Bad Love

'Does she ever get those things?'

'Hel- heck no. There's a limit. I give her a piece of orange or something- maybe a half a cookie- and send her right back. Not that it stops her the next time.'

'What about Chondra?'

'She don't get up, but I hear her crying in her bed- under the blanket.' She looked over at the older girl, who was sitting motionless in the center of the pool. 'She's the soft one. Soft as jelly.'

She sighed and looked down at her coffee with disdain. 'Instant. Shoulda made real stuff.'

'It's fine,' I said, and drank to prove it.

'It's okay, but it's not great- don't see great around here too often. My second husband- Brian's dad- owned a big place up near Fresno- table grapes and alfalfa, some quarter horses. We lived up there for a few years- that was close to great, all that space. Then he went back to his drinking- Brian, Senior- and it all went to- straight down the tubes. Ruthie used to love that place- especially the horses. There's riding stables around here, too, out in Shadow Hills, but it's expensive. We always said we'd get over there but we never did.'

The sun dropped behind the cloud bank, and the yard dimmed.

'What're you gonna do to us?' she said.

'To you?'

'What's your plan?'

'I'd like to help you.'

'If you wanna help them, keep them away from him, that's all. He's a devil.'

'Tiffani called him an instrument of Satan.'

'I told her that,' she said defiantly. 'You see something wrong with that?'

'Not at all.'

'It's my faith- it props me up. And he is one.'

'How'd Ruthanne meet him?'

Her shoulders dropped. 'She was waitressin' at a place out in Tujunga- okay, it was a bar. He and his bunch hung out there. She went out with him for months before tellin' me. Then she brought him home and the first look I got I said no, no, no- my experiences, I can spot a bad apple like that.' Snap of fingers. 'I warned her, but that didn't do no good. Maybe I gave up too easy, I don't know. I was havin' problems of my own, and Ruthie didn't think I had a single intelligent thing to say to her.'

She lit another cigarette and took several hard, fast drags. 'She was stubborn. That was her only real sin.'

I drank more coffee.

'Nothing to say anymore, doc? Or am I boring you?' She flicked ashes onto the dirt.

'I'd rather listen.'

'And they pay you all that money for that? Good racket you got there.'

'Beats honest labor,' I said.

She smiled. First friendly one I'd seen.

'Stubborn,' she said. She smoked and sighed and called out, 'Five more minutes, then into the house for homework, both a you!'

The girls ignored her. She kept looking at them. Drifted off, as if she'd forgotten I was there. But then she turned and looked at me.

'So, Mr. Easy Listener, what do you want from me and my little girls?'

Same question she'd asked me the first time she met me. I said, 'Enough time to find out exactly how they've been affected by their mom's death.'

'How do you think they've been affected? They loved their mama. They're crushed to dirt.'

'I need to get specific for the court.'

'What do you mean?'

'I need to list symptoms that prove they're suffering psychologically.'

'You gonna say they're crazy?'

'No, nothing like that. I'll talk about symptoms of anxiety- like the sleep problems, changes in appetite, things that make them vulnerable to seeing him. Otherwise they're going to get swept up in the system. Some of it you can tell me, but I'll also need to hear things directly from them.'

'Won't that mess them up more, talking about it?'

'No,' I said. 'Just the opposite- keeping things inside is more likely to create problems.'

She gave a skeptical look. 'I don't see them talkin' to you much, so far.'

'I need time with them- need to build up their trust.'

She thought about that. 'So what do we do, just sit here jawing?'

'We could start with a history- you telling me as much as you remember about what they were like as babies. Anything else you think might be important.'

'A history, huh?' She took a deep drag, as if trying to suck maximum poison out of the cigarette. 'So now we've got a history… yeah, I've got plenty to tell you. Why don't you get out a pencil and start writing?'

6

She talked as the sky darkened further, letting the girls play on as she recounted nightmares and weeping spells, the terrors of orphanhood. At five-thirty Bonnie came out and switched on floodlights that turned the yard sallow. It stilled her mother's voice, and Evelyn stood and told the girls, 'Go in the house, you.'

Right after they did, a man came out, rubbing his hands together and sniffing the air. Five three or so, in his late fifties or early sixties, low waisted, dark skinned and weak chinned, with long, tattooed arms. Bowlegs gave him a tottering walk. His eyes were shadowed by thick, gray thatches, and a drooping, iron-colored Zapata mustache obscured his mouth. His bushy gray hair was slicked straight back. He wore a khaki workshirt and blue jeans with hand-rolled cuffs. His hands were caked with plaster and he rubbed them more vigorously as he approached.

Evelyn saluted him.

He returned the gesture and looked at me, stretching to stand taller.

'This here's that doctor,' she said. 'We been having a nice talk.'

He nodded. The shirt was embroidered with a white oval tag that said 'Roddy' in red script. Up close I saw that his face was severely pockmarked. A couple of crescent-shaped scars ran down his chin.

I held out a hand.

He looked at his palm, gave an embarrassed smile, and said, 'Dirty.' His voice was soft and hoarse. I put my hand down. He smiled again and saluted me.

'Dr. Delaware.'

'Roddy. Pleased to meetchu.' Boyle Heights accent. As he lowered his fingers, I noticed tattooed letters across the knuckles. L-O-V-E. Homemade job. On the other hand was the inevitable H-A-T-E. In the fold between his thumb and forefinger was a crude blue crucifix. Next to that, a tiny red-eyed spider climbed a tiny web above the legend NR.

He put his hands in his pockets.

'How's your day?' Evelyn asked him. She looked as if she wanted to touch him.

'Okay.' He sniffed.

'Hungry?'

'Yeah, I could eat.' The tattooed hands emerged and rubbed together. 'Gotta wash up.'

'Sure, patron.'

He went into the house.