Birdy

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 upon 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 smallheads 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 Maj. S. O. Weiss on the black tag in the corner of his desk. I’m tempted to ask what the ‘S.’ stands for, besides Shitface, but there’s no use looking for trouble. He’s only doing his job. I just wish he did it better.
    Hell, no good psychiatrist would be working for the stinking army. If he were even