Birdy (14 page)

I take off for Birdy’s. When I tell him, he asks me to tell the whole thing again. He keeps making me repeat parts. His eyes are wiggling like crazy. I try to give him the money but he’ll only take half. He actually takes twenty, tells me to get the ten changed and he’ll get the other five then. He’s thinking about something else.

Then he asks me if I can find out who it is who bought our car. I tell him there’s no chance; if this guy’s in the mob, we’ll never find him. Birdy says he’s going to come and talk to my father. This is suicide; I try to stop him. There’s nothing he can do. My father’ll kill him; he doesn’t like Birdy anyway. But, there’s no way to stop Birdy. I tell him he’s going alone, I’m not going to get all splattered with his blood. Birdy’s not listening, he’s on his way.

Well, my mother comes to the door. She never shows much on her face but she doesn’t smile. I’m hanging back on the porch step. Birdy asks if he can talk to my father. My mother lets him in. I run around the block to the back and let myself in by the cellar. I come up through the kitchen. My mother’s still ironing in the doorway. I can hear them in the living room.

‘Whaddaya mean you want your car back?’

‘You had no right to sell that car, Mr Columbato. That car belongs to Al and me. We did not want to sell it. It is worth much more than a hundred dollars.’

‘Get outta here, kid; that car was in my name and I could sell it to anybody I want. Go ’way. I’m tryin’ ta read my paper.’

Birdy doesn’t move. I can tell my old man is getting mad. He’s
jiggling the top leg he has crossed. That’s a bad sign, like a cat twitching its tail. My mother stands the iron up on end and watches.

‘Mr Columbato, would you tell me the name of the man who thinks he bought our car?’

My old man just ignores him. His leg keeps jiggling. Birdy stands there. I’m expecting all hell to break loose. My mother turns and tells me to get Birdy out before my father does something. I can’t move. Birdy keeps standing there. My old man, without looking up, says, ‘Look, kid. You’d better get outta here or I’m gonna call the cops!’

‘Thank you, Mr Columbato. I was going to do that myself. I want to report a stolen car.’

That does it! The old man throws the paper down and jumps up! Birdy doesn’t back off an inch. The old man isn’t very tall, not much taller than Birdy, but he’s at least twice as thick. He shakes his fist in front of Birdy’s face. He shakes so hard, his hair, which is slicked back with Wildroot, jumps up and down in back.

‘You callin’ me a crook? You sayin’ I stole that junk heap?’

Birdy looks him in the eyes, right through that fist. I wonder if my father can hit him. Birdy isn’t even moving. He stands there like a stuck feather.

‘I think you made a mistake, Mr Columbato. You sold a car that wasn’t yours. You didn’t understand. If you will tell me the name of the man you sold it to, I can tell him what happened and give him his money back.’

For a minute, my old man can’t say anything. His eyes are bulging. I know he wants to pick Birdy up and throw him out the door but he’s beginning to get suspicious.

‘I’m tellin’ ya, kid. The guy that bought that car ain’t never goin’ to give it back. You give him any trouble and you’ll wind up in a concrete shirt at the bottom of a river somewhere.’

Birdy acts as if he doesn’t even hear him.

‘If you would just give me his name, Mr Columbato, I can contact him directly and I won’t have to go to the police.’

My father starts his jabbing routine. He can hit so hard with
the point of his middle finger just on the soft part under the collar bone, it’s like a bullet going through you. Birdy stands there taking it. He doesn’t move. I can’t believe the old man’s using his full force. He stops and stares at Birdy; I can see he has his hand down at his side now itching to give one to Birdy. I’m beginning to think it’ll be the old immovable object and the irresistible force.

‘You see, Mr Columbato, Al and I have a signed receipt of purchase for that car from Mr Schwartz. It is officially our property.’

This is pure bullshit. We don’t have anything from Schwartz.

‘You agreed to have the automobile officially inspected and registered, so it’s in your name, but you are not the official owner; you have no evidence of purchase from us. It is still our property. Now, if you will just tell me the name of the man who bought the car, I can explain this to him.’

The old man sits down. I can’t believe it. Birdy’s still standing there.

‘I’m sure the man who bought the car would rather not have the police investigating this. It could be embarrassing for everybody.’

The old man is actually breaking out in a sweat. There are beads of water across his forehead and over his lips.

‘Why you want to be such a hard nose, kid? Look, I’ll do you a favor.’ He tilts, reaches into his pocket and pulls out the roll. He peels off another fifty bucks and holds it out to Birdy. Birdy doesn’t move. The old man waves the money.

‘That’s all I got for it, kid. Take it and get outta here. Leave me alone, huh?’

My mother’s moved into the room. She takes the money from my father and grabs hold of Birdy’s arm. He comes with her and she leads him back to the kitchen. Birdy’s face is chalk white, his lips are blue, and his whole body is shaking. My mother talks English to Birdy.

‘Boy, you take the money. I get more from Al’s uncle, my brother. Don’t make trouble. How much money you want?’

Birdy looks at her. Tears are coming into his eyes. He takes the money from her and hands it to me. He shakes his head and goes down the cellar steps, then on out the back. I try to follow him but my mother stops me.

When I finish telling this story to Renaldi he sits there, looking straight into me, listening. All along he’s nodded his head or let me know other ways that he’s listening and interested. I find it hard to go on with the story sometimes because I fill up. My nerves still aren’t quite right.

So, my mother gives me another hundred dollars about a week later. She really forces me to take it and swears she got it from her brother. Her brother’d give her ten thousand dollars if she asked for it and he wouldn’t even ask what for.

I give it all to Birdy and tell him Nicky’d kicked in with two hundred. You see, Birdy’s still sore. He figures the car is worth at least three hundred and he’s been checking things out to find who bought the car and he’s going to call the cops. He’s even written to the department of motor vehicles to find out what name the car is registered in. I tell him they’ll kill him but he couldn’t care less. When Birdy’s got his mind on something, especially when he’s pissed like that, it’s hard to turn him off.

It must be almost three weeks later when I go over to his place and he’s working out with his wings, flapping in his back yard. I see giant black and blue marks on his chest. It takes me a few seconds to realize that’s where the old man gave him those finger pokes. The old man wasn’t holding back; Birdy was just pushing forward on each poke. He was probably practically breaking the old man’s finger.

I stop. I’m tired of telling about it. I don’t think Renaldi’s getting what I’m talking about anyway. I’m not even so sure myself.

‘Gee, Al. You really ought to tell Weiss this stuff. Maybe he could understand some and be able to help Birdy. I don’t think Weiss even knows he’s called Birdy. That should mean something to him. You owe it to Birdy.’

‘Not me. Don’t you tell him either! I’d rather Birdy stay crazy than have a shit like Weiss bring him back. If I came back from
being crazy and saw somebody like Weiss standing there in front of me, I’d probably cry the rest of my life.’

That’s where I should’ve asked about ‘being crazy’ but I didn’t. I figure Renaldi doesn’t know any more than I do. We all have our own private kinds of craziness. If it gets in the way of enough people, they call you crazy. Sometimes you just can’t take it anymore yourself, so you tell somebody else you’re crazy and they agree to take care of you.

Since the mating, Alfonso is less hostile toward me. I wouldn’t say he’s friendly, but there’s a form of truce. Actually, to be honest, he more or less ignores me. I don’t know what Birdie told him, or how much canaries can get across that kind of thought, but he accepts the idea I’m not going to hurt him.

The nest building proceeds quickly now. They’re up and down, in and out, all day. Alfonso is allowed to help with the carrying but he isn’t to put anything in the nest. Birdie has definite ideas about how things should be done. He’ll come up with some burlap and she’ll take it out of his beak. Apparently, Alfonso only has the concept, he doesn’t have the skills to build.

When I come in to peer at the nest, Birdie makes no fuss and seems proud of herself. She isn’t exactly weaving the little strings, but she’s overlapping them carefully in such a way that it makes a compact, formed mass. Alfonso isn’t so happy about me sticking my nose into things. He stands on top of the cage while I peer in, and gives me his most threatening look. Birdie’s shaping the nest as a deep hole somewhat smaller than her breast dimension and turning it in slightly to close at the top. The inside is shaped like the hole for a small vase. Tuesday night I can see it’s finished.

On Wednesday, when I come home from school, I’m shocked to see the entire nest torn apart and strewn over the floor of the aviary. Holy God, what next! it’s enough to drive a person batty. The new nest is under construction. She’s more frantic this time. I think if Alfonso didn’t feed her once in a while she’d starve. It’s up and
down, back and forth; carefully picking the right pieces out of the piles; flying up; placing them even more carefully in the nest. Each time she takes a moment’s snuggling to check dimensions and then goes out again. I can’t even guess what could’ve been wrong with the first nest. She makes poor Alfonso work like a slave. He’s getting no creative satisfaction out of the thing but she forces him. He’s playing hod carrier to her bricklayer. Twice, I see him fly up to his favorite top perch to do a little singing and take a rest. Birdie chases after him and forces him back to the grind.

This time, as she comes to finishing the nest, she starts fraying the individual threads into light brown fuzz. With this she lines the bottom of the nest and the upper ramparts. It’s beautiful. Then, apparently, even this isn’t soft enough, so she starts chasing Alfonso around the cage, snitching feathers from his breast. The first few times he lets her get away with it, but then he’s had enough. When she makes another pass at him, he gives her a couple good pecks on the head and chases her around the aviary till she flies back into the small cage and settles onto the nest. He flies in after her, goes over and feeds her on the nest. She stays there while he sings the soft, tender song he sang the first night I heard him. I know from the song that the nest is finished.

Canaries living in a cage are like human beings in that they’re not living a completely natural life. They have a life which is safer than natural life would be. For this reason, they don’t get enough physical challenge and experience in survival. Also, birds, which in nature would die, are kept alive by the bird breeder because he has other interests than survival, such as color or song or special shape or something else. Gradually, the cage bird loses much of its vitality, its capacity to survive.

For example: in nature, a bird lays her first egg and is so busy providing herself with food and protecting her territory, she usually doesn’t start sitting the egg right away. She waits until she has a full clutch before she begins bearing down and really brooding. A cage bird, however, has a different situation. She’s so anxious and so confined to the area of the nest, she starts sitting tight as soon as an egg is laid. This means, if there are four eggs laid, the first
bird is hatched four days before the last. Four days is a big difference in baby birds and the big one gets all the food and stomps over the little ones, so they don’t have much chance. For this reason, the bird breeder removes the eggs as they are laid. He puts them back when the whole clutch is finished. He puts a fake egg, or a marble, in as a replacement for each egg taken, so the bird doesn’t get discouraged and abandon the nest.

I have my fake eggs ready on Thursday morning. Birdie’d slept in the nest the past two nights and this is supposed to be a sure sign. I have oil and cotton ready in case she gets egg bound. The books say sometimes a young female can’t pass her egg easily and tenses so the egg can’t get out. This can kill the bird. When this happens, you drop warm olive oil on the vent and massage it gently with a cotton swab until the muscles relax and the egg is delivered.

That morning I put fresh food and egg mash on the floor of the aviary. I’d been feeding them egg mash since the mating. It’s made of hard-boiled egg mashed in with pablum. Both Birdie and Alfonso really like it. As soon as she smells it, Birdie comes down for some. I go into the aviary and look into the nest. There’s an egg. I’m so nervous I’m afraid to take it out. I take deep breaths to calm myself. I have a teaspoon ready and I reach in carefully to slip it under the egg. I lift it out rolling, my hand shaking and lower it onto a cotton nest I’ve made in a small dish. I quickly put the fake egg in the nest. I’ve been keeping it in my hand to warm it. I know Birdie is too smart to be fooled by a cold marble.

Birdie has flown up to the nest while I’m doing all this. She’s watching me suspiciously. She queeps her most plaintive queep and that doesn’t help my nerves at all. After I’ve put the fake egg in, she hops on the edge of the nest, seems satisfied and lowers herself over it. My forehead and hands are covered with sweat. I carry the dish with the egg in it carefully out of the aviary.

The egg is beautiful. I put the dish on the window sill and look at it. The shell is a pale blue-green and there are tiny reddish-brown spots. The spots aren’t blood marks, they’re real spots. The spots aren’t dark, more like pale freckles. Against the light, I can see
through the shell and pick out the outline of the yolk. It’s amazing to think there’s a beginning bird in there; that the feathers and the beak and the flying are in the egg. I wish I could be in there myself and be born again as a bird. I wish I could live in that nest and be warmed under Birdie’s feathers and be fed by her and snuggle with my brothers and sisters, feeling my wings getting stronger and my feathers growing.

Birdie doesn’t sit tight on the first egg, but she sticks close to the nest and Alfonso spends a good part of his time with her in the cage. The next morning there’s a second egg. It’s a slightly darker blue than the first one. Now, Birdie settles in. The whole of the next afternoon she only gets off the nest once. Alfonso brings food to her but her body needs calcium to develop the new eggs so she flies down and nibbles on the cuttlebone. Alfonso not only feeds her, he stands beside the nest and sings to her. Now and then he fucks her on the nest. I’m not sure if this is going to hurt the eggs she’s carrying or not. I consider closing the cage door, with Birdie in it, to keep Alfonso away but decide against it.

The next morning there’s a third egg. It looks more like the first one but has fewer spots. It’s longer and thinner too. Each time, I put in a false egg. The book says one is enough to keep a hen on the nest but I’m sure either Birdie or Alfonso can count to four. Now, when Birdie flies down to eat or exercise, Alfonso sits on the eggs. First, I see him standing on the edge of the nest looking in when Birdie’s away and I’m afraid he’s going to lean in and try eating the eggs. This is not completely uncommon with canary birds. I’m feeding them hen eggs and there isn’t that much difference. The book says that if by some chance an egg gets broken, it should be removed at once, to keep the birds from eating it. Once a bird starts eating eggs, it’s useless for breeding.

After the fourth egg, I put the whole clutch back in and mark it on my calendar. The eggs are supposed to hatch thirteen days after I put them in. The next morning I’m surprised to see Birdie’s laid a fifth egg. Usually a canary only lays from two to four eggs, especially a young female like Birdie.

Now begins the long wait. I think the two weeks will never pass.
I begin to get jumpy and nervous about noises. The book says sudden noises or shocks can stop 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.