Extreme Vinyl Café (21 page)

Margaret polished off the entire bowl and sat back.

“That was good,” she said.

Not knowing what to say, Smith didn’t say anything. He drove to Sydney the next morning.

“I want
another
diamond,” he said to the jeweller. “A
bigger
one. With more colour. So it stands out.”

The jeweller put a velvet tray on the counter and showed him the stones.

“That one,” said Smith. “But this time put it in a ring.”

“What kind of setting?” asked the jeweller.

“A comfortable one,” said Smith.

“What size?” asked the jeweller.

“Medium,” said Smith.

T
he first warm weekend in May, Margaret and Smith went to Ignish to visit Smith’s son. On the way home Smith said, “Let’s go back the long way. Through the Bay.”

Irish Bay
. Where Margaret grew up.

Margaret almost said,
It’s getting late
. Instead she said, “That would be nice, Smith.”

They pulled off the highway at the gas station and came into town at the south end, past the Stinsons’ farm and Dr. Sandberg’s old place. It had been dark for an hour when Smith pulled up in front of the house where she was born.

Margaret said, “So long ago.”

Smith said, “Let’s see if the irises are up.”

Margaret felt anxious. She didn’t know the people who lived there anymore. City people. But Smith was already walking around the front of his pickup.

Smith said, “There is no one home. Just a peek.”

Against her better instincts, Margaret followed Smith across the damp lawn, the dew chilly on her feet. She was nervous, but she was also intrigued. She heard a click as he slid the gate latch in the darkness, and she followed him into the yard. The yard where she and Elizabeth had played when they were girls.

It was so strange to be there again. She smiled at Smith and then she turned to go. She was nervous to stay too long. Smith didn’t move.

Slipping a ring on Margaret’s finger, under the moon, in the garden where she had been a girl and had probably dreamt of such things, had seemed like such a good idea. In the abstract. But here in the garden, it didn’t seem like a good idea at all.

Smith was feeling light-headed and woozy. His legs were shaking.

“Smith?” said Margaret.

Smith had slipped the ring out of his pocket. He lurched forward and grabbed Margaret’s hand.

Margaret, who couldn’t see the ring in the darkness, could sense Smith’s unsteadiness. But it was his face that gave him away. It was written on his face. It was as clear as day. Smith was about to tell her that he was sick, dying probably.

“Oh Smith,” she said. “No.”

“No?” said Smith. “I haven’t even asked yet.”

And that’s when Margaret glanced down and saw the ring for the first time. She started to laugh.

Smith had gone over this moment many times in his mind. He had imagined many responses. But never … laughter. He didn’t see what was so damn funny.

Margaret said, “Oh Smith.” But before she could say anything else, a light flicked on upstairs, and a window banged opened. Smith swore. And he tugged Margaret’s hand. Smith and Margaret ran out of the back garden and tumbled into his truck like a pair of teenagers. They ripped down the street, around the corner and all the way to the church before they stopped.

“My heart,” said Smith, resting his head on the wheel.

Margaret waited for him to settle.

When he did, Margaret said, “Smith Gardner. Did you just ask me to marry you?”

Smith didn’t lift his head. “Yes,” he said. “Did you just refuse?”

Margaret said, “No, Smith.”

“The ring goes on the
left
hand, Smith,” she said.

Then she added, “Good Lord.”

Smith was so overtaken with the moment that he had forgotten he was driving. They were drifting through the intersection, heading right for the Carruthers’ front lawn.

T
he ring was too big. They took it back to the jeweller to have it sized. They picked it up a week later. On the way out of the store, Margaret stopped, took it off her finger and slipped it into her purse.

Smith said, “Why did you do that?”

Margaret said, “Smith, people are going to see it if I keep it on my hand.”

Smith said, “We certainly wouldn’t want that.”

F
or a week Margaret didn’t tell a soul. She fretted instead. The truth was the whole thing embarrassed her. In her heart she wished that she and Smith could do what the young kids did and move in together.

After a week of fretting, she picked up the telephone. It was a Sunday afternoon. Smith had already told
his
kids. She couldn’t delay any longer. She had to phone her daughter, Annie, in Halifax.

And David.

“Hi,” she said. “How are things?”

She had been working in the garden. She was wearing her gardening slacks and an oversized cardigan that used to belong to her late husband, Charlie. She was standing by the kitchen window. Her hands still had dirt on them. She had called her son first. Her eldest.

She took a deep breath. She said, “David, I have something to tell you.”

“You’re sick,” said Dave.

“Worse,” said Margaret. “Smith asked me to marry him.”

Dave shouldn’t have been so surprised. He knew that this was coming. Smith had as good as asked his permission that afternoon in the graveyard. When was that, anyway?

He shouldn’t have been surprised. But he was. So when Margaret blurted it out, Dave was
not
his best self.

Margaret said, “Smith asked me to marry him,” and the first thing Dave said was “Where will you be buried, then? There is supposed to be a space beside Dad.”

Margaret said, “I honestly hadn’t considered that.”

Dave was as amazed as she was at what had just come out of his mouth.

He said, “I suppose the fact that it doesn’t really matter to me where you’re buried won’t stop you from telling everyone that that was my reaction.”

Margaret said, “Probably not.”

Dave said, “Well congratulations, anyway. He’s a nice guy. I mean, I think he is a wonderful guy. I’m happy.” He should have left it there, but he kept going; he added, “For you.”

Dave didn’t really want to talk about it, which was fine because neither did she. They talked about her garden instead. And then they said goodbye.

When Margaret hung up, she shrugged. It was the first time she had said it out loud.
I am getting married
.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she said. She waited five minutes before she phoned Annie.

“Ohmigod,” said Annie. “Where will you be buried?”

There was a stunned silence and then Margaret said, “David called you.” And Annie snorted, and they both laughed and laughed. When they stopped laughing, Annie said, “Oh Mom, I am so happy for you. How did he ask?”

And Margaret said, “He asked me under the moon in the garden in Irish Bay.”

And Annie said, “I want to know every last detail.”

N
ow that she had spoken the words out loud, Margaret figured she might as well keep going.

The next morning, she went to Kerrigan’s grocery store knowing she would bump into Winnie. Winnie always shopped Monday mornings. They met in front of the lunch meats. Margaret took a deep breath and said, offhandedly, “We’re thinking about having the reception at the Curling Club.”

Winnie said, “What reception?”

Margaret said, “Didn’t I tell you?”

E
veryone in town knew by lunch. It didn’t go as badly as Margaret had imagined.

It went worse than she had imagined.

When you are eighty-four years old, you don’t want people treating you as if you’re cute. Everyone thought it was cute. Everyone thought it was sweet.

“It makes me wish you had some sort of problem,” she said to Smith as they walked his dog along the road behind Macaulays’ farm. “Couldn’t you start drinking or something?”

And that was before Bernadette and Winnie were warmed up. That was before Bernadette and Winnie started on about what Margaret should wear.

Margaret has never fussed about fashion. You live in a place like the Narrows, and the best way to dress is to dress for chores. Which is more or less how Margaret dresses. Margaret’s favourite clothes are sweaters. Her favourite accessory is a rake.

“I don’t want it to be a big fancy thing,” said Margaret.

“I am not advising a floor-length gown,” said Winnie. Bernadette nodded in agreement. “In fact,” said Winnie, “I would advise against it. You need a proper dress and a jacket. I know a lady in Halifax who does a lovely job with seed pearls.”

They were at the post office, in front of the mailboxes. While Winnie was talking, Bernadette had pulled a tape measure out of her purse. Before Margaret knew what was happening, Bernadette was wrapping it around her middle.

“We are not,” said Margaret, pulling the tape measure from her waist, “going to Halifax.”

T
here is nothing like a wedding to addle people’s minds. Especially, it turns out, if those people have spent too many of their recent years planning funerals.

As April opened into May, everyone in Big Narrows, everyone of a certain age, that is, was fussing over the first big celebration that had come their way for decades.

Margaret-Anne Madigan, for instance, who had organized five weddings in her life, and had gotten pretty good at it before the opportunities dried up, phoned Margaret as soon as she heard the news.

“First thing,” she said, barely saying hello, “book the hair
appointments. Make sure there is more than one stylist for you and your bridesmaids. You don’t want to be there all day.”

“Bridesmaids?” said Margaret doubtfully.

“Then call the florist.” Margaret-Anne was on a roll. In the
Reader’s Digest
, she had read about a hybrid rose named after Diana, the Princess of Wales.

“It has a beautiful scent,” said Margaret-Anne, who had never actually seen one, let alone smelled one. “Sweet and fruity. You can get them flown up from Boston. Just tell them your colour palette.”

And it wasn’t just the women. The men may not have been taken up with flowers and dresses, but they still found plenty to fuss about. Alex Cunningham cornered Margaret at the Maple Leaf Restaurant.

“I’ve been thinking I’d be hearing from you, Margaret,” said Alex.

Alex ran the Elks Lodge. And as far as Alex was concerned, the Elks Lodge was the only place in the Narrows where a woman of distinction would consider holding her wedding reception.

Of course the Reverend Wright thought the same thing about the Church Hall.

As did all Smith’s friends at the Legion.
They
deputized George MacDonnell to speak on their behalf.

George ambushed her in the parking lot at Kerrigan’s. “We best be nailing down the reception,” said George. “There are lots of other events that month. The sausage festival is on the twelfth, you know.”

“Have you been to booking the music now, Margaret?”
asked Alf MacDonald when he zeroed in on her in front of the library.

Alf’s son Sid, who deejayed at a hip-hop club in Yarmouth, was going to be in Halifax the week of the wedding.

“He’s getting his tattoo worked on,” said Alf.

Sid had been adding to his art as he could afford it. When it was finished, his tattoo would cover his entire body and tell the life story of Celine Dion, with the lavish Vegas wedding scene covering most of his back.

“Sid could slip back here you know. I doubt he has ever done a wedding, but he has good gear.”

Margaret began to dread going out. Wherever she went, there was someone hovering with some sort of unwanted advice. She didn’t leave her house for three days.

Somewhere in there she phoned Annie.

She said, “I think I am going to call it off. I don’t think I can stand the pressure.”

Of all people, Margaret thought Annie would understand. That Annie would be on her side.

But Annie was no different from the rest of them. It was like she hadn’t heard a word Margaret had said. Margaret says she is going to call the whole thing off and Annie says, “Have you settled the menu yet? You have to make sure you have a vegetarian option. Don’t forget Margot is vegan now.”

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

O
n 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.”

T
hat 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.