Wilson blinks at her again, and slowly starts to laugh himself, and Ruth starts laughing louder, and he laughs louder, too. He lowers his head into his hands and laughs, big heaving laughs, and they laugh, and they laugh, and the record player silently spins.

CHAPTER TWELVE

TWELVE

I

The highway has narrowed to a single lane for the snowbanks spilling onto the road, and Wilson can’t stop himself from flinching as snowflakes flash into the headlight beams and swoop up against the windshield, even though he knows there is a pane of glass between them. The windshield wipers flap in slow motion, it seems, calling his attention away from the road; he snaps them off.

Ruth chuckles lightly; he glances toward her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I find it so amusing still.”

“The phonograph player?”

“No!” she says, her tone more subdued. “No, that wasn’t really funny.”

Snow is gathering fast at the bottom of the windshield; Wilson will have to turn the wipers on again soon. “Then what?”

She laughs again. “They were French!”

Wilson nods. “That they were.”

“Don’t you think that’s funny, a little?”

“I guess.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t see the humor in it at all.” Ruth shakes her head and runs a finger beneath her eyes. “It’s just…” She shakes her head again and sniffs. “I don’t know, there was nothing we could do. Nothing we could say. Bonjour, oui, Je m’appelle Ruth, c’est Isabelle, and that’s about fucking it. How liberating!”

Wilson flips the wipers back on. They groan as they heave the load of snow that has settled in only minutes up and off the glass; for a minute, Wilson worries that they might break under the weight. The golden arches of a McDonald’s glow up ahead, the post that holds them invisible in the dark; they seem to float. He glances in the rearview mirror, as if he might again catch a glimpse of his mother standing in her driveway, the blue kerchief flapping around hair so white it was hard to tell where hair ended and snow began, the French cousins beside her with their arms raised and their hands fluttering good-byes. “Au revoir,” he says.

“What?”

“Au revoir,” he says, more loudly. “That’s another one.”

“Oh,” Ruth says. She uncrosses her legs and sets her feet on the dashboard. “Bouche de Noel.”

Wilson slows to squint at a highway sign; he clears his throat. “Bon appétit.”

Ruth looks at him, her head tilted in amusement. “Merci beaucoup.”

Wilson pauses. “Caviar.”

Ruth laughs, a full, throaty laugh. “Caviar!”

“Why not?”

“Translate caviar.”

“Little mini fish eggs.” He grins to himself. “Salty. Delicious. Expensive.”

“I don’t know, Wil. Caviar might be pushing it.”