Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Growing up - Dream Bunnies & Sam is Home Alone

Episode Date: January 17, 2025

“It’s a tricky thing to negotiate, the war of independence” Today on the pod, Sam and Stephanie step towards independence, while Dave and Morley learn to let go. And Jess shares a backstory about the inspiration behind Stuart McLean’s story, Dream Bunnies. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. We have two Dave and Morley stories for you on the show today. Two stories about Sam and Stephanie growing up, finding their independence. And for Dave and Morley, that means letting go. In our first story, Steph and Dave learn to let go of a beloved childhood toy. In our second, we'll hear about the time that Sam has left home alone. But we're going to start with this one.

This is Stuart McLean with Dream Bunnies. Dave was walking down the street holding on to a toy bunny. peace. He was almost there and it was driving him nuts. What he was trying to remember was how the story began. The story began like this. At night, there are bunnies. Dave stopped and stared at the toy bunny that he was holding and smiled. That's how it began, said Dave. Down the street, less than a block away, Amirir Chattery was talking to himself too. He's coming here Amir was saying as he paced around his living room he's coming here said Amir to his wife Rashida to our house right now

he said he could help our daughter said Rashida how could he help Fatima said Amir if her own father cannot help her, how can he help her? He would jolly well give anyone nightmares that one. Amir said, Rashida, you said your own self that we were ready to try anything. Rashida nodded to the window. Dave was coming up their walk. It's a little late to change your mind now.

The Chattery's doorbell rang. "'I didn't mean anything this extreme,' said Amir, waving his hands in the air frantically. "'Remember, Fatima, this is the man who was in charge of the punch at Polly Anderson's Christmas party.'" "'Get a grip on yourself, Amir,' said Rashida, which, funnily enough, is exactly what Dave was saying to himself as he waited for the Chuddery's door to open. Get a grip, he said, as he stood on the Chuddery's stoop, trying to remember how he used to tell the story to Stephanie.

He'd always begin it the same way. At night, there are bunnies. Night after night Dave sat on his daughter's bed and he began exactly the same way. And most every night before he said anything more Stephanie interrupted, where are the bunnies in the day? When everyone's awake, said Dave, the bunnies are very quiet and no one knows where they are. Someone must know, said Stephanie. Well said Dave, I, of course. You don't know everything, she said. Do too, said Dave. So where are the bunnies in the day, said Stephanie. Tell me. Okay, said Dave. I'll tell you. When the sun is out, the bunnies sleep in the hedges. But I've looked in our hedge said Stephanie and I never

saw them. Dave smiled and said, well they're never there when you look. That's not fair said Stephanie. You're absolutely right said Dave. It's not fair at all. I hate it. And Stephanie said, okay, okay, start again. And Dave would start at the beginning. At night there are bunnies. And when everyone's asleep, the bunnies come from the hedges and hop quietly from house to house. Sometimes Stephanie would say, what do the bunnies wear? They wear, said Dave, overalls.

Overalls that have a hole for their tails and a label on their bum that says, for bunnies only. And they carry backpacks. And in the backpacks, in the backpacks, said Stephanie, the bunnies carry dreams. That's right, said Dave. In the backpacks, the bunnies carry dreams. And they carry dreams because they're dream bunnies, said Dave. In the backpacks, the bunnies carry dreams. And they carry dreams because they're dream bunnies," said Stephanie. That's right," said Dave.

The dream bunnies. And this is the story of the dream bunnies. This is the story of the dream bunnies who come quietly out of the hedges when everyone's asleep and hop softly from house to house and nuzzle the children in their beds with their whiskers and anyone who gets nuzzled only gets sweet dreams because the dream bunnies only carry sweet dreams in their backpacks. Honest said Stephanie sitting up I give you my word," said Dave. One night she asked,

what do they eat? Ice cream, said Dave. Rum and raisin. And Stephanie sighed and lay back like she did every night. Lay there thinking of the dream bunnies who wore for bunnies only overalls and who ate rum and raisin ice cream and who came out of the hedges and nuzzled the sleeping children with their whiskers. Dave would sit quietly on the edge of the bed and wait, or when he was tired he'd lie beside her. Sometimes he would fall asleep before her, and she would nuzzle him and say,

Daddy, you're falling asleep. Dave would say, am not. And then he'd say, where was I? And Staffie would say, you're at the beginning. That was one of the rules. If he didn't know where he was, he had to start wherever she told him. So it started at the beginning again. One night Dave drifted off in the middle of the story and when he woke, Stephanie was sitting straight up in bed with her arm resting on his shoulder and she was telling him the story. You were asleep, she said.

Was not, said Dave. I was just resting my eyes. You were snoring, said Stephanie. They told the story over and over again because it worked. The story about the dream bunnies stopped Stephanie's nightmares. The Christmas she was five, Dave bought her a velour bunny. He tiptoed into her room and he tucked it under her arm while she was sound asleep.

When she woke up, she saw that she was holding a bunny. When she came downstairs, her bunny was still tucked under her arm. She carried it around all morning, carried it around as if she had owned her bunny for years. Always, she said. I've always had my bunny, ever since I was born. She played with bunny for hours. She would put things in bunny's backpack, like candy sprinkles that you put on cakes, green and sparkly, or maybe smarties. She'd say, this is my dream bunny and these are the dreams. When she was ten, she took bunny to camp. She was nervous that she'd get teased, so she hid bunny in the bottom of her trunk. The first night, she waited for everyone in her cabin to fall asleep, and then she sneaked out of bed and rescued Bunny from the trunk. When she woke

up in the morning, she saw bears and bunnies poking out of every sleeping bag in her cabin. After that, Bunny always came with her. Once on a family vacation, she forgot Bunny in a motel. She didn't notice until they stopped for lunch the next day. They belted back down the highway, her mom and dad all upset and worried, trying to reassure her. You can slow down, said Stephanie, trying to calm them down. Bunny and I have talked about this. She won't go anywhere. She knows to wait exactly where she is. She knows we'll come and get her.

And when they got back to the motel where they had left her, Stephanie got onto her knees and pulled Bunny out from under the bed. See? She said. Long after Stephanie was too old to be carrying around a velour bunny, Bunny went with her. She was so used to having her tucked in the crook of her arm, she found it hard to sleep without her there. When Stephanie went tree planting, Bunny went tree planting too. First week, some boys stole her and tied her to the cookhouse bell.

Stephanie had to get a ladder to get her down. She felt silly, but not silly enough to put Bunny away. While the other kids were scrunching up smelly sweaters to use as pillows, Stephanie would reach for Bunny. Like I said, Bunny went everywhere. And then one day, this fall, Stephanie called from university and said, I forgot to pack my turquoise fleece. Could you send it to me? It's hanging in my closet. And that night after supper, Dave went into Stephanie's room looking for the fleece,

and there was Bunny lying on top of a shoe box beside a pile of dirty laundry. Bunny's coat was all matted. You could see bits of mesh where her fur was worn away. She had long ago lost her whiskers, but she still had her eyes and her original mouth, which were stitched into her face with thread. Dave smiled at Bunny and said, What are you doing here? And then he frowned and

said, come on, Bunny, and he took her downstairs. Morley was in the living room reading the paper. Dave said, Stephanie forgot Bunny. She didn't forget Bunny, said Morley, barely looking up. She left her here on purpose. Stephanie's too old for a bunny, Dave. Dave said, Stephanie isn't too old for a bunny. No one's too old for a bunny. She always takes bunny. She forgot. Right, bunny? Dave held bunny out in front of him like a puppet.

Bunny began to nod dramatically. See? said Dave. Morley said, Dave, put Bunny back where you found her. You shouldn't be snooping in Stephanie's cupboard. You can ask her about Bunny when she comes home. Dave said, I wasn't snooping. But he put Bunny back in the closet like he was told. That night he couldn't sleep. He was worried about Bunny locked in the closet. Dave lay in the dark of his bedroom, and when he was sure that Morley was sleeping soundly, he snuck out of bed and fetched Bunny from the closet. He put her in his briefcase.

He left her head sticking out the top so Bunny could breathe. And the next morning, Dave took Bunny to work. He called Stephanie at lunch when he knew she'd be awake. He said, Hi, how are you? Stephanie said, Oh, what time is it? Dave said, I have your turquoise fleece. Dave said, I thought I could drive it up instead of mailing it. He didn't mention he was bringing Bunny with him. It was dark when he arrived. He parked his car on the street. When he looked up, he could see Stephanie in her apartment window. She was wearing an apron.

She was lighting candles. There was a bottle of wine on the table. Stephanie was cooking him dinner. Morley was right. Stephanie hadn't forgotten Bunny. Dave stood on the street with his fleece in one hand and Bunny in the other. He looked down at Bunny and said, sorry, Bunny, and he put her back in the car. And then he locked the car, and he stuck the fleece under his arm, and he rang the apartment bell. He ate the dinner Stephanie had cooked for him, and after dinner he helped with the dishes. And then he and Bunny drove home.

Dave behind the wheel, and Bunny strapped in the passenger seat. Halfway home, they switched. It was late when they finally got home. Morley was already asleep. So instead of putting Bunny away, Dave sneaked her into bed. He was careful to keep her on his side. In the morning when he was making the bed, he slipped Bunny under the pillow. And when he was eating breakfast, it occurred to him Bunny could be suffocating. He ran upstairs and gave her mouth-to-mouth for suscitation.

Before long, Dave was taking Bunny everywhere. When he drove, she sat on the seat beside him. At rush hour, he strapped her into the child seat in the back. Dave thought no one noticed. Sam noticed. And Sam didn't know what to think. Sam said to his friend Murphy, who knows what to think about everything, my dad's taking a dream bunny with him

wherever he goes. It's getting embarrassing. Murphy says, does your mother know? Sam said, of course not. Murphy said, then don't worry about it. This sort of thing happens to men your dad's age. It's just a stage. He'll outgrow it. It was Murphy who spread the word through the neighborhood. He didn't mean to.

Cheer up. One day his mom asked Murphy about Sam and Murphy said, Sam's worried about his dad. His dad's obsessed with a little bunny. Like a rabbit, said Murphy's mom. They don't have a rabbit? Yes they do, said Murphy, who wasn't really paying attention. They keep it in the glove compartment. When people start talking about things they don't really know about, there are inevitably

misunderstandings. Dave, said Bert Turlington a few days later, people are talking about you and a rabbit or something. You mean the bunny, said Dave. I just took it to the dry cleaners this morning. You took it to the dry cleaners said Bert? I was going to wash it at home said Dave, but I couldn't bear to put her in the dryer. And I had to do something, she was starting to smell. You don't think the chemicals will hurt her, do you? When Bert told his wife, Mary, what David said, Mary called Morley right away.

Morley said, Mary, I just heard some stuff about this rabbit. We have to do something. You're telling me, said Morley. He's been sneaking it into bed with us. He thinks I don't notice, but it's dropping hair. And it smells. I told him he had to get it cleaned. That night, Dave and Morley were sitting on their couch watching the news.

Bunny was sitting in the good chair. Morley turned to Dave. Listen, she said, you know what this is all about, don't you? Dave looked at Bunny defensively. I know it's silly, he said. I just feel sad for Bunny. It's like no one needs her anymore. Are you sure this is about Bunny? said Morley. feel sad for Bunny. It's like no one needs her anymore.

Are you sure this is about Bunny? said Morley. Dave didn't say anything. He kept lugging Bunny around for a few weeks, but it didn't feel right anymore. Finally, he put her back in Stephanie's closet. And then one afternoon a few weeks ago, Morley met Rashida Chudery in the park. That night at dinner she said, Rashida's daughter Fatima is having nightmares. Dave shrugged. They'll pass, he said. Remember Stephanie? Yes, said Morley. I do. And that's how Dave ended up on the doorstep of Rashida and Amir's house last Thursday night. And that's how he ended up on the Chuddery's couch with a Chuddery's daughter, Fatima, sitting beside him.

"'Could you hold this for me?' he said, handing Fatima Stephanie's velour bunny. Fatima nodded shyly. Fatima's a very shy girl. But she took Bunny and she cuddled Bunny close girl. But she took Bunny and she cuddled Bunny close to her chest with one bunny arm over her arm and one bunny arm under. And Dave smiled and took a deep breath and he said, do you know at night there are bunnies? And Fatima shook her head. And Dave said, it's true and I'm going to tell you the story of the dream bunnies, who come quietly out of the hedges when everyone's asleep. They hop softly from house to house, and they nuzzle the children in their beds with their whiskers.

And anyone who gets nuzzled only gets sweet dreams, because the dream bunnies only carry sweet dreams in their backpacks. And Fatima said, how do we know they're dream bunnies? And Dave said, because I've seen them. And Fatima said, what do the bunnies eat? And Dave said, now that's a very good question. They eat baklava. And Fatima said, like my mummy makes? And Dave said, exactly like your mummy makes. And Fatima said,

with walnuts and honey? And Dave said, of course with walnuts and honey. Walnuts and honey are a bunny's very favorite food. Thank you very much. ... That was the story we call Dream Bunnies. We recorded that story in Belleville, Ontario, back in 2005. I love that one. But I guess it makes sense that I'd love it because it's

based on a dream that I had when I was a little girl. When I was a kid, I had a recurring dream about little bunnies who wore overalls. And on their backs, they wore backpacks. I was determined to stay asleep long enough or to dream deep enough that I'd be able to find out what they kept in their backpacks. I told that story to Stuart shortly after we started working together and he loved it. And it became a sort of story we toss around

back and forth, back and forth, never really doing anything with it, but knowing that one day, one day we might. There was a period after my mom died, or maybe it was when she was sick, when I was having trouble sleeping. I can see now that I was anxious, which makes sense. Stuart was a night owl, so when I couldn't sleep, I'd call him. He was usually under the guise of something work-related, but Stuart saw through that pretty quickly.

He knew I just needed to talk. It was during this period that he started asking me about the dream bunnies. He'd say things like, what do you think they carried in their backpacks? The questions and the stories became more elaborate and fantastical over time, and those conversations were so comforting. After a few weeks I was sleeping again and then Stuart turned these late-night story sessions into a

Dave and Morley story. So yeah I've always loved that story because it brings back memories of my own childhood but it also brings back memories of how Stuart and his stories helped me through a difficult time in my life. And maybe that's what those bunnies were carrying in their backpacks. Love, support, kindness, and the power of story. Either that or sprinkles. Like I still kind of think it might have been sprinkles. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with wrinkles. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with

another story, so stick around. Welcome back. Time for our second story now. This is Stuart McLean with Sam is Home Alone. It's the end of an autumn day. Morley is walking home from work. And she has chosen a roundabout route through the park and consequently past the local arena where, don't kid yourself, she's going to stop and buy a bag of kettle corn. She fell under the temptation of the sweet salty treat six months ago, and she has fallen into a monstrous addiction. But the little detour isn't only about the sweet temptation of corn. It's also about taking her sweet

time. Moralee knows what's waiting for her at home—her son Sam and her husband Dave—and a conversation about the weekend ahead and what should and shouldn't happen. But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Morally is trying to tarry, and we should allow her that indulgence. Let's tarry with her. Let's watch as she wanders along the shady neighborhood streets, her bag slung over her shoulder so preoccupied with the mortal sin of sugar and salt that she doesn't notice until too late her neighbor, Burt Turlington, standing on the sidewalk just ahead of her, his little dog, Tissue, straining at the end of a long retractable

leash, pulling desperately in the opposite direction, pulling away from the park, which is where Burton Tissue had been heading, and more importantly, pulling away from Morley. Tissue is a teacup Pomeranian, small, white, and a little bit yappy, but mostly pleasant enough, except Morley hides the bag of popcorn in her purse. Tissue, she calls, holding up her empty hands, all gone, but it is too late. Tissue saw the popcorn. Morley looks at Burt ruefully and crosses to the other side of the street. Sorry, she calls. Dang, says Morley, doing the only thing that she can do—walking on. What just happened wasn't really Morley's fault. It is an imprint left over from a night long ago when Burt,

never one to be accused of patience, peeked into a pot of popcorn and an un-popped kernel blew across the kitchen. Tissue, a mere pop at the time, bounced after it like a tennis ball, hoovered up the unexpectedly hot kernel, her tail wagging on the psychotic ever since. Morley knows that. And if she hadn't been so preoccupied, she would have tucked that bag of popcorn out of sight. It was careless. It was the sort of mistake that addicts make.

But she's going to get over it pretty quickly. She's just arrived home. She is reaching for the front door knob. Upstairs in his bedroom, Sam is pacing anxiously. He just watched his mother come up the walk. His best friend, Murphy, had made it clear that he should give her a moment to transition before he went downstairs. They are going to have a talk. Sam has been gearing up for it all week. He handed himself over to Murphy for coaching. Murphy is well-versed in the psychological strengths

and, more importantly, weaknesses of parents. Their preparations are about to be put to the test. Dave and Marley are going out of town this weekend for a wedding. Sam is about to put the case to them that he is old enough to stay home alone. Dave is actually okay with the idea. He long ago decided that being a parent means losing every major battle.

Parenthood, he believes, is an endless war of rearguard actions, retreats, and regroupings. "'Until what?' said Morley. "'Until there are no more wars to lose,' said Dave, as if losing was an achievement. "'But it is,' he said. "'As long as you're losing, you're still in the game. That's what's important—being in the game. Morley doesn't see it that way. And more to the point, Morley doesn't think Sam is ready to stay home alone.

She is clear on this, and she is expecting Dave's support. She scrunches up her bag of corn and tucks it away, and she walks inside. It is always a tricky thing to negotiate the war of independence. Both sides approach the battlefield full of righteous conviction, but righteousness always conceals uncertainty, and conviction is never far from doubt. Are you ready? Here comes Sam, bounding down the stairs, determined to spread his wings, and there's Morley, waiting in the kitchen just as determined to clip them. You have to understand Sam is still her baby.

He may be at that awkward age where he is no longer young enough for a babysitter, but he is still young enough to—well, let's listen in. They are at the kitchen table now. The battle has begun without us. A babysitter, says Sam. Morley has just suggested someone—not exactly a babysitter, more a house sitter and cook—someone who might spend the weekend not with him exactly, but in the house at the same time.

Oh, clarified Sam, someone like a babysitter. He said this exactly the way Murphy had drilled him. It was hard to be sure if he was being sarcastic or just emphatic. Why didn't I think of that? Sarcastic. Why didn't I think of that?" Sarcastic Morley felt her anxiety rising. This was not going as smoothly as she had hoped. "'How about Caitlin?' said Sam.

"'Caitlin is a girl in his class.'" Okay, point made. Score a one for the teenager. He was too old for a babysitter. Sam had been worried his parents would make him come with them, stay in the hotel room while they were at the reception. They won't, predicted Murphy. They don't want you there. They want time away from you. Have you no appreciation of how obnoxious you are? Murphy was right. They

didn't bring that option up. In fact, the entire discussion was playing out exactly the way Murphy had predicted. Sam began to tick through a speech that he and Murphy had been practicing all week. Mozart was composing piano solos when he was nine, said Sam. Tatum O'Neill won an Oscar when she was ten. He had someone for each year from 9 to 16. He was about to do 12 when Dave jumped in and threw him off stride. Tanya Tucker recorded Delta Dawn when she was 13, said Dave. Morley glared at him. It's true, he said, and then he remembered which team he was supposed to be on and muttered, barely audible, sorry, but it was too late. Battles turn on a

dime and that was the ten cent moment. They all felt it, though they all pretended not to. Sam nodded at his dad and kept going, ticked off fourteen, and then moved in for the kill. When she was fifteen, said Sam, pausing dramatically, which is my age, incidentally. That was a Murphy flourish. When she was fifteen, Anne Frank had written the final entry in her diary. That's nothing, said Dave, forgetting himself again. When he was fifteen, UB Blake was playing piano and Baltimore brothels."

Both Sam and Morley turned and stared at him this time. Oops, said Dave. May I retract that? It was all over, of course. The conversation continued for ten more awkward minutes. Of all things, the argument that won the day was little dog tissue. Morley had promised they would look after tissue that very weekend, forgetting when she did that it was the weekend of the wedding. Sam, of course, had used Morley's oversight to his advantage. He said, Someone has to look after tissue.

And so, as Murphy had predicted, Sam prevailed. Dave and Morley would go to the wedding, and for the first time in his life Sam would stay home alone—no alcohol, no friends, except, of course—and this was part of the plan—for Murphy. Murphy had come over and they had ordered pizza and watched movies, and everything would have worked out wonderfully—no doubt about it—except Murphy got sick and couldn't come. And that is how Sam found himself, somewhat unexpectedly, home alone for the first time in his life. He had been home alone before, obviously, but he had never been home alone overnight, which means he had never really been home alone.

The afternoon had been unremarkable. He biked to the library and hung out for a while, but everyone had gone home, and now he had to too. As he pushed his bike into the garage and headed for the side door, he looked at the dark, quiet house and felt a twinge of anxiety and, for the first time, alone. While Sam was walking into the house nervously, Dave and Morley had just pulled into the parking lot of the country club where the wedding was about to begin. As they came to a stop, Morley flipped down the sun visor to check her lipstick. Here, she said, handing Dave her cell phone and the little silver tube.

Do you mind carrying these? Sam started making dinner as soon as he got inside—a meat and two vegetables. For the meat, he had grilled some beef in the convenient hot dog format. For the first vegetable, he chose potatoes in their handy chip form. Two wieners and a bag of chips. For his second vegetable, he would make corn, popcorn. Dinner done, he walked around the house to be sure he was alone, and then he went down to the basement and settled in front of his Xbox.

While Sam battled battalions of attacking zombies, Morley and Dave made their way to the reception. Maybe we should phone him, said Morley. Dave patted the cell phone in his pocket. Let's let him have his freedom, said Dave. Two hours later Sam emerged from the basement and stepped into the darkness of the kitchen. He had never seen the house so dark before. There was always someone around. There were always lights on. He phoned Murphy not because he was afraid or anything, just to see how Murphy was. And then he went to bed at ten, which was actually an hour earlier than usual. As he lay there, his room felt dark and creepy.

The house was creaking and groaning like a wooden ship in a storm. Why did he never notice the way the house creaked before? He stared at his phone on the table beside his bed. Maybe he should call his parents and check on them—make sure they were okay. Morley had only poked at her dinner and half listened to the speeches. She was thinking if something went wrong, she would never forgive herself. But when the toasts had begun, a waiter glided by with a tray of champagne, and Dave plucked two glasses off the tray and handed one to his wife.

To Dave and Morley he said quietly. The music began, and people started dancing. And soon her concerns had faded. Before she knew it, she and Dave were dancing, and somewhere there on the dance floor, Morley let go. Her children were independent and capable, and that meant she could be independent too. Midnight. Sam had been in bed for over an hour and a half. He still wasn't asleep, and he wasn't about to fall asleep. He had just remembered a conversation he had overheard between his mother and his father.

They had been away, everyone, I mean, the entire family, and they had come home to find a window on the main floor wide open. His mother was chastising his father for not locking it, and he had replied defensively, no doubt, the way any of us might have replied under the circumstances. This is the part that Sam was remembering as he lay in bed in his creaking house, his father saying, leaving the window open is no big deal. If someone really wanted to get into this house, there's a million ways they could do that. There was a noise downstairs, a creak or a groan or something, something that sounded like zombies.

Sam sat up abruptly and reached for the phone. He pressed dial. He counted the rings. One, two, three. When he heard it click over to the answering machine, he hung up. Why hadn't his parents picked up? The only answer that made sense was that his parents were lying dead on the side of the road. He had waited half an hour and phoned him again. That made it official. He was an orphan.

He phoned his sister. She didn't pick up either. He left a message. Call me when you get this. Mom and Dad are dead. He didn't know what else to add, so he hung up. He felt bad for being so abrupt, so he called back. He said, it's me again. They were in a car accident. That made him feel better to share it. And he lay there. And he remembered his mother telling him that if he couldn't get

to sleep he should read for a while. He had never tried it. Her vice was easier to accept now that she was dead. He sat up and turned on his reading light. And that is when Tishu, who was on the bed with him, bowed to the end of the bed and stared out into the hallway and started to growl. Sam was transfixed. He stared at the silhouette of the little dog glaring out into the hall, growling at whatever was out there. He looked around the room. He wasn't going down without a fight. His tennis racket was propped against his desk. He picked up the tennis racket and off he set. On the way out the door he picked up tissue and stuffed her into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. The dog could sense something was terribly wrong and she began whimpering and shivering. He had to calm her down or she would give him away. He looked around

for something to distract her. There on the kitchen counter was his bowl of popcorn. The little dog had a moment of complete clarity. She understood precisely what was happening. She was about to be blown to smithereens. She erupted out of Sam's hoodie with a yowl and clawed her way up his chest and over his shoulder. She made a beeline for the stairs and disappeared. When she got to Sam's room, tissue dove under the bed. Sam slid under a second behind her.

It was almost eight the next morning when Morley woke up. And the first thing she thought of, the very first thought that entered her mind, was how great it was to have gone an entire night without checking on her son. Dave was right. They had entered a new stage in their lives. Their daughter, Stephanie, had been living on her own for a couple of years, and now Sam didn't need her every waking moment. He was fine, and she could lie here and wonder about what she'd order from room service for breakfast and maybe take

a swim in the pool before they headed home. She rolled over and opened her eyes and saw her husband sitting in the bed staring at her phone. There were 63 missed calls. I turned the ringer off before the service, he said. There were no messages, and there was no answer when they called back. And so they threw their stuff into their suitcases and ran to the car and shoved their suitcases in the trunk and peeled out of the parking lot. An hour later, they careened around the corner

and screeched to a stop in front of the house. There was no sign of Sam anywhere. His bed had been slapped in, but he was gone, and so was the dog. They searched the house in rising panic, and they were about to call the place when Dave heard a scratch and a snuffle and found Boy and Dog fast asleep and wedged under the far corner of his bed. David Morley tipped Toad out of the house and went out for breakfast. They stayed out until they were sure Sam would be up and about. They never asked about the 63 phone calls, and Sam never asked them why they had come home early.

It was clumsy, and they both knew that. But new beginnings are often clumsy, and they both did their clumsy best to keep things on track. And as Murphy said on Monday morning, for a first try, it wasn't bad at all. Thank you. That was Sam is Home Alone. We recorded that story at the Capitol Theatre in Nelson, British Columbia, back in 2014.

All right, that's it for today, but we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories. I hope you'll join us. And don't forget to subscribe to Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe so you won't miss an episode. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is someone who carries sprinkles in his backpack, Greg DeKlout. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeKlout, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.