The Gravesavers

by Sheree Fitch

  Your grandmother, the bride to be

  P.S. Enclosed is a package that came addressed to you from England. Yes, I wanted to snoop, but I didn’t. Cross my heart.

  DEAR NANA,

  YOU AND HARV! Congratulations!!! YEAH!!! And more good news! You will never guess! Mr. Dubbins is going to do a special portrait in time for the ceremony!

  But even more exciting than that! Mr. Dubbins somehow got Hardly Whynot’s autograph for Mum! It is a picture of him when he was younger and that is a good thing. That is how Mum likes him best. In the lower left-hand corner it says: To Dory, with love and best wishes, Hardly Whynot. Can you believe that? Turns out Mr. Dubbins said he had a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend and so on who had the means to get it!

  Mum screamed like she was on Much Music and pulled at her hair! Weird! That night Dad brought home an old photo of himself all blown up. On it he had written: To Dory, with love and best wishes, your true love, Ray! He put it on the dresser beside old Hardly. They laughed like kids. Then they played “I’m in Love with You You You” (the Hardly version) and danced. It was really sucky. Sorry I know you don’t like that word. It was though. Big time. But it made my heart burst all the same.

  Here comes the bride, dum dum dee dum.

  Your granddaughter,

  Minn

  Truth be told, Nana and me got along a lot better apart than we did when we were together. I’m pretty sure she had something to do with me being asked to be a speaker at the official opening of the SS Atlantic Heritage Site. I almost said no because I had never spoken in public before. But then my father said, Think before you decide, and my mother said she’d help me practice and then Nana sent this:

  DEAR MINN,

  Thought you should see the enclosed letter, which turned up in my friend Mabel’s attic. She was related to the Clancys who lived in the cabin out on Elbow Island. The one you almost got yourself killed in. Looks like a letter from the one boy who survived the disaster. Did you get around to reading the article on him I had? It was in a Moirs Pot of Gold box. There is even a picture. We are getting lots of other artifacts for the interpretation centre. A beautiful knife showed up the other day, rusted of course, but the case is gorgeous.

  September 27, 1873

  Dear Mrs. Clancy:

  You asked me to write and let you know how things were here in New York City. As you kindly cautioned me, my arrival here was both bitter and sweet. To see my sisters again was a joy. It was a tearful reunion. Then there was something to contend with I had not anticipated. We were intruded upon, rudely at times, by the press. At Grand Central Depot, they were waiting. My sister called them vultures. To make a curiosity out of me and not give our family adequate time for our grief was, she said, like picking at the bones of the dead. They took a photograph of me. I am so shocked looking in that picture I shall not send it to you. That nice man in Halifax has a better one. Perhaps he might send one to me?

  The mayor of New York City extended an official welcome to me. I was given a tour along the Hudson River and of City Hall and then the Stock Exchange. I am sorry to say that when I arrived there, something happened. I had a spell. Being there amidst all that confusion, I was swept back to the night on ship. I ran around confused until I collapsed.

  The other event is almost funny to me now. Mr P. T. Barnum wanted me to join his travelling show! He was ready to have me travel from town to town on a train and jump into a pool of water. He offered money. I said no but I was quite pleased to meet him, as my friend Ryan would have wanted that!

  I quite like my teacher. His name is Mr. O’Riley and his Irish accent puts me in mind of my father. He makes learning fun, too, although he is particular about us doing our very best. Lately, he has been giving me extra books he thinks I can learn from, as I am mightily bored with what we do in school most oft. These books are written by a Mr. Peter Parley and he makes geography an exciting tale rather than facts one has to learn. I especially like the verses Mr. Parley has penned at the beginning of each lesson.

  And there is something to rejoice about. Bridgit’s baby was born, and a big strapping lad he’ll be. He has those bean black eyes of my father and the goodly natured grin of my brother’s, I swear. They have baptized him Patrick Thomas Hindley.

  Each day on my return from school, I play with him while Bridgit fixes supper. I rock him for Ma. I feel her presence with me often then. Then I think of you—I hope your baby is snug in my father’s cradle. I’m flattered you called him John. As I was flattered and honoured at your offer of adoption. But I knew my place was here with my family.

  Sometimes, I recite poems to Bridgit’s baby I remember and new ones I am learning. This calms my own nerves as well before I sleep. Sometimes, I am still prone to spells of passing out, and the nightmares continue, but less so.

  To arrive in the city of my dreams without my folks and brother is not the way it should be. But school has started and so, it seems, has my new life. There is much to learn and yes, still, so much to forget.

  Sometimes, I wake up in the darkest part of the night and shadows seem to swallow me like the waves of that ocean. I swear I can hear the moaning of the ship’s rafters beneath me, the roar of that murderous sea, and the wailing of the dying. I cry then—a sea of tears upon my pillow. Quiet as I can for fear of waking up the baby and my family, the one I now have left.

  I miss them all, of course. My mother, Thomas, even Ryan, a friend of such short duration. He pops in and out of my reveries from time to time doing his jig and bowing and tipping his hat. This memory makes me laugh and those are in short enough supply. Yet I have learned something about memory. We can select what comes forth. We can. I have learned also that in this life, one does not want to know what the future holds. For if we could, we might not have courage to go another day. And we must.

  It is my father whose face returns to me most often—his face that night he burst in through the door holding those tickets in his fist like bits of gold. I see the light shine in his eyes and feel the warmth of his arms as I run and jump up and he hugs me in, scratching my face with the stubble of whiskers on his chin. I smell the tobacco and ale and the wind in March. The joy. I can feel it. And every time I do, I am no longer afraid. Or alone.

  Forgive my indulgence in writing details that might bore you. I will always feel close to you, as without your care I might have perished. Thanks for remembering me and please remember me to your family and Boulder Basin folks. Also, I wish to thank you for paying visits to the cemetery and placing flowers there on my behalf. Please pass on my fondest regards to Mr. Rev. William Ancient. I’m not sure I adequately thanked him for saving my life. He is a true hero.

  John Hindley

  I began writing a poem about Reverend Ancient for the creative writing class Miss Armstrong-Blanchett started in the winter. It was coming out like a love poem so I gave up. I thought I’d go to you-know-where writing like you-know-what to a man like that. He was a hero but he was also a minister. And old. Ancient, like his name.

  Nana phoned and asked me to be her maid of honour and I said yes I’d be honoured. Then I discussed with my mother if there was any way I could bring up the subject of electrolysis delicately and if Honeymoon Passion would be a good shade of lipstick with the magenta pantsuit Nana said she’d be wearing. I wrote and complained about having to shave my legs and armpits and about a friend of my mother’s who had to wax her mustache. If she didn’t take that hint, she never would.

  So everything was just tickety-boo and humming along and I was feeling ready for spring practice and every day was a Zippity Do Da day just the way Corporal Ray sang it.

  After everything I’d gone through, I really should have known better.

  — LIVING-ROOM NEWS —

  “We want to talk to you in the living room, Minn.”

  Just the tone of Corporal Ray’s voice warned me something was up. I was hot and sweaty after track practice. It was too humid for May.

  �
��Can I shower, first?”

  “Better not.”

  My mother was in there already, on the sofa, blowing her nose.

  Corporal Ray cleared his throat. He pulled his chair up to where I was sitting, his kneecap touching mine.

  “Minn, give me your hands.”

  For a split second there I imagined they were going to tell me they had reconsidered and were going to adopt after all and I would have a baby brother or sister one day. My O.I. was wrong.

  When I was seven, I saw a border collie pup get hit by a half-ton truck. He spun around like the dial on Wheel of Fortune before skidding to a stop. His eyes were open and he was motionless. Except when I touched him, I felt a twitch. He was still breathing. Corporal Ray picked him up and carried him to our car, and I held him in my lap all the way to the vet’s. And wonder of wonders, he recovered. The owners reclaimed him and it was a story with a happy ending.

  But that day in the living room, Corporal Ray had not one ray of hope to give me: “Harv Jollymore passed away in his sleep.”

  I learned that day that unexpected news could hit you with the force of a half-ton truck. A monster truck. The shock of sorrowful news can be violent and just has its way with you until it is done.

  We went to Boulder Basin for the funeral service at St. John the Baptist Anglican Church.

  “He was a man well loved and it was a life well lived,” they said. This was true. But those words didn’t take away the plain truth and that hole in your belly feeling.

  Entering Nana’s kitchen when we first got there was one of the hardest things I ever had to do in my life. It was quiet. No radio blaring. The kitchen smelled like boiled tea.

  There were enough casseroles on the countertops to feed a small village. Nana was staring out the window. She looked old and tired and little. When she stood up and came towards me, I realized I was taller than her. I hugged her so tight I hoped my heart could touch hers for a second or two and she would know how sorry I was for her loss. And mine. I couldn’t seem to find my voice.

  And anyhow, sometimes, words are totally useless.

  — FINAL PREPARATIONS —

  Nana seemed in good spirits this morning. We arrived at her place late last night but I was so nerved up about the ceremony I had a hard time sleeping. She brought me in some tea and talked a bit about her upcoming trip to Nunavut. She was taking Mabel-up-the-road with her.

  We had porridge for breakfast, fed the gulls toast crumbs and then all of us started getting ready all at once. Nana barged into my bedroom to put her ironing board away and caught me rehearsing my speech in the mirror.

  “Relax, Minn, you’ll do fine.”

  “But even the premier—” I began.

  “He’s only a person,” she interrupted. “And a misguided one at that.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It means she didn’t vote for him.” Corporal Ray clomped in then, dressed in his red serge. He looked spiffy.

  “I bet Betty Meisner R.N. will think you’re still a dream boat,” I said.

  “Spit,” he replied and pointed to the toe of his boot. I hawked a good one.

  “Well that’s certainly attractive,” said Nana as he started polishing.

  Mum breezed into the room in pistachio green. “Does anyone have to go before we go?”

  “No,” said three of us in unison.

  “I wonder if other families have a pee-checker before they leave for special occasions?” I mumbled. Perhaps they would sense my increasing irritation at their intrusion.

  “It could be just a Maritime thing,” said Nana.

  “No, I’m pretty sure all Canadians do it.”

  “It could even be a North American thing.”

  “Americans would never do that.”

  “Sure they would—Oh-h say have you pe–”

  “Ray, that’s awful.”

  “Funny though.”

  “As for the British?”

  “Have we had our little piddle then?”

  A real riot the three of them. Ha. Ha.

  “Where I go to school we are taught never to generalize about people on the basis of nationality,” I shrieked. It was a line right out of my text book.

  “Little touchy aren’t we?” Nana rolled her eyes and headed towards the door.

  “Guess our little prima donna needs some quiet time.” Mum kissed me on the nose.

  “We’ll be waiting in the car.”

  “Thank you all very much,” I shouted out after them.

  I turned back to the mirror. I adjusted my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder so I wouldn’t feel so lopsided. But there was another reason I needed some last-minute privacy.

  I put my white heart-shaped rock on the dresser. It was supposed to be a wedding present. Anyhow. I added a note.

  DEAR NANA,

  I wanted you to have this. It isn’t perfect. But I love it anyhow. You, too.

  Minn.

  Chin hair or no chin hair, vinegar smell and all.

  The horn honked.

  “TabisintacintheMirimichi!”

  “All right, already!”

  — NOW—

  Altostratus. Cumulonimbus …

  Imagine if all these folks sitting down there in front of me knew the real story. They’d probably run for their lives or burn me at the stake or something. And anyhow, I’m still trying myself to figure out what the truth the whole truth nothing but the truth is. In that cross your heart hope to die kind of way.

  “Now would you please join me in welcoming the young lady who is part of the reason we are here today, Cinnamon Elizabeth Hotchkiss.”

  That’s my cue. I move to the podium as if I am walking on the bottom of the ocean floor. I do a Rigbyism-style pep talk. You can do this! See yourself a winnah. I do a creative visualization. I picture them all naked in front of me. It makes me giddy. I do a deep-breathing cleansing breath. Look up at the clouds. I touch the brim of my cap for comfort.

  I can feel them. They are all here—crew and passengers, souls lost and soul saved from the SS Atlantic. Their loved ones. Stubby. My sister. Harv. And so many more. Here. Now.

  I find my voice. The words are swimming on the page, but I rehearsed it backwards forwards upside down and in the tub. I know my speech by heart. Especially the last lines.

  “In closing, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to quote part of a poem.

  I am the daughter of the earth and water,

  And the nursling of the sky;

  I pass through the pores of the oceans and shores;

  I change, but I cannot die.

  “See, I think we are all sons and daughters of the earth and water, and maybe like Mr. Shelley wrote in this poem, we are like the clouds—we change, but we never really die. My grandmother says a spirit never dies as long as there is someone around to remember them. That is what we are doing. It’s my Nana who made me see how important it was to save the grave. And John Hindley, a boy who lost his mother and father and his brother Ma—Thomas”—my voice trembles a bit here—“and his childhood in the same night and wanted us to remember them. May we never forget their loss and the bravery of those who helped in the rescue that night. Folks like the Clancys, like Reverend Ancient—ordinary folks who show us extraordinary things are possible. I would like to make special mention of Harv Jollymore—”

  “A hero of a man!” The clapping is loud.

  Nana is smiling up at me. Nodding. Brave as can be.

  “And thanks to all of you, for it is the people of this community who are the real gravesavers.”

  Mr. Dubbins helps me unveil the portrait. “In the Mizzen,” it’s called. The clapping is louder. I gasp when I look at the painting. John is suspended in the rigging, but the mizzenmast, like a rope ladder, leads up from a cemetery. A girl who looks a lot like me is reaching up towards him. Mr. Dubbins painted John’s eyes blue.

  I have the job of throwing the dirt over the first of the bones. I place the baby’s skull gently in the box.
>
  I throw the dirt.

  I do not cry.

  The clouds are rolling back out to sea. The sun peeks through as Laura Smith starts singing. “My bonnie lies over the ocean …” Everyone is so still. And then there he is.

  My Max. Thomas. Standing at the fringe of the crowd as real as anybody. He’s dressed like always and wearing a hat. He bows low and salutes, fingers at the brim of his hat. I nod. John, behind him, waves. John disappears but Thomas lingers.

  Cnicus benedictus! I don’t want him to go. Maybe he’ll be back, but I somehow doubt it.

  I know what I have to do. To say.

  I can’t.

  Thomas pleads with me. With those eyes.

  “Farewell,” I whisper finally. And just like that, with a smile of gratitude, he’s gone, drifting together with the others in that cloud moving over the sea. It dissolves. Nothing but blue sky. So why do I have a sad throat? I swallow.

  I turn back to my family and the rest of the crowd. They’ve joined in the singing.

  Now, I know everyone says that I have a bit of an overactive imagination. And there’s definitely some truth in that. But right now?

  Above their voices, cross my heart, real as you or me or the wind, he whispers back.

  Fare well. May you all fare well.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are many to thank:

  Kevin Sylvester, producer at CBC, commissioned the original short story where Minn was conceived. He was a most generous first editor. Shelagh Rogers narrated Cinnamon Hotchkiss and the Flying Toboggan in December 1997. In the cadence of her voice I heard Minn’s first breath.

  With the encouragement of Jane Buss, den mother, heart hugger and Executive Director of the Writer’s Federation of Nova Scotia, I applied for a Nova Scotia Arts Council Explorations Grant in 1998. Without that timely financial assistance this book would not exist.

  John Pearce, then at Doubleday Canada, suggested Minn belonged in a novel. For his support of my work and understanding of my idiosyncrasies over the years, I am deeply indebted. Suzanne Brandreth gave me faith and excellent questions to develop a sturdier version. Maya Mavjee, publisher of Doubleday Canada, had the vision to accept a book that doesn’t fit easily into categories. I thank her for being a publisher who keeps open to otherness not only market. Amy Black, dream editor: your intelligence, intuition, and pen protected me from my worst faults. It was good to not be “alone” at sea any longer. Thank you for your skilled, sensitive hands on deck. Both manuscript and author are more shipshape as a result. To all the Doubleday crew: your loyalty means everything. Lahring Tribe is incomparable.