Extreme Vinyl Café

by Stuart McLean

  Margaret sighed. She said, “Vegan. That means she eats chicken, right?”

  On her fourth day of self-imposed exile, she phoned Smith. “I can’t do this,” she said. “We can’t get married.”

  She expected he would come over and try to talk her out of it. Or, more to the point, into it. He didn’t. Instead he said, “That’s okay. I understand.”

  That night she went up to the attic with a box of winter stuff. She wasn’t planning on bringing any summer stuff down, but once she got there she began poking around. She wasn’t looking for anything, nothing important. When she climbed into the far corner, she came face to face with Charlie’s uniform from the war. It was hanging on a post. It was wrapped in a plastic dry cleaner’s bag. According to the tag, it had last been cleaned in April 1963. There was a shoebox beside it. She knew what was in it. It was filled with letters that Charlie had written her from England. She flicked on an old lamp and sat in its orange glow for the longest time, reading those letters.

  Dear one. We arrived here at 7 p.m. and I half-thought there might be a wire. It’s absurd to think I have only been away for a week.

  Her eyes flicked to the bottom of the page.

  Now my dearest love, I must say goodnight. It is nearly twelve. God bless you, my dear, dear girl.

  There was a box of photo albums somewhere. When she finished the letters, she took the first album and settled it in her lap. Pictures of the kids. David, maybe five years old. And there was their first car. It looked so ancient. She ran her finger across the page as if she could reach back through time. As if she could touch the past by touching the little black and white photos, with their serrated edges. There were titles under each picture, printed on the black paper with white ink in Charlie’s hand. Annie at the beach. Hungry Dave. Bath time.

  She opened the next book. It was her wedding pictures.

  She slammed it shut. She stood up and started for the stairs. Then she took a deep breath and sat down and opened the book again.

  It was well past midnight when she left the attic.

  A day and a half more went by before she called Smith back.

  “I was getting worried,” said Smith.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “No apology necessary. It’s pretty crazy out there.”

  Then she said, “I am coming over for dinner, day after tomorrow. I’ll be bringing someone with me.”

  That afternoon, she drove to town and parked in front of Arnie Gallagher’s storefront. As well as being the duly elected mayor of Big Narrows, Arnie Gallagher runs the town’s only flower shop, travel agency, gift depot, bait store and funeral home—all from his storefront on Water Street.

  Margaret walked in the front door, around the counter and into the back room where Arnie was sitting by an empty casket, packing leeches into plastic foam cups.

  “Arnie Gallagher,” said Margaret. “Isn’t it about time you diversified?”

  It was Arnie who Margaret was bringing with her to Smith’s for dinner.

  Arnie spent the day in Sydney getting himself ready.

  They arrived together in Arnie’s truck. Margaret let herself in through the back door.

  “Meet our new wedding planner,” she said to Smith.

  Arnie dropped a big book on Smith’s kitchen table.

  “First things first,” he said. “First you’ve got to choose the invitation.”

  “Why we would be delighted, Arnie,” said Margaret. Then she pointed at a stain on the cover.

  “Arnie Gallagher,” said Margaret. “I do believe you have got some leech guts on your invitation book already.”

  Arnie pulled a red handkerchief out of his jean jacket and dabbed at the book. “Hope that’s leech,” said Arnie.

  It took them an hour and a half. After an hour and a half, they had settled everything.

  Arnie stayed for supper.

  It was smooth sailing after that. From then on if anyone tried to talk to her, Margaret told them to talk to Arnie.

  “Arnie’s in charge,” she said.

  Margaret showed up at Smith’s house again first thing the next morning.

  She was carrying a pile of books in her arms. She dropped them on the kitchen table. The photo albums.

  “Sit down,” she said. “I am going to tell you everything about me.”

  And that is what they did. They sat in the kitchen and she told him the story of her life. He already knew most of it, but he had never heard it all in one piece like that—from the very beginning to the end. They looked at the pictures. They read the old letters from Charlie. When she was finished she said, “Now you know everything. Now I have no secrets from you. You know it all from beginning to end.”

  “Not quite to the end,” said Smith. “There’s still a bit left.”

  They were married on July the tenth. There was only a small group at the ceremony. But most of the town came to the reception. Many of them were kids she had taught. They held the reception in the school gym. That was Smith’s idea.

  Bernadette baked the cake. Smith’s son toasted the groom. And Dave gave the toast to the bride. He said the nicest things. “My mother,” he began, “has always lived in a state of grace. Many people go through their entire life without ever finding true love. She has found it twice.”

  Oh. The dress.

  That was the only battle Arnie didn’t win.

  Margaret wandered into Gallagher’s one afternoon and found Arnie backed up against the bait fridge, Winnie and Bernadette standing in front of him waving their arms and stamping their feet.

  So two weeks before the wedding, Margaret finally agreed to go shopping in Halifax. She got an ivory suit from the lady who did the pearl detailing.

  Winnie said it was perfect. Bernadette agreed. Margaret thought otherwise. “It makes me look like one of those real estate ladies from the city,” she said to Dave one night when he phoned.

  “I am sure you look just fine,” said Dave.

  He was right. She did look fine. But she never liked it. And so, that Saturday, on their way to the church, as they were driving down River Street, Margaret turned to Dave, who was driving her, and said, “Pull in there. And park.”

  Dave glanced at his wristwatch.

  Margaret frowned at him and said, “You don’t think they’ll start without us, do you David?”

  Dave knew better than to answer that. He parked Smith’s truck, which he was driving, and followed her into Rutledge’s Hardware without a word.

  Margaret had said she didn’t want any gifts. It was Smith’s idea that they register at the hardware store. All the things on their list were going to go to a young couple from Little Narrows who had lost everything in a fire.

  Margaret winked at Dave as they marched up to the counter together.

  “Sandy Rutledge,” he heard her say, “how much for that wedding dress in the window?”

  She paid twenty-nine dollars for the dress. Tax in. She changed in the staff washroom. They were in and out of the hardware store in under fifteen minutes.

  When they pulled up to the church, Dave put his hand on his mother’s arm and stopped her from getting out of the car. He smiled at her and he said, “I am happy for you.”

  She said, “Me too.”

  Smith threw his head back and laughed when he saw Margaret in the dress. He was beaming as she walked down the aisle on Dave’s elbow. Winnie and Bernadette were horrified. But they got over it. How could they not? Margaret looked radiant.

  Winnie and Bernadette had chosen her an outfit for the reception, but Margaret never changed. She wore her hardware bridal gown all night long.

  She barely left the dance floor. Margaret danced with all the young men she had taught all those years ago, and she danced with Dave, and Sam, and Arnie Gallagher, and Rodney MacDonnell. She even danced with Smith, who told her, when they had finished dancing, that he loved her dearly but that that would be the last time he would ever dance with her.
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  “Or anyone,” he added. “Never again,” he whispered in her ear.

  She just laughed and kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “We’ll see about that,” as he left the dance floor chuckling.

  She danced the night away. It was her wedding after all. She had already had for better or for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health. This was the part she had given up on. This was happily ever after.

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  THE CRUISE

  Morley’s mother, Helen, comes to dinner most Sundays. Helen is frail enough now that she is happier following her routines than her reflexes. On Sundays, she goes to church in the morning and in the afternoon waits for Morley to come by and pick her up. Morley picks her up. Dave drives her home.

  Helen hasn’t driven herself for three, maybe four years. She still has her Buick. It’s in the garage. The gas tank is topped, the plates are up to date and the insurance is paid in full. Helen pays the insurance every fall. She doesn’t use the car, but she talks about it as if she does.

  Morley will call and say, “I’m on my way,” and Helen will say, “Why don’t I just drive down; it would be so much easier.”

  Helen never drives down. Morley always gets her. And Dave always takes her home. That’s the routine.

  It makes Morley crazy that her mother still pays the insurance.

  “What’s the point of that?” she says.

  “Who cares?” says Dave “The point is, she isn’t driving. You say something, she’ll start driving to prove you’re wrong. The point is, you let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Helen still manages, as they say, still gets about. Church on Sunday. Bridge on Tuesday afternoons. She still cooks, and her house is more or less clean. Not the way it used to be, but it used to be so clean it made Morley crazy.

  There is no doubt, however, that Helen’s world is getting smaller. She had a fall. And sometimes she gets confused. One Sunday, for instance, Morley picked her up and Helen met her at the door holding a flyer from a local pizza joint.

  “It came in the mail,” said Helen. Helen was agitated, upset about the flyer.

  “I don’t eat pizza,” said Helen. “I don’t know why they would send it to me. Do I have to pay it?”

  Helen and Roy used to go to Florida every winter. They had a trailer at Clearwater.

  “Mobile home,” Helen would tell you. “Not trailer. Mobile home.”

  Whatever you want to call it, they sold it, years ago, when Roy got sick.

  When Roy died, Helen and Peggy Whiteside started going on bus trips together: The Wonders of the West, Autumn in Vermont. And then Peggy Whiteside died.

  Helen, God bless her, kept travelling. She had always wanted to see Italy. She had the time of her life. And so every autumn for five years, Helen went on an adventure. She followed the footsteps of the Apostles through Turkey, did the vineyards of the Rhone Valley.

  Then she signed up for her first-ever cruise. She invited her sister Loretta to come with her. But Loretta broke her hip, and Helen seemed to lose her will.

  “I’m tired,” she said to Morley. “I’ve seen enough.”

  The travel agent told Helen he couldn’t give her money back, but she could give her tickets away.

  “You go,” she said to Morley and Dave one Sunday night. “You use my tickets.”

  They tried to convince her otherwise, but she wasn’t buying it.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “A cruise?” said Dave.

  They were sitting in the kitchen, the two of them, the lights low, Billie Holiday singing softly in the background.

  “It might be nice,” said Morley. “You know, sunsets at sea, dancing on the deck, dinner with the captain.”

  She would have to buy some cruise clothes, of course. Things that would blow in the wind—a flowing skirt, sage green, and a silk dress, a knee-length cream silk dress with flowers. And a big leather tote bag to carry her books and lotions. That would be posh. Morley was sitting at the table with Dave, but she was lost on Planet Shopping.

  Dave said, “I don’t want to go on a cruise. Bad things happen at sea.”

  Morley said, “Get over it.”

  On their way to bed she said, “Do you think she’s still okay? Living alone?”

  Dave said, “Who?”

  Morley said, “My mother.”

  And so, barely a month later, Dave found himself sitting glumly in the back of an airport taxi heading north on the I-95, on his way from the Miami International Airport to Port Everglades, Florida, Terminal 19, the third-largest cruise-ship terminal in the world. It was noon. The Empress of Kumar was set to sail at dinner. Ten days to some of the most remote and unknown islands of the Caribbean: Cumanna, famous for the leatherback turtles that nest on its south beaches; Aqua de Perico, where you can see remnants of Aztec ruins; and Santa Madeira, nine hundred acres of arid and treeless limestone, renowned for the highly endangered Santa Madeira woodpecker.

  The taxi dropped them at the bottom of the gangplank. They stood on the wharf with their suitcases beside them, staring up at the boat like a pair of refugees. Dave said, “I thought it would be bigger.”

  Morley said, “Don’t start.”

  Dave said, “No really, I thought these boats were huge.”

  Morley had already picked up her bag and was making her way on board.

  The man at the table in the blue pants and the white shirt beamed at them and stuck out his hand. His gold name tag said, “Derek.”

  “I’m Derek,” he said. “Activities director. You must be Morley.”

  “Actually,” said Dave. “She’s Morley.”

  “Silly me,” said Derek taking their passports. He handed Dave an envelope with a key.

  “Water view,” he said. Then he said, “Captain Harrison plans on leaving at six.”

  There was a sign beside the table that said, Welcome on Board. Dave and Morley stood beside the sign, selfconsciously, and Derek took their picture. While he was squinting at the camera, Dave said, “Is the captain’s name really Harrison?”

  Derek peered at Dave over the flash. “What?” he said.

  Dave said, “Captain Harrison? That was Leslie Nielsen’s role in The Poseidon Adventure.”

  It turned out water view meant waterline. Their room was a tiny cabin two levels below the deck, with a solitary porthole licked by the ocean. There was a desk, a cupboard, a toilet, but less room than a college dorm. Dave was lying on his bed, the top bunk, Morley was unpacking, when the announcement for dinner came.

  “Kind of early, don’t you think?” said Dave, looking at his watch. It was only 5:30.

  “First night? Maybe?” said Morley.

  They headed for the dining room.

  “Table twenty-three,” said Morley.

  They had to wait while a woman with a cane struggled up the stairs in front of them. When they found table twenty-three, a man was there already. He was slumped in a wheelchair. He appeared to be asleep.

  “Should I wake him?” said Morley. Dave didn’t hear her. He was looking around the room.

  “Uh-oh,” said Dave.

  Morley followed his arm around the room.

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  They were the youngest in the room, by at least a generation. Maybe two.

  “Seniors’ cruise,” said Dave. And that is when their wheelchair c
ompanion jerked alert.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY TABLE?” he barked.

  After dinner, Dave and Morley went on deck and watched the sun set and the sea turn dark and thick. There wasn’t another soul around. They leaned on the railing, listening to the distant thump of the engine.

  “Pretty,” said Morley, pointing at the first stars.

  “How about champagne?” said Dave.

  He went inside to get them each a drink.

  Derek was locking up the bar.

  “Closes at eight, Morley,” said Derek.

  “It’s Dave,” said Dave. “Morley was her mother’s maiden name.”

  They were back on deck the next morning. Morley settled in to a shady corner with a pile of magazines. There was still no one around.

  It was a little spooky.

  “Where is everyone?” she said.

  Dave was standing in the sun, leaning against the ship’s railing, the warm wind in his hair, his arms stretched out in both directions. He squinted at his wife and shrugged. “Ship of the damned,” he said.

  Then he said, “I’m going exploring.

  He was gone for maybe an hour. When he came back, he had changed into a T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts.

  “There is a video on in the back lounge,” he said. “Birds of the Caribbean.”

  Morley raised herself on her elbow and pointed at the flat blue ocean.

  “They’re watching videos?” she said.

  “Actually,” said Dave. “Most of them are asleep.”

  Dave went downstairs again at 11:30 to fetch sunscreen. There was a lineup at the dining-room door: men in shorts and sandals and knee-length black socks; women in oversized sunglasses carrying large purses.

  “Lunch isn’t for half an hour,” said Dave as he handed Morley the sunscreen. “Do you think they know something we don’t?”

  Their table companion from the night before, the man in the wheelchair, was polishing off his dessert when Dave and Morley arrived at 12:15.

  “YOU’RE LATE,” he said.

  “Dad,” said the woman sitting beside him, “don’t be rude.”

  The woman looked up at them apprehensively. Then back at the man in the wheelchair. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind whom she should deal with. She solved the problem by laying her hand on the man’s arm and turning to Dave and Morley.