Read Online Vinyl Cafe Unplugged by Stuart Mclean - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Mclean
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position. She wanted to talk to Dave about what was going on. Stephanie had paid her best friend to make a present! —something so completely contrary to the spirit of the family that Morley had no idea what to do about it. But the present was supposed to be for Dave. And Morley didn’t want to hurt him.
Anyway, as far as Morley could tell, Dave hadn’t begun anything himself.
There was barely a week to go before Christmas, and her entire project was turning into a fiasco. Her chair was a mess. Stephanie was cheating. And Dave thought Sam’s knitting compulsion was cute.
“Jacques Plante used to knit,” he said.
“What?” said Morley.
“Jacques Plante was a goalie for the Montreal Canadiens,” said Dave.
“I know who Jacques Plante was,” said Morley.
“He was the oldest of eleven children,” said Dave. “And they were poor. And his mother needed his help to make clothes for his brothers and sisters. When he was in the NHL he knitted his own underwear.”
“What’s your point?” said Morley.
“He said knitting calmed him down.”
“You think Sam needs to knit?”
“I have a friend,” said Dave, “who thinks the reason Jacques Plante was such a good goalie was because of all the knitting. He believes the knitting improved his hand-eye coordination.”
That night, on her way to bed, Morley found Sam under the covers, knitting by flashlight. She went in and sat down.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“My wrists are sore,” he said.
The next night as she was preparing supper she could hear the knitting needles clicking against something.
When Sam came down for dinner he was wearing his skate-board wrist guards.
After dinner Sam called her into his bedroom. He was crying.
“I’ll never finish the coat,” he said.
He was pointing at the sum total of his knitting: a rectangle of blue wool about six inches wide and a foot and a half long. One side of the rectangle was completely asymmetrical. He didn’t seem to be able to maintain constant tension as he worked. Each row was coming out a different length.
“It’s . . . lovely,” said Morley.
“No. It’s not,” said Sam. “I hate it.”
He began to unravel it in front of her.
Morley brought Sam’s chair home on the Monday before Christmas. The next night Dave found her in the basement crying. She had a bolt of beige corduroy at her feet. She was trying to tack a huge piece of foam to one of the arms.
Dave watched her for a moment without saying anything. Then he reached out and touched the top of the chair. The legs were uneven. It wobbled unsteadily.
“It’s pathetic,” said Morley, dropping her hammer on the floor.
“It looks . . . like it was made with a lot of love,” said Dave.
“It looks like it was made by a two-year-old,” said Morley.
“Well, it hasn’t been covered yet,” said Dave. “Any chair without upholstery is going to look . . . awkward.”
“Pathetic,” said Morley. “Not awkward.” She picked up the hammer, swung it around her waist and laced the back of the chair.
“This is not working,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
Half an hour later she appeared upstairs, looking angry and defeated.
Dave looked at her. “I have a suggestion,” he said. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Morley didn’t say anything. But she didn’t walk away.
Dave said, “You could spend the next few days down there wrestling with that material and you’ll cover the chair, and we both know you’ll end up with a bad chair.”
Morley nodded.
Dave said, “Forget about the foam padding. Forget about the upholstery. Don’t put fabric on it. Put wheels on it. What you have down there isn’t a chair without covering. What you have down there is a go-cart without wheels. Put wheels on that thing and you will have one very happy little boy on Christmas morning.
And then he said, “I’m going to walk Arthur.”
The next night after supper Sam called Morley into his room. He was frantic.
“The needles
Anyway, as far as Morley could tell, Dave hadn’t begun anything himself.
There was barely a week to go before Christmas, and her entire project was turning into a fiasco. Her chair was a mess. Stephanie was cheating. And Dave thought Sam’s knitting compulsion was cute.
“Jacques Plante used to knit,” he said.
“What?” said Morley.
“Jacques Plante was a goalie for the Montreal Canadiens,” said Dave.
“I know who Jacques Plante was,” said Morley.
“He was the oldest of eleven children,” said Dave. “And they were poor. And his mother needed his help to make clothes for his brothers and sisters. When he was in the NHL he knitted his own underwear.”
“What’s your point?” said Morley.
“He said knitting calmed him down.”
“You think Sam needs to knit?”
“I have a friend,” said Dave, “who thinks the reason Jacques Plante was such a good goalie was because of all the knitting. He believes the knitting improved his hand-eye coordination.”
That night, on her way to bed, Morley found Sam under the covers, knitting by flashlight. She went in and sat down.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“My wrists are sore,” he said.
The next night as she was preparing supper she could hear the knitting needles clicking against something.
When Sam came down for dinner he was wearing his skate-board wrist guards.
After dinner Sam called her into his bedroom. He was crying.
“I’ll never finish the coat,” he said.
He was pointing at the sum total of his knitting: a rectangle of blue wool about six inches wide and a foot and a half long. One side of the rectangle was completely asymmetrical. He didn’t seem to be able to maintain constant tension as he worked. Each row was coming out a different length.
“It’s . . . lovely,” said Morley.
“No. It’s not,” said Sam. “I hate it.”
He began to unravel it in front of her.
Morley brought Sam’s chair home on the Monday before Christmas. The next night Dave found her in the basement crying. She had a bolt of beige corduroy at her feet. She was trying to tack a huge piece of foam to one of the arms.
Dave watched her for a moment without saying anything. Then he reached out and touched the top of the chair. The legs were uneven. It wobbled unsteadily.
“It’s pathetic,” said Morley, dropping her hammer on the floor.
“It looks . . . like it was made with a lot of love,” said Dave.
“It looks like it was made by a two-year-old,” said Morley.
“Well, it hasn’t been covered yet,” said Dave. “Any chair without upholstery is going to look . . . awkward.”
“Pathetic,” said Morley. “Not awkward.” She picked up the hammer, swung it around her waist and laced the back of the chair.
“This is not working,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
Half an hour later she appeared upstairs, looking angry and defeated.
Dave looked at her. “I have a suggestion,” he said. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Morley didn’t say anything. But she didn’t walk away.
Dave said, “You could spend the next few days down there wrestling with that material and you’ll cover the chair, and we both know you’ll end up with a bad chair.”
Morley nodded.
Dave said, “Forget about the foam padding. Forget about the upholstery. Don’t put fabric on it. Put wheels on it. What you have down there isn’t a chair without covering. What you have down there is a go-cart without wheels. Put wheels on that thing and you will have one very happy little boy on Christmas morning.
And then he said, “I’m going to walk Arthur.”
The next night after supper Sam called Morley into his room. He was frantic.
“The needles
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