In my opinion, when we're talking about her psychic, her tarot card readings, polarity therapy, astrological signs, Alice is a teeny bit nuts. That kind of stuff gives me the creeps.

Maybe it's the milk. I'd bought a gallon on sale and it's two weeks past its expiration date.

"Don't you smell that awful stink?" I call out to Ed.

He calls back, "Huh?" I hear him turning a page, sighing.

Sarah pads into the kitchen and rushes to the sink as the last of 128 ounces of milk gurgle down the drain. She rubs her black velvet neck, her invisible black whiskers on my bare ankle like I'm her best pal. "Milk's all gone, Sarah." I sweep her up, carry her back into the living room, plunk her down next to gorgeous Lily, her languorous daughter, a sleeping beauty on Ed's lap.

"It wasn't the milk."

"What wasn't the milk?" Ed looks up."And who was on the phone? Alice again?"

"Yep"

"Good grief. That gal can't even go wee-wee without checking with you first."

"Really, Ed." I hate him saying wee-wee.

"What did you say about milk?"

"That smell. And it's just as strong in here." I scan the cluttered coffee table. I sniff the water in the vase of Mr. Lincoln roses. "You really can't smell anything?"

I don't expect a yes. Ed doesn't like getting involved. He never in his life says yes when it means he might have to take action. My shrink says his passivity goes to the root of our marital problems. Alice thinks he has a sensuality blockage and would benefit from aromatic massage. I call it lazy.

"I don't smell anything." He looks up and fixes a sweet-as-sugar expression about six inches above the top of my head as if he's addressing a spider on the wall. His smile is beatific as he strokes Sarah, whose yellow eyes solemnly meet mine in triumph. Her left front paw opens and retracts rhythmically.

"Sarah's claws need trimming." I say to Ed.

"Did you know that peacocks can fly?" Ed is a born "Information Please." As far back as our honeymoon he's fed me an endless barrage of random data relentless as the NASDAQ ticker. My shrink says it's his way of controlling the relationship. Alice says he's exerting his cognitive muscle. I say he's a show-off.

"Peacocks fly? Really? No, I didn't know that."

"I just saw it on PBS. Peacocks customarily fly away to escape predators." He laughs nervously. "I just saw a tiger gobble one up on Channel Nine. When's lunch?"

"Why didn't the peacock fly away?" Ed gives the ceiling a hurt look. Shrugs his shoulders. Sarah scowls at me. Stops purring.

"We'll eat after I track down that smell."

He points to the latest New Yorker across the room. "Hand me that, will you. I don't dare move or I'll wake Lily." I hand him the magazine. "I don't know why you're still harping," he says. "I don't smell anything."

I could serve him that smell for dinner and he'd blithely chomp it down. Ed hates things going to waste. I'm talking little things: leftover lettuce, half an overripe peach.

Big things? He throws away fortunes. Forget "Half Price" sales. "Everything Must Go" sales. If he's eying something, say a pricey silk Persian carpet from Qom, he'll shout out "I'll take it! Wrap it up!" an hour before the astounded sweet-talking salesman, who's prepared to come down at least a thousand, has even gotten round to calling for a pot of tea.

"It's his way of never losing," my shrink tells me. "He'll avoid a conflict at all costs." Alice thinks Ed should try kick-boxing to curb his impulsivity. Sometimes I don't know what to think.

Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on him. The doctor says it's his allergies: cats, trees, weeds, pollen. He's too congested to have a keen sense of smell. Which is why I have to nag him all week to take out the garbage.

My father, rest his soul, didn't buy the allergy alibi for a minute. "If the trivia king is allergic to cats, how come he sits in the living room all his life with cats glued to his lap? How come he knows when the lasagna's ready from around the block?"

The irony is that smelling is my strong suit. Before we got married I worked in a perfumery. International Flavors and Fragrances, New York City. On a tiny scale in their vast white laboratory, I measured milligrams of aromatic chemicals to create Joy. Charlie. New Car Smell. Blindfolded, I can distinguish Lilac from Lily of the Valley.

"Fidelity Over the Counter is up thirty percent." Ed announces. He turns a page. "Lake Havesu, Arizona reached 120 degrees yesterday." "Gone With the Wind's revival is breaking all records." "The murder rate is down in New York City." "Illiteracy is up."

My father hated bad smells. "What stinks?" he'd yell, charging in the front door. Even before hello and a kiss, he'd race into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. He'd inspect each container of leftovers as if it was incriminating evidence. I miss my father.

"Sunset Boulevard is coming to Cleveland in six weeks."

"Why are you telling me Cleveland? When's it coming here?"

My father, like me, regarded a bad smell as a personal affront. an insult. I'd die of embarrassment if company used the john and it smelled. Or if someone forgot to flush. My shrink says it's low self esteem. Alice says I've got obsessive compulsive disorder-- OCD she calls it-- and need a hypnotherapist. I think it's a matter of pride and that's how I was raised.

If my father detected something "off" in the kitchen, forget about serving him lunch. He'd study the offered salami sandwich, glare at me suspiciously.

Maybe an egg's gone bad. Might it be last August's doggy bag from Ernie's? Pinto beans I forgot to add to the chili? I groan, dreading what I have to face: inspecting the entire fridge contents, shelf by shelf. I can't ask Ed to help. Why should he? He doesn't smell a thing.

"Classic Passive Aggressive personality," my shrink claims, who I'm beginning to think is overly analytical. "Chronic fatigue," says Alice. "Lazy bastard," if you ask me. But hey. Wait a minute. Wait. Whoa! I've got an incredible idea.

The phone rings.

"Alice, for you," yells Ed.

"Hello Alice," I say, "Remember you telling me last week about exorcisms? How about us trying one for the smell? C'mon over."

"I can't," she says. "I'm having a sesame oil rub in a few minutes. Dr. Wu is on his way over."

"You think I should try a seance myself?"

"Use Ed." she says. "You need at least two people. But I'll tell you frankly, OCD's like you don't make good mediums."

"I'll give it a try." I hang up, head for the living room.

"I promise to make you open-oven bacon, tomato and cheese sandwiches for lunch if you do me a big, big favor." I use my most seductive breathy voice. "Come. Hold hands with me around the kitchen table."

Ed looks alarmed. "What for?"

"Trust me."

He sighs, reluctantly puts the New York Times down next to his pile of Kleenex. He's resigned, hungry, and offers no protest.

"Gee, Ed. Sometimes you are a great sport." I give him a hug. He smiles.

Together, we tie back the cafe curtains and open windows. I run to the living room and turn the stereo on loud. "Danse Macabre." We sit, hold hands, shut our eyes.

"Let's sniff," I whisper. I sniff. He releases my hand, loudly blows his nose.

"I saw them do this once on 'Nova.'" he says.

"Hush, Ed. Sniff." My voice is commanding. Sighing, again he complies.

We sit quietly for a couple of minutes. The table jumps. There's a rattling noise. "I think it's working," I whisper to Ed. Suddenly I hear a lilting melodic voice, "Oh, sweet mysterious spirits," it calls out.

I look up. It's Ed. His face is angelic when his eyes are closed. He appears to be in a deep trance. "Lift that smell," he calls, nose pointing to the ceiling, "Float it gently out the window. Away. Away."

A sweet breeze from nowhere wafts through the kitchen. Ed opens his eyes. "What happened?"

"It's gone." I say. "The smell is gone."

"It is?" Ed looks amazed. "It's really gone?"

"You did it, Ed." I'm astonished. I hug him. I kiss him.

"I got rid of it?" He applauds enthusiastically. "Hooray!"

I make lunch.

Ed is about ready to go back to the newspaper when we hear a scream coming from next door. I rush to the window. It sounds like Mrs. Berman, my neighbor. "What's she yelling about?" Ed leans out the window to hear.

"What's that Gawdawful smell?" She is wailing. "It's invaded the whole house. Came out of nowhere. Ugh. It's making me queasy." I hear her opening her refrigerator. She calls to her husband.

"Do you suppose it's the cheese?"

"Smell? What smell?" he replies. "I don't smell a thing."