Read Online Vinyl Cafe Unplugged by Stuart Mclean - Free Book Online Page A

won’t go through anymore,” he said.
    He waved at a pile of wool lying on his bed—another six-inch square of knitting—each line of the square getting progressively tighter, giving the work the appearance of a triangle resting on its point.
    “You have to relax,” said Morley.
    “I only have two days left,” said Sam.
    “Two days is not a lot of time,” said Morley.
    Sam nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
    “But it should be enough time for a pro like you to knit a scarf,” she said.
    “I’m knitting a coat, not a scarf,” said Sam.
    “Oh,” said Morley, “I thought you were knitting a scarf. Let me start it for you.” Once again she began a row of stitches and once again handed it to her son. Then she stood up. “I have to do the dishes,” she said.

    On Christmas Eve, after Sam and Stephanie were in bed and the last present was wrapped and under the tree, Morley called Dave down to the basement. “Can you help me carry this upstairs?” she said.
    She had taken the wheels off Sam’s old wagon and attached them to the bottom of her chair. Dave climbed into it and smiled. She had left the wagon handle in place. It rested between his legs like a joystick.
    “He’ll love it,” he said.
    And then he screamed.
    She was pushing him toward the washing machine.
    First gently. Then faster and faster.
    “Where’s the brake?” is the last thing he howled, before he crashed into a wicker basket full of dirty clothes.

    They could see light spilling out from under Sam’s door when they went upstairs. They could hear the sound of his needles rocking together.
    “He’s still at it,” said Morley. “What should we do?”
    It was almost one.
    “Come to bed,” said Dave. “His door is shut. He wants to do this himself.”
    “He was working on a scarf,” said Morley as she prepared the bed. “But this afternoon it changed into a headband. It wasn’t going to be big enough to be a scarf. When I suggested headband, you know what the little bugger said? ‘But isn’t her head the fat-test part of her?’ It is the most pathetic headband you’ve ever seen. God, I hope she’ll wear it . . . at least around the house.”
    “He’s going to love his go-cart,” said Dave.
    Morley was sitting on the edge of the bed.
    She turned around.
    “Stephanie drew your name,” she said. “There’s something you should know about her present.”
    “No,” said Dave. “Don’t tell me anything. I want to be surprised.”
    Morley stood up and walked toward the bedroom window.
    “Don’t worry,” said Dave. “It will be fine.”

    And so it was.
    Stephanie, it turned out, had not paid Becky Laurence to make her father’s present. She had written to her grandmother in Cape Breton and asked her to ship a photo of Dave and his father to the Laurences’ house C.O.D. It was a photo that had amazed Stephanie the moment she saw it—which had been two summers ago—when she had gone to Big Narrows for a week by herself.
    The picture was taken when Dave was five years old. In it, he is standing on the piano bench in the parlor, which makes him the same height as his father’s bass fiddle, which they are both holding between them. And laughing—both of them—her grandfather’s head moving backward and to the side, her father (a little boy) starting to fold over at the waist, his hand moving toward his mouth. The way her brother’s does in moments of hilarity.
    The photo had haunted her for two years. The first time she saw it she thought the boy was her brother and the man standing beside the fiddle her dad.
    “Where am I ?” she had said.
    She didn’t believe her grandmother when she said, “No, no. The boy is your father.”
    When Becky Laurence gave her the picture, Stephanie took it to a photographer and had a copy made. She sent the original back to Cape Breton. She had her copy framed. It was wrapped and hidden in her cupboard two weeks before Christmas. Three times she had opened it so she could