“She wants you to want a divorce. That’s not the same thing,” she said, with the complacence of a Q.E.D. Her light smile, that steady certainty in her level gray eyes—did his memory supply them in retrospect, or were they truly there that fresh morning? He had grown unused to looking at his wife; the same veil had come down that had hidden his mother’s nakedness. “I’m off, baby,” Phyllis said. “I’m late, by the time I find a parking space.” She forced a wet kiss on him, a deepening kiss that seemed to come from her innards, to his innards, the slimy red works we hide from all but surgeons. Pleased with herself, uncharacteristically efficient, Phyllis backed off and deftly wiped the evidence of her weeping from below her eyes. She checked her purse for keys, wallet, Kleenex, lipstick. “You sit tight and don’t worry,” she told Owen. “We’ll get you out of it. Don’t bother to lock the house. Leave Daisy in, she’s been chasing cars.”