roll dough like it’s a lumberjack’s head.

  Her yammering distracts me as I clean out the stove. “Golda
ng it!” I yelp when hot ash hits my finger. Granny grabs the top of my ear so tight, my eyes start to complain and the burn on my knuckle feels like a kiss from a kitten.

  “I’ve had more than enough of this language, Stanley Arthur Slater.” I think now is not the time to remind her I’ve changed my name to Rye.

  “Like the bread?” Geri asks, sweeping the floors.

  “No,” I hiss. But it’s hard to argue when your ear is in someone’s viselike grip. Plus, now that I think about it, “Okay, yes, like the bread. But it’s short for Zachariah.”

  Credit 20.1

  Granny’s pinch has me twisted to the side all slantindicular. I comfort myself with the thought that she’s old and should be dead soon.

  “Excuse me? Would you care to repeat yourself? I’m not sure I heard you.” Granny’s breath smells like the camphor she insists cures everything.

  “Um, which part would you like repeated?” I squeak.

  “Something to do with my being ‘dead soon,’ perhaps?”

  “Oh, no, Granny.” Her grip is getting stronger, which frankly makes it hard to think. “What I actually said was, ‘What do you think of the common raccoon?’ ” I twist up to look at Granny. She obviously thinks I’m dumber than a box full of hammers, and Geri stops sweeping to look at me. I can tell she’s wondering how I’m going to get out of this one.

  “The common raccoon?” Geri looks confused.

  “I’ve been wondering about it for a long time,” I respond. “Do you think a raccoon would make a good pet?” At first, I’ll admit, I was trying to distract Granny from my previous comment, but now I’m starting to actually wonder about the possibility of having a raccoon as a pet.