Sometimes, she wishes he would disagree, that he would take some sort of stand and they could have a big fight and get everything out in the open, but he avoids fights with as much vigor as she employs with her spiritual work, although he avoids hearing about that even more. The wipers swish and squeak. She should be nearing the creek soon, but these wipers are so worn out, she can’t see where the road is, much less where the next turn might be. Frank has promised to replace those wipers too, but he hasn’t, of course. He seems to be exhausted when he comes home from work, too tired to do the few chores she asks him to do, or to talk with her about her day. He just falls into his beat-up wingback he picked up from some wealthy aunt or somebody, the chair he acts as if it was some sort of rare treasure, and sits drinking a scotch and starts going on about his boring, tedious day at the office. But the minute she tries to tell him about what she has done, about her discovery of new nuances of meaning in her cards, about how she has traded a trance reading for some eggs, or about the beautiful patch of paw-paws she has found and harvested, he will just sigh the same sigh he breathes every night and stare at the floor.