Mommy that what doobies do

Embracing his supplemental role, McDonald will play mandolin and accordion at these concerts along with his usual keyboards. Age is not without its challenges after 50 years though.

Not with a deep catalog of not-always-easy-to-play songs. The band includes guitarist-since John McFee, making for a lineup not seen in 25 years. They rehearsed for a week before McDonald joined them for another week of getting reacquainted with old songs.

The vibe in the rehearsal studio and on the road is neither fraught with rivalry nor overly professional. My grandmother is called Hap because her name is Gladys; these are her flowers. Gladys equals Glad-Ass equals Happy equals Hap. She feeds me. After the first time, I stay late, helping the teacher, wiping the blackboard, clapping the erasers. But still, the boys are there when I leave, no matter that I delay and delay, walking the teacher to her car, slouching against the front of the school, calling to a chipmunk, when I finally start onto the path they pelt after me, trip me, and after I go down in my grey uniform, skinning my knees as I skid across gravel, they kick me.

It seems like they kick me for a long time before peeling away. I sit up to watch them as they hoot and holler and high-five each other, blood running down my legs. I develop chunky knee scabs, a third of an inch deep and four inches around. I have scabs on top of scabs. All my tights are darned now by my reluctant mother who would appreciate it if I was less clumsy. I fell , I say. I just fell. Every day? I nod.

PE , I say. I pick the scabs off. Of course I do. My mother hates them, I hate them, hard and knobby, so I get rid of them. At the edge, they curl, hard and ready, but further in where they are soft underneath they hurt like blazes as I force them up. I see the inside of me. It bleeds a trickle.

The pink new skin is a wrinkled poppy petal. At least the new blood dries and I get to pick it off too. I beg my father for a gate into our field, but he laughs because I want a shortcut. We get all our veggies and fruit from him, climbing through a break in our fence to his back stoop. Even here, even while being kicked by three boys, I notice nature and its cyclical changes.

The tall waving stalks of September, the pointed stalks of November, the snowed-in lumps of winter, the churned-up earth of spring, the green leaps of the growing corn as school gets out for the summer. One day, a girl from my class joins the boys.

I look up and watch her braids bounce on her shoulders and the saliva running down her chin as she kicks my head. I stare at her shoes until a buckle tears my cheek open. The beatings stop just. Sputnik goes into orbit. I have bruises on my sweet disposition. Sit on your hands , my mother says. Sit on your hands , my father says.

Sit on your hands , my grandmother says. Sit on your hands , my teachers say. I sulk on the porch. The boys are proud and satisfied. In Tanzania, Jane Goodall discovers chimps use tools. Can I go there? I ask my dad, excited. My world opens up. My father promises I can someday. No people of color. No disabled people. No queer or trans folk.

I can take ballet. I can take tap dance. I can take riding. I can take baton twirling. I do the dishes and fall in love with the birds at the feeder. Flashes of blue, scarves of red; squirrels and chipmunks, trundling skunks and crafty raccoons. One night, she lifts me from my bed and to my astonishment walks me along the path to the barn in the middle of the night, me in just my flannel nightie. I feel the benediction. I imagine a shower of magic. In the last stall, where sometimes I do handstands, my mother nests me against the wall and warns me to be careful of the mare.

A soft bright sun shines from a heat lamp. The mare is in hard labor, prancing, whinnying, her eyes rolling back from pain, while my mother coos and rubs her face, attempting to soothe her.

In the rafters, pheasants perk. Slicked with sweat, the mare crumples, nipping her haunches. As she slides out in a gush of fluids, I am love-struck. This is perfection, this night: the yellow warming light, the salty smell of new life, my loving mother. My brother Scott and his friend Scott lead me up to our attic where the windows are dusted brown as puddles; I side-fist a gap to see the tops of the maple trees.

Cranky stacks of newspapers threaten to topple. The Bum Show Club. I glow like a firefly with the ecstasy of inclusion. I pick a mosquito bite. As I pull my pants down, I smell my humiliation like a rectum. I imagine my ass waves like a surrender flag. This is the Bum Show Club. Other Scott licks his index finger and, with a steadying hand on my lower back, thrusts it inside me. My anus rips and I scream. He stirs it around and Other Scott stirs it some more.

I concentrate on the dust motes dancing through the circle I cleaned in the window. They are beautiful like stars. The attic is an entire world, the air heavy, full of undisturbed time. I want up. I want my mother. My rectum hurts. I do it. I hear the smirk in their voices. Aquamarine and Burnt Sienna! The fissures sting like lemon on a cut. I have to poop. I really really have to poop, so I push, and the crayons fly out.

Other Scott laughs but my brother whacks me. The boys go behind the walls under the eaves. I just wait. I still have a crayon or maybe more than one up me—gingerly, I feel around back there: three—and my behind smarts. Anytime I am recruited by my brother, my empathy wars with my desperation for inclusion.

When my little sister toddles to the door and screams in terror, I hustle her away. I despise them for scaring her, for their stupid games. Still, I climb to the attic with my brother knowing he plans to tie her up and leave her. When he hands me rope, obediently, I tie it around her ankles. I think of going against him and cannot.

Our crime has been bigger than usual. Our punishment, too, must be scaled up. I open the door into a suck of frigid air, step out.

Scott follows. When the door shuts behind us, our mother throws the lock and grins through the pane. The sisal carpet prickles my feet. I go somewhere else, an elemental place. The fault is inside me.

The sleet hits us sideways like a thousand vaccinations. Scott and I scour our arms to create friction, and hop, then press our sides against each other. I slit my eyes. Scott is skinny under the porch light, his white underwear baggy.

I hear his teeth rattle. Scott knocks on the door, then pounds, then pounds again. We both pound. We scream for help.

The boys and I meet frequently to have anal crayon sex. I never touch them back, though I watch often enough. I fall headlong into love over Barbie dolls, where I am the father Barbie and she is the mother Barbie. The boys cajole Wendy to join the Bum Show Club, and this time, when they have her nude and bent over, they make me urge the crayons inside her as she moans and protests.

I steal the baby bottle warmer, and some sugar, and lug it to the tack house where I bubble rhubarb stew under the bridles and saddles. I steal chocolate chips and semi-sweet baking squares.

Once, I see my father throw a newspaper at my mother; it sails at her like a slow bird shot in mid-air, crumpling. Soon, terrifyingly, the animals begin to disappear — the horses, the ponies, our pet calves to slaughter.

All we have left is our one old labrador, Taffy, and various cats. One night, Mom wakes me up. In the gloom of my bedroom, she hefts a butcher knife, the blade glinting in the light from the hallway. Shaking, I dial the seven digits she feeds me. I let the doctor in and he says gruffly to go back to bed. He swings his black bag. He hates me. My mother chooses me to be her foil, and we travel to the Bahamas to reside near her married lover.

My father stays at the house with my sister and brother, waiting for the world to melt. Waiting for mud season. I have never gotten new clothes in February before. I love palm trees, the ocean, hermit crabs, sand dollars and the lizards that skitter on our walls.

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