One Bird's Choice Page 2

  Directly in the middle of the fridge, below a picture of Jean playing her trumpet, is a shot of Lambo. Lambo was a gaunt lamb who ended up living in our kitchen for a few weeks when his mother rejected him. I think it was Dad who dubbed him Lambo. Mom dressed him in an adult diaper to keep the floor manure-free, and bottle-fed him every couple of hours. When the local paper caught wind of the story, they sent their photographer to the farm. Regrettably the picture made the front page of the city section, which consequently made the front of my locker at school the next morning. Most people had stopped calling me Lambo by the end of the year . . . the teachers anyway.

  I turn my attention away from the photos and back to my parents. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why the long faces?”

  “It’s nothing,” answers Mom. “How was your drive home?”

  “Nothing?” says Dad. He holds up a tiny metal staple. “I found this in the stuffing.”

  “I just don’t know how it could have happened,” Mom says.

  “It must have fallen in when you were cooking,” reasons Dad.

  His shoulders may have lost some width, but even in his sixties Dad’s still a large man. At six feet five he towers over my five-foot mom. Dad weighed ninety-three pounds in grade three; Mom was ninety-three pounds on the day they were married. This discrepancy in size is equalled by their clashing personalities. Dad, an English professor and history buff, is a traditionalist, an earnest, paternalistic introvert. Mom is an outgoing people person, a social butterfly with a silly sense of humour who speaks openly from the heart. She’s stayed busy over the years doing everything from taking care of infants and small children to running her own catering business, which offered homemade lunches to some of Dad’s colleagues. While Dad quotes Blake and Keats, Mom will recite lines from Peter Pan. Dad’s dress is formal; he likes silk ties and tweed jackets. Mom bought her glasses because they were the “Harry Potter design” and came with a wizard’s wand.

  They met when they were in their early twenties, at a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing in Ottawa, where they both grew up. Dad was completing his master’s degree in eighteenth-century literature, while Mom was working at a daycare. They exchanged numbers the night they first met and went out a couple of times that summer. By early fall, Mom, looking for an adventure, had decided to buy a used car, quit her steady job at the daycare, and move out west to Vancouver. She lost touch with Dad.

  “No, no, I’m sure it was already in the turkey when I stuffed it,” Mom’s insisting. “How could I miss a staple?”

  “Well, I didn’t put a sharp piece of metal into the stuffing,” says Dad.

  “Are you saying I’d put a sharp piece of metal into the stuffing?” asks Mom.

  “No, I don’t know. I walked by a few times when you were making it; maybe it just fell in.”

  A year later Mom suffered a horrible crash while riding a motorcycle. She broke her back in three places and her breastbone and spent two months in the hospital. When she was discharged, she flew back to Ottawa so she could continue her recovery at her parents’ house.

  Dad showed up at the house the first day Mom was back. She was shocked to see him; she hadn’t heard from him in months and felt like she hardly knew him — they’d gone out only a couple of times. That night they had a brief visit. Dad asked if he could come again the next day; Mom said okay. Dad visited every night for the next three weeks. Each night he brought a different bottle of wine for them to share. Dad would sit on one of the living room chairs and Mom, still unable to sit up, would lie on her mat on the floor. They would spend the evening sipping wine and chatting.

  One night Mom told Dad he wouldn’t be able to come over the next night because she was going to a friend’s place for supper; it would be her first social outing since the accident. Dad asked how she was getting home. Mom said her friend was going to drive her. Dad suggested she get dropped off at his place, and he would take her the rest of the way. She agreed.

  Dad was watching the last game of the 1972 Canada–Russia hockey series with his roommates when Mom was dropped off at his apartment. It was around 1 a.m. when he drove her home. They were lingering outside the house, chatting in his car, when Mom said maybe it was a good thing she was in that accident, otherwise she would still be back in Vancouver.

  Dad said, “No, you wouldn’t.”

  Mom said, “What do you mean? Of course I would.”

  Dad looked at her and said, “Well, what would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

  Mom said, “Well, are you just saying ‘What would you say if I asked you to marry me?’ or are you asking me to marry you?”

  He said, “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  Mom remembers hearing great whoops of excitement from Dad when she accepted. He was jumping up and down in the street, fists in the air, when Mom noticed that he was still wearing his slippers. She remembers saying to him as he helped her out of the car, “No matter how long we’re married, I’ll never be as feeble as I am now.” That was almost forty years ago.

  “Why would a staple have fallen off you and into the bird when you walked by?” asks Mom.

  “That type of thing happens all the time,” asserts Dad. “I’m agreeing it was an accident.”

  As I watch them pass the sharp piece of metal back and forth between them, I realize it’s not their differences that surprise me anymore but their congruencies. Mom’s hair, once dark brown, is almost entirely grey; Dad’s neatly trimmed silver beard is doing its best to keep up. Their time together has dulled their disparities and amplified their similarities. Each is rubbing off on the other more and more. Maybe one day, like a blanket, they will share only one persona.

  “We’re just lucky you didn’t swallow it,” says Mom, holding the staple up towards the light. “It’s bloody sharp.”

  “Yes, we are,” says Dad, “and we better not leave it lying around. Now that Iain’s home it might happen to him next.”

  I don’t have to look at Dad to know he’s serious.

  After supper I lug up my stuff to my “new” room. It looks like my bag has vomited a wrinkled heap of clothes onto the floor — I’m less than enthusiastic about unpacking. The posters of now-retired hockey and basketball stars clinging to the walls haven’t changed since I was in late elementary school. The commemorative banner of the Toronto Blue Jays’ 1993 World Series championship is in the same spot I hung it more than fifteen years ago. Coupled with the Nirvana and Red Hot Chili Peppers posters, I’ve just stepped back into the early 1990s.

  My parents offered up my old bedroom along with Jimmy’s and Jean’s. Jean’s bedroom has also been left mostly intact. It’s still full of her books and all the academic and music awards she seemed to win every other month when we were kids. Instead of achievement awards, I collected buttons. My collection is still showcased on a square bulletin board on the wall.

  Jimmy’s room is the largest, so I did think about taking it. It’s been converted into a pseudo guest room. Vacant bookcases line one wall and a tall wooden armoire stands against another. Most of his old stuff is gone; the only traces of his occupancy are a couple of ski poles, his old football pads, and his hockey stick. I decided I wouldn’t feel comfortable in there. I’d always be waiting for Jimmy to calmly enter the room, shake his head, and punch me in the nose for lying on his bed.

  I walk to the bathroom down the hall and start brushing my teeth. I’ve been brushing for at least five minutes now. If I stop it means I have to go back to my room. I’m not sure I can face that just yet. I wonder how many of my friends will be falling asleep tonight under the comforting gaze of Joe Carter and Kurt Cobain. How many will whisper goodnight to the painted face of Anthony Kiedis? The excess toothpaste has spilled out from either side of my mouth and onto my chest. I walk over to the window, still brushing.

  The moonlight is shining off the bar
n’s metal roof. Living in the city, I’d forgotten how bright the moon and stars are out here. Considering it’s late and dark, the visibility is notable. Titan, Lilac Hill’s nocturnal chaperone, has clocked in for his shift. I hear his surly bark before I spot him. He must detect something in the far field, a fox or a wolf. I watch from the window as he runs past the barn, setting off the sensor light. It casts a strong glow, lighting up the vegetable garden, the wood shed, even the green hose snaking from the side of the house to the barn. Other than Titan, nothing stirs. Still, he holds his tail high, combatively, like an arched pirate sword.

  There’s an abrupt knock on the door, followed by Dad’s voice.

  “You in there, bud?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Are you busy?” This time it’s Mom’s voice.

  “Um, not really, just cleaning my teeth.”

  “We have to show you something,” says Dad.

  “We don’t want to forget,” adds Mom.

  “Okay, well, do you have to show me now, in the bathroom, or —”

  “Yup, in the bathroom,” answers Dad.

  I open the door. Mom and Dad enter wearing housecoats. It’s a small bathroom that’s suddenly become much smaller.

  “We have to show you something so it doesn’t surprise you.”

  I set my brush down beside the sink; maybe they’ll turn, lower their robes in unison, and reveal some elaborate tattoo stretching across their shoulder blades from one back to the other.

  “We want to make sure you know how to flush the toilet.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The toilet,” says Dad, nodding in its direction. “If you don’t flush properly it’ll just keep running.”

  “Total waste of our fresh water,” says Mom. “And you know we have the best water. It’s so clean.”

  I lean back against the sink, my hands on my hips. “Right, carry on. I’m all ears.”

  Dad, the teacher in the family, moves into position. He stands judiciously over the toilet. Mom takes a step back, sitting now on the ledge of the bathtub.

  “So, when you flush it, like this” — he flushes — “give it a second or two.” We stare at the toilet. “Once it starts filling up, just start to jiggle the handle, nice and gentle, just like this.” He begins to lightly jostle the handle as if he’s tickling the belly of a puppy.

  Mom’s seen enough. “You don’t do it like that for real, do you? That’s not how you’re supposed to do it.”

  Dad stops his jostling. He shoots Mom a sullen look. “This is how I always do it.”

  “But look, the toilet’s still running. Here, I usually give it a jolt, like this.” She brushes past Dad and shoves down heavily on the plastic handle. “You have to be forceful.”

  “Watch out you don’t break it,” says Dad. “That seems awfully reckless.”

  “It’s already broken; that’s why you have to be firm,” explains Mom.

  I would happily leave them here alone, in the dim light of the bathroom, to debate the most proficient flushing technique, be it a light jiggle or a heavy-handed jolt. But I’m still in mid-brush and my mouth is uncomfortably full of foamy toothpaste.

  “I think I get the gist of it, guys.” I have to keep my head tilted back slightly so as not to lose any more toothpaste. “I’ll make sure it’s not running.”

  Somehow my comment has united them again.

  “We’ve heard that before,” says Dad.

  “Yup, the last time Jimmy stayed over, the toilet ran all night.”

  “Don’t worry, if I get up to pee in the night, I’ll jiggle it . . . the handle, I mean.”

  “Just make sure you wait until you hear the tank stop,” says Mom.

  “Okay.”

  They offer their goodnights: a high-five from Mom and a pat on the back from Dad.

  “Hey,” says Dad, contributing his final point of the tutorial once the bathroom door has closed behind him, “maybe try a little less toothpaste on the old brush next time.”

  The water is cold, not unpleasantly so, when I splash it onto my chin and chest in handfuls.

  The next morning we share a breakfast of freshly laid eggs, buttered toast, fried potato, tomato, and crispy bacon. We talk exclusively of Dad’s corduroys. He was thrilled to find them balled up in the back of his closet while looking for a pair of loafers, and immediately put them on. They’re wrinkled and frayed at the cuffs. He stands, informing me that these are special cords.

  Dad has a vast corduroy collection, so I ask him what distinguishes this pair from all the others. “Easy,” he says, “these can be either green or brown, depending on the light.”

  As I dip a piece of toast into my runny yolk, Dad walks around the kitchen asking Mom if she can detect the colour shift in the changing light. “What about now?” he asks, moving closer to the window, holding one leg out like a ballerina.

  “No, dear, they’re still brown,” answers Mom, with a glass of juice in hand. “Maybe try moving a little towards the fridge. Here.” Mom stands, taking Dad’s arm, guiding him closer to the fridge.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he says brightly. “Definitely greener over here.”

  With nothing to add, I decide to leave the two of them to their spirited analysis of Dad’s trousers and spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon setting up the space that will become my study. I’ve picked the wood-panelled room because of its cottagey feel and, more important, its remote locale — location, location, location. The south wall is made up of three large windows that overlook the apple orchard and the two small rock gardens. Whenever I’m not at work, this is where I plan on spending most of my time. Mom and Dad were pleased with the arrangement. Apart from Christmas and the odd celebration, the room sits largely uninhabited. It’s filled with mismatched antique furniture my parents inherited from friends and relatives. Mom swears that the old sofa and the ancient tables and chairs give the room a warm, comfy atmosphere, despite the fact that she covers most of it in large white sheets to prevent fading.

  Once my computer is set up and my books unpacked, I uncover half of the antique maroon sofa that faces the middle window. If we’re able to keep out of each other’s way, this might not be so bad. In Toronto I was living in squalor. Each morning I would hop across my grungy kitchen, altering my route to the toaster as I tried to make inroads on the potato bug population. I would use the bugs the same way a frog jumps from lily pad to lily pad, leaving a trail of tiny carcasses smeared into the linoleum.

  I’m trying to be optimistic. There are no potato bugs here. It’s quiet. There are no busy roads or loud streetcars or bus exhaust or buildings. Just fields and trees. From where I sit I can see the apple orchard, which is home to an assortment of apple trees and bordered at the far end by the thick lilac bushes. I can also see the newest tree on our land. It’s about five or six feet from the base of the oldest and tallest apple tree. Dad told me all about it over coffee this morning, before breakfast. He’d planted it only a week before and promises it will flourish in the spot he’s picked. He asked me if I’d ever seen a mature magnolia tree in full bloom. “It might take some time,” he said, “but once it gets settled it’ll have some of the prettiest blooms on the property, all pink and white.” It looks dead to me, like a bunch of bare twigs sticking up from the ground.

  I grab the first book my hand touches from the pile on my desk and flip through it. John Steinbeck’s The Wayward Bus. I want to bask in this solitude while I have it. It’s short-lived. The sheep have wandered into the orchard. About eight of them, probably the entire flock, are mingling about, nibbling on the long grass. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since I arrived. I’d forgotten how portly and lumpish they are. After a few minutes they notice me too. They remain still, staring unapologetically and chewing their cuds methodically. I turn my attention back to
the book but my eyes inadvertently rise above the page, out to the orchard. The sheep are woolly, breathing statues. Again I try and refocus but am unsuccessful. What the hell are they staring at?

  I imagine that the sheep are a group of prying tourists. Their guide, our horned ram, named Marshall, is identifying the key sights. I can hear him telling the rest of the drove that he has a special treat for them today. That if they turn their attention to the left they will see one of those human beings inside; maybe they will even recognize him, because he used to live here. Marshall will point out that the bearded man won’t be doing much; he will be sitting mostly, breathing. Questions will arise. The ewe with charcoal wool will ask why the human is back. Aren’t they supposed to leave this place when they grow up? Aren’t they supposed to have a house of their own? Maybe he’s a failure. Isn’t it possible he’s a failure? one of the lambs will add. Marshall will nod, telling them they are both likely right.

  I’ve never disrespected our sheep before. As a boy I would stand and rub their ears as they ate their grain. But now I find their infringement on my privacy infuriating. As they continue to gawk, spreading their malicious rumours among the herd, I remain seated but calmly raise my right arm and extend my middle finger. It’s an utterly shameful act but it feels good, and I hold the obscenity until my arm starts to tire. The sheep appear unaffected and continue their cud chewing and window gazing.

  Perhaps it’s the glare of the sun or my focus on the sheep, but I haven’t noticed Mom weeding in one of the rock gardens. She’s noticed me.

  “Okay, okay,” she yells, standing with her arms raised defensively, her muddy trowel in hand. “I wasn’t even looking in on you. Sheesh!”

  She backs away, shaking her head, before I can offer any explanation through the thick pane of glass.