The Fixer
The sun had not yet risen when Griffin McGavin drove into the parking lot of the fast food restaurant where he worked and parked his old Chevy at the rear of the building near the garbage dumpster. With all the enthusiasm of a torpid sloth, he turned off the engine, opened the door and got out of his car. As he walked toward the back entrance of the restaurant, he felt like a condemned man making the final journey to the execution chamber.
I hate this job, he thought as he did most mornings, slowing his pace, not wanting to arrive one moment sooner than necessary.
As soon as the apathetic employee walked through the door, the restaurant's manager spied him.
"Thank God you're here. Manny called in sick today, and I couldn't get anyone else to come in. We'll have to make do with the people we've got."
Griffin inwardly cringed. He was already overworked—and vastly underpaid at $7.50 an hour. Now he would have to spend the day making breakfast and lunch sandwiches nonstop, with no time for a break.
There's got to be a better way to make a living! he thought as he put on his apron, hat and disposable gloves and took his spot on the line.
From six to eleven o'clock he topped English muffins and croissants with varying combinations of eggs, sausage patties, bacon and cheese. Then, for the final three hours of his shift, he switched to burgers and chicken sandwiches. This was the only bright spot in his otherwise dismal day, not because assembling lunch sandwiches was any better than making ones for the breakfast customers but because at eleven Lindy Cantrell, the buxom, blue-eyed blonde, came in to cook the shoestring potatoes in the deep fryer.
Finally, two o'clock arrived and Griffin's workday came to an end. With one last glance at Lindy salting the French fries, he punched out at the time clock and left the building. After several attempts at starting his car, he heard the roar of the engine. The Chevy, he knew, was fourteen years old and on its last legs.
If it were an animal, I'd have to seriously consider putting it to sleep.
Griffin entered the small efficiency apartment above his grandparents' garage and made himself a bowl of cereal. After working on the line all day, the last thing he wanted was a sandwich. As he scooped up milk-laden Honey Nut Cheerios with his spoon, he scanned Craigslist for pre-owned cars in his area. He clicked on a link for a used Hyundai Elantra, but rather than bringing him to a page describing the features and price of the vehicle, he was taken to a personal ad placed by an elderly gentleman seeking a travel companion.
"What the ...?"
He hit the BACK button on his browser and tried again; the result was the same. Someone had apparently screwed up the links.
Griffin was about to return to the previous page and search for a different vehicle, when a phrase from the personal ad caught his attention: "all expenses paid." Curious, he read further. The man who placed the ad was looking for a male companion to accompany him on a ten-day cruise from New Jersey to Nova Scotia, with stops in Boston, Portland and Bar Harbor. In addition to the free trip, the man offered an additional ten thousand dollars bonus to the chosen applicant.
Not only would I get a free vacation, but I'd also have enough money to buy a decent used car.
Then his innate skepticism kicked in.
It must be a scam. No one is going to spend that kind of money just for someone's company. He must be a con artist or something.
After having convinced himself that the glass was half empty, Griffin closed his laptop and turned on his television to watch his latest DVD from Netflix.
* * *
The jarring blare of the alarm clock sounded at four the next morning. Three times Griffin hit the snooze button before stumbling out of bed at half past the hour. Two cups of strong coffee and a hot shower failed to imbue him with vim and vigor—nothing short of a nuclear blast would do that! He thought about having a third cup of coffee but knew his supervisor frowned on frequent trips to the men's room. Instead, he put on a lightweight jacket and reluctantly left his apartment.
It took more than six minutes to start his car. Griffin knew it was only a matter of time before he drained the battery. Thankfully, the engine eventually turned over. He pulled into the parking lot with only moments to spare.
His heart sank when he walked into the fast food restaurant's kitchen. Manny was still out sick, and no one was there to take his place. It would be another day without a break. Surely there were laws about how many consecutive hours a person could work, but Griffin did not know the specifics. And if he did, he doubted he would report his employer for lack of compliance. He was never one to rock the boat.
Resigned to his fate, he meekly walked to his station and began shuffling sausage patties, bacon strips, egg squares, cheese slices, English muffins and croissants. The pace at which he had to work was worse than that of the previous day. During the morning hours, four busloads of hungry tourists on their way to Atlantic City stopped at the restaurant. The demand for breakfast sandwiches was so great that at one point the manager put on a hat, apron and pair of sanitary gloves to assist the line cooks.
In due course the crowds died down, but the day failed to improve. In fact, it only got worse. Lindy, the pretty blonde who worked the deep fryer station, never showed up for work. She'd had enough of being burned by spitting oil for minimum wages and had quit. With her gone, Griffin's one bright spot had been extinguished. Now there was nothing to make his day more bearable.
Somehow he managed to make it through the early afternoon. At two o'clock, tired and disheartened, he tossed his apron and hat into the laundry bin, threw his used gloves into the trash and punched his time card.
Although the rain the weatherman had forecasted was nothing more than a drizzle, the dampness mixed with the falling temperatures made for a chilly afternoon. He quickly walked across the parking lot seeking the shelter of his rusted Chevy.
At least my heater works well, he thought as he turned the key in the ignition.
Unfortunately, the heater was about the only part of the car that did work well. After several failed attempts to start the engine, Griffin gave up and decided to walk the two miles to his grandparents' house. When he entered his apartment above the garage, the first thing he did was remove his damp clothes and take a hot shower. No longer shivering, he popped a frozen dinner into the microwave and booted up his laptop.
As he ate his Swanson Salisbury steak, he perused the cars available on Craigslist. The newer vehicles he rejected because of their high prices, and the older models because of high mileage and mechanical problems. One car did catch his attention, however: an eight-year-old Subaru Impreza.
Only four thousand dollars. I wonder what's wrong with it.
He clicked on the link to read a more detailed description of the automobile. However, as on the previous day, he was directed to the personal ad placed by an elderly gentleman seeking a travel companion. The cruise seemed more appealing than it had the day before. Ten days of eating, sleeping and lounging with occasional sightseeing excursions thrown in.
Ten thousand dollars for ten days. That's a thousand dollars a day! If this ad is on the level, someone must have applied already.
Still, what did he have to lose to inquire? Only the time it took to send an email.
* * *
Griffin got out of the taxi—it was the first time in his life he'd ever taken a cab—and stared up at the ship docked at Cape Liberty Cruise Port. Here he was in Bayonne, New Jersey, with a ticket and passport in his hand and two packed suitcases by his side, and he still couldn't believe he was actually going on a cruise.
As he passed through the required check-in services, his incredulity became tinged with discomfort.
I don't know anything about this guy. He could be some sexual predator or a deranged killer. I could be walking into a trap and wind up as a feature story on the Investigation Discovery channel. Paula Zahn or Lester Holt might someday be interviewing my grandparents about their poor, missing or murdered grandson.
Griffin found his stateroom with little difficulty and was amazed at its size. It was more of a suite than a cabin.
Mr. Firth certainly likes to travel in style. If my stateroom is this grand, I wonder what his is like.
It was more than an hour after he had unpacked his clothes and toiletries that the phone on the bedside table rang.
"Hello," he answered in an uneasy voice.
"Hello, Mr. McGavin. This is Artemas Firth. I was wondering if you would stop by my stateroom when you have the opportunity."
Alone in a stateroom with a man I've never met, one who might be a pervert or worse. What the hell was I thinking when I accepted his offer?
The ship still hadn't weighed anchor. It wasn't too late to escape the older man's clutches.
"Mr. McGavin, are you there?"
"Yes. I'm here," the uneasy young man replied while visions of Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy danced through his head. "What's your room number, Mr. Firth?"
"I'm right next door in Room 1062."
Griffin's heart sank. He couldn't very well sneak off the boat with his luggage if his benefactor was in the next stateroom. Of course, he could flee without his clothes.
"I'll leave the door unlocked," Firth added. "Just let yourself inside."
For close to twenty minutes Griffin stood on his private balcony staring at the dock and the city of Bayonne beyond, trying to decide what to do.
According to the emails he sent me, he's up there in years, one part of his brain reasoned. I ought to be able to defend myself against an old man should the need arise.
But he might try to catch you unaware, another part argued. He might try to drug you or even use a stun gun on you.
Then I'll have to be on guard whenever I'm with him, the braver half decided, bringing the argument to an end.
"Those who are about to die salute you," he said to his reflection as he passed by the mirror above his dresser.
All his fears were immediately laid to rest when he walked into Artemas Firth's stateroom. His travelling companion was not only much older than he'd imagined (he looked to be in his nineties), but he was also confined to a wheelchair.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Griffin," the old man said, extending a frail hand in his direction.
"It's nice to meet you, too, Mr. Firth."
"No need for such formality. Just call me Artemas. Thank you for accepting my proposal. As you can see, I have some difficulty getting around by myself. On the ship the staff sees to my needs, but when we're in port, I'll need your assistance. Naturally, I won't monopolize all your time. After all, I want you to enjoy yourself on this cruise."
"If there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."
"While we're at sea, I'll be spending most of the time in my stateroom. I've brought plenty of reading material, and I'll have room service bring me my meals. You're free to enjoy all the amenities the ship has to offer. I've seen to it that a thousand dollars has been added to your SeaPass card for you to spend in any way you wish. You can use it shopping in any of the onboard stores or gambling at the casino. There's also an envelope in the safe in your room with two thousand dollars cash for you when we're in port."
"That's far too much. I don't ...."
The elderly invalid waved the young man's objections aside.
"I've also taken the liberty of upgrading your beverage package and signing the both of us up for several shore excursions. Here's a copy of our itinerary. If there are any changes you'd like to make, just let me know."
"I'm fine going along with whatever choices you've made."
"Good. Now, I'm feeling a little sleepy. I think I'll take a nap. Why don't you go and explore the ship?"
"Thank you. Would you like me to come back and check on you later?"
"That won't be necessary. Go have yourself a good time. I'll call you if I need you."
That guy's no pervert, Griffin thought as he returned to his own stateroom. He's Santa Claus!
* * *
After having a quick lunch at the ship's buffet, McGavin attended the mandatory safety drill where ship's staff discussed what steps should be taken in case of an emergency at sea. While he was listening to instructions regarding the proper way to inflate a life vest, he scanned the crowds for Artemas Firth. The old man didn't appear to be there.
Maybe other arrangements are made for passengers with special needs, he thought and then quickly forgot about his traveling companion.
As it neared the time for the ship to leave New Jersey and begin its ten-day voyage, Griffin joined many of his fellow passengers on deck for a last look at New York Harbor. The ship sailed past the Statue of Liberty and the Freedom Tower at One World Trade Center before passing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and out toward the open ocean.
I'm on my way. There's no turning back now.
He briefly considered the possibility that he might get bored being on a ship for ten days. Most people he knew that had been on cruises talked mostly of eating the whole time they were onboard. Again, his worries were groundless. Although it was too cold to enjoy the swimming pools, there were many other activities available to him, everything from golf to rock climbing, full-length movies to a Broadway play.
While the temperature on deck was still somewhat mild, Griffin put on his swimming trunks and headed for one of the ship's hot tubs.
Artemas did not phone him that evening. When he saw room service deliver a tray of food to the neighboring stateroom, Griffin knew he was free to enjoy a meal in the dining room. To a man whose evening victuals usually consisted of frozen dinners or items from McDonald's dollar menu, the prime rib entrée was a feast fit for a king.
After his meal, he headed toward the theater where he caught a standup comic's routine, and lastly, before turning in for the night, he stopped by one of the ship's nightclubs for a drink.
This is the life! he thought as he sipped a Caribbean Sunshine while watching a voluptuous redhead belt out a popular Eighties anthem. And to think I almost didn't take Mr. Firth up on his offer.
* * *
The next several days passed by swiftly. While in port in Boston, Griffin and Artemas took a bus tour of the city, seeing such landmarks as Faneuil Hall, the Old State House, the Bunker Hill Monument, the Old North Church and the USS Constitution, affectionately known as Old Ironsides. Once the tour was completed, Firth returned to the boat for his afternoon nap. Griffin, who had never been to the city, chose to visit Fenway Park and buy himself a beer at Cheers.
After another day at sea, the ship docked in Portland, Maine. Artemas joined Griffin for a trolley ride that took them past the childhood home of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the Victoria Mansion, the Portland Observatory and the Eastern Promenade. Upon the conclusion of the tour, the two men had lunch at a local pub. It was the first opportunity that Griffin had to actually get to know his travel companion.
"If you don't mind my asking," the young line cook inquired, "what did you do for a living?"
"What you really want to know is how I acquired my great wealth," the old man said with a warm chuckle.
Griffin blushed with embarrassment.
"It's a perfectly natural question," Artemas continued. "I like to refer to myself as a fixer."
"A fixer? You mean a repairman?"
"No, I'm not talking about malfunctioning mechanical equipment. When something has gone wrong in someone's life, I try to set it right."
"Like one of those men who go into a failing business and correct the mistakes the owners have made?"
"Not exactly, but you're on the right track. When someone's life has taken a wrong turn, I set them on the right path again."
"Well, whatever you do, it must pay well."
"I use the money to cover my operating expenses. My real reward is in knowing I've been of assistance."
"I'll bet you miss your job."
"Despite my age and my being confined to this chair, I still do a little fixing from time to time," Artemas said with a smile. "I consider myself only semi-retired."
"It must be nice to have a job you actually enjoy doing," Griffin said wistfully. "I hate my job."
"It can't be as bad as all that."
"It's worse. It's boring and repetitive doing the same thing for eight hours every day. Worse, when I come home from work my feet hurt, my back aches and I get cramps in my legs. And I'm still making little more than minimum wage."
"Why don't you get another job then?"
"I've tried, but I haven't had any luck."
"Well, son, maybe your luck is about to change."
* * *
When the ship neared Bar Harbor, passengers had to board a tender to transport them to the dock. Griffin knocked on Artemas's door, intending on offering to take him down to the lower decks where they could board the smaller craft.
"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," the elderly main said. "I think I'll stay in my stateroom today. You go ahead without me."
"Would you rather I stayed here with you? Maybe we could play cards or watch television."
"Nonsense! You go and have some fun."
Griffin did as Artemas instructed. After taking an excursion through Arcadia National Park, he lunched on lobster and then walked the streets of Bar Harbor, enjoying the scenic Maine coastal town. He purchased postcards from a gift shop and mailed them to his grandparents.
When he returned to the ship that evening, he immediately checked on Mr. Firth.
"I'm feeling much better," Artemas declared. "I love to travel, but it does tire me out occasionally. I had a nice, long sleep and now my batteries are recharged."
"Are you feeling up to going down to the dining room with me tonight?"
"Thank you for the offer, but I've already asked room service to bring me up my usual."
"Enjoy your evening then."
"You, too."
Griffin, having indulged in a lobster with all the trimmings at lunch time, wasn't that hungry for a big dinner. Instead of going to the dining room, he went to a pizzeria on the fifth deck. He then ended the evening with a musical salute to the Sixties in the ship's theater.
The next day was spent at sea. With time on his hands, Griffin treated himself to a trip to the spa.
I could really get to like this life, he thought.
But he didn't want to kid himself. This was a one-time opportunity. There was one more day in port and then the journey back to New Jersey. He was Cinderella, it was after eleven and the coach would soon become a pumpkin once again.
It wasn't even the fact that the trip was coming to an end that saddened him. It was the realization that in four days' time he would be back to his very limited world of sausage, egg and cheese sandwiches on croissants.
* * *
The morning the ship docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Artemas surprised Griffin by having breakfast with him at the buffet. While the older man had only an unbuttered slice of whole wheat toast, a cup of tea and a glass of orange juice, Griffin filled his plate with scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausage links, hash browns and a cheese Danish.
"You must have worked up an appetite yesterday," Artemas said with an amused chuckle.
"When I get back home, I'll be having my usual bowl of cold cereal for breakfast, so I might as well enjoy it while I can."
As the elderly man turned and looked out the window at the Canadian coast, Griffin noticed a look of profound melancholy on his face. Was he, like his young companion, sorry to see the trip come to an end?
"Do you travel much?" Griffin asked.
The old man turned his attention back to his breakfast partner.
"Yes. Nearly all the time."
"You're lucky. You must lead such an exciting life!"
"I'm afraid much of the excitement went out years ago. I travel mainly out of necessity now."
Griffin couldn't imagine any situation in which a cruise would be considered necessary.
"Do I have time for seconds, or did you want to explore Halifax before our excursion?"
"Go ahead and eat," Artemas replied. "We've got plenty of time."
It was another full plate, but Griffin finished it quickly. Twenty minutes later they were heading down the gangway.
"Let's go see where we get the bus for Peggy's Cove," the young man said as he wheeled his companion through the crowds.
"Actually, I made different arrangements for our time in Halifax," Artemas informed him. "I've hired a driver to take us on a private tour."
The fear Griffin had experienced when he first boarded the cruise ship returned. Although he felt comfortable enough with the old man, there was now a driver to contend with. Could this have been an elaborate scheme all along? Were Mr. Firth and his "driver" part of a white slavery ring? Did white slavers even deal in men or only in women?
I'm being ridiculous, he decided. Why go through the expense of a cruise to kidnap someone?
A van pulled up to the curb in front of the two men, and a muscular man got out of the driver's seat and opened the door.
"Could you take us to the Maritime Museum?" Artemas asked when he was seated in the back of the van.
"Yes, sir."
"The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic had one of the largest collections of marine artifacts in Canada," the elderly man explained to Griffin. "It's a wonderful place with exhibits on sailing ships as well as steamships. There's a section devoted to Samuel Cunard, who was born right here in Nova Scotia."
"Cunard? Isn't that the company that owned the Queen Mary?"
"Yes, it is. There's also an exhibit commemorating the 1917 Halifax Explosion."
"Sounds interesting."
"Here we are," the driver announced and pulled up in front of the building to let his passengers out.
"I'll phone you when we're ready to leave," Artemas told him.
"Yes, sir," the driver said and tipped his cap.
Griffin pushed the wheelchair through the entrance and then waited on a short line to pay for their admission. With tickets in hand, he then took hold of the elderly man's chair and steered it toward the first floor exhibits. A sign above his head caught his attention.
"Titanic exhibit?"
"Oh, yes," Artemas answered him. "Halifax has quite an interesting connection to Titanic. Why don't we begin our tour there?"
"If you'd like," Griffin said with no real interest.
Unlike many people throughout the world who were intrigued by the world's most famous maritime tragedy, he felt no such fascination about the doomed ship. In fact, he was one of the few people he knew who hadn't seen the James Cameron movie.
"Halifax was the closest major seaport to where Titanic went down," continued Artemas, who seemed to be a fount of information on the subject. "So when it came time to recover the bodies in the water, the Halifax-based cable steamer Mackay-Bennet, along with the Minia and Montmagny, was recruited for the job. Onboard were a minister, an undertaker, coffins, ice and canvas bags. In five days, the crew of the Mackay-Bennet recovered over three hundred bodies. Unfortunately, more than a third of them were then buried at sea. However, the rest were brought back to Canada."
"What did they do with them?"
"Several of them were identified and sent by train to their families. Others were interred in local cemeteries."
There was a crowd of people gathered around the collection of more than fifty artifacts on display. These included ornately carved pieces of wood that were once part of the ship, a cabinet from one of the first class bathrooms, and a deck chair.
I know this is supposed to be educational, Griffin thought, but these people are little more than a pack of ghouls. It's like rubbernecking at the scene of a fatal car accident.
The item he found particularly disturbing was a pair of leather shoes that must have belonged to a small child.
"This is interesting," Artemas declared, pointing to a canvas bag with a number stenciled on it. "This was how many of the names of unknown victims were later discovered. Each body found was assigned a number. His or her clothing and personal belongings were placed in one of these bags marked with the same number so that any relatives who might come forward could recognize their loved ones' possessions."
"And were the dead all identified?"
"No, only about two-thirds of them were. The rest are buried under small granite markers with just the date of death and their ID number."
Although he had never been overly sentimental, tears came to Griffin's eyes.
"How unfair life is to some people," he said angrily. "To die in a cold, cruel sea only to be scooped up like a fish and buried in a foreign country far from your home with nothing but a number above your bones."
Artemas stared at his companion, aware that the young man had unknowingly revealed a darker side to his usually affable personality. Aware of the older man's interest, Griffin suddenly regained his composure.
"At least the poor souls are at rest now," he concluded.
"Are they?" the self-proclaimed fixer asked.
His young travel companion had no answer.
* * *
After seeing the rest of the exhibits at the Maritime Museum, the two men got back into their hired van, and the driver headed toward Peggy's Cove, a scenic fishing village, south of Halifax.
"Aren't you getting out?" Griffin asked his companion when the driver parked the van.
"No. I can see the view from here."
"I'll be back in a few minutes then. I'd like to take some pictures. This place is amazing."
"Go right ahead."
Griffin snapped several photographs of the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline. He also took photos of the quaint homes, fishing boats, lobster traps, brightly colored buoys and weathered wooden docks. What he found most appealing was the white, octagonal lighthouse. He photographed this structure from several different angles, using both his telephoto and wide-angle lenses. Finally, he returned to the van where Artemas was drinking a cup of tea with the driver.
"Ready to head back to Halifax?" the elderly man asked.
"Yes."
There was regret in Griffin's voice. Boarding the cruise ship again would signify the last leg of his voyage. The ship would head south, back to New Jersey.
"You know, Mr. Firth," he said as the van was heading toward the city, "I really want to thank you for this opportunity you've given me."
"You've already thanked me."
"But I haven't thanked you enough. I wish there was some way I could show my appreciation."
Artemas did not respond. Instead, he turned his head and looked out the window.
Twenty minutes later they were travelling though what appeared to be a residential area.
"Is this the way back to the ship?" Griffin inquired.
"No," his companion replied. "We have one more stop to make. Don't worry; it'll all be over soon."
Griffin wasn't sure if it was the older man's choice of words or the way he said them that caused a resurgence of his fear.
What will be over soon?
When the van came to a stop, Griffin saw a white wooden sign bearing the words Fairview Lawn Cemetery. Relief swept over him. It was just Artemas's bizarre fascination with Titanic again.
"This is my turn to wait in the van," he said, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable.
"I'm afraid you can't do that," his companion objected. "I need you to push my chair."
"Can't the driver do that?"
"It's against union rules."
Griffin was not keen to enter the cemetery.
"You just told me you wished there was some way you could express your appreciation," the old man said. "Here it is. Wheel me over to the Titanic graves."
Reluctantly, the young man opened his door and got out of the van.
"Just follow the signs," Artemas instructed.
With each step he took, Griffin felt his apprehension mount. He had never liked cemeteries, and he thought those people who did were exceedingly morbid. The dead are gone from this earth. You can't visit them like you would an old grandparent in a nursing home or in a hospital.
"Griffin."
He thought he heard someone call his name, but he reasoned it was only his imagination.
"Here we are," Artemas said.
There were three rows of markers, one for each of the one hundred and twenty-one victims recovered from the North Atlantic and brought to Fairview Lawn for burial.
"That's the monument to the unknown child," Mr. Firth noted. "Although he was officially identified through DNA as Sidney Leslie Goodwin in 2008."
"Griffin."
Now a different voice spoke his name.
"And over there is ...."
Artemas continued to act as tour guide, but Griffin paid no attention to what he said. A number of voices—some male, some female; some old, some young; some high-pitched, some low—called his name. His heartbeat quickened, perspiration beaded on his forehead and his legs felt like rubber.
"Stop it!" he shouted, putting his hands over his ears to drown out the voices.
He turned to face his companion. There was no surprise or curiosity on the elderly man's face, only a sad look of understanding.
"You know what's happening here, don't you?" Griffin screamed out his accusation.
Suddenly, the old man looked considerably younger. He rose from his wheelchair—apparently nothing more than a useless prop—and stood straight and tall. Like Dickens's Ghost of Christmas Yet-to-Come, he pointed his index finger toward the grave at Griffin's feet, silently commanding him to look.
Against his will, the young man's head turned. The gravestone bore the inscription Died April 15, 1912. Below the date was a two-digit number; however, he closed his eyes before he had the opportunity to read it.
"I want to go back to ship ... NOW!" he screamed.
"Which one? The one in Halifax Harbor or the one lying at the bottom of the North Atlantic?"
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"It's my job," Artemas admitted, his voice tinged with remorse. "Your life somehow took a wrong turn. You wound up working in a fast-food restaurant, but your job was in the kitchen of the Titanic."
"No."
"You said yourself that it was unfair for someone to die in a cold, cruel sea only to be scooped up like a fish and buried in a foreign country far from home with nothing but a number to identify the bones. I'm a fixer, and I've come to fix that."
An irresistible impulse forced the resurrected yet restless spirit to open his eyes. The stone had changed. The identification number had been replaced with a name: Griffin McGavin.
A moment later, the young fast food worker was gone. So, too, was the wheelchair, the van and its driver. Artemas Firth was standing alone in front of a grave in Halifax's Fairview Lawn Cemetery. The voices of the other one hundred and twenty Titanic victims were now silent. History, at least as far as Griffin McGavin was concerned, had been corrected, and the fixer was now able to move on to his next assignment.
In September 2015 I visited Halifax and went to both the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic and Fairview Lawn Cemetery. These are must-see places for Titanic nuts like me.
Not even the mysterious Artemas Firth could fix what's wrong with Salem!
