One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

“Okay.”

  “So, like, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “No.”

  “But seriously, that’s great? Seriously. And, like, do you like that?”

  “Yeah, I enjoy it.”

  We all sip from our glasses.

  “But Iain’s also into writing,” says Steve.

  “Writing? Oh, really? What kind of writing?”

  “Well, nothing too exciting, mostly just little stories or essays —”

  “Do you write much for papers or magazines?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there are so many writers out there. My idea is that someone needs to write a book about writing, like a guidebook . . . for writers . . . about writing . . . by a writer.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You should do it; it would sell.”

  “True.”

  “Sometimes I just feel ashamed that I work at the clinic I work at. Everyone always thinks it’s the fancy one, and then I feel like I have to justify it. But I shouldn’t have to. My patients need me where I am, just as much as they would at any other clinic. Poor, rich — patients are patients. I literally hate having to justify it, but I feel like I do. And I literally love the work.”

  Steve and I nod in unison.

  “I’ve also spent a week each summer the last couple of years working at a camp for developmentally challenged kids. And it’s amazing. They are so amazing. And it literally feels so amazing to know you’ve changed their lives for the good.”

  “Would you ever consider doing that type of work full time?” wonders Steve.

  “No, it’s always hard at the end of the week when they leave and, well, you know, go back to their lives, which are basically, like, hopeless.”

  Steve and I look at each other. Karen looks at Steve and then at me.

  “Now, what is it that you do again?”

  It feels like we’ve been listening to Karen all night, all the next day, and all night again. It’s probably been more like twenty or thirty minutes. The pub has grown busier, and thus warmer and louder. Everyone has raised their voices a notch or two. Not Karen. She hasn’t noticed. I have to concentrate to make out her words. As I do I can’t help but wonder what’s going on back at Little Blue. Little Miss must be basking in the rare spell of privacy.

  There’s a burst of loud, excessive laughter from two tables over. Another group has ordered a couple of plates of fries for the table. At least I think that’s what they’re eating. It smells like fries and vinegar.

  “So, do you live out there with your partner?” asks Karen.

  “No.”

  “You’re not married yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you’re out there alone?”

  “No.”

  “Who do you live with then? Girlfriend?”

  “No. No girlfriend.”

  “Who?’

  “Um, my parents; it’s actually their farm.”

  “Your parents?! Really, well, that’s okay. Who cares? You aren’t that old. It doesn’t matter. Do you guys get along?”

  “No, we hate each other.”

  “That’s great. I love my parents. We get along really well too. We’re really close. They’re getting old though. It’s kinda scary but totally cute.”

  “Definitely.”

  Steve pushes his chair back and rises abruptly. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back. Just have to use the facilities.”

  In this moment I loathe Steve with a murderous passion. I want to grab his arm and force him back down in his seat. Pee in a pint glass or use my toque, just don’t leave me! Karen and I sit, sipping our drinks continuously. Her sips are generous and unselfconscious. Mine are trivial and nervous.

  “Okay, mister,” she says, “now tell me more. What else don’t I know about you?”

  I am a deer in the headlights. I am a child being caught with a stolen cookie in his coat pocket. I’m an old, white-haired man falling asleep on the couch after supper. I’m at a loss. “Well,” I offer, “there’s my name. My name is spelled differently. I spell Iain with two I’s.”

  Karen downs the last of her wine and sets her empty glass down firmly on the table. “Oh, who cares, though? I don’t think that matters at all. Who cares?” She tilts her head to the right and leans in a little closer, close enough that I can smell her Merlot-infused breath. And she places her hand softly, sympathetically atop mine. “Some things are just messed up. I-A-I-N, huh? Yeah, it is weird, but in a good way.”

  Karen’s right. Some things are messed up. When I first came back home, I was returning temporarily, to present a book review. That turned into more work: journalism. That seems to have been a short run too. I’m starting to feel as if I’m in a giant game of snakes and ladders, only the board I’m playing on seems devoid of ladders. On my board there are only snakes.

  Instead of a third pint, my next round comes in the form of syrupy fountain pop. I’ve decided not to crash at Steve’s as we’d planned. It was Karen who’d mentioned the storm that’s forecast for morning. Steve confirmed that snow and high winds are supposed to start sometime before dawn. Without proper snow tires, there’s no reason to chance it. My car and the inclement weather are on unfriendly terms. I should drive back tonight while it’s still clear. That means no more beer.

  So while my tablemates become a little drunker, I become a little more sober. I pan from Karen to Steve and back to Karen. I zoom in close, watching their mouths move, forming words and laughter. I’m saying less than before, my contributions devolving into mere nods. I stab at the ice and extract my Coke through a straw.

  After we finish our drinks, Steve offers to pay the bill. Karen doesn’t let him pay for her. I let him pay for me. We all pull on our coats and shuffle outside. For a moment we stand awkwardly along the lines of an invisible isosceles triangle.

  “Well, it was great to see you, Steve,” Karen says, tilting her head back to zip up her jacket, “because it’s been too long.” They hug and Karen stumbles off towards “a slice of veggie ’za!”

  My car is in the opposite direction, as is Steve’s apartment, so we walk together.

  “You sure you don’t want to crash?” he asks when we reach my car. “You’re welcome to the guest bed.”

  “Nah, thanks, man. I should get home. Don’t want to be on the roads in the morning.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Thanks for the beers, though,” I say. “And the Coke.”

  “No worries. Maybe we can meet up again next weekend?’

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Alright, see you.”

  “Later.”

  I unlock my door, get in, and twist the key in the ignition. The radio blares on. I immediately turn it off. As I wait for the engine to warm, I watch Steve walk along the sidewalk ahead of me, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  About forty minutes later I’ve left the city and have exited the main highway. I’m back on a deserted country road. There are no pedestrians this far out, no store signs or building lights or gas stations, not even streetlights. There must be clouds in the sky, because the moon and stars, usually brighter out here, have been given the night off. I’m the last car on the road.

  I flip the headlights off and am consumed by the darkness around me, swallowed up in a single bite. It feels as if I’m driving with my eyes closed. It’s snowing now. The days aren’t just getting colder but shorter too, and the nights longer. There will be less daylight tomorrow than there was today. And there will be even less the day after that.

  Winter

  Eight

  I’ll Be Home for Christmas

  WITH DECEMBER PLAYING HOST, winter has arrived, settling in unapologetically. The cats have primaril
y moved inside. They still enjoy the odd sniff of the outdoors but only for a few minutes at a time. With four cats you can easily get stuck in the inflaming cycle of opening and closing the door for them. They exit and enter at various times, and a whoosh of frigid air scurries in with them.

  Right now it’s Harry Snugs who’s outside, clinging to the screen by all four sets of claws. He looks like one of those spread-eagled fuzzy cat ornaments that people stick to their car windows with suction cups. I’m sitting in the rocking chair watching him, shaking my head and frowning because I let him out only four minutes ago. I’ll get up and let him in soon. I just want Harry Snugs to know that I was not put on this earth to be his personal doorman.

  Last year we had one of those rare green Christmases at the farm. I was home for only four or five days. My brother and I spent the afternoon of Christmas Eve in shorts, tossing a Frisbee in the front orchard. Not this year. We’ve already had several days of flurries and a heavy storm; a traditional white Christmas is a certainty. Mom’s thrilled.

  I’d forgotten how unarmed the old walls of the farmhouse are against the winter wind. Apart from the four-foot radius directly surrounding the woodstove, the house has become bitterly cold. The reality of the season has struck me with a second actuality: I’ve officially lost the only official title I’ve ever held. I’m no longer an associate producer, or a journalist of any kind. At least I don’t think I am. Nothing has been stated formally, but I haven’t been offered any more shifts in the new year. The producer I originally covered for has been back for several weeks. That really did it. It’s as if I were playing a game of musical chairs all fall, and now the music has stopped and all the chairs are full.

  So this year I’m uncertain how long my Christmas break will extend. I have no commitments in January. None in February. I haven’t been asked about my availability. I wasn’t told “See you in the new year” as I walked out after my last unmemorable shift. If I had a business card printed up right now, I suppose to be accurate it would say iain reid: feline porter. Maybe I could get a small cat-paw print in one of the corners.

  I get up from the rocking chair and straighten my shoulders, holding my sweater together at the front as I open the door. Harry Snugs sprints by me without acknowledgement and heads for the kitchen and his bowl of kibble.

  Christmas is a mere three weeks away, and there’s only one week left before my sister, Jean; her stepdaughter, Loa; her husband, Johannes; and their new baby, George, arrive from Iceland. It’s not that I’ve committed their itinerary to heart or have their arrival date marked on my calendar — Mom’s been doing that for me. Whenever any version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” starts playing, Mom stops what she’s doing and reminds me (and Dad if he’s around) when everyone’s arriving. “I’m getting so excited,” she says, running over to turn up the volume a notch or two and snapping her fingers. “Only one day and one week until a full house again.” Dad and I look at each other, raise our eyebrows, and go back to whatever it is we’re eating or reading.

  For the past few days Mom and Dad have been busy preparing the house, stocking up on food and gifts. In almost thirty years I’ve never known Dad to be careless when it comes to his own purchases, even at Christmas. He rarely buys anything for himself, and when he does — even if it’s just a book or tie — he deliberates over the purchase for anywhere from a week to a decade or so. So I’m agog when Dad announces he’s bought himself an early Christmas present.

  He doesn’t seem overly excited about his news. “Come here, it’s in my study. I suppose I better show you.” His tone suggests he’s bought himself a gift certificate for a colonoscopy.

  I follow him into his study. The walls are lined with old books, and only the brass desk lamp with the green shade is lighting the room. Dad passes over a small black backpack he’s just pulled from a plastic bag. I take it from him.

  “Do you really think you should be spoiling yourself like this, Dad?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought maybe it would be easier to carry my computer and papers. Although I’m still not sure.”

  “It probably will be. And that briefcase of yours is ancient; it was time for something new.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what it all means, me walking around the university wearing a backpack.” He’s talking as if backpack is a synonym for prom dress.

  “Have you tried it out yet?”

  “No. I have to go collect some essays on Thursday. I’ll try it out then.”

  “It’ll be a big day for you.”

  “Well, we’ll see if I can go through with it.”

  “You know, Dad, it’s almost apocalyptic.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “It surely is.”

  “Good King Wenceslas” has come on again. It’s the third time I’ve heard it today. I get it — everything is deep and crisp and even. We’re sitting around the living room when the conversation turns to a recurring topic: whether it’s time for Mom to finally get herself a computer. I’m reading the paper, munching on a handful of holiday snacking nuts, listening idly to Mom and Dad’s conversation.

  “I’m just not sure I want to get into that whole realm.” The realm Mom’s referring to is that of the Internet and email.

  “I know,” says Dad, “but you won’t be able to hold out forever.” He’s flipping through a glossy catalogue, calling Mom over whenever he comes across a good deal.

  “That’s true,” answers Mom, peering over his shoulder, “but I was hoping to keep putting it off.”

  “But now’s the time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are some good Christmas deals. But more important, because Iain’s still around. He can show you how to use it.”

  I choke on a roasted chestnut before spitting it into my hand. I’ve seen Mom struggle with electronics before. Teaching her to use a computer is about as appealing as finding myself under the mistletoe with a lovesick Lucius. Mom’s just not a computer type, the same way Dad avoids the dance floor at weddings. In fact, she’s never even used one. For her it’s not just a big step but an entire staircase — a long, steep spiral staircase.

  “That’s true. Iain seems to know computers well,” says Mom.

  “I bet it’ll be fun,” says Dad. “Now he can pay you back for teaching him to ride a bike.”

  It’s true. Mom did teach me how to ride a bike. But unlike most who learn, I wasn’t four or five or even six. Mom waited until I was thirteen before teaching me. It was, unfortunately, the same summer as my biggest growth spurt. I was undeniably gawky at six feet tall and was just starting to experience the unflattering kiss of acne. Mom drove me to a busy park in the heart of the city. It was there that she ran along beside her gangly teenage son, supporting his back with one hand and holding the seat of the rusty bike with the other. She kept me in the park until after dark that night, yelling encouragement through fall after fall. Our comedic display brought about groups of hecklers, and they too were unwavering. But today I can ride a bike, and I suppose I owe her for that. Still, I’m not ready to give in without a fight.

  “What’s the rush?” I plead. “It can waste a lot of time. Are you sure you’re ready for email, Mom?”

  “If I was any older I probably wouldn’t bother, but —”

  “Well, you’re already in your sixties, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken. So it’s understandable if you never learn . . . plus it’s going to be busy the next few weeks, with everyone coming home for Christmas.”

  “That’s just it. She has the motivation to learn,” says Dad, putting a hand on Mom’s knee, “now that she’s a grandma.”

  “I know, you’re absolutely right. But I’m still a little torn. There are so many things to waste time on already,” says Mom.

  A week or tw
o later a box with the blue Dell logo stamped on the side arrives at the farm. I walk into the kitchen knowing that my afternoon is ruined. The sight of Mom’s new computer has hit me like a kick in the groin.

  “Hey, Mom —”

  She raises her hand in response. “Just a sec, I’m listening to this story on the radio.”

  I wait until the reporter has signed off before asking her to clarify. “What was that all about?”

  “It’s just awful,” she says. “Some guy froze his mom’s body after she died so he could keep cashing her monthly pension cheques. Talk about sick. What a story to hear around the holidays.”

  “Pretty weird,” I agree. “Although in fairness, didn’t you freeze Tramp in the freezer for, like, a year after he died?”

  Tramp was our beloved family dog, the smartest, friendliest, proudest animal I’ve ever encountered. After he died at the ripe age of fourteen, Mom and Dad kept him buried in the box freezer, waiting for the weather to change so they could cremate him on a specially constructed bonfire and bury the ashes on the hill where he used to lie. Theoretically I understood the plan, but Tramp stayed in the freezer for more than seven months.

  “That’s different; the weather stayed cold later than usual that year. Besides, I wasn’t cashing any cheques on Tramp’s behalf.”

  “No, but he was my best friend growing up — and I found his rigid body wrapped in blankets and a pillowcase when I went to get an ice-cream sandwich.”

  “Poor Trampy, he was such a great dog,” Mom says. “You know, after all this, I don’t feel like getting started on that computer anymore. And I was so excited this morning. I need to be motivated.”

  “Well, why did you keep listening to that ridiculous story? You hushed me when I came in.”

  “I know. But you know me: once I start listening I can’t stop.”

  It takes me more than an hour to convince Mom we should start her first tutorial. I could have kept her going down the opposite path, which I seriously considered, talking about frozen mothers and frozen pets, knowing these images would put her in a sour mood, leaving her with no energy or incentive to start on the computer. But as much as I’m dreading it — and I am — I know that the longer we put it off, the more it will dominate my thoughts. I’m going with the old-fashioned Band-Aid approach: let’s just close our eyes and rip the damn thing off, as quickly and painlessly as possible. Still, this isn’t going to be a jaunt; it’s going to be a journey. I set a full pot of coffee to brew.