One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  “Kenny Rogers. I mean, ‘The Gambler’ seriously has to be one of the best songs ever recorded.”

  “Right,” I say, looking down at the face on my shirt. “‘The Gambler,’ yeah, I agree for sure.”

  “Agree with what?” asks Grace, joining the conversation. She’s nibbling on a toasted bagel. Where did she get that?

  “We’re just talking music over here,” he says.

  “We’re both into similar stuff,” I add.

  “What stuff?” Grace sounds confused.

  “We both love Kenny Rogers — you know, ‘The Gambler.’”

  “I didn’t know you’re a Kenny Rogers fan,” she says to me.

  “What? You didn’t? Course I am, big time. Huge.”

  “I figured you guys would get along,” says Grace. “I’m sure you have other shared interests.”

  “No doubt,” I say, swallowing a yawn.

  We continue talking, solely about Kenny Rogers, until Grace nods, telling me it’s time. I follow her to the classroom, wiping my sweaty palms on the legs of my pants.

  Hour One: Getting to Know You

  Grace greets each student as they arrive and ushers them to a large green mat. I’m slouched at the blackboard, hands in my pockets. The entire class of thirty sits cross-legged around an empty wooden stool. Two of the youngsters furtively stick out their tongues at me. I return their salute. Grace guides me to the stool with her hand on my back. She tells the class I am her nephew and that if they have any questions, now is the time to ask. She retreats to her desk.

  I seat myself on the stool. I fold my arms uncomfortably over my stomach and smile sheepishly at the back wall. I’m faced with a sea of waving hands. The first boy I call on slowly drops his arm when I point in his direction. He looks from right to left and after a few seconds just shrugs his shoulders.

  The second child, an unsolicited girl with a frizzy ponytail, stands to announce in an unexpectedly emphatic voice, “You smell like coffee.” She goes on to explain how her parents don’t drink coffee anymore, only green tea. I want to tell her she looks like an owl, but instead I just say, “Okay, guys, I think this is the question circle, not the comment circle.”

  A red-haired boy with freckles is next. Finally, an appropriate question: he asks me my age. I let them guess. First I hear twenty-five. “Older,” I say. The next guess, eighty. More questions follow, mostly regarding my gross beard and crooked teeth.

  After question period the kids sit at their desks and draw. Some use crayons, others markers. I manoeuvre among the tables and chairs, examining the artwork enviously, handing out little sticky stars.

  I stop at the desk of one girl who’s dressed in a pair of jean overalls and white running shoes. She’s biting her tongue in concentration. She’s using a brown crayon and is clearly drawing some type of tree, a seemingly decayed weeping willow, blowing in a windswept meadow. The tree looks lonely, sad. Its tragic beauty holds my attention but is ultimately unbecoming, almost lurid. The more I examine it, the more it revolts me.

  “I’m drawing you,” she asserts, sensing my presence without taking her eyes off her picture.

  “Excellent,” I say, handing her a shiny red star.

  Hour Two: Gym Class

  I’m guiding a single-file line of about fifteen enterprising boys. The elementary school gym seems much smaller than I remember. When I was in school, it seemed so expansive. Apart from its diminished size, everything else is identical. The climbing ropes hanging from the ceiling are the same; so are the basketball nets with wooden backboards painted white and the yellow overhead lights, which buzz softly in the background. Even the scent of rubber balls and sweat is familiar.

  I let the boys decide which game they want to play. I hope for dodge ball, but the group settles unreliably on floor hockey. I realize afterwards that they would have voted for whatever game I said first.

  One child, a plump, brash boy named Mitchell, crawls over to the equipment room and screams. He knows the parachute is in there and he wants to play with it. After much cajoling I finally convince him to forget the parachute so we can play hockey, but he has a condition — he demands to be goalie. I’m hesitant. I find myself easily irritated by Mitchell and disinclined to grant him his wish. I think it started when I heard him bragging to a girl in class that he had five chocolate chip cookies in his lunch, and she couldn’t have any. She didn’t seem to care, but I did. I love chocolate chip cookies. I had visions of standing over Mitchell, slowly eating his cookies one by one as the crumbs rained down onto his desk. But I give in. It takes ten minutes to strap him into the goalie pads. “These smell,” he says.

  When the puck drops, I forget about Visitor’s Day. I’m not just supervising anymore; I’m back in gym class. I’ve taken up a defence position on the red team, who were one player short. I’m feeling good, feeling loose. I haven’t played a game of floor hockey in years. The plastic stick is too short for me but my passes are crisp, my stick-handling has never been so precise. And no one from the other team is getting by me — no one. I’m a wall of defence.

  It’s about fifteen minutes into the game, with our team ahead 1–0, when Mitchell starts voicing his complaints. “Iain,” he’s moaning. “Iain, I’m getting bored back here.” His piercing voice sounds too old for a six-year-old. I think it’s the way he pronounces his words. It takes Mitchell twice as long to say bored as it would any of the other kids. It’s infuriating. I’m trying my best to ignore him. After all, we’re in the middle of the game and I’m trying to win.

  “It’s okay, pal. Just hang in there.”

  “But no one’s shooting on me.”

  “Yup, we’re winning, champ. Let’s try and remember that,” I counter.

  With Mitchell still lamenting his lack of action behind me, the pace of the game slows in front. Both teams are starting to float and lose interest. One group of boys is leaning on their sticks and chatting in a small circle. The game needs a spark.

  I elegantly strip the puck from a boy in stocking feet (he forgot his gym shoes), dance around three opposing players, and from just a couple of steps in front of my own goal flip the puck high up off the gym floor. It moves purposefully through the air in what seems like slow motion and sails over the goalie’s shoulder like a bird. The soft orange puck hits the very top right-hand corner of the net. Goal! — and what a beauty. The young blond goalie hasn’t even moved; he’s picking at the straps of his right pad.

  I slap the blade of my stick on the floor. “Woooo!” I yell. “Brilliant! 2–0.”

  The gym is silent. I look around to see all the six-year-old boys staring blankly at me. Before I can speak, Mitchell pushes his goalie mask up over his head. “When we play hockey, the teachers aren’t allowed to score,” he declares, taking extra long to say allowed.

  “Yeah,” announces another boy, the one in stocking feet, “usually they don’t even shoot.”

  “And I’m still getting no shots on me. I want some action!”

  “Mitchell,” I call over my shoulder, irritably, “I’ve been playing great defence — my job is to stop them from shooting on you. It’s good for the team if you don’t have to stop any shots. So just relax.”

  “More shots!” he demands.

  We continue back and forth until Mitchell’s voice grows ever louder and higher-pitched. I relent, and in the following minutes I allow any child with the puck clear access to our net. Mitchell is peppered with four shots, resulting in four goals. He’s utterly helpless; it looks more like he is trying to avoid the puck than stop it.

  “I hate being goalie,” he declares. “I want to play defence.”

  “No, Mitchell, you asked to play goalie, and there isn’t enough time left to switch the equipment.”

  I turn to run up the floor but Mitchell is sitting down now, refusing to
play. Again I relent. It takes ten minutes to unbuckle Mitchell out of the bulky goalie pads. Just as I’m looking for his replacement, the bell rings and gym class is over. It’s a flurry of yelling and irrepressible movement. Mitchell is first out the door, followed by the rest of the screaming kids. I’m left alone in the suddenly quiet gym with the discarded pads and an army of red and blue hockey sticks to collect.

  Hour Three: Lunch

  Before I leave I decide to stick around for lunch. Grace is headed for yard duty, so I stay inside to watch over the class. We sit and eat the lunches our parents have prepared. I’m hoping to convince one of the kids to trade for my bruised banana. I specifically asked Mom not to give it to me.

  Most of the kids eagerly wolf down their meals and are outside within minutes. All except one boy, who is sitting alone at one of the miniature red tables. I walk over and sit down beside him. The boy, like me, is a slow eater. He’s enjoying his food; each bite is chewed carefully and savoured. He’s also shy and shows more concern for his carrot sticks than me. But after a few minutes he breaks the silence, leaning in close as if he has a secret to share. Raising his eyebrows, he delicately asks if I want to see the inside of his sandwich. When I say yes, he deliberately peels apart the two halves, revealing what appear to be slices of ham and cheese and strings of mustard and mayo. Wearing an expression that says, Pretty crazy, isn’t it? he slaps his sandwich back together and takes a wee bite.

  Back in my car I’m shivering, waiting for the engine to warm, reflecting on my morning. A charming end to my day back at school: this little boy, brimming with excitement and wonder at something as mundane and insignificant as a ham and cheese sandwich. It’s a moment I can keep with me, a constant reminder of the innocence and general enthusiasm so many of us lack. I decide that this thoughtful boy, his ham sandwich, and all that it represents are the highlight of my morning.

  Or at least it’s a very close second. We’re talking top corner here — the goalie never had a chance!

  Twelve

  A Bit of Sun

  THE SNOW HAS FINALLY STARTED MELTING. We’ve been clustered in the kitchen all morning. I’m sitting on the counter eating a bowl of Mini-Wheats. Dad, a few feet to my right, sleeves rolled up, hunched over, is washing dishes in the sink. Mom’s sleeves are also rolled up and she is drying with a blue and white tea towel. She stacks the bowls and plates before putting them away. They’re working on the breakfast dishes but are focused on the sheep.

  “I suppose about fifty percent of the time nothing bad happens.”

  “Yup, fifty percent sounds about right,” echoes Mom.

  I’m holding my bowl and spoon in one hand and draining the last of the milk directly into my mouth. “Okay,” I sputter. “So then, fifty percent of the time something bad does happen.”

  “Yup, I’d say around fifty,” says Mom.

  “Give or take,” agrees Dad.

  They’ve been trying to have this talk with me for weeks, the one about the dogs and cats and how to keep them fed and watered; the one about the sheep, explaining exactly how much hay to give them, when to give them stale bread, and how to lure them into the barn with a scoop of grain. They want to make sure I’m prepared for everything. Lambing season has arrived, bringing with it a handful of new arrivals. The last three of our Cheviot ewes are due this week.

  The warmer weather has also induced a warmer mood. I find I’m in good spirits, my best in some time, and I’ve been looking forward to this week: the quiet, the solitude, the lack of human presence. I’ve decided I’m not going to leave Lilac Hill for the next three days. Not once. And I’m looking forward to it. I have everything I need here.

  Tomorrow my parents are headed south, to Georgia. They’re off to a conference where Dad will deliver a paper on eighteenth-century poetry. I’ve heard him reading it aloud to Mom for the past couple of days. He always gets her to edit his papers before these conferences.

  I’ve been feeling unapologetically productive. I’ve been spending the majority of my time writing, often for several hours at a time. When I got into a groove like this in Toronto, I always felt guilty, as if I should be doing something else, something that would help pay the rent. But I’ve been living an inexpensive life and haven’t felt that nip of guilt. I’m also feeling less confined, less anxious about still living with Mom and Dad. Maybe it’s because I’ve been able to write more or because the cold has left. I’m not sure. But the lures of city life have been melting away with the ice and snow.

  I brought up my living situation with Dad a couple of weeks earlier, as we stacked the last of the firewood. He was quick to brush the topic aside with a casual wave of his hand, the way he always has since I’ve returned. “It’s okay; we’re not too concerned about it. It’ll be great if you’re still here in a couple of weeks, when we go away. We’ll need someone here to look after the animals, and it seems like you’re doing a lot of writing, which is good.” We stacked the rest of the wood in silence.

  Even just four days alone at the farm will be a treat. Birthing mishaps are my sole concern. I’ve never been alone at the farm during lambing season before.

  “Well, you can have a breech birth; they can get pretty tricky and are fairly common,” says Dad.

  “Yes, and sometimes the little hooves get stuck,” continues Mom. She’s dropped her towel on the counter in a damp ball and is demonstrating with her hands how the hooves can get wedged under the chin. “Just like this. Then you have to get your hands in there and help it through.”

  “In there?”

  “Right, up in the birth canal.”

  “That’s usually your mom’s job because of her small hands.”

  Mom and Dad each hold up a hand as an offering of evidence. Dad’s are three times as large. I jump down off the counter.

  “What else?”

  “Well, if you think the ewe is prolapsing or she isn’t moving around but just lying there or foaming at the mouth, you can always call the vet.”

  “Or call a neighbour.”

  “Or call your brother.”

  This is their strongest point. If something goes wrong with the sheep or the cats or the dogs or, well, anything, I shouldn’t try to figure it out. I should call others for help.

  “Okay,” I say, sliding my empty bowl into the sink. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  As I leave the kitchen, Mom’s muttering something about Grandma being another good contact option. Just in case I need help. Grandma is ninety-one.

  An hour or so later Dad’s upstairs packing. Mom and I are reviewing more instructions. We’ve left the sheep, chickens, and ducks for the domesticated animals. None of the dogs or cats is pregnant, so I’m anticipating minimal theatrics. Mom’s given me a clipboard, a blank sheet of paper, and a blue pen. She insists I take notes. I’m a couple of steps behind her as she prepares the dogs’ dinners.

  “Titan gets three of the big scoops. But one of the scoops comes from the blue bin. That’s his special food.”

  “Why’s it special?”

  “It’s dental dog food. He has a legitimate tartar problem.”

  “I was unaware. Go on.”

  “Now, as for Meggers, she gets only two scoops. Use the smaller scoop and get hers from the red bin. It’s special diet food.”

  “Meg’s on a diet?”

  “Yes, her little hips are getting really sore, so we switched her onto the diet food. It’s made a difference. She was getting pretty chubby there for a while.”

  “But don’t you always give her treats after dinner?”

  “Yes, but only one, or one and a half if it’s a cold night.” Mom stands looking at Meg, who stares back, anticipating her supper. “Well, sometimes maybe two.”

  I scribble down one and a half on a cold night, maybe two. We move back into the house. I
’m balancing the bowls in one hand, and I lay them carefully down in front of the heating vent on the kitchen floor. I’ve seen Mom put them here to warm the food and the bowls. Mom is opening a can of wet food.

  “Now,” she says, “you also have to break open one of these glucosamine pills and empty it onto Meg’s dinner. That’s also for those stiff hips.”

  This too goes down on the pad.

  “Okay, she also gets two of these little pink pills, which I just mix into some of this meat.” Mom answers me before I have time to ask. “They’re for her thyroid.”

  Two pink thyroid pills, mix into meat. My page is filling up. I watch Mom take bits of meat and mix it into the dry food with a fork. She does it methodically, tiny bits at a time, to ensure that the meat mixes evenly with the kibble.

  “As for ratios, since Meg is so much smaller I give her a lot less.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “She usually gets around an eighth of a can or so, and only at dinner. She doesn’t need meat at breakfast unless it’s really cold or rainy, then you can put a little treat on her meal. She’s not picky; she’ll eat anything leftover from your supper. Cheese is good. Sometimes I sprinkle a little Parmesan on there, or you could fry an egg quickly.”

  My head is down and I’m scribbling frantically.

  “Obviously Titan gets a bit more; I usually give him almost the rest of half the can. So I guess about seven-eighths or so . . . of half.”

  The dogs attack their meticulously prepared meals, their metal collars clinking on their bowls. It has taken Mom much longer to assemble them than it does for Meg and Titan to inhale them. She continues with her hints as they occur to her. Titan loves rice. Meg loves chicken skin, so if I roast a chicken or a turkey I should save the skin for Meg. I hadn’t planned on roasting any poultry while they’re gone, but I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry. I jot down Meg = chicken skin.

  The cats are up next. I observe Mom beckoning them affectionately in a high-pitched voice. She taps one of their tiny china dishes with a fork. This peculiar ritual works. The cats sprint into the kitchen in a blur of black, white, and orange fur.