BIRD ON BIRD by Jason Ockert

The old men met under the water tower to gossip and shift themselves and sniff the ostrich manure baking downwind in the June midday; the bastards cranky and queer and weird. They honked into handkerchiefs and complained until they were confused or content. Each old man hung low over a weathered stool like a tired bird on a wire exhausted and bothered by flying around for nothing. When they could muster the energy they threw dice in the hardened dirt or punched each other in the gut. My Gramps over there passed tobacco between his cheeks and hucked it at horseflies buzzing around the rusted base of the water tower. Eventually, the men would rise and shuffle the half-block to their commune where they all lived together and vehemently denied visitors.
On the other side of the short wooden fence, where the dandelions popped up out of the ground like yellow ideas, we stomped bees and shouted numbers. Travis, Rivergums, Chadwick, and me. You’d wait for a bee to land on a weed and crush it. Then you’d yell out whatever number you were on, counting together. Rivergums yelled three, Chadwick yelled four, Travis shouted five, then six, and I screamed seven, though I was lying. I had stopped crushing bees that summer. It was just killing for the sake of killing. I pretended and just smeared the dandelions. That summer I went to work with my father, I had responsibility, kid games were supposed to pass.
My father worked at the ostrich farm as did most of my friends’ fathers. The farm was just behind the water tower on the other side of a small furrowed ridge covered in hollyhock and brambles. The birds would sprint up to the tall metal fence and shake their necks whenever you taunted them. It wasn’t easy to climb over the ostrich fence, but we did it anyway. If we were quiet enough we could sneak up and slap one of them on the ass and watch them noiselessly sprint off. One time an older bird spun around and chased Travis back to the fence. He couldn’t climb it fast enough. It pecked him good and quick on his head and left a welt he had to conceal with a baseball cap toward the end of that school year.
Travis’ father was in charge of keeping the birds in the field and gathering them when they needed to be slaughtered. Rivergums’ dad was in charge of plucking the birds clean. Chadwick didn’t have a father but his uncle owned the farm. My father was the new executioner. He was in charge of killing the birds humanely. Before him, farmers just whacked an ostrich over the head with a ball-peen hammer or lassoed it around the neck and held on until the bird choked. Eventually, a handful of protestors marched out by the highway with Save the Ostriches signs. I remember their chant was a mouthful. Nobody listened. After the ostrich boom, though, regulators demanded a different form of slaughter. My father, who had been teaching chemistry at the high school, invented a serum that put the birds to sleep gently. The regulators and protestors wanted a demonstration. With a dart laced with the poison in a bamboo blowgun, he shot a shy bird. It blinked a few times. People were instantly skeptical. Then the ostrich seemed to smile somehow as it closed its eyes, fluttered its useless wings, as if it were rising up out of this life, dropped to its knees, and let out a not unpleasant dying sigh. Everyone applauded. My father was hired.
That was a few years before the industry took off. That summer, everyone was eating ostrich. Major burger joints were ready to put the bird on the market. My father excitedly reported that he overheard a man in a business suit say, McOstrich. So, they needed to expand. I begged my father to hire me as a hunter like him. I could shoot a spitball from a straw and smack one of the old bastards by the water tower from fifty feet. All my friends had seen this. He told me I was too young. I pouted. He said he’d look for something else. Next day he told me they needed help loading the plucked birds onto trucks. I told him I was his man and he tousled my hair, said, Good boy.
Rivergums yelled seventeen. That was enough for me. I told my friends to carry on, I was going to find my little brother. Travis flipped me off and called me a shitbird. I told him he smelled poorly. He chased me, briefly, then gave up.
I hopped over the short fence and waved at Gramps who was murmuring with his friends. The sun was such that it pitched the water tower shadow over half the old men while the other half had to squint or stare at the ground. The old man didn’t wave back.
Jasper was on the other side of the ridge, next to the ostrich fence, where he always went. It was tough to get to him there because of all the brambles and thorns, but I managed. His small back was turned to me, his short brown hair cropped just like mine, ears jutted out like butterfly wings. When I was close enough, I flicked the back of his neck. Jasper didn’t flinch.
I heard you coming, he whispered.
He had a chunk of turkey in his hand. A few feet in front of him, on the other side of the tall metal fence, a six foot ostrich was fretting like they did.
When are you going to make friends with humans instead of animals? I asked.
He ain’t my friend.
Isn’t. Isn’t your friend. So you don’t have any friends, that’s much better.
Watch this.
Jasper rolled a small handful of turkey in his fist and threw it through the metal fence at the feet of the ostrich. The animal backed off, but then timidly returned to gobble the meat with a swift bend.
That’s turkey, Jasper said.
So?
Turkey’s a bird, the ostrich is a bird. It’s like it’s eating itself.
They’re different birds.
I took the eggs Mom scrambled for us yesterday morning. They ate them up. There can’t be much difference between an ostrich egg and a chicken egg.
One comes out a chicken, one comes out an ostrich. Big difference, I said.
An egg is an egg.
Are you upset I’m going to work with Dad?
He scratched the underside of his arm.
You’ll be old enough in a few years, I encouraged.
I don’t want to work.
You don’t play with friends, you don’t like our family picnics, and now you don’t want to work. What do you want?
I want to know why an ostrich eats its own kind.
I snatched the turkey from Jasper’s hands, took a step away from him, and threw the meat into the thorns.
It’s not the same bird, I said. Now come on, it’s time for dinner. If we’re lucky maybe Mom will serve us humans. I bet you’d like that, huh?
When I turned back I saw Jasper try to cover his face and hide his eyes. He was crying.
Oh, hey, come on now, I didn’t mean anything by it. I put my arms around him, held his shoulders, and let him wet my shirtfront. I waited until his ears stopped quivering and he peeked up at me with red-wet eyes and a twitching frown.
Toddy, he said, I’m not hungry tonight.

* * *

My first day of work finally came. Those few days of waiting were trying. I managed to convince my little brother to play the bee smashing game with us which nearly killed him. He tried to stomp a moving bee that stung him in the thigh. For some reason he ballooned up, cheeks turned yellow and blue. My friends and I did our best to rush him home, but it was difficult to lift him over the short wooden fence. The old-timers under the water tower pointed and laughed. I guess they thought his face was funny all swollen with his big ears. It looked like Gramps was about to choke on his chew, laughing so hard. I didn’t have time to explain that this was serious.
At the hospital they had to stick a tube down his throat to stabilize breathing. His windpipe had constricted. They let me stand close and squeeze his hand. Eventually, things relaxed and they yanked the tube out. Then for some reason Jasper held his breath. The doctors were confused. When they tried to insert the tube again, he clenched his teeth and thrashed his head around. He must have held his breath two full minutes before he finally let the air out. He offered no explanation. The doctors said post-traumatic stress or something. Also, they said, He is allergic to bees.
Jasper was housebound as he recovered from cold sweats and a fever induced somehow by the sting. I don’t know what he did all day. I made it a point to visit with him in his bedroom every night. He didn’t say much, just listened to stories I told about my friends. Once, he asked if Gramps was laughing the day of the sting.
I thought about it and said, No.
He cut his eyes at me and replied, I remember him laughing.
Look, those old men are senile. I’ll smack ‘em with a spit-wad later.
He looked at me suspiciously.
I don’t want you to hate Gramps, that’s all.
I’d worry about yourself if I were you, he said, and rolled over pulling his bedsheets high.
I decided to save some of the money I earned from work to buy Jasper something nice, pull him out of his funk. I decided this as I finished my chocolate milk on my first day. Outside, Dad honked the horn in his Mustang. I hurried to him. Then he asked me about my gloves. The gloves I was supposed to wear were these rubbery things that extended all the way to my elbows. They were on the kitchen table. He scowled and said that I’d have to borrow some from the boys.
I was part of an assembly line loading the birds onto a refrigerated truck. We took turns standing in the refrigeration. There were four of us: Plinckett, Harvey, Cyrus, and me. I borrowed an extra pair of Cyrus’ gloves which were bloody and too big, but I had no other choice. Because I was the weakest and the new guy, I never had to lift the birds, I just passed them to my right.
The birds didn’t look like birds anymore. The long neck and legs had been chopped off and sent somewhere to be ground into Ostrich-dogs; so Plinckett told me. The birds I handled were defeathered and skinned and resembled oblong inner tubes with intricate patchworks of blue-green veins and tough sinew. They were heavy and about the time I thought my arms would give, Harvey said the truck was full enough, time for break. He radioed the driver.
At lunch the men smoked and talked about women. My mom packed me a ham sandwich, chips, and an apple. I ate and listened. I tried not to make too much noise munching the apple. Plinckett asked me what I thought of the job. I told him, It’s great, and the three of them laughed and smiled. I grinned myself and then we were back to work.
What I learned over the next week and a half was that working was not great. It was hard. I did the same thing every day and when I came home I was too tired to do anything but collapse. I couldn’t do this in the house, though, if my parents saw me they would worry. So I went to the cemetery to rest on the lawn. Sometimes I picked through a patch of clover by Dale McWilson’s headstone. I was searching for a four-leafed one to give to Jasper. When it was dinnertime I returned to the house. Jasper had been super quiet since our conversation about Gramps, but I was just too tired to try and bring him out of his shell. Even though I didn’t bend and lift the birds, my back was killing me. I could use a day off, I thought. And then, as it happened, one of the old men under the water tower died of something. The funeral was scheduled on a Monday. Everybody in town attended funerals. Ostrich packing shut down for the day. I thanked God.
For some reason Jasper perked up at the idea of a funeral. Mom thought he was being respectful and kind. She made us dress in our suits. I knew people wore black to funerals. Our suits were deep blue. In the sunlight we stood out.
We went to the cemetery where everybody had gathered around the hole. Reverend Siskins, with the lisp, waved his hands around the casket and said:
Today we lose a great beacon in our community. Mr. Yancy Karmical lived here for nearly seventy-five years. His birthday would have been next month. When the Lord decides to gather a man into the afterworld, He reaches down and takes him according to his worth. Sometimes a man will die violently and sometimes he’ll die peacefully. I believe we’re judged in that moment as we die. I admire Yancy Karmical. The good Lord knew he was a fine man and so took him gently on up into Heaven.
Family in the front sobbed. The old man was Travis’ grandfather. Travis told me he died of a stroke. We giggled about this; stroking still meant something lewd in our circle. It looked like Travis was trying to suppress a laugh at the funeral. He was covering his mouth, but I could see the edges of his lips turned up. Mostly everybody else appeared uncomfortable. There was a wasp buzzing around a group of old ladies who were praying the insect didn’t land on them. The old men from the water tower were as close to the casket as they could be. Their bald heads glistened in the sun. Now and again my Gramps hucked tobacco into a plastic cup. My coworkers from the ostrich packing plant were together in the middle of the crowd. I caught a glint of a flask they passed between them. My dad was softly jingling his keys in his pocket and Mom was picking a piece of lint off her dress.
Jasper, standing next to me, was the only one who seemed to be paying attention. He was staring at Reverend Siskins intently. His lips were pursed and he leaned forward. There was a ring of sweat developing around his collar. I wondered if he was feverish. I turned my attention back to Siskins to figure out what Jasper was listening to. The Reverend went on:
And so we shall take the body, the shell of Yancy Karmical, and lay it to rest, as he wanted it to be done, with his friends who have reserved this plot of land for all eternity. And so it goes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
When I glanced over at my brother I saw that he had raised his hand. I didn’t know what this meant at first but then realized he wanted to ask a question.
What are you doing? I whispered, lowering myself to his ear.
This disturbed our father. He colored, and sternly shook his head, No.
But Reverend Siskins saw Jasper’s hand and asked, in a booming, lisping voice, Does someone have something to say?
No, Reverend, no, nobody, my Dad replied. Carry on.
Siskins screwed up his face.
Despite our father, my brother meekly managed, I have a question.
Everybody in attendance turned. They all saw that my suit was not black. I tried to disappear behind Mom.
Well, Siskins said, we don’t normally ask questions at a funeral, but perhaps we could use this opportunity to teach you about the Lord, young man. What is your question?
Jasper took the time to scan all the people who had turned and were staring at him. He spotted Gramps and narrowed his eyes for a moment. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said there was a little malice in Jasper’s gaze.
With a calm voice my brother asked, Is Mr. Karmical ever going to come back?
Siskins clasped his hands together and said, loudly, The child wants to know if Mr. Karmical is ever going to come back. It is an innocent question that each one of us asks ourselves, and why not? Who wouldn’t want Yancy Karmical back in this world, spreading his love and good citizenship? We all would. Perhaps Mr. Karmical touched this boy in a special way. But to answer your question, young man, we must turn to the Bible and to the words of our Lord. Yancy Karmical will join the Holy Ghost in the everlasting glory of Heaven. His spirit has already risen to take its place with God.
Jasper raised his hand again. My father hissed. Before Reverend Siskins could comment, Jasper asked another question.
Does everyone go to Heaven?
Son, you must remember where you are now. This is Mr. Yancy Karmical’s moment to be remembered and honored. Your questions are better suited for Sunday school as your parents know best. Put your hand down and I’ll answer that question before we say our final prayers for Mr. Karmical. Each person is judged by the actions they’ve done while on this Earthly realm. Some people are good Christians, some are bad, and some not Christians at all. We cannot judge others, though. When the time comes to pass on to the next life, God decides who rises to Heaven and who does not. Those souls that do not rise enter purgatory where they repent or suffer eternal damnation. Now let us bow our heads in prayer.
I folded my hands in front of me and nodded my head like everybody else. Midway through the prayer, I peeked to my right and saw that Jasper had his eyes open and was staring into the cloudless sky. I quickly glanced at my father. His lip was twitching and his hands were holding each other in one big fist, surely passing judgment on my brother.

* * *

Jasper was grounded for two weeks. And he was sent to Sunday school every day. It was some sort of summer afternoon Bible study, actually. Our father gave him the silent treatment but it didn’t bother Jasper. If I were Jasper, I would have sucked up to our parents and tried to lessen the punishment. Instead, he stayed in his room and read books he’d borrowed from the church library.
With my first paycheck I bought Jasper an intricately carved wooden blowgun specially designed with a mouthpiece. In the evenings I taught him how to wad a spitball and aim. He was reluctant at first, but brightened when I told him we could use it on the old men under the water tower. Get them back for laughing, I urged. We practiced pegging army men out in the hall.
I also bought a pack of cigarettes from the machine at Patterson’s pool hall. I called Travis and we smoked in the cemetery. Rivergums and Chadwick stayed out in the field crushing bees. Travis wanted me to score him a job packing birds, and I told him I’d see what I could do. Truth be told, though, I was selfish about the work. I’d earned respect and I wasn’t willing to share that with my friends.
After a while the birds were easier to load. I learned to keep my back straight and swivel my hips. My coworkers said next week I’d take a lift shift. They thought I was strong enough to heft the ostrich carcasses off the cart. I had begun to pack my own lunch which consisted of sardines, crackers, and a thermos of tomato soup. Sometimes I bought soda from the machine in the lounge. Once, I got the boys a round. Dad told me he was proud, he’d heard solid things about my performance. Someone had said I was tough.
Once a week my family ate ostrich fillets. My dad, after toying with his food, said to me, Todd, what do you think about hunting an ostrich with me tomorrow morning?
Really? I said, scratching my fork against the plate.
Yeah, sure, you’ve earned it.
You won’t get in trouble? Mom asked.
No.
Jasper, who ate a plate of vegetables on ostrich fillet night because he couldn’t stomach the bird, looked up from his food and said, Can I come?
My father folded his arms and pushed his plate forward, leaned toward Jasper. After Dad left teaching and became an ostrich executioner, he became less patient and drank more often. I overheard him tell our mother that he was done taking shit from kids.
Well, you’ve decided to talk to us tonight? he asked. Shouldn’t we all be honored?
My brother lowered his eyes. Mom called Dad his real name.
OK, Jasper, why should I let you come with us?
Jasper was silent, head down.
Have you earned it? Dad asked, sucking at a beer.
My brother had a cowlick. His ears were turning pink.
Finally I said, He’s been doing well at Sunday school. I didn’t know if this was true, but I wanted to give him a chance.
My father looked at me and sighed. Fine, then. Tell us what you’ve learned, Jasper.
Very quietly my brother said, I learned that God is good and that Jesus loves me.
Right. What else? And look at me when you’re speaking.
Jasper lifted his head. He said, I learned that purgatory is a place to suffer while you try and understand that God loves you.
I suppose. And what about . . .
I learned that if you’re righteous, when you die you go to Heaven. Babies come from Heaven, too. I learned that a sperm fertilizes an egg and that people are born out of eggs.
My mother patted Jasper on the shoulder.
That’s not entirely right, Dad replied.
It’s not entirely wrong, dear, Mom said.
You die, you learn that God loves you, and you come back out of an egg, Jasper said excitedly. Then you grow up and go to work and have a family and get old and sit under the water tower like Gramps!
Dad finished his beer. Mom said, You can be anything you want, baby.
Sounds like your attitude is improving, Dad said. That’s good. I only have one question for you. Why do you want to hunt an ostrich?
Without hesitation my brother said, I want to see how it’s done.

* * *

At five the following morning I was awake and dressed in my blue camouflage pants and weathered Notre Dame baseball hat.
Jasper was already in my parents’ room watching Dad take darts and serum from the safe in the closet. My brother held our father’s foot-long bamboo blowgun. It was his job to hand the gun to Dad when we were in position. Dad had dressed in his beige dungarees and Jasper looked like he was wearing old pajamas.
I’m taking two darts in case I need backup, but you watch, your old man only needs one.
Dad shut the safe, we hopped in the car and drove to the gate. The gate was out by the railroad tracks, past the cemetery. My friends and I wondered about it when we hiked up and down the tracks tossing stones at rabbits. We wondered who had the keys to the enormous padlocks chained around the handle. Seems my pop had a set. He drove us right up to the fence. We piled out, Dad unlocked the gate, we entered, and he closed and locked it again.
I hope you boys got your walking shoes on. It’s a hike. Normally Stan corrals the ostrich to a designated area, but I told him to leave it alone for today. I know this particular bird we’re hunting pretty well. He hangs out by the hatchery. You can tell it’s him because he’s only got half a wing on one side. And he’s damned big. Nearly eight feet tall standing still. Keep your eyes peeled.
The early morning mist came up to my knees, and my feet, hurrying to stay next to Dad, looked blurry and bigger than normal. I could hear Jasper stumbling behind us as he tried to keep pace. Dad reminded us both about the ostrich shit, there were mounds of it everywhere. Also, mind the holes the ostriches dig to try and hide their heads. It’s what they want to do, hide their heads, he said.
It was difficult keeping my head down and up at the same time. I wanted to be the first to spot our prey and didn’t want to embarrass myself by tripping or stepping in bird crap.
Soon, I picked out dark shadows hustling around us as the ostriches kept at bay. One thing I found odd about ostriches is that they never made much noise. I’d never heard them anyway. I wondered if they cried out as they died. Part of me didn’t want to see my father kill the bird. His job had always been a mystery. I knew what he did, but I never knew exactly how he did it. I understood the value of his invention, the serum. I was proud to know that he cared enough to make it painless for the birds. Going with him on the hunt meant a lot to me. It was my father’s way of showing us what it was like to be him.
As we neared the hatchery the sun lifted over the horizon and cleared away the hovering fog. Jasper, behind us, asked about the hatchery. He wanted to know how often eggs were born.
Hatched, I corrected. They’re hatched not born.
Dad put his arm around me and we stopped to observe the barn-like enclosure with its slanted roof. Inside, I saw four or five ostriches, each in her own pen, standing or kneeling as we looked on.
Good question, son. It’s hard to say when a bird is going to lay an egg. You’d have to ask the men in the hatchery department.
What do they do with the eggs? Jasper asked.
It depends. Some get hatched and others get eaten.
What if I used to be an ostrich and then got hatched from Mom and that’s why I don’t like to eat ostriches and other ostriches were once people and don’t know it so they don’t mind eating turkey and chicken?
Dad and I stared at Jasper as he stood on his toes to peer into the hatchery. There was ostrich shit all over his tennis shoes and pant legs. It occurred to me that he was wearing pajamas I used to wear. I wished he would have chosen something else.
Then I saw the ostrich. Damned big. With a half-wing on its right side.
Bird! I shouted, pointing.
Dad turned and saw it, standing alone a hundred feet away. This is it, boys, he said, advancing. Give me the blowgun, Jasper.
Dad had his eyes on the bird as he fumbled in his pockets for a dart. He found one and uncapped the protective plastic top. He held his hand palm up, wanting Jasper to give him the gun. It took me only a moment to realize that Jasper was not letting go of the bamboo.
Jasper, I said, worry plain in my voice, the ostrich doesn’t feel a thing.
My brother had his feet planted firmly, a resolve in his stance.
I said give me the gun, Dad said, and we both know he meant it. His hand was still open and his body faced the bird, but his head was cocked toward Jasper.
No, my brother said.
My father had never hit us, not that I can recall, anyway. And I suppose he didn’t really hit my brother then as his open hand cut through space, locked on the blowgun in Jasper’s hand, and yanking hard, pulled it away; as he did with his fist, knuckles connected with my brother’s cheek as Jasper released the bamboo and reeled backward to his ass.
Don’t tell me no, Dad snapped as he focused on the bird, not our father now but the hunter hunching himself so he could creep forward, dart inserted in the blowgun and moving toward his lips. I was caught, myself, not knowing if I should move with Dad or help my brother up from the difficult earth.
I never had to make the decision. My father, a full seventy-five feet from the hesitant ostrich, stopped, inhaled, and aimed. But before he could act, I heard a noise, a cry really; I was startled thinking it was coming from the bird and then horrified as I saw my brother racing ahead to try and tackle our father. He grappled Dad’s knees and Dad jerked as the dart spit out of the blowgun and missed his mark by several feet. The ostrich bolted. My father shook his legs, Jasper was whipped to the ground, the second dart, I saw for a moment, flew out of my father’s pocket and landed next to Jasper. I reacted, trying to stop whatever it was my father planned to do next. I put my hands on his biceps, he glared down at me; instinctively I let go of his arm. My brother had rolled onto his stomach and was whimpering between gasps. The wind had been knocked out of him. My father bent and jostled Jasper’s shoulders, turned him over, the anger refined to a wave of curses. I noticed the second dart was gone and my brother’s hands were clenched together, hiding something, I thought, or maybe it was just my imagination and this was just him locked up in pain. Maybe the dart was still in our father’s pocket and maybe there was still time for one more shot at the bird.
I stood there hoping something would break the moment.

* * *

Our father took a week’s vacation. Alone. Only Mom knew where he went. She decided grounding Jasper was useless. Instead she talked to him when she could. From what I understood, he wasn’t saying much.
Mom also made me quit the job. I hated doing it. Plinckett, Harvey, and Cyrus said they would be sorry to see me go. They said they were even more sorry for their backs now that they’d be one man short. It was the first time anyone had called me a man.
Travis and I quit smoking. We got tired of snooping around the cemetery by ourselves. Plus Rivergums insisted we were turning gay. That was enough to bring us back to the field where we stomped bees on the dandelions again. If the old men under the water tower ever noticed I was gone, they didn’t show it.
Rivergums yelled three, Chadwick yelled four, Travis shouted five, then six, and I screamed seven. This time I meant it; I smeared the bee and flower together. I’d spotted what could be bee number eight when we all heard commotion under the water tower. Number eight buzzed away as we turned our attention to the old men.
My Gramps was standing taller than I’d ever seen him, up on his toes almost. His hand was clutching the back of his neck, and his eyes were popping out. I guess he swallowed his chew because when he opened his mouth he vomited reddish tobacco all over his old bastard friends. Then his tongue shot out, he collapsed to his knees, and keeled over face first to the ground.
The old men were in a tizzy. One of them shouted for help. Another one yelled, Killer bees! Travis and I hopped the fence and sprinted over to my fallen grandfather. Rivergums and Chadwick cautiously picked their way through the field, careful of the bees now, on their way home.
Stuck into the back of Gramps’ neck was an ostrich dart, not a stinger, I discovered this. I pulled it out knowing everything suddenly. I put the dart in my pocket and didn’t say a word. Gramps twitched.
The old men scurried into their commune to moan and hide. One brave old bastard found a can of insecticide and started to spray the air. Travis got help. Eventually, Gramps was whisked away in a hurry under sirens, but I knew he would be dead before they reached the highway. Mom cried even though Gramps was Dad’s father. She asked about Jasper, he was nowhere to be found. I told her to calm down, call Dad and break the news, I’d find my little brother.
I crawled through the brambles and hollyhock on the ridge to Jasper’s private place. He wasn’t there, but the blowgun I bought him was propped against the fence. I broke the gun in two over my knee, and, with the incriminating dart, threw everything deep into the thorns.
Climbing the fence was not easy for me. It must have been nearly impossible for Jasper. Once on the other side, I started jogging forward, not exactly sure where I was going. I kept scanning the horizon for my brother. The ostriches I passed kept to themselves, casting only a bored eye in my direction. The sun was almost history. If I were working, I’d know that my day was nearly done and I could go home and relax soon, maybe have a smoke.
After a while, I came to the place where we went hunting with our father. I knew this because of the hatchery jutting up and throwing long shadows to the ground in front of me. I slowed my pace and approached the building. I heard the female ostriches making noise. The sound was shrill and frantic. This was the first time I had ever heard the birds and I wondered what had gotten into them. Then I saw my brother stepping awkwardly out of the hatchery. His hair was disheveled, ears dirty, eyes occupied by a large egg he had cupped in his outstretched hands. He took a few steps, looked up, saw me, and started.
Ha, Jasper said nervously, I didn’t hear you coming.
I wet my lips, prepared to say something an older brother was supposed to say.
But he knew I was trying and cut me short.
I made it just in time to watch this thing come out of the bird, he said, panting. It was beautiful. It’s Gramps, you know. He died and then got born in this egg. He’s inside the shell. It’s still warm.
I bent down to one knee, not knowing what else to do. I held my hands out, open in front of him and said, Jasper, let me feel.

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Jason Ockert is the author of the novel Rabbit Punches, published by Lofi Press in 2005. His stories have appeared in McSweeney’s, River City, Cutbank, and Black Warrior Review.