Birdy

by William Wharton

  When it comes, I put the sack out in the garage inside an old oil can I found down at the dump and cleaned out. With birdseed you really have to watch for mice. In the dusk or early morning, it’s hard for a bird to tell between a piece of mouse shit and a seed. Mouse shit is poisonous for birds.

  Speaking of mice, my mother is sure the birds are going to bring mice into the house. She has a regular passion against mice. One morning I catch one on the floor of the aviary. He was probably already in the house anyway, but I could never convince my mother of that. I put it in a small box and let it free near school. If she ever finds this out, I’ve had it. Birds, cages, everything, out the window. She’s liable to do it any day anyway. I half expect it every time I come home from school and go up to my room.

  Every bird hatches in the third nest; five of them. When I look in, I see that most of them are light this time. There’s such a crush in the bottom of the nest you can’t be sure of anything. It’s warmer now, so Birdie doesn’t sit as tight. She mostly spreads her legs over the nest and hovers. The young birds get to be such pests, I close the cage door to keep them out. I put feed in for her during the day while I’m gone. As soon as I come home, I open it and Alfonso dashes up to help with the evening feeding. Birdie has developed into a wonderful little mother.

  In the warm weather and with the increase in birds, even I have to admit the room definitely smells ‘birdey’. I’m using a dozen eggs and a package of pablum a week making egg food. I’m also soaking regular birdseed and mixing it with egg food to start the young ones cracking seed. I feed in the morning when I wake up, just before I leave for school, when I come back, and then again before night. They eat tremendous quantities. Buying seed and eggs has almost used up my bankroll. I’m going to have to find some way to make money over the summer.

  It seems no time at all before the third nest is ready to jump. There are three yellow ones like Birdie. Two of these have marks on the head, one a dash over the left eye, and the other a black cap, slightly off center to the right. There is one Alfonso-dark, and another dark-winged and light-breasted with a pure yellow head. It really makes a crowd. Birdie is a heroine, hauling up food, keeping the nest clean, and mothering the whole batch. There isn’t enough room for all of them on the edge of the nest and they start pushing each other off. Luckily it’s much warmer now and there’s no danger they’ll freeze. At three weeks, all five of them are out of the nest and on the floor.

  It’s right here I make my mistake. I should’ve taken Alfonso out of the aviary and put him in a separate cage. Before I know what’s happening, Birdie is building another nest. I haven’t put in a new strainer but she’s building in a corner at the back of the cage, wedged between a perch and the wall of the cage. Alfonso’s done his trick and she’s heavy with eggs and no place to go. I pull the nest apart but she frantically puts it together again. I take all the nesting material out of the cage, but she starts attacking the babies and pulling feathers out till it looks like it’s snowing yellow. Several of the babies begin to look bare around the thighs and under the breast. I give in. She seems in good condition so I clean out the nest, wash it, and put it back with some nesting material. She finishes it in one day and the first egg is laid that night.

  She lays five eggs again. She sits this clutch rather lightly and I’m half hoping they won’t hatch. I watch Birdie carefully for signs of fatigue but she peeps at me friendlily and, despite a certain frantic air, appears happy and content with her lot. I wonder if she realizes that the whole aviary full of singing, screeching, scrambling birds, with the exception of Alfonso, came out of her somehow. It’s as if it all came out of nowhere. I still can’t believe it.

  The whole clutch hatches again. I have to leave the doors open all the time so Alfonso can help with the feeding. I don’t think Birdie could make it without him. Alfonso keeps the other babies out of the breeding cage and stays with Birdie in the cage most of the day and all of the night. I’m getting so I hate to open the boiled eggs in the morning and smash them into the pablum. The smell of the two, mixed with the smell of the fork I mash with, is too much.

  This nest is very dark. There are three as dark as Alfonso and two light ones with head markings. They have the same crowded nest conditions and it’s even hotter. I take Alfonso out as soon as the first bird climbs up to the edge of the nest. I find an old cage at the dump and fix it up. I don’t want to scare him by catching him. I’d certainly lose any points I have if I chase him around the aviary and grab him with my hands. He’d probably bite and give me blood poisoning. So, I put the cage in the aviary with some egg food in it, wait till he goes in on his own, then jump up and close the door.

  I take the cage out of the aviary and hang it over my desk by the window. There’s all kinds of peeping and queeping back and forth. Alfonso is sure I’ve finally shown my true colors. I wonder what he’s telling Birdie about the situation. She’s torn between abandoning the nest for Alfonso and taking care of the babies. She flies over to the screen of the aviary and looks across at him. Alfonso breaks into a song of great bravado. I feel terrible. I hate it when people tell me they’re doing something for my own good, and here I am doing it to Birdie and Alfonso. I’m almost ready to put Alfonso back in the cage and take the chance. But, I know, they’d have another nest and it’d probably kill Birdie. It’s getting time for both of them to go into the yearly molt and they shouldn’t be having babies during this time. It’s a tremendous strain on birds when they molt and change their feathers.

  Birdie finally resigns herself to the fates, that is, me. She goes back to feeding the babies till they get out of the cage. As soon as they’re all down on the floor, I take out the nest. This time, Birdie shows no signs of nesting again. She goes out in the aviary and flies around.

  As soon as the birds are feeding themselves, I remove Birdie from the aviary and take out the breeding cage. I put Alfonso back in with the young ones. I want Birdie to have a complete rest. Anytime I’m in the room, I let her fly free. It’s like old times. She sleeps in the cage up on the shelf above my bed where it used to be.

  Al and I take the job dogcatching and I make enough money to pay my feed bills. I spend all my free time watching the birds. I’m trying to figure what’s the next thing to do.

  When I go for my session with Weiss, I can smell right away he’s going to work on me. I know for sure I’m not going to tell him anything; I’m certainly not going to tell anything about Birdy. I don’t want him to find out about Birdy feeding himself or standing up and walking around. I’m convinced Weiss can’t do Birdy any good. If only I can stay a little longer maybe Birdy’ll come around.

  We salute and he leans back, crosses his hands over his fat stomach and smiles at me. He’s got the folder open on his desk. He has another folder there, too. I’m willing to bet it’s my records from Dix. He’s working himself up a thing OK. There’s nothing I can do but play it by ear. I try to get myself into a good Sicilian mood. I pretend we’re sitting at a cafe in Cambria with sunshine streaming down on us. Weiss is a tribal chieftain from the other side of the hills.

  ‘Well, Sergeant. How did it go yesterday?’

  ‘Fine, sir. I talked to the patient about how we used to ice skate in the winter sometimes. I think he might have been listening to me, sir.’

  ‘What made you think he was listening, Sergeant?’

  ‘Just the way he was sitting, sir. He seemed to be watching me.’

  I’ll have to be careful here. Whatever happens, I don’t want Weiss charging into the ward. Birdy’d be sure I’m working against him. I back off some.

  ‘How is your jaw coming along, Sergeant? I have your papers here and you seem to have had a rather serious injury there. How long is it before you have another operation scheduled?’

  He’s the psychiatrist this morning, all right He couldn’t care less about me. He’s working up to something.

  ‘It’s fine, sir. Next week I have the final work done. They’ll put on the last layers
and finish it off.’

  Weiss leans forward and pulls my folder in front of him. He flips open the cover. It’s my records all right; I see my name.

  ‘Sergeant, would you mind going into more detail about this court-martial you had at Fort Cumberland? What actually happened?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with the patient, sir. It all happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Let me decide that, Sergeant.’

  Son-of-a-bitch!

  ‘Well, sir, if you think it might help, I’ll tell you all I can remember.’

  Some way I have to keep this shit away from Birdy. He’s sitting there smiling at me over his folded hands. I smile back, a Sicilian smile, the Southern smile which says, ‘You and I know all this is so much horseshit, let’s get on with it.’

  He leans back in his chair, exhales a deep sigh, closes his eyes behind his glasses while picking up a yellow pencil from the desk. He starts putting the pencil on its point, sliding his fingers down the pencil, then turning the pencil around so the eraser is on the desk, and sliding down again. He’s sort of subtly jacking off on the pencil. I consider sneaking away; I don’t want to talk about Cumberland. Boy, Birdy, the crap I’m putting up with for you.

  ‘Well, sir, I was in the Pennsylvania State Guard and in December they sent me to Fort Cumberland for induction and reassignment into the regular army.’

  I even have to show those assholes at Cumberland how to hook bayonet scabbards to the webbing equipment. There’s a hunky T-5 in charge, but he sits in the squad room all day long topping up his load. Hell, I’m taking over the barracks, going to make general in six months.

  The third morning, we’re called out and lined up in the company street. It’s so cold that when I spit it freezes before I can smear it with my foot. A second lieutenant and a Sergeant come out from a shed on the other side of the street. The Sergeant calls us to attention and there’s mail call. My feet are freezing, my nose is about to drop off, my fingers are stiff in the gloves. None of us is going to get any mail. Then, the Sergeant calls us to attention again and the lieutenant starts.

  ‘All right, men. After this, you’ll be dismissed to quarters. Chow at twelve hundred. First, Corporal Lumbowski will choose men for details.’

  The hunky T-5 starts walking down the line. He stops every once in a while and points. He comes to me, points and says, ‘Coal.’ Would you believe it, I’m proud I’ve been chosen. The rest are dismissed and about fifteen of us stay.

  Weiss is still lying back with a smile on his face, his eyes closed behind his glasses. I almost expect him to snore but he isn’t asleep at all. I’m wondering how much I can bullshit this without making him open his eyes.

  The T-5 calls us together. He’s a chunky bastard, not tall but square, true hunky type, reminds me of a Cheltenham Polack I pinned in the District finals. Pinned him first period; strong but dumb. The stupid shit cries while I’m pinning him. Tears are running down his red face while I’m tightening a half nelson and jacking up a crotch hold. The T-5 tells the coal detail to report to him at the shed next morning at oh-five-hundred. There are four of us.

  Back in the barracks it looks as if the shit hit the fan. Everybody’s thrown all their gear on the floor and crowded around the stove. I start high-kneeing up and down the barracks, jumping and dodging all the crap on the floor. I hate to think of going into combat with fuck-offs like these.

  Next morning, a PFC flunky wakes me and I get down to the kitchen for chow. I’m the first one there and I even made up my bunk before I left. The kitchen is warm and steamy. I eat while the rest of the detail comes straggling in.

  After that, we stand for ten minutes in the dark on the company street, waiting. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, but my feet are already cold. My arms are stiff from the shots. I jog in place and windmill my arms. The other three jerks are hunched inside themselves, smoking.

  Finally, the T-5 comes out. He doesn’t look up or count us. Maybe he can’t count to four. We follow him to the motor pool where a truck is waiting. There are two jigs in the cabin. I smile at them but they ignore me. The T-5 pulls down the tailgate.

  ‘OK, up you go, shitheads.’

  I muscle up and swing into the truck first. Two guys can’t make it so I give them a hand. The back of the truck is sheet metal, wet, slick and black with damp coal dust. Shovels are leaning against the front wall of the truck bed. There are no seats. The damned coal dust is going to get all over the new overcoats. I go and squat beside the shovels. The other farts line up on both sides of me. Nobody’s saying anything. We’re not even looking at each other.

  The truck starts with a lurch and swings hard out of the motor pool. We’re all thrown on our asses and slip across the truck bed. We can hear the sons-of-bitches laughing in the cabin. The T-5 looks back at the fun through the cabin window. We barrel along a dirt road, falling all over each other, till we get on the main road to Harrisburg. Our knees are black from sliding around, and Christ it’s cold! There’s nothing to block the wind. My face and ears have turned numb. After about half an hour, we pull up to some coal piles near the river. The truck stops and the T-5 comes around to open the tailgate.

  I guess I’ve stopped talking and I’m only thinking because Weiss opens his eyes and says, ‘Go on, Sergeant, tell me about the incident that related to the court-martial. Tell me everything you can remember.’

  ‘Well, sir. They transported us by military transport to Harrisburg. There was a corporal in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, the non-commissioned officer I was accused of attacking. There were also two PFCs driving the truck and four of us on the detail.’

  I’m running my mind a mile a minute trying to give Weiss enough to keep him interested but not too much. I’m hoping I can tell this without sounding like a homicidal maniac.

  I jump off the truck first and my legs buckle. I can’t feel a thing. One guy takes a header and cuts his hand on the gravel. The T-5 is standing, pointing into the truck. He’s wearing thick leather mittens.

  ‘Stupid basturds; ya fergot the fuggin’ shovels. Ya wanna shovel tha’ coal whit yer han’s dat’s OK whit me. You!’

  He points at me.

  ‘Yeah, you, musclehead. Jump up deah an’ git dem gahdamn shovels an’ make it fast! We ain’ gaht awh fuggin’ day!’

  I do a quick, one-handed hurdle up onto the truck bed. The moron didn’t expect that. I grab the shovels. I stand with them at the tail of the truck. I motion to one of the guys on the detail.

  ‘Here, you; catch!’

  I throw him a shovel. The asshole not only misses; he ducks!

  ‘Cut dat shit, fuck-off! Jiis’ han’ ’em down. Dem’s guvment isshew. Ya wanna make outta fuggin’ Stamenttachaages, huh?’

  I jump down and pass out the shovels. The jigs back the truck close to a huge pile of coal. The T-5 takes my shovel.

  ‘Naow, disheah’s ah shovel, an’ disheah’s de wokkin’ en’. Disheah’s de hannel. Ya take-a-hold by de hannel an’ push de flaht paht unnder de coal deah and lif’ up an trowh de coal inna truck. See? Unnerstan?’

  So fuckin’ stupid. We all start shoveling. The coal’s frozen so hard we almost can’t get the shovels in for the first few bites; we have to kick them in. We’re all getting in each other’s way. The T-5 goes up to sit in the cab with the jigs. They keep the motor running so the cab’ll stay warm. All we’re getting is carbon monoxide out the back. Nobody’s talking; none of us is much at shoveling; we’re all hurting from the shots and binding tight in the new overcoats. It’s going to be one long morning filling that truck.

  ‘Well, sir, we work for about two hours shoveling coal into the truck. None of us had had much experience and the noncom in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, was getting impatient. He had a job to get done and we were way behind schedule.’

  Weiss nods and gives a few hmms to show he’s listening. I think he really likes hearing this kind of crap. Maybe psychiatrists get into it because they like freaky stories.

  I’m j
ust getting up a sweat, when the moron T-5 jumps down from the cab, puts out his cigarette and comes back. I can see the jigs looking through the cab window over the coal we’ve piled up. The T-5 has promised them some kind of show. I’m expecting the worst. The T-5 stands watching half a minute, then comes over to me. He grabs my shovel and pushes me aside.

  ‘Dat ain’ no way ta shovel, musclehead. Do it lak dis heah!’

  He drives the shovel into the coal, tilts and swings it over his shoulder in one movement. He does another. They gave this fart the coal detail for good reason, he’s got to be some kind of coal miner in civilian life. The other guys have stopped to watch. He pushes the shovel back at me.

  ‘Naoull, gitto it. Stop de fuggin’ golbricken’!’

  He goes back. The cab door opens and they’re laughing; deep, inside, nigger laughing. That laughing sounds warm. I’m so frozen, even my Sicilian laugh wouldn’t work. I start shoveling.

  About five minutes later, he’s there again. He stands watching, banging his mittens together, stamping his feet. I’m trying to show the bastard up; digging in hard, tilting up a full shovel load, and really swinging back to get it all in the truck. No fartface, hunky, coal miner’s going to outdo Al Columbato. He comes over to me.

  ‘Foah chrissake, musclehead; yer trowin’ haf de coal unner de fuggin’ truck. Giddown deah an’ scrape it all ou’ an’ trah ta aim atta gawhdamn truck instead’a all oveah de yahd.’

  Five days in the regular army and I’ve already found somebody to kill. I lean under the truck and scrape out the coal. There’s not half a shovelful. I start shoveling again. After about two shovelsful, he grabs me by the arm and reaches for the shovel. I pull the shovel away.

  ‘Keep your fuckin’ hunky hands off my shovel, shithead.’

  Everything stops; nobody’s shoveling. The T-5 stares; there’s no going back, now. I’m not going to let myself be pawed over by a dumb shit like him, stripes or not.