Extreme Vinyl Café (11 page)

He removed the milk crates of records and piled them on the floor. He ran his hand over the shiny coffin. It was actually a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. A pine box to be sure, but a pine box with the lustre of ebony.

He was about to climb in—just for a second, just to see— when it occurred to him that it would hardly be an accurate experience, lying there in his comfy sweater and cords. Surely, when he was laid out, it would be a more formal thing. He went upstairs. There was a jacket up there that once belonged to Eric Clapton. There was, in fact, a whole rack of clothing. A shirt Frank Sinatra Jr. had left in a dressing room in the Poconos. A tie that had once belonged to Paul Anka. He slipped off his sweater and put on the shirt, the tie and Eric’s jacket.

And then he spotted Alice Cooper’s makeup kit.

A job worth doing, as his father-in-law, Roy, used to say, is worth doing properly.

He powdered his face. He looked in the mirror. He looked great—which is to say, he looked dead.

He went downstairs. He ran back upstairs, grabbed some candles and then ran back downstairs.

He lifted the lid of the coffin and propped it up, checking
the hinge to make sure it wouldn’t slam shut. He lit the candles. He dimmed the lights. He put on some music. Etta James. “At Last.”

Then he crawled into the box. Tumbled into it actually, bum first.

There was not as much room in there as you might think. He had to squirm around awkwardly to arrange himself. In fact, it was cramped. But the silk lining was smooth and soft, and there was a nice layer of padding between him and the bottom of the casket.

Not bad
, thought Dave.
Quite comfortable, actually. Peaceful even
. Dave folded his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes.

H
e wasn’t
sound
asleep, but he wasn’t wide awake either. He was somewhere in that foggy world between dreams and thought, lying in his coffin, the candles flickering at each of the corners, trying to get in touch with eternity, when the front door opened, and someone walked into the record store.

Dave thought he had locked the door. He was sure he had locked the door.

“Hello,” said a voice.

Apparently he had not.

He didn’t move a muscle.

“Hello,” called the voice again.

It was a woman’s voice. And it sounded familiar.

“David,” it said, “are you here?”

It almost sounded like Mary Turlington.

That was ridiculous. Mary Turlington had
never
been in Dave’s store. Uptight and sanctimonious Mary Turlington
wasn’t interested in anything “used.” Mary was suspicious of used goods. She preferred reproductions to antiques.

But that very morning Mary had received a letter informing her that there was room opening up at the graveyard where she had bought her plot. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder exactly
how
room would
open up
at a cemetery. The only thing that mattered was that Dave had an overly dramatic approach to death and he had to get over it.

Mary was on a mission. She had dragged herself to the store for Morley’s sake. She was going to help this silly man grow up and accept his mortality. She was going to get him organized. Death was just another aspect of the housekeeping of life. You pay your bills, you buy groceries, you mow the lawn—and you make your funeral arrangements.

She actually hadn’t meant to go in, however.

Damn
, she thought as she went through the door,
I was going to call him
.

I
t smelled funny in there—like incense. Or worse. There was suspicious music playing. The type of music that people play when they are up to no good. And it was dark.

The place was giving her the creeps.

“David,” she called. Where was he? And what did he do in this dusty, dark shop all day—by himself?

“David? Are you here?”

Mary hesitated by the door and then stepped in. What could he be doing back there that he couldn’t do out in the open?

She caught sight of the candles.

Just the sort of childish display she would expect of Dave. Against her better judgment, she kept going.

D
ave was lying stiffly in the coffin. He was thinking that if he were very quiet, if he didn’t move a muscle, Mary would assume that the shop was empty. And leave.

Blessed mother of Jesus
. Her footsteps were getting closer and closer.

Then they stopped abruptly.

As Mary moved further into the store, her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

“Blessed mother of Jesus,” said Mary. It wasn’t a mannequin in the coffin. It was a body.

Ohmigod
, thought Dave.

“Ohmigod,” said Mary.

Every nerve ending in Mary’s brain told her to get out of there. And to get out of there fast. But she couldn’t help herself. She was drawn toward the casket.

Don’t move
, thought Dave.
Don’t move a muscle
.

He lay there for an eternity.

But eventually he couldn’t help himself.

Very slowly and very carefully, Dave opened one eye.

Unfortunately it was the eye Mary happened to be staring at.

Maybe if she had recognized Dave things would have worked out differently. But she didn’t recognize Dave. It was dark in there, and he was made up. And he was wearing a tie, for heaven’s sake.

So Mary stumbled back, her heart pounding, watching as the body rose up and struggled clumsily out of the casket like a zombie in a horror movie.

Then the body said, “Hello, Mary.”

This is how it ends?
thought Mary.
Zombies?

Then she hit the ground.

T
he letter from Stephanie arrived the following week.

Dear Dad,

Dave got it at lunchtime. He showed it to Morley after supper.

“Did you tell her to write this?” asked Dave.

“No,” said Morley. “I didn’t.”

Dear Dad,

Mom told me you have been worried about dying.

She told me that’s why you were writing your eulogy. I want to apologize for making fun of you. I am sorry I laughed at you. I am sorry I made fun of it.

When Paula’s dad died, she had to talk at his funeral. I started wondering what I would say if I had to talk at yours.

I decided I would tell people about the eye patch. Do you remember that? I think I was about six. I don’t even remember why I had to wear that stupid patch. All I remember is that Dr. Milne said I had to wear an eye patch and that I refused. Nothing was going to make me wear that patch. I cried all the way home from the doctor’s office. When we got into the house, you sat me down at the kitchen table.

You pulled out two eye patches, and you put the first one over your own eye. You said we would have a deal. You said that I would wear my patch until Dr. Milne told me I could take it off. And you would wear yours until I told you to take it off. I said, “But people are going to look at you funny.” And you
said, “Well, if they do, I guess I can talk to you about it. You might know how that feels.” Do you remember how we decorated them? I think you drew flowers on mine. I don’t remember. But I remember I drew a huge, gross, red eye on yours. And you wore it for a whole week before I let you take it off. You wore it to work, and when you took the car to the garage, and out to dinner at the Turlingtons’. I can’t believe I made you do that.

If I had to talk at your funeral, I would tell people the story about the eye patch. Then I would tell them that’s the kind of dad you were. That you would do anything for me and Sam. Even if it made you look silly.

I love you, Daddy.

Steph

P.S . I don’t want you to die. If you die I am going to kill you.

Dave took Stephanie’s letter to the store. It is still in the drawer by the cash. Sometimes when he reads it, it makes him happy. Sometimes it makes him cry.

Mary hasn’t been back in the store, although she has been over for dinner. All in all, it was a successful evening.

Dave still has the coffin. It’s still in the back of the store. But it is not covered anymore. There is a display of forty-fives in it: teenage death songs.

Dear Mr. McLean,

My father and I are planning to spend the summer weekends renovating our cottage, but it seems a shame that no one will be able to get up there during the week to continue the work. My dad pointed out that as your show is aired by a public broadcaster, we, as taxpayers, are essentially coughing up the dough for your salary. With that in mind, we were hoping that you could make yourself available for a few days this summer. I’ve enclosed directions to the cabin.

Jeff

Dear Jeff,

Well, when you put it that way, it is hard not to agree.

However you might want to read the following story before we go ahead with this arrangement.

N
o one ever gasps in awe when they see the Laurentian Mountains for the first time. Rather than express awe, first-time visitors, who have spent a morning being toured through Les Laurentides, are more apt to turn to whoever has been driving them around and ask that mortifying question so many have asked before them, “When do we get to the mountains?”

The Laurentians
are
, admittedly, more hills than mountains. They roll, rather than tower, but they roll with a dignity that befits one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. The Laurentians, and the pleasant lakes that dot the hills, make you feel that both comfort and constancy are to be had in this changing world.

Ahh.
Tous les lacs des Laurentides
: Lac Marois, Lac Saint-Amour, Lac des Seize Îles.
Et tous les
little lakeside villages: Saint-Sauveur, Saint-Rémi, Val des Bois and, of course, Notre-Dame des Plaines—hardly a village, really. One gas station, two general stores, a Catholic church and a handful of cottages.

Notre-Dame des Plaines and Petit Lac Noir. The little village, and the little lake lapping just over the hill, just behind the church, where Jean-François Clément and his family have
whiled away summer afternoons since, well, since Jean-François was a boy. And before.

E
very Friday at 5:30, precisely, Jean-François, a small-animal vet, closes his office. If you were to arrive at say 5:35 and find him in the parking lot, he would say,
Well, I would like to help you, mais le bureau est fermé
. And he would give you, or whoever it was standing there holding their sick cat or limping dog, directions to the nearest emergency clinic.

He would, incidentally, mean it. Jean-François is nothing if not both earnest and honest. He
would
like to help you. But how could he? At 5:30 on a Friday? Five-thirty on a Friday is when he picks up his wife, Marie-Josée, and they drive, like his father did before him, to the cottage for the weekend. They stop on the way of course, like his father did, at the
boulanger
in Shawbridge to pick up a country loaf and a baguette.

The idea of phoning Marie-Josée and leaving later wouldn’t occur to Jean-François. Five-thirty is when you leave.

The cottage has been in Jean-François’ family for five generations. For five generations, Cléments have been learning lessons from the mountains. And what they have learned is to pray at the altar of tradition.

The cottage has been passed down like a religious relic. Nothing about it has changed. Not the way you get there, nor the things you do when you arrive. It is a cathedral of constancy, although you mustn’t get the idea that it’s run down. It has been kept up perfectly. Though not up
dated
. It is one of those endangered species. A cottage in the old style.

Well, there has been one change. After much heated discussion, and threats, and pressure from his mother—after a
crusade, you might say—Jean-François’ father did install an indoor toilet; but he left the old outhouse standing, and whenever he was angry with his wife, he would revert to using it, grumbling out the kitchen door even in the middle of the night. So there is an indoor toilet. But there is also a woodstove and a summer kitchen. Five generations of believers. And Jean-François is a faithful member of the church.

Marie-Josée, who has hankered for a hot-water tank at the cottage, and maybe even a shower, has had problems with this. They have argued about this, Jean-François and his wife.

“
Ils sont tous morts. Tes parents, ton grand-papa
,” she has said. “
C’est à ton tour
.”

Jean-François will hear none of it. The Laurentians, you might say, suit him to a T.

To put it precisely, like the mountains, he is not a man who embraces change. For Jean-François,
Je me souviens
, the words on the licence plate of his Ford station wagon—the exact same car his father favoured—aren’t a
political
statement. For Jean-François,
Je me souviens
is a way of life.

Every Friday at 5:30 precisely he and Marie-Josée drive north. And every summer, during the construction holiday at the end of July, they spend two weeks on the coast of Maine. Just like he did when he was a boy.

The ocean, as his father used to say, is something you can count on.

When he goes to Maine, Jean-François walks two miles along the beach every day. At eight in the morning and again at four in the afternoon—the hours when you won’t get burned. He collects sea glass and driftwood. And he brings back one piece of each every summer. He began his collection when he was a
boy. The sea glass goes on the windowsill. The driftwood lines the path to the lake. He appreciates the way the weather has worked the glass and the wood. He has no time for so-called artists who hack at a piece of wood to create a sculpture in just a few weeks. Or months.

Jean-François loves Maine.

Well, that’s not totally true. He used to love it. Things have been changing in Maine. The old highway is getting busier. Franchise joints and condos are popping up everywhere. The truth is, he has grown tired of it lately, and these days the thing he loves most of all about Maine is the Saturday in August that he and Marie-Josée return to the cottage.