“Mommy, Daddy,” said Monica, suddenly hugging my arm as the door opened, not giving me the chance to step away. “This is my new boyfriend, Victor.”

“Hi,” I said, trying and failing to take back my arm.

Mr. Adair was lean and gray, stoop-shouldered, parched by life, looking like a dried-out seventy even though still in his fifties. His smile was pained, his handshake thin, his averted eyes glassy, as if he had been throttled just moments before I arrived.

“So you’re the young man Monica has told us about,” he said.

I glared at Monica. “That would be me.”

“Come in, please,” said Mrs. Adair, a wraith with black eyes and nervous hands. “I put out some Chex Mix. I hope you like Chex Mix.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“And you simply must meet Richard.”

“My brother,” said Monica.

“Of course,” I said. “Your brother, Richard. The whole family.”

“Not quite the whole family,” said Mr. Adair.

“But Richard so enjoys guests,” said Mrs. Adair, “and he’s especially looking forward to meeting you.”

“I bet,” I said.

He didn’t get up when first he spied me. Richard Adair looked like he wouldn’t get up for a tornado. His heavy hips spread out on the couch as if planted there. Sweatpants, Eagles jersey, stocking feet propped on the coffee table with the tips of his socks flopping over his toes. He was about a decade older than me, big and balding, with a round face and graying mustache. A bunch of billboards were roaring around some oval piece of asphalt on the television, and Richard kept staring at the tube as if, instead of the current running order, the secret of the universe was about to be broadcast and he was just waiting to sneer at it.

“Richard,” said Mrs. Adair as if to a spoiled child. “Monica’s brought her friend to the house.”

“I’m watching here,” said Richard. “What do you think?”

“Richard loves his television,” said Mrs. Adair. “When he’s not on the computer, you can always find him in front of the television.”

“We got a big one from Best Buy,” said Mr. Adair. “What is it, Richard, the thin-screen thing?”

“LCD.”

“It was on sale.”

“Can you keep it down?” said Richard. “I’m watching.”

The living room had that closed-in, windows-painted-shut feel, stifling and hot. We set ourselves on the various pieces of furniture, Monica still clutching my arm, as if she were the one in foreign territory. There were pictures of saints clustered on one of the walls, and plates painted with clowns with their big sad eyes on another. Chex Mix was scattered about in various bowls. I wasn’t lying, I always liked Chex Mix, and Mrs. Adair didn’t just open the boxes and stir, she did the whole margarine and Worcestershire sauce baking thing, which filled the house with a savory scent while imparting to the Chex Mix a nice garlicky crunch.

“Lovely Chex Mix, Mrs. Adair,” I said.

“Thank you. Richard, dear, Victor is a lawyer, did you know that?”

No answer from Richard. I guess he knew.

“NASCAR is on,” said Mr. Adair in explanation. “The racing cars.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Who among us doesn’t love NASCAR?”

Mrs. Adair clapped her hands together and rubbed. “So how long have you two kids been an item?”

“Not too long,” I said.

“When Monica called and said she had a date with a young man she met at work, we were just so thrilled. You would think someone as pretty as our Monica wouldn’t have trouble finding a young man, but she is very particular.”

“Oh, Mommy, stop it.”

“She works all day and then just stays at home all night, poor thing. She needs to get out more. Don’t you think so, Victor?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” I said.

“What kind of law do you do?” asked Mr. Adair.

“All kinds, but mostly criminal law.”

“We don’t like criminals in this family.”

“Well, they’re not as popular as NASCAR, I give you that, but they still have rights.”

“What about the rights of the victims?”

“Stop it, Daddy,” said Monica. “Daddy’s been watching too much cable news. He thinks he’s O’Reilly.”

“The man makes good points. He’s a pillar.”

“So was Lot’s wife,” I said.

“I hate lawyers,” said Richard, without looking away from the television. “Greedy little buggers, all of them.”

“I suppose we are,” I said. “But it’s a capitalist country, right? Where would we be without greedy little buggers?”

“What’s it like making money off other people’s heartbreak?” said Richard, still without turning his head in my direction. “I mean, a guy breaks his leg, you make money. A guy breaks his head, you make more money. No matter how crippled the victim, you make out like a thief. It must sicken your heart.”

“But the cardiologists these days can do wonders,” I said. “What do you do, Richard?”

“Richard is between things,” said Mrs. Adair. “More Chex Mix, Victor?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You bagging my sister yet?” said Richard.

“Excuse me?”

“Richard, shut up,” said Monica.

“I’m just asking,” said Richard. “I’m allowed to ask.”

“Something to drink, everyone?” said Mrs. Adair. “Tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Monica, why don’t you help me in the kitchen? There’s another batch of Chex Mix in the oven. It’s especially nice hot out of the oven, don’t you think, Victor?”

“Oh, absolutely. What kind of margarine do you use?”

“Oh, heavens, I wouldn’t use margarine. Only real butter in my Chex Mix.”

“It shows.”

The two women departed for the kitchen, and the three men were left with nothing but the sound of engines roaring out of the television set. The announcers got excited about something, Richard belched, Mr. Adair pushed himself out of his chair to hit the head. I swirled some Chex Mix in my fist.

“Who’s winning?” I said to be friendly.

“Some guy with a hat,” said Richard. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. Can I be frank?”

“Sure, and I’ll be Sam.”

“We both know Monica isn’t the brightest bulb in the shed. We both know you’re not dating her for her taste in literature. So I figure you got to be bagging her. I mean, if you’re not, and I’m talking about bagging her steady, giving her the old heave-ho night and day and night and day, then really, what’s the point?”

“Nice mouth on you, Richard.”

“I’m just saying.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yeah, sure, I know, but my God, look at her. Have you seen those legs? They go up to her chin. And her breasts are, like, perfect.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sometimes she sunbathes in the back and loosens her top. I just sit up in my room and stare out the window.”

“Richard, you’re being creepy.”

“Listen. There are girls on the Internet not half as hot as Monica making a fortune just by spreading their legs and lifting their shirts for the camera. With the package she’s carrying, she could make double, triple, but she’s wasting it all in that stupid law office.”

“She does good work in that office,” I said.

“Maybe you could talk to her for me.”

“About what?”

“I’ve got this idea of opening a Web site. ‘Monicaland dot com,’ we’d call it. I’ve already reserved the domain name. I’d do all the work, all the designing and maintenance, answer all the e-mails for her. I’d even pretend to be her in the Monicaland chat room. All she has to do is let me take some pictures. We could make a fortune.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d be doing all the work, and the money we make could set her up for life. I’d give you a cut, too, if you convince her.”

“You’ll have to dress better, Richard, if you’re going to be a pimp.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for my sister. I just want to build her up a nest egg. That’s the way my family is – we look out for each other. And let me tell you, if you want to keep bagging my sister day and night, like you’re doing now, you’ll go along.”