One Bird's Choice (20 page)

I tell Dad I’m not busy and he tosses me a pair of gloves. We toil mostly in silence. I lose track of time, but several feet outside the shed we’ve mobilized a small army of junk on the grass.

“Should I go grab some garbage bags?” I notice Dad has brought only one black garbage bag with him. It’s sticking out of his back pocket. There’s enough debris here to fill five or six. It’s as if he’s brought a thimble to empty a bathtub.

“Well, hold off, we should go through this stuff first. Probably don’t want to throw it
all
away.”

We start sifting through the insipid collection. Dad’s save pile is growing at an alarming rate. He finds varying levels of value in the majority of our haul. I hold them up, hoping he’s going to give me the nod when I uncover a pair of children’s cross-country ski boots from the late 1970s. But Dad squints fondly at the boots and says, “Oh yeah, I forgot about those.” He drops a rusty metal fan he’s holding and steps towards me, taking a boot in his hand. “Those were your Mom’s. You wouldn’t remember, but we used to ski a lot more when we first moved out here. We would just go straight back for miles.” I know Mom’s never going to use her old boots again. I also know there’s no way Dad’s going to get rid of them. “May as well hang on to those. I think I can find a place for them in the rafters.”

When the sorting is done, Dad removes his hat and gloves. He sits down on a squeaky aluminum lawn chair and hangs his hat over his knee. “I’ve been hearing that some of the land around here is going to be sold to developers. It’s close enough to the city to start a small subdivision.”

It’s unexpected news. For a moment I consider the implications silently.

“You mean right around here?”

“Yup.”

I did see a truck and what looked like a backhoe in one of the fields yesterday. There was a group of men milling about, but I didn’t give it much thought.

“Is that what the digging was about yesterday?”

“I bet they were trying to find water reserves for wells,” he says.

Dad points to the rolling field in front of us. In the distance is an old barn that used to hold dairy cattle. Like the fields, it’s been empty for years. “Probably tear the old barn down, divide it up into two- or three-acre lots. It’ll look a little different, won’t it?”

“Yup,” I say. “But I guess it’s inevitable.”

“I guess. You can’t stunt progress.”

“Nope.”

“Things just keep moving forward.”

“Have you told Mom yet?

“Not yet.”

Dad stands and shakes out a faded canvas tarp that was folded in the shed. It’s creased and dusty. Together we cover the pile of stuff we’re keeping. We’ll perform today’s task in reverse and bring it all back into the shed tomorrow.

“I got an interesting email today,” I say. It’s not calculated; I didn’t plan on saying anything, so I surprise myself.

“Regarding what?”

I tell Dad how I finally sent some of the writing I’ve been working on to a friend in Toronto, the only professional writer I know. He read it and replied, saying he liked it. He had passed it along to his editor and also gave me a list of names and contacts for literary agents. He said if I’m serious, that should be my next move: continue writing and try to find an agent.

“Brilliant. That’s pretty exciting,” says Dad. “What’s involved in getting an agent?”

“I have no idea, really.”

Dad’s trying to scrape some dried mud off the tarp with a sharp stick but stops now to answer.

“Anyway, it’s great news.”

“Well, not much yet; just a couple of emails.”

“It’s great,” he says.

“I’ve also been thinking, maybe it’s time I should start looking for a place,” I venture. “Nothing big or anything, but, you know . . .”

He’s fiddling with the tarp again. “It’s up to you.”

I haven’t done it in a long time, but suddenly I have the urge to shake Dad’s hand or hug him or, I don’t know . . . something.

“I was just telling Mom about — well, it seems like my time here at the farm has been pretty beneficial.” I stay standing where I am. “It has. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things and —”

“Well,” he says, “this is a good place for thinking about things.”

“Yeah.”

He hands me a couple of logs. “Here, take these.”

I lay them on my side of the tarp to hold it down like paperweights. The edited reject pile, now only two ripped feed bags, some frayed binder twine, and a ripped pillowcase hardened into a muddy mat, fits easily into the single garbage bag Dad brought with him.

“I know what it is! You shaved!”

I’m at the kitchen sink, my back aimed at my parents, filling a glass of water. Mom and Dad are sitting at the table. Neither can see my face. Dad’s nibbling on some mixed nuts. Mom’s moved her computer and papers into the kitchen. The letter is still incomplete.

“You’re absolutely right, he did. It’s so obvious now,” says Dad.

“It’s sooo obvious.”

“It’s pretty obvious,” I answer, shaking my head.

“I can’t believe I didn’t realize it right away — you had that moustache for a while,” says Mom.

“Moustache? No, Mom. I mean, I guess I did, but I had a full beard too. It was a beard.”

“Really? I could have sworn you just had a big, fancy moustache.”

“A moustache sounds vaguely familiar,” admits Dad.

I close my eyes and drain my full glass of water. Immediately I start filling it again.

Dad pops a handful of nuts into his mouth. “Are you done yet? I better get up to the post office soon.”

“I know, I know. I’m on the last paragraph. I just need some silence.”

I grant Mom her silence by heading out to the porch. Every so often Dad asks if Mom’s finished, because, he reminds her, the post office will be closed soon. She’s not but is always close. One time she’s on the last thought; the next time, the last sentence.

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

S
INCE 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.