The Gravesavers by Sheree Fitch Page B

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 mysweaty 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