The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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.