One Bird's Choice (11 page)

“Well, it was great to see you, Steve,” Karen says, tilting her head back to zip up her jacket, “because it’s been too long.” They hug and Karen stumbles off towards “a slice of veggie ’za!”

My car is in the opposite direction, as is Steve’s apartment, so we walk together.

“You sure you don’t want to crash?” he asks when we reach my car. “You’re welcome to the guest bed.”

“Nah, thanks, man. I should get home. Don’t want to be on the roads in the morning.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thanks for the beers, though,” I say. “And the Coke.”

“No worries. Maybe we can meet up again next weekend?’

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Alright, see you.”

“Later.”

I unlock my door, get in, and twist the key in the ignition. The radio blares on. I immediately turn it off. As I wait for the engine to warm, I watch Steve walk along the sidewalk ahead of me, his hands tucked into his pockets.

About forty minutes later I’ve left the city and have exited the main highway. I’m back on a deserted country road. There are no pedestrians this far out, no store signs or building lights or gas stations, not even streetlights. There must be clouds in the sky, because the moon and stars, usually brighter out here, have been given the night off. I’m the last car on the road.

I flip the headlights off and am consumed by the darkness around me, swallowed up in a single bite. It feels as if I’m driving with my eyes closed. It’s snowing now. The days aren’t just getting colder but shorter too, and the nights longer. There will be less daylight tomorrow than there was today. And there will be even less the day after that.

Winter

Eight

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

W
ITH DECEMBER PLAYING HOST
, winter has arrived, settling in unapologetically. The cats have primarily moved inside. They still enjoy the odd sniff of the outdoors but only for a few minutes at a time. With four cats you can easily get stuck in the inflaming cycle of opening and closing the door for them. They exit and enter at various times, and a whoosh of frigid air scurries in with them.

Right now it’s Harry Snugs who’s outside, clinging to the screen by all four sets of claws. He looks like one of those spread-eagled fuzzy cat ornaments that people stick to their car windows with suction cups. I’m sitting in the rocking chair watching him, shaking my head and frowning because I let him out only four minutes ago. I’ll get up and let him in soon. I just want Harry Snugs to know that I was not put on this earth to be his personal doorman.

Last year we had one of those rare green Christmases at the farm. I was home for only four or five days. My brother and I spent the afternoon of Christmas Eve in shorts, tossing a Frisbee in the front orchard. Not this year. We’ve already had several days of flurries and a heavy storm; a traditional white Christmas is a certainty. Mom’s thrilled.

I’d forgotten how unarmed the old walls of the farmhouse are against the winter wind. Apart from the four-foot radius directly surrounding the woodstove, the house has become bitterly cold. The reality of the season has struck me with a second actuality: I’ve officially lost the only official title I’ve ever held. I’m no longer an associate producer, or a journalist of any kind. At least I don’t think I am. Nothing has been stated formally, but I haven’t been offered any more shifts in the new year. The producer I originally covered for has been back for several weeks. That really did it. It’s as if I were playing a game of musical chairs all fall, and now the music has stopped and all the chairs are full.

So this year I’m uncertain how long my Christmas break will extend. I have no commitments in January. None in February. I haven’t been asked about my availability. I wasn’t told “See you in the new year” as I walked out after my last unmemorable shift. If I had a business card printed up right now, I suppose to be accurate it would say iain reid: feline porter. Maybe I could get a small cat-paw print in one of the corners.

I get up from the rocking chair and straighten my shoulders, holding my sweater together at the front as I open the door. Harry Snugs sprints by me without acknowledgement and heads for the kitchen and his bowl of kibble.

Christmas is a mere three weeks away, and there’s only one week left before my sister, Jean; her stepdaughter, Loa; her husband, Johannes; and their new baby, George, arrive from Iceland. It’s not that I’ve committed their itinerary to heart or have their arrival date marked on my calendar — Mom’s been doing that for me. Whenever any version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” starts playing, Mom stops what she’s doing and reminds me (and Dad if he’s around) when everyone’s arriving. “I’m getting so excited,” she says, running over to turn up the volume a notch or two and snapping her fingers. “Only one day and one week until a full house again.” Dad and I look at each other, raise our eyebrows, and go back to whatever it is we’re eating or reading.

For the past few days Mom and Dad have been busy preparing the house, stocking up on food and gifts. In almost thirty years I’ve never known Dad to be careless when it comes to his own purchases, even at Christmas. He rarely buys anything for himself, and when he does — even if it’s just a book or tie — he deliberates over the purchase for anywhere from a week to a decade or so. So I’m agog when Dad announces he’s bought himself an early Christmas present.

He doesn’t seem overly excited about his news. “Come here, it’s in my study. I suppose I better show you.” His tone suggests he’s bought himself a gift certificate for a colonoscopy.

I follow him into his study. The walls are lined with old books, and only the brass desk lamp with the green shade is lighting the room. Dad passes over a small black backpack he’s just pulled from a plastic bag. I take it from him.

“Do you really think you should be spoiling yourself like this, Dad?”

“I don’t know. I just thought maybe it would be easier to carry my computer and papers. Although I’m still not sure.”

“It probably will be. And that briefcase of yours is ancient; it was time for something new.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what it all means, me walking around the university wearing a backpack.” He’s talking as if
backpack
is a synonym for
prom dress
.

“Have you tried it out yet?”

“No. I have to go collect some essays on Thursday. I’ll try it out then.”

“It’ll be a big day for you.”

“Well, we’ll see if I can go through with it.”

“You know, Dad, it’s almost apocalyptic.”

“You’re right,” he says. “It surely is.”

“Good King Wenceslas” has come on again. It’s the third time I’ve heard it today. I get it — everything is deep and crisp and even. We’re sitting around the living room when the conversation turns to a recurring topic: whether it’s time for Mom to finally get herself a computer. I’m reading the paper, munching on a handful of holiday snacking nuts, listening idly to Mom and Dad’s conversation.

“I’m just not sure I want to get into that whole realm.” The realm Mom’s referring to is that of the Internet and email.

“I know,” says Dad, “but you won’t be able to hold out forever.” He’s flipping through a glossy catalogue, calling Mom over whenever he comes across a good deal.

“That’s true,” answers Mom, peering over his shoulder, “but I was hoping to keep putting it off.”

“But now’s the time.”

“Why?”

“Because there are some good Christmas deals. But more important, because Iain’s still around. He can show you how to use it.”

I choke on a roasted chestnut before spitting it into my hand. I’ve seen Mom struggle with electronics before. Teaching her to use a computer is about as appealing as finding myself under the mistletoe with a lovesick Lucius. Mom’s just not a computer type, the same way Dad avoids the dance floor at weddings. In fact, she’s never even used one. For her it’s not just a big step but an entire staircase — a long, steep spiral staircase.

“That’s true. Iain seems to know computers well,” says Mom.

“I bet it’ll be fun,” says Dad. “Now he can pay you back for teaching him to ride a bike.”

It’s true. Mom did teach me how to ride a bike. But unlike most who learn, I wasn’t four or five or even six. Mom waited until I was thirteen before teaching me. It was, unfortunately, the same summer as my biggest growth spurt. I was undeniably gawky at six feet tall and was just starting to experience the unflattering kiss of acne. Mom drove me to a busy park in the heart of the city. It was there that she ran along beside her gangly teenage son, supporting his back with one hand and holding the seat of the rusty bike with the other. She kept me in the park until after dark that night, yelling encouragement through fall after fall. Our comedic display brought about groups of hecklers, and they too were unwavering. But today I can ride a bike, and I suppose I owe her for that. Still, I’m not ready to give in without a fight.

“What’s the rush?” I plead. “It can waste a lot of time. Are you sure you’re ready for email, Mom?”

“If I was any older I probably wouldn’t bother, but —”

“Well, you’re already in your sixties, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken. So it’s understandable if you never learn . . . plus it’s going to be busy the next few weeks, with everyone coming home for Christmas.”

“That’s just it. She has the motivation to learn,” says Dad, putting a hand on Mom’s knee, “now that she’s a grandma.”

“I know, you’re absolutely right. But I’m still a little torn. There are so many things to waste time on already,” says Mom.

A week or two later a box with the blue Dell logo stamped on the side arrives at the farm. I walk into the kitchen knowing that my afternoon is ruined. The sight of Mom’s new computer has hit me like a kick in the groin.

“Hey, Mom —”

She raises her hand in response. “Just a sec, I’m listening to this story on the radio.”

I wait until the reporter has signed off before asking her to clarify. “What was that all about?”

“It’s just awful,” she says. “Some guy froze his mom’s body after she died so he could keep cashing her monthly pension cheques. Talk about sick. What a story to hear around the holidays.”

“Pretty weird,” I agree. “Although in fairness, didn’t you freeze Tramp in the freezer for, like, a year after he died?”

Tramp was our beloved family dog, the smartest, friendliest, proudest animal I’ve ever encountered. After he died at the ripe age of fourteen, Mom and Dad kept him buried in the box freezer, waiting for the weather to change so they could cremate him on a specially constructed bonfire and bury the ashes on the hill where he used to lie. Theoretically I understood the plan, but Tramp stayed in the freezer for more than seven months.

“That’s different; the weather stayed cold later than usual that year. Besides, I wasn’t cashing any cheques on Tramp’s behalf.”

“No, but he was my best friend growing up — and I found his rigid body wrapped in blankets and a pillowcase when I went to get an ice-cream sandwich.”

“Poor Trampy, he was such a great dog,” Mom says. “You know, after all this, I don’t feel like getting started on that computer anymore. And I was so excited this morning. I need to be motivated.”

“Well, why did you keep listening to that ridiculous story? You hushed me when I came in.”

“I know. But you know me: once I start listening I can’t stop.”

It takes me more than an hour to convince Mom we should start her first tutorial. I could have kept her going down the opposite path, which I seriously considered, talking about frozen mothers and frozen pets, knowing these images would put her in a sour mood, leaving her with no energy or incentive to start on the computer. But as much as I’m dreading it — and I am — I know that the longer we put it off, the more it will dominate my thoughts. I’m going with the old-fashioned Band-Aid approach: let’s just close our eyes and rip the damn thing off, as quickly and painlessly as possible. Still, this isn’t going to be a jaunt; it’s going to be a journey. I set a full pot of coffee to brew.

First I show Mom how to turn the computer on. She does so without incident. A better start than I’d anticipated.

“Okay,” I say, “now try moving the cursor to the top icon.”

“Perfect,” she replies. “What’s the cursor?”

“Right,” I say. “I didn’t mean to move so . . . fast. The cursor is that little arrow. Just imagine it as an extension of your hand.”

“They should make it a little finger, then, not some arrow. One small index finger would do the trick. It would be much clearer.”

“Well, the arrow isn’t all that murky, Mom. Everyone has already kinda agreed on it.”

“I’m just saying, a finger would be better . . .” She holds a single straight finger up beside the computer.

“
Anyway
, try moving the arrow to that top icon that says ‘My Documents.’”

“You got it,” she says.

I watch the screen intently but nothing happens. The cursor remains painfully static. I do, however, sense a flurry of activity beside me. I turn to see Mom staring at the screen, holding the mouse up off the table and moving it around in tiny clockwise circles like a maestro gripping a baton.

“The arrow isn’t moving,” she says, biting her lip in concentration. “It’s not going up . . . it’s not going anywhere.”

It takes some time, but I finally get Mom to understand the physical limitations of her computer. With extreme trepidation we wade into the waters of the Internet. I get her to open a web browser. “Just double-click on the icon there, the one that says ‘Firefox.’”

She’s not graceful with the mouse but is eventually able to land the arrow overtop the icon and methodically execute a shaky double-click.

“Now what?” she asks, brushing some hair off her forehead.

“We might as well get you an email address. What do you want it to be?”

Mom rests her hand on her chin. “I’ve got it,” she says. “I love the big bear.” The bear she’s referring to is Dad. A charming idea, sure, but completely unrealistic.

“I don’t think that’ll work, Mom. There’s already so many email addresses out there, and remember, you’ll be giving this out to everyone, not just family.”

“Just try it,” she demands.

I do. It’s already taken. So Mom, undaunted, tries again. “How about whistlewhileyouwork?” she says.

“Mom, that’s not going to work either.” But she isn’t listening; instead she’s whistling over my negativity, waving her hands with the tune.

I try it. Whistlewhileyouwork is already taken. We continue this stultifying dance, going back and forth for half an hour. She insists I try each suggestion. Pumpkinismycat. Attitudeiseverything. Thepeterpanfan. Each one is rejected. Then mercifully we land on one that’s available, and Mom settles reluctantly on it. “I guess it’ll have to do for now,” she says. “It’s not as good as the others, but it was my nickname in elementary school, so I can remember it.”