One Bird's Choice (4 page)

“Because he’s living on the verandah, he’s been pooping all over it,” she explains. “It’s not very appetizing for him to eat dinner around that. So we’ve been washing it off most nights. Do you think you could do that for us tonight? You don’t have any plans, do you?”

By ten after eight I’m imagining my new co-workers sitting in a pub, discussing the day’s work and well into their third round of beers, while I, conversely, am standing on the verandah in Dad’s rubber boots, glassy-eyed, pressure-washing Lucius’s caked feces off the stained floorboards. It’s harder than it looks; the dried excrement is determined to stay put. I have to aim the torrent of water on each dropping for several long minutes.

The good news is that I’m not alone. Lucius has generously taken time out of his evening to calmly supervise the entire process like a martinet. His dedication is remarkable. If I squint and bend my head slightly to the left, it looks almost like he’s formed his beak into a tiny grin. I look away, out to the fields. A few seconds later I can’t stop myself from checking again. The bastard is definitely smiling.

For the rest of the week Lucius continues to demand the majority of my attention. Again, on my next day of work, his inflaming driveway performance results in my being late. Only this time I’m late not for a meeting but for my live on-air spot. I’m lodged in traffic, still about twenty minutes or so from the station, eating a muffin. I’m picking muffin crumbs off the crotch of my pants and popping them into my mouth.

“Coming up after the news, Iain Reid’s here, recommending a great summer read.”

Fuck.

I barely make it on time and am sweating suitably for someone who’s just jogged to the studio from their car three blocks away. My notes are a disorganized paper salad. I feel clumsy and amateurish throughout the review. While stuttering through my description of an Iris Murdoch novel, I brood over Lucius, trying to decide where I stand morally on the issue of killing him. How would I do it? Would I frame one of the other animals? Or just pretend it was an accident, maybe suicide?

“Sorry, Mom,” I’d say, holding his limp body by one wing. “It’s terrible. I found him floating in the duck pond, beak down. I guess he just couldn’t take it anymore . . . bit of a downer, was old Lucius.”

The host thanks me and continues on seamlessly, updating listeners on the weather forecast and traffic. I sit in front of the microphone and slip off the headphones. From the other side of the studio, Laura smiles through the glass. It isn’t one of those ringing endorsement smiles; it’s more of a get-here-on-time-or-we’ll-find-someone-else-to-fill-ten-minutes smile. It’s becoming clear that my weekly book review is expendable. I’m expendable. I offer a clumsy thumbs-up, gather my notes, and head back to my car.

When I get home, I volunteer to mow a section of the front lawn. The fierce sun is burning my neck and shoulders, negating my energy. It’s having the opposite effect on Lucius, who thinks we’re playing a game. He ignores me when I explain that the lawn mower is a device designed to cut grass. He believes it’s a fun-machine, engineered to provide him pleasure and exhilaration. As I plod forward he prances alongside, pecking at the wheels. Every so often he jumps into the path of the mower and either waits until the last second to flap away or forces me to stop abruptly.

Lucius finally grants me some solitude with only three strips of lawn still to cut. He’s found something else, maybe one of the cats or an ant hole, to occupy the remainder of his frenetic afternoon. That is, until I’m on the last strip. I really believed he’d grown bored of our little circus. It was a con. He approaches from behind, so I don’t see him until it’s too late. I only feel him when he lands on my back, talons first. I jump from shock and fall to the ground, barrel-rolling several times before coming to a rest on my stomach. My heart’s pounding. I’m breathing heavily.

“You’re a monster!” I yell. A few strands of grass are stuck to my face. Lucius remains beside the mower, hopping from one foot to the other, nibbling on the yellow head of a dandelion.

Later, in bed, I wake to the howls of a pack of coyotes. They’re just passing through one of the fields. They generate a lavish, wild sound, giving the impression that fifty or more animals are part of this hysterical group. Dad predicted I’d hear the coyotes if I ever woke up at night. He said they’ve been visiting a few nights a week this summer. The sound is intense but it doesn’t last long, only a minute or two. The commotion fades as they move on to the next field.

I turn onto my side. The coyotes’ yelps haven’t unnerved me; instead, I’m comforted by a single thought. Maybe tonight Lucius has picked a low branch to roost.

It’s a beautifully still, sunny evening, the most pleasant summer night we’ve had since I’ve been back. Dad and I have been barbecuing for only a couple of minutes when we’re joined by himself.

“Evenin’, Lucius,” says Dad, taking a sip from his beer. “Going to help us cook, are ya?”

And what a help he is, strutting back and forth, occasionally scratching my sandalled feet with his sharp claws, cawing his disapproval in my direction. I want to remind Dad that too many cooks ruin the broth, but I’m not confident I’ll be the one to stay.

As the evening’s humidity coats our wineglasses with beads of condensation, we sit reflectively, eating our meal in silence. Not because we don’t have anything to say, but because we know better than to compete with Lucius during his twilight serenade. The sound is hard to describe. Imagine, if you can, a deranged farmer plucking each of Lucius’s feathers out, one by one, while holding a megaphone in front of his open beak, broadcasting the cries of agony. It sounds something like that. Only louder.

“Oh, sure, he climbs the roof and sings every night,” Mom explains. “It’s just his little way of letting us know he’s going to roost.”

During his torturous screeching, any sense of equanimity usually found in the country dusk is violently lost.

“Most guinea fowl are monogamous and mate with one partner for life,” Mom continues. I can see my reflection in the window opposite my seat. I’m wearing another of Dad’s outcasts: a button-up red plaid number that hangs off me like a flannel blanket. It’s hot and particularly unbecoming. “Did you know they were such loyal creatures?”

I don’t reply. Instead I roll up the enormous sleeves of my new shirt. I don’t want to drag them in the gravy.

Three

Food for Thought

I
WAKE UP ON SATURDAY AND HOUR OR TWO
earlier than planned. I was hoping for a lie-in. Somewhere off in the distance, the Red Hot Chilli Pipers, a Scottish bagpipe trio, have nudged me awake. Mom and Dad have an extensive album collection. They love music, and it plays constantly from the same weary CD player that sits atop the dishwasher day after day. Its black cord is held in by a frayed piece of duct tape. The music isn’t loud, but if you listen for it you can hear it from almost anywhere in the house. It’s the Pipers’ unconscionable cover of “We Will Rock You” that pushes me past the point of restful sleep. I fling off the covers and swing my legs out of bed. I grab the clock radio off the bookshelf. It reads 8:23 a.m. I set it back down and yawn.

I presented my third book review on the radio yesterday morning. I feel as if it’s getting better with each segment. I say “feel” because I don’t know for sure. We haven’t received any listener feedback. Not one letter, call, or email. I just have to trust my gut.

I stagger downstairs in my shorts and flop down on the couch. It’s a sunny morning and the un-air-conditioned house is already feeling warm.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting you up for a while yet,” calls Mom from the kitchen over the booming pipes.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t feel much like sleeping in,” I say between yawns.

“What about something to eat? We thought we’d wait to see if you had any ideas for breakfast or lunch.”

Breakfast or lunch with my parents means two things: a mound of delicious food and a commitment of at least two hours. With my parents you have to take into account the entire process, not just the consuming stage. There is also an extensive planning stage. And with Mom calling out these words to me, the planning stage was set in motion.

“Well,” I say, raising myself up on one elbow, “I just woke up and I’m actually not that —”

Before I can finish my thought, Dad’s study door creaks open. It’s the first sign of him this morning.

I’ve noticed instances when Dad, standing only a couple of feet away, has asked me to repeat a question two or three times. “Sorry,” he’ll say, leaning in so close I could reach out and pinch his cheek, “what’s that?” And then there are times like Saturday mornings, when provisions are mentioned briefly in passing, and Dad, hidden up to that point, suddenly emerges from his den with the keen hearing of a whitetail deer. “What’s this?” he wonders, coffee mug in hand. “Are you guys deciding on breakfast or something?”

Still baggy-eyed, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed from my week of overeating. The smell of rhubarb pie already wafting through the air before 9 a.m. isn’t helping.

Since my return home I’ve discovered that food comes in a steady stream at my parents’ house. Like their music, it’s always there, flowing along beside you, no matter what time of day. At Lilac Hill, meals aren’t just a break to refuel but a comprehensive event designed for pleasure, socializing, and delicious fare.

Mom has trouble telling me to begin, because there’s always more on its way. She’s like an artist who’s unwilling to unveil her latest work, constantly striving for perfection. “Just a second,” she’ll say, as I pick up my chicken sandwich, open-mouthed, poised to take a bite. “Just let me cut some carrot sticks for you.” Or “Wait, that needs a pinch more pepper.”

Back in Toronto large meals came along only a couple of times a month, when I took the time to plan them or, on even fewer occasions, was invited out for dinner. Alone, I ate to sustain, often grabbing takeout on my way home or settling for a quick and nutrition-free jar of curry. Lentil and tomato soup, canned chili, tuna, and salmon, frozen tortellini and pizza, bags of regular chips, and frosted cereal were all staples. If I were Irish, grilled cheese would be my potato. Peanut butter never let me down. Neither did the falafel sandwiches at the Lebanese joint down the road; I ate those a few times a month. I would go weeks without eating anything green.

With my parents, however, food of all colours and kinds is unceasingly present: in its most basic form, such as a banana or an apple ripening on the counter; in its most lavishly prepared form, like a homegrown roast turkey with all the trimmings; and, most commonly, in its ethereal form — food as merely an idea. These days Mom and Dad talk about food more than they eat the stuff, and are constantly Twittering each other throughout the day.

“What kind of day is it, dear?” Dad will ask Mom.

“Doesn’t it feel like a homemade mac and cheese day?” she’ll reply.

“I’m just gonna go pop up to shower,” Dad will verbally tweet Mom (and me by default, because I’m in the same room) as he walks by in his housecoat. Or “I’ll just be in my study . . . cleaning my glasses.” Later Mom will report, “I just had an idea for a poem; I’m going to go jot it down.” They update each other approximately every eight seconds or so. And many of their posts to each other concern food, one way or another.

“Yeah, Iain’s finally up,” answers Mom for both of us. “He’s ready for some lunch.”

“Yeah, I figured he would be,” says Dad, sitting down across from me. “So what do you feel like?”

“Wait for me,” yelps Mom, sprinting in from the kitchen. She sits perched on the arm of Dad’s chair like a bird, her right arm resting across his shoulders. There is a white patch of flour just under her left eye. “I’ve been thinking,” she continues. “We haven’t had cheese-and-bacon-things-under-the-broiler in a while. They’re always good for lunch.”

Dad is thoughtful before answering, “Yeah, cheese-and-bacon-things-under-the-broiler are pretty good, but . . . do we feel like lunch stuff or breakfast stuff?”

“Good question,” says Mom.

“Because,” says Dad, “cheese-and-bacon-things-under-the-broiler are really good for lunch, but I’m not so sure about them for breakfast.”

“I suppose you’re right, but we could just have lunch,” counters Mom.

“Well . . . I guess we could,” says Dad, half-heartedly, “but it’s just going on for nine. Still a bit early for lunch.”

“I could make pancakes. Pancakes are a good breakfasty thing.”

“Yup, pancakes are breakfasty.”

“And I think we have some sausages in the freezer.”

I decide that now is the time to contribute before I’m left in their wake. “Hey, how come you guys call them cheese-and-bacon-things-under-the-broiler?”

“What do you mean?” asks Mom. “That’s their name.”

“You know,” says Dad, “they’re those things with bacon and that grated cheese.” He pauses momentarily. “Mom puts them under the broiler.”

“Yeah, I know what they are, but why do you call them that? You don’t call pancakes those flour-eggs-and-milk-things-spooned-into-a-hot-skillet. You call them pancakes.”

My question is met by a wall of silence. Finally Dad turns to Mom and whispers loudly, “Sounds like Iain wants pancakes.”

“No, that’s not . . . It doesn’t matter. Why don’t we have a few things, like more of a brunch,” I offer.

“Well, cheese-and-bacon-things can also be brunchy,” says Mom.

“Yeah, that’s true,” seconds Dad. “But if Iain’s dead set on pancakes . . .”

“No, no, I’m really not set on anything. I’m just curious about the system you’re running here.”

“System? There’s no system,” says Mom, defensively. “We’re just trying to figure this out so we can eat.”

Dad is struck by an idea; he sits up straighter in his seat. “We could,” he says, holding out his index finger, “we could have a few cheese-and-bacon-things
and
a few pancakes, so Iain’s happy.”

“So that’s really a brunch then,” says Mom.

“Well,” says Dad, checking his watch again, “I’m still thinking this is more of a breakfast.”

“Okay, sounds good, Iain,” says Mom, retreating back to the kitchen.

“I’m glad you wanted them,” says Dad when we’re alone. “Just look out the window — the bright sun, the light breeze. It really is an ideal pancake morning.”

After getting through one and a half cheese-and-bacon-things, I’m full. Mom’s still hovering over the stove, dropping spoonfuls of dense pancake batter onto the hot pan.

“It’s all delicious,” Dad’s repeating. “We do eat well.”

“That we do,” maintains Mom. “We certainly do.”

“Mmmm, that was great. Thanks guys, but I think I’m going —”

“You still haven’t had your pancakes,” says Mom. Dad stops eating and peers up from his plate.

“Yeah, it’s bizarre — I’m actually a touch full now after the first part of the meal.”

“But I made them because you wanted them,” Mom says, flipping the two largest pancakes onto my plate directly from the pan.

“That’s true,” says Dad, nodding in the direction of my crowded plate. “You better have a couple.”

As I begrudgingly comply, Dad rests his knife and fork across his plate and links his fingers behind his head. He turns to Mom. “So — any ideas for supper?”

“Hmmm, I’m not sure. Iain, what do you think?”

“Supper,” I slur between mouthfuls of pancake, butter, and syrup. “We’re not even done breakfast . . . or brunch . . . or whatever it is we’re eating.”

“Exactly,” says Dad, eyes moving back to his watch. “I think it’s best if we decide now.”

After the meal Dad asks for some help outside. I meet him at the southwest corner of the property, amidst the lilac bushes. He’s standing beside the green wheelbarrow.

“What’s going on in here?” I ask, ducking under a crooked branch.

“Kindling time.”

“Kindling time? You mean kindling for the wood stove?”

“Yup,” he answers. “Now’s a good time to start collecting while the wood’s dry. I usually just take a few hours every now and then. It’s not a rush. We should have enough for the winter by mid-September.”

Dead branches are scattered throughout the bushes, some barely hanging on to trees, others already on the ground. Dad picks them up one at a time, splitting them into smaller pieces before placing them neatly in the wheelbarrow.

“So, did Mom tell you her friend from yoga heard you on the radio the other morning? She said it was quite interesting.”

“Good to know at least one person heard it.”

“That’s three people. We were still in bed, but we listened too.”

“And I thought I’d been aiming a little high hoping for three listeners.”

Dad grips the handles of the wheelbarrow, navigating it deeper into the brush. I follow, picking up any dry skinny twigs I see.

My comfort level has increased with the last couple of reviews I’ve done. I do feel like they’re getting better. Still, my weekly summer book review is terminable. It has an expiration date of late August. I knew that going in, so I’ve been pondering what I should do next.

I break another branch with my foot — one end on the ground, the other held in my hand, and step through the middle. I toss both pieces into the barrow.

I could go back to Toronto. I might even be able to get my job back at CBC. But is that what I want? Maybe I should think about school again. I could always apply to do a master’s degree. But that’ll probably just sink me deeper into debt.

Dad cracks a branch over his knee as if it were a stalk of celery. “It’s funny,” he says. “Now that it’s just your Mom and me, we use the stove a lot more. We almost ran out of kindling last year. So, come February, you’ll be thankful we did this.”

“Well, you guys will. I’m sure I’ll be back in Toronto by January, Dad.” I probably will be. I might be. It’s hard to say.

We’ve kept our pace consistent, far from gruelling but efficient enough that the barrow is starting to fill. It’s indicative of many of the chores during summer. Most are mundane and inattentive, such as watering the vegetable garden and repairing broken fences, but crucial to keeping the farm going. It seems as if the bulk of the work during the summer is to prepare for the colder months to come.

It doesn’t take the sheep long to join us. It never does when we hang around the orchard. They don’t come right into the brush but graze in the field. Our largest sheep is Marshall, the ram. His size and strength are incredible considering that his diet consists of nothing more than grass, hay, and grain. He’s built like a football player, all neck and shoulders. He must weigh well over two hundred pounds, maybe even three hundred. His thick horns, curving into two hard points, wrap around each side of his face. He’s an impressively built creature. I’m still picking up twigs, but I’m riveted by Marshall.

“Sorry, Dad, but, um, is that right?”

Dad turns his head, peering out towards the sheep, to where I’ve motioned. “What?”

“Marshall,” I say. “Is everything . . . proper?”

“Yeah, that’s Marshall. He’s great. What about him?”

Marshall’s standing only a few feet away now, nibbling at the grass. “It’s just that . . . well, those are without a doubt the biggest testicles I’ve ever seen in my life.” It looks like Marshall’s using a pink tea towel to hold up two grapefruits between his legs. I’m astounded. The physics of the scene just don’t add up.

“He’s fine,” says Dad, turning back to his haul.

It takes me a moment to steer my focus back to our congregation of twigs. When I do, Dad has once again moved the wheelbarrow ahead. I have to jog to catch up.