Secrets & Surprises by Ann Beattie

along, taking her hand the same way he took mine—on his outings. And it’s no wonder it’s taking me so long to know how to act.”
    He lit a cigarette. When he drank, or was hung-over, he had begun to smoke cigarettes.
    “You’re obsessed with your father,” she said. Before, she had screamed that, but now it was such a familiar line that she said it quietly, perturbed but stating the obvious. “Forget about your father and live your life.”
    “You know that can’t be done,” he said. “You know it. You know it when you pick up a magazine and read your father’s poetry, or when you see his picture in a bookstore window. And I know it when I read interviews with my father, when he sends me brochures about gallery openings and I read about the facts of his life. You know that you can’t forget that.”
    She stood amid the scattered clothes, wondering if it could be true.
    They broke up in May, but it didn’t last. Griffin went to stay with Tony but came back at the end of the week, and she agreed to try again. He came back sober and, he said, sorry for being the cause of so much of their unhappiness. She could tell even as he spoke that he still believed she did not realize how much her father had her under his thumb, but if he would only not say that, then she knew she could stand it.
    She was surprised when, in June, he told her he wanted to marry her. Their relationship had always been up and down, and when he came back after their separation they did not come together with the closeness they had had early on. So she tried to tell him no as gently as possible.
    “God,” he said. “Your loyalty is still with him.”
    “Don’t start that,” she said. “Please.”
    “It’s so easy for me to see. It’s so clear, and sometimes I know you see it. I know you do, and sometimes you’ve even agreed with me. If you see it, then break away. Break the tie.”
    “Griffin, I haven’t called or written my father for nearly a month.”
    “But you don’t have to. That’s what’s so insidious about it. During that month he reminded you of who he was and how he was because his long poem was printed in the magazine you subscribe to. He was on your mind, even if you didn’t call, even if he didn’t call you. Jesus—at least admit the truth.”
    “What do you want me to say? That I hate my father?”
    “Admit you’ll never leave him—or you’ll leave him for somebody he approves of. Some man he’ll find for you.”
    “Griffin, he has never told me who to date.”
    “He has to approve, though, doesn’t he? And he doesn’t approve of me, does he? Did he like me there at Christmas, eating roast goose across the table from him, sitting next to his only daughter in his classy Village apartment? Did you think he radiated warmth?”
    “He had just met you,” she said.
    “And did he want to meet me again? You got the phone calls. Did he?”
    “He’s never told me who to bring there and who—”
    “He didn’t. Just give a simple answer.”
    “Don’t tell me how to answer you. Answer yourself if you know all the answers.”
    “Please,” he said, bowing his head and coming toward her with his arms outstretched. “Do you think I asked you to marry me because I hate you? Do you think I’m saying this because I only want to hurt? I’ve been through this too. Once you face it, you can get away from it.”
    “I’m not going to let you make me hate my father,” she said. She was so confused, wondering now what her father had thought, why even her mother had not said what he thought. But maybe her father and mother weren’t getting along—Griffin had said they weren’t—and it had to be true that he was not saying these things because he hated her. He was standing and holding her, very sad; he was at least doing what he thought was right.
    “It’s all so simple,” he said. His arms closed around her.
    These were the things in their apartment: a sofa with two usable cushions, the other cushion