Abbott Awaits (9 page)

Driving home, Abbott notices the sudden quiet in the backseat. The noticing perhaps more sudden than the quiet. By adjusting the rearview mirror he is able to see his two-year-old daughter and his substantially pregnant wife, both asleep, mouths parted, heads inclined toward each other. They are both a little sweaty and beautiful. By tilting the rearview even farther down—and by dropping his right shoulder nearly to discomfort—he is able to see his wife's breasts, enlarged by pregnancy and bisected intriguingly by her seatbelt. If seatbelts became standard in American cars in 1964, why, Abbott wonders—later, not now—is our contemporary national art not filled with breasts bisected by nylon straps? Where are the songs and poems, the sculpture, the oils on canvas? For a stretch of fifty or so highway miles, Abbott periodically readjusts his rearview mirror to look first at his sweet, sleeping family, then at his wife's splendid breasts. There is something here, inaccessible by blade, no matter how sharp. Although he is not generally a happy man—or perhaps
because
he is not generally a happy man—Abbott recognizes happiness when he feels it.

Having not checked the Internet in nearly thirty hours, Abbott dials up with a premonition, though he also had a premonition the sun would rise this morning. Another full rotation of the planet—the odds of mayhem are pretty good. And sure enough: the steamboat has exploded; the gunman has walked in and opened fire; the gorillas in the zoo have stopped eating; and now these missing girls. Here's what we know: drunk babysitter, open screen door, tiny footprints in the mud. Authorities are amassing, combing, projecting. They are not answering that question at this time. They are utilizing all available resources. The parents are bargaining with God. “You shouldn't read that stuff,” Abbott's wife has said, more or less concurring with Henry David Thoreau, who believed that anyone who cares to know that a man had his eyes gouged out this morning on the Wachito River is living in a cave, and not just any cave but a
dark un-fathomed mammoth
one. Right now she's calling for Abbott from a remote region of the house. He understands her tone, if not her explicit message. When Abbott attempts to conclude his dial-up Internet session, he has, as always, a choice:
STAY CONNECTED
or
DISCONNECT NOW
.

Abbott just stumbled accidentally upon this treatment, but now he swears by it. It's a little of the hair of the dog that bit you. The first thing you'll need to do is have a child. The best kind for this remedy is a child who has some manual dexterity, who can safely and neatly chew solid foods, and who can ride placidly in a car seat. A two-year-old child usually works well. Next you'll want to buckle the child into its car seat with some soothing words or perhaps a folk song about the sinking of a great ship. You don't want a fussy child. Start the car and begin driving around. It does not matter where you drive, but Abbott recommends, for safety's sake, that you avoid heavy traffic and/or winding roads. Also: a clear, dry day is best. Now, once you have helped create this child and buckled it happily into a moving car, you'll need to open a plastic bag full of snack items. Dry cereal is fine, as are raisins, pieces of dried fruit, or small nuts. Use something that the child likes. While steering with your left hand, use your right to offer a small snack item back to the child in the car seat. Show appropriate caution, obviously. Hold the snack item securely but gingerly. Do not turn around, and do not use the rearview mirror to look
at the child. Looking back is not only dangerous, it also ruins the treatment. Keep your right hand extended backwards, despite the growing discomfort. If it helps, talk to the child about what is happening. (“Here's a pretzel for you.”)
Now wait
. Keep your eyes on the road, your left hand on the wheel. Keep your snack arm extended toward the backseat. You may feel a burning sensation in your shoulder, and that's fine. Wait. Stop talking. The waiting is crucial. Your sense that the child does not want the snack item or can't reach it or in fact is not a real and separate person—crucial. Do not turn around. Do not talk. Just pose a question with your right arm, extend it into the mystery of the backseat. Now: Feel the child's tiny warm hand graze your scarred and callused fingers. This is important. Feel the child achieve a grip on the snack. Don't look! If you see it, you won't feel it. Feel the tug as the child, of its own startling volition, takes the food from your light grasp and, one presumes, eats it. Your snack hand should be and feel empty. The emptiness is crucial. Repeat as desired.

It's nearly midnight when Abbott's wife walks into the basement to find Abbott with his head against a heating duct. She's holding a magazine, wearing underwear and a tank top that doesn't quite cover her stomach. Abbott can see a crescent of taut white skin beneath the hem. “What are you doing?” he says. “I've been looking all over for you,” she says. “We should probably whisper,” Abbott says, pointing upward. They are standing directly below their daughter's bedroom, and sound does carry in the house. Still, Abbott's wife rolls her eyes at him. “What are you doing?” she says. “Sorry you're still up,” he says, putting his head against another section of duct. “This floor is gross,” she says, and they both look down at her bare feet, one on top of the other, toes curled. Abbott's wife has to lean forward to see them. “I'm looking for a noise,” he says. “What kind of noise?” “I don't know,” he says. “Kind of a rustle. Tell me if you hear it.” His wife switches feet. “I brought you something,” she says. She opens the magazine and begins reading an article on airplane safety. She knows he is scared to fly, and she knows, further, that he reaches irritably after fact and reason. The chance of a plane crashing is one in 11 million.
The wings on a jet are built to flap up and down. It's called flexing. “I knew that one,” Abbott says, tapping the edge of square silver duct with his fingernail. “And if the wings didn't flex, the ride would be terrible,” his wife says. “I know,” he says. His wife keeps reading. Only one plane has ever crashed because of turbulence. “
Ever
?” asks Abbott. “Ever,” she says. “And probably only because it was flying too close to a mountain.” Abbott's wife reads a passage about how people who are afraid of flying are advised to think about the plane being suspended in a big bubble of gelatin. Abbott has no idea what that means or how it might help. “And listen, turbulence,” she says. “Turbulence, because of the speed of the aircraft, turbulence feels much worse than it actually is.” Abbott stands up straight. The only light is from an exposed sixty-watt bulb on the ceiling. The basement darkens at the corners. His wife looks like some kind of ghost or dream, talking about aircraft. Abbott has cobwebs in his hair and on the back of his neck. “That doesn't make any sense,” he says. “How can turbulence be not as bad as it feels? Turbulence
is
what turbulence feels like. That's exactly what it is. You can't distinguish turbulence from its effects.” “No,” his wife says. “There's the air currents or whatever outside the plane. Think of the gelatin. Then there's the bumping and falling sensation that the passengers experience.” “We should whisper,” Abbott says. “I might have just heard the rustle,” she says. “That wasn't it,” he says. “If you hit a tiny rock in a car going thirty miles per hour, it doesn't feel that bad, but if you hit the same kind of bump in a jet going”—she checks the magazine—“eight hundred feet per second, then it feels more severe.” Abbott is almost entirely certain that an airplane would not hit a tiny rock in the air, though he wishes his wife had clarified that point. She says, “Not that planes hit rocks. They hit air currents.” “Of course,” Abbott says. He had never considered that turbulence exists independently of our perception of it, though the point is suddenly evident. “The main thing is if you can picture the aircraft in a big pocket of gelatin,” she says. “I still don't get that,” Abbott says. He would like to get it. “A jet is only moving about one inch up or down,” she says. She has closed the magazine, and she is palpating herself below the ribs. “Are you OK?” Abbott says. His wife says, “The baby keeps jabbing me up here.” He says, “Are you worried about it?” She says, “No. The main point with the turbulence is that things aren't
really as bad as they seem. Or feel.” Neither Abbott nor his wife says anything for a minute or so. There is no need for Abbott's wife to say that turbulence is in this respect just like so many things in life, and there's no need for Abbott to say that turbulence is in this respect quite exceptional. At some point you do not need to talk to have a conversation. The conversation exists whether you have it or not. It continues silently in a parallel dimension of the marriage. They both pause to let it run its course toward another stalemate. When it's over, Abbott whispers, “Eight hundred feet per second?”

“It's a true story. During my first pregnancy, I really did stay up late at night reading my old embryology textbook—those million tiny things that all have to happen perfectly. And I really did come in to work early every day to give myself an ultrasound. I'm only trying to commiserate, but I should know by now that there are some people—and it's usually the men—who I just shouldn't say those things to.” “But still …” “Still what? It's nice that they come?” “Well, it
is
nice.” “You know, I used to think that too. But now I'm sick of all these heroes.”

Abbott empties the dirty water from his daughter's inflatable pool by stepping on the edge. When all the water has drained into the yard, he uses his hose and hose attachment to spray out the dead bugs and blades of grass from the bottom and sides. Today it is above ninety degrees. He drags the pool ten feet away so he won't kill the grass beneath it. It might be too late for that, he speculates. After he locates the two valves and blows in more air, he removes the hose attachment and places the running hose in the pool. The water from the hose is too cold for his daughter, though, so Abbott boils water in a teakettle on the stove, then takes the kettle outside with an oven mitt and pours it into the pool. He pours in four kettles of boiling water. Abbott's daughter will be excited. Abbott moves a deck chair to the edge of the pool, where he might sit this afternoon with his feet in the water. When the girl awakes from her nap, she does not want to play in the pool. She wants to walk. She and Abbott walk through the neighborhood to a busy street called Pleasant. Abbott picks her up, and they watch the traffic pass. The girl is quiet, lethargic. Abbott puts his palm on her forehead—of course she feels hot. He puts his
palm on his own hot forehead and determines nothing. They see delivery trucks, a motorcycle, a town bus. Then Abbott points and says, “Look at that. Right there, coming this way.” The girl turns her head toward the flatbed tractor-trailer carrying a small white house. In front of the truck there's an escort car with a yellow flashing light on its roof. The house on the truck passes slowly by. “Pretty amazing,” Abbott says to her, before noticing that she's crying. She's not making a sound. Tears are filling her eyes and running down her cheeks and neck. “It's OK,” Abbott tells her. “Let's go get a snack.” He carries her back down the street toward their house. She smells like sunblock. “Listen,” he says, “it's just fine.” Tonight he'll tell his wife about it. One of them will say it's troubling. The other will say it's nothing to worry about. Abbott doesn't know yet which one he'll be.

Were he to marry, twenty-eight-year-old Charles Darwin scribbled in pencil on the backs of envelopes, he would never see America; he would never learn French; he would never go up in a hot air balloon; he would never take a
solitary trip in Wales
; he would be obliged to go walking every day with his wife; he would be forced to visit and receive relatives; he would be forced to
bend in every trifle
; he could not read in the evenings; he would be fat and idle, anxious and responsible; he would never have enough money for books; he would be banished from London; he would be trapped in London; he would have the expense and worry of children; he would feel a duty to work for money, especially if he had many children; he would be forced to host visitors and be a part of Society; he would listen to
female chit-chat
; he would have no time in the country, no tours; he would have no large zoological collection; he would not have enough books; he would have no freedom to go where he liked; he would not have the
conversation of clever men at clubs
; he would suffer, above all else, a
terrible loss of time
. Darwin was married within the year. He
and his wife, Emma Wedgwood Darwin, produced ten children, three of whom died young. Late in life, he wrote of Emma: “She has been my greatest blessing, and I can declare that in my whole life I have never heard her utter one word which I had rather have been unsaid. … I marvel at my good fortune that she, so infinitely my superior in every single moral quality, consented to be my wife. She has been my wise adviser and cheerful comforter throughout life.” And to his children Darwin wrote: “I have indeed been most happy in my family, and I must say to you children that not one of you has ever given me one minute's anxiety, except on the score of health. … When you were very young it was my delight to play with you all, and I think with a sigh that such days can never return.”