The next day, I saw a new can of spray starch in the laundry closet. The ironing board had been unfolded and set up for me, so I could practice while Nick started dinner.

We went out one night with two other couples, who were guys from the construction firm Nick worked at, and their wives. I was excited about doing something social. It had been a surprise to discover that although Nick had grown up in Dallas, he didn't seem to have any old friends to introduce me to. They had all moved away, or weren't worth bothering with, he had told me. I was eager to make some friends in Dallas, and I wanted to make a good impression.

At lunch hour I went to the hotel salon and had one of the stylists trim several inches of my long hair. When she was finished the floor was littered with wavy black locks, and my hair was medium-length and sleek. "You should never let your hair get longer than this," the stylist told me. "The way you had it before was too much for someone as petite as you. It was overwhelming your face."

I hadn't mentioned to Nick that I was getting a haircut. He loved it long, and I knew he would have tried to talk me out of it. Besides, I thought once he saw how flattering it was, not to mention easier to care for, he would change his mind.

As soon as he picked me up, Nick started to frown. "Looks like you've been busy today." His fingers were tight on the steering wheel.

"Do you like it? It feels great." I shook my head from side to side like a hair model. "It was about time I had a good, healthy trim."

"That's not a trim. Most of your hair is gone." Every word was edged with disapproval and disappointment.

"I was tired of my college look. I think this is more polished."

"Your long hair was special. Now it looks ordinary."

I felt as if someone had just emptied a syringe of liquid anxiety into my veins. "I'm sorry if you don't like it. But it was too much work. And it's my hair, anyway."

"Well, I'm the one who has to look at you every day."

My skin seemed to shrink until my body was compressed in a tight envelope. "The stylist said it was overwhelming my face."

"I'm glad you and she think the world needs to see more of your goddamn face," he muttered.

I endured about fifteen minutes of thick, choking silence while Nick maneuvered through the six o'clock traffic. We were going straight to the restaurant to meet his friends.

"By the way," Nick said abruptly, "just so you won't be surprised, I've told people your name is Marie."

I stared at his profile in complete incomprehension. Marie was my middle name, the one no one had ever used unless I was in trouble. The sound of "Haven Marie" had always been a sure sign that something had hit the fan.

"Why didn't you tell them my first name?" I managed to ask.

Nick didn't look at me. "Because it makes you sound like a hick."

"I like my regular name. I don't want to be Marie. I want — "

"Jesus, can't I just have a normal wife with a normal name?" He was turning red, breathing hard, the air clotted with hostility.

The whole situation felt unreal. I was married to a man who didn't like my name. He'd never said anything about it before. This isn't Nick, I told myself. The real Nick was the guy I'd married. I glanced at him covertly. He looked like an ordinary, exasperated husband. He was asking for normal, and I wasn't altogether certain what that was.

I worked to steady my own breathing. We were almost at the restaurant — we couldn't walk in there looking like we'd just had a light. My face felt as if it had been coated with glass. "Okay," I said. "So we'll be Nick and Marie tonight."

"Okay." He seemed to relax a little.

After that evening, which had gone well, Nick hardly ever called me Haven, even when it was just the two of us. He said it would be too confusing when we went out with other people, if I wasn't used to being called Marie. I told myself it could be a good thing, this name change. I would let go of my past baggage. I could become whoever I wanted, a better person. And it pleased Nick, which I wanted desperately to do.

I'm Marie, I told myself. Marie, the married woman who lives in Dallas and works at the Darlington and knows how to iron a shirt. Marie, whose husband loved her.

Our marriage was like a machine I learned how to operate Inn never understood the inner mechanisms that made it work. I knew how to do the things that kept it running smoothly, all the minor and major requirements that kept Nick on an even keel. When Nick was happy, I was rewarded with affection. Hut when something had set Nick off, he would become sullen or irritable. It could take days to coax him back into a good temper. His changeable mood was the thermostat that regulated our household.

By the time our first anniversary approached, I realized that Nick's bad days, the days I was required to sympathize and compensate for every small injustice done to him, were outnumbering the good days. I didn't know how to fix that, but I suspected it was my fault. I knew other people's marriages were different, that they didn't constantly worry about how to anticipate their husbands' needs, they weren't always walking on eggshells. Certainly my own parents' marriage hadn't been like this. If anything, the household had revolved around my mother's needs and wants, while my father showed up every now and then to appease her.

Nick maintained a steadily percolating anger toward my family, blaming my father for not giving us money to buy a house. He pushed me to make contact with my father and brothers, to ask for things from them, and he got angry when I refused.