The Gravesavers (20 page)

He was shouting like a crazy man. A woman passing by on the sidewalk looked over at us in alarm and then hurried across the street.

Stubby took a breath and continued. “Hurricane, I started to think. Maybe some leftover tropical storm had made it all the way up the coast from Florida. I was soaked through to the bone in no time. I headed for a grove of trees mid-island where I knew the old Clancy cabin used to be. Sure enough, not that much of it was left, but I found it. I was happier than a pig in—Excuse me, my old words come back with memory, I guess. But I was feeling no pain. See, I’d found my refreshment along the way. So there I was. Had a sleeping bag, my drink and matches for a fire I always kept inside a leather pouch around my belt loop. I tore up some floorboards for kindling, snapped them with my boots and figured I’d be dried out—well, in one sense—in no time.” He stopped and gulped some air. “I kneels down to light my fire and when I turned around and saw …”

His eyes were misty.

I waited.

“Where was I?”

“You said you saw …?”

“Her. There she was.”

“Who?”

“Honey, as real as you are to me now, I was looking into the face of the prettiest woman I ever saw in my life. What a sight for my sore eyes. Merciful Jesus, I thought to myself, I am truly blessed this night! I reached out to take her hand. I wanted to kiss it like a gentleman. But then …” He shook his head, scrubbed at his face with his hand, pulling his wrinkles down as he did. For a second, I saw him as a younger man.

“Then, she changed in front of my eyes into—into a corpse. Her eyes bulged out, almost popped out of her skull, and her lips were purple and her necklace kept shining in my face until I was blinded and fell to my knees. I felt it was the She-devil, a demon.

“‘Lord have mercy!’ I screamed.

“‘Stubby McIsaac,’ said an angelic voice. ‘Look at me.’

“But I knew it was a trick.

“‘Look at me!’ she repeated.

“The cabin grew colder than death itself. I peeked out between my fingers like this.”

He showed me. It was the way my mother watched scary parts in movies, through what she called a real handmade mask. I was gripping the edge
of the bench, I noticed, and my leg muscles were tensed up, my palms sweating.

“And what did I see? She was the sweet young woman again. ‘Who are you?’ I sputtered out. ‘What do you want from me?’ I asks her.

“‘My name is Maryanna Rayborn. I died on the mizzen rigging in the wreck of the SS
Atlantic. I
am also the Woman of Whispers,’ she whispered. ‘I am the holder of all secrets and burdens you cannot whisper to any living soul. Not even yourself. I want your secrets, Stubby, and your burdens. Speak to me,’ she said kindly.

“‘And if I don’t?’

“Again the dead woman rose up before me.

“‘All right, all right!’ I screamed. Hell, heck, I had enough secrets and burdens and some downright confessions to last me a lifetime.” He blew through his mouth with a shudder of his lips, just like a horse does. “Are you religious, Cinnamon?”

“I’m not sure what I believe,” I murmured, hoping my answer was okay. I was afraid he wouldn’t go on with me telling the bald truth like that.

“That’s fine, you can always believe in belief until you figure that out. Having faith is even better than having religion. Well, anyhow, I never knew what hit me. See, I was never much of a talker until that night, but I talked until the sun came up. Like
she said, told her things I’d never told myself. And she did the strangest thing. When I was through, she waved her arms, and in through the door of that cabin, clouds drifted in. She whispered to them and waved her arms again. And then up blew this wind and the clouds swirled above my head and disappeared. ‘Your heart can rest, Stubby. Your wounds are healed and burdens dissolved. Go forth in peace.’

“I cried like some baby and fell asleep. When I woke up, I made a promise to myself. That I’d never touch spirits again. The way I figured it, the spirits had summoned the spirits, if you get my drift. I never ever wanted to see that vision again—a face twisted in a mask of death.” He stopped talking.

“How did she leave?” I asked.

“She just followed the clouds out the door like the gracious lady she was.

“Anyhow, I rowed, tunderation, I rowed back to the basin and went straight to Reverend Hardy’s and asked to be born again in God’s family. So there. The end.”

“And you never told anyone?”

“Well, I did tell Hardy that day and my good wife who had prayed every night of our married life I’d mend my ways.”

“And they believed you?”

“They believed it was the hallucinations of a drunken man. But I know better.”

“How can you be sure?” I said. “Because she gave me a name. A hallucination won’t do that.”

“Oh.”

“See, I looked over the passenger list once. After my encounter. There was her name plain as the nose on your sweet little face.”

“There
was
a woman who froze on the rigging out there. I remember reading that. But it didn’t give her name.”

“I’m just telling you what happened to me. So what will you do with this so-called independent research of yours?”

“I want to save the grave, Mr. McIsaac,” I repeated.

“Isn’t that a coincidence! There was a girl here before—Oh, that’s you, isn’t it!” he snorted.

Old people can smell really, really sour. Worse than vinegar.

“So what’s your plan? How are you going to save it?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve got a petition going. But I think I need to cause a stir somehow. Raise money.”

“I have a hundred dollars to get you started,” he said.

“No, no, I couldn’t!”

“Oh yes you could!” He reached into his right slipper and pulled out a wad of bills. He winked at
me. “They don’t know I’ve got this.” Then he peeled off a hundred. “Please,” he said. “It’ll make me feel real good.”

I took it and tucked it into my jeans. It felt heavy as a rock.

“Go start yer stirring! Godblessnow. And if you find your way to Elbow Island, say hello to that beautiful woman for me, eh?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Of course you have. Bones speak, like I said. And the arm that is Elbow Island beckons.”

“I don’t know how I’d get there. And it sounds dangerous.”

“It is not for the faint of heart. If there’s a will, there’s always a way. And for those that dare, the rewards outweigh the danger. Trust me.”

He began to wheel himself back to the front door.

“Did you … um … Did you see the headless man?”

“No. But Ace Jollymore did. Now, honey, I’m tired right out from so much talking. Talking takes breath and I don’t have so many breaths left in me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Stubby,” he said. “You can call me Stubby.”

No, I thought, I really couldn’t. Leastways, not with a straight face.

I shuffled home, hardly noticing where I was going. Trust him? Believe his story? He had been skunk drunk, after all. And yet? If an old lady could sit and rock and sing to a doll thinking it was a real baby, maybe a person could imagine just about anything. O.I.! O.I.!

The day of the Herring Choker Picnic and Folk Festival started early. Five thirty, to be exact.

“A picture-perfect day!” squealed Nana as she opened the curtains and let the sun flood in.

“Up and at ’em. Lazy Mary, will you get up, will you get up, will you get up. Lazy Mary, will you get up, will you get up this mooooorning?” she sang.

“All right, just please don’t sing!” I protested.

“Rise and shine and give God your glory glory,” she crooned in reply.

“Nana!”

“Good morning, good morning, good morning to you! Oh, we’re all in our places with sunshiny faces! Oh, this is the way to start a new day!”

“How many wake-up songs do you know?”

“We rise again, in the faces of our children—”

“I’m up, okay!”

She was already halfway downstairs. “I’ll need a hand loading the truck!”

I took a second to look out the window. She was right about the day. An endless blue sky. “Holland Blue.” I heard my mother’s voice so distinctly I spun around thinking she was in the room with me.

After breakfast, Harv and Nana headed for the fairgrounds to start setting up for the picnic.

There were training drills for me to tackle, but goofing off sounded like a better idea. I had a nice long soak in the claw-foot tub in Nana’s room with lavender bubbles up to my neck. When my skin puckered up and started to peel, I drained the tub. My hair wasn’t quite dry when the doorbell rang.

“Want me to walk you over?” Max asked. “I can’t stay, of course.”

“Of course.”

The limo passed us. The chauffeur did his usual salute thing.

“What if I said I was going to Elbow Island?”

“How?”

“The boat.”

“It’s dangerous, and your grandmother—”

“I know. I’ve decided my grandmother doesn’t need to know … And you’d be with me.”

“At night?” I nodded.

“I dunno,” he said, but his voice cracked. His whole body, not just his face, started twitching. “But why?”

So I told him my plan. I had already taken the money Stubby had given me and spent some of it for materials to make an oversized dummy.

“What I want to do is use her as a decoy, you see,” I explained. “Plant her out there on Elbow Island with a sign saying Save the Grave!”

“And then?”

“I’ll call the coast guard and say someone’s stranded out there. Then the media. Imagine the attention it will get if the media gets all fired up about it!”

“I’m pretty sure that would be illegal. You could get in all kinds of trouble.”

“They won’t have to know who did it. Are you in?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Please!”

“No … it just wouldn’t be right, like the boy who cried wolf.”

“But it would work! Don’t you care about the grave?”

He looked off towards the ocean. Then he sighed. “Okay. When do you want to go?”

By the time we arrived at the fairgrounds, the whole place was hopping. And when I turned around to say bye, Max was gone!

Folks were already sitting in front of the stage in foldout lawn chairs and on blankets. Kids were running around with painted faces. I stopped and
watched for a while at the booth. A woman with a crew cut of white hair and a wide smile painted everything from rainbows to kitten whiskers on kids’ cheeks. She looked like she was having a ball and talked to each child softly as she painted. Her silver heart-shaped earrings sparkled in the sun. She was an older version of my mother. Maybe it was the paint connection. She spotted me at the fringe of the crowd.

“You’re never too old to have your face painted,” she said. I smiled. “So what’s your fancy?”

“A heart,” I said. “On my forehead.”

“Well, I have to say I like hearts myself.”

“I collect heart-shaped rocks,” I told her. “They’re all crooked ones, but it’s cool looking for the perfect one.”

“Maybe the crooked ones are perfect too,” said the woman through pursed lips.

Slowly she drew the outline of a heart in the centre of my forehead.

“You want red?”

I shook my head. “How about that blue?”

She hesitated. “A blue heart means a sad heart,” she whispered.

I pointed back to the blue. She held my eyes with hers.

“Okay,” she said and began to fill in the paint with feathery strokes. It tickled. “Maybe it will change to
white soon,” she said. “A pure heart, dear girl, I think that’s more you.” I could have hugged her. If only she knew.

I paid her and set off towards the stage area.

The musicians were now going non-stop. I found a place nice and close to the front and settled on the grass. Two young women with flowing hair and velvety gowns began to play harp. It was magical. Next up was a three-man band.

“They sound good enough, but really, what’s with the hair and those outfits?”

Nana stood behind me, arms folded. She smelled like onions. Guess she was still chopping and cutting.

“Here’s a bit of money for a snack,” she said, holding out a five-dollar bill.

“Thanks, Nana,” I said. “I’ve got money.”

“I know that. It’s a gift. Can you take it, for heaven’s sake?”

“Thanks,” I said. I knew it was a lot of money for her.

Harv walked towards us, towering above the crowd.

“Stay here, Ida, for a sec,” he said. “I know the next singer. She’s a friend of my Molly’s.”

“That right?”

“Got her own CD and everything. Born and bred right here in Nova Scotia.”

The woman’s guitar was slung over her shoulder, suspended by a bright woven strap—happy colours, I thought. Someone adjusted her microphone as she tuned her guitar.

“Test, test,” she said. “How you all doing today?” There were probably a good five hundred of us by this time.

“Great!” everyone shouted back at her.

“My name’s Laura Smith and I’m glad to be here and right off I’m starting with a special request. Is Ida Hennigar here?”

“Lord God save my soul!” exclaimed Nana.

“Here!” I shouted and stood up, pointing at Nana.

Everyone stared. I sat down fast.

“Ida, hello!” said the singer.

My grandmother was the colour of a raspberry and she smiled feebly, giving a little wave towards the stage.

“This one’s for you ’cause I understand it’s one of your favourites. Sent to you with love by that big strapping good-looking fella beside you. It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?”

I’d forgotten! Dad had even pencilled it in my calendar.

“So first, before we get to the song, what do we need to do?”

Five hundred voices sang “Happy Birthday” to Nana. And clapped.

“Yes,” said Laura Smith, “my note here tells me you’ll be forty-five! You look too young for forty-five!”

Nana swiped Harv playfully on the arm and everyone roared.

“Anyhow, Ida, now here’s your gift. I hope you like the way I sing it, ma’am.”

And she started. “My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean.” Never in my life have I heard it sung like that. Not a person so much as coughed. I can’t describe this woman’s voice. There was just so much inside it—like every sad and happy thought I ever thought. If I could bottle those up and pour them out like some golden liquid sound, that would be her voice. Soft and strong. Love and loss. Pain and joy. “Bring back, bring back, bring back my bonny to me,” she crooned.