21 In Which Abbott Drives through the Center of a Diamond
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.
22 Abbott’s Cave
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.