by Iain Reid
“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.”
“My help?”
“Sure. I’d do it, but I’m clearly not going to be much of a help with taggin’.”
I take a step back, bringing my hand up to my chest. “What’s Dad doing to our sheep?”
“Taggin’ them.” The ridiculous phrase sinks in after she says it for the third time, sounding out each word carefully. Mom buckles over in a fit of laughter. She covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my . . . tagging the girls . . .”
When her laughter subsides, she explains that Dad is giving the sheep their ear tags.
“Do you need any more herb help?” I ask.
“No, it’s just the parsley left. You can go help Dad,” Mom says, giggling again. “I can handle the lonely parsley.”
I find Dad standing over one of the sheep. He’s holding one with his hip against the barn wall and has his ear-piercing contraption in his right hand. I don’t say anything but watch from the door as he brings the instrument up to her ear, steadies it, and squeezes down. He backs away and the ewe runs to the other side of the barn with her new ear tag.
Dad’s tagging the sheep because it’s required by law if they are taken off the property. Each tag has a number on it to keep the animals in order. That’s why Marshall’s our only sheep with a proper name. He’s the only permanent resident; the rest are just numbers. This system is clearly meant for larger farms that have herds numbering in the hundreds or thousands. We have Marshall and eight permanent ewes, and we take only a few lambs away in the truck each year, either to slaughter or for sale. As far as I know there’s no plan to take any others off the property, but still Dad complies.
“Need a hand?” I ask.
Dad turns abruptly. “Sure. I only have a couple more to do.”
Dad’s able to catch each one and wrestle and hold it still against the wall. He gets me to load the metal device with the ear tag and pass it to him when he’s ready. I don’t feel like much of a help, but still he thanks me when we’re done.
“Do you think those ear tags hurt the sheep?” I ask.
“No. It probably hurts my back a lot more.”
“You need any more help?”
“I’m just going to check on the ducks. You can go on in.”
Dinner won’t be ready for another few minutes, and since I haven’t been outside much in the last couple of weeks, I take my time making my way back to the house. I pass by the magnolia tree Dad planted around the time I moved home. It still isn’t looking too dapper. I run my hand along one of the thin branches. It feels almost hollow, and it looks the same as it did when I first saw it — skinny, frail, delicate, and free of any blooms or leaves. It’s a brown skeleton.
On my way into town I’m listening to the AM oldies station. I’m driving fast, weaving in and out of traffic. I have the volume jacked up and I’m drumming my index fingers on the wheel, using the dashboard as my hi-hat. I’m singing along with the Carpenters and don’t notice the police cruiser parked along the side of the highway until it’s too late. I step on the brake and reassert my grip at ten and two. I even regulate my posture, as if sitting up straighter might garner some sympathy from the cop. I keep checking the rear-view mirror, but he never pulls out to follow me. Maybe it’s a good omen. Must be my lucky night, I think.
When I get to the pub, Steve is waiting for me. He’s ordered two pints and has made it through an inch or so of his own. I sit down, draping my coat over the back of the chair. We clink our glasses and say, “Cheers.” We chat about common friends, acquaintances, what everyone’s been up to. I’ve fallen out of the loop. I hadn’t realized how many of our old friends are engaged.
“Even Blackwell?” I say.
“Of course Blackwell. They’ve been together forever.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“So how are things at work?” Steve asks.
“Not bad,” I say, taking a swig of beer. “Not great.”
“No?”
“Well, I don’t I know. There’s just not a lot of work to speak of these days.”
“So what have you been up to?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to do a bit of writing.”
We both gulp. “What about you, though?” I ask, hiding a burp behind my hand. “What’s life like for a lawyer?”
“Good,” he says, “but busy. It’s nutty. I’m working like mad.”
Midway through our third round of beers, I notice Steve squinting in the direction of two girls putting on their coats to leave. “Who’re you looking at?” I ask.
“I know the taller one from when I used to go to camp.”
As Steve replays his camp days back in his mind, the tall girl notices him. As she walks to the table I notice she’s even taller than she appeared from across the room, and heavily made up. Her dark hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, except for her bangs, which have been clipped back. She arrives at our table open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
“Steve?! What are you doing here?”
“Just having a drink. How are you doing, Karen?”
“I’m great . . . We were just about to leave, but would you guys mind if I pulled up a chair?”
“Not at all,” says Steve.
“I’m Iain.” I wave.
Karen’s friend can’t be convinced to stay. It�
��s late and she has breakfast plans in the morning. Karen, undaunted, hugs her friend, pulls up a chair, and orders another glass of red. She immediately starts to tell us about her career, but staying focused on her sermon is impossible. I can’t stop staring at the maroon coating caked on her lips. They look like the surface of Mars. I wonder how many glasses she’s had. Five? Seven? She’s not drunk, but she’s definitely not sober. She’s lurching unsteadily along that line between the two.
Karen is a nurse. She’s been working at it for a couple of years now. And she really, really loves it. She spends her days helping people — how could she not like it?! But she hates that the clinic she works at has a reputation for caring only for rich people. But she really, really loves being a nurse. Karen releases only a handful of trusted words from her stable (literally, amazing, and seriously are three of her favourites) but she’s still remarkably prolix, pausing only to sip from her glass.
“So, Steven, last I heard you had just, like, graduated from law school. What firm are you at?”
Steve tells her the name of the law firm he works at. He’s told her twice already. I listen to a third description of his firm. I’m sitting on my hands, my legs bouncing. “That’s great, it’s really great,” she’s saying, and then turns her wobbly gaze to me. “What is it you do again?”
“Me? Oh, not too much,” I offer.
“I don’t care if you’re not a lawyer. Seriously, it doesn’t matter.”
I’m not sure what to say and think about making something up. I don’t want to say I’m an associate producer anymore. It requires too much explanation. I don’t want to explain how I’ve worked only one shift this week. I don’t want to say I’m a journalist. Journalists work more than once a week. So I tell her I’m a farmer, that I keep sheep, chickens, ducks, and cats. Steve chokes on his beer. Karen’s eyes are glassy and remind me of very tiny, shallow swimming pools.
“A real farmer. So do you, like, farm and kill your animals too?”
“Not me personally, but we do eat our own meat.”
“No, I think that’s totally fine. Don’t worry.”