"Look, a seagull! We're either near the coast
or a fast-food restaurant.

∼  Amaurón, The Bird and the Baby

    Once upon a time, a stork named Howard stood on a crowded river bank. Cleared for takeoff, he buckled his leather flying cap, shifted his goggles from his brow to his eyes, and stared down his long pointed bill at the bulging baby blanket. He took a deep breath, tossed one end of his silk scarf over his shoulder and leaped. He pumped his wings and slowly rose from the chaos of the airfield, higher and higher, but not above the Aonian mount. No. A middle flight would do just fine for this particular cargo. His excitement soared as well, for Howard was pursuing a dream, something he'd never attempted: a delivery in the New World. Given his longevity with the company, that was a rather peculiar omission from his C.V. He'd signed on just before the start of the Great Depression. Then he did his bit during the war years, dodging V-2 rockets, Messerschmitt Bf110s, and even the friendly fire of P-63 Kingcobras.

    Howard then enrolled in college, where his excellence gained him an invitation into the prestigious academic society Birds and Bees. (Eventually, he would be admitted into its secret inner-group, Gull and Drones). Such credentials impressed his former bosses, who offered him a job in senior management. That meant flying a desk primarily. He managed to maintain his pilot's license by delivering Smurfs whenever there was a blue moon, and by making quick runs to Shora, a fishing village in Holland where they put wheels on the steeply-pitched roofs so that storks could sit comfortably.

    Frankly, Howard wondered whether he was up to a trans-Atlantic journey. He circled, looking for his bearing and thinking, "Hmm, definitely out of practice." He closed his eyes to focus. His body and mind sensed the sun's angle. He felt the earth's magnetic current. He gauged both the strength and direction of the jet stream. With no physical exertion, with no mental effort whatsoever, the entire calculation transpired and he found himself winging toward the western horizon. He opened his eyes and immediately recognized the superfluity of his "old school" navigation: all a stork had to do these days, the early 1950s, was join the continuous line that stretched over the horizon to the Land of Ike.

    Upon reaching the North American continent, Howard followed his friend Lenny's advice by seeking out the Isles of Shoals, which lay opposite the entrance to the Piscataqua River, which led to Rivermouth, the only seaport on the short New Hampshire coastline. He arrived feeling a bit peckish, but Lenny had warned him about eating from the river, "Local manufacturers use it as a sewer."

    He cruised above the city, looking for a suitable home and recognizing that Rivermouth had a wonderful mix of Georgian and Greek Revival residences. He preferred the neoclassical Federal style, but unfortunately they tended to be occupied by older couples. Lenny said that the city's young couples were buying and renting more modest homes in a new development called Paley Park. "Just look for a hillside of little box houses laid out in concentric circles. That's where you'll find them—breeding like pigeons."

    Howard spotted it beyond the downtown. As he was about head off, however, he spied something glistening in the parking lot of a waterfront bakery. "No," he told himself firmly, "no time for food." Or was there? No cars, no dogs, no bratty children. The coast was clear and his tummy was rumbling. "Was it," he wondered, "was it one of those American pastries the guys had been raving about." Howard swooped low. It looked like one. He drifted past more slowly. Sugary, golden brown—yes!—a honey-glazed donut. His lucky day, or so he thought until he heard his wife's voice, her comment of the previous Saturday as he was getting ready to go fishing. "Getting a bit chubby there, aren't ya Howie?" Then she patted his love handles right in front of the guys!

    Howard circled higher, hesitant, but telling himself that he had flown a long way, never flagging, always winging forward, feeding on nothing but air. "It's only half a donut." He extended his legs to land. "I can easily work that off flying home." He locked his eyes on the prize, never noticing the asphalt curb. Thud! –went his bundle. He flinched, heard a soft whimper, and thought, "Ooh, that can't be good." He set down the bundle. "But what the hey, lots of kids are delivered with dents in their heads these days."

    Suddenly, a black-backed gull darted toward him. Howard snatched the donut and gulped it down. He sneered at the gull, which wasn't easy for a stork, but Lenny had shown him how. Lenny, you see, was a big fan of Humphrey Bogart. He was constantly mimicking the film star's sardonic tone and tough-guy expressions. Howard was never sure if he was impersonating Bogart or Jimmy Cagney, and that annoyed the hell out of Lenny.

    Lenny visited Rivermouth every summer so that he could go to the drive-in theaters in Newington and York. He came to adore the films of Stanley Kramer and Sandy Bates. He had walked out of only one film in his entire life, muttering with disgust, "That guy Hitchcock knows nothing about birds."

    The gull squawked loudly, gave Howard an obscene gesture with the tip of his wing, and flew up. "Gulls!" thought Howard with exasperation. He heard a grunt from above and had to quickly duck a nasty discharge. "Dolt!" shouted Howard, adding with a mumble, "as ignorant as dirt," before yelling, "Why don't you stay out at the shore where you belong?! Why do you choose to be a rat with wings?!"

    Howard gathered his bundle and flew to the top of the Aldrich Bakery sign. He listened to the old town by the sea, the river singing on that sunny birthday morn, its beat marked by muffled tolls from slim, white steeples, its melody dipping and surging idly to and fro like the red buoy in the harbor. He could feel himself wrapt in a dreamy joy of happy indolence until he sensed something niggling.

    He knew what it was: he had no idea where to deliver the baby. None whatsoever. The fact is, his company hadn't provided him with an address, not out of neglect, but as a matter of policy. Strange but true, the global leader responsible for placing human beings in proper homes made no such provision.

    Amazing? Not really, not if one understood that Howard's company had a history of labor relations that went back to the days of the pterodactyl. Layers of regulation, protocol, and tradition thickened its lubricating logic, gummed its wheels, and made it possible for private delivery services like PedEx (Pediatric Express) and UBS (United Baby Service) to gain market share.

    As for the non-label policy, its genesis began with "The Fowl and the Foetus," an unfortunate incident wherein an old geezer named Wilhelm left a baby inside a handbag at Victoria Station in London. As storks say, "the white stuff really hit the windscreen that day." Management was particularly furious because Wilhelm had also committed the gaffe of delivering the Prince of Stultzenmannenkim to a cobbler instead of the king some years before.

   "Superannuated," is how the head of Crewman Resources characterized Wilhelm.

   "Nonsense," retorted the unions, which threatened a slowdown if Wilhelm were not re-assigned to a less stressful position, given a lengthy leave of absence to settle his nerves, and with full pay, because someone in his fragile condition shouldn't be saddled with money problems as well.

   "Absolutely not," the company countered. "Employees must take responsibility for botched deliveries."

    A stalemate ensued, each side eyeing the other across the conference table until a young fellow with a M.B.A. from Aardvark Business School in Cambridge cleared his throat. "I suggest we simply change our delivery standards," said Geoff Killings. Murmur, murmur. "Bundles," he waited for complete quiet, "should no longer bear address labels." Stunned silence filled the room. (Actually, it was stunned storks that did so.) Killings said in a slow, deliberate voice, "Storks should be allowed to follow their natural instincts." Now even the silence was stunned.

    A question came weakly from the far end of the table. "What if a stork has inappropriate urges?" No name was mentioned, of course, but everyone thought of Harold, who was always dyeing his crown feathers and wearing his tail feathers in the latest fashion, a 'duck's ass' most recently.

    All eyes turned to Killings. He let the moment hang, leaned back in his chair, and as if reading words writ in the cerulean sky said, "By following nature's dictates, neither management nor labor will be responsible . . . for any delivery."

    The words took root in his listeners' ears and blossomed as smiles on their faces. Then Andrea, who could be a bit theatrical, spoke up. "But what if a child with high potential winds up in an utterly dysfunctional family? What if an unabashed buffoon is allowed all the advantages of a privileged home? I mean, are we supposed to just blame Mother Nature? I mean . . . what I want to ask is . . . is this any way to run an airline?"

    "You bet it is!"

    So Howard found himself flying the friendly skies above Paley Park, awaiting some sort of inspiration, which seemed to be emanating from a three-story Victorian set in the distant woods. A peaked turret ran up one of its corners. A shiny Cadillac Coupe de Ville sat in its driveway. Its back yard had a sparkling in-ground pool, where he could freshen up before going to the movies. That should have settled the matter, but his wings felt oh so tired. "Perhaps," he said to himself, "the perfect home for this child is the one just below." He drifted down to a rather plain one-floor bungalow with a black Volkswagen parked on the street. Its cramped yard had a swing set and a sandbox, where a blue-gray Chartreux cat had cornered a field mouse. His wings felt heavy. His neck ached. He gazed at the Victorian and sighed, "Sorry kid, them's the breaks."

    He floated onto the edge of the chimney, closed his eyes, and rested, feeling no rush to make the delivery. It enjoyed the warmth of the late September morning. He breathed deeply, letting the tension ooze from his body. He crossed his wings under the bundle and then spread them wide, an exercise that stimulated the meridians through which his Chi flowed. His mind emptied. "Om," he chanted. His muscles softened. All thought vanished. Quite unintentionally, so did his grip on the bundle.

    "What the hey!" he yelled.

    The bundle fell through the dark and vast abyss of the chimney. Howard leaned over the opening and listened for the soft baby-boom bundles made as they landed in loving arms.

    Thud!

    "Ooh, that can't be good."

    Down in the living room, the man of the house lowered his morning newspaper and asked his wife, "Did you hear something?"

    She looked up from her darning. "I don't think so, darling."

    A moment later, a small cry re-engaged them. The man pushed back one sleeve of his Perry Como sweater and looked at his watch. "Hmm," he said. "Seems a little early, but let's see."

    He rose from his upholstered wingback chair, she from her maple rocker, and they walked hand-in-hand to their hearth. My goodness, there it was, they thought, the package they'd been expecting since February. A blue blanket—they had a boy already (and a girl as well), but just so long as he was healthy . . . Both of them quickly gave the wooden mantel a couple of knocks for luck, which made them laugh.

    But their smiles soon faded. Was he OK? Together they untied the umbilical knot of their bundle of goy. As the blanket unfurled, their faces sank. It couldn't be! Oh my, how could they ever explain this to the rest of the family? What would the neighbors say? They knew their lives would change with every child, but they couldn't possibly have prepared themselves this! The man lifted the boy and carried him to the sink. He took a tea towel, wet it under the tap, and wiped the baby's face. It came clean and white.

    "Ah," cooed his mother, "only soot."

    "That's better," beamed his father, adding, "That's my boy."

    Up above, Howard shook his head. He recalled what his friend the unicorn said of human children, "I always thought they were fabulous monsters!" Still, Howard congratulated himself. Mission accomplished; it was time to relax. He leaped into the air and flew to the swimming pool he'd seen earlier. As he paddled around he wondered whether humans would ever get over their need of storks. Surely they had to evolve into a higher species eventually. Heck, they might even come to enjoy sexual intercourse. Perhaps they could attain the sophistication of birds. What mother wouldn't prefer having an egg hatch outside her body—while she was out buying a new dress?

    If nothing else, humans needed a new birth-fable. Enough of that hoary old chestnut about Deucalion and his wife Pyrrha, who after the great flood threw stones over their shoulders and watched them grow into people. No more tales about autochthones! Nowadays, people needed a story with Hollywood flair, especially these Americans, one that fully engaged their innate gullibility:

While out walking in the moonlight, Daddy kissed Mommy's wedding ring, creating a fairy that drifted up and whispered something mystical to the clouds, which swirled into the shape of an American bald eagle that flew upon thunderous wings to a lovely suburban home and left a five-pointed marble star (six an option) on the front porch, which was bathed by the morning sun until it turned into a baby (the amount of sunlight determining sundry physical characteristics such as darkness of complexion).

    "The Eagle and the Child," said Howard. "Perfect!" He climbed out of the pool and waddled across the cement pad to the plush grass. He stopped, closed his eyes, and sat cross-legged in the lotus position. "Why," he wondered, "couldn't humans simply buy their kids from one of the department stores such as W.T. Grant or J.J. Newberry? Those retailers had baby departments—expand their services! And if parents insisted on a home-delivery, they could mail-order from one of the larger stores, Sears & Roebuck or Montgomery Wards. "That's the solution," he said aloud, only to realize an instant later, "No! That scheme would never work. Those stores accept returns from dissatisfied customers. They'd be swamped."

    Om.

NEXT SECTION: Chapter 2 - The Anniversary