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fixing him with a bright beady gaze; she so resembled a bird that I almost giggled.
    â€œI found two baby jays. One of them died in the night.”
    â€œThat,” said Mother, “is what I thought you said. But I can’t believe my ears. How many times have we talked about this?”
    â€œAh,” 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.”
    â€œIn 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 wishing to shoot daggers at Granddaddy, instead turned them on Travis.
    â€œWe agreed there would be no more wild animals, did we not?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd … 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.”
    â€œCalpurnia, keep out of this,” she said. “Travis can speak for himself.”
    â€œYeah, Calpurnia”—Lamar snickered under his breath—“let the little birdbrain speak for himself. That’s if he doesn’t start bawling.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œNot this time, I promise.”
    â€œYou always promise.” Mother massaged her temples, and I could read in that gesture that Travis, the beamish boy, had won again.
    Sure enough, Jay quickly grew attached to his master. He became more attractive as his feathers filled in and turned bluer, but his gimpy right wing was a problem. Every time Travis and I tried to splint it, Jay turned into an exploding ball of blue feathers in our hands, furious, flapping like mad, and screaming blue murder (ha!). It turned out that all the flapping we provoked was probably the best thing for the wing, and it slowly grew stronger. Even so, when he was finally ready to fly, I noticed that he always flew in a circle, the stronger left wing propelling him clockwise.
    Jay lived mostly in the pen, but sometimes Travis would take him for a “walk,” and Jay would either ride on his shoulder or flap from tree to tree alongside. Jay became a good mimic. He learned to cackle like the hens and crow like our rooster, General Lee, driving the normally prideful bird to distraction so that he fretfully paced the yard, seeking his invisible rival in vain.
    Jay’s plumage grew beautiful; his voice did not. When he was separated from his boy-god, he screamed down the heavens in rage; sometimes we could even hear his strident calls as we sat at the dining table, a good fifty yards or so from the pen. We all pretended not to notice.
    Travis started giving Jay a weekly