which they got to in warm weather by way of their own little doorways. There were only two of them, and Ham’s father had named them Jack and Gene, after two famous boxers. “All these guys know is fighting,” he had said. “You wouldn’t want me to name them after a couple of violin players, would you?”
The fighting cocks made Ham’s father happy. He hadbrought them home with him, their cages stashed in the back of his pickup truck, early one summer evening, after having spent several hours in Pittsfield at the Bonnie Aire Café with some friends. He had bought them from a man he had met there, a lumberman from Canada who was going out west by train and couldn’t take them with him.
That first night Ham’s father had talked excitedly about staging cockfights with Jack and Gene. Even though he’d never actually seen a cockfight, he figured there wasn’t much to it once you had a pair of fighting cocks. Ham’s mother said that she really wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with animals such as that, and she had gone into the kitchen to wash the supper dishes. Then Ham’s father had fallen asleep in his chair by the radio.
As soon as he realized that his father had fallen asleep, Ham crept over to the cages, which his father had placed on the floor next to his easy chair, and he studied the strange-looking birds. The one named Jack was red, the one named Gene was yellow, and they both looked fiery—fast, sharp, sudden little birds with wildly round eyes, short orange combs, beaks like the points of scissors, and long knifelike spurs attached to the backs of their legs. They reminded Ham of snakes—their cold, unblinking eyes, the way they held their bodies motionless while they watched him, always from the side, turning only their wedge-shaped heads as Ham moved in a careful circle around their cages.
Finally he sat down on the floor next to the cages. His father was snoring. Reaching out one hand, Ham brushed the top of Jack’s cage and quickly yanked his hand back. The bird didn’t move. Trying the same thing with Gene, he joggled the cage a bit, knocking the bird off-balance for a second, but getting no other response from it. Moving back to Jack’s cage, he once again reached toward the mesh, and just as he felt thetouch of the cold wire against his fingertips, he realized that the bird had lanced the palm of his hand with its beak, and a hot flower of pain filled his hand and shot up the length of his arm.
He screamed, and his father woke up, and his mother came running in from the kitchen. Blood was pouring from a small hole in the palm of his hand all over his flannel pajamas and bare feet. Ham kept screaming and slapping his hand against himself as if a tiny spot of fire were stuck to it.
Wrapping his hand with the dishcloth she had been carrying, his mother hurried him upstairs to the bathroom, where, after a while, she was able to calm him and wash and dress his wound. Then she took him into his room and helped him put on a clean pair of pajamas and tucked him into bed.
Kissing him good-night, she said, “Don’t be afraid,” in a voice that helped him not to be afraid, because it was a voice that told him she was not afraid.
Then she went downstairs, and he could hear her talking to his father, though he could not hear the words. Several times his father interrupted her, but she quickly resumed talking.
After a few minutes his father started talking, and his mother began to interrupt, but he kept on talking in his low, steady voice. And when he finished, he left the living room and came into the hall and started up the stairs.
He came into Ham’s room and sat down at the foot of the bed. “Let me see your hand, son.”
Ham extended his gauze-wrapped hand to his father, who examined the dressing for a second, then returned it. “Still hurt?”
“A little,” Ham said somberly.
“A lot, I bet.”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Did you learn something?”
“Yes. I guess
The fighting cocks made Ham’s father happy. He hadbrought them home with him, their cages stashed in the back of his pickup truck, early one summer evening, after having spent several hours in Pittsfield at the Bonnie Aire Café with some friends. He had bought them from a man he had met there, a lumberman from Canada who was going out west by train and couldn’t take them with him.
That first night Ham’s father had talked excitedly about staging cockfights with Jack and Gene. Even though he’d never actually seen a cockfight, he figured there wasn’t much to it once you had a pair of fighting cocks. Ham’s mother said that she really wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with animals such as that, and she had gone into the kitchen to wash the supper dishes. Then Ham’s father had fallen asleep in his chair by the radio.
As soon as he realized that his father had fallen asleep, Ham crept over to the cages, which his father had placed on the floor next to his easy chair, and he studied the strange-looking birds. The one named Jack was red, the one named Gene was yellow, and they both looked fiery—fast, sharp, sudden little birds with wildly round eyes, short orange combs, beaks like the points of scissors, and long knifelike spurs attached to the backs of their legs. They reminded Ham of snakes—their cold, unblinking eyes, the way they held their bodies motionless while they watched him, always from the side, turning only their wedge-shaped heads as Ham moved in a careful circle around their cages.
Finally he sat down on the floor next to the cages. His father was snoring. Reaching out one hand, Ham brushed the top of Jack’s cage and quickly yanked his hand back. The bird didn’t move. Trying the same thing with Gene, he joggled the cage a bit, knocking the bird off-balance for a second, but getting no other response from it. Moving back to Jack’s cage, he once again reached toward the mesh, and just as he felt thetouch of the cold wire against his fingertips, he realized that the bird had lanced the palm of his hand with its beak, and a hot flower of pain filled his hand and shot up the length of his arm.
He screamed, and his father woke up, and his mother came running in from the kitchen. Blood was pouring from a small hole in the palm of his hand all over his flannel pajamas and bare feet. Ham kept screaming and slapping his hand against himself as if a tiny spot of fire were stuck to it.
Wrapping his hand with the dishcloth she had been carrying, his mother hurried him upstairs to the bathroom, where, after a while, she was able to calm him and wash and dress his wound. Then she took him into his room and helped him put on a clean pair of pajamas and tucked him into bed.
Kissing him good-night, she said, “Don’t be afraid,” in a voice that helped him not to be afraid, because it was a voice that told him she was not afraid.
Then she went downstairs, and he could hear her talking to his father, though he could not hear the words. Several times his father interrupted her, but she quickly resumed talking.
After a few minutes his father started talking, and his mother began to interrupt, but he kept on talking in his low, steady voice. And when he finished, he left the living room and came into the hall and started up the stairs.
He came into Ham’s room and sat down at the foot of the bed. “Let me see your hand, son.”
Ham extended his gauze-wrapped hand to his father, who examined the dressing for a second, then returned it. “Still hurt?”
“A little,” Ham said somberly.
“A lot, I bet.”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Did you learn something?”
“Yes. I guess
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