Boonville by Robert Mailer Anderson

enough to know you’re a butthole,” Sarah would reply. “And fucking my mother.”
    That would end the whole getting-to-know-Greta’s-kid thing. Even if this week’s John Davidson could have rattled off a few advancements in man’s recent evolution, they never did. Sarah thought they were too afraid she might cite them and their relationship with Mom as example number one in a lecture on “How Men Are Still Pricks.” There would be silence those next minutes, except for Hanna-Barbera’s sound effects, which seemed appropriate for both the cartoons and the punch she had landed to John Davidson’s pride.
    During an advertisement for the Baby Thataway doll Sarah had wanted last year for her birthday, but never got, John Boy would rise from the sofa, saying, “Take care of your mama for me, until I get back.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just not leave?” she would ask.
    That stopped them in their Dingos.
    For a moment, she almost expected an answer. Maybe they did too. At least a poster catchphrase, “Hang in there, baby,” or “Life’s a bummer!” But then the door hinge squeaked, the screen door rattled, and John Davidson climbed into a sports car that never started on the first try.
    â€œButthole,” Sarah would say, not watching them leave.
    She didn’t need anyone telling her to take care of her mother. She knew she would have to do it, maybe for the rest of her life. But she got a break every other weekend, which included this one, because those were Dad’s days. Sarah would be gathered up by her father, and for two days Dad became her responsibility. Which was fine, except it was a common catalyst for a “Down on Me Day.”
    Dad liked to come at nine because he knew Mom would be asleep. Anything after ten was pushing it. Nine was best. That way they could avoid a scene until Dad dropped her off on Sunday, but a scene on Sunday was inevitable. Mom and her friends would be waiting, drinking carafes of Chablis, listening to Janis Joplin, and working themselves into a frenzy like high school boys in a Friday night parking lot.
    â€œIf they’re so liberated,” Dad would mumble, pulling into the driveway, “why do they travel in packs?”
    The weekends with Dad should have been great, Slurpees and museums. If Sarah could have vanished and materialized, used thetransport system they had on “Star Trek,” said, “Beam me home, Dad,” then everything would have been all right. Of course, she knew life didn’t work that way. As a result, her stress level was high in the a.m. hours of the weekend, the pre-stereophonic prelude to a “Down on Me Day.” More often than not, Dad was late, oversleeping with girlfriends, picking up dry-cleaning, forgetting it was his weekend. Lame excuses. The exchange was rarely made without unpleasantries, crying jags, or tossed knickknacks. And Dad would ruin Sunday by doing a play-by-play of his inevitable fight with Mom. Like Sarah needed to go through the whole thing twice.
    â€œYou crazy bitch!” Dad would scream.
    â€œYou selfish bastard!” Mom would yell.
    The argument wouldn’t go anywhere. How could it? They were debating two separate points. It was becoming clear to Sarah that both of them were right too, Mom was a “crazy bitch” and Dad was a “selfish bastard.” But it didn’t make the weekends any easier. The worst part of the fiasco was that it revolved around her. Sunday night at the fights began when Sarah tried to answer the unanswerable question Mom asked when Dad dropped her off. It was the bell that sounded the start of the main event: Pops the Punisher vs. the Maternal Masher. Fifteen rounds, no holds barred.
    â€œSarah, did you have a good time with your father?”
    Ding ding.
    If Sarah said yes, Mom freaked out. In her eyes, Sarah had sided with Dad. After everything Mom had sacrificed for her, Sarah had