Vinyl Cafe Turns the Page

by Stuart McLean

  “It’s like a coat of arms,” he told Sam one day. “Or finger-prints. Not having your signature is like not knowing yourself. You should get one too.”

  Sam said, “I have been practising.”

  And Murphy said, “It’ll come. The perfect version is out there somewhere. You just have to find it. And when you do, it’s like finding yourself.”

  It became Murphy’s habit to go to the bank every Friday.

  Whenever he earned money, or was given money for his birthday, or whatever, he’d change it into five-dollar bills and put them in the safety deposit box. He fastened them together with a small black clip.

  He loved the seriousness of it. The long metal blackness. The ceremony of the opening and the closing. The bank’s key and his. But what he liked best was the signing of the card. His signature stacking up upon itself week after week, gaining gravitas as the weeks passed.

  When he was done, when he’d put what he needed in, or taken what he wanted out, he would visit the manager. They would sit in her office.

  It was Murphy who introduced her to café correcto. She kept a bottle of grappa in her bottom desk drawer especially for these Friday meetings.

  “You understand we really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Murphy. “People are always saying that to me.”

  It was Murphy who told her about the Blue Nile app. This was maybe six months before the company went public.

  “You should buy stock,” he said. She did. And did rather well by it.

  Their ritual continued for about two years, until the manager was transferred. The week before she left, she went into the computer and fixed Murphy’s account so that he’d never be charged for his safety deposit box.

  With her gone, however, Murphy slowly lost interest in the box. He had a debit card by then. And eventually he forgot about the safety deposit box altogether.

  It will come back to him years from now. He’ll be telling someone about his early adventures with stamps, and he’ll remember how, for a brief while, he kept his very first stamp at the bank.

  “In a safety deposit box,” he will say.

  He’ll go back to the branch a week later, fully expecting it to be closed, or if it was open, fully expecting them to look at him quizzically. Instead, a woman, younger than him, will examine his ID, open the gate, and lead him behind the counter into the little room at the back. There she’ll pull out his index card from the grey metal box where they keep these things and hand it to him.

  And he’ll stare at what he wrote on that afternoon so long ago. The swooping y and the borrowed M. His mother and father suddenly present in the quiet room.

  He will pull a pen from his pocket and sign again, a quick flourish, no more than his initials, really: MK and a little squiggle. He’ll hand the card back to the young woman, and she’ll peer at it.

  “Your signature has changed,” she’ll say.

  And he’ll laugh.

  “That was a long time ago,” he’ll say, referring to the signature on the card. “Things were more complicated then. Or I was anyway.”

  The young woman will hesitate, staring at the card for another moment, and Murphy will say, “It’s okay. It’s still me.” And he’ll take the box into the little cubicle where he used to sit and open it alone.

  The only thing in it will be the cheque from his grandfather. He’ll pick it up and stare at the signature. Murray Kruger, with a swooping y.

  HELEN MOVES IN

  It had been a long time coming. It’s not like it came out of the blue. It had been coming for years. It had started with the car. Helen had that accident. That must have been … phew! Ten years ago? She’d kept driving—for a while. But eventually she’d stopped, thank God. Then, last winter, she had the fall. And now? It was hard to put your finger on it. It’s not like there was some big change. It was just—Morley had to face it: her mother was old. It had been a long time coming, but at the same time, it seemed to happen all at once, and Morley was worried.

  She took Helen to see Dr. Keen for a checkup.

  “I’m worried about her,” she said.

  Dr. Keen called the next afternoon.

  “There is nothing I can do,” he said.

  “I knew it,” said Morley. “What is it? Tell me.”

  You could almost hear Dr. Keen shrug over the phone. “Your mother has the dwindles.”

  “The what?” said Morley.

  “The dwindles,” said Dr. Keen. “We all get them. Eventually.”

  Morley and Dave had talked about this for years. It was Dave’s idea. Not hers. She never would have suggested it. But there it was. Helen shouldn’t be living alone anymore, and Morley was driving to Helen’s house to invite Helen to move in with them.

  She had practised what she was going to say. She had practised it out loud in the car on her way to work, and on her way home. She had practised it in front of the bathroom mirror, and she was still practising now, on her way to talk to her mother.

  It was a delicate matter. She didn’t want to sound patronizing. She didn’t want her mother to feel as if she needed—rescuing.

  She had to give her mother the space she needed to maintain her dignity. But she also had to be firm.

  Morley had practised so much that it all came out in a big awkward rush.

  “It would be good for all of us,” she said. “You could help out. With both Dave and I working, it’s … it’s hard. We could use the help. Or I could.”

  Helen was dazed.

  She was staring at her wedding ring. How many years since Roy had died? Was it almost twenty? She’d never tell anyone, but she had come to enjoy the freedom of living on her own. She glanced around her kitchen: there were dishes in the dish rack. Maybe she was no longer the housekeeper she was when Roy was alive, but she sort of enjoyed that, too.

  Sure, she was lonely sometimes, but she had her friends—even though many of them had moved from the neighbourhood.

  “Mom?” said Morley.

  “I’m sorry dear,” said Helen. “I was just thinking of your father.”

  She still isn’t over Dad, thought Morley.

  Helen reached out and patted Morley’s arm. She didn’t want to leave her house, but her daughter was practically begging for help.

  Morley obviously couldn’t manage anymore. It was hardly a surprise. It was ridiculous what she was trying to do. Run a home and work full time. It was nonsense. Capital N.

  Helen said, “All right, dear. I’ll help out.”

  It’s what you do when you have children.

  Though you’d think by the time you were in your eighties they would leave you alone.

  The plan was she’d rent her house so that she could move back when things settled down, when Sam went to university. But she got an offer. And the agent said, “You know, that’s a good offer.” So in the end, she sold.

  There is a room, upstairs, at the back of Dave and Morley’s house, that has its own bathroom. Helen moved into the room at the back. Her bed and her bureau. It wasn’t perfect, but there was nothing about this that was perfect. It was workable.

  “I don’t know,” said Helen on the day before the move. “This makes me nervous.” They were at Helen’s house, packing the last of her stuff. “I’m not sure if three generations are supposed to live together. It seems––unnatural.”

  Morley said, “Don’t be nervous, Mom. It’s going to be so much easier.”

  Maybe for you, thought Helen.

  She came on a Sunday.

  She always came for Sunday dinner, so it almost felt normal. They had dinner, as they always did. And she washed the dishes, as she always did. But then, instead of getting into her coat and getting into the car so that Dave could drive her home, Helen hung up her apron, and there was an awkward moment, the three of them standing in the kitchen, until Helen said, “Well then, I think I’ll go to my room.”

  “Sleep tight,” said Morley. “I’m going to make lunches
for tomorrow.”

  Recently, on Sundays, after Helen left, it has become Morley’s habit to re-wash the dishes. Not all of them, but a lot of them. Helen’s eyesight is not what it used to be. She misses things.

  And so Helen went upstairs and Morley waited in the kitchen with her ear cocked, waiting to hear her mother climb safely into bed before she tackled the dishes.

  It seemed to take forever. What could be taking Helen so long? What could she be doing? Morley wandered around the living room peevishly. It had been over a half an hour, and she could still hear her mother moving around.

  Helen was just as fussed—pacing around her bedroom, wondering the same thing about Morley. If Morley couldn’t put three sandwiches together in forty minutes, no wonder she needed help running her house. What could possibly be taking so long?

  Finally the noises from upstairs quieted, and Morley turned on the tap. She was working on a wineglass when Helen reappeared.

  They both stared at the glass in Morley’s hand. And then Morley followed Helen’s gaze over to the dish rack. It was full of dripping dishes.

  Neither of them said a word about the dishes. Instead, Helen said, “I was wondering if there’s any toothpaste.”

  Morley said, “I’ll get some.”

  Monday morning was its usual rush and panic: Morley trying to make breakfast, Sam trying to wake up. Neither of them meeting with much success.

  Dave was wandering around looking for his backpack, his sunglasses, the blue folder with the leather thing. The kitchen smelled of orange juice and burnt toast. And in the middle of it all, Helen wandered downstairs in her housecoat, oblivious.

  “Have you made the eggs yet?” she asked.

  Sam looked up happily. “We’re having eggs?”

  “No. No eggs,” said Morley. “There’s no time for eggs. Eat your toast.”

  Helen stood in the middle of the kitchen and frowned. But she didn’t say anything.

  It was clear that she was going to have to get up earlier from now on so that she could make this family a decent breakfast.

  Morley sighed and dropped more bread into the toaster. Now she was going to have to get up early enough to make her mother eggs.

  “I made tea, Mom,” said Morley.

  Helen was sitting at the kitchen table beside Sam, staring at his bowl of yogurt.

  Now what, thought Morley. But she didn’t ask.

  “Here,” she said instead, putting the teapot down in front of her mother.

  Helen seemed to snap out of her reverie. As she reached for the teapot, she stole one more glance at her grandson’s breakfast. She had no idea that her daughter had let things unravel so much. Ice cream in the morning? She would see about that.

  And so passed the morning. They were like four horses in one harness, all of them pulling in different directions.

  Stamping, bucking, and snorting.

  And then everything came to a crescendo. The horses whinnied and ran off, and just like that, in the snap of your fingers, the kitchen was like a racetrack at the end of the day. Deserted and quiet.

  Just Helen.

  Helen alone at the table with her pot of tea. The cat, somewhere nearby. Or maybe not. It was always hard to tell.

  “Oh my,” said Helen.

  The first thing Helen did, once everyone was gone, was go upstairs and get a cardigan. It was freezing in the house.

  She found the thermostat in the hall and turned it up. She would turn it down before everyone came home. Then she wandered around and closed all the blinds. She didn’t like the idea of strange people staring in at her.

  After lunch she napped in her room with the paper in her lap. Then she came downstairs and made herself another pot of tea and took it to the den to watch Coronation Street.

  The television, or what was left of it, the screen part of the television, was attached to the wall.

  Helen looked around the room. The rest of it, the guts of it, was nowhere to be seen.

  Helen stared at the screen carefully, searching for a knob or a button so that she could turn it on.

  The television didn’t appear to have knobs or buttons.

  She ran her hand around the edge of the frame to see if she could feel something.

  All she could feel was nothing. She stepped back and scratched her head. She saw the remotes lying on the bookshelf beside the screen. There were four of them.

  Helen’s heart sank.

  Helen was afraid of remotes.

  She had read an informative article in the Reader’s Digest about remotes. According to the article, they were the most germ-ridden objects in hotel rooms.

  She didn’t stay in hotels often, but the article had made a fierce impression. She had vowed that if she ever found herself in a hotel she would never, under any circumstances whatsoever, touch a television remote.

  The Reader’s Digest had explained that no one ever cleaned their remotes.

  Well, that was something she could do right now, wasn’t it?

  But she’d have to be careful. At her age, something as simple as a cold virus could take her out in a matter of days.

  Helen went downstairs. She found a pair of rubber gloves under the sink. She put the gloves on and went back and picked up the remotes. She was careful to hold her breath while she was handling them.

  She dropped them—one, two, three, four—into a plastic bag. She held the bag away from her body as she carried it.

  It occurred to her that she’d seen other remotes in the house as well. She might as well do them all at the same time.

  She started at the top of the house and worked her way methodically down to the kitchen. It took her forty-five minutes. When she got downstairs and emptied her bag onto the kitchen table, there were twelve remotes lying there.

  Air conditioning remotes, heating remotes, stereo remotes. She lined them up carefully on the top shelf of the dishwasher.

  It seemed wrong, however, to run the dishwasher for barely half a load. She went back upstairs. She came back with two computer keyboards, an infra-red mouse, and Sam’s iPod.

  She set the dishwasher to sterilize.

  Then she collapsed onto the largest chair in the living room. That was a good day’s work.

  Morley was the last one home that night. She walked in through the back door. The house was unusually quiet.

  And unusually dark.

  All the curtains were closed.

  It was hot, too.

  “I’m home,” she called.

  There was no response.

  She yawned.

  She found them in the living room—all of them—sound asleep. Helen in the chair with her legs stretched in front of her and her head drooped on her chest. Dave curled up on the couch. And Sam sprawled on the floor. Morley almost sat down with them. Give your head a shake, she thought. Instead she turned down the thermostat and started preparing dinner. First thing she did was open the dishwasher. That woke them.

  The thing with the remotes was a bad beginning. Helen could see that her daughter’s family needed help, but she began to question whether she was the one to provide it. They had such peculiar ways of doing things. It was unreasonable for them to expect her to understand them. Helen decided that she should draw the line—she’d do the dishes and she’d dust, but she’d leave the rest to them.

  Instead of searching out chores, Helen began to spend her time as she did at home—doing crosswords and talking on the phone to friends. In the afternoon, after her nap, she went for walks around the neighbourhood. She didn’t say anything, and she wouldn’t have seen it this way herself, but those walks were small acts of defiance. Helen was asserting herself. She was telling her daughter that she didn’t want to be a housekeeper.

  Of course, that’s not the way Morley interpreted it.

  “I saw your mother again this afternoon,” said Mary Turlington. “She seemed lost.”

  The idea of her mother walking aimlessly around the neighbourhood scared Morley.

 
; “Mom,” said Morley. “Where were you this afternoon?”

  Helen hadn’t been paying any attention—she had just walked for fifteen minutes and then come back.

  “I have no idea,” said Helen.

  Oh dear, thought Morley.

  Helen was enjoying her walks, but she tired easily. One afternoon when she’d ventured a little far, she flagged a taxi to take her home. She told the driver that she was trying to learn her new neighbourhood and asked how much it would cost to drive around for a while.

  She got lucky. The driver was from Somalia. He felt guilty about having left his mother when he came to Canada.

  He didn’t charge Helen. He arranged to pick her up the next afternoon when business was quiet. They drove around the neighbourhood, telling each other their problems.

  It was Dave’s friend Kenny Wong who spotted her.

  “See,” said Kenny the next afternoon. “Very same time every day. They just seem to drive around in circles.”

  Morley was convinced her mother was losing her marbles, not to mention a fortune on taxis. The only thing she could think of doing to keep her at home was to keep her busy. She drew up a new list of chores.

  “These are the things you could do,” she said. “These things would really help.”

  It was lunch. They were sitting at the kitchen table.

  Helen’s heart sank as she ran her finger down the list. She felt overwhelmed.

  “I could do these things,” she said.

  But she didn’t mean it.

  Morley had decided that if grease spots on her dinnerware were the cost of her mother’s dignity, she would live with grease. And so would her family.

  She sat Dave down and explained all this.

  When she finished she said, “Are you okay with that?”

  Dave said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What are grease spots?”

  And so Helen got to work. She washed supper dishes, pruned Morley’s garden, and took on the laundry.

  “I wish she would let me relax,” said Helen to her friend Ruth. “I wish I could take it easy. I’ve earned it.”