One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  When Jean returns, I’m echoing his alien noises like an auditory mirror. She wonders how we got on.

  “Swimmingly,” I reply. “Like a couple of old friends.”

  It’s Christmas Eve. It might actually be Christmas by now. It’s late. We had tourtière for dinner, made by Mom’s friend Maria, who lives down the road. After dinner I wrapped some gifts and went skating with Dad. Then he went off to the barn to talk to the sheep, as he does every Christmas Eve.

  Now I’m lying in the bath. It’s the first time in years I’ve had the urge to take a bath. It’s steaming hot and I’ve added a few capfuls of some purple bubble stuff I found under the sink. It smells like purple bubbles should, lavender maybe.

  I’ve actually been thinking about the song Mom’s been playing on repeat, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” I’ve decided the song is more about coming home for Christmas than just being home then. The implication that the singer has been away and is returning, that his stay will be temporary, makes the visit more meaningful. His presence is fleeting, so it must be cherished. It’s different when you’re already home for Christmas and will be remaining there when everyone else leaves.

  A more appropriate song for me would be “I’ll Be Staying for Christmas.” You can plan on me. On Boxing Day I’ll be walking down the driveway to open and close the gate. I’ll trudge back to the house while everyone else drives away, their cars full of unwrapped gifts, to return to foreign countries, cities, to careers and stress, mortgage payments, ski weekends, fondue dinner parties, and children and commitments: the fervour of everyday life.

  I must not have caught the latch in the door because Harry Snugs has joined me — in the room, not the bath. I was looking at the metal faucet between my feet when he slid in silently, pushing past the door and sidling up to stand at the rim of the tub on his back legs. His face is only a foot from mine. He examines me and meows.

  I sink down a little lower in the tub. The foamy water inches up over my chin, mouth, and then ears. Only my nose, eyes, and forehead remain exposed. Tomorrow’s Christmas morning. The turkey’s defrosting in the fridge, all the gifts are under the tree, and everyone else is asleep. The skin on my hands is starting to prune.

  I look around the bathroom. Harry Snugs is perched on the windowsill, his tail curled around his paws. With the water up over my ears, I’m deaf. The steaming water is a liquid barrier. It’s the closest I’ve come to complete silence in weeks. All I can hear are odd vibrations in the water, my shifty leg brushing against the side of the tub.

  The Christmas loaf is just out of the oven. It’s packed with grains, fruit, nuts, and spices. I’m detaching some Christmas morning sleep from the corner of my eye as I watch Jimmy spread a soft knob of butter across a piece of the warm bread. It’s melting as he spreads it. It’s Jean’s custom to make a fresh loaf first thing on Christmas morning, and Jimmy’s arrived just in time to welcome it. He’s brought some gifts and a couple of bottles of champagne with him. He’s put the gifts under the tree, placed the bottles in the fridge, and cut himself a generous slice of warm bread.

  Both orange and white cheddar and brie cheese have been opened and set on a wooden cutting board. Their plastic wraps are lying like snake skins on the counter. Someone’s put muffins in a basket on the table and a jar of orange marmalade with a tiny spoon alongside it. Clementines are scattered across the counter like delicious juicy landmines. I can hear and smell the coffee brewing.

  Three sips into my coffee, Jimmy hands me a flute of bubbling champagne. Drinking them together would be repulsive. Unpredictably, going back and forth is quite pleasant.

  More guests arrive: Dad’s sister, Aunt Grace; Mom’s sister, Aunt Charlotte; her brother, Uncle Alec; and Grandma from Mom’s side. They all live a short drive from the farm and they enter with food and parcels. Hugs are given and received. Someone suggests we should start opening gifts.

  There’s often an unintentional theme when it comes to the gifts. Last year a dozen or so candles were given and received. A few years back it was books. This year a lot of artisanal soap is exchanged. Uncle Alec wraps all his gifts in plastic grocery bags. I like it. It’s his own style, and he’s stuck with it over the years. I’ve stuck with tradition too, donning my frugal cap again this Christmas. I’ve made mix CDs for everyone.

  “Don’t forget,” I remind the group endlessly as I hand out each one, “music lasts a lifetime.”

  “Even on these dodgy burned disks?” wonders Jimmy. “They aren’t even in cases.”

  “They’re still protected.”

  “You’ve just wrapped paper towels around them.”

  “Does anybody want more cheese?” I say.

  Dad’s the only one I don’t burn a CD for. I pass him a card claiming I’ll stop stealing his packs of chewing gum and razor cartridges. At the bottom I’ve written Merry Christmas in green and red pencil crayons.

  We spend a few more hours opening gifts. The gift exchange would go by more quickly if it weren’t for the five or six presents Mom and Dad give each other. They do the same thing every year, after promising not to give each other anything.

  I’m sitting in between Dad and Mom. We’ve moved to the dinner table. The roasted turkey’s in front of us; they always save our biggest one for Christmas. This year it’s well over twenty pounds, probably closer to thirty. I have to avoid the lit candles to hand the china dish of lumpy mashed potatoes to Jimmy, who passes it along to Uncle Alec, who takes a dollop and hands it to Aunt Charlotte. Dad’s helping Grandma with a spoonful of stuffing. Jean’s more concerned with the baby than her meal, bouncing him on her knee and making faces. Johannes is pouring the wine, while Loa giggles at something that Jimmy has just said.

  Mom lifts her glass in the air. “It’s just so nice to have everyone here. It’s been a great holiday.” She takes a sip.

  “Yes, it has,” echoes Dad, raising his own. “Merry Christmas.”

  Everyone takes a drink. Then knives are scraping against plates and forkfuls of hot food are being brought up to mouths.

  “And it’s been so nice to see everyone again. You’ve all done such different things. That’s what I can’t get over,” Grandma says.

  Although Grandma has led her own adventurous and interesting life, it’s always us, her grandchildren, that she wants to talk about. And we three are the only ones. Neither Charlotte nor Grace nor Alec has any children. We have no cousins. Other than Johannes, Loa, and George, it’s been this same cast of characters sitting around the table at Christmas year after year.

  We talk about some of Loa’s exploits at school and how she’s made the honour roll. Johannes, a history professor, has had an equally successful year, publishing a very popular non-fiction book that made the bestseller list in Iceland.

  Grandma asks Jean if she’s been back to any reunions at Oxford lately, which is where she completed her master’s degree and met Johannes. Grandma’s questions guide the river of conversation along Jean’s path, from her days at Oxford to the ensuing years when she worked as the office manager of a graphic design company in England.

  “It’s better now that I’m my own boss,” she says. Since arriving in Iceland Jean has become a busy freelance writer and editor.

  And then the conversational river takes a bend when Aunt Grace navigates the discussion towards Jimmy. “How many people can say they’ve been involved in a shuttle launch?”

  Jimmy’s an engineer. He’s been working for a company that’s been hired by NASA and has been travelling back and forth to Florida or Texas whenever there’s a shuttle launch.

  “Not very many,” says Alec.

  “It’s just a job,” says Jimmy. “But, yeah, it’s been good.”

  Now the current runs towards me. The table goes quiet as the discourse hits a dam. Mom takes another small sip of her wine. Some eyes fall upon me,
others scan the table, looking to add more food to their crowded plates. Someone, I think Johannes, coughs. I’m pouring some extra gravy onto my mashed potatoes, forming a dark pool in the middle.

  “Now,” says Mom, “when was the last time you guys heard Iain whistle?”

  “Not for ages,” says Grandma.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that,” says Aunt Charlotte.

  “Yes, I’d like that,” affirms Grace.

  “Oh, it’s good stuff,” answers Mom.

  “Brilliant,” declares Dad. “Come on, Iain, give them a little taste.”

  “Yes, we’re all ears,” says Jimmy.

  My mouth is stuffed with turkey. I chew carefully and swallow without rushing. I wipe my mouth with my napkin, staining it with gravy, and put it down beside my plate in a ball. “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t even know what to whistle.”

  “‘Girl from Ipanema.’” Dad’s prompt with his suggestion.

  I stare at him in disbelief. “‘Girl from Ipanema’?”

  “Sure, everyone knows it.”

  “Right, then.” I start in, gazing at the remains on my plate.

  Grandma is swaying her head from side to side with the rhythm. Loa claps twice when I stop. Johannes and Jimmy exchange nods of approval. The baby seems poised to cry but resists. Uncle Alec asks Charlotte to pass the cranberry sauce while I retrieve my fork. The gravy on my plate is starting to congeal.

  “Wait, what about something more festive now?” suggests Jean. She stands and walks away from the table with the baby in one arm.

  “Absolutely,” says Mom. “How ’bout ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’!”

  “I don’t know, I think one’s enough for today,” I say.

  “Come on,” says Dad, “one more.”

  No one else is as enthusiastic, or interested.

  “Go on,” says Mom, nodding towards Grandma, as if she’s dying to hear it.

  I acquiesce, puckering up and whistling until the plates around me are bare and we’re ready for dessert. In the kitchen the baby starts to cry.

  For the second time in as many days, I’ve temporarily removed myself from the world of sound. I thought it was impossible, but twice now I’ve deleted that sense. If I sit still there’s no sound out here tonight. Nothing. Everything’s frozen in place. It’s rare not to be joined by a few of the animals by now. I haven’t seen Titan or Meg or any of the cats. The sheep are locked up in the barn, and Lucius must be on a tree branch somewhere freezing his tail feathers off. When we finished dessert, I said I was just going out for a quick skate. I carried my skates outside, slung over one shoulder. But I haven’t put them on yet. I didn’t even turn on the floodlight. I’m just sitting in the dark, on the steep bank at the edge of the rink. I can see the activity in the house through the windows facing me.

  Everyone is milling about. Dad’s bent down, adjusting something on the stereo. Jimmy’s feeling the effects of his meal, lying catatonic on the couch. Grandma’s holding the baby. I’ve deduced over Christmas dinner that my three-month-old nephew, my thirteen-year-old step-niece, and even my elderly grandmother all have more active, rewarding social lives than I do. I bet Johannes has just cracked one of his racy European jokes, because everyone has started laughing.

  A game has begun. I can’t tell which. Another bottle of wine has been uncorked. They might be playing some form of charades or a trivia game. I know that teams have been picked, the way they are every year, by what colour paper crown each person found in their Christmas cracker. The crackers are pulled before we start eating, and everyone unfolds their crown and places it on their head. If your crown is red you’ll be on the red team for the post-dinner games. I’m on the green team. Also on the green team are Jimmy and Grandma. They’ll be competitive without me. Unlike me, Grandma is a charades ringer.

  All the warm bodies and constant use of the oven have significantly raised the temperature in the house this week. No one really knows how cold it feels when it’s only Mom, Dad, and me. But I was getting used to the cold.

  I meant to bring my small silver flask outside with me. I topped it off with a few fingers of single malt, but feeling around in my coat pocket confirms that I’ve forgotten it. In its place I find my green crown. I unfold it and place it on top of my woollen toque. I look inside the house again. By the way people are wiggling about and bobbing their heads, I’d wager “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” just came on. I can see Uncle Alec snapping his fingers. I remove my mitt, reach down beside me, and close my bare fist around a ball of white snow. I bring it up to my mouth and take a bite. It’s cold and wet.

  The shape of my seat is hardening into the snowbank. I can feel it forming like drying cement underneath me. If it snows again, as they’re calling for tonight, my imprint will be gone by morning. I’m not going to stay out here for long. I’ll go back in and join my team. There’s plenty of time, though. The games are just getting started.

  Nine

  Calendar Days

  SINCE EARLY JANUARY I'VE BEEN wearing a lime green shawl over my shoulders whenever standing, lying, or sitting. It’s my own dainty little way of preventing hypothermia. I swear, on the really cold days I can see my breath in the house. Mom and Dad tell me I’m being dramatic. They tell me to just wear more layers. Dramatic? I’m inside and that light fog floating around my face is my frozen breath.

  Today I’m also wearing headphones. The music is too loud. It’s distracting. The reason why I’m wearing them is to thwart the greater disturbance that’s keeping me from writing. The sound is coming from the storage room, and it’s been tormenting me since just after breakfast. Every few minutes the sound stops, and just as the tranquility settles in, it starts up again — on and off, all morning. I testily rip off the shawl, remove the headphones, and get up to investigate the noise.

  I’ve been doing most things testily lately. My mood has soured along with the half-carton of eggnog lingering in the back of the fridge. It seems that slamming doors and yelling at the cats are my New Year’s resolutions. I’ve also started growing an unkempt beard in the new year, for the hope of added warmth and because of my lack of disposable razor cartridges. Really, though, there’s just no point shaving.

  Do I even have to tell you how I spent my New Year’s Eve? Seriously, just take a guess. Correct. I was at Lilac Hill with my parents. After our fondue supper we nursed weak gin-and-tonics while they sang several verses of “Auld Lang Syne.” I tried twice, but Mom wouldn’t let me go to bed until after midnight.

  Since everyone left after Christmas, Mom, Dad, and I have been spending more time around each other. Mom’s at the farm most days, and so is Dad. He’s lecturing at the university only one day a week this term. He spends the majority of his time in his study. Mom is much less predictable, floating from room to room.

  There’s no holiday to look forward to anymore, just weeks of cold and snow. We have to shovel every couple of days and carry hay and buckets of water to the sheep, chickens, and ducks twice a day. The automatic watering system doesn’t work in the winter, not at this farm anyway. When we’re not bundled up, plodding through these daily outdoor tasks, we’re all spending more time inside, around one another . . . bundled up.

  I’ve probably set foot off our land only three or four times since Christmas. There’s nowhere else for me to go, and I have little money to spend. Some days I feel that I should call CBC, hound them, plead for some more shifts. I haven’t. Mostly I’ve been using my time to read, and I’ve been sleeping more, hibernating. In the afternoons, if I get some quiet, I write. So far the results have been mixed at best. I’ve produced some okay stuff and some horrible stuff.

  I enter the storage room, muttering under my breath, and see Dad sitting with his back to the door. The room is a mess. He’s surrounded by a moat of paper and is fiddling with some
thing on the floor.

  “Dad,” I call over the grinding noise. “Dad!”

  He flicks the switch on the machine and the room is suddenly quiet. He slowly turns his head. “You say something?”

  “What’s going on in here?” I’m holding my hands under each armpit, trying to keep them warm.

  “Nothing,” he says, removing a squished foam earplug from his right ear. “Just doing a bit of shredding.”

  I move closer to get a better view of Dad’s equipment — a large grey shredding machine that looks worn and damaged. Beside it are several banker’s boxes full of papers. He’s seated on a footstool and his glasses are resting on top of his head. He places his hands on his hips and stretches his back.

  “Since when do we have a shredder?”

  “Since my mom died. I inherited it. I’ve been meaning to get it out for a while.”

  The protective plastic on the top of the shredder is dusty and cracked. Its black cord is flecked with white paint.

  “How long did Grandma Reid have it for? I can’t believe it still works.”

  “It’s not that old; it works fine.”

  “Is it made to be so loud, though?”

  “Meant.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Is it meant to be so loud, and yes, you can’t shred quietly. That would be an oxymoron.”

  I reach into the box and pull out a handful of papers.

  “What are you shredding?”

  “I’m cleaning out the filing cabinets.”

  I flip through the papers: old receipts, income tax forms, university newsletters.

  “Dad, you’re shredding old newsletters?”

  “Among other things,” he says.