She shrugged and licked her lips.
Boatwright came back with a krackel bar.
“Here you go, hon.”
The girl took the candy tentatively, unwrapped a corner, and nibbled at it. “Slow,” she said.
Boatwright said, “Pardon?”
“Eat slow, don’t choke.”
“Good advice,” I said. “Did they teach you that at DLS?”
“Show up on time, napkins in lap . . . your smile is your . . .”—wrinkled brow—“is your . . . manner?”
“Banner?” I said.
“Yeah!”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Another wink.
“Like what?”
“Safe sex means life.”
That line recited in a deeper, authoritative voice.
She giggled.
“What is it, Chenise?”
Harder laughter. Saucy smile. The eyelashes worked overtime.
She rubbed the chocolate against her front teeth, turned them brown, licked it away.
“Safe . . . sex,” she said, unable to stop giggling.
“What does safe sex mean?” I said.
Giggle. “Skins. Darrell don’t like ’em.” Rolling her eyes.
“No?”
“Bad, bad boy.” She wagged a finger. Giggled some more. Touched her belly.
“When did you first know you were pregnant?” I said.
She grew serious. Shrugged and nibbled.
I repeated the question.
“No period. Then my stomach puked.” Giggling. “Mom said, “Oh no, shit!’ ”
Giggling.
“So she took you to Dr. Cruvic.”
Nod.
“Did she tell you why?”
Silence. Suddenly, she hung her head, touched her tummy again.
I leaned in, spoke very softly. “What did your mother tell you about Dr. Cruvic, Chenise?”
Silence.
“Did she tell you anything?”
Long, slow nod.
“What’s that?”
“You know,” she said.
I smiled at her.
“Can you tell me, Chenise?”
“You know.”
“I really don’t.”
Shrug. “Bortion.”
“She told you Dr. Cruvic would be doing an abortion.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you talk to Dr. Cruvic before the abortion?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Did you talk to someone else before the abortion?”
Nod.
“Who?”
“Her.”
“Who’s her?”
“Dr. Vane.”
“Dr. Devane?”
“Yeah.”
“What did Dr. Devane tell you?”
“Good for me.”
“Did you agree with that?”
No answer.
“Did you think the abortion was good for—”
“Had to,” she said in a clear voice. Her eyes were clear, too. Purified by anger.
“You had to think it was good for you?”
Hard nod.
“Why, Chenise?”
“Mom said.”
“Mom said you had to—”
“ “You can’t raise it, stupid, and I’m sure as hell not raising your basta!’ ”
She stared at me with defiance, then her head dropped and she began playing with the candy wrapper. The hand dropped to her tummy again. It reminded me of something. . . . The black girl in the clinic waiting room had comforted herself exactly the same way.
“So you knew you were going to have an abortion.”
No answer.
“Cheni—”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know Dr. Cruvic was going to do any other operation?”
Silence. Then a small headshake.
“Did he do another operation?”
No answer. She shoved the candy bar away and it fell off the table. Milo retrieved it, turned it between his thick fingers. Angela Boatwright was in a corner, eyes alert.
“Chenise?” I said.
The girl fingered the lower lace hem of her top. Tugged down, pulled up. Slipping her hand under the lace, she began massaging her belly.
“Did Dr. Cruvic do something else to you, Chenise?”
Silence.
“Did Dr. Devane tell you Dr. Cruvic was going to do something else?”
Silence.
“Did Dr. Devane ask you to sign your name to something?”
Nod. She licked her lips and wiped them with the back of her hand. Slid sideways in the chair, putting her body in an awkward tilt.
“Chenise—”
“Spay.” She gave a soft grunt, bobbed her head as if to music.
“Spay,” I said.
She coughed and sniffed.
“What does “spay’ mean, Chenise?”
“Like a dog.”
“Who told you that, Chenise?”
She started to answer, then her lips compressed. The hand continued to rub her abdomen, moving over the navel in rapid cycles. Stopping, pinching the skin, then resuming.
She shifted position, straightening. Slumping. Still rubbing.
Rubbing the navel . . . the entry point for tubal ligation.
“When you woke up from the abortion,” I said, “was there a Band-Aid on any part of your body?”
The hand stopped. Small fingers dug into white belly-flesh. Her top rode up, revealing a shelf of rib cage above a white hollow.