“Jimmy was there on his way around the world,” Ruth says. “Isabelle, have I ever told you about your uncle’s trip?”

Isabelle glances from her mother to her uncle with a look of interest that makes Wilson almost jealous.

“It was not a trip, Ruth. Don’t trivialize.”

Ruth’s cheeks tighten. She blinks quickly. “I’m sorry,” she says. “What was it then, Jimmy?”

“I was on my way to New Guinea.”

“Fine, then.”

“But Africa!” Wilson interjects. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough.” Jimmy looks at Isabelle. “Met a mystic there,” he says. Isabelle sits forward, and Wilson glances at Ruth. “First black mystic I ever met,” he says. He straightens up. “Isabelle here is a mystic.” He looks from Wilson to Ruth.

“Is that so?” Wilson says.

“Jimmy,” Ruth says. “Would you pass the potatoes, please?”

Jimmy looks at the potatoes beside him, then up at Ruth, and then he slides the dish across the table a little too hard. “Your mom doesn’t think we should talk about it,” he says to Isabelle.

“You can talk about anything you’d like,” Ruth says, spooning potatoes onto her plate. “I simply asked for the potatoes.”

Jimmy winks at Isabelle.

“Well.” Wilson clears his throat. “I hear it’s going to warm up next week. Maybe start acting a little more like New York instead of Alaska.”

“That would be nice,” Ruth says. “Otherwise I think I’ll have to retire early to a warmer climate!”

“It rained in Istanbul today.” Jimmy shovels a bite of peas into his mouth and chews loudly. They watch him. He swallows and then stabs a bite of meat. He turns to his sister. “How is the law, anyway, Ruth? Still working with that lesbian?”

Ruth blinks at him. The phone rings. “Excuse me,” she says, setting her napkin onto her seat.

“How are the girls, Jimmy?” Wilson asks. He can hear Ruth’s voice low in the kitchen as she answers the phone.

Jimmy nods. “Martha gets her license next week,” he says through a mouthful of food.

“Is that right.”

Jimmy points at Isabelle with his knife. “Your dad teach you to drive yet?”

Isabelle shakes her head.

“This spring,” Wilson says hastily. “We were going to start this spring.”

“Start what?” Ruth asks, returning from the kitchen. She gazes at the food on her plate as she pulls her chair in behind her.

“Driving lessons,” Wilson says.

Ruth looks up. “I thought we’d decided twelve was a good age,” she says. Isabelle glares at her mother.

“Had Marth driving when she was nine,” Jimmy says.

“Hadn’t we, Wil?”

Wilson looks from his daughter to his wife. “I guess I’d forgotten,” he falters. The phone rings again.

“Goddamn fucking phone!” Ruth says, pushing her chair back so hard that it nearly tips over as she stands. It balances for what seems to Wilson long, long seconds on its back legs before finally coming to rest on all four. He lets out his breath. Ruth has disappeared into the kitchen. The door flaps back and forth behind her.