One Bird's Choice (19 page)

“Maybe he dropped something on the driveway,” says Mom. “By the way, I read that the rain’s supposed to continue all week; the umbrellas are by the side door if you need one. I even dug out the more masculine one for you, so it’s there as well.”

“I thought so,” Dad announces, stepping back into the car, fastening his seatbelt. “The red-winged blackbirds have arrived. First time I’ve seen them this year. There were about four of them by the hanging feeders.” He removes his glasses and wipes off the rain with his shirt.

“That’s so exciting,” says Mom, turning in her seat. “I knew I could hear more birds this morning.”

As we drive away I’m adjusting the radio, hoping to find some traffic reports. Dad turns, pointing back at the house and the birds. Mom joins him, on her knees, peering out of the window.

When I return from the airport, the house is still and quiet. All the animals, even the cats, are outside. A nice book seems appropriate. I doubt you could find more suitable conditions for reading. I hope to do a lot of it. I discover that Dad has set one aside for me; he’s left it by my computer. It’s E. B. White’s collection of essays,
One Man’s Meat
. I take it to the living room and lie down on the couch, my head resting on a pillow. Dad’s stuck a note to the cover:
Was going to take this on the plane, but Mom and I thought you might like it
.

I open it to the page he’s marked. The essay is entitled “Spring.” It comes with a subheading: “Notes on springtime and on anything else of an intoxicating nature that comes to mind.” It was written in April 1941.

Considering the dramatic shifts of the past seventy-plus years and the ways in which the world has changed, I wonder how many notes regarding daily life written in the spring of 1941 will still be relevant today. I’m able to read only a couple of pages before my eyelids start to slip shut. It was an early morning, and these conditions are also pretty good for napping. But the last lines I read before my eyes close are released from the page, swimming around in my thoughts untethered, until I fall asleep:
The day of days when spring at last holds up her face to be kissed, deliberate and unabashed. On that day no wind blows either in the hills or in the mind, no chill finds the bone. It is a day that can come only in a northern climate, where there has been a long background of frigidity, a long deficiency of sun
.

The next morning is bright and warm. I’m up earlier than usual. My first task is to open a few of the windows that have been shut tight all winter. After my breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, I’m sweeping up some dog fur when I spot the umbrellas hanging by the door. I won’t need one today. The rain has left overnight. One is slightly larger and has a blue background with yellow stars. The other is smaller, compact; it’s maroon with varying breeds of horses and ponies printed on the nylon. I can’t be sure which one Mom has left specifically for me — neither screams masculinity. I grab my wool jacket from underneath the blue umbrella and step into my rubber boots.

Dad was right. The birds are back. This morning it’s not just the red-winged blackbirds that are out but also the finches, chickadees, and blue jays, among others I don’t recognize. They’ve gathered at Dad’s hanging feeders in droves and are singing louder than I remember.

The ground is soft, clay-like, and squishes under my boots. The careless snow has left behind puddles freckled across the yard. The grass is yellow and fledgling. Spring has made smells relevant again. Here at the farm smells become pungent and stale in the heat of the summer, fade with the light in autumn, and are made sterile in the frozen temperatures of winter. They are reborn in spring. I’m immediately presented with a rich cast of scents to choose from, some more appealing than others. The chicken coop, for example, offers an aroma that is equal in strength and vileness. I pull up my jacket over my nose and stay just long enough to collect the freshly laid eggs and pass along my cordial regards to the hens.

I bring the eggs inside for a wash. I’m followed by Titan, who’s followed by Pumpkin. We are a three-creature train. Once inside they flop down together, only inches apart, on Titan’s blanket. Pumpkin purrs his gravelly, laborious purr. Titan exhales lavishly through his nose. Mom swears that the two ageing animals are best friends and that Pumpkin won’t sleep out in the open unless Titan is close by. She says that Pumpkin will sit and meow by the front door if Titan is waiting there, until someone lets his mate in.

They aren’t just lying together now. Pumpkin is spooning his much larger pal.

All day I’ve been finding notes from Mom around the house. Most I skim once, maybe twice, if only to ensure that I understand her thought. But I find one in the fridge worth reading over a few times. It’s stuck to the front of the cheese keeper.
Try not to give Pumpkin any of the Danish blue or Stilton cheese
. . .
Both give him awful gas
. I appreciate how she wrote
try
. The temptation just might be too strong.

Another reminds me that there is a full tank of propane on the barbecue and to use up any of the meat in the freezer. This seems like a good idea. The afternoon has kept the morning’s promise of sun and warmth. I head out to the verandah with a couple of frozen sausages and my book. I don’t just cook on the verandah but stay outside to eat. Afterwards I read in my chair until it gets too dark to see.

Again I wake early from a restful sleep. I carry two buckets of water out to the barn for the sheep. There won’t be many days left of carrying water; it will soon be warm enough to set up the automatic watering system again. A quick head count reveals that one ewe is missing. I find her in the neighbouring barn. She is lying on the ground, exhausted. Beside her is a single lamb.

The lamb is tiny, wet, and shivering. I take a handful of straw and rub along its rib cage and limbs to dry its body and increase circulation. The mother gradually stands and stomps the ground forcefully, telling me she’s got it under control. I drop the straw and step back but continue to watch. The ewe moves in and nudges the lamb with her head, encouraging it to stand. The lamb’s legs look two sizes too big for its body. It takes a few tries before it can successfully get on its feet. Once it does, walking doesn’t seem so hard, and the lamb stumbles around the pen, searching instinctually for its mother’s teat, its long tail wagging furiously.

The rest of the flock are unconcerned about the new arrival. They’re hungry, waiting for breakfast. I fill the metal feeder with their morning provender. They eagerly gather around my legs, pushing to get closer. I cut the twine and take a few minutes to break up the hay. The lambs that were born earlier are still too young to eat hay. They circle the adults, gambolling about. They’re young children chasing one another at a family barbecue, running around the picnic table. They run and jump just for the sake of running and jumping; they have energy to burn. It won’t last much longer, maybe another couple of weeks. The oldest lamb, the one with tiny horns sprouting above his ears, has already outgrown this playful activity and has joined the others pushing about at the feeder. He’s not eating the hay but stands alongside the older sheep.

It’s now, watching the sheep eat, that I recall for the first time a chat I had with my friend Bob in Toronto. It happened right around this time of year. He was telling me that spring doesn’t exist anymore, at least not as a distinct season. “It’s just a few weeks of rain while everyone looks forward to summer.”

Bob is right. I spent the last four years in the city, where spring has lost much of its authority and has been relegated to a backup role, meant only to shepherd winter out through the front door and hold it open for summer. But spring is still a legitimate season at the farm.

From the barn I stroll across the field to the duck pen. I have some bread for the ducks and stale crackers for the chickens and Lucius, if he’s around. The ducks emerge in ordered panic, quacking, waddling out of their hut with renewed interest in the yard. They find the muddy puddle water instantly and dive in like the first beachgoers of the year. I bet the ducks would have left their feathery coats hanging inside if they could. It’s still too cold for the unadventurous hens, though. They’ll wait for another few weeks before venturing out of the coop to dig around in the muck, hoping to unearth unsuspecting worms and bugs. I toss them their crackers along with an apple core for dessert.

I am outside tucking into my own lunch, a tomato and cheese sandwich. Again the rain has stayed away. I haven’t had to call anyone for assistance, not the vet or a neighbour or my brother. Not even Grandma. Nor have I received any calls; no one asking how I’m doing or what I’ve been up to, or if I’m short on money, or if I’m feeling guilty about not working, or if I’m looking for a new job yet, or how I can possibly fill whole days alone at the farm, or why my beard is so long. Apart from pleading with Pumpkin, trying to convince him that we’re out of Danish blue as he stands meowing at the fridge, I’ve barely spoken in three days.

I’ve brought a can of beer outside with me. Dad stocked up Little Blue before they left. It might be a little early, I know, but with the sheep enjoying their hay and the ducks making use of the muddy water, I’m inclined to join in. I lean back, resting my head against the wall of the shed, and crack my beer open. Today’s the first day I haven’t worn my coat outside.

I will be picking up Mom and Dad early tomorrow morning. Their flight lands sometime around 9 a.m. But for now, I’m still alone. Alone but not lonely. Directly to my left, Titan and Pumpkin are locked in a lazy horizontal embrace. To my right, Lucius, who has been hidden for most of the winter, is pecking around in the dirt, chirping his brassy chirp. I’m again taken aback by his sharp features. My God, he’s a revolting creature. But I don’t shoo him away as I would have last summer. He might as well stay.

I’m sitting on the wooden stoop under the clothesline, facing the sun, sipping my beer. I can see one of the other cats, I think Harry Snugs or maybe Little Miss, strutting across the metal roof of the barn. When I finish this one, I’ll go back inside for another and drink it here, where I drank my first.

Thirteen

Catching Up

I
T
'
S JUST AFTER 8 A.M., EARLY,
I know, to be eating sardines directly from the can. I’m using a plastic straw as a one-pronged fork. I was lured to the kitchen the way I usually am, by the promise of coffee. I drank a cup while flinging open the cupboards and fridge, seeking out a pairing for my drink. I had plenty of options — fruit, cereal, toast — but I felt like trying something different, something offbeat, and went for the canned sardines instead. As soon as I pried open the can and saw those little heads and tails crowded together in a row, I regretted my decision. There’s a reason toast and cereal are mainstays of breakfast. I straggle into the living room, fish in hand, in search of the paper.

“Don’t distract me; I’m writing a letter.” Mom’s parked at the table, still wearing her slippers and pyjamas. Her short hair is askew, cowlicked on both side and back. Layers of sticky notes, cards, and envelopes are laid out in front of her like a paper feast. Her computer is open. “I’ve been meaning to write it for weeks. It’s a thank-you letter and needs to be sent today. Dad said he’d mail it for me as soon as I finish.” She pauses for a dramatic sip of her coffee. “It should have been done weeks ago. And now I’m stuck.”

“What are you stuck on?”

“I’m trying to word a section about what you’ve been up to.”

“What? Why am I showing up in your thank-you letter?’

“It’s also a catch-up letter.”

“But surely you can leave me out.”

“I honestly don’t mind putting you in.”

“No, seriously, I’m happier to be left out. Just drop me, move on to the next section.”

From somewhere in his study, Dad clears his throat. “If I’m in the letter, then Iain should be too.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” agrees Mom, sounding vindicated. She starts drumming her pencil on the table.

“That’s not true! No one needs to be caught up on me. There’s nothing to be caught up on.”

“Sure there is. You’ve been back home for a year now.”

“Exactly.”

“I just have to figure out how to word it.”

“You’ll figure it out; you always do,” calls Dad. “Iain, let your mom write her own letter.”

I settle down on the couch, opening the front section of the paper before my face like a screen.

But the sight and scent of my unconventional breakfast is too unsettling for Mom. She peers up from her notes anxiously. “What kind of breakfast is that? There’s plenty of eggs and fresh bread in the kitchen.”

“I know, but I didn’t feel like cooking. I’m fine.”

“But your dad picked about a dozen fresh eggs from the coop this morning.”

“I just wanted something quick and easy. This is fine. I’m happy.”

I rarely hear Dad snort, but he does now from his study. “Eggs are quick and easy, and very good for you.”

“Also, you love them. You always have,” says Mom, setting her pencil down.

“I know, but —”

“I can remember when you used to eat four or five in one sitting.” Dad sounds completely ambushed. “It was amazing.”

“You would eat them fried or scrambled or poached . . . you just loved them.”

“I still like eggs, guys, but I don’t crave them as much since I’ve been back home. Probably ’cause they’re so readily available.”

“Did you hear that?” Mom calls to Dad. “Iain’s off eggs.”

I hear Dad’s chair push back against his bookcase as he rises from his desk. This startling news has roped him in from the study. He arrives with a puzzled look on his face. “But Iain loves eggs.”

“I know,” says Mom. “And ours are so fresh and delicious. Not to mention organic.”

I’ve discovered the problem with impaling the sardines with the hollow straw is that with each piece, several drops of the fishy oil unavoidably collect in the tip, creating an unappealing mouthful. I don’t mind the fish but loathe their unctuous bathwater. I’m in mid-chew, delaying the next bite, when a balled-up piece of loose-leaf hits my forehead.

“Wait. What have you done? You look different,” exclaims Mom, who’s standing now.

“I bet it’s connected to this whole egg thing,” says Dad.

“Maybe, but take a look for yourself. He definitely looks different today.”

They move in closer, eyeballing me with stern resolve. I put my half-eaten meal down on the armrest and grin. It’s taken a little longer than I’d thought. Before my kitchen stop I’d just come from the bathroom, where I’d shaved off my Karl Marx–style beard, right down to the wood. It’s left my face noticeably puffy and red. I’ve worn beards of varying lengths ever since I returned home last year, but the most recent beard had been growing, unguarded, for months. It was shaggy and unkempt. I haven’t been clean-shaven in well over a year. I look about ten years younger.

“You might be right,” says Dad. “He looks cleaner. Did you bathe this morning?”

“Bathe? No, I didn’t bathe, Dad.”

“He’s right though, Iain. You do look cleaner.”

“I still think it has to do with the eggs,” says Dad determinedly.

I wonder what they would say if my eight-year-old self, all four feet and sixty pounds of him, strolled into the living room tomorrow morning eating a can of sardines.

Did you do something different?

Who, me?

Yeah, something’s not quite the same.

What do you mean?

I’m not sure, but you look more innocent this morning, or something.

Dad would have his own take.
Or maybe a little more optimistic — new trousers, bud?

Mom returns to her seat at the table. Dad stares for a breath longer. “I know! Did you shampoo your hair?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Could just be our imaginations, then.”

Again I shake my head, but Dad’s already retreated back to his study.

“Add that to your letter, Mom,” I suggest. “That Iain’s looking cleaner and shampooing his hair now, which is good news, but you’re still a tad concerned since he’s stopped eating eggs.”

Mom’s quick to disregard my suggestion. “Now you’re just being silly.”

It’s getting close to lunch when I pass through the living room again. I’m en route to the kitchen but hesitate in front of the closet. I detect some rustling. It’s probably a cat tunnelling around in one of the parkas. I’m about to investigate when Mom emerges, backing out slowly on her knees. She’s wearing a brown fur coat. There’s a patch of fur missing from the collar and one of the buttons is missing.

“What do you think?” she asks, standing slowly. “Your aunt Charlotte gave me this coat and I’ve never worn it. I just found it when I was putting some shoes away.”

“When did she give it you?”

“I’m not sure . . . maybe ten or twenty years ago.”

If possible, the coat would cough a few times, hack up some yellow phlegm onto the carpet, smear on a thick hoop of bright red lipstick, and, with a smutty wink, reveal her age to be closer to forty .

“Are you sure it’s only twenty years old?”

“I’m sure it’s much older than that; it wasn’t new when she gave it to me. It was a hand-me-down.” Shocking.

“I don’t know, Mom; it’s not really fur-coat weather these days. It’s almost summer.”

“I know, and I don’t usually like fur coats at the best of times, but I’ve just had this one for so long.” Her tone implies a deep sentimental attachment. I’ve never seen her wear this ghastly pelt.

“How often do you wear it, Mom?”

“You mean wear it out? Oh, never. I’ve never worn it. I had totally forgotten about it until just now.” She moves in front of the large mirror mounted on the wall and faces her reflection. She slowly turns to her left, maintaining eye contact with her fuzzy profile. “Doesn’t mean I can’t start.”

“It looks a little small — the sleeves don’t even reach your wrists.”

“It’s a three-quarters cut; that’s how it’s meant to be. Actually this one’s a tad big.” She turns to the other side. “Maybe you’re right; I don’t think I can wear it. I look like a little brown bear.”

“Actually, yeah, a little . . .”

“Well, what do you think about getting my hair cut, only this time I leave half untouched and cut the other half really short? My haircuts are always so symmetrical.”

“I think most cuts are typically symmetrical.”

“That’s boring. Any second thoughts about the coat?”

“It’s hard to get a sense, since you’re still in your pyjamas.”

“You’re right, it’s ridiculous. I was going to go up and get changed hours ago.”

“How’s the letter coming?”

“It’s coming, but I got a little sidetracked.”

When I walk through the dining room forty minutes later, Mom’s still wearing the coat. She’s settled on the floor now, her back resting against the stool. An old black photo album is open across her lap.

“I know, I know,” she says. “I went to find a ruler in the drawer and came across this damn album. Now I can’t put it down.”

She ponders each picture intently. She waves me over to see a few. There doesn’t appear to be any order or pattern. Some are from the farm in Oxfordshire where Mom and Dad rented a cottage after they were married, some are from dinner parties with friends in Canada, a few are from their actual wedding day. I’m pretty sure I recognize the fur coat in one picture. It’s being worn by an elderly lady standing beside an elderly man I’ve never seen before. I don’t mention anything to Mom.

“I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I moved home,” I say, sitting down on the stool, resting my chin in my hands, my elbows on my knees.

“What?” Mom peers up from the pictures.

“Nothing. I’ve just been thinking about this last year and being back at the farm.”

“Oh, yeah.”

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks.

“It’s just funny how things play out,” I say.

“Yup, and I think life’s better when it’s unpredictable.”

“It’s kind of hard to believe, but I feel like it’s done me some good, you know.”

“We hoped it would,” she says.

Mom refocuses on her album, lingering on each page, pointing out how young everyone looks. “Especially Dad and I. We look ancient now compared to this.”

One picture in particular has piqued her interest. She lifts the book higher for me to see. It’s a picture of Dad standing outside the dairy cottage, dressed in wellington boots, a tweed jacket, and a scarf. He’s holding a leather briefcase at his side. “I remember I took this one morning before your Dad walked to work. Most mornings he would walk across the field to catch a train. I’ve been pretty lucky,” she says. “Still am.”

I watch her peel back the thin plastic barrier and remove the photo from the book without explanation. She’s mumbling to herself as she walks into the kitchen. It takes her a minute or two but she’s able to shift around a few other pictures to free up a small gap on the top left corner of the fridge door. She sticks the newly recovered photo there, of Dad in his wellington boots, with a yellow and black magnet shaped like a bumblebee.

The afternoon has turned warm, even for May. On my last trip through the living room, Mom’s papers were still littered across the table, but she was absent. I called a few times, but when no one answered, I wandered outside.

I stroll around the back of the house without a destination in mind. Meg’s asleep beside one of the rock gardens. I walk quietly past her to Dad’s magnolia tree. It hasn’t changed much. Somehow Meg detects my soft steps and is up instantly, investigating the nascent tree along with me. The tree has stayed consistently unremarkable — short, frail, and sparse. There is only one appreciable change since I’ve last seen it: green buds have sprouted at the ends of each branch. I don’t know enough about botany to know if these buds indicate that the tree is doing well or still struggling. The green buds are small and untrustworthy. There are no blooms, no flowers. The tree looks thirsty. I bend down and feel the earth around the base of the tree. I’ve seen Dad watering its roots every day for the past week, and this afternoon the dark soil feels gluey and damp. Mom must have been out yesterday adding some compost to its base. She’s mixed it into the soil unscientifically. I walk on. Meg retreats, hoping to find that her spot by the garden is still warm.

“Where’s Mom?” I’ve spotted Dad in the stone shed. He’s wearing work gloves and a red baseball cap stained with dots of white paint. “Did she finish her letter?”

“No, not yet. She’s upstairs on the phone. She forgot, said she’s been meaning to catch up on some calls for a couple of days.”

“Amazing.”

“Are you busy? I could use a hand.”

Mom’s been after Dad for weeks to clean out the shed. Since she’s taking care of some of her own chores today, Dad elected to do the same. He does it each year, between spring and summer. It’s not a job he relishes. And the shed never looks any different. It’s eternally filled with an impressive collection of unimpressive stuff, mostly old, broken, or damaged stuff. It’s all worthless. Some will eventually escape outside, to the chicken run. That’s the typical lifespan of my parents’ belongings. The chicken run is the cemetery where most of their stuff is laid to rest after spending years deteriorating in the shed. Dad has the old basketball backboard, a box air conditioner, and a cracked satellite dish propped up against weathered two-by-fours in the chicken run. “It gives the hens some extra shade,” he claims.