Here’s the thing about being in a relationship with a woman who is mute: you can’t really talk in the car. Even after putting more effort into learning American Sign Language than you have ever put into anything in your entire life, even after reading your sign dictionary until its spine cracks and you’re blue in the face, you can’t talk to her while driving. You can speak, technically, at any point and she can sign fully if her hands aren’t busy with the steering wheel—but then you can’t see her response without looking away from the road. Either situation is primed for a head-on collision and an early grave, so you just don’t really talk while you’re driving.
It’s a lesson Tommy has had to learn the hard way. In the last twelve hours he has managed maybe twenty minutes of actual conversation with his wife. Most of it has been in a variety of gas station parking lots while she keeps a lookout for cops while he fills up the tank. They keep these visits short and sweet. No snacks, no souvenirs, no talking to anyone they don’t have to. Bathrooms and gas are all they can afford, both in time and money. In the car, Tommy fills the silence with idle chatter and singing along the radio. All while keeping a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, terrified he’s going to misread a sign or see those red and blue lights in the rearview mirror.
So not. He can’t talk with his wife. But that doesn’t mean they can’t communicate.
