One Bird's Choice (15 page)

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mom.”

“Seriously, check it out.” She tilts the screen of her new computer in my direction. I scan her inbox. I only have to read the subject line to know I don’t need to go any further.
The Amazing Walnut!

“It lists all the ways walnuts are healthy. They are amazing.”

Mom doesn’t really look like a pirate, but because of her soggy eye patch I take a second to tell her she does anyway. I hear a honk from outside. Dad’s waiting in his idling truck; grey exhaust is spiralling into the frigid air.

“I’m fine with that,” Mom replies. “Better than a puffy-eyed boxer.”

“I gotta go, Mom. Where’s a clean towel?”

“Where they always are,” she says. “Iain?”

“Yes,” I say.

“What’s a pirate’s favourite restaurant?”

I don’t have time for this. I lunge for my coat.

“I don’t know, Mom.”

She pauses. “Arrrby’s.”

“Good one, Mom. I seriously have to go . . . Dad’s waiting . . .”

“But Iain . . .”

I freeze at the door. Looking back, I see a single brown tea tear dripping down Mom’s cheek.

“Yes, Mom?”

“What’s a pirate’s favourite TV show?”

In the truck I can see Dad’s frustration mounting on his face. He’s looking in at the porch disconcertingly.

“Mom, I gotta go.”

But before the door swings shut behind me, I hear her answer.

“
E-RRRRR!
”

At the gym Dad explains to the abnormally brawny fellow behind the desk that I’m his guest. I’m standing at his side, peeking over his shoulder as if I’m five. I want to stare at the floor and hold the cuff of Dad’s jacket. Brawny Guy eyes me up and down, as if to say
You’ve got a lot of work to do
.

Dad, walking a couple of steps ahead of me, nods to everyone we pass. Most are hunched and limp along slowly; they all have white hair, if any at all.

In the change room I follow Dad to the lockers.

“I always use this one,” he says, opening the metal door and kicking his shoes inside.

We’re going to share a locker because I have no combination lock of my own. As Dad hangs his jacket to my left, a stranger flanks me to my right. He’s older than Dad and has thinning grey hair. His wrinkled skin hangs loosely from his skeleton like a pink robe. His towel is draped over his shoulder and he’s buck-naked. I’m sitting on the wooden bench staring at the empty locker straight ahead. The old naked man turns towards Dad and rests his left foot on the bench. “This damn cold is here to stay,” he says, laying his towel on the ground. “That wind feels ruthless.”

That’s because you’re naked, I want to remind him.

“Yup, it’s pretty cold,” says Dad indifferently. “Nothing we can do about that.”

The old man takes a comb from the top shelf of his locker and begins to slick back his damp hair. As he grooms himself, a second naked man of a similar vintage appears, popping out from behind the neighbouring bank of lockers.

“Done your exercise for another day?” he asks the first old naked man.

“You bet,” he answers. “This is my favourite time of day.”

The two stand casually together, continuing their discourse as I lace up my running shoes.

Loafing along on the treadmill, I’m watching a woman in front of me doing chin-ups. As she reaches up to grab the silver bar for another set, the front edge of her tight shirt comes up slightly. For a second I catch a glimpse of her stomach. I can see her ribs pressing against her skin, and it reminds me of the skeletal frame of the unfinished barn in one of the neighbouring fields when I was growing up.

I look to my left and my right. When did this fitness revolution take place? When did this running, stepping, and gliding on electronic machines in front of TVs become the accepted form of exercise, replacing morning walks and working outdoors?

To be fair, some aren’t watching TV; some are reading trashy celebrity gossip magazines. Aren’t most of the photos airbrushed and modified on computers? I guess virtue has become linked to our appearance. To be moral is to be in shape. The Greeks had their omniscient gods built on myths and we have ours.

As I walk along on the treadmill, I spot the muscular guy from the front counter sweeping up what appears to be a small mound of mud. He looks irked. I follow the mud droppings from the change-room hall to the water fountain to the treadmill I’m walking on, and then to my shoes. I forgot that I’ve been wearing these same running shoes — my only pair — in the barn. I could go and change into the shoes I wore to the gym, but they’re heavy winter boots. Not an option. I have to stick with my muddy runners, even if the dirt is laced with sheep manure. I’m aware that I’m not making any friends.

When the digital readout on the treadmill indicates I’ve been walking for eleven minutes, two women with chunky legs squeezed into tight black pants start arguing about whose turn it is next. The entire row of treadmills is occupied. The woman who’s been walking beside me explains that she has only five minutes of her workout left. The other woman is holding a clipboard, passive-aggressively claiming that it doesn’t matter because she’s signed up for the machine now.

Eleven minutes should be good for me. I’m sweating. The guy with the broom is getting closer anyway, and the women seem upset that there’s new competition for their machines. I hit the Stop button, spray down the machine, smile at the ladies in tight pants, and head for the weights.

“Lookin’ to workin’?” a man asks, hopping up and down on the spot. He’s the closest thing to my peer. I’d put him somewhere in his early fifties but he looks to be in reasonable shape. He’s wearing a tank top and a baseball hat and has a trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. As I walk over, he’s between sets.

“Sure,” I say. “My legs could use some work.”
My legs could use some work?

“Lemme just get one more set in first.”

Without waiting for a response, he steps back to the equipment, focuses somewhere in front of him, and begins his set. The machine has two black handles suspended just above the floor. The user is meant to bend at the knees, grab the handles, stand, and then bend again, all the while maintaining a straight back. The exercise is called a dead lift. It’s meant to strengthen the legs and lower back. As soon as he starts, the man’s formerly amiable face twists into a tight red mass of veins. With each lift he releases a deep, glottal moan. The harder the set becomes, the louder he grunts and the more he contorts his face. On his final rep he releases what can only be described bluntly as a wail, which lasts for several seconds. I look around the gym, expecting a reaction, but no one seems to notice. He releases the handles, rolls his shoulders, and looks at me.

“Okay, you ready?” he asks.

I nod and move into position, gripping the warm handles. Just as I’m poised to begin, he starts tapping my muddy left shoe with his pristine white one.

“You need to be a little wider,” he’s saying. “Just a little.” I silently obey, moving my foot a few inches to the left. “No, too far,” he snaps. “Just keep ’em shoulder width. Shoulder width is key.”

We continue this dance — a little wider, a little closer — until he backs away, bobbing his head in satisfaction. “Perfect,” he says. “Now you’re ready.”

Keeping my feet planted in exactly the same position proves tricky. By rep five my legs are starting to tremble. By seven I can barely make it back up again. By eight I’m done. An underwhelming first set by any standard.

When the man in the cap takes the handles again, I’m curious to see how long he takes to set his own feet after spending what felt like several hours on mine. But he begins instantly. His feet are at least a foot outside shoulder width. It’s not even close. When he finishes, I’m waiting for some explanation as to why his feet were so wide apart, but he says nothing and again motions for me to take over.

“Don’t forget,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder and heading for the water fountain, “shoulder width and you’ll be fine.”

I remove half of the weights and perform my second and final set. The dead lifts have tired me out. I grab a soft blue mat from a pile and head for an isolated corner. I complete one set of twenty push-ups, fleetingly consider doing the same number of sit-ups, and opt instead to flop down on my back.

I lie there for a long time, breathing through my nose and staring up at the ceiling. I flip over onto my stomach and watch all the elderly jocks. I’m struck by the irony of their morning workouts. Mostly they stand in groups of three or four, talking and joking, occasionally shuffling over to a machine to pull some type of weighted cable. Others sit, bouncing on large colourful rubber balls. If they were fifty or sixty years younger and wearing snowsuits, I’d swear they had just been plucked from recess. Their lack of strenuous activity makes me feel better about my own unproductive morning.

Towelling off in the locker room, I turn to Dad. He’s sitting on the bench beside me, red-faced and shirtless.

“How was the workout, Dad? You must have been rowing for a good thirty-five minutes.”

“Not great,” he says. “I lost something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” he says, holding up his earphones. “Something’s missing.” I take the earphones from Dad. One of the protective foam pieces is absent. “It must have fallen off during my workout. I have no idea how it could have happened.”

Dad is noticeably dejected. It’s an unfortunate end to our maiden workout, but I can’t seem to find the appropriate words of condolence. So instead we both pull on our clean socks in silence.

On the way home we stop for refreshment. We sit in the truck in our parkas and toques, listening to the classical music station, sipping hot coffee and chatting intermittently.

“I bet you’ll be sore tomorrow,” he says. “And the next day after, it’ll be even worse.”

“Probably,” I answer, looking out the foggy window. “But if I’m really sore, maybe I can borrow some used teabags from Mom.”

“Pardon?” asks Dad.

“Nothing.”

As we pull out of the parking lot, Dad abruptly moves his hand up to his ear. “Well, that’s amazing. Look at this,” he says, eagerly. “It must have been in there the whole time.”

I look for only a second. I’m not sure if it’s the foam piece from his headphones he’s holding between his fingers or one of his shredding earplugs. I decide to leave it a mystery. As we drive home I can’t help but wonder when I’ll be losing my own belongings in my ears.

It may not be tomorrow, but soon Dad will suggest that I use another of his guest passes. He’ll tell me I won’t be so sore the next time, that it’s good for me, and that I’ll start to see a difference soon. He’ll tell me the morning exercise routine will start to feel habitual, and if I stick to it those buckets of water won’t feel so heavy.

It’s late now. I wander into the kitchen and turn on the light. I stand hunched in front the calendar, searching for any hint of green. Green is the colour of hope, but the board is a disheartening mess of blue and red. According to Dad’s colour-code system, I don’t exist. In the eyes of the calendar, I’m invisible.

I can feel my calf muscles and hamstrings tightening up. I should probably eat a banana or something. Dad’s next planned gym visit is seared in blue, only two days away. I reach out and pick up my green marker. I uncap it and give the soft tip a sniff. It smells new and looks wet. I move it up to the calendar, but I have nothing to add.

Ten

Lost In Winter

I
T
'
S THE SECOND WEEK OF FEBRUARY.
The wind is harsh, more consistent and less lenient than in the city. It never felt this unbearable when I was young. I’m much less durable now. If I carry water out to the sheep or table scraps to the chickens, the cold can actually help me along, sharpen my conviction. But if I’m outside without resolve, the cold will pull me even further away from it. I feel smaller, more delicate. If you tried to convince me the whole world is frozen today, covered in snow and ice, I might believe you. I think it is. The world is frozen. It is.

I’m standing still with my chin burrowed into my chest. This wind has rendered my cotton pants useless. They’re as protective as tissue paper, and are beginning to take on the same texture. My old rubber boots are equally defenceless. My feet have hardened into two unserviceable mounds. I blow into my gloved hands, more a symbolic gesture than a practical one.

I’ve been summoned outside by Dad. I was still in the bathroom when I heard him calling. It was just after 7:30 a.m. “Iain, I need you outside,” he called from the door. “ASAP.”

I spat out a mouthful of toothpaste and watched the white saliva escape down the drain before going downstairs. I’ve been taking a more active role with the outdoor chores. Since I’m still at the farm and haven’t been working, I thought helping more with the animals would be both suitable and fair. So these days it’s not uncommon for me to be outside early in the morning giving Dad a hand. But his voice was different this morning, his call more emphatic.

I grabbed a banana for breakfast. I’ve been having trouble with fruit. My banana wasn’t normal — it was too sweet. It was definitely sweeter than any other banana I’ve ever had; it tasted like someone had sprinkled sugar on it and closed it again. I didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t good. And yesterday I peeled an orange and found a single white hair inside. Explain that to me. I’ve decided I’m off fruit. My body will have to make do.

I chewed the sweet banana, yanked my scarf up high around my neck, and pulled my hat down low on my head. I found Dad, holding a shepherd’s crook, standing beside the poultry pen. He brought some of his students out to help build it when we first moved to the farm. It’s whitewashed and has a slanted shingled roof and a small opening like a dog door cut into the side. This morning the shingles are wearing silver frost like a coat of paint. Sharp icicles hang over the roof’s edge like fangs.

Dad looks crestfallen, like he’s just found a hair in his orange. His breath is hanging in the air around him. He tells me we’ve lost a duck, the pretty one with the brown feathers. I look around. There’s no sign of a predator or intruder, no marks of a struggle, no blood-streaked snow or feathers frozen into the ground. Just five ducks quacking impatiently inside the wire fence, waiting for their bits of stale bread, instead of six.

“We better look for her,” he says.

We turn into a two-man search party, stumbling around the outside perimeter of the coop. For a moment I’m distracted by the sight of Dad’s magnolia tree, the one he planted last summer. I stop in my tracks. I can’t see the actual tree, only its hidden form, which is covered in a heavy blanket of snow. It’s a morbid scene. I can’t believe it’ll be alive come spring. There’s no way. Not after all the snow we’ve had this year.

I don’t say anything to Dad; he’s busy searching for the duck. I start moving again along my unformed path, the cold stinging my cheeks. Neither of us is a proper farmer, which is confirmed during times like these. The snow is oppressively high, reaching up over our knees.

“Come here, girl. Come on now, where are ya?” I’m calling. I hear myself making exaggerated kissy noises.

When one of the dogs goes missing, usually the requisite name-calling will bring it bounding back. Just the possibility of some attention sends their tails wagging uncontrollably. And if you have trouble finding one of the cats, just shake a bag of salmon-flavoured treats. Within seconds they will descend upon you, circling your feet, rubbing their heads affectionately against your shin like furry beggars.

I’ve learned that ducks are a different sort. Ducks are hard to track. They can’t be cajoled, they don’t have proper names to call, and they aren’t interested in long belly rubs. Ducks are cautious by nature and skeptical of your motives. When approached, their tendency is to huddle together like a football team and then waddle or, worse, fly away. If they take to the air you’re in trouble. My kissing sounds are growing louder, more elaborate. I hear myself clicking, whistling; eventually I’m making a noise that resembles yodelling. It won’t do any good but it can’t hurt.

“You better stop all that,” Dad calls from the other side of the pen. “If she’s still around you’ll just scare her away with all that fussing.”

When our paths converge, neither of us is optimistic. I shrug my shoulders, Dad shakes his head. “There’s no sign of her, not with all this blowing snow.”

We watch the remaining ducks cluster together in the middle of the pond. Ice has covered it like everything else in our vicinity, but the ducks still feel safer there. They’re quacking suspiciously, ardently, as if something is wrong.

Our search party reconvenes inside with a pot of coffee by the crackling fire. We’re joined by Mom. She stands behind Dad’s armchair in her housecoat and pyjamas. Dad and I remove our jackets and gloves but leave on our toques. Our faces are red and numb. We lean in towards the fire. I hold my warm mug in both hands. The hot coffee is divine.

“What do you think happened?” asks Mom. “Doesn’t look like a wolf or a fox.”

“Probably neither,” says Dad, without looking up from the fire.

We talk intermittently; every so often a suggestion is put forth. Some ideas are cast aside, others seem more likely. We conclude that the drifting snow packed up against the fence must have acted as a ramp, an easy exit from the enclosure. That’s as far as we get until Dad slides his hat off and lays it across his thigh. He scratches his head. “You know what? I bet it’s the wind.”

“I was thinking that too,” agrees Mom. “Once she got out, she probably just blew away. The wind has been so strong the last couple of days. It always is in February.”

“And it was howling again last night.”

“Wait — you think a duck, an animal with the ability to fly, just blew away in the wind?”

“Yes,” they answer together.

“She was oldest of the group and definitely the smallest,” says Dad, staring at the orange coals. “With the wind and all the snow she would have been completely disoriented.”

I can’t believe a duck could blow away like an empty plastic bag, but I don’t press the issue. Dad sips his coffee without talking. Mom brings one hand up over her mouth; with the other she pats Dad softly on the back. She doesn’t hold her hand there long, but still I notice.

At lunch Dad’s still visibly distressed. He’s swirling his spoon around in his soup. I think it’s more than just the duck that’s troubling him. It’s the time of year. The cold and snow are harsher than they used to be. It seems to take Dad longer to get dressed for the morning chores, and the water pails and feed bags seem a little heavier. It’s understandable: he’s been carrying them for almost thirty years. He tells me unenthusiastically that he’s got to pick up a load of hay after lunch. I tell him I have nothing on, so I’ll tag along and help him load it up.

As I watch Dad finish his soup, I see a familiarity in his hands. I’ve never noticed it before. His hands are slightly larger, but they are my hands. And my hands are his.

As I write my name in the snow, it’s hard to deny the uncharacteristic quality of the cursive lettering. The stylish loops and precise symmetry easily trump my regular penmanship. Dad and I have stopped on the way home from our hay run. The back of the truck is loaded with fifteen bales. Two minutes ago I looked at Dad and said, “Sorry, I have to pee.”

“Me too,” he answered. “Must be all that coffee.”

We pulled onto a side road that we’ve passed hundreds of times but have never explored. About a hundred yards in the road curves to the left and then twists steeply uphill. It levels out again above the highway. The view is wonderful. We can see out over the rolling white fields for miles.

“Hey,” Dad calls over his shoulder, “what a view from up here. It’s lovely.”

I walk over to the front of the truck and lean against the hood. Dad joins me. “I hope you don’t have to go anywhere tonight. They’re calling for some heavy snow again. Driving won’t be very nice.”

“I’ll be around,” I say.

“The hockey game’s on TV; you want to watch it?” he asks.

“Maybe, yeah.”

For a while we stand quietly in the cold and admire the unexpected view.

The next morning we get a phone call from our neighbours across the road. They’re in possession of a small duck with brown feathers. Maybe it belongs to us? They thought at first it was a wild duck, but when they approached her, opening the front door of a cat cage, the duck happily waddled in and waited patiently for them to close it. Knowing we had a small flock, they called us. We were thrilled, Dad especially. The duck’s return has given him a boost.

Still, I’m surprised when he stops me in the hall, wondering if I have an extra tennis ball lying around. To my knowledge, Dad’s never played tennis. Neither have I.

“But I’ve seen you dribbling one around the house before.”

“Maybe a rubber ball, but I haven’t seen a tennis ball around here since high school.”

“Well, there has to be one around somewhere.”

I find one buried in the back of the front hall closet. It’s wedged into the toe of a muddy hiking boot. The felt is completely worn off, the rubber creased and exposed. Meg’s crater-like teeth marks are embedded in its surface.

Dad is pleased. “I knew we had one lying around.”

“You can’t use it though, Dad. Look, it’s an old chew toy.” I toss it to him.

He catches it with both hands, basket-style. “Perfect.” He takes the ball and withdraws to his study.

Twenty minutes later I walk past Dad’s study while talking on the phone to my pal Sheldon. The door’s open, and I stop and turn around. I pop my head in and see Dad leaning against the wall beside his bookcases. He’s standing like a statue, keeping his back straight; he slowly lowers down into a sitting position before standing again. He does it over and over. His eyes are closed.

Sheldon’s still talking to me. “You seem different today. You sound unusually happy.”

“Course, man — we got our duck back! It blew away the other day, and we had no idea what happened or where it went or if it was even still alive or anything, and anyway, our neighbours called this morning and it turns out they found it in their yard. They thought it was wild, but it wasn’t. It was our duck, and she’s the smallest one and she’s really pretty. Unreal, eh?”

Sheldon breathes in and out a couple of times. “It’s a duck you’re talking about?”

“Yeah.”

“You have others, right?”

“We do, yeah.”

“I mean, I guess it’s pretty cool.”

Sheldon changes the subject, asking if I’ve been getting any shifts at CBC these days. I tell him I haven’t. I tell him that instead I’ve been helping out with the chores, and that I’ve also been writing more. I’ve been trying my hand at some humorous stuff. I ask if he wants to hear any. He agrees. When I finish reading, there’s no reaction. Then he says, “Yeah, that’s funny, man. Nice.”

Here’s the thing: if something actually is funny, people don’t say so. They laugh. Saying something’s funny but not laughing is just fraudulent.

“Funny stuff,” he says again.

Sheldon wonders what my plans are for the weekend. I tell him I don’t really have any. I’ll probably just hang around Lilac Hill. I tell him he’s welcome to come by if he wants, but he can’t. He’s going to visit his parents for the weekend. He tells me he hasn’t seen them in a few months. They live only about an hour away but Sheldon tells me he’s had a busy few months with work. Sheldon’s some type of accountant.

“Yeah, we’ll probably watch the hockey game or something. I find the older he gets, the harder it is to relate.”

“Yeah, totally.” I’m watching Dad. He’s still squatting up and down. I notice the old tennis ball rolling along the wall behind him like a ball bearing. “I know what you mean.”

When I get off the phone, Dad’s finished his unconventional exercise. He looks more relaxed. He’s waiting for me, holding out the ball. “This will work wonders on your back.”

“What?”

“It’s a special exercise, meant to relax the muscles of your back.”

“How do you know I have a sore back?”

“Because I do.”

“So, you’re in your sixties. I’m not even thirty yet. Your back is always sore.”

“Just give it a try.”

I oblige without objection. Yesterday’s walk through the snow with the hay bales has done a number on me. I take the ball and hold it between the wall and my spine. I start squatting up and down.

“Am I right? How does that feel? Pretty good, eh?”

“Yeah,” I say, “it feels better already.”

Dad stays where he is, observing the process with a grin.

If my back were the only thing ailing me, I wouldn’t have bothered making an appointment. I can cope with a stiff lower back. But that’s not all. I’ve developed several complaints this winter. They’re getting worse, and since it’s been years since my last physical, I decide now is a good time to see my doctor again.