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Paul’s enthusiasm, but they followed just the same. When they reached him, he was bending over the poor creature who was in the throes of a seizure.
    â€œGod, it’s got epilepsy!” said Chuck.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea. Avian medicine is not one of my strongest subjects.”
    Jean Paul bent down to try to restrain the bird’s pitiful spasms and jerks.
    â€œI’m not sure you should touch it,” said Charles. “I don’t know if psittacosis is carried by ducks.”
    â€œI think we should just kill it and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck.
    Charles glanced at his older son, whose eyes were glued to the sick bird. For some reason Chuck’s suggestion struck Charles as cruel even though it was probably correct.
    â€œCan I put it in the barn for the day?” pleaded Jean Paul.
    â€œI’ll get my air rifle and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck. It was his turn to get back at Jean Paul.
    â€œNo!” commanded Jean Paul. “Can I put it in the barn, Dad? Please?”
    â€œAll right,” said Charles, “but don’t touch it. Run up and get a box or something.”
    Jean Paul took off like a rabbit. Charles and Chuck faced each other over the sick bird. “Don’t you feel any compassion?” asked Charles.
    â€œCompassion? You’re asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!”
    Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.
    With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. He’d cut open thepillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.
    The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.
    â€œAll right!” he shouted. “No music!” He switched off the radio. The two boys had been fighting over which station to hear. “A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.”
    The brothers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
    Their route took them along the Pawtomack River and they got glimpses of the water as it snaked its way through the countryside. The closer they got to Shaftesbury, the more intense the stench became from Recycle, Ltd. The first view of the town was the factory’s smokestack spewing its black plume into the air. A harsh whistle shattered the silence as they came abreast of the plant, signaling a changing of shift.
    Once past the chemical plant the odor disappeared as if by magic. The abandoned mills loomed on their left as they proceeded up Main Street. Not a person was in sight. It was like a ghost town at six forty-five in the morning. Three rusting steel bridges spanned the river, additional relics of the progressive era before the great war. There was even a covered bridge but no one used that. It was totally unsafe and kept up just for the tourists. The fact that no tourists ever came to Shaftesbury