One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  “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.

  My hour or so of fresh air forces me back to the couch. I nap intermittently in the fetal position and wake more tired than before. From where I lie I can see the profile of Mom’s lower half; her top half is hidden in the fridge.

  I walk into the kitchen, picking at a splinter in my hand. Mom’s precariously holding a jar under her armpit while shifting others around in the fridge.

  “What’s this?” I ask. “Are you hot or something?”

  “No, no,” she says. “I’m just making room for Dad. He’ll be home from the grocery store soon.”

  “Who called?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a message,” I say.

  Mom and Dad still employ a primordial answering machine with buttons and tapes. The answering machine is larger than the phone. I point out the flashing red light to Mom. She immediately stops what she’s doing.

  “Oh, right,” she says, kicking the fridge door closed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  There are actually two messages. Both are from Dad, and both are delivered frantically. He’s called twice from the soap aisle.

  “Hi, guys, it’s just me. I’m in the soap aisle.” He pauses. “I was hoping you’d answer. I just came across a deal here on some soap, and I know Mom usually likes her Ivory, but this other brand looks okay and is half-price today. And . . . yup, it’s a lavender scent. Anyway, I’m thinking of getting the lavender for a change. Maybe I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  Mom pushes the button for the next message.

  “Oh, you’re still not there. Or still just not answering. That’s a shame. I hope Iain’s not convincing you to screen . . . I’m still here. This other soap looks really quite good. Well, I think I’m just going to get it . . .”

  “What? No, no! Don’t get that other soap. Not the stupid lavender. Get the unscented Ivory!” She yells it like Dad can hear her.

  The machine stops and Mom sits down at the table, crestfallen.

  “Why don’t you call him back? Maybe he’s still in the store,” I suggest.

  “Yes, great idea!” She jumps up and grabs the phone, hurriedly dialling Dad’s cell.

  She’s able to get through as Dad is making his way to the checkout. He has the lavender soap in his cart, but she convinces him to go back and get the Ivory instead.

  “That was a close one,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Way too close.”

  It’s not until Dad returns from the grocery store that I can appreciate Mom’s foresight in clearing space in the fridge.

  “Can you give me a quick hand with these groceries?” he calls from the door. “I only have a few things.”

  In his truck I find several brown boxes full of exceptionally large food items. It looks as if he’s just stopping en route to aiding in a disaster zone. I pick up the first box in both arms. It’s heavier than it looks. I lug it into the kitchen, setting it down on the counter. When I get back with the second box, my arms are sore. Mom’s already busy unpacking. Catching my breath, I reach out and grab the first item I see: six glass jars of capers wrapped in cellophane.r />
  “Whoa, what’s with all the capers?”

  “What do you mean?” asks Dad. “Capers are great.”

  “Right,” I say. “But do we need quite so many?”

  “Well, that’s how they come at Costco. Don’t worry, we’ll eat them.”

  “Wait a sec,” I say, picking up another one of Dad’s purchases. “Are you guys starting a deli or something?” I’m holding an industrial-size plastic bag full of focaccia buns. It looks like one of those clear garbage bags full of unwanted day-olds that a bakery leaves in the back alley. There must be forty buns inside.

  “Wonderful,” says Dad, walking back into the kitchen. “You found the buns. Those make the best sandwiches.”

  “But do we need all of them?” I ask. “It’s only the three of us here, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I got the whole bag for sixteen dollars, so . . .”

  I look at the bag again.

  “And I’ll just freeze what we don’t eat,” says Mom.

  When I spot the four-litre jar of cocktail olives stuffed with red pimento, I can’t resist making a suggestion. “So — I’m just thinking out loud here — but what about going to the normal grocery store?”

  “Didn’t you see the olives I got?” asks Dad.

  “It’s hard to miss, Dad.”

  “Well, I got that jar for eight dollars. At the normal grocery store, who knows how expensive it would’ve been.”

  “How about a snack before dinner?” asks Mom.

  “Yeah, I could nibble on something,” Dad replies.

  “Okay,” says Mom. “Hmm, how about some olives?”

  It’s after eight and the summer sun is riding low on the horizon. The sky is a deep red. Even at this hour the late-July heat is convincing. I’m standing on the verandah drinking a beer with Dad. Three steaks are sizzling beside us on the grill. Mom found them in the bottom of the box freezer when she was putting away the groceries.

  “We’ll have these tonight,” she said, holding them up on display. “I have some fresh veggies from the garden that’ll go perfectly with them.”

  I’ve been given the task of barbecuing the meat.

  “They’re looking tasty,” says Dad, peering over my shoulder. “I think they’re probably ready.”

  “Well, I don’t like them too bloody.”

  “Trust me, a good steak should be rare,” says Dad matter-of-factly. “But I don’t want to step on your toes, bud.”

  It’s closer to nine when we sit to eat. The porch windows are open, and with the breeze I can finally feel an appreciable drop in the temperature. The sun is gone. I look down at my full plate of meat, potatoes, and garden vegetables. I take a deep breath and dig in.

  “Pretty good,” says Dad, holding a piece of pink steak up to the candle. “A little overdone maybe.”

  “I don’t know about that,” says Mom, meeting Dad’s piece with her own. “I like it this way.”

  “Well, we do eat well,” says Dad.

  “We certainly do,” agrees Mom. “We’re just plain lucky.”

  We talk persistently throughout the meal, but of nothing significant. Mostly about the humidity, how much the grass has been growing, the animals, even about the vegetable garden and how it’s flourishing in its new spot by the barn. The smell of Mom’s peach crumble greets us on the porch before we’re ready for it.

  “Oh, listen, guys,” says Mom. “I just realized the music has stopped. Could you run in and start it again, Iain? You’ll probably have to shake the cord.”

  “Or try blowing on the inside,” adds Dad.

  I have to use both techniques simultaneously before I get it working.

  “Bing sure is easy to listen to,” says Mom, as his whistling picks up again.

  When I return to the table, the candles are almost completely melted down. Mom’s cutting the last of her meat into smaller pieces.

  “Here,” she says, “you guys can share this. It was so good, but I must admit I’m starting to feel a little full.”

  Dad receives his share on his plate nonchalantly. “Well,” he says, “any ideas for tomorrow? Do we have any ribs in the freezer? I’m a sucker for ribs . . . well, ribs and bacon.”

  “I’m more of a sucker for soup,” says Mom. “And cheeses. I love all different cheeses.”

  As my parents volley their culinary weaknesses back and forth like a shuttlecock, the music from the old CD player moves along freely and faithfully. “I almost forgot,” says Mom. “I found another one of your notes sitting beside the bathroom sink this morning.” There’s a crumpled piece of paper sitting next to my plate that wasn’t there before. “I almost threw it out by mistake.”

  For the past couple of weeks I’ve been jotting down notes on anything of significance I want to tell my pal Bob when I get back to Toronto. Because I usually just scribble these passing thoughts onto any old piece of scrap paper, Mom’s been finding them all over the house. She dutifully returns them to me whenever they end up in her possession.

  I wonder what my friends in Toronto are doing tonight. I haven’t talked to them for a while. Actually, it’s probably been more than a month. There’s been no updating of any kind, no emails or phone calls. Even in this era of social networking, when it’s so easy to stay connected, I’ve lost touch. Maybe it’s for the best.

  I watch my parents as they finish their meal, then look down at the scrawled note Mom’s just returned to me. Iain — do not forget about Marshall’s big balls! I fold the note three times and slip it meekly into my pocket.

  Four

  La Vie en Rose

  I'M NOT SURE EXACTLY HOW THE TOPIC of the barn comes up. I certainly haven’t mentioned it. It comes about errantly one night at supper, while I’m pondering Mom and Dad’s differing methods of corn consumption. Dad, using the more traditional typewriter technique, eats one line along the cob before turning it, while Mom opts for the rotisserie method, eating while turning.

  “You know,” says Dad, “the barn hasn’t been cleaned out for a long time.”

  I haven’t shovelled manure in years. Not since high school. Growing up, I had transposed many barns’ worth of packed animal feces, likely enough to fill an Olympic swimming pool or two. Digging out the sheep barn sometime in late August was an annual custom on the farm. Every couple of years this undesirable task would fall to my brother, Jimmy, and me. We would comply resentfully. The dimensions of the barn are large enough to amass a sizeable collection of sheep droppings but not quite big enough for a tractor or backhoe to enter, so the cleanout had to be done manually, with a couple of shovels, a pickaxe, and a wheelbarrow. We would dump each barrel-load onto the expanding pile behind the barn. Family and friends would then descend upon the nutrient-filled manure and fill bags and buckets with it to use as fertilizer. And then the cycle would begin again the next summer.

  As we grew up and left home, the sheep barn was dug out less and less frequently. It’s hot, demanding work, a chore best suited for two teenagers with energy to burn. And it’s a job that, if pushed, you can put off for several years at a time. It just means that with each passing year the barn’s floor rises in a slow, incessant tide of decaying shit.

  “Are you sure?” questions Mom, wiping butter from her fingers with the edge of her napkin. “Didn’t we hire the O’Bryant kids to do it a few times?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous then; it should be done this year.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure the O’Bryant kids wouldn’t mind coming up for a little extra pocket change,” I add.

  Dad drops his naked cob onto his plate. Mom glares at me. “All the O’Bryant kids are long gone. In fact, David just graduated with a degree in music and his band’s doing quite well. I cut out an article in the paper about them to show you last week.�
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  I can still remember babysitting the O’Bryants when I was twelve.

  “We don’t need the O’Bryants,” reckons Dad. “We could do it. The three of us. It might be fun.”

  “It’s great exercise too,” says Mom.

  “That’s a great idea. But we don’t even know if Iain’s going to be around for much longer.”

  My weekly review had been a moderate success but it was rooted in summer, when listeners are looking for books to peruse at the cottage or on vacation. I’d just finished my last one the week prior. It ended as it had started, with little fanfare.

  After my last review, one of the producers approached me as I was leaving the studio. She asked if I was going back to Toronto. I told her I wasn’t really sure. Then she asked if I would be interested in covering for another producer who would be away. They would need me to start the first week of September. I would be a casual employee and would be offered other shifts as they arose.

  I’ve never done any producing or real journalistic work before, and for a moment I thought about declining and heading back to Toronto. Considering my other options for employment either here or in Toronto — none — there was a certain degree of temptation. Then she told me my title would be associate producer, and that pretty much clinched it.

  I did follow up with a few questions. Did associate producers receive benefits? “Not casual ones,” she said. Not that I planned on it, but I was curious to know if associate producers had paid sick days. “Typically not,” she answered, looking at her watch. I didn’t know what else to ask so I said, “Okay, I’ll try being an associate producer.”

  Armed with my new title, I decided half-heartedly to check apartment listings online. While a part of me had welcomed my summer-long retreat from urban gatherings, another part was skeptical about such extreme solitude. When you’re in your late twenties, I don’t think it’s considered optimal for your best friend to be a nocturnal farm dog named Titan. In Toronto I would spend a few nights a week with friends. At the farm those friends had been replaced by animals. So if I started making more money, I thought it might make sense to leave the farm and move in with some people my own age.