Times’ travel section said. But lets hope no slip-ups, car-disrupts, torrential rains, wrong roads, souths instead of norths, wests instead of easts, or we’ll be behind in time and we all want to get there on the nose to carry out our plans, correct? and which I expect will be,” looking at his watch, “five-o-dot.” “Coming to our exit,” she says. “Slow down, stay right. You see it?” “I see it, I know it, now I got it — why you checking up on me so much? I could do it blindfolded.” “I know how upset you get — either of these two dividing roads in front will do, since they come together soon — when you miss an exit on a long trip and have to go back for even a few miles. Every time we miss a familiar landmark — the Charter Oak Bridge, the truck or moving-van billboard with the real truck on top of it in Wooster or Lawrence I believe — you say we could have crossed or passed it ten miles ago, if we had to backtrack five miles, or ten minutes ago and we won’t make it on five-o-dot and that sort of thing. Do you remember the worst one?” “Sure. You were at the wheel. I was navigating and the overhead Maine and New Hampshire and Cape Cod arrow-right sign wasn’t up yet, nor the left one to Springfield. Maybe just little ones on the side we didn’t see or just ‘Mass Pike, East, West.’” “I was pregnant with Olivia then — seven months… July, August, September — well, six plus — but wanted to divorce you on the spot.” “Good thing we weren’t traveling with two lawyers, a judge and court.” “I thought you’d never come out of it. The Big Pout I called it for a few years. For that wrong turn cost us about fifteen miles in the opposite direction before we could turn around, so thirty miles or thirty minutes or so and at the time you weren’t this generous to admit who was controlling the map.” “Forty minutes, ten of which I later made up by doing seventy-five to eighty over a long stretch without getting caught.” “What happened?” Olivia says. “Daddy was being so nice to Mommy she got all confused and made a wrong turn.” “No, what happened?” “You don’t believe me? — She doesn’t believe me.” “What happened, Mommy?” “You read too many books, kid,” he says. “You should be asking what’s a pout or ‘controlling the map’ means.” “I know what those are.” ‘That’s what I’m saying. You know all the words. But you should be asking what they mean instead of trying to find out the grimy details of every grim scene. Well, Ms. Drew, this case you ain’t gonna solve ‘cause you ain’t gonna get all the facts.” “What’s a pout?” Eva says. “A pout’s — oh, I’m lousy at definitions. Your mom’s much better at it.” “What’s a debonition?” “An endearing — agh, there I am using that word again as if I didn’t know it was a phony one and didn’t know any other. A debonition’s a real sweet pronunication of definition.” “What are they, Mommy — endearing, pruncation and the ones I said?” “A pout is a grimace, a scowl,” Denise says, “like this,” and pouts. “And pronunciation, which is how you say it, is the way words are pronounced, spoken. And definition is the meaning of a word. For instance, grimace and scowl are other words for pout.” “What’s meaning?” and Denise says “What I said — what a word means.” “It can also be an interpretation of something,” Olivia says. “Did you hear that?” he says to Denise. “Everybody — hey, fancy lady in the speeding Mercedes out there, did you hear that? My kid! Both of them, one for serious asking, other for her answers. What’s that?” Cups his left ear. “‘Way beyond us’ you say what she said? — And look, just noticed, hardly any traffic around — now we’re going, now we’re cooking with gas. And hey, everybody, Hay’s Farmstand in Blue Hill — just remembered. I don’t see it but I do smell it. Organic carrots and sugar snaps, seventeen varieties of red lettuce, blueberries with worms in them because they’re not sprayed — can’t wait.” “They haven’t worms,” Denise says, “or few that do won’t have live ones if you cook them, and don’t scare the kids or there’ll be more things they don’t eat. And I’m going to conk out for about half an hour now, you have the route straight? Were coming up on Hutchinson—” “I saw the sign.” “Left — it’ll be a sharp one — good. Next, Merritt, which it goes right into, and why not Wilbur Cross, since both parkways are overgrown so with less sun on them.” “Okey-doke. A shady journey. Say, good title for something, though nothing I’d do.” “What about the one I gave you,” Olivia says.