Ghosted by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

after Mason’s twenty-fifth birthday. He’d been out of the country a few months, rambling and writing travel stories for various magazines. He’d come home for Tenner’s funeral.
    Things had changed in his absence. His mom had sold the house in Vancouver and bought a ranch in the interior of British Columbia with her new husband. Also, Mason’s girlfriend of four years had started sleeping with a spoken word performer. On Mason’s return she tried harder to explain spoken word than why she’d broken his heart.
    After they buried Tenner, Chaz split for Toronto. Mason said he’d be along soon. But before he could follow he was expected to make an appearance at Aunt Jo’s eightieth birthday party. He went up a few days early, to get a feel for the ranch—a sudden lonesome cowboy. He’d decided to write a novel.
    By the day of the party, though, he was still on the first chapter and the relatives were arriving. This was as close as they’d come to a family reunion in over a decade. The ranch house was large—three levels, with seven bedrooms, and still there were going to be cousins sleeping on the floor. With each new arrival Mason sequestered himself further. By noon he was on the roof.
    The house had been built by a German couple. Or rather: by a German man while his wife hid beneath the blankets in a midsize Winnebago parked on the property. She hadn’t realized how large the house would be until the logs arrived. “Trees don’t even grow that big,” she said, in German, and took to her bed.
    When her husband was done, there was a solarium, a greenhouse, a paddock, a barn, a games room, and a wine cellar withtwo hundred bottles of fine red. “It’s all for you,” he said to his wife. Then, three weeks later, he died of a heart attack. The German widow sat in her new log mansion, drinking the wine. By the time she was done, only seven bottles were left in the cellar. Their bodies were flown to the Rhineland.
    Mason’s mother didn’t hear this story until after they’d bought the place.
    “What happened to the seven bottles?” said Mason.
    Up on the roof, he drank champagne. The house was on a steep hill overlooking 120 acres of grazing land, sparse forest and creek beds. The view was remarkable. In fact, he could hear a half-dozen of his brethren remarking on it from the veranda below.
    He heard his name being called. A few more times, then he shuffled over to the edge. Rupert, his mom’s new husband, was looking up at him. “Swallows,” he said.
    Mason swallowed. “What?”
    “I need your help.”
    Moments later they were standing on the large deck off the kitchen, looking up. There, clinging to the wall below the eves, were a dozen round nests.
    “They’re swallows’ nests,” said Rupert.
    “So?”
    “They’re shitting all over the deck.”
    “So?”
    “So this is where we’re having dinner. Your Aunt Jo says she hasn’t lived eighty years just to watch four generations of her family get covered in shit.”
    “Okay.”
    “We should knock ’em down. You’ve got to do that anyway with swallows.”
    “But they’ve got babies …”
    “Nah. They’re just making the nests. Babies won’t come for another couple weeks. They’re just making the nests now.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yep. I’m going to take everyone to the lake. You get it done, okay?”
    Once they were gone, Mason popped open another bottle of champagne. In the greenhouse he found a ten-foot bamboo pole, and sported it like a javelin to the deck. But even on a chair he couldn’t reach the nests. Back in the kitchen, more champagne, down to the games room for a pool cue, then up two flights of stairs to the westernmost bedroom. He opened the window and stuck out his head.
    The nests were only about five feet above him. It was an awkward angle, leaning out, scraping upwards with the cue. He couldn’t really see what he was doing, but it appeared to be working, bits of brittle nest falling onto his head. He swung