Free The Bird Artist by Howard Norman

“Did you enjoy the potato-leek soup?” my mother said.
    â€œWell, you noticed I took a second helping, didn’t you?” I said.
    â€œThe Hollys, in their most recent letter, mentioned that potato-leek is Cora’s very most favorite. I suppose that, in a way, I made potato-leek tonight in Cora’s honor.”
    â€œHere’s to Cora Holly, then!” my father said, knocking his coffee mug lightly against mine.
    â€œThe idea is that I should marry her because we both like the same soup?” I said.

    â€œThe idea, ” my mother said, “is quite simple. It is that it’s intelligent for fiancés at such a distance to develop a bond in advance. And soup is as natural a thing to start with as any.”
    â€œDid the letter say that Cora was passionate about potato-leek soup?” I said.
    Without so much as a glance or utterance, my mother left the kitchen.
    My father stared after her. “Marrying a woman you’ve known all your life,” he said, “Margaret, for instance. Now, that could turn out badly. To marry your fourth cousin, come in sight unseen from Richibucto, granted, that’s the opposite end of the stick. But it’s still marriage. Still the same stick. It’s your God-given privilege, and the woman’s, to choose without fear of the future or the unknown.”
    Back in the doorway now, my mother cleared her throat loudly. “That’s it in a nutshell, then,” she said. “Orkney Vas sounding pious and philosophical as Reverend Sillet himself. What your father, here, Fabian, considers marriage: the unknown.”
    Granted, it was a rare loss of restraint, but my father slammed the table with his fist. The coffee mugs jumped.
    â€œIt’s just words, ” he mumbled, as though convincing himself. His face withdrew a moment, then he took a deep breath. “There, well,” he said. He mopped up the spilled coffee with a cloth napkin. “Nothing to die for, now, is it.”
    â€œI’m awaiting an apology,” my mother said in a clenched voice.
    â€œTill hell freezes over,” he said.

    â€œI’d like to see that very day,” she said. “It would provide an interesting change.”
    â€œWe’re not conspiring against the boy here, Alaric,” my father said in painfully measured tones. “All I meant was, marriage is not to be feared. It’s meant to be everything else, maybe.”
    â€œI’ve got work to do,” I said, standing.
    â€œA cup of tea, please,” my mother said, her voice stripped of sentiment. “A cup of tea first, before you flee Cora Holly’s presence at our family table, back to your birds.”
    My father, shaken by what had transpired, rummaged in the mud room, emerging with a raincoat, gloves, and two hammers. “The Ryland Barney ”—a schooner in for all-night repairs—was all he could manage to say. He shut the door quietly behind him.
    â€œThe repair crew will use so many lanterns,” my mother said, “you could see the glow from as far away as the rookery cliffs, below the lighthouse. It’s like a false dawn. I’ve seen it. It’s like that.”
    In fact, I did not go back to my desk right away. Instead, I made tea for my mother and sat across from her at the table. For a few moments it was odd; she gripped the table edge, bracing herself as though expecting an earthquake. She held on tight. Then, relaxing her grip, she looked at me. “I didn’t ever intend for you to have memories of things gone on in this house like the ones you’ll now have,” she said.
    â€œI’ll have lots of different kinds.”
    â€œBad memories shout the loudest, for the longest, my mother used to say. More lemon, please.”

    I cut a lemon in half, then squeezed a half’s juice into her cup. She clasped her hands around the cup.
    â€œI’ll now proceed to subtract what harsh messages