The Gravesavers

by Sheree Fitch

  — DIRTY OLD GEEZERS —

  The water was cold. The pipes clanged in protest as I refilled my glass. I stood at the kitchen window as I sipped it, staring up at the hill. And right then, Beach Boy appeared out of nowhere and waved at me to join him. The glass slid out of my hand and shattered into a bazillion pieces on the tile floor. A shard of glass pricked my finger as I swept it into the dustpan, and blood spurted out like a mini geyser. After doctoring myself up, I started up the hill.

  Burdock stuck to my socks, thistles scratched my ankles, and I had to thread carefully through tangles of spiderwebs. Fat spiders with yellow and black bodies sat content in the middle of lacy designs spread between the tips of timothy, like blankets at a picnic. I hate spiders. Still, I climbed.

  “Hey!” I bellowed out to the sky and the wind. “Are you here?”

  The sea crashed on the rocks below and eddied back out. My voice echoed back. Here, here, here. The gulls screeched, and from the other side of the basin came the low groan of a motorboat put-putting towards the government dock.

  I spotted Nana’s truck pulling into the driveway and I dove down, hoping the grass hid me.

  “Minn!” she called towards the house. “Come help me lug in these berries.”

  I flattened myself farther into the grass, waited until she’d gone in for the last time and then rolled over. The clouds were silvery white; the sky filled with scribbled chalky lines and shapes. I thought of hieroglyphs in ancient caves. Dinosaur, dolphin, castle, face of bear. After the morning’s workout, it was a perfect place to rest.

  “Ida!” Harv’s voice interrupted my daydreams. I leaned up on my elbows to watch.

  Nana came out of the house with two glasses of lemonade. Harv took them from her and placed them on the table. Then, to my disgust, they embraced. And worse, they kissed—like lovers kiss. Tongue and everything, it looked like. Gross.

  They sat down and sipped their lemonade. A romance between Harv and my grandmother! Ew. Imagine what they’d be up to if I wasn’t around to cramp their style! Ew. Ew. Ew. Did my father know about this? Come to think of it, Harv did come with us last year to the Herring Choker Picnic and the potluck at the church.

  Well, well. My grandmother and Harv. So much for Alex Trebek.

  On the way down the hill, I hummed loud enough to give them plenty of warning in case they had any idea of giving in to their passion and making out. Dirty old geezers!

  “Here’s the girl herself now,” said Harv as I walked up the steps.

  “Strawberries in the kitchen need hullin’,” said my grandmother.

  “Just a minute now, Ida. I brought your granddaughter a gift, I did.”

  He reached inside the large pocket of his lumberjack shirt and produced the book I’d been looking at in his store.

  “Marie says you took a real interest in this. I want you to have it.”

  “Thanks, Harv,” I said.

  “She said you were acting sort of strange. And …” He paused. Don’t please don’t say anything about the boy. He winked. “And you owe me a Gatorade.” Whew. “And … she said you took off like a bat outta hell!”

  “Harv!” Nana barked like a teacher.

  “Excuse me. Like a bat out of Tutuyukytuk!”

  I knew it! Marie the checkout girl had ears and eyes like a hawk! She’d been checking me out, all right.

  “It was just that I remembered Dad was going to call this morning and I didn’t want to miss it.”

  “What’d he have to say?” asked Nana.

  “Nothing much.”

  “Do Eaton’s tell Sears their business?” Harv asked her.

  “Eaton’s went out of business, last I heard,” snapped Nana.

  “Got me there,” sighed Harv.

  “How’s your mother?” Nana continued, one eyebrow arching up high. It was the first time she’d mentioned her. Maybe she figured I’d talk to her more in front of Harv. That his being there would force me to be polite.

  “The same,” I mumbled, flipping through the book so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye.

  “She’ll be fine, I’m sure she will,” said Nana. Almost, I realized with a shock, almost as if she was trying to make me feel better. Sure, put on a show for your lover, so he won’t know what a witch you are.

  “Whatever,” I said, and went into the house, letting the screen door slam behind me.

  I expected her to shout out not to be so rude, but she stayed on her sweet as opposed to sour behaviour at the moment.

  I threw the book on my bed, peeled off my sweaty clothes and went to shower. I should have waited until after hulling the berries, because my fingers were stained red and my fingernails almost purple by the time I was through. It looked like I’d been splashing my hands in a puddle of blood.

  Later that afternoon, Nana turned on the radio and we listened to the CBC as we mixed the biscuits for the strawberry shortcake.

  “Harv’s coming over for dessert,” she announced. I bet he is, I wanted to say.

  “He loves his strawberry shortcake, all right,” she said, “with real whip cream, though, not that artificial stuff that makes your teeth rot. Here, you can lick the beaters if you want.”

  Supper was delicious, a feast of boiled potatoes, fresh peas, hot German sausages and sauerkraut. I left plenty of room for dessert.

  “Now Shelley, he was a great poet,” said Harv afterwards, as he puffed on his pipe. “His life was too short and he would have written more poems, I am sure, that we’d still be remembering today.”

  “Maybe not,” said Nana, puffing on her pipe as well. “Sometimes the best poetry is written in the prime of one’s life, in youth, when the emotions are still not in check and passions are high.”

  “Are you saying old folks don’t have high passion?” I blurted.

  Nana flushed and Harv nearly choked on his smoke.

  “Well!” said Nana.

  “I saw you two smooching on the porch this afternoon,” I teased.

  Harv laughed. “Well, well, Ida, I guess our little secret is out.”

  “Nosy little thing. It’s not polite to be spying on people.” Nana pouted like a kid.

  “But I wasn’t spying,” I protested between my giggles. “I just happened to look down at the wrong time.”

  This was fun, seeing her all kafuffled.

  “I’d like to marry your grandmother,” said Harv like a courtly gentleman. “But she won’t have me.”

  “Harv, now don’t start in,” warned my grandmother, her face almost as purple as an eggplant.

  “Yup. Guess she thinks an old guy would only be getting in her way all the time.”

  “Well, I do like my freedom,” sniffed Nana. “Besides, they’d only cut my old age pension, and a woman needs her own woodpile.”

  “But I’m not a poor man exactly, Ida,” said Harv. There was weariness in his voice. I guessed they’d been over this a lot of times.

  “Your family would not approve,” she said. “Probably call me a gold digger.”

  “My children would be tickled pink, Ida. You know that!”

  “That’s what you think now, Harv, but believe me, it’s a different story when the time comes.”

  I think for a minute they forgot I was there as they squabbled like two old crows.

  “Minn,” said Harv suddenly, as if he could read my thoughts, “you’d come to the wedding, wouldn’t ya?”

  “I’d sing at it if I could sing,” I said. Then I began my own rendition of “Ave Maria.” The one with Corporal Ray’s country-and-western twang.

  “Stop!” My grandmother covered her ears, laughing. “Lordie, that’s a good enough reason to never say yes.”

  It seemed she was leaving the door open a bit.

  I have to admit that knowing Harv loved my grandmother and wished to marry her painted her in a whole new light for me. Harv was a great guy. Even when I was little I knew he was a kind man. There’s a twinkle in certain grown-ups’ eyes that little kids know means
this is a grown-up you can trust. And when they say “how are you?” they really mean who are you, and you know they want an answer. A real one, not just “fine, thank you.”

  “Well, I’ll do the dishes and give you two lovebirds time alone,” I said.

  “Now I’m going to have to put up with this foolishness from here on in, I suppose,” muttered Nana.

  “And don’t be saying anything to your father, do you promise me?”

  Ha, just as I suspected.

  “My lips are sealed,” I said. “For now.”

  They sat on the veranda until well after dark. I went to bed and read Mr. Shelley’s poems until I fell asleep. Not before I remembered to do the Rigbyism exercise, though. By this time, I had myself coming in fourth, and although I was still wearing the letter carrier’s uniform, the shoulder bag was gone. But waiting for me at the finish line was none other than Gavin turned into Beach Boy. Arms outstretched, white teeth gleaming, ready to hug me and swirl me in the air. Coach Rigby would probably say this was progress. I felt like I was turning into Carolina. Never had a boy so invaded my every waking moment.

  I decided to consult an expert. I tore a page out of my journal.

  Dear Carolina:

  Would you say when your mouth fills up with

  cotton and you feel like you’re gonna gag and your

  heart does the rumblemombo and there’s this

  clammy feeling behind your kneecaps that it’s

  LUV? Just askin.

  Minn

  I scrunched it up and threw it in the corner of my room. I did twenty-seven push-ups and twenty-nine jumping jacks and felt not one bit better.

  — NEWS FROM HOME —

  A routine settled in over the next week or so. From sun-up to midday, Nana was rooted in her herb garden like a bad weed. I trained like a demon. In the afternoons, I read while she went to her room to “rest for a spell.” But she usually dozed off, snoring louder than a tractor. Escape time! I would wander down to the shore. My search for heart-shaped rocks continued, but truth is, I hoped to find more bones. Even better, I wanted some treasure from the wreck to wash up on shore. Valuable treasure. I’d call the media. I could see the headlines now: “No Oak Island Treasure but Boulder Basin Riches Uncovered by Budding Archaeologist.” My picture would appear beneath it. A flattering picture. I would grant an interview, which would spark interest in the grave.

  But no luck. No rocks, no bones and no treasure. No Hardly Whynot sighting. I’d never make detective, and some archaeologist I was.

  A gravesite was still washing out to sea.

  Every afternoon, I had to help Nana prepare supper. I shelled peas until I saw green, diced onions until no tears were left and peeled a truck-load of potatoes. Nana loved leftovers. It meant no work for lunch the next day. Mostly, we worked in silence. Sometimes, she’d mutter on to herself about an article in National Geographic. All I’d have to say is, “Oh really?” and she’d elaborate forever. But I didn’t listen. I was doing my Rigbyism exercises the whole time. This caused some awkward moments.

  “I tasted some once, right off the bark of a tree in Zanzibar.”

  “What? You ate tree bark?”

  “In Zanzibar. Real cinnamon. Never tasted anything like that from a bottle.”

  “Oh.” She’d once gone on an exchange teaching trip to Africa. I figured she’d scared her students to death.

  On top of the piano was a picture of her in Africa. She dusted it every day. In this picture, there were no students. She was kissing a hippopotamus. On the nose. A baby hippopotamus. The poor hippo.

  “Do you like them?” She was still prattling away.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Cinnamon buns. I asked you if you liked the buns you were named after.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then,” she said, “watch and learn. I’ll show you how they’re done.”

  She was a whiz with the dough. She let me sprinkle on the cinnamon and sugar and let me roll it sideways. When I was little, my mother used to let me do the same. After the age of nine, I avoided the kitchen whenever I could. Now I felt guilty. All the hours I might have spent with my mother when she was still a human being. But no, I was too busy off doing something more important with Carolina.

  “The recipe was mine to begin with,” Nana snapped when I told her hers were good but not quite the same as my mother’s. “She probably adds more sugar,” she said more gently when she saw my face. Thoughts of my mother were needle pricks in the pin cushion of my heart. I refused the buns after that.

  “Want to splurge?” she asked the next night. She grabbed the keys to her truck. “Come on!”

  We hopped in the truck and drove ten minutes down the road to the Windjammer Restaurant for fried clams and chips. I couldn’t help but notice she liked vinegar on her fries. She cracked a few lame jokes. She was obviously trying as hard as she could to be as nice as possible to me. It must have taken enormous effort. Keeping my own harbour of hate under control was exhausting.

  Beach Boy joined me on several morning runs. I discovered he was left-handed. That was about it. Mostly, I lost my voice around him. And he continued his guessing game.

  “Min-i-van? Min-i-mum? Min-i-skirt?” and on he’d go.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me,” I said.

  “Honest?”

  “Cross my heart,” I said. But I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  “Max. Your turn.”

  “Sta-MIN-a!” I shouted and sprinted ahead of him.

  “No fair!” he gasped. “But I didn’t trust you anyhow! Max is not my real name.”

  “Well, Max is tickety-boo with me! As in Maximum loser! You a looosah! Me a winnah!” I left him sputtering and choking on my dust. I’m not sure he appreciated my humour. I was only imitating Coach Rigby. Be a winnah, not a loosah!

  Harv came over most nights. Sometimes Nana played the piano. Boooring. Mostly hymns. Sometimes they listened to records by Nat King Cole. More boooring. But sometimes, if I asked, Harv told stories. Or read to us from Mr. Shelley. Harv’s voice was like gentle thunder. When he got going, it boomed out, echoing across the water and back again.

  Sometimes, although I can’t explain why, the poems almost brought tears to my eyes. Half the time I didn’t know the meaning of the words, but there was something about their music, rippling through the darkness, that I seemed to understand all the same. For a second, a flick of a firefly light, everything felt fine.

  I was on my second Rigbyism—one entirely the opposite from the first:

  The start of each race is where the race can be won or lost. Close your eyes and picture yourself warming up before the race. Do not—I repeat—do not look your opponent in the eyes. This game of psyching each other out is, in my mind, nothing but a waste of energy. This is about you and the best you can do, not about them at all. Instead, focus your eyes down the track towards the finish line. Start mentally seeing yourself exploding from the starting blocks. Get your feet positioned. The starter’s voice begins, on yer mark, now rise up, get set, and hear the blast of that pistol! You’re off! First one out of the gate! Over and over again—BEGIN your race.

  So I did. There was the lime on my fingers like fine white powder and the gravelly smell of the track, a little like tar. But every time—false start! I was disqualified, finished before I started. That’s what a loser I was. Loosah! Loosah! This exercise was not calming, either. My heart raced like it did in a real sprint. The darkness seemed to press in on my chest, and thoughts of Beach Boy spun like a whirlpool in my clogged-up head.

  I got a letter from Carolina that made me realize how badly I needed to talk to someone.

  Dear Girlfriend:

  Whassup? Miss you loads, kiddo. Got myself a job supervising the tot lot program at the park in the mornings and babysitting the Fenton kids in the afternoon. It’s all right, I suppose. All the kids pee in the pool and last week little Roddy Foreman who goes in with his diaper on left a banana-sized turd floa
ting around in the water. It emptied the pool so fast you would have thought it was full of sharks. It was disgusting. I scooped the poop out with someone’s sand shovel. Saved the day!

  The Fenton kids are okay … pretty whiny by the end of the day … but the money’s worth it. I’m saving up for a new CD player.

  I saw Gavin once. I dithered and dathered before deciding to tell you. But then I thought I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t. If it were me, I’d want you to tell me. So here’s the bad news. I saw him holding hands with that rat-face Heather McDorman and word has it they’re going together. Sorry. Hope your heart’s not broken or anything and you don’t hate me for telling you the bad news. Anyhow, I nearly scratched out her eyes on your behalf. The way I figure it, if he couldn’t wait for you to come back it wasn’t meant to be and he’s not worth your energy. Right? Anyhow, I know now I won’t be able to visit because of my jobs and all but I’m thinking of you loads and miss you like crazee. Hugs and kisses pal o’ mine.

  Carolina

  The news about Gavin stung for a bit, I’ll admit. Just a sting, though. It didn’t last long. Just a day or two. No worse than a jellyfish sting.

  MAN ALMOST OVERBOARD

  You learn a lot about the folks you call your shipmates. We bumped into each other in the stairwells and passages. We took turns passing the buckets into which we had all been sick at least once. Folks made real friends with each other—most folks, at least. A few found it best not to be in each other’s company for too long.

  “It’s only human,” Dad said. “Not all of us can take to each other. Throw a pack of us together and we can be like animals, moving together in the pack, then sometimes, for no reason, some attack each other. And some are the lone ones circling outside, never sure where they fit in or if they even do.”

  But usually, come evening, everyone was feeling festive. Ryan surprised us one night and took the spotlight. He did this step-dance routine he’d worked out with the fiddler. He called it “Mister, Can I Have Another Pint?” As the music sped up, his legs wobbled more and more.