They were in the car going to New York for a long weekend. While they were crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge he said to Gwen “I have to make a quick decision. Should we take 295, which is right off the bridge, to the Jersey Turnpike, or get on the turnpike about a mile from here? We’ve never gone that way before, and judging by the map I looked at yesterday, it doesn’t seem any longer. And there might be better scenery on it than the Turnpike, and, if we want to stop, a better place to eat.” “Anything you want,” she said. “We can pick up the Turnpike around Fort Dix, the map said — we’ll see signs for it. This’ll also break up the monotony of the hundred-plus miles of the Turnpike,” and she said “Fine.” Half an hour later the kids said they were hungry and had to make. He said “Nothing so far on this road, after the public rest area when we first got on it, so maybe there’s nothing any farther.” And to Gwen: “Think we should get off and look around?” and she said “If that’s what you think. You decide.” “Okay, we’ll get off at the next exit. They come quick enough. Maybe taking 295 wasn’t a good idea, and it’s only a bit more interesting than the Turnpike. I don’t know what I was expecting. I didn’t take it to save on the toll, I want you to understand,” and she said “It never entered my mind.” They got off, there were no signs for the Turnpike, saw a diner soon after—“Looks all right from the outside,” he said — and parked in front of it. “Going to come in?” he said to her, and she said “I’m not hungry.” “Don’t have to use the restroom?” and she said “No.” “I can bring you back something,” and she said “I said I’m not hungry.” “French fries? Ice cream? Something to drink?” and she said “Thanks, but will you stop?” “You didn’t say you weren’t thirsty, but okay, I won’t nudzh you anymore.” The kids and he went inside, used the restrooms, sat at the counter. The place was neat and clean but smelled of cigarette smoke. There were a few other customers, at the counter and three at a table, and most were smoking. No one was behind the counter. In fact, nobody working at the diner seemed to be around. There was an ashtray on the shelf behind the counter with lots of butts in it. “Maybe we’ll just get something to go,” he said to the kids. “I don’t like it here,” Rosalind said. “It’s too smoky.” “Neither do I,” he said. “All right, we’ll find another diner. Or we’ll just wait till we get on the Turnpike and go to one of those big rest areas we know there,” and they left. On the way back to the car he saw Gwen looking at him through her open window. Her expression was pretty blank. He smiled and waved to her but she didn’t smile or wave back. Just stared at him. Why does he bring all this up? Because she was acting in a way he’d never seen before. That true? Well, it was very unusual and it stands out. The kids got in the car — he thinks it was the first minivan they had, the one that gave them so much trouble — and he went up to her window and said “You’re not smiling or waving at me anymore?” She said “Why would you think that?” and faked a smile and flapped her hand at him. “That’s not a real smile,” and she said “So? That’s what I’m like. I can’t put one on.” “You unhappy?” and she said “I don’t want to talk about it.” “You don’t love me anymore?” he said, smiling, because he was kidding, and she said “Don’t be an idiot. I was thinking about something else, not you or the kids or my parents. That’s why I didn’t smile or wave, but must I explain?” and he said “Not if you don’t want to,” and she said “Good,” and turned to the windshield and stared at it. He got in beside her, slapped her left thigh gently, wanted to rub it as he often did in the car, even when he was driving, but knew she wouldn’t want him to, and started the car. “You know, your not smiling at me is taking away one of the great pleasures of my life, and even your waving back to me with a real wave gives me a big kick,” and she said “Oh, knock it off.” “God, you’re in a pissy mood,” and she said “I told you. It’s not about you, but it’s becoming you. Why can’t you accept that?” “Now I definitely won’t ask you what it is,” and she said “Don’t,” and he said “Jesus,” and she said “Too bad.” “What’s wrong daddy?” Rosalind said. “Why aren’t we driving?” “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Everything’s fine, and we’ll find another place to eat at soon. Now, which way should I go? Dumb of me not to have asked inside, but I just wanted to get out of there. Probably, right. That’s where the Turnpike should be or the signs to it,” and he drove.
