Something Happened

my wife and me to pretend that she doesn't smoke at all. And perhaps she doesn't. (Really, who cares? I don't. And I don't like to have to feel forced to pretend to. If she didn't tell us, I wouldn't have to.)

'I do smoke,' she insists. 'I even inhale. I guess it's a regular habit with me by now. I don't think I could stop smoking cigarettes now even if I wanted to.'

'It's your life,' I answer placidly.

'Over a pack a day, sometimes two. I know you wouldn't want me to be a sneak about anything like that, would you?'

'Yes.'

'What?'

'I do.'

'You would?'

'Of course.'

'A sneak?'

'Yes.'

'What do you mean?' Her eyes cloud with uncertainty and her mouth begins to quiver. I have just outfoxed her again.

'I do want you to be a sneak.' I continue breezily, and zero in for the kill. 'About smoking, and all those dirty, really very vulgar words and phrases you're so fond of using so openly.'

'You use them.'

'I'm an adult. And a man.'

'Mommy uses them.'

'Not the same ones you do.'

'Mommy's a prude.'

'You're a child.'

'I'm sixteen.'

'You're fifteen and a half.'

'I'm nearer to sixteen.'

'So?'

'Can't you say anything more than that?'

'Like what?'

'You always like to give short answers when we argue. You think it's a good trick.'

'It is.'

'You're so sarcastic.'

'Be a sneak,' I tell her sarcastically. 'I'm not being sarcastic now. It will make things easier for all of us. I give you that advice as a pal, as a really devoted father to a young daughter. Sneak outside on the porch or into the garage when you want to smoke or burn that crappy incense or do something else you don't want us to know about. And close the door of your room when you're on the telephone so we won't have to listen to you complain about us to all of your friends or see those crappy sex novels you read instead of the books you're supposed to be reading for school. You can get away with much more that way. By being a good sneak. Just don't let me find out about it. Because if I do find out, I'm going to have to do something about it. I'm going to have to disapprove and get angry and punish you, and other things like that, and that will make you unhappy and me unhappy.'

'Why will it make you unhappy?' she wants to know.

'Because you're my daughter. And I really don't enjoy seeing you unhappy.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Ha.'

'And because I don't like to waste so much time fighting with you and yelling at you when I have other things I'd rather be doing.'

'Like what?'

'Anything.'

'What?'

'Working. Reading a magazine.'

'Why must you say that? Why must you be this way?'

(I don't know.) 'What way?'

'You know.'

'I don't.' (I do.)

'Why can't you ever pay me a compliment without taking it back?'

'What compliment?'

'You always have to have the last word, don't you?'

'No.'

'See?'

'I'm not going to say another word.'

'Now you're trying to turn the whole thing into a big joke, aren't you?' she says reprovingly. 'You always have to try to turn everything into a big joke, don't you?'

(I'm contrite. I feel a little bit shamed. But I try not to let it show.)

'Let me work now,' I tell her quietly.

'I want to talk.'

'Please. I was working when you came in.'

'You were reading a magazine.'

'That's part of my work. And I have to prepare a program for the next company convention and work on two speeches.'

'Where is it? The convention.'

'Puerto Rico again.'

'Can I help with the speeches?'

'No, I don't think so. Not yet.'

'Is it more important than me?'

'It's something I want to get done tonight.'

'I want to talk now.'

'Not now.'

'Why?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'No.'

'You never want to talk to me.'

'Please get out now.'

(I know by now that I don't have too much in common with children, not even with my own, and that I dislike getting involved in long conversations with them. I really don't enjoy children for more than a couple of minutes at a time. It is difficult for me to keep interested in what they say and difficult for me to think of things to say that might interest them. So I no longer try.) Sometimes, when my daughter is in buoyant spirits (for some reason) and feeling exceptionally strong and sure of herself, she will sweep into my study audaciously without any pretext or apology and, as though she and I were commonly on the most familiar terms, settle herself imperiously on my couch as though for a lengthy, top-level consultation, and begin complaining to me about my wife, grossly miscalculating my response, assuming mistakenly, I guess, that because my wife and I fight so much, I will welcome her allegiance. (I don't allow her to speak disrespectfully about my wife; she ought to know that by now.) It used to be that when my daughter was small, and it sounded so beguiling and precocious, I would encourage her to find fault with my wife (my wife would delight in this also, because my daughter really was so bright and entertaining), which may be one reason she reverts to it so frequently now. But I don't like it now; and I will defend my wife (even when my daughter's complaints and unflattering comments are accurate and justified). Or I will cut her off curtly almost as soon as she begins, and kick her out with a stern admonition. My daughter's