Bears Discover Fire

As might be expected, we had a few peculiar problems. One was with the down: after George had been home for a few days and had shed whatever coating had protected him in the womb, small bits of down began to come off his wings. We were afraid that he might choke on them at night, so Katie began brushing his wings with her hands after each feeding so that they wouldn’t shed in his crib. It was also difficult to bathe him, because once his wings were wet it took them hours to dry. Soon, however, both these problems were solved as his wings became coated with a kind of oil. We kept them brushed and smoothed, and they became bright and water-repellent. We were also afraid of fire, so I reluctantly pulled one of his feathers and tried to light it. It didn’t burn. His big problem was sleeping. At first we were afraid to lay him on his back for fear that he might injure his wings. He grew tired of sleeping on his stomach, though, and we found that his wings were very tough. He began to prefer sleeping on his back with his wings folded under him like a pillow; I believe he could have slept on a stone floor. Perhaps this was what the wings were for; he never unfolded them, but kept them tight against his back as if they warmed and comforted him.

The doctor told me one afternoon, in the most matter-of-fact way, that he wanted to cut off George’s wings. He thought that in a few months George would be strong enough for the operation. I was shocked; I had never even thought of it. The doctor said, “Of course! We can’t leave them on—the boy would be a freak. We must wait, however, until he is a little older before operating.”

I began to look at my son with a more critical eye. He did look strange, unusual—but what father’s first child doesn’t? As for the wings, he seemed perfectly at home with them. They trembled slightly with pleasure, as toes curl up, when he was at his mother’s breast; but otherwise, they just remained folded at his back, as though for decoration only. I tried to visualize how he would look without his shining wings: with nothing between his arms and his behind except a naked, fatty back.

I was reluctant to tell Katie about the doctor’s proposal. I knew that she would be against it for the same reason that I was—we both liked George just as he was. But on the other hand, his whole future was at stake; we couldn’t get emotional about it. So I decided to talk to the doctor again. “Doctor,” I said, “I like the boy just as he is.”

“Of course,” said the doctor, “but you must think of his future—of the way he will be. Right now he’s just a baby; the wings are small and unobtrusive. But consider: if the wings are functional—as I’m sure they are—they will become much larger in proportion to his body. He will no longer look like a cherub, but like a bird; he will be a freak.

“He won’t be a baby all his life,” the doctor continued. “He will grow up, and what then? He won’t be able to run or jump, dragging those ponderous wings like an albatross. He’ll barely be able to walk. He won’t be able to swim or take part in any sports; he’ll hardly even be able to sit down. I tell you, we must cut off those wings!”

The doctor was right. I had visions of George standing on the sidelines, watching the others play football, his wings waving heavily in the breeze. Or I could see him walking slowly along the beach, past the children playing in the surf, past the curious groups of mothers, bent forward like a hunchback to counterbalance the weight of his wings dragging in the sand.

How could I be sure, though? The wings might be a handicap, but what if there were worse consequences in cutting them off? What if George had the soul of a bird? Perhaps, I thought, he was spiritually and emotionally formed for wings, and would be unhappy walking around anyway. Still, I couldn’t talk to Katie; she would just get emotional about it. So I took my doubts to the minister.

“Absurd!” said the minister. “No one has the soul of a bird, except perhaps, a bird. But boys—boys are not born, but made. If George is brought up as a normal, healthy boy, he will be happy as a normal, healthy boy. What alternative do you have—to raise him as a bird in a family of people? A seagull in a city of men? If those wings are not removed he will be an outcast; everywhere he goes he will be stared at and tormented. He will not only be physically handicapped, but emotionally crippled as well. What kind of life could he have? Consider: all the normal courses of human life will be cut off from him. The most ordinary activity, like riding the bus, will become for him a nightmare of stares and whispers. If he goes to school, the other children will pull his wings and set them on fire…”

“They don’t burn,” I said.

“He will be unable to wear a suit or drive a car. How can he get married, make friends, or run for office? I plead with you, sir, for the child’s sake, deliver him from those wings!”