One Bird's Choice (5 page)

My hour or so of fresh air forces me back to the couch. I nap intermittently in the fetal position and wake more tired than before. From where I lie I can see the profile of Mom’s lower half; her top half is hidden in the fridge.

I walk into the kitchen, picking at a splinter in my hand. Mom’s precariously holding a jar under her armpit while shifting others around in the fridge.

“What’s this?” I ask. “Are you hot or something?”

“No, no,” she says. “I’m just making room for Dad. He’ll be home from the grocery store soon.”

“Who called?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a message,” I say.

Mom and Dad still employ a primordial answering machine with buttons and tapes. The answering machine is larger than the phone. I point out the flashing red light to Mom. She immediately stops what she’s doing.

“Oh, right,” she says, kicking the fridge door closed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

There are actually two messages. Both are from Dad, and both are delivered frantically. He’s called twice from the soap aisle.

“Hi, guys, it’s just me. I’m in the soap aisle.” He pauses. “I was hoping you’d answer. I just came across a deal here on some soap, and I know Mom usually likes her Ivory, but this other brand looks okay and is half-price today. And . . . yup, it’s a lavender scent. Anyway, I’m thinking of getting the lavender for a change. Maybe I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

Mom pushes the button for the next message.

“Oh, you’re still not there. Or still just not answering. That’s a shame. I hope Iain’s not convincing you to screen . . . I’m still here. This other soap looks really quite good. Well, I think I’m just going to get it . . .”

“What? No, no! Don’t get that other soap. Not the stupid lavender. Get the unscented Ivory!” She yells it like Dad can hear her.

The machine stops and Mom sits down at the table, crestfallen.

“Why don’t you call him back? Maybe he’s still in the store,” I suggest.

“Yes, great idea!” She jumps up and grabs the phone, hurriedly dialling Dad’s cell.

She’s able to get through as Dad is making his way to the checkout. He has the lavender soap in his cart, but she convinces him to go back and get the Ivory instead.

“That was a close one,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Way too close.”

It’s not until Dad returns from the grocery store that I can appreciate Mom’s foresight in clearing space in the fridge.

“Can you give me a quick hand with these groceries?” he calls from the door. “I only have a few things.”

In his truck I find several brown boxes full of exceptionally large food items. It looks as if he’s just stopping en route to aiding in a disaster zone. I pick up the first box in both arms. It’s heavier than it looks. I lug it into the kitchen, setting it down on the counter. When I get back with the second box, my arms are sore. Mom’s already busy unpacking. Catching my breath, I reach out and grab the first item I see: six glass jars of capers wrapped in cellophane.

“Whoa, what’s with all the capers?”

“What do you mean?” asks Dad. “Capers are great.”

“Right,” I say. “But do we need quite so many?”

“Well, that’s how they come at Costco. Don’t worry, we’ll eat them.”

“Wait a sec,” I say, picking up another one of Dad’s purchases. “Are you guys starting a deli or something?” I’m holding an industrial-size plastic bag full of focaccia buns. It looks like one of those clear garbage bags full of unwanted day-olds that a bakery leaves in the back alley. There must be forty buns inside.

“Wonderful,” says Dad, walking back into the kitchen. “You found the buns. Those make the best sandwiches.”

“But do we need all of them?” I ask. “It’s only the three of us here, isn’t it?”

“Well, I got the whole bag for sixteen dollars, so . . .”

I look at the bag again.

“And I’ll just freeze what we don’t eat,” says Mom.

When I spot the four-litre jar of cocktail olives stuffed with red pimento, I can’t resist making a suggestion. “So — I’m just thinking out loud here — but what about going to the normal grocery store?”

“Didn’t you see the olives I got?” asks Dad.

“It’s hard to miss, Dad.”

“Well, I got that jar for eight dollars. At the normal grocery store, who knows how expensive it would’ve been.”

“How about a snack before dinner?” asks Mom.

“Yeah, I could nibble on something,” Dad replies.

“Okay,” says Mom. “Hmm, how about some olives?”

It’s after eight and the summer sun is riding low on the horizon. The sky is a deep red. Even at this hour the late-July heat is convincing. I’m standing on the verandah drinking a beer with Dad. Three steaks are sizzling beside us on the grill. Mom found them in the bottom of the box freezer when she was putting away the groceries.

“We’ll have these tonight,” she said, holding them up on display. “I have some fresh veggies from the garden that’ll go perfectly with them.”

I’ve been given the task of barbecuing the meat.

“They’re looking tasty,” says Dad, peering over my shoulder. “I think they’re probably ready.”

“Well, I don’t like them too bloody.”

“Trust me, a good steak should be rare,” says Dad matter-of-factly. “But I don’t want to step on your toes, bud.”

It’s closer to nine when we sit to eat. The porch windows are open, and with the breeze I can finally feel an appreciable drop in the temperature. The sun is gone. I look down at my full plate of meat, potatoes, and garden vegetables. I take a deep breath and dig in.

“Pretty good,” says Dad, holding a piece of pink steak up to the candle. “A little overdone maybe.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Mom, meeting Dad’s piece with her own. “I like it this way.”

“Well, we do eat well,” says Dad.

“We certainly do,” agrees Mom. “We’re just plain lucky.”

We talk persistently throughout the meal, but of nothing significant. Mostly about the humidity, how much the grass has been growing, the animals, even about the vegetable garden and how it’s flourishing in its new spot by the barn. The smell of Mom’s peach crumble greets us on the porch before we’re ready for it.

“Oh, listen, guys,” says Mom. “I just realized the music has stopped. Could you run in and start it again, Iain? You’ll probably have to shake the cord.”

“Or try blowing on the inside,” adds Dad.

I have to use both techniques simultaneously before I get it working.

“Bing sure is easy to listen to,” says Mom, as his whistling picks up again.

When I return to the table, the candles are almost completely melted down. Mom’s cutting the last of her meat into smaller pieces.

“Here,” she says, “you guys can share this. It was so good, but I must admit I’m starting to feel a little full.”

Dad receives his share on his plate nonchalantly. “Well,” he says, “any ideas for tomorrow? Do we have any ribs in the freezer? I’m a sucker for ribs . . . well, ribs and bacon.”

“I’m more of a sucker for soup,” says Mom. “And cheeses. I love all different cheeses.”

As my parents volley their culinary weaknesses back and forth like a shuttlecock, the music from the old CD player moves along freely and faithfully. “I almost forgot,” says Mom. “I found another one of your notes sitting beside the bathroom sink this morning.” There’s a crumpled piece of paper sitting next to my plate that wasn’t there before. “I almost threw it out by mistake.”

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been jotting down notes on anything of significance I want to tell my pal Bob when I get back to Toronto. Because I usually just scribble these passing thoughts onto any old piece of scrap paper, Mom’s been finding them all over the house. She dutifully returns them to me whenever they end up in her possession.

I wonder what my friends in Toronto are doing tonight. I haven’t talked to them for a while. Actually, it’s probably been more than a month. There’s been no updating of any kind, no emails or phone calls. Even in this era of social networking, when it’s so easy to stay connected, I’ve lost touch. Maybe it’s for the best.

I watch my parents as they finish their meal, then look down at the scrawled note Mom’s just returned to me.
Iain — do not forget about Marshall’s big balls!
I fold the note three times and slip it meekly into my pocket.

Four

La Vie en Rose

I
'
M NOT SURE EXACTLY HOW THE TOPIC
of the barn comes up. I certainly haven’t mentioned it. It comes about errantly one night at supper, while I’m pondering Mom and Dad’s differing methods of corn consumption. Dad, using the more traditional typewriter technique, eats one line along the cob before turning it, while Mom opts for the rotisserie method, eating while turning.

“You know,” says Dad, “the barn hasn’t been cleaned out for a long time.”

I haven’t shovelled manure in years. Not since high school. Growing up, I had transposed many barns’ worth of packed animal feces, likely enough to fill an Olympic swimming pool or two. Digging out the sheep barn sometime in late August was an annual custom on the farm. Every couple of years this undesirable task would fall to my brother, Jimmy, and me. We would comply resentfully. The dimensions of the barn are large enough to amass a sizeable collection of sheep droppings but not quite big enough for a tractor or backhoe to enter, so the cleanout had to be done manually, with a couple of shovels, a pickaxe, and a wheelbarrow. We would dump each barrel-load onto the expanding pile behind the barn. Family and friends would then descend upon the nutrient-filled manure and fill bags and buckets with it to use as fertilizer. And then the cycle would begin again the next summer.

As we grew up and left home, the sheep barn was dug out less and less frequently. It’s hot, demanding work, a chore best suited for two teenagers with energy to burn. And it’s a job that, if pushed, you can put off for several years at a time. It just means that with each passing year the barn’s floor rises in a slow, incessant tide of decaying shit.

“Are you sure?” questions Mom, wiping butter from her fingers with the edge of her napkin. “Didn’t we hire the O’Bryant kids to do it a few times?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous then; it should be done this year.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the O’Bryant kids wouldn’t mind coming up for a little extra pocket change,” I add.

Dad drops his naked cob onto his plate. Mom glares at me. “All the O’Bryant kids are long gone. In fact, David just graduated with a degree in music and his band’s doing quite well. I cut out an article in the paper about them to show you last week.”

I can still remember babysitting the O’Bryants when I was twelve.

“We don’t need the O’Bryants,” reckons Dad. “We could do it. The three of us. It might be fun.”

“It’s great exercise too,” says Mom.

“That’s a great idea. But we don’t even know if Iain’s going to be around for much longer.”

My weekly review had been a moderate success but it was rooted in summer, when listeners are looking for books to peruse at the cottage or on vacation. I’d just finished my last one the week prior. It ended as it had started, with little fanfare.

After my last review, one of the producers approached me as I was leaving the studio. She asked if I was going back to Toronto. I told her I wasn’t really sure. Then she asked if I would be interested in covering for another producer who would be away. They would need me to start the first week of September. I would be a casual employee and would be offered other shifts as they arose.

I’ve never done any producing or real journalistic work before, and for a moment I thought about declining and heading back to Toronto. Considering my other options for employment either here or in Toronto — none — there was a certain degree of temptation. Then she told me my title would be associate producer, and that pretty much clinched it.

I did follow up with a few questions. Did associate producers receive benefits? “Not casual ones,” she said. Not that I planned on it, but I was curious to know if associate producers had paid sick days. “Typically not,” she answered, looking at her watch. I didn’t know what else to ask so I said, “Okay, I’ll try being an associate producer.”

Armed with my new title, I decided half-heartedly to check apartment listings online. While a part of me had welcomed my summer-long retreat from urban gatherings, another part was skeptical about such extreme solitude. When you’re in your late twenties, I don’t think it’s considered optimal for your best friend to be a nocturnal farm dog named Titan. In Toronto I would spend a few nights a week with friends. At the farm those friends had been replaced by animals. So if I started making more money, I thought it might make sense to leave the farm and move in with some people my own age.

I drove into the city to see a place, a modern basement apartment with stainless steel appliances but devoid of natural light. Turns out I’d be sharing it with a young professional couple, their mountain bikes, their caffeine-free energy drinks, and their penchant for reality TV. I stood in the doorway as they waited for a commercial break before showing me around the place. It was unnaturally ordered and tidy, and it smelled of citrus. “No smoking,” they stressed several times. They were both allergic to second-hand smoke. “And we don’t really drink or anything, either.”

I thanked them and left. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself anyway. Working spot-shifts would provide only a modest income, and all the apartments downtown were pricey — by my standards anyway — even the shared basements. And after that first and only visit to see an apartment, I decided socializing was overrated too.

Still, I haven’t broached the topic of prolonging my stay on the farm with Mom and Dad. It will ultimately be up to them. As I pick corn from my teeth, I figure it’s a good time to feel them out. “So I think I’ll be here for a bit longer, around the farm, if that’s okay with you guys. And I’m happy to help out with anything, you know, as my contribution.”

“Of course,” says Mom. “We really didn’t expect you’d be leaving this soon anyway. Who’d ever want to leave Lilac Hill?”

Dad is peppering his second cob. “It’s probably for the best, bud. That barn really needs a good cleanout.”

In the next few days Dad’s barn-refurbishing plan takes off. There is no possibility of avoidance or disruption. No delays or rain checks. The dig will start tomorrow.

After supper I go upstairs and lie down on the bed. I’m trying to recall more details about my past manure-digging experiences. I can remember the mini-assembly-line system my brother implemented to maximize our efficiency, and the way he was always able to use some form of circular logic or Socratic dialogue to dupe me into doing the worst parts of the job. I can remember the reversible basketball tank tops we wore as we worked, which we would inevitably remove a few hours into our shift and tie around our heads to keep the flies away. But I’m drawing a blank on all the stuff that concerns me now. Is it taxing work? Is there heavy lifting involved? How hot does the barn get? Do the sheep get in the way? Can Mom pick up a shovel? Does it smell? I think it has to smell.

I’ve been reminded of the health benefits for us, the labourers, by Mom and Dad, but more critically for the sheep. The sheep are going to love it.

I hear the familiar melody about twenty feet from the barn. There’s no mistaking that powerful feminine voice. I lower my head and slow my pace. The only rule we’ve ever had for digging out the barn concerns the soundtrack. The first person in the barn gets to pick the music. That’s it — that’s the only rule. My brother and I had similar tastes in music, so regardless of who got there first, the chances were good we’d be digging to Digital Underground or The Band. From the sounds of it, Dad was first in the barn today. He’s decided, enchantingly, that we’ll be digging to French love songs. It’s not that I don’t love Edith Piaf. I do. She’s great. I’m just not convinced she’s best suited to keep me motivated while I dig out eight-year-old shit.

The temperature outside is uncomfortably hot; inside the barn it’s stifling. The air greets me heavily, obnoxiously, like a foul hug. Flies are buzzing around Mom and Dad’s heads in sparse clouds. They’re both wearing white T-shirts (Mom’s has a picture of a border collie, Dad’s reads “Oxford University” across the front), knee-length shorts, and wide-brimmed safari hats. Mom and Dad have been productive. They’ve already removed about two square feet of manure from the north side of the barn.

“We left the pickaxe for you, bud,” says Dad, holding it out for me like a souvenir. “Be careful; it’s heavier than it looks.”

He’s right. I’d forgotten its impressive weight. The top layer of manure has been compressed by the herd into a hard crust. It needs to be broken up. It takes several blows with the pickaxe to loosen. When it’s cracked and peeled back, a different smell, one equally pungent but much richer, earthier, is released. Now I remember. The smells in the barn are unsympathetically kaleidoscopic. Sweat is already running down my forehead and into my eyes. It stings.

Mom and Dad are unfazed. They work serenely. They haven’t mentioned any of the things I’m focusing on: the heat or the smells or the flies or how the skin on the palms of my hands is starting to peel and blister. I should have worn gloves. They chat impulsively, cheerily as they dig. By noon the sheep have returned from pasture, gathering at the entrance. We’ve invaded their space but they haven’t come as agitators, only observers. They watch us with crafty, inquiring eyes. They aren’t hostile; instead they are calm, like granite.

For lunch we break outside the barn. Mom unwraps a peanut butter and banana sandwich and an apple for each of us. I eat the apple first and toss the core to the chickens. The sandwich tastes better than peanut butter and banana usually tastes, the way all food does after strenuous work.

It’s easy to lose track of time in the barn. I’ve put off checking my watch for as long as I can and try desperately to underestimate how long it’s been since the last check. I tell myself I’ve been digging for only forty minutes since the last time-check, secretly assured that it’s been at least an hour. Then I look: thirty minutes. The disappointment burns worse than the sweat in my eyes. Dad, on the other hand, is checking his watch every five minutes.

After supper I’m tired and dehydrated. I lie on the couch, flipping aimlessly through the channels, drinking bottles of beer. I swiftly empty three and fall asleep with the baseball game on. It’s late when I wake with a dry mouth and a headache. The TV has been turned off. I stumble to my room and topple face down on my bed. Within seconds I’m asleep.

The next morning, despite my hangover, I’m up early. I’m hoping to get a few hours of digging in before the heat becomes unbearable. Yesterday the worst hours were after lunch, when the afternoon sun made a sauna of the barn. I kept waiting for the sheep to walk in wearing flip-flops and with towels cinched around their waists. I must have spent close to eight hours in there, five during this undesirable period. Night digging is out of the question because the sheep are back inside by then. So morning — the earlier the better — is the time to dig.

I spend several valuable minutes searching for my work shorts. I have only one pair. I’d eagerly walked out of them yesterday as soon as I got back to the house, and left them on the laundry room floor. I’m standing in the laundry room now. They aren’t here.

I detect some rustling upstairs. It must be Mom in the bathroom. I call up to her. “Hey, Mom, you haven’t seen my work shorts, have you?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Well, they were on the floor last night and now they’re gone.”

“Which floor?’

“I don’t know; I guess the laundry room.”

“Oh, well then, they’ve been washed.”

“What?”

“I must have washed them last night.”

“So you have seen them?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Can I get into them?”

“No, I’m sure they’re still soaked. Shouldn’t take too long for them to dry today, though. It looks lovely out there. It still feels like the middle of summer.”

I’m back upstairs now, burrowing peevishly in the back of my closet. I need to find something, anything. I don’t have an extensive wardrobe to begin with, so my options are limited. I can’t wear either of my two pairs of everyday shorts, because they will end up stained with sweat and manure. It’s too hot for long pants of any kind. Even cotton sweatpants or ripped jeans would be unmanageably warm.

Dad’s already outside getting started in the barn. How did he get up so early? Mom’s proceeding from window to window, humming, closing them shut and pulling down the blinds. We open the windows before we go to bed to let the cool breeze flow through the house. But without air conditioning, the house, like the barn, heats up quickly during the day. It’s already getting muggy in here. I can feel everything — the house, the land, my body — growing hotter by the minute. I can even feel my heart beating in my head. I wanted to be outside an hour ago. There must be something for me to wear.

“Have you checked your sister’s closet?” calls Mom from her perch on the hall windowsill. She’s still fussing with one of the blinds. “I think she left a box of her old clothes in there.” Mom jumps down, saying she’ll see me in the barn.

I haven’t been in my sister’s room, not once, since returning home. To keep the cats out the door is always left closed, and until now I’ve had no reason to go in. Nothing has changed. I move past her dusty awards collection from high school and her neatly arranged bookcase towards the closet. I open the closet door and see them sitting on top of a pile of old clothes: my sister’s old Hawaiian shorts. They’re baby blue and marked with white stylized flowery blossoms. There’s a white drawstring in the front and two pockets painted on the bum. And the bastards are short — skanky short.