Bette

"Jack, couldn't you call me Bette again? You know how much I hate Bess. I don't know what's happened; you've been calling me Bette since we came to California and now, suddenly, you're calling me Bess." There's a long silence. Dad's still up on his knees; I'm driving along Sepulveda Boulevard toward Olympic. "Well, Bette, I married you as Bess and I've always liked that name. It's a name you don't hear very often; it's a strong name like you. Every time I call you Bette I'm afraid somebody else might answer."

1981, William Wharton, Dad, Knopf, →ISBN, page 293