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father,” Oliver said, amused at it as he said it.
    Lucy put the lipstick on heavily, because she knew Oliver didn’t like it and she wanted to punish him, even by that little bit, for denying her. “What if one day I decided to turn into a new-fashioned wife?”
    “You won’t,” Oliver said. He lit a cigarette, and noticing the lipstick, crinkled his brow a little, which he did when he was annoyed. “You won’t,” he said, keeping his tone playful. “That’s why I married you so young. To catch you before you became set in your ways.”
    “Don’t make me sound so malleable. It’s insulting,” Lucy said.
    “I swear,” Oliver said with mock gravity, consciously avoiding an argument, “that I find you absolutely unmalleable. Do you like that better?”
    “No,” Lucy said. She made a big, garish bow of red on her lips, pouting her lips, using her little finger. Oliver had never said anything about it, but she knew that he disliked the moment at the mirror when her lips were in that vain, self-satisfied posture and the tip of the finger shiny with the red grease, and she prolonged it spitefully.
    “We know a lot of modern couples,” Oliver said. He turned away, pretending to be looking for an ashtray, so that he wouldn’t have to watch her. “With both parties making decisions all the time. Every time I see a woman with a dissatisfied expression on her face I know her husband is letting her make decisions for herself.”
    “If I weren’t married to you, Oliver,” said Lucy, “I think I’d hate you.”
    “Think of the couples we know,” Oliver said. “Am I right or wrong?”
    “Right,” Lucy said. “Right. Always right.” She turned and made a mock bow in his direction. “I bend the neck because you are always right.”
    Oliver laughed and then Lucy had to laugh, too.
    “It’s funny,” Oliver said, coming close to her again.
    “What’s funny?”
    “When you chuckle,” Oliver said. “Even when you were a young girl. It’s as though there’s somebody else in there”—he touched her throat—“who does your laughing for you.”
    “Somebody else,” Lucy said. “What’s she like?”
    “Husky-voiced,” Oliver said softly, “with a swaying walk and wild red hair …”
    “Maybe I’d better stop laughing,” Lucy said.
    “Never,” said Oliver. “I love it.”
    “I was waiting to hear that word.”
    “Love?”
    “Uhuh. I haven’t heard it in a long time.” Lucy held the lapels of his coat and pulled him gently toward her.
    “None of the present crop of writers would ever dream of using it,” Oliver said gravely.
    “Go ahead.”
    “Go ahead what?”
    “Go ahead and use it. Nobody’s looking.”
    “Mother … Dad …” It was Tony calling from the living room. “I’m all dressed. Are you ready yet?”
    “In a minute, Tony,” Oliver called, trying to pull away. “We’ll be right out.”
    “Oh, Oliver,” Lucy murmured, still holding onto him. “It’s so terrible.”
    “What’s terrible?” Oliver asked, puzzled.
    “I depend on you so much.”
    “Daddy …” It was Tony again, calling politely from the other side of the door.
    “Yes, Tony?”
    “I’ll go up to the hotel and wait for you. I want to ride to the gate with you.”
    “Okay, Tony,” Oliver said. “Tell Dr. Patterson I’ll be there in five minutes.”
    “Righteo,” Tony said.
    Oliver winced. “Where did he pick that up?” he whispered.
    Lucy shrugged. There was a little smudge of lipstick from her finger on the shoulder of Oliver’s jacket and she guiltily decided to say nothing about it. They heard Tony going out of the house and his footsteps receding on the gravel outside the window.
    “Well …” Oliver looked once more around the room. “That just about does it.” He picked up the two bags. “Open the door please, Lucy,” he said.
    Lucy opened the door and they went out through the living room onto the porch. The living room was filled with flowers, to take the curse off the