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her father’s Kiddush cup, Bess served him a generous piece of pot roast and said, “I have something to say, a topic to discuss.”
    â€œI’m attentive,” he said, eating a small, dark, tender slice of roast.
    â€œLisa and Todd aren’t getting along.”
    Lieberman nodded and poured himself a more than generous glass of wine.
    â€œI said,” Bess repeated, “Lisa and Todd are not getting along.”
    â€œI heard,” said Lieberman. “It’s natural.”
    â€œIt’s serious,” said Bess.
    From the day she was born, the Lieberman’s only daughter had been, in her father’s opinion, “serious.” She had been a beautiful child who took in everything and seldom laughed aloud. She had been a wonder student at Mather High, only one B among the As and that B had caused nights of anguish, heartache, tears, and eventual determination to prove to Miss Landis in Science 7 that she had made a grievous error. Lisa had gone to the University of Chicago on a scholarship to study biochemistry. She had met a serious young classics professor named Todd Croswell, had married and had two children, Barry, who was approaching his bar mitzvah, and Melisa, who was approaching her eighth birthday. Barry and Melisa, thank God, were neither serious nor wonder students.
    â€œWhat’s the discrepancy?” Lieberman said, finishing his first glass of wine.
    â€œDon’t say that,” Bess said, closing her eyes.
    â€œIt was an attempt to lighten the tone before we plunged into the depths of despond,” he said. He toasted his wife with wine.
    Bess allowed herself a small, pained smile of amusement.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Lieberman. “What’s the trouble?”
    â€œThe usual,” answered Bess with a shrug. “You’re not eating lima beans. Lima beans are your favorite.”
    â€œI’ll eat lima beans,” he said, spooning buttered beans on his plate. “See, I’m eating. What’s ‘the usual’? He’s going with other women? He takes drugs? He beats her?”
    â€œYou’ve been a policeman too long,” Bess said.
    Lieberman seriously considered her statement and started on his second glass of wine.
    â€œNo,” Bess went on. “He doesn’t make enough. She wants to go back to work. And other things.”
    â€œOther things,” Lieberman repeated. He tore off a piece of challah.
    â€œAbe, are you an echo or a father?”
    â€œI’m listening,” he said. “I’m listening and I’m dipping my challah into a delicious gravy. See, look, I’m dipping. I’m eating and I’m drinking a good wine. I’m looking forward to a peaceful evening with my wife. And I’m waiting to hear what you want me to do.”
    â€œTalk to her,” said Bess. “She listens to you.”
    â€œShe doesn’t listen to me, Bess,” he said. “She lets me talk. She looks serious. Then she does what she is going to do. That’s the way she was when she was six. It’s the way she is at thirty-six.”
    â€œThen let her talk to you,” Bess said.
    â€œThat she can always do,” he said.
    â€œCall her,” Bess said.
    â€œTomorrow,” he said with a smile, holding up his glass to toast his wife.
    â€œTomorrow may be too late,” said Bess. “But, if it has to be tomorrow, it has to be. If you’re too tired …”
    â€œIt has to be,” said Lieberman.
    â€œYou want rice pudding or carrot cake for dessert?”
    â€œI want you for dessert,” he said, feeling the wine.
    â€œWe’ll see how you feel about that later,” she said, shaking her head.
    â€œIn that case,” replied Lieberman, “I’ll have both the pudding and the cake.”
    There was no more said about Lisa and Todd. But Lieberman knew that if he didn’t call his daughter the next day, he would pay for it