One Bird's Choice (8 page)

Fuck! I hear it again. This time there’s no mistaking its validity. It’s coming from outside. The TV room is on the second floor and has two large windows, one at each end. I spring up and shut the drapes.

I sit back down and take a long, deep breath, peering around the room. I’ve never really noticed this before, but with its second-hand furniture and grandfather clock ticking away, this room is bloody creepy. I’ve never cared much for the collection of black-and-white headshots of Mom’s grandparents and great-grandparents mounted on the wall. I examine the faces of the relatives I never knew; their colourless eyes stare back at me.

I flip deliberately through the channels until I find the soothing banter of the sports station and raise the volume several notches. I start to relax as the glib commentators review the night’s Maple Leafs game. Sure, I’m living out in the secluded country now, but I used to live in the biggest city in Canada, where I walked home alone at night without fear or hesitation. I was happy to stroll through dark alleys or deserted parking garages, at all hours, without apprehension.

I’m squeezing a white line of toothpaste onto my brush when I hear the noise for a third time. It’s louder now, closer. Whatever is responsible for the wail must be right outside the window, perhaps even close enough to see me. I freeze in front of the mirror, giving myself a cold stare, slowly setting the wet brush down beside the sink. The venetian blinds are open, but instead of making a move to close them I continue to stare straight ahead and remain motionless.

Only a few days earlier I spotted my first grey hair marking out territory in my beard, giving me an instant air of maturity and dignity. And now here I am, rigid as stone, too scared to close the blinds in my elderly parents’ bathroom, too frightened to stay in the room with them open. I count silently to three, rinse the remnants of toothpaste into the sink, and slip quickly and quietly out the door.

I am a full-grown man, an adult. I’m twenty-seven years old, stand six feet two inches, and weigh 190 pounds. And whether I like it or not, the time for action has arrived. There’s a disturbing noise coming from outside; it’s not right, and it needs to be investigated. I know what I have to do. He was complaining about his sore back yesterday, but I think it’s best if I wake up Dad so he can take a look outside for me. I gaze down at my feet, expecting to see the bear-claw slippers I wore as a boy.

Feeling my way down the dark hall to my parents’ room, I can’t help but recall the days gone by when I, the frightened little boy on his way to Dad’s room for reassurance, didn’t have a greying beard. I’m lost in these memories when I’m overcome by that feeling of being watched. I stop. Someone is there. I can hear soft steps behind me. A hand brushes my shoulder from behind. My heart jumps through my shirt.

“Iain,” murmurs a high, creaky voice.

With nowhere to run and no brass candlestick within arm’s reach, I slowly turn, accepting my fate. It’s Mom, standing in her housecoat and slippers with a flashlight dangling at her side. She must have heard the noise too and is understandably seeking help. Bless her heart. I stand up straighter, reminding myself that these situations call for courage.

Mom takes a step closer and, leaning in, whispers, “I was just checking to see if you were still up, dear. I wanted to tell you to go outside and listen to the screech owls. They’re all around this autumn and their mating call is marvellous.”

Her yawn morphs into a grin. In the background, only steps away, I can hear Dad’s rhythmic breathing.

“Yeah, they’re brilliant. Actually —” I pause, looking Mom in the eye “— actually, I was just coming to tell you the same thing. I knew you’d appreciate it. You know, to us creative folk, there’s nothing quite like the melodic lullaby of Mother Nature.”

In the morning I wake from another turbulent sleep. I walk to the kitchen and find the empty porridge bag winking at me from the garbage.

“I think I’m going to pop down to the grocery store in a few hours. There are a few things I need,” I call out to Mom, who’s somewhere in the house.

It’s no nature walk or therapeutic massage, but the grocery store will be my island for the afternoon. I can wander around the produce and dairy sections unnoticed. No one will know me. People stocking the shelves might see me but they won’t know I’m not sleeping, and if they did they wouldn’t insist I rush home to get my mandatory ten hours.

“Great,” shouts Mom. “I need a couple of things too. Let me make you a small list.”

She walks into the kitchen, snatches her notepad from the counter, and starts rummaging through the cupboards and refrigerator. She’s a restaurant manager frantically going through the inventory for the coming weeks; I’m the seedy delivery man in a backwards baseball cap and cut-off jean shorts, waiting with my clipboard at the front door for her order. I sit down at the kitchen table. I rest my forehead against the wood, my arms dangling at my sides. The wood is cool. It feels nice.

By the time Mom finishes her “small list” it extends over the entire front side of the paper and halfway down the back. I turn it over a few times in my hands. There are several graphic sketches. It comes with verbal instructions too.
Doesn’t matter what colour, just make sure to get firm olives. Only get oranges if they look like juicy ones. Do you know how to tell the juicy ones? You’ll see it in their skin. And stay away from pre-sliced bread — just buy a fresh loaf and get them to slice it. Whole-grain is best, ancient grains will do
.

After three laps around, I can land a spot only at the far end of the lot. I bitterly schlep towards the grocery store, hood up, beside some guy without a jacket who’s wearing a black carpe diem T-shirt and has goosebumps carpeting his arms. He’s talking on his cellphone. All he keeps repeating is, “Well, I told you, that’s tough titty. That’s just tough titty.” I try to lose him but our paths seem destined to cross. Initially we both go for the same cart, and later our hands almost touch when digging for unbruised bananas.

The store is much busier and louder than I expected. I’ve picked a bad time. The middle of the afternoon, when the first wave of nine-to-fivers is coming in and the last few retirees are still swanning about. It’s not just the chaos in the parking lot, the effort of manoeuvring my cart loutishly through the bustling produce section, or the other shoppers. Mom’s list also has a hand in ruining this outing. It’s ridiculously detailed and tricky to follow. I find myself squeezing and sniffing limes for ten minutes and examining endless stalks of celery to ensure I get the exact size and hue. It takes me forty-five minutes to fill the cart, and when I reach the last aisle, the only space left for the bags of milk is on the bottom rack.

If you’ve ever been to a grocery store at peak time, you’ll know the worst is still to come. Long lines of shoppers and their hoards of pre-packaged food snake out from each cash. I don’t have the energy to find the shortest, so I just head for the closest. I regret it almost instantly.

Within a few seconds I hear the sound of tapping on cardboard. I turn and see a short woman, probably in her early sixties, standing with a short man, likely her husband. Each has a full cart of groceries. The lady is impatiently drumming her nails on the Hungry Man microwaveable dinner in her cart. I’m struck by the couple’s uniformity. He’s only an inch taller than her, and both are heavyset and have blatantly dyed inky brown hair. They’re wearing shiny windbreakers, jeans, and white sneakers. It’s not a family resemblance but one brought on by years spent living together, eating the same food, breathing the same air, shopping at the same stores.

“Might be her first day,” the lady says.

Her husband is quick to extrapolate. “She’s taking forever.” He nods towards the teenage cashier. “She just doesn’t look comfortable.”

“Right,” I say. “A bad time to shop.”

I’ve never loved grocery-line conversations. I fall into the unfavourable habit of judging people, not only by their appearance but also by their food choices. When I’m flagging and the strangers show an eagerness to chat, my aversion only grows. I pick up an
Archie
comic from the rack and flip through it with my back to the pair.

“You got a lot of groceries there. Lots of hungry kids at home, I bet.”

“Maybe his wife’s pregnant,” jokes the man. “Remember how much you used to eat?”

Used to eat
, I think. I turn my head slowly. “No,” I say, closing the comic, “I’m not married. No kids either.”

My response is inadequate. “That’s a lot of food for one person.”

“Well, it’s for me —” I clear my throat “— and my parents.”

“Your parents?” says the man. “Oh, are you still living at home?”

“You look old enough to own your own house,” adds the woman. “A lot of you guys are delaying the tough choices these days. It’s a generational thing. Times have changed.”

From the way she’s dressed, smells, talks, and stands and the frozen food melting in her cart, she strikes me as the type of woman who, when asked at a restaurant if she would care for a drink, would answer with a question of her own: “Does the fountain pop come with free refills?”

“Yup, the son of our neighbour, John, did the same thing. He moved back home after school. It’s pretty common these days.”

I peer towards the cashier to see how she is making out.
For the love of God, swipe faster. I don’t care if you are fourteen . . . swipe, dammit!

The woman leans in closer to her husband and bumps him with her elbow. “Course, John was studying for law school.” Now she’s looking back at me. “He’s just graduated from law school.”

“Was it law school?” wonders the man.

“Pretty sure it was. Maybe his master’s, or something to do with business.”

“I don’t think John’s graduated yet. He’s definitely got one more year.”

“I can remember him coming over to the house when he was five and six.” Suddenly she’s maudlin. “He was always so healthy; never even caught a cold.”

“Yes, he’s always been sturdy. And always had girls around him too, the lucky bugger,” says the man.

Show me someone who doesn’t believe in evolution and I will show them this man, a man so unmistakably descended from the apes I almost expect him to start picking bits of dust and dandruff from his wife’s hair while she talks. His own thinning hair is slicked back, and his long arms hang limply at his sides, his hands falling well below his hips.

Our line hasn’t moved. I’m starting to feel queasy. All the food isn’t helping. Neither is the smell. The strength of the woman’s floral perfume is matched only by its ability to induce nausea. So much so that I consider reaching into her cart and grabbing the aerosol can of cheese sitting beside her six-pack of Pepsi, inserting it into each of my nostrils, and discharging its processed contents like a caulking gun. I’m still gazing at the cheese can when the man puts yet another question to me that I’m giddy to answer.

“So, what did you study at school? Business?”

“History,” I say, breathing through my mouth, “and English.”

“And what were you hoping to do with that?” the woman follows up strategically. They are well trained in their sport, this grocery-line discourse, and they play together as one.

“A university degree doesn’t go nearly as far as it used to,” says the man.

“We know lots of former students in debt,” she says. “They’re worse off in some ways than if they just started working right out of high school.”

“I worked at my job for more than forty years, and I never went to university.”

“But look at your hips now, Philip. You can barely walk up the stairs.”

“I’m fine,” he scoffs. “Just a little arthritis — one of the many charms of growing old.”

I think, if I could get through this line right now, I would replace my own healthy, pain-free hips with those of Philip. In fact I’m sure I would. I would take a raging case of arthritis in my knees, ankles, both wrists, both shoulders, even my neck if I could just limp out to the car with my food in brown paper bags.

“Even with debt, I think university is still a good thing,” I say. “For some people, anyway.”

“I wonder if you’ll feel the same if you ever have kids of your own. It all adds up.”

“And hopefully for you, that will be soon,” says the woman, flashing a gaudy smile. “Just don’t get discouraged.”

Miraculously the line pushes ahead and it’s my turn to load up the black conveyer belt. I do so madly, grabbing food out of my cart in armfuls. I’m fumbling to get my credit card out of my wallet when Philip offers his parting wisdom. “Hang in there, no matter what happens. Life goes in cycles. After the downs there’s always the ups . . . usually.”

I nod, collect my food, and scurry through the door, leaving the couple just as they’re asking the cashier how long she’s had her job.

I stand behind my car, loading the bags robotically into the trunk. It’s raining. Not heavily, but trivially, closer to mist. Behind me I detect Philip and his wife wheeling out their spoils. I peek back over my shoulder. He’s pushing the cart while she’s chatting away. I stay where I am, my hair and shoulders going from damp to wet, and watch as they drive off.

I imagine it will be a short drive. When they get home, they’ll eat dinner. And then probably read the newspaper or watch TV until one of them starts yawning and then the other, and they’ll decide it’s time for bed. They’ll both be asleep within minutes. They won’t toss or turn. There will be no time for pondering or worrying or pining, just a deep, restful, uninterrupted sleep.