The Gravesavers (13 page)

“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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

M
AN
A
LMOST
O
VERBOARD

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.

“It’s like his legs have lost all the bones,” squealed Mum, clapping.

He bowed low when he was done and passed his hat.

“I’ll have a wad by the time we hit New York! Someday, I’m gonna take myself to Mr. P. T. Barnum’s spectacle, is what I’m going to do. Ever heard of it? Giants and ladies with beards and weird and weirder things! Maybe someday you folks’ll catch my act there!”

“No. And I meant no!” It was Miss Maryanna Rayborn. She was in the corner, fending off a man by the name of Mr. Thaddeus Redman. He would be the lone wolf Dad spoke of. In the blink of an eye men ran to her rescue, including my father.

“Is this man bothering you, Miss Rayborn?” Dad asked her.

“Yes. He made lewd and improper suggestions I have not invited.”

She was her usual composed self. Mr. Redman was holding his private parts. And moaning.

“I’m afraid I had to resort to some violence.” She held up her parasol. The men all winced.

Dad and several other men lifted Redman up by the arms and legs.

“Shall we heave him overboard, then, lads?” Dad said.

Amidst the laughing, a very red-faced Mr. Redman was escorted out of the dining hall.

“This’ll be your only warning,” yelled Dad. He returned to applause, and Miss Rayborn joined us at our table. I could barely breathe.

“John and I have met already,” she informed my mother.

“I see,” said Mum. “John, you never told me.” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

“I expect there’s so much excitement on board for a fellow his age, he forgot all about me.”

How wrong she was. I hadn’t been thinking about much else. I’d been following the lingering smell of wet rose petals all over the ship.

I knew now I had a glimmer of how Thomas felt about Rebecca. No wonder he twitched so much.

P
ERFORMANCE