The drawing was in red pencil on the back of a sheet of graph paper—an oddly formal construction, a picture of a fat woman with a saturnine face sitting stiffly in a chair that was invisible beneath her great bulk. She wore a dress with a tight bodice and an enormously wide skirt. Her arms were outstretched before her. “What is she holding, India?” “I didn’t draw it,” said India. “I guess they’re dolls. They’re hideous, aren’t they? They look like wax dolls that were left out in the sun too long—all melted and deformed.
