Part 3 (1/2)

Now, it wasn't all that unusual to occasionally run across a stranded young bird that had fallen or been dumped from the nest. But two? I found that ... suspicious.

”You found them? Really? Where?”

Travis wouldn't meet my eye. ”Down near the gin.”

Viola said, ”I don't care where you found 'em, you get them nasty things out of here right now. Those are devil birds.”

As if to confirm her opinion, both birds threw back their heads, much too big for their wobbly necks, and screamed like, well, the devil. You wouldn't think such frail-looking organisms would be capable of such a racket, but this was how they begged for food from their parents.

Viola yelled over the noise, ”Get 'em out of here.”

Travis chattered on our way to the barn. ”I've heard they make good pets. Have you heard that? They say they're really smart, and you can teach them tricks. I've been thinking about their names. How about Blue for one and Jay for the other? Blue is this one here. Look, he's a little bit smaller. And Jay, well, he's a little bit bigger, but one of his wings looks kind of funny. I hope it's okay. But that's how you tell them apart. I wonder when they ate last? Do you think they'll eat chicken feed? Or will we have to dig for worms?”

”Travis, you know how Mother and Father feel about wild animals.”

”But these aren't even animals, Callie. They're birds. So it's different.”

”Not really. Birds are a cla.s.s of vertebrate within the kingdom Animalia.”

”I don't know what that means, but boy, they sure are noisy.”

And boy, they sure were noisy. Their cries were an annoying sound halfway between a squeak and a screech, and about six octaves higher than I could sing. I followed him to the barn, where he looked for some kind of home for them. But the raucous cries of Blue and Jay quickly drew an attentive circle of the Outside Cats, eyes agleam and tails atwitch.

”They'll have to go into the chicken pen,” I said. ”It's the only place they'll be safe.” The chicken pen had a stout roof to discourage cats, c.o.o.ns, and hawks. We filled a wooden box with combings from Snow White, Mother's favorite ewe, and put the birds in their new home. They aggressively demanded food without ceasing, being basically two oversized mouths attached to two undersized bodies. They stopped their terrible noise only long enough to choke down beakfuls of a soft mash of chicken feed, fluttering their wings in excitement.

”Do you think we should give them water too?” asked Travis.

”I reckon it can't hurt.”

Travis dipped his finger in the hen's basin, and then, wiggling his wet finger, let fall a couple of drops of water into each beak. The birds liked it. As far as I could tell.

The offended hens huddled on the far side of the enclosure and clucked in consternation. Finally, to shut the hatchlings up, Travis draped the bandanna over them and they fell quiet in the artificial dark.

But calamity struck the next morning when we found Blue, the smaller of the birds, dead. Its sibling ignored the corpse and screamed at the top of its lungs for breakfast. From Travis's reaction, you would have thought there was no greater tragedy in our family.

”I killed him,” Travis said, fighting back tears. ”I should have sat up with him. Poor old Blue. I failed him.”

”No, you didn't,” I said in a vain attempt to console him. ”It always goes that way with the runts. It can't be helped; it's the survival of the fittest. That's the way Mother Nature works.”

Well, there was nothing for it but we had to have a funeral, interring ”poor old Blue” in the patch of land behind the smokehouse that Travis had staked out as a sad little cemetery over the years for his unsuccessful projects. (I myself would have left Blue to the ants and beetles to strip down to the bone so that I could have a nice clean skeleton to study, but Travis looked too distraught for me to suggest it.) We placed the carca.s.s in a nest of shredded newspapers in one of my cigar boxes, a brightly colored one with a dancing lady in a red dress and mantilla. I almost apologized to Travis for not having something more somber, so contagious was his grief. He dug a hole and gently deposited the colorful casket in the dark soil.

”Callie, would you like to say some words?”

Startled, I said, ”Uh, you go ahead. You knew him better than I did.”

”Okay, then. Blue was a good bird,” said Travis, choking up a little. ”He liked his mash. He did his best. And he never learned how to fly. We'll miss you, Blue. Amen.”

”Amen,” I said, for want of something to say, wondering if you were allowed to pray over a dead bird.

He filled in the hole and tamped it down with the back of the shovel. Thinking we were done, I turned to go.

He said, ”Wait, we need some kind of marker.”

We found a smooth river rock, and then he fretted over how to scratch the bird's name on it. The bell rang for breakfast, and I said, ”You'll have to come back later.” I handed him my handkerchief and put my arm around him as we trudged back to the house.

At the table Mother took one look at Travis's swollen red eyes and said gently, ”Darling? Is something the matter?”

”One of my blue jays died in the night,” he mumbled, eyes downcast on his plate.

”One of your what?” said Mother, c.o.c.king her head and fixing him with a bright beady gaze; she so resembled a bird that I almost giggled.

”I found two baby jays. One of them died in the night.”

”That,” said Mother, ”is what I thought you said. But I can't believe my ears. How many times have we talked about this?”

”Ah,” said Granddaddy, choosing that moment to snap out of his usual mealtime musing. ”The North American blue jay, Cyanocitta cristata, a member of the corvid family, which also includes crows and ravens, although the jay is strictly a New World bird. They are known to be intelligent and inquisitive and are excellent mimics who can often be taught to speak. Some experts consider them as intelligent as the parrot family. Many of the Indian clans view the jay as a trickster, mischievous and greedy but also clever and resourceful. You say you have one of these, my boy?”

Encouraged, Travis said, ”Yessir, although it's just a baby.”

”In that case, it will bond with you, so you'd best be prepared to support it through its adult life, which could easily last a decade or more. Yes, indeed, they are quite long-lived birds.” He resubmerged himself in his scrambled eggs and deep thoughts.

Mother, clearly wis.h.i.+ng to shoot daggers at Granddaddy, instead turned them on Travis.

”We agreed there would be no more wild animals, did we not?”

”Yes, ma'am.”

”And?”

”And ... uh.”

I interjected on his behalf: ”They're only babies, Mother. They both would have died if he hadn't picked them up. At least he saved one of them.”

”Calpurnia, keep out of this,” she said. ”Travis can speak for himself.”

”Yeah, Calpurnia”-Lamar snickered under his breath-”let the little birdbrain speak for himself. That's if he doesn't start bawling.”

”And you.” She wheeled on Lamar. ”Do you have something useful to add to this conversation? No? I didn't think so.”

Oh, Lamar, how had you become such a pill? And why? And more important, could anything be done about it?

Travis rallied his arguments. ”I've got him in the chicken pen, Mama. He won't be any trouble in there, I promise.”

Did anyone else besides me notice the change in his form of address? He hadn't called her Mama since his eighth birthday. She visibly softened and said, ”But, darling, they're always trouble.”

”Not this time, I promise.”