the development of the embryo, or frighten the female so she’ll abandon the nest. I put little rubber bumpers on the door to my room so there’s no danger of it slamming. I make a sign and put it on my door saying QUIET PLEASE. My mother is working up a mad and is about to explode. Luckily I bring home a good report card just then, good for me, that is; still she mumbles away about smells and mice. I’m afraid she’ll walk in and open the window or the aviary door, or both. I don’t know why she’s like that.
Alfonso gets to sitting right beside Birdie on the nest. He feeds her and she feeds him. It’s hard to believe he’s the same bird. He’s almost friendly with me, just so long as I don’t get too close to the nest.
I go see Mr Lincoln one Saturday to visit his family and get some ideas about what to do next. I tell Mr Lincoln about Alfonso and he shakes his head and says I must have a way with birds. He says to watch out Birdie doesn’t sit too tightly and get the sweats. Sometimes a young hen will get so nervous and anxious about her eggs she’ll generate too much heat in her brooding and start sweating. This uses up her energy and makes her nervous and she’s liable to accidentally spike an egg with a claw or even abandon the nest. He says I should stop feeding them egg food or treat food or any kind of greens, especially no dandelion. I shouldn’t give any more until the day the eggs are to hatch. This way they won’t get their blood all enrichened up. Mr Lincoln should write his own book about birds. He’s better than any book.
On the twelfth day, Birdie comes off the nest and takes a bath in the drinking dish. It seems like such a crazy thing to do, I’m sure she’s abandoning the nest at the last minute. Even though it’s a school night, I pedal over to Mr Lincoln’s. He laughs and says Birdie is a smart bird. He says sometimes a female is like that, and either by counting or feeling the little ones moving inside the egg, she knows they’re about ready to hatch and she’ll come out to bathe and then go back on the nest while she’s still damp. The water softens the shells so the babies can work themselves out easier.
I don’t get back home till after seven o’clock, and I’ve missed dinner. My mother’s mad and my father’s quiet. My parents are strict about my not being out in the dark on school days. I say I’ve gone to ask Mr Lincoln about the birds. It would be a sad scene if they ever find out Mr Lincoln is black. My parents are peculiar that way.
The fourteenth morning is a Saturday, so I can listen and watch all day. I’m still in bed and just awake when I hear the tiny peep-peep of the first bird being born. I already have egg and pablum in the cage. I get down from the bed carefully and look in the aviary. Alfonso is getting some egg food. Birdie is sitting tight on the nest. I can see into the floor of the cage and there’s an eggshell. In about an hour, a second bird is born. I watch Birdie reach under her breast and help it. She pulls the shell out and drops it on the floor. I can’t tell if she’s feeding the babies or not. I have to go down to breakfast, and when I get back, another one is hatched. I can’t tell if it’s one or two more. The tiny peep-peep-peep-peeps overlap so I can’t be sure.
I watch all day and Birdie isn’t feeding. I begin to worry. As I said, canaries are like human beings; they’re not in a natural state so they do some stupid things. Besides eating the eggs, sometimes they won’t sit on them or won’t feed the babies when they’re born. Sometimes the babies will be born and the female will be so frightened she’ll jump off the nest and won’t go near it. Nice smooth eggs are all right but wiggling baby birds are too much. It isn’t because a bird like that is mean or anything, it just doesn’t know or remember what to do. Some human mothers and fathers abandon the nest, too, for the same kinds of reasons.
At about three o’clock in the afternoon, Birdie gets off the nest and flies down to eat. Alfonso flies up. He stands over the nest looking in, then reaches his head into the nest. I’m afraid he might be going to throw the babies out; this happens sometimes, too. Then I see him lift up his head to bring more food from his craw and I know he’s feeding them. I’m so excited I want to run around the room. When Birdie comes back, he’s still doing it. I can hear the increased sound of peeps each time he leans his head in. I try everything to get up high enough to see the babies. I even climb up on the bed and hang my head over the edge but it’s impossible. Birdie, after watching for a minute, slides down over her babies and ends the session. I begin to worry again. Can Alfonso take care of all the feeding? Won’t Birdie ever get the idea?
It isn’t till late in the afternoon of Sunday when I finally see Birdie feed her babies. I don’t think she ever would’ve started if it hadn’t been for Alfonso. He’s forced her off the nest twice so he can feed. She’s bewildered by it all and doesn’t know what to do except sit tight and hope things will work out. The last egg is hatched that day, too. I see another shell on the floor or I wouldn’t have known. The baby birds keep up a continuous peep-peep-peep-peep-peep, overlapping, irregular, changing and passing each other because they peep at slightly different intervals. I can’t distinguish one from the other.
In school the next day, I’m completely out of it. I catch myself sitting still and holding in, hatching eggs. I keep trying to think what the birds look like. Are they dark or light, would there be one like Alfonso, are they males or females? Would Birdie keep feeding them? How will Alfonso act when they come out of the nest? Would they be mean birds and attack each other in the nest? I can’t wait to get home.
That night I take the chance when Birdie goes down to eat. I go right into the aviary and beat Alfonso to the nest. There’s still one unhatched egg. That means there’re four birds. It’s just a mass of slightly fuzzy flesh in the bottom of the nest. Then, Alfonso brazens it out and flies to the edge of the nest. As soon as his feet hit, four tiny heads poke waveringly up out of the naked flesh. Soft-looking beaks open searchingly between closed eyes. He feeds them, as if unaware of my close watching. There’s one that’s completely dark-skinned; probably will be as dark as Alfonso. There’re two light ones and one that seems spotted. I decide I’ll wait another day before I take out the egg. The birds all look the same size so I can’t tell which one was born a day after the others or if that’s the egg that hasn’t hatched.
Birdie flies up to the nest and joins Alfonso in the feeding. The little heads reach up greedily and the adults almost take the small heads into their mouths to force the food into the throats. Alfonso flies down for more food but before he gets back, Birdie decides they’ve had enough and settles onto the nest.
The next morning I reach in among the warm squirming bodies and lift out the egg. I hold it up against the light and see that it’s clear. I hold it up closely in front of a light bulb and there’s nothing there. Somehow it didn’t get fertilized, it’s sterile. It seems amazing with all that fucking going on. I can’t throw it out, so I keep it in a little box with cotton in a drawer with my socks. It’s probably just as well it didn’t hatch; four is enough of a crowd in a nest.
The next day I have my morning session with Weiss. I’m wondering if Renaldi has told him anything. I don’t think he would, but you never know. He could be some kind of trained fink Weiss uses.
He’s definitely the psychiatrist this morning. His coat is clean white and starched, his glasses have been shined so you can only just see his eyes. He has his hands folded, fingers tucked in on the desk in front of him. He has on his best smile, calm, loving, brotherhood-of-man-and-ain’t-life-awful-but-we-can-make-it-together kind of smile. His thick thumbs give him away; they’re taking turns slipping over each other. There’s so much pressure you can almost hear the fingerprints rubbing together.
I stand, holding the salute, and he smiles at me. Then he gives up and makes a sloppy salute ending with one of his fat hands pointing; all fingers out, thumb lightly folded in, at the chair in front of the desk.
‘Have a seat, Alfonso.’
Alfonso! Shit! Nobody, not even my mother, calls me Alfonso. I wish the fuck I knew his first name. All it has is
