problems. She takes my time. I do get some of this security from my little boy — so far. 'Who do you like?' I can fire at him almost any time with a grin. 'I love you, Daddy,' he will cry with joy, and hurl himself forward to embrace me with an ardor that jars us both. But he is afraid of spiders and bees — so am I — and of crumbling ankle bones, and I sense much trouble ahead for both of us. I have never felt only sadness at the death of a friend or relative or the departure to a faraway place of someone I like, or even perhaps love. Always there has been simultaneously a marked undercurrent of relief, a release, a secret, unabashed sigh of 'Well, at least that's over with now, isn't it?' I wonder how I would feel about the death of a child.) She still has power to wound me; I have power to wound her (so maybe we have not really written each other off entirely yet. Maybe that's why we want to, we are dangerous to each other. My wife can't hurt me. My daughter can). I don't want to hurt her. I do not want her to hurt me. I want her to like me. (I want Green to like me, and everyone else I meet in the whole world to like me, except the people I've already met, handled, found inconsequential, and forgot about.) I want her to obey and admire me (and will hit back brutally at her when she is rude or disparaging). I can't bear defiance from any member of my family (or from waiters or other public servants who are supposed to be subordinate, although I often keep silent with these others and nurse my injuries covertly). I want respect from my daughter and continual kindness. I don't get it.
'She doesn't dislike you,' my wife will say to me, when I go to her sometimes for help and advice. 'She adores you. Can't you tell?'
'She never says she does.'
'Neither do you.'
'I don't adore me.'
'You know what I mean. Why are you joking now if you really care?'
'She's always angry,' I complain. 'Even when she isn't really angry, she comes in and pretends she's angry and then she gets angry. She does that with you too.'
'That's why she's so sensitive when you're angry with her or pay no attention to her or when you're even too busy to talk to her when she comes into your study to talk to you.'
'She never really has anything she wants to talk to me about.'
'She doesn't know what to say.'
'To me?'
'She doesn't know what else to talk about that will interest you.'
'Then why does she try?'
'She wants to impress you.'
'She doesn't have to.'
'Then why does she try? Your mind is always someplace else. You always act as though we're intruding and you wish you were someplace else. With me, too.'
'Stop it, for now, will you? We aren't talking about you. Or I will wish I were someplace else.'
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that now.'
'Yes, you did. Or you wouldn't have said it.'
'Do you want to pick on me?'
'All she does is tell you she can't stand me, and all she does is come into my study to tell me she can't stand you and start a fight with me about one thing or another.'
'She doesn't know what else to say to you.'
'What am I supposed to do?'
'She's shy.'
'With me?'
'That's why she goes into your study so often to interrupt you. She wants you to pay some attention to her and tell her she's pretty.'
'She isn't so pretty when she says some of those things she does.'
'Don't you think she's pretty anyway?'
'Do you?'
'She could be. I think she could be very pretty if she'd lose some weight and take better care of her face and her hair.'
'Why do you serve such fattening meals and keep cake and candy and ice cream in the house?'
'I know. I don't know why. I forget.'
'None of us want it but you. And her.'
'I won't do it anymore.'
'I don't know what to say to her.'
'She doesn't know what to say to you.'
'I don't know how to talk to her when she tells me she thinks she's fat and ugly or asks me to tell her honestly, if she wasn't my daughter, would I think she was pretty. Would I like her? She's not fat and she isn't ugly, and she knows it. What am I supposed to say?'
'She doesn't know what else to say to you. She's afraid to say anything else. I don't know what to say to you either. I have trouble talking to her too.'
'What are you talking about?'
'None of us know what to say to you. You're always so irritable. You always get so mad.'
'Oh, come on.'
'It's true. You make us feel so stupid. You try to.'
'I'm not that bad.'
'Maybe if you came home earlier or didn't sleep in the city so often.'
'What has that got to do with anything we're talking about? I work late.'
'Or came home less often. Sometimes we all get along better when you aren't here.'
'Maybe I shouldn't come home at all.'
'I didn't mean that.'
'Are you suggesting a divorce?'
'No. You know that. Why are you bringing that up so quickly?'
'What are you complaining about?'
'I'm not. I'm sorry I said that. I don't know. I don't know why. I didn't mean to say that.'
'Yes, you did. Or you wouldn't have said that, either. People say what they mean.'
'So do you. She thinks you hate her.'
'I don't. Sometimes I do. When she gets me mad.'
'She says you never look at her.'
'What the hell does
'That you never look right at her, even when you're talking to her. She says you always look off to the side somewhere. She notices things like that. She thinks you despise her so much you can't even bring yourself to look at her.'
'She's nuts. That's not true.'
'Do you look at her?'
'Sure, I do. I don't know. I think I do. Why shouldn't I?'
'She thinks you don't love her.'
'It isn't true.'
'Do you love her?'
'Of course I do. Do you?'
'You know I do.'
'You're always criticizing her. More than I do.'
'She's afraid.'
'Of what?'
'You.'
'Shit.'
'We never know what kind of mood you're in.'
'That's some way we live.'
