One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  First I show Mom how to turn the computer on. She does so without incident. A better start than I’d anticipated.

  “Okay,” I say, “now try moving the cursor to the top icon.”

  “Perfect,” she replies. “What’s the cursor?”

  “Right,” I say. “I didn’t mean to move so . . . fast. The cursor is that little arrow. Just imagine it as an extension of your hand.”

  “They should make it a little finger, then, not some arrow. One small index finger would do the trick. It would be much clearer.”

  “Well, the arrow isn’t all that murky, Mom. Everyone has already kinda agreed on it.”

  “I’m just saying, a finger would be better . . .” She holds a single straight finger up beside the computer.

  “Anyway, try moving the arrow to that top icon that says ‘My Documents.’”

  “You got it,” she says.

  I watch the screen intently but nothing happens. The cursor remains painfully static. I do, however, sense a flurry of activity beside me. I turn to see Mom staring at the screen, holding the mouse up off the table and moving it around in tiny clockwise circles like a maestro gripping a baton.

  “The arrow isn’t moving,” she says, biting her lip in concentration. “It’s not going up . . . it’s not going anywhere.”

  It takes some time, but I finally get Mom to understand the physical limitations of her computer. With extreme trepidation we wade into the waters of the Internet. I get her to open a web browser. “Just double-click on the icon there, the one that says ‘Firefox.’”

  She’s not graceful with the mouse but is eventually able to land the arrow overtop the icon and methodically execute a shaky double-click.

  “Now what?” she asks, brushing some hair off her forehead.

  “We might as well get you an email address. What do you want it to be?”

  Mom rests her hand on her chin. “I’ve got it,” she says. “I love the big bear.” The bear she’s referring to is Dad. A charming idea, sure, but completely unrealistic.

  “I don’t think that’ll work, Mom. There’s already so many email addresses out there, and remember, you’ll be giving this out to everyone, not just family.”

  “Just try it,” she demands.

  I do. It’s already taken. So Mom, undaunted, tries again. “How about whistlewhileyouwork?” she says.

  “Mom, that’s not going to work either.” But she isn’t listening; instead she’s whistling over my negativity, waving her hands with the tune.

  I try it. Whistlewhileyouwork is already taken. We continue this stultifying dance, going back and forth for half an hour. She insists I try each suggestion. Pumpkinismycat. Attitudeiseverything. Thepeterpanfan. Each one is rejected. Then mercifully we land on one that’s available, and Mom settles reluctantly on it. “I guess it’ll have to do for now,” she says. “It’s not as good as the others, but it was my nickname in elementary school, so I can remember it.”

  “It’ll do just fine. It’s a great choice, Mom,” I lie.

  Although she won’t be sending or receiving any emails for a while, next, on Dad’s request, I prepare Mom for looming threats. I log into my own account and show her an email in my junk box from a Nigerian fellow named Joseph, claiming to be royalty and promising riches if I send him some money to help secure his release from prison. “These are the things to avoid, Mom. Any emails about money or bank account numbers. They’re all scams. Delete them right away.”

  She looks at me gravely. “Are there people who just sit around all day thinking of ways to use their computers to scam people?”

  “Unfortunately that’s the reality, Mom.”

  “Well,” she says, “I feel sorry for Joseph.”

  “Don’t be. He’s probably the same guy who froze his mom. He probably did it ’cause she couldn’t figure out the Internet.” I realize how grim this must sound to Mom and instantly regret saying it.

  “Yeah,” she says, wistfully, “you’re probably right. So many twisted people out there, and I’ll never get the hang of this either.”

  We sit in defeated silence, wilting over her computer. She may never bother to learn now. The computer will be relegated to the same fate as the nugatory juicer and compact exercise machine, both growing old and dusty on the shelves in the basement. Sure, it would have taken several long, agonizing weeks — more likely months — to learn, but she would have got the hang of it . . . eventually. There was so much potential. She could have learned to email, specifically to her grandson in Iceland. She could have reconnected with some old university friends. She could have uploaded pictures from her camera. She could even have started writing more poetry. But now, who knows? Maybe my flippant remark has demoralized her for good. I look over at Mom. She’s clearly discouraged.

  “Well,” she says, “there’s one thing I feel like doing now.”

  “Come on, it takes everyone a few tries to get comfortable. You don’t want to give up just yet, do you?”

  “What? No, I’d really love to make a prank call . . . Can we use this thing to alter my voice?”

  “What?” I gasp. “You want to make a crank call? Now?”

  “Course,” she says, perking up. “I remember you used to do that when you were away at school. I’ve had a great one planned for Grandma that I’ve been meaning to try out. You’ll just need to show me where to talk.”

  “Okay, I guess I’ll grab the phone.” It’s a good thing she’s come around, I think. The computer really is going to open up a whole new world for Mom.

  “So you’ll make my voice sound like a middle-aged man’s, right? A smoker would be best.”

  “Ah, yeah, I can do that.”

  As I pull my chair closer to the table, handing the phone to Mom, I’m thankful Dad isn’t around to see us use this beautiful new machine to prank-call Grandma. Outside it’s started snowing again.

  “This’ll be great,” she says, her eyes widening. “It’s almost Christmas — she’ll never suspect a thing!”

  It’s the last day before the Icelandic invasion. Dad’s returned home with a pine tree strapped into the box of his truck with bungee cords. I watch him drive carefully up the lane. It’s a big tree; the thick branches reach over the roof and spill out the back hatch. When he enters the kitchen, it looks as if he’s been dusted with icing sugar. His cheeks are cherry red.

  “I made another Christmas purchase this afternoon,” he says while unwinding his scarf.

  “Saw you driving in, Dad.”

  “Oh, so you know about the tree.”

  “I do.”

  “I can’t believe it’d been passed over. It was the nicest tree on the lot, no question. I hope it looks good inside; you never know.”

  “Well, don’t worry, Mom doesn’t know about it yet. You can still surprise her.”

  “I hope she likes it,” he says, kicking snow off his black boots. “You just never know.”

  The arrival of the Christmas tree is my notice of eviction from the family room. I leave Dad to his tree-raising duty and move my books, papers, and computer up to my bedroom. Mom stops me in the hall outside my room. She informs me that they think it’s best for Jean, Johannes, and the baby to sleep in my room, on account of the layout and the larger bed.

  “I guess I should move my stuff into Jean’s old room, then?” I ask.

  “No, that won’t work either. Loa, Jean’s teenage stepdaughter, is going to be sleeping in there.”

  I carry my stuff back downstairs to the chilly storage room and the pullout couch. In a certain beneficial way it makes me feel that I too am just visiting for Christmas.

  “I just can’t get over it,” Mom’s saying. We’ve joined Dad in the family room. We’ve strung the lights, embedded the silvery tinsel
throughout the branches, placed some candy canes near the trunk, and have moved on to the decorations, which are kept in four cardboard boxes. All of the ornaments are wrapped separately in white tissue paper. Like the house decorations, they haven’t changed. They’re the same ones my parents have been hanging on pine trees for forty years.

  “It really is a beautiful tree,” she says.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to like it,” Dad confesses. “I went with my gut. What do you think, Iain?”

  They look at me.

  “About what?”

  “The tree.”

  “Sure, I like the tree,” I answer, freeing my third candy cane from its plastic wrap.

  “How could you not? It’s a wonderful tree,” says Mom.

  “Yeah, it’s a decent tree,” I say.

  “Oh, it’s more than just decent,” counters Mom.

  “It is a fairly impressive tree, Iain. Seeing it up, I’m quite happy with it,” says Dad.

  “It fits the space just perfectly,” says Mom. “And I love the smell!”

  Dad had trimmed the bottom, carried the tree inside, and held it in place while I brought the red stand out of its case, guiding the base of the trunk into its grip. Dad’s not much of a decorator, tree or otherwise, so with the selection, purchase, and transportation of the tree to the house, his work was done for the evening. He watches this final chapter unfold from his armchair.

  In the time I hang five or six decorations, Mom hangs one. With each she asks if I remember it and then recounts an accompanying anecdote. “Oh, do you remember this one, Iain? The hand-carved Rudolph; I’ve always loved this Rudolph. We got it in a craft shop in England.” She hangs Rudolph on the tree, steps back, and then re-hangs him another ninety-three times until she’s found the exact branch that suits the ornament.

  Sometimes she’s able to find a more suitable spot for the ones I’ve hung too. “Sorry,” she whispers, “that area just had one too many; seemed a tad busy.”

  “What about the lights? Should we plug them in, see how they look?” I ask.

  “What? No.” Dad leans forward in his chair. “You know the rules, bud. We have to wait until the end to turn the lights on, until everything’s up.”

  “Lights are the last thing,” says Mom. “The rules are the rules.”

  Having been reminded of the tenets, I continue until all of the boxes are empty. Tissue paper litters the coffee table and floor.

  “That’s it,” declares Mom, running her hand through the last empty box.

  “Okay, I’ll get the nog.” Dad’s up, retreating to the fridge to fetch our drinks. He returns with three glasses. “A little fresh nutmeg on top,” he says, winking as he passes them out.

  Dad places his on a coaster beside his seat and crawls into position behind the tree. Mom cuts the ceiling lights as Dad plugs in the tree. To my surprise, none of the bulbs are burnt out.

  “Look at that,” says Dad, peering up from his knees. “Not too shabby.”

  “Wow, beautiful,” adds Mom. “I think it’s the best tree we’ve ever had.”

  On cue, as she does every year at this moment, Mom sits on the maroon couch and starts singing “O Christmas Tree.” After singing this song for more than thirty years, she’s still familiar with only the first few lines. She hums the rest discordantly. “Come on, Iain, join in anytime.”

  Dad’s buried his face in his chest, chortling. He brings up his hands, rubbing his eyes. “After all these years and all these trees, you still don’t know the words.”

  Mom grins, shoos his comments away with a swat of her hand, and continues humming. “Come on, Iain, you can hum, can’t you?” says Mom.

  “Not really,” I say. I’m sitting in the chair opposite Dad, sideways, my legs hanging over the armrest.

  “You can whistle, though,” says Dad. “I remember you used to whistle all the time.”

  “Let’s just keep it as is. Carry on, Mom. No one wants to hear whistling.”

  My comment causes her to stop abruptly. “Don’t be silly. We’d love to hear some whistling. It’s a great idea.”

  “Let’s hear some, then,” exclaims Dad.

  It’s difficult now for us to see each other clearly through the glow of the tree lights. It’s easier to look out the large windows facing the orchard. The snow outside is deep and swirls around in the wind. Mom shushes the already quiet room. I inhale and start whistling “O Christmas Tree.” Mom and Dad both lean back and cross their feet at the ankles. They’re listening intently, as if they’re being treated to a live orchestral performance of The Nutcracker. I finish my first and only verse.

  “That’s a real talent you have,” claims Mom.

  “Yes, and a useful one too,” I point out.

  Dad sips from his glass mindfully. “Including that flurry of warbles made it sound altogether different. Nicely done.”

  Mom doesn’t stay seated for long; she’s spreading out a white sheet under the tree. “I almost forget about the sheet.”

  “You can’t forget that,” says Dad. “That’s where the presents go.”

  “That reminds me, I hope you’ve held up your end of the deal this year. I really don’t need any presents from you. You know that.” She’s looking pointedly at Dad now.

  “I know, I know,” he says, holding his hands up in the air. “Same for me. We’ve agreed, no presents for each other this year.”

  “I’m going back to the kitchen. Anyone ready for a refill?” I ask.

  Both glasses are raised. I accept them in one hand.

  “Nutmeg,” says Dad. “Don’t forget the nutmeg.”

  I can’t believe that five of us were living here for all those years. There were fights (both physical and verbal) and dis-agreements, but we managed to endure. My sister, Jean, and her family have been at the farm for only three days, and the house is — well, the house is full again, like it was when we were growing up.

  I’d grown accustomed to the tranquil routine of three people at the farm, two of whom are seniors. Adding a thirteen-year-old girl and a three-month-old lad, along with the steady parade of dogs and cats, has created a feeling of city life within the house. There are lines for the bathroom, the toaster, even to read the newspaper in the morning. Mealtimes in the kitchen are the equivalent of rush hour, with people standing behind one another at the fridge, bumping knees under the table, fighting for the last piece of bacon. Once word spread that Jean is back from Europe and has the baby with her, neighbours have been stopping by in bunches.

  Jean and Johannes were married here at the farm, and the neighbours played a significant role in the festivities, housing Johannes’s friends and relatives, preparing food, and hosting parties. One of the local farmers even spent the afternoon before the wedding driving up and down the road picking up any roadkill so the area would look nicer for the out-of-town guests. So Mom and Jean are both pleased to see any of the neighbours. It doesn’t matter if it’s planned or a drop-in, they’ll always have time for them. Tea is served, cookies are consumed, and photographs are pored over on Jean’s computer.

  My brother, Jimmy, has driven in from the city after work to visit every night this week. He’s eaten dinner with us and has built an ice rink beside the duck pond. He’s even fastened a floodlight to one of the elm trees for night skating. We teach Loa how to skate. She’s pretty good. We try to teach Johannes how to play hockey, but he prefers to slide along the bumpy ice in his boots, steadying himself with the stick.

  Right now Dad and Johannes are outside shovelling snow, Loa’s watching a movie, and Mom’s wrapping gifts. I’m sitting at the dining-room table with Jean, playing cribbage. George is sitting inertly in her lap. I’ve never beaten Jean at cribbage. Or, come to think of it, at any game that requires wit, knowledge, or quick think
ing. Considering our different personalities and interests, Jean and I have always got along well. She left home for university when I was only twelve or thirteen, and then four years later she moved overseas. For the past fifteen years I’ve seen her only a couple of times a year.

  “Can you hold the baby for a minute?” she asks.

  I look up from my cards. “Me?”

  I kept hearing how amazing it was going to be to have a new baby around for Christmas. It’ll be so much fun! It’ll be so great for you! You’re an uncle now! You’ll finally be able to do uncle stuff!!! So far baby George drools a fair amount, sleeps a lot, and drinks milk, which he may or may not spit back up onto his minuscule shirt. Sometimes he cries. And he wakes up throughout the night, either to drink more milk or to cry, or both. From the foam pullout in the storage room directly underneath, I can hear him lucidly.

  “Just for a second.”

  “Your baby?”

  “Here, take him.” She hands me the gelatinous pink mound she calls her son. I handle him uncertainly, as if she’s passed me a sandbag with a hole in it. I grip him rigidly under the armpits, not sure what to do about the leaking sand. It’s an unflattering position for George, his chin rippling into three fleshy disks. He reminds me of a piecrust that’s been taken out of the oven a few minutes too soon. I can’t really tell what he’s going to look like; his human form hasn’t quite set in. I’m grinning foolishly. I’m a clown without a costume, a jester without his hat. Every so often George twitches or extends an arm upward or a leg outward. We’re locked in the nervous pose of teenage slow dancers: touching, barely, and neither owning enough nerve to breach the two-foot gap. He’s drooling from the left side of his mouth and making gurgling noises. The muscles around my mouth are sore from holding this silly grin. Some of his drool manages to find an area of exposed skin on my left wrist and thumb. I quickly wipe it on his shirt.