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"Hey," the little girl said. "See my vagina?"
 She showed it to him. Her belly stuck out.
"OK," he said. "That's nice. Get in the tub, please."
She sat in the tub, displacing water that slopped around the rim. He
sat down on the shut toilet with his book and pretended to read. The
little girl's singing was distracting him.
"Little ducky," she sang. "Lit-tle duck-y."
Jarred by a moment of quiet, he looked up. Her eyes were shut and her
hair, darker where wet, floated on the water.
"OK, Dolores," he said -- he didn’t want to call her "Dolly" --
"bathtime's up. Time for bed now."
She opened her eyes, blew out breath between her lips, and stood, water
running from her body. She outspread her arms like a ballerina.
"Towel," she said.
He placed the towel on her shoulders and rubbed her hair dry between
folds. Then he lifted her by the armpits out of the tub and placed her,
dripping, on the bathroom rug.
"Dry me," she said.
"Nope. You can dry yourself."
He picked up his book from the toilet seat and walked out of the
bathroom; the long hallway was dark. He turned on some lights. Dolores
was singing, "I can dry myself, I can d-ry m-y-self."
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