One Bird's Choice (9 page)

Seven

Night Out

I
'VE FALLEN INTO THE HABIT
of evading the phone. I haven’t answered it in weeks. I like to enter a conversation on my own terms, when the time is right for me. For me a ringing phone is like the whirl of a fan in summer or the intermittent hum of the furnace in winter. It’s just another sound in the house, one to be ignored.

This morning I got an email from my pal Steve. He told me he was going to call me in the afternoon. He’s looking for someone to grab a beer with, since he’s been working long hours all week. Steve’s a lawyer. “You should come into the city for a couple of hours,” he wrote. “You’ve been back in Ottawa for half a year but you’re spending all your time with your parents . . . and those animals.” The last thing he wrote: “Answer the phone!”

Steve makes an interesting point. Not about the phone, but that I’ve been spending more and more time at Lilac Hill. I’ve unwittingly slipped further into a hermit’s lifestyle, one that would surely have garnered praise from the late J. D. Salinger.

Sadly, it’s not just my thin social life that has receded further but also my working hours. I’ve been picking up fewer and fewer shifts with each passing week, because I’ve been offered fewer and fewer shifts with each passing week. I was given only one day of work this week.

So I’ve just hung around the farm, mostly inside, where I have the company of not only the woodstove, which we’ve been using the past few days, but also the couch. It’s a spot I’ve come to know well: my parents’ ragged couch, a large window to the left, the fire directly in front. The couch doesn’t pester me about much. There’s no cover charge for sitting or lying on the couch, and the couch doesn’t ask for two story ideas every morning. The couch doesn’t judge.

No one’s favourite month is November. It’s too moody and indecisive. One day it tries to hold on to optimism, offering up some sun and moderate warmth, and the next day it’s all grey clouds, bitter winds, and frosty lawns.

I probably should have changed. Not because I’m self-conscious about looking sloppy but because I’m wearing Dad’s wool work jacket that smells of the sheep barn. I’ve left the couch and the farm for the first time in a couple of days. I was inspired by Steve’s email. I’ve only come to one of those large chain bookstores, but still it’s out in public.

I’ve just purchased a two-dollar coffee and am trying to balance it in my palm, along with my change, my wallet, my car keys, and a book. The café is already in full holiday mode. It smells of cinnamon and mint and is plastered with Christmas banners and posters of candy canes and winter sledding scenes. Most of the patrons are elderly women sitting in twos and threes at the round wooden tables. One gentleman, who was sent back to the cash by his wife, is trying to exchange his piece of gingerbread loaf for a piece of pumpkin square. He seems bashful but firm. I’d already seen him in the washroom, coming out of one of the stalls. He seems like a different man now that he’s trying to assert himself. His wife, still showing her displeasure with her first bite of gingerbread, is sitting at a table by the window, grimacing.

I’m lingering by the cream-and-sugar stand, waiting for a tray of free samples to reach me, when I feel a tap on my back. I turn slowly to see a male face I vaguely recognize.

“Iain?” says the face.

“Oh, hey.” Who is this large, goateed man? Did I go to high school with him?

“I thought it was you. I haven’t seen you in, like, ten years.”

“At least,” I reply.

I think he wants to go in for a handshake, but it’s too awkward with my full hands. And how did he recognize me? I haven’t shaved in three days and I’m wearing a plaid scarf, Dad’s farmer’s jacket, jeans with a rip in the left shin, and black rubber boots — not because rubber boots are trendy but because I carried a bale of hay to the sheep before I got into the car and drove here.

“So, are you still living around here? I thought I heard you were in Toronto.”

“I was in Toronto for a few years. But yeah, I’ve recently moved back to the area.” That’s it — I know who he is. I worked with this guy for about three months the summer I was a waiter. I think that’s him . . . Yeah, it’s him.

“You livin’ in an apartment or a house?”

“Yeah, a house. How about you? Where are you living?”

“I’m living about three minutes away, in that new development. We bought there last year. Jill works close by, so we wanted to be in this neighbourhood.”

“Nice.”

“And it’s near both of our parents.”

“Sweet.”

“And we wanted something a bit bigger. We had a kid last month. I’m still on leave. I have another week left.”

“Must be busy with a baby.”

“Oh, it’s good times. But yeah, very busy. It’s crazy.”

“For sure.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Kids? Ahh, no, not yet.” I respond as if I’ve just been asked if I want a refill on my coffee.

“Do your parents still live on that farm? Didn’t they raise goats or something?”

“Yeah, they’re still there. I think they might have a few animals still.”

And then he lays it on me. “So, what are you up to these days? What do you do now?”

For a second I think about throwing my full cup of overpriced coffee into the air and sprinting out the double doors. “Well, I’m actually working at CBC Radio these days.”

“Right on.” He gives me a probing look. “And what do you do there?”

“I’m an associate producer.”

He takes a sip of coffee. His eyes narrow and peer over the cup’s rim at my baggy farmer’s coat and mud-caked rubber boots.

“Sounds pretty slick. How did you get that?”

“Just worked my way up.”

“What kind of hours is it?”

Presently it’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. “It’s all different hours; there’s really no set schedule or anything. Which is good and bad, I guess.”

“CBC. That’s
Hockey Night in Canada
, right?”

“Yeah, I guess it is, but that’s TV.”

“Have you run into Don Cherry, like, in the elevator or anything?”

“No, I haven’t.” I’ve begun nodding compulsively like a bobble-head to fill any dead air.

“What about Ron MacLean? Do you ever see him around?”

“Nah, haven’t met him either.”

“One of these days maybe.”

I can’t believe I’m still nodding; I don’t know how to stop.

“Well,” he says, “good to see you, buddy. I gotta go find the wife and kid.” He leans in, shielding his mouth with his hand. “He’s probably shit his pants already.”

“Huh.”

“He does that better than anyone.”

“Yeah?”

“And it seriously never stops. But I’m not complaining. It’s good times, good times.”

“I bet.”

I rest my paper cup on the ground between my boots. It might just be a squeaky door hinge, but I think I can hear a baby’s cry as our hands meet in a firm handshake.

When I get home, I make some tea and sit in front of the computer. There’s another email from Steve. It’s just a reminder about meeting up for drinks. Again he tells me to answer the phone.

When the phone rings, I’m occupied with a bowl of cereal and reading the back of the box. (I should say here that the back of a cereal box is no longer the back. The front and back are both the same; both just have the cereal’s logo. I have no idea when we lost the backs of cereal boxes, but it’s discouraging.) I don’t bother to check the call display. I push Talk and say hello. The voice on the other end says hello. It’s male, but it’s not Steve.

I drop my spoon into the pool of milk. This is the first time I’ve spoken to a stranger in weeks. He says he represents one of the major political parties. After a thirty-second intro, in which he glibly states who he is, where he’s calling from, and what a beautifully crisp day it is, he puts his opening question to me.

“So, am I speaking with Lain?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is this Lain?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sorry, sir. Is Lain home?”

“There is no Lain here.”

“Oh.”

“I think you want Iain.”

“Okay, sir. Are you Iain?”

“I am.”

“Hi there, Iain. I’m terribly sorry. That’s embarrassing. I apologize for getting that wrong. Someone here must have misspelled it. There’s an extra I in my form here that shouldn’t be there.”

“No, it should.”

“No, sir, they’ve got your name down with two I’s in it. And I mistakenly read the first one as an L. My mistake, I apologize.”

“But it’s correct.”

“So, it is an L?”

“No, it’s an I.”

“Um, sir?”

“I have two I’s in my name.”

“You have two I’s in your name, like I-A-
I
-N.”

“Correct.”

“Really?”

“Yup. I-A-I-N.”

Silence on the other end. “Wow, sir, you know, that’s really beautiful. Is it Irish?”

“Scottish.”

“Amazing!”

Turns out he wants money from me, whatever I can spare. I tell him, honestly, I don’t have any to give. I tell him I haven’t been working much lately. He still keeps me on the line for ten minutes. Ten minutes of pseudo decorum. Ten minutes of insincere observations. Ten minutes of overt cunning in the hopes of influencing me. After hearing about my limited funds, he even offers up some general life advice, touching on the obvious (and in this case, ironic) “money isn’t everything” sentiment. My interaction with this guy leaves a melancholic taste in my mouth. I’m feeling less enthused about going out tonight, and even less keen about interacting with any other humans.

Back in Toronto I fancied a local pub, a short stroll from my apartment, called the Victory Café. The Victory’s a cozy spot with lots of beer on tap and tasty, affordable fare. I even wrote a complimentary review of the place for an airline magazine. Sometimes I would pop by alone, but more often I would meet up with friends, either by plan or unexpectedly.

It’s different at Lilac Hill. Here the local watering hole is called Little Blue. There isn’t any pub food, the atmosphere is a touch draggy, and there’s no service, but it’s a fine spot to grab a drink. Mostly it’s beer. And I’m definitely considered a regular, which is nice. Other regulars at Little Blue — also known as Dad’s beer fridge — are Dad and the three black-and-white cats, which I’m getting to know much better this fall: Ma Fille, Little Miss, and Harry Snugs. Their litter box is located two feet from the small blue fridge, so they’re regulars by default. I often watch them paw through the granular litter while I’m pouring my cold beer into a glass.

“Sorry, Little Miss,” I’ll say, dropping the empty bottle back into the case, my T-shirt pulled up over my mouth and nose. “I’ll be out of your way in just a sec.”

Little Miss will continue glaring at me as she digs around, waiting for some privacy. Like me, the three black-and-white cats are spending more time indoors with the changing season. It’s only Pumpkin, the orange cat, who’s still holding firm outside until the first snow.

When Steve calls, an hour later, I let him go to the machine to make sure it’s him. I call him back and tell him about my reservations. I tell him how I don’t like November, it’s windy outside, my car hasn’t been running well, I think the exhaust is broken, it’s embarrassingly loud. He’s persistent. After a few minutes I’ve agreed to meet him downtown at a pub called the Manx.

“Shall we say 10 p.m.?”

“We shall.”

Mom and Dad have made dinner together: fresh bread, lasagna, and salad. The lasagna still has another hour to bake. I’m standing in front of the oven, enjoying the aroma. Mom comes up behind me and asks for a hand outside. She’s relocating her potted herbs from the back deck to a reserved spot inside, in front of a west-facing window.

“They still like the sunlight,” she says.

Mom’s role is door opener and navigator. I am the grunt. She directs me to the herbs. I pick them up (making sure to bend my legs, as directed by Mom) and lug them into the house. The pots are large and full of earth, so I carry only one a time.

“Okay, take a left through the laundry room,” Mom’s shouting behind me, “and watch you don’t trip on the tile. It just goes from carpet to tile without warning.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Mom.”

First it’s the rosemary, followed by the thyme, basil, lemon basil, and sage. I follow Mom back outside, where there’s only one pot left on the deck. I see the barn light has been switched on. Dad must be in there.

“He looks kinda sad, doesn’t he,” says Mom.

“What?”

“Sad,” repeats Mom.

“Do you mean the cilantro?”

“No, but yes.”

“What?”

“It’s not cilantro, it’s parsley. But yes, the parsley looks lonely.”

“I thought maybe you meant Dad. What’s he doing in the barn?”

“No, he’s not sad, I’m sure he’s happy to be taggin’ the sheep. I bet he’d love some help.”