One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  I hear some indecipherable whispering. Then Dad’s chuckling, and Mom’s laughing too. Finally Dad jogs past me with the letter in hand. He climbs into his truck and drives off to mail it. Even though her computer was on all day, she ended up writing the letter by hand. Mom sneezes a couple of times, shuts down her computer, packs up her papers, and heads upstairs to change out of her pyjamas.

  I’m leaning in now, my hands on either side of the sink, my face an inch or so away from the mirror. I shaved just this morning, about ten hours ago; still, I lather a shot of blue shaving gel between my fingers and cover the lower half of my face.

  I should go outside and take a walk. It’s a nice evening. I can hear the kettle fussing from the kitchen. Mom will be making a pot of tea, probably chamomile. Dad’s settled in for the evening; the playoff hockey game has been switched on down the hall.

  Maybe I should give that fancy moustache a try. But if I want a moustache, does that mean I should just grow a beard again? Maybe I should stay clean-shaven for a while. But does it really matter? It starts growing again the second you shave it off. It never stops growing. It’s growing again even while you shave it.

  I walk over to the window and peer between the white slats of the blinds. It’s a view I know well. I’ve stood contemplating this scene from the bathroom window hundreds of times growing up, and probably hundreds more this year. The evening sky is a blend of pink and red. There are a few thin clouds on the horizon, but mostly it’s clear. I’ve seen this sky before too, with these same wispy clouds. If the land is developed, if homes are built as Dad thinks they will be, this view will be permanently altered; large houses, uniform backyards, and tall fences will replace the grass, dirt, and streams. Those fields will be hidden by advancement, by progress.

  I can see Lucius now. He’s emerged onto the middle of the barn’s silver roof. He’s holding his little head up and out, screeching towards the back fields. Tonight I sense a certain declaration of happiness in his squealing. The weather’s changed; like the rest of us he’s pleased to see spring. He’s also clearly content with his choice of family. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s provided with shelter and food; he’s encouraged, looked after, showered with attention, and loved unconditionally. For an eccentric guinea fowl, he’s got it pretty good.

  I move back to the sink and splash a few handfuls of water on my face, washing away the scented gel. I dry myself with the beige cotton towel hanging on the back of the door and rub my hand across my cheek. I can barely feel it but it’s already there — the relentless, rebounding stubble.

  I think I’ll have some of that tea. I reckon Mom will have a few more pictures from her album to show me. And then I’ll make some popcorn or have a big bowl of ice cream — I saw some in the freezer yesterday. And then maybe I’ll take a book out to the verandah. Dad’s plucked a Nancy Mitford novel out of his bookcase for me; it’s one he thinks I’ll “particularly enjoy.” I could offer to barbecue supper. I wonder what we’re having. Dishes will need to be washed and dried and put away. I should watch a period or two of the hockey game. There will be animals to feed, litter boxes to clean, and plants to water. I haven’t seen much of the dogs today. Both are due for a pet.

  But first I’d better take that walk.

  Author’s Note

  SINCE THE COMPLETION OF THIS BOOK I’ve left Lilac Hill and moved into my own apartment. I returned to the farm for a few days last Christmas, with the more comfortable title of visitor. We had to set an extra seat at the table for my sister’s second son. Well, metaphorically. He was only three months old at the time and mostly lay on the couch chewing his index finger. The only bit of sad news is the passing of Meg, our border collie, who died suddenly but painlessly in early December. Pumpkin the cat has shamelessly usurped her bed.

  At Christmas dinner we listened to music, toasted, ate, and drank. We reminisced about the year I moved home and I told everyone about the book I’d written. I wasn’t asked to whistle. Not once. Everything else at the farm was as I’d left it. Dad still fancies his magic cords, Mom’s still allergic to her cellphone, and Lucius still waits stoically on the verandah for his morning meal. A modest housing development is planned for a neighbouring field. Construction has yet to start.

  Some names were changed for the sake of anonymity. Excerpts from two chapters were originally broadcast on CBC Radio’s Out Front.

  Acknowledgements

  I WOULD LIKE TO THANK MY SKILFUL EDITOR, Janie Yoon, and my esteemed agent, Samantha Haywood. Without them this book wouldn’t be a book and I would still be licking honey off my shirt. I would also like to thank the Ontario Arts Council for its assistance.

  I hold much gratitude for my small but supportive family (all of you at the Christmas table). I’m particularly indebted to my sister for all her help and keen eye for detail.

  Also thanks to House of Anansi Press, CBC Ottawa, the country of Iceland, Ian Coutts, The Manx pub, the Victory Café, Catharine Lyons-King, Erin Lawson, Meg Masters, Stuart McLean, Alex Schultz, my friends, and, most imperatively, Lucius.

  Thanks, Mom and Dad. I owe you one.

  We all know writing is a reclusive, lonely endeavour. It just is. But nobody writes alone.

  About the Author

  IAIN REID has written for several CBC Radio shows, including Definitely Not the Opera, Metro Morning, Here and Now, and GO. His work has also appeared in the Globe and Mail, the Iceland Review Online, and Atlantica magazine. A graduate of Queen’s University, Iain Reid was born in Ottawa in 1981 and now lives in Kingston. One Bird’s Choice is his first book.

  About the Publisher

  House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, and 2010, Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”