The stubblefield smells of char and new grass. Mama says, Daddy’s too lazy or too cheap to cut the field, so he sets the five acres on fire in August when the tall grasses start choking from the weed. Fire engines respond to distant neighbors’ complaints. Daddy pays the firemen for their trouble with two ice-cold six packs of beer he’s bought in advance.
      I squint at the sweep of blue beyond the clouds. I block the sun, extending my arm with palm towards the sky; white puffs float past my fingers. Ladies in white gossamer gowns dance in the clouds. If I close my eyes new pictures appear. This is the game I play in the field, below the clouds against the blue with my dog, Jakey. The stubblefield is scratchy but I snuggle against Jake’s sun-warmed fur coat. His tail occasionally swats a fly. As he pants from the heat of the day, his pink tongue slides to one side. A September breeze whispers; ants continue their march. The game fills the time waiting for Sonny, my older brother. Now that he’s in Junior High, his bus comes two hours after mine.
     There’s lots of big sky where I live on top of a hill next to Granny and Grandpa Kandel. A graveled path divides our plain lawn from my grandparents’ gardens. No matter which way I turn, there’s an unbroken circle of green. Within this roundness, a country road snakes its way, dividing the two Kandel homes from Old Man Price’s farm. From my bedroom window I can look straight out at Price’s burned-out farmhouse behind an orchard of apple, peach and pear trees just beyond rows of winding cornfields waving in the late afternoon sun.
     Sonny’s silent shadow falls across Jakey and I. He says, “I got a list from Granny for Mr. Price. Wanna ride?”
     I hop on the back of his red bike, holding on tight, trying to get my arms around his waist. We bump down our crushed-stone drive, causing a breeze that sends a chalky dust tearing at my eyes. The ride up hill to the farmhouse is too steep for Sonny’s pudgy body. I skip ahead as he struggles, pushing his bike the rest of the way.
     Mr. Price walks towards us, jangling his moneybag, the color of dried-up mustard. With his toothless grin he asks what he can sell us today. Sonny tugs at his overalls and then hands Old Man Price an envelope with money and Granny’s list. We follow Mr. Price a ways and then step inside the dark chicken coup. The slant of the afternoon sun sends shafts of dust motes through the wall cracks of the coup. The nests are in rows, some filled with eggs, and some filled with chickens. Others are empty. The air is moist and pungent from chicken dung. I lift the still warm eggs from their soft beds. The brown ones are an unexpected surprise.
     After we deliver eggs, potatoes and corn to Granny, Sonny goes off somewhere. Our younger brother, Peter’s napping. I sit alone on the white floor of the playroom. I hate this dolly because her skin is cold and tough; she has fake hair. I mark her with crayon. I want a pretty dolly.
     Sometimes Sonny and I lay on the tile floor for hours playing cowboys and Indians. Sonny controls the miniature two-inch cowboys while I’m left with the tiny Indian figures. We line them up in various battle positions alongside the intricate fort that we build with wooden blocks. The play is in the setting up, we never get to the battle and there’s never a winner. Hours slip by as we create and recreate our own special maneuvers. We copy what we know from TV shows: "The Lone Ranger," " Zorro," "The Cisco Kid," and "Roy Rogers and Dale Evans."
     Loud voices drift to the playroom. The crying sounds too old for Peter, not like a baby at all. Daddy calls out for me to come into the den.
     I run in, giggling. Sonny’s face is red and swollen. My Daddy’s face looks angry.
     He says, “Wipe the smile off your face. Stand up straight, little miss. Watch and learn.” Then he says, “Sonny, pull down your pants. Show Rose Marie your bottom.” Tears streak my brother’s face. Sonny keeps pleading. Daddy tells him to stop crying and do what he says or he will get some more of what he doesn’t want.
     My mind spins like a top, spinning out of control, begging for my father to release Sonny from his agony. How can this be? Don’t make him pull down his pants. Sonny already feels bad. Don’t make him. I’ve never seen Sonny so frightened. He’s sorry.
     Please, Daddy, don’t.
     Sonny submits; the pants slide to his ankles. I turn away from his naked backside, striped with red welts. Inside I twirl further and further away. On my way back to the clouds, right before, I leave I promise myself, I will not let him be my Daddy anymore. The evening turns from gray to black.

     In the black night, after I know my parents aren’t coming out of their bedroom anymore, I tiptoe into my nanny, Bertha’s room. I stand by her bed until her eyes open.     
     “Child, you almost scared me to death. You belong in your bed. What’s your Daddy going do if he catches you here?” I place one finger over my lips; when I know they’re pasted tight, I lift both arms. And with both my arms, reaching out like in the cloud game, I stare past my ten spread fingers. Then finally Bertha says, “Okay just for tonight. But we can’t keep doing this child.”
     Snuggling tight, the wave of Bertha’s chest heaves up and down with her slow, sleepy breath. My finger traces the edges of her flat nose; her rounded eyes look like cups of honey. I try to make the feel of Bertha part of myself, a part that's missing. While praying hard to make the days gray blur away, I return to ladies in gossamer white dresses, dancing in the sky.