At the time, I'd recently finished my second novel, and so I offered to stay with my father while my mother hadher operation. To steer clear of his pride, she and I agreed to pretend that I was coming for her sake, not his. What's odd, though, is that I was only half-pretending. My mother's characterization of my father's incapacity was compelling,but so was my father's portrayal of my mother as an alarmist nag. I went to St. Louis because, for her, his incapacity wasabsolutely real; once there, I behaved as if, for me, it absolutely wasn't.