Home from the Vinyl Cafe by Stuart Mclean Page B

old-fashioned way. Kenny had the hair dryer set up to blow over the buttermilk.
    “Like forcing a tulip,” he said.
    The bottle of Scotch was half-killed. Dave had discovered the Lowbeers’ polka records. Kenny was wearing one of Gerta Lowbeer’s aprons. There was a mop lying on the kitchen counter.
    “Tired, my dear?” said Kenny to the mop. “It must be time to add the flour,” he said. “I figure six hours under a hair dryer is the same as three days in a warm place. What do you think?” He was still talking to the mop.
    Dave was sitting on the floor. His head was in his hands. He was staring into the distance. He was remembering the disdain in Carl Lowbeer’s voice when he had told Dave about the Rutenbergs. “We gave them some of the starter because they said they wanted to bake bread, too. They killed it within six months. They’re fools.”
    “I’m dead,” said Dave.
    They finished at ten on Sunday morning. Kenny had slept in the Lowbeers’ bed, Dave on the living room couch.
    When they left, the sourdough was bubbling like a pot of oatmeal.
    “It looks sort of the same. It smells right. But it didn’t bubble like that,” said Dave.
    “It’ll slow down in the fridge,” said Kenny.
    “And there’s more than there used to be—there was only half that much,” said Dave.
    Kenny picked up the Mason jar and scooped half of the new sourdough into the garbage. “How’s that?” he said. “Does that look about right?”
    The Lowbeers arrived home on Sunday, as planned. Dave flew to Montreal before they arrived and joined his family in St.-Sauveur. When they got home on Tuesday night, there was a loaf of bread and a note from Carl on the back porch.
    You certainly looked after the starter.
Thanks for everything.
    “He knows,” said Dave. “He must.”
    “That’s just Carl,” said Morley.

    Dave wasn’t so sure. He gave Carl a wide berth for the next few weeks. They didn’t rub shoulders again until the first neighborhood barbecue, on the long weekend in May.
    Dave was at the condiment table looking at the buns when Jim Scoffield leaned against him and whispered conspiratorially, “Aren’t you going to have one of Carl’s sourdough buns?”
    “What do you mean?” said Dave nervously. Did everyone know?
    Jim rolled his eyes. “Carl just gave me his bread lecture. Do you know he has a framed genealogy in his den?”
    Dave felt relief wash through him. “Did he tell you about his aunt in Germany?” he asked.
    Jim nodded.
    Dave smiled. “He’s a bit much,” he said, “but I like his bread.”
    Dave picked out one of Carl’s buns from the bowl on the picnic table. He wandered over to the grill, got a hamburger, and then looked around the yard. Carl was standing near the fence, a hot dog in his hand. He was alone.
    Dave waved and headed over.

Music Lessons
                    T he problem of Sam’s piano lessons began with his Christmas report card. The music teacher, Mrs. Crouch, wrote:
Sam has an unself-conscious sense of rhythm. It appears to come from inside him
.
    “What does that mean?” said Dave. He was sitting in the kitchen reading the report. “ ‘It appears to come from inside him.’ Where else would it come from?”
    “I think she means it’s a gift,” said Morley.
    In February, at parent-teacher night, Mrs. Crouch sought
them
out. “Do you know he has perfect pitch?” she asked.
    Morley smiled. It wasn’t so much what Mrs. Crouch was telling her—just to have a teacher say nice things about her child was good enough. Morley didn’t want her to stop.
    “The other day in choir,” said Mrs. Crouch, “he started to sing the descant quietly to himself. I just happened to catch it as I walked by. Most of the grade sixes can’t do that.”
    Morley nodded earnestly.
    By the time they got home, however, her joy had been sideswiped by a spasm of guilt. Sam was eight years old, and they hadn’t done a thing to encourage this musical talent. When