Bad Love

She patted Chondra's head, and the girl pressed her face against a thick, soft arm. Tiffani had walked into the living room and was staring at a picture on the wall, tapping one foot fast.

Evelyn Rodriguez said, 'Okay, then, I'll just wait down in the car.'

'If it gets too hot, feel free to come up.'

'The heat don't bother me.' She raised a forearm and glanced at a too-small wristwatch. 'How long we talking about this time?'

'Let's aim for an hour, give or take.'

'Last time was twenty minutes.'

'I'd like to try for a little longer today.'

She frowned. 'Okay… can I smoke down there?'

'Outside the house? Sure.'

She muttered something.

'Anything you'd like to tell me?' I said.

'Me?' She freed one finger, poked a breast, and smiled. 'Nah. Be good, girlies.'

Stepping out on the terrace, she closed the door. Tiffani kept examining the picture. Chondra touched the doorknob and licked her lips. She had on a white Snoopy T-shirt, red shorts, and sandals with no socks. A paper- wrapped Fruit Roll-Up extended from one pocket of the shorts. Her arms and legs were pasty and chubby, her face broad and puggish, topped by white-blond hair drawn into very long, very tight pigtails. The hair gleamed, almost metallic, incongruous above the plain face. Puberty might turn her pretty. I wondered what else it might bring.

She nibbled her lower lip. My smile went unnoticed or unbelieved.

'How are you, Chondra?'

She shrugged again, kept her shoulders up, and looked at the floor. Ten months her sister's senior, she was an inch shorter and seemed less mature. During the first session, she hadn't said a word, content to sit with her hands in her lap as Tiffani talked on.

'Do anything fun this week?'

She shook her head. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she went rigid until I removed it. The reaction made me wonder about some kind of abuse. How many layers of this family would I be able to peel back?

The file on my nightstand was my preliminary research. Before-bed reading for the strong stomached.

Legal jargon, police prose, unspeakable snapshots. Perfectly typed transcripts with impeccable margins.

Ruthanne Wallace reduced to a coroner's afternoon.

Wound depths, bone rills…

Donald Dell's mug shot, wild-eyed, black-bearded, sweaty.

'And then she got mean on me- she knew I didn't handle mean but that didn't stop her, no way. And then I just- you know- lost it. It shouldn'ta happened. What can I say?'

I said, 'Do you like to draw, Chondra?'

'Sometimes.'

'Well, maybe we'll find something you like in the playroom.'

She shrugged and looked down at the carpet.

Tiffani was fingering the frame of the picture. A George Bellows boxing print. I'd bought it, impulsively, in the company of a woman I no longer saw.

'Like the drawing?' I said.

She turned around and nodded, all cheekbones and nose and chin. Her mouth was very narrow and crowded with big, misaligned teeth that forced it open and made her look perpetually confused. Her hair was dishwater, cut institutionally short, the bangs hacked crookedly. Some kind of food stain specked her upper lip. Her nails were dirty, her eyes an unremarkable brown. Then she smiled and the look of confusion vanished. At that moment she could have modeled, sold anything.

'Yeah, it's cool.'

'What do you especially like about it?'

'The fighting.'

'The fighting?'

'Yeah,' she said, punching air. 'Action. Like WWA.'

'WWA,' I said. 'World Wrestling?'

She pantomimed an uppercut. 'Pow poom.' Then she looked at her sister and scowled, as if expecting support.

Chondra didn't move.

'Pow poom,' said Tiffani, advancing toward her. 'Welcome to WWA fighting, I'm Crusher Creeper and this is the Red Viper in a grudge match of the century. Ding!' Bell-pull pantomime.

She laughed, nervously. Chondra chewed her lip and tried to smile.

' Aar,' said Tiffani, coming closer. She pulled the imaginary cord again. 'Ding. Pow poom.' Hooking her hands, she lurched forward with Frankenstein-monster unsteadiness. 'Die, Viper! Aaar!'

She grabbed Chondra and began tickling her arms. The older girl giggled and tickled back, clumsily. Tiffani broke free and began circling, punching air. Chondra started chewing her lip, again.

I said, 'C'mon, guys,' and took them to the library. Chondra sat immediately at the play table. Tiffani paced and shadowboxed, hugging the periphery of the room like a toy on a track, muttering and jabbing.

Chondra watched her, then plucked a sheet of paper off the top of a stack and picked up a crayon. I waited for her to draw, but she put the crayon down and watched her sister.

'Do you guys watch wrestling at home?' I said.

'Roddy does,' said Tiffani, without breaking step.

'Roddy's your grandmother's husband?'

Nod. Jab. 'He's not our grampa. He's Mexican.'

'He likes wrestling?'

'Uh-huh. Pow poom.'

I turned to Chondra. She hadn't moved. 'Do you watch wrestling on TV, too?'

Shake of the head.

'She likes Surfriders,' said Tiffani. 'I do, too, sometimes. And Millionaire's Row.'

Chondra bit her lip.

'Millionaire's Row,' I said. 'Is that the one where rich people have all sorts of problems?'

'They die,' said Tiffani. 'Sometimes. It's really for real.' She put her arms down and stopped circling. Coming over to us, she said, 'They die because money and materials are the roots of sins and when you lay down with Satan, your rest is never peaceful.'

'Do the rich people on Millionaire's Row lay down with Satan?'

'Sometimes.' She resumed her circuit, striking out at unseen enemies.

'How's school?' I asked Chondra.

She shook her head and looked away.

'We didn't start yet,' said Tiffani.

'How come?'

'Gramma said we didn't have to.'

'Do you miss seeing your friends?'

Hesitation. 'Maybe.'

'Can I talk to Gramma about that?'

She looked at Chondra. The older girl was peeling the paper wrapper off a crayon.

Tiffani nodded. Then: 'Don't do that. They're his.'

'It's okay,' I said.

'You shouldn't destroy other people's stuff.'

'True,' I said. 'But some things are meant to be used up. Like crayons. And these crayons are here for you.'

'Who bought them?' said Tiffani.