Disclaimer: I don't own anybody you recognize.

Can't Help It

He just happened to be looking up as it hurtled down through the patch of cloudless blue sky between the tree branches and the top of the chain link fence. So he snapped up from the bench and raced across the painted lines of the kickball court to catch it, but he had to detour around a game of tag and his legs were too short and by the time he reached the point of impact, the little thing it was fluttering and dying on the ground. Lizzie Neumann, playing hopscotch nearby with her friends, watched him run. Immediately the contest was abandoned; the little girls trotted over, eyebrows and pert noses lifted almost comically in their curiosity. But when Lizzie caught sight of what had attracted Donnie Eppes, she pulled back with a squeal of disgust. That just made her friends rush forward. Soon a small crowd had formed.

Donnie, hands on his knees, huffing as he tried to catch his breath, paid them no attention. He bowed his head in defeat and briefly closed his eyes. Just like with the plate last week, he couldn't make the catch, and it didn't look like anything short of a miracle was going to fix this disaster either. So he plopped down on his haunches and divided his gaze between the twitching, gasping form and the high limbs of the oak tree that hung over the corner of the playground, twirling a finger around one of his unruly curls as he thought about what to do. He turned to the boy standing beside him, a tow-headed kid with red cheeks named Jordan who was mesmerized by the carnage and picking his nose.

"Jordan, get Miss Brown," he commanded. Maybe the situation wasn't as hopeless as it looked.

Jordan was startled. Donnie wasn't much of a talker; when he spoke, it was only for a very good reason. So he removed his finger from his nostril at once and ran off to see if he could find their teacher. Most of the bystanders took off after him, quickly thinning the crowd. Donnie decided that anything was better than just watching it die, so he nibbled at his lip and tried to pick up the little fallen thing, not realizing that its delicate underside was a runny mess and its tiny organs were bleeding out its back from the fall. Its neck snapped and it fell still. Donnie dropped it in shock. Someone behind him gasped. He backed off, suddenly clammy, his hands covered in filth and downy fluff.

A gang of older kids came over to see what all the fuss was about, but when they realized that a bunch of kindergarten babies were gathered around a stupid dead bird and there was nothing really exciting happening, they took off. Soon after, the rest of the kindergarteners got bored and went back to their hopscotch and tag and red-light-green-light, and Miss Brown had yet to appear. Donnie ignored the ebb and flow; he only had eyes for the creature staring sightlessly up at him, beak hanging open in a silent cry. It was tiny – still a chick.

"Why did it fall?" he asked himself out loud. "Why didn't its mommy catch it?"

"Maybe it was pushed," suggested a voice above him, and Donnie jumped slightly. He didn't realize there was anyone around. "Maybe a cuckoo did this."

Donnie's brow knitted in puzzlement as he regarded the newcomer. It was Brent, a fourth-grader with braces who made a habit of wandering the playground alone. He seemed to be by himself a lot.

"What's a cuckoo?" Donnie asked.

"A kind of bird," Brent said. He squinted up at the oak tree, looking for something. "Didn't realize we had them out here."

That just confused Donnie even more. "A birdie did this? But why?"

"Well, cuckoos don't build nests," Brent explained, finally looking him in the eye. "They lay their eggs in other birds' nests, and then – this is the freaky part – when the cuckoo chick hatches, if there are other chicks in there with it, well, you know how mama birds bring back food for the babies?"

Donnie nodded impatiently. Everyone knew that.

"Well, it wants all the food for itself, so if it ends up in there with other little birds, it just … pushes the others out."

Big brown eyes went wide with horror. "Right out of the nest?"

Brent nodded sadly. "And onto the ground."

Donnie's mouth dropped open as he turned to the soupy remains of the little bird. He was appalled, his five-year-old sense of justice completely outraged at hearing this monstrous thing. What had that little baby birdie done to deserve dying on the asphalt?

"The cuckoo's a mean birdie," he declared softly, sad eyes now on the downy feathers fluttering on the carcass.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Brent sighed at the kindergartener's stricken expression. He tried to soften the blow.

"Aw, kid, the cuckoo's not mean," he cajoled. "It's just a bird, man. It can't help itself."

Another glance at the dead chick. Then Donnie turned back to him with a scowl, trying to shake the mess from his hands.

"Well," he announced with conviction, "It oughta try."

The sun was gone. The bathroom windows, curtains parted to the darkness, reflected like obsidian mirrors, and the tub and sink gleamed in the warm yellow light. The only sounds around were the squeak of the floorboards – Alan was on his way to the kitchen downstairs – and the hum of electricity underneath the burble of the bathwater. Margaret, sitting on a low plastic stool in consideration of her bulging belly and swollen ankles, reached over her son's head for the Johnson's Baby Shampoo. Donnie splashed in the tub and played with the bubbles, quiet and content and thoughtful, as usual.

"So, Miss Brown called and said you found a dead bird today," Margaret said quietly. The peach-colored bottle made a 'p-pffth' noise as she squeezed shampoo into her hand. They'd need to put it on the grocery list. She started gently scrubbing at his hair, watching his expressive eyes, waiting to see if he'd talk on his own. After a moment of silence she gave up waiting and prompted him.

"What happened, sweetheart?"

Donnie looked miserable. "It was a little baby birdie," he began. "It fell outta the nest and I tried to catch it, but I was too late. It hit the cement before I got there."

"Oh, honey." She made circles in his hair with her fingers. "That was sad that you had to see that."

"I was sad," he agreed. "But then I was mad." And so the rest of the story came out, including the bigger kid telling him about the behavior of the cuckoo. Margaret only interrupted once to ask if he had washed his hands after handling the birdie, and he said yes.

"I thought that the cuckoo did it because it was mean," he explained. "But that big kid was right – cuckoos aren't mean 'cuz they want to be. They just can't help it. Maybe that's why Daddy said that."

Five-year-olds and their non-sequiturs, Margaret thought as she smiled. "Said what?" She finished lathering his hair and scooped some water over his head to rinse him off.

And then a little foot inside her pushed against her bladder. She sighed and froze, grabbing her belly with one hand and the tub with the other. Leave it to the fast-approaching Charles Edward to find that spot when she already had to use the bathroom. She was due in two weeks. Donnie saw his mommy was a little preoccupied, so he took matters into his own hands, sucking in a breath and plunging himself under the water. He came up with slightly cleaner hair. She smiled at him again.

"Good job, baby. Now, what did Daddy say?"

Donnie brushed some shampoo out of his eyes. "He said Aunt Irene was cuckoo."

Margaret pursed her lips and gave her son the classic double-raised-eyebrow look, the one that said Daddy was in trouble for that remark. Although to be fair, her Aunt Irene was not Alan's biggest fan, and vice versa. Perhaps she should be grateful Donnie hadn't heard something worse.

"Daddy shouldn't have said that," she said automatically, re-positioning herself on the stool.

"But I think he's right," Donnie argued. "Aunt Irene says mean things to Daddy a lot, and um, I don't think she likes me at all."

That stopped her cold. "Oh sweetheart, don't be silly," she said, tracing one finger over each side of her son's face. His cheeks were still round and baby-soft. "Aunt Irene loves you very much. Whatever gave you the idea that she didn't?"

Donnie frowned. "She said to Daddy that I'm a hoo-lee-gun. And she said it was his fault. I didn't mean to break the dish, Mommy, it was a accident!" he said, lip quivering as he grew more upset.

It took Margaret a second to place his distress. Last week at Aunt Irene's 50th birthday party, Donnie had tried to be helpful by taking a plate of deviled eggs to the guests in the backyard, but the tread between the kitchen and the outside had other plans for him. According to Alan, he had tripped on the doormat and even though he'd scrambled hard to keep hold, the beautiful china dish had slipped from his hands and shattered on the stone path just beyond the sliding glass door. Margaret had waddled over just in time for the aftermath. Donnie was frozen in the doorway, mortified. Gooey eggs were scattered over the grass. Silent, fussily-dressed guests stared rudely. She hustled Donnie away, but Irene and Alan had disappeared later for a little "chat," which Donnie had obviously overheard.

Margaret blew out a breath. As much as she loved her aunt, the woman did have a tendency to shoot her mouth off first and think later.

"Sweetie pie, I know it was an accident," she said, scooping some more water over his head to finish rinsing him. "Nobody blames you for what happened."

"She did," Donnie insisted. "So maybe she really is like a cuckoo. Maybe she's only mean because she can't help it."

And he went back to playing with the bubbles. Margaret's mouth dropped open in shock. Donnie looked up at her and she managed to shut it fast and smile quickly before swiveling around to the towel rack behind her. She fisted the nearest one with dripping hands as she forced down her anger. Clearly, she needed to have a talk with her aunt. Irene was adept at getting others to accept or even write off her lack of people skills, but this was officially non-negotiable. And if things degenerated into a shouting match (always a possibility) and Irene decided she was somehow above behaving herself around an impressionable child, Margaret would protect her son. If that meant he never saw Irene again, then so be it.

"Mommy?"

The little voice effectively jerked her back to the here-and-now. She forced herself to turn and meet his eyes gently. "Yes, baby?"

"I'm all pruney. I wanna get out."

"Sure. Here, honey, stand up."

Donnie did as he was told and stood up in the bath. He was so small that standing made little difference; the bubbles came up to his hips. His curls were plastered to his head, black from the water, and he blinked at her calmly and smiled. It was as though his shame and anger had washed away with the shampoo. She smiled back at him, snagged a fuzzy yellow towel from the rack and bundled him up completely as he clambered out of the tub.

For the next few minutes while she helped him dry off, fluffing his hair into a delightfully soft mess and letting him lean on her while he stepped into his Batman pajamas, she let her mind idle in amazement. She couldn't get over it. Five years old, and Donnie had simply announced – using an elegant analogy, no less – what everyone else in the family had refused to acknowledge about Aunt Irene. And when she considered his careful consideration of the situation, his level of social insight, that complicated connection brought about by a simple discovery on the playground …

Well, she thought, my son is obviously a genius.

- END -