The Gravesavers (25 page)

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.

“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.

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!”

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.

“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.

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.

Dr. Terry Punch, former neighbour, historian and genealogist shared my initial entry into this world with enthusiasm and put expert research skills to work at the provincial archives. He produced a treasure trove of facts, and brought me the picture of John Hindley. To Pam Punch, your wise, intuitive and generous nature taught me lessons in courage and open-heartedness. Our kinship has given me much beyond words and faith in other worlds. Two other Chocolate Lake friends are linked to this book. Alex Astbury taught me to make a bowline knot and Faune Creaser connected me with Bill Matheson, who generously offered me a copy of
The Coal Was There For Burning
(Marine Media Management). Another book I found useful for background was Keith Hatchard’s
The Two Atlantics
(Nimbus Publishing). Bruce Nunn passed on the name of Anne Bartlett who gave me a contact
with a Hindley (Hanley) descendent. It was a fortuitous meeting, which urged further exploration.

Jenny Durant and Melanie Colbert read, offered feedback, and helped fix typos in early stages.

To the McNally family—Danny and Freda and their daughters—for their help, especially to Danielle for lending me her training diary. And to Mary McNally, who supports authors by reading and buying their books I owe royal-ty thanks.

To my amazing women friends who listened all the while or gave cheerleading at crucial moments: Janet Blackwell, Karleen Bradford, Martha Brooks, Carol Bruneau, Gwen Davies, Maggie DesVries, Dawn Fisher-King, Thora Howell, Alison Gordan, Rachna Gilmore, Joan Tetzlaff, Pam Donoghue, Sara Filbee, Lian Goodall, Alma Lee, Janet Lunn, Mary Machiussi, Carol McDougall, Sue Newhook, Caroline Parry, Joanne Sadler, Shelley Tanaka, Marie Thompson, Dawna Ring, Noreen Smiley, Joanna Stanbridge, Nancy Watson, Deborah Wiles, Carol Campbell Williamson, and members of the Lethbridge and Ottawa Children’s Literature Roundtables. Laura Smith allowed me to reference her in name. Her version of “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean” is on the CD
Between the Earth and My Soul.
Margot Brunelle, Rose Vaughan, Ian Wallace, and Barbara Mercer found their way into this book in disguise. …

To my community of friends at City Fitness in Washington, my refuge between pages—you lift the weight of the words off my shoulders.

My husband, Gilles, is anchor and life raft in the sea life I’m still dreaming. Your belief that even the roughest waters are navigable gives me faith it might be so.