One Bird's Choice (10 page)

“My help?”

“Sure. I’d do it, but I’m clearly not going to be much of a help with taggin’.”

I take a step back, bringing my hand up to my chest. “What’s Dad doing to our sheep?”

“Taggin’ them.” The ridiculous phrase sinks in after she says it for the third time, sounding out each word carefully. Mom buckles over in a fit of laughter. She covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my . . . tagging the girls . . .”

When her laughter subsides, she explains that Dad is giving the sheep their ear tags.

“Do you need any more herb help?” I ask.

“No, it’s just the parsley left. You can go help Dad,” Mom says, giggling again. “I can handle the lonely parsley.”

I find Dad standing over one of the sheep. He’s holding one with his hip against the barn wall and has his ear-piercing contraption in his right hand. I don’t say anything but watch from the door as he brings the instrument up to her ear, steadies it, and squeezes down. He backs away and the ewe runs to the other side of the barn with her new ear tag.

Dad’s tagging the sheep because it’s required by law if they are taken off the property. Each tag has a number on it to keep the animals in order. That’s why Marshall’s our only sheep with a proper name. He’s the only permanent resident; the rest are just numbers. This system is clearly meant for larger farms that have herds numbering in the hundreds or thousands. We have Marshall and eight permanent ewes, and we take only a few lambs away in the truck each year, either to slaughter or for sale. As far as I know there’s no plan to take any others off the property, but still Dad complies.

“Need a hand?” I ask.

Dad turns abruptly. “Sure. I only have a couple more to do.”

Dad’s able to catch each one and wrestle and hold it still against the wall. He gets me to load the metal device with the ear tag and pass it to him when he’s ready. I don’t feel like much of a help, but still he thanks me when we’re done.

“Do you think those ear tags hurt the sheep?” I ask.

“No. It probably hurts my back a lot more.”

“You need any more help?”

“I’m just going to check on the ducks. You can go on in.”

Dinner won’t be ready for another few minutes, and since I haven’t been outside much in the last couple of weeks, I take my time making my way back to the house. I pass by the magnolia tree Dad planted around the time I moved home. It still isn’t looking too dapper. I run my hand along one of the thin branches. It feels almost hollow, and it looks the same as it did when I first saw it — skinny, frail, delicate, and free of any blooms or leaves. It’s a brown skeleton.

On my way into town I’m listening to the AM oldies station. I’m driving fast, weaving in and out of traffic. I have the volume jacked up and I’m drumming my index fingers on the wheel, using the dashboard as my hi-hat. I’m singing along with the Carpenters and don’t notice the police cruiser parked along the side of the highway until it’s too late. I step on the brake and reassert my grip at ten and two. I even regulate my posture, as if sitting up straighter might garner some sympathy from the cop. I keep checking the rear-view mirror, but he never pulls out to follow me. Maybe it’s a good omen.
Must be my lucky night
, I think.

When I get to the pub, Steve is waiting for me. He’s ordered two pints and has made it through an inch or so of his own. I sit down, draping my coat over the back of the chair. We clink our glasses and say, “Cheers.” We chat about common friends, acquaintances, what everyone’s been up to. I’ve fallen out of the loop. I hadn’t realized how many of our old friends are engaged.

“Even Blackwell?” I say.

“Of course Blackwell. They’ve been together forever.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“So how are things at work?” Steve asks.

“Not bad,” I say, taking a swig of beer. “Not great.”

“No?”

“Well, I don’t I know. There’s just not a lot of work to speak of these days.”

“So what have you been up to?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to do a bit of writing.”

We both gulp. “What about you, though?” I ask, hiding a burp behind my hand. “What’s life like for a lawyer?”

“Good,” he says, “but busy. It’s nutty. I’m working like mad.”

Midway through our third round of beers, I notice Steve squinting in the direction of two girls putting on their coats to leave. “Who’re you looking at?” I ask.

“I know the taller one from when I used to go to camp.”

As Steve replays his camp days back in his mind, the tall girl notices him. As she walks to the table I notice she’s even taller than she appeared from across the room, and heavily made up. Her dark hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, except for her bangs, which have been clipped back. She arrives at our table open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

“Steve?! What are you doing here?”

“Just having a drink. How are you doing, Karen?”

“I’m great . . . We were just about to leave, but would you guys mind if I pulled up a chair?”

“Not at all,” says Steve.

“I’m Iain.” I wave.

Karen’s friend can’t be convinced to stay. It’s late and she has breakfast plans in the morning. Karen, undaunted, hugs her friend, pulls up a chair, and orders another glass of red. She immediately starts to tell us about her career, but staying focused on her sermon is impossible. I can’t stop staring at the maroon coating caked on her lips. They look like the surface of Mars. I wonder how many glasses she’s had. Five? Seven? She’s not drunk, but she’s definitely not sober. She’s lurching unsteadily along that line between the two.

Karen is a nurse. She’s been working at it for a couple of years now. And she really, really loves it. She spends her days helping people — how could she not like it?! But she hates that the clinic she works at has a reputation for caring only for rich people. But she really, really loves being a nurse. Karen releases only a handful of trusted words from her stable (
literally
,
amazing
, and
seriously
are three of her favourites) but she’s still remarkably prolix, pausing only to sip from her glass.

“So, Steven, last I heard you had just, like, graduated from law school. What firm are you at?”

Steve tells her the name of the law firm he works at. He’s told her twice already. I listen to a third description of his firm. I’m sitting on my hands, my legs bouncing. “That’s great, it’s really great,” she’s saying, and then turns her wobbly gaze to me. “What is it you do again?”

“Me? Oh, not too much,” I offer.

“I don’t care if you’re not a lawyer. Seriously, it doesn’t matter.”

I’m not sure what to say and think about making something up. I don’t want to say I’m an associate producer anymore. It requires too much explanation. I don’t want to explain how I’ve worked only one shift this week. I don’t want to say I’m a journalist. Journalists work more than once a week. So I tell her I’m a farmer, that I keep sheep, chickens, ducks, and cats. Steve chokes on his beer. Karen’s eyes are glassy and remind me of very tiny, shallow swimming pools.

“A real farmer. So do you, like, farm
and
kill your animals too?”

“Not me personally, but we do eat our own meat.”

“No, I think that’s totally fine. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

“So, like, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No.”

“But seriously, that’s great? Seriously. And, like, do you like that?”

“Yeah, I enjoy it.”

We all sip from our glasses.

“But Iain’s also into writing,” says Steve.

“Writing? Oh, really? What kind of writing?”

“Well, nothing too exciting, mostly just little stories or essays —”

“Do you write much for papers or magazines?”

“No.”

“Well, there are so many writers out there. My idea is that someone needs to write a book about writing, like a guidebook . . . for writers . . . about writing . . . by a writer.”

“Interesting.”

“You should do it; it would sell.”

“True.”

“Sometimes I just feel ashamed that I work at the clinic I work at. Everyone always thinks it’s the fancy one, and then I feel like I have to justify it. But I shouldn’t have to. My patients need me where I am, just as much as they would at any other clinic. Poor, rich — patients are patients. I literally hate having to justify it, but I feel like I do. And I literally love the work.”

Steve and I nod in unison.

“I’ve also spent a week each summer the last couple of years working at a camp for developmentally challenged kids. And it’s amazing. They are so amazing. And it literally feels so amazing to know you’ve changed their lives for the good.”

“Would you ever consider doing that type of work full time?” wonders Steve.

“No, it’s always hard at the end of the week when they leave and, well, you know, go back to their lives, which are basically, like, hopeless.”

Steve and I look at each other. Karen looks at Steve and then at me.

“Now, what is it that you do again?”

It feels like we’ve been listening to Karen all night, all the next day, and all night again. It’s probably been more like twenty or thirty minutes. The pub has grown busier, and thus warmer and louder. Everyone has raised their voices a notch or two. Not Karen. She hasn’t noticed. I have to concentrate to make out her words. As I do I can’t help but wonder what’s going on back at Little Blue. Little Miss must be basking in the rare spell of privacy.

There’s a burst of loud, excessive laughter from two tables over. Another group has ordered a couple of plates of fries for the table. At least I think that’s what they’re eating. It smells like fries and vinegar.

“So, do you live out there with your partner?” asks Karen.

“No.”

“You’re not married yet?”

“Nope.”

“So you’re out there alone?”

“No.”

“Who do you live with then? Girlfriend?”

“No. No girlfriend.”

“Who?’

“Um, my parents; it’s actually their farm.”

“Your parents?! Really, well, that’s okay. Who cares? You aren’t
that
old. It doesn’t matter. Do you guys get along?”

“No, we hate each other.”

“That’s great. I love my parents. We get along really well too. We’re really close. They’re getting old though. It’s kinda scary but totally cute.”

“Definitely.”

Steve pushes his chair back and rises abruptly. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back. Just have to use the facilities.”

In this moment I loathe Steve with a murderous passion. I want to grab his arm and force him back down in his seat. Pee in a pint glass or use my toque, just don’t leave me! Karen and I sit, sipping our drinks continuously. Her sips are generous and unselfconscious. Mine are trivial and nervous.

“Okay, mister,” she says, “now tell me more. What else don’t I know about you?”

I am a deer in the headlights. I am a child being caught with a stolen cookie in his coat pocket. I’m an old, white-haired man falling asleep on the couch after supper. I’m at a loss. “Well,” I offer, “there’s my name. My name is spelled differently. I spell Iain with two I’s.”

Karen downs the last of her wine and sets her empty glass down firmly on the table. “Oh, who cares, though? I don’t think that matters at all. Who cares?” She tilts her head to the right and leans in a little closer, close enough that I can smell her Merlot-infused breath. And she places her hand softly, sympathetically atop mine. “Some things are just messed up. I-A-I-N, huh? Yeah, it is weird, but in a good way.”

Karen’s right. Some things are messed up. When I first came back home, I was returning temporarily, to present a book review. That turned into more work: journalism. That seems to have been a short run too. I’m starting to feel as if I’m in a giant game of snakes and ladders, only the board I’m playing on seems devoid of ladders. On my board there are only snakes.

Instead of a third pint, my next round comes in the form of syrupy fountain pop. I’ve decided not to crash at Steve’s as we’d planned. It was Karen who’d mentioned the storm that’s forecast for morning. Steve confirmed that snow and high winds are supposed to start sometime before dawn. Without proper snow tires, there’s no reason to chance it. My car and the inclement weather are on unfriendly terms. I should drive back tonight while it’s still clear. That means no more beer.

So while my tablemates become a little drunker, I become a little more sober. I pan from Karen to Steve and back to Karen. I zoom in close, watching their mouths move, forming words and laughter. I’m saying less than before, my contributions devolving into mere nods. I stab at the ice and extract my Coke through a straw.

After we finish our drinks, Steve offers to pay the bill. Karen doesn’t let him pay for her. I let him pay for me. We all pull on our coats and shuffle outside. For a moment we stand awkwardly along the lines of an invisible isosceles triangle.