One Bird's Choice (6 page)

Back in my room I slip them on with regrettable ease. They’re tight around my midriff. With only enough string to knot them once, they barely fit. I look at myself in the mirror. They leave very little to the imagination, providing an unfortunate view of my skinny white thighs and twig-like calves. My legs look like the legs of an old man who has spent weeks lying in a hospital bed — legs that have never felt the warm gaze of the sun, legs that have atrophied from neglect.

“Oh, great, you found a pair,” declares Mom as I walk in the barn. “I knew you would.”

Dad halts his work immediately and stands up straight. “Those look like girl’s shorts, bud.”

“I actually think the colour suits him. You don’t usually see men wearing that shade of blue. It’s unique.”

I stare at my parents, from one to the other and back again, for what feels like an hour. They’re smiling devotedly. I say nothing. My face is expressionless. I retrieve my pickaxe and begin to work.

“It’s fascinating,” says Dad. He’s speaking more slowly now, and pauses vexingly between each word. “Your legs really are
quite
skinny, aren’t they?”

I’m not sure whether the question is rhetorical or he’s hoping for a reply. I continue moving the dried muck around with my pickaxe. Mom answers for me.

“Yes, he sure does,” she says. “Skinny little ankles too.” She’s leaning on her spade now. Dad’s elbow is supported by the shaft of his shovel, his opposite hand resting on his hip. “Don’t you remember what the nurses said when he was born?”

“No, I can’t remember.”

I’ve decided that breaking up the manure crust is the worst job. But in this insipid trio, it will always be my job. I raise the pickaxe over my head and slam it down into the firm mat. The music is louder today and echoes off the barn walls. Mom and Dad have adapted by yelling back and forth at one another. Edith Piaf has been given the day off. Today we are digging to the collected works of Gilbert and Sullivan.

“Well, they said he was all legs, and then everyone started calling him ‘Chicken Legs’ — even the nurses.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” adds Dad, examining my exposed legs. “That’s fair; they’re quite chickeny.”

On my way back from dumping my sixth or seventh full wheelbarrow, I stop several feet from the barn door. I can hear Mom and Dad.

“I was just thinking,” Dad’s saying. “Iain’s legs are almost more like the sheep than the chickens, because proportionally the sheep legs are probably even skinnier than the chickens’.”

“You know, I think you’re right. They’re a touch closer to sheep legs than chicken legs.”

I enter the barn and grab my pickaxe. Mom and Dad are looking from the sheep to my legs and back to the sheep again. I slam the point down hard into the manure. They are nodding in amazed agreement, as if they’ve just excavated the Ark of the Covenant. On my next swing I want to miss the muck altogether and bury the sharp point directly in my shin. My skinny white shin.

On morning three I’m sore. I’m stiff. I’ve given up trying to get a head start and have slept in — fuck it! Blisters have formed on my hands in bunches. From the bathroom window I see Mom and Dad. They’re laughing. Probably at something one of the sheep did. Or maybe an old story Mom just recounted. I’m feeling angry. What’s their problem? I don’t want them to be so cheerful. I want them to plod along silently, slowly, petulantly, because that’s what I would be doing if I had rolled out of bed earlier. And that’s what I will be doing when I get there. Now I’m just standing at the window frowning, swearing, bitter, and sore.

I don’t know what the temperature is but it’s the muggiest day yet. It has to be the muggiest day of the year. By the time I get to the barn, my forehead is glazed with perspiration like a doughnut. I am, however, growing used to the smells. It’s taken until day three, but the manure actually smells normal. I’m thankful for that at least.

“You’re moving a little gingerly today, bud. Are you feeling all right?” asks Dad.

“I’m fine.” I pile another shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow. “I guess maybe a little stiff. I have no idea why the backs of my legs would be stiff.”

“A little strange,” says Dad.

“You’re just not used to using them, I guess,” says Mom, as she heads out of the barn with a full barrow.

By the middle of the afternoon we’re close. In another hour or two the barn will be new again. The mound out back has grown like a smelly cyst on the land. It doesn’t seem possible that we could have removed all that mess from our snug barn. I’m not even concerned about my blisters anymore — the blisters that have popped, exposing the raw skin underneath; the blisters neither of my parents got. My feelings of hostility have faded with the possibility of a fourth day of digging.

As Dad wheels the last barrow of muck out to the hill, Mom and I stand in the barn, admiring its vacuity.

“We did it. Doesn’t it look great?”

“It does,” I agree. My shirt is wet from sweat. We are all sweating, but no one as much as me.

I’ve showered and changed. I’m dozing on the verandah when the distinct pop of a champagne cork perks me up. Dad walks out carrying the bottle, wrapped in a tea towel, in one hand and three glasses by their bases in the other. Mom follows with a tray. They’ve insisted we celebrate.

“Well, this is a treat,” Mom’s saying.

“A well-deserved treat,” answers Dad. “I know it’s a little exuberant, but we deserve it.”

Their faces are still flushed from the work and the heat, but not heavy with fatigue like my own. I’m parched, and the sight of the bottle delights me. Dad pours us each a glass of the bubbly golden liquid, and we toast the hollow barn.

“I bet this was harder than the work you’ll have to do at your new job,” says Dad.

“Yes, this should be a congrats for the new job too,” adds Mom.

I nod.

“What is your new job again?”

“Associate producer,” I say.

“Pretty exciting,” says Mom.

“Indeed,” agrees Dad.

“And maybe even if you’re an associate producer,” suggests Mom, “you’ll still be around next summer, and we can dig again.”

“We can start making it a tradition,” says Dad.

I can hear the blue jays and swallows in the trees to my left. Their presence causes both cats lying beside me to stir.

To accompany the drink, Mom has assembled some goodies: cheese, crackers, grapes, mixed nuts, salami, olives. Every so often she waves her hand overtop of the plate to keep the flies from landing. The flies are more interested in the snacks than I am. After another glass or two my appetite should emerge. Dad’s nibbling on a handful of nuts, but mainly we focus on the cold champagne.

I’m picking at one of the blisters on my hand with a fingernail when Dad clears his throat, confirming that he’s been constructing a thought. “Now, without getting into a lecture here,” he says, topping up our glasses, “in his poem ‘The Prelude,’ Wordsworth talks about what he calls spots of time. These are moments for everybody when they can get a sense of things, actually see into the life of things.” Dad fills his own glass last. He rests the empty bottle carefully beside his seat and grabs another handful of nuts. “Look out there,” he says, motioning to the rolling fields in front of us. “I think I know what he means.”

We sit contemplatively. Even at dusk the air hasn’t cooled. Summer is packing up to go but hasn’t left just yet. We sip our champagne willingly; I drain half my glass in one mighty pull. Every so often a car passes on the road. In front of us on the grass, both dogs are asleep.

The digging is done. My shovel and pickaxe will be replaced by a keyboard, monitor, and phone. I’m going to be doing some serious journalistic work; I’m going to be an associate producer. As far as I know, associate producers don’t dig sheep manure. They produce quality radio. And they earn a salary and contribute to society. And they start a pension. They are adults. And because they’re adults, they can’t spend full days at a farm with their parents. They have their own apartments, with their own furniture.

I balance my chair back on its rear legs, stretching my feet out in front of me. I look over at the slumbering dogs, then towards the pond, the fields, and out to the wandering sheep. Some nibble the grass; others stand chewing their cud, watching us complacently. They appear perfectly oblivious of their subtle yet necessary role in our little celebration.

Fall

Five

Handy Man

O
NE OF SEPTEMBER'S ANNUAL PROMISES
— to lessen the heat of summer and marshal in the crisper, milder conditions of fall — has been broken. There’s been no breach in the August swelter, and each humid degree this September has felt like two.

While the heat has endured, our routine at the farm has swerved off its summer course. Dad’s lessened his professorial workload in recent years, but he still lectures at the university a couple of days a week, holds office hours, and continues doing his own research. Mom also seems to be engaged in a variety of commitments away from the farm, everything from community meetings to yoga. We’ve been seeing less of one another, coming and going at different times of day.

I’ve started my new job downtown. My alarm wakes me just after 7 a.m. I shower, dress, and am out the door by 7:45 a.m. to sit in traffic and creep along the highway. The commute is around an hour or so, and I’m expected at work by 9 a.m. sharp for the daily story meeting. Every morning I have to come up with two viable story ideas to pitch to the rest of the team. I’ve been arriving with just enough time to grab a cup of coffee and fret some more about the dubious ideas I’m about to pitch.

Once everyone has offered their two ideas, the weaker ones are cast aside. The senior producer assigns two or three stories to each associate producer to “chase” for that afternoon’s show. I didn’t know what chasing was for my entire first week. Essentially it involves finding suitable guests for a story, tracking them down, conducting a pre-interview over the phone, and writing the script for the on-air interview.

On my first day I was shown to my desk. It was my first-ever office desk. I wondered what pictures I should bring in to personalize my space the way everyone else had done. The desk was mine for about nine minutes, until I was shuffled off to the temp desk. I was told as I stood beside the desk, papers hugged to my chest, not to get too comfortable, because it’s always hard to predict where the temp seat will be from week to week.

I find that I’m not nearly efficient enough to take a lunch break, and have been eating at my desk while plodding ahead. Sometime around 6 p.m. I’m usually tossing my knapsack into the back seat of my car, drained, preparing myself for another hour of horns and exhaust while I inch my way back to the farm. After supper I sit with the cats, scouring the newspaper and the Internet for ideas for the next morning until my eyes start to slip shut.

The farm hasn’t been much of a refuge from work. There’s a lot to do to prepare for winter. After we shovelled out the sheep barn there was still the chicken coop to tidy, the wood stove to sweep, some painting to do, and gardens to turn over. My first two weeks of September have been the most hectic since my return home.

Thankfully they’ve scheduled someone else to work on Friday this week, so I’ve been conscripted to help Mom with her baking. I suppose it’s a reasonable request. With each pass through the kitchen, I consume my share. She tells me she’s planning to bake some chocolate chip cookies, a lemon loaf or two, and maybe some apple walnut bread if we have time. I actually don’t mind baking. There are worse ways to spend a couple of hours than sifting a few cups of flour and melting sticks of unsalted butter in a pan. “Happy to help,” I say.

“The first thing you can do is collect the eggs for me,” Mom says, chin tucked down while tying her apron behind her neck. “I need a few and we may as well use today’s.”

“Oh,” I say. I was doing that chore a lot when I first returned, collecting the eggs. At first I volunteered to do it instead of, say, taking out the trash. Now I know better. Between the animals eating our peelings and table scraps, the compost pile out back, and my parents’ prudent ways, there’s very little garbage to speak of. So strolling down to the end of the lane handling a single plastic bag of scentless paper trash is my new favourite chore. Collecting the eggs has gone the other way.

You might assume it’s a breezy task, an enjoyable one. I did. But our chicken coop is a dark, eerie place. The white paint is starting to peel off the outside walls, and the door sags from its rusty hinges. Inside the smells are sharp. Young and old chicken droppings acknowledge you with each step. There are noises too; strange chirps and clucks and scratches come at you from all corners. The ceiling is adorned with cobwebs, and if you enter too quickly you might even see a mouse scurry off into one of its tunnels in the floor. Did I mention it smells? We’ve just cleaned it out and laid down fresh bags of wood chips, but the hens’ ability to soil the floor in such little time is striking. It’s disconcerting to think that this is where all of Mom’s baking begins.

My main issue with the coop isn’t simply its crappy ambience but also its eccentric inhabitants. Chickens aren’t timid like many of the farm animals here. The moment you step through the creaky door, the feckless creatures descend upon you like zombies, moving mechanically, wings stretching, jerking their heads up, down, pecking the floor. And like zombies, they are categorically obsessed with eating. They circle you in a stunned mob, assuming you’ve brought grain, grass, peelings, or anything they can feed on. There’s no question that they would greedily peck away at my brain if given the chance. It’s not that I hate chickens — it’s hard to hate something that has the mental capacity of an earthworm — I just don’t trust their erratic behaviour and clan mentality.

In the shed I step into my black rubber boots and grab one of the straw-lined baskets. I thought I’d been asked to help with the baking in the kitchen? This isn’t baking. I’m not in the kitchen. This is much worse. This is collecting.

That’s another thing: the term itself is irritating.
Grappling
would be a more accurate word to describe the task than
collecting
. The hens battle instinctively, spiritedly, as any mother would while defending her infant. I now refuse to set foot in the coop without my armour — a pair of winter work gloves I found in the shed. The chicken’s peck is tenacious, but not forceful enough to penetrate the thickly lined leather gloves. Carelessly reaching into one of their occupied nesting boxes with a bare hand is lunacy, no matter how golden and delicious those yolks are. Their unblunted beaks will pierce human skin as easily as wet paper towel.

I unhitch the latch loudly and knock on the chicken coop door. That’s my warning for the mice to scurry away, since I’m not keen on seeing them. I pull the door open and clear my throat.

“Morning, ladies,” I say, taking a jittery step inside.

All of the hens but two have already departed their nesting boxes. Covering my nose with one hand, I nab five eggs from the first three nests. Then I move on to the remaining two. The last box is employed by one of the largest birds, a fat auburn hen with a formidable beak. I recognize her instantly from previous run-ins. She’s bold and stubborn and sits atop her eggs like Jabba the Hutt. I start by lulling her into a false state of confidence.

“Hey, girl, don’t mind me . . . just here to check on your feed . . . an innocent feed check is all . . . you gotta keep your strength up with all that sitting around you do.” I slowly move towards the feeder. “Yup, looks like you guys are good to go.” That’s when I swivel and strike her nest in one quick motion.

Her resistance is equally fleet. She lands a counterstrike directly on my exposed wrist. It isn’t a kill shot by any means; she doesn’t draw blood. Yet her calm demeanour, and the speed and precision with which the blow is delivered, is enraging.

I wait. I try again. Same result. I turn to the observant group. “What’s everybody looking at? Everybody just shut up.”

I bend down now, taking my time while moving closer to her. I watch her ruffle up her breast feathers. “Now listen, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want that egg. Just chill. I’m going to move slowly.” I hold up my empty free hand as evidence that I’ve come in peace. I start inching it towards her underside. She’s still. “That’s it, that’s it . . . See, we’re friends.” And just as the tips of my fingers touch the straw she lands her third blow, forcing me to stumble backwards.

“Fucking bitchy shit hen!” I scream. My voice is strained with emotion, and before I know it I’ve punched Jabba right in her chicken face. Well, more in the plumage between her neck and face. It’s not a jab but a perfectly executed right hook. If she’d been wearing a mouthguard it would have shot out of her mouth along with a spray of hen saliva. The chicken is more surprised than hurt. She jumps from her nesting box, retreating to the far end of the coop. I remove the last egg with a shaky hand and place it in my basket with the others.

I turn to leave but pause at the door, saying over my shoulder to the suddenly quiet coop, “Right, from now on you hens just have to be cool, okay? That’s not how I wanted it to go down. No, not like that. Everybody just needs to be cool . . . just be cool.” One of the newer pullets lets out a mellow cluck. Most of them ignore me and continue pecking at the metal feeder.

Back inside I find Mom using a wooden spoon to fold the wet ingredients into the dry.

“Don’t you need the eggs first, before mixing all of that?” I ask.

“Yup, everybody’s already in the pool,” she says, licking some batter off her baby finger.

“What do you mean? I have the eggs right here.” I raise the basket up beside my face.

“Oh, shoot. I ended up using yesterday’s from the fridge.” I lower the basket and my head in unison. “Well, don’t worry; maybe we’ll have an omelette for lunch or a toasted western. I know how much you like those.”

“I guess I’m done then, right?”

“Done? No, no,” says Mom. “You see those lemons over there? It’s time to zest!”

I’m back in the kitchen post-baking, looking to top up my coffee and sample our yield, when Mom pops up from under the sink, a tea towel slung around her shoulders like a neck brace. “It’s bad news under there,” she says. “There’s a leak. You better take a look.”

I sigh. I sigh because it’s the start of the weekend, I’ve been helping her in the kitchen for most of the morning, and now I want to drink my coffee alone. And I sigh because I’ve been noticing an unsettling trend. Mom and Dad seem to think I’m handy. I’m not sure exactly why or when this assumption began; it couldn’t be based on my barren record of fixing things.

I bend down on one knee and look at the pipe descending from the bottom of the sink like a metal root. I wish I could just sift some flour or measure out a couple of cups of demerara sugar.

“Well, it seems fine to me, Mom. Nothing to worry about down here,” I say.

“Well, shouldn’t we try turning the tap back on? Before we jump to any conclusions?”

Again I sigh, louder this time. “I suppose.”

I hear Mom twist the tap and almost instantly a steady stream of water starts trickling through a hole in the pipe.

I wouldn’t exactly pigeonhole Mom as a plumbing virtuoso; I completely understand her wish for help. But I too am no plumber. There’s a problem with the sink, fair enough. But it’s me helplessly shining a flashlight onto the torrent of water, not Dad, so I’m not ready to admit it. Dad’s at the university yesterday and today, marking essays.

“You know, it doesn’t look too bad, Mom. Are you sure this isn’t normal?” The water’s pouring out faster now and is beginning to pool on the plywood below. “How often do you look down here anyway? I think I remember reading something about a bit of spillover being the norm.”

She whips me with the towel. “That’s a leak. Something isn’t working right down there. I don’t know much about sinks, but it looks to me like the catch basin has cracked. You know, the thing the strainer sits in.”

I pause. “Well, yeah, I know it’s the catch basin . . . sort of obvious . . . I’m just curious if you think it needs to be dealt with . . . today-ish.”

“Of course it does,” she replies. “Just pop up to the hardware store; someone there will show you what to get.”

After wrestling the old, broken catch basin out of the sink with two different sets of pliers, a wrench, a rubber mallet, and Mom encouraging me like a ringside manager, I’m off to the store.

I pull up in my baby blue Toyota, the licence plate held together by hockey tape, alongside a row of gleaming pickup trucks. I roam aimlessly up and down the rows of tools and lumber for twenty minutes before I finally spot Rich. Rich sports a shabby red vest, two or three sizes too small. The front is forced open by his large pail of a belly. I stroll up to him, tossing the cracked catch basin up in the air and catching it.

“I’ll be needin’ a new one of these bad boys,” I announce. “They don’t make ’em like they used to.”

Rich, hunch-shouldered and stubble-faced, remains focused on restocking the wall of small washers in front of him. He directs me to the aisle of plumbing parts with a casual wave of his hand, revealing a patch of wetness in his armpit. “That’s just a small part,” he says over his shoulder. “Won’t take you two minutes to put her in.”

Any allusion of shop-teacher charm that Rich inadvertently exuded in person has vanished over the phone. I’ve been back home for an hour and am forced to once again seek help from him. But he wants no part of my problem.

“Listen, I’m not sure what else to tell you; it should just fit in easy. There’s nothing to it.”

“Well, it’s weird, all right,” I say. “It just doesn’t fit.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you. You sure you bought the right piece?” Rich is gruff and hurried.