18 Abbott and the Irregular Past Tense
Abbott, his wife, and his daughter are having a nice time in the family room with a big green ball. They are sitting in a triangular formation, rolling the ball back and forth to one another. The girl is doing well, though Abbott is not even thinking about her motor development in relation to average children. He’s just playing ball with his family, formulating a cocktail. “Mom throwed the ball!” the girl says. “And Dad catched it!” “Hey, that’s right,” Abbott’s wife says, raising her eyebrows at Abbott. Abbott interprets his wife’s glance to mean she is impressed with the girl’s verbal ability. Abbott has never told his wife this—he’s never told anyone—but he has a vision of himself as a father who, in the most gentle and loving and supportive way, corrects his children’s grammar. At the dinner table, say, buttering a roll and explaining, affably, the uses of lie and lay, for instance, or which and that. His intention is certainly not to demean or humiliate, and neither is it simply to instruct, really, but to share his passion and respect for the amazing system of English, its intricate rules and odd exceptions. In his mind, the strictures of grammar and syntax become a kind of fun family activity, with everyone very lovingly and entertainingly pointing out everyone else’s errors. And they’re all laughing and passing the corn and making up funny examples of dangling modifiers. And in this way the children are thoughtful practitioners of our language, and their sense of language, and hence thought, is (lovingly) honed. And it’s not actually the children’s childhood that Abbott is imagining. He’s imagining the children as adults so honed and remarkable that people want to interview them, and in these interviews they speak fondly (and correctly) of the family dinner table of their youth, the father who presided warmly over speech and usage. It sounds authoritarian, they know, but it wasn’t like that. It was fun. The father didn’t belittle them; rather, he found a way to bring the family together around clauses and phrases, subordination and antecedent. You just have to take our word for it. His tone was remarkable. The game continues, the green ball rolling across the carpet, Abbott’s wife and his daughter laughing and exclaiming. “You throwed it!” his daughter says, referring to herself. “That’s right,” his wife says. Abbott knows how difficult it will be to pull this off. If he misses his mark—even slightly—he’s a tyrant. “And Dad catched it,” his wife says. She reaches over and pats Abbott on the knee. “Right, Dad?” she says. Abbott throws the ball into the air and grabs it hard with two hands. He sticks out his tongue and makes his eyes wide. He rubs the ball on top of his head, making strands of his hair stick up. “That’s right,” he says, “I did.”
19 In Which Abbott Stays Clean
The corn on the cob is locally grown, and it is delicious. The dinner begins with five cooked ears on the table. Abbott and his wife eat two ears each, leaving one for their daughter. Abbott’s daughter can’t eat from the cob, or won’t, or Abbott won’t let her, so Abbott cuts the kernels off with a paring knife. This will not, though, be a story about wounds of the flesh. Abbott positions the ear vertically on his plate, much like a holder sets a football for a field-goal attempt. He presses the top of the ear with one hand and slices down the cob with the other. The girl does not like to eat the corn as a spoonful of kernels. She prefers large plaques of corn that she can pick up and eat with her fingers, so Abbott has to slice deeply and forcefully into the cob. The corn and the plate are slippery with reducedfat butter, and the ear shoots off the plate, directly toward Abbott. With startling celerity, Abbott pushes straight back from the table, rising to his feet in a crouched position, arms up, legs bowed slightly to avoid the free-falling corn. He looks, at the end of this maneuver, something like a gymnast who has just nailed a dismount. A gymnast with a paring knife. His chair capsizes loudly behind him as the corn passes between his legs to the floor, where the dog, its fear trumped by appetite, begins to lick it. One instant there is Abbott’s lap, the next it is gone. This is certainly Abbott’s most athletic deed in years, and his initial response, as he stands from his crouch, is pride. He sure evaded that corn. He still has it, the quickness, the reflexes. But then he hears the dog gnawing the cob, and he sees his daughter’s empty tray of food. He feels the upturned, surprised gazes of his wife and daughter. He notices, too, that the clothes he sought so athletically to protect are old, faded, and lightly stained. And Abbott knows—right now, not later—that his very pregnant wife, were she to be the only thing standing between the darting corn and the dog-patrolled floor, would leap or dive like a soccer goalie to preserve her offspring’s dinner. Abbott rights his chair. With his foot he nudges the dog and the corn out of the way and sits down again. He has the right to remain silent, but he waives it. He speaks down to his plate. “I didn’t even think,” he says, either confessing or absolving, but in any case telling the truth.
20 Abbott Improves
Tonight Abbott cannot find his paint-can-opening tool, so he uses a flathead screwdriver instead. With a dusty garden stake he stirs the paint, even though he had it mechanically stirred earlier in the day. He places the gallon can on a folded sheet of plastic to protect the floor. All of the office and nursery furniture is out in the hallway. He removes the cardboard sleeve from the bristled end of a new two-inch cutting brush with an angled tip and wooden handle. He splurged because he’s tired of bad brushes. He dips the brush, rubs one side against the lip of the can, and begins to cut above the floorboard. The paint looks light, but he knows it will darken as it dries. He moves slowly along the walls, cutting around the trim of the floor, the ceiling, the two windows and two doors. (Then around the light-switch cover, the outlet covers, and the overhead light.) The brush is excellent. He uses a damp paper towel to scrub his mistakes from the glossy trim. The cutting takes an hour and a half. Abbott keeps thinking he’ll get up for a beer, but he never does. The steady deep breathing from the monitor, turned low. Abbott’s movements sound strange because the room is empty. He is reminded of other empty rooms, other painted walls. He wouldn’t go back if he could. How many men tonight are painting nurseries, feeling unique? When he’s finished cutting, he wraps the brush tightly in a plastic bag. He pours paint from the gallon can into a sturdy plastic tray, then blots the drips from the side of the can with a paper towel. He takes the plastic covering off a yellow roller cover and pushes the cover firmly onto the roller. He slides the roller back and forth in the tray, coating the yellow cover in paint and evening out the coverage. Then he rolls a vertical strip beside the door, overlapping his brushed line. The previous paint job is a bit rough and uneven, and Abbott knows that if he really wanted to do this right, he would spend a night sanding the walls smooth. And he might prime the walls before painting. He rolls three more strips, ceiling to floor, reaching the corner. The humidity makes the paint runny and slow-drying, so he keeps this first coat light, and he watches for drips. He puts his face close to the wall and turns his head to find the right angle in the light. Abbott’s wife makes her way past the furniture in the hallway and walks into the room. “This looks great,” she says. He nods, inspects. “It will dry a little darker,” he says. “I’m glad we didn’t choose the other one,” his wife says. “Me too,” he says. “You think maybe just one coat?” she says. “No,” Abbott says. “It’ll need two.” His wife says, “Can you bring in that chair for me?” Abbott walks out to the hallway and returns with his heavy wooden desk chair. He puts the chair in the center of the room, and his wife sits while he finishes the first coat.
21 Abbott Visits the Coffee Shop
While the earliest shoes that we have found are nine thousand years old, some scientists believe that humans began making rudimentary shoes as early as thirty to forty thousand years ago. Bombs date back at least as early as 1281 AD, when the Mongols lobbed powder-packed ceramic balls at the Japanese. (The shards are extant.) Two nouns, separated for centuries, finally conjoined. Two concepts made one. Do not talk to strangers, Abbott will one day warn his children. Nor to people with shoes. He sits in the
coffee shop with his daughter in his lap. Her eyes are still swollen from crying. He scans the crowded room and does not see any bombs. Because he’s modern, he knows this means one of two things: Either there are no bombs in the coffee shop, or there are bombs in the coffee shop.
22 Abbott’s Supporting Role
This afternoon Abbott’s wife shuffles into the living room and announces that their daughter’s bed is covered in mold. “Right through the pillowcase,” she says, “through the pillow, onto the sheet, through the sheet, onto the mattress pad.” Abbott gets to be the calm one today. He thinks for a moment. “I bet it’s because we put her to bed with wet hair after her bath,” he says scientifically. His wife seems uninterested in causation. “Smell this!” she says, thrusting a pink pillowcase into Abbott’s face. He smells dutifully. The odor is quite bad, but he believes they’ll all get through this. He believes they’ll be stronger for it. “Moldy bed!” she exclaims. His wife’s hysteria creates in him a powerful sense of tranquility that borders on drowsiness. This means the marriage is working. “Is it mold or mildew?” he asks, yawning and slumping deeper into his soft chair. He means to diagnose, not jest. “Social services won’t care!” his wife says. “I bet it happens a lot,” Abbott says, “but it’s one of those things that people don’t want to talk about.” His wife appears to consider this remark. “My God,” she says, “we are horrible parents.” “No, we’re not,” Abbott mutters. “We’re average parents.” His wife flees the living room with the offending linens, and her wild exit plunges Abbott into a deep, narcotic sleep. Hours later, he will learn on the Internet that mold and mildew are essentially the same thing, and also that they are much different.
23 On Dormancy
The original Curious George (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1941) is making Abbott uncomfortable as he reads it to his daughter for the first time (morning, family room, carpet, sun, heat, coffee, triceratops). Perhaps it should be on a higher shelf at the library. Or perhaps it should have a warning sticker. Not banned, of course, Abbott would never say that. But the book is a surprise. Prior to this morning, Abbott and his daughter have read only George’s entertainingly dramatic and noncontroversial adventures: Curious George Makes Pancakes; Curious George and the Dump Truck; Curious George in the Snow; Curious George’s Dream. Now this, though, the original, in which the man with the yellow hat comes to the jungle and exploits George’s preternatural curiosity to capture him in a bag and forcibly remove him from his home. And later, in the big city, George has occasion to smoke a pipe—a pipe—and then he gets thrown into prison. Not jail—prison. There are rats eating George’s food. The pages of the old book are ripped and faded. Abbott’s daughter loves the story. George escapes prison but then ends up at the zoo. Abbott tries to read quickly and quietly; he mumbles, points to squirrels out the window. But the girl’s attention is fixed on George’s trauma. Abbott’s wife calls on the cell phone from the Big Y as Abbott hoped she would. These days, they have their best talks on the phone. “I’m sorry about last night,” she says. Abbott says he is too. He says, “Don’t stand on that chair, honey.” Abbott’s wife says she had a strange dream when she finally fell asleep last night and she was going to tell Abbott about it this morning but she forgot and now she can’t remember the dream. “Maybe you’ll remember it,” he says. “Do you need anything from the store?” she says. “I don’t think so,” he says. Abbott’s daughter wants to read the original Curious George again. “I ran into a woman from yoga,” Abbott’s wife says, “and she was telling me about this family fair coming up, and I said thanks, we’d definitely consider it, but then afterward I realized it was on the day we’re having the baby.” “Yeah, so,” Abbott says. “So,” she says, laughing. Abbott’s wife asks Abbott what they’re doing, and he says they’re reading the original Curious George. He tells her about the pipe. “This is just a hard time,” Abbott’s wife says. “Just a minute, honey,” Abbott says, “I’m talking to Mom.” Abbott’s wife says, “One of these days. You know?” Abbott says, “I know. I know.” He does not know what his wife means. He thinks she could mean any number of things, and he thinks he agrees with all of them.
24 Abbott Stumbles toward a Theory of Use
When the generous children’s librarian gives Abbott’s daughter a package of animal stickers, the girl wants to open them immediately, right there in the library. Abbott knows that if he opens the stickers, she will use them up within minutes. He kindly tells her no, explaining that she should save her stickers for a special time. Abbott’s daughter ignores his answer. “Dad open these?” she says. Abbott again says no. He says, “Let’s just wait and open these later, OK?” “Dad open these?” she says again. “Not now,” Abbott says. “You just got them, honey,” he says, which is of course his daughter’s point. Why is he taking a stand on this matter? What golden application does he envision for these stickers? “Dad open these?” the girl says. “I said no,” Abbott says. There is no end in sight. The child’s universe has contracted to this package of animal stickers, and there is no way Abbott is going to back down now, even if he wants to, his idea being that an unreasonable position held unwaveringly amounts to good parenting. His resoluteness is a value unto itself, regardless of the foolish notion about which he is being resolute. “I want these,” she says. “I know you do,” Abbott says, trying to communicate his empathy. “Dad open these?” “I said no and meant it,” he says. Fortunately for everyone, Abbott’s wife is in the library too. “You two,” she says. She opens the package with her teeth and gives the animal stickers to their daughter. Abbott knows that parents should not undermine each other’s authority, but he is grateful for the intervention. The girl sits on a bench and begins to put the stickers on her neck and throat. She peels off one after another and presses them onto her skin. Shouldn’t she at least save some of them? Abbott thinks. “Shouldn’t she at least save some of them?” he says, but nobody answers. When the girl’s neck and throat are covered, she begins putting stickers on her chin and cheeks. She uses every single animal sticker, probably two dozen. She is delighted. She smiles as she touches her face lightly with the tips of her fingers. She drops the sticker backing onto the floor, and Abbott picks it up. Abbott’s wife finds a small mirror in the library dollhouse and holds it up so their daughter can see. The girl loves the stickers. The generous children’s librarian who gave the stickers to Abbott’s daughter walks past, waving and smiling, apparently untroubled by the prodigality. Abbott grudgingly understands that this is what the stickers were for. The stickers were for his daughter’s neck and face. And he understands that had she done something different with the stickers, then that different thing would have been what the stickers were for. It is not difficult for Abbott to imagine his daughter bringing home a gentleman friend twenty-five years hence. (Make it a female lover if you want—it does not matter to the story.) Abbott, by then no doubt a full professor or perhaps even an endowed chair, will have four cocktails, and he will win over his daughter’s beloved with timely allusions to Oscar Wilde and Joe Montana. Later, in bed—Abbott and his wife will allow them to sleep together—the gentleman (or whoever) will lounge dissolutely on his elbow and say, “Your parents are great. Especially your dad. He’s really great.” Abbott’s daughter will make that face that can be traced back to infancy. She’ll say, “He’s mellowed a lot. When I was a kid, he was the kind of dad who wouldn’t let me put stickers on my face. And he’d correct my grammar in a way that he thought was fun and loving. And he’d tell me to be careful all the time. God, he’d tell me to be careful when I was making toast.” And then they will lie together in that old bed, most likely naked, and for a long time talk about fathers, the failures of fathers.
25 Abbott and the Parable of the Giraffe
Abbott’s daughter is having a hard time of it indeed. She is trying to lift the stuffed giraffe from the floor, and she cannot do it. She has been at it for some time—nearly a minute, perhaps—and she cannot lift the giraffe. The toy is not large,
nor is it heavy. Abbott watches, refusing, out of some combination of principle and indolence, to facilitate. He admires her focus, her tenacity, her intrinsic dignity. She is a straight arrow of intent. Her faint eyebrows are squeezed in concentration and purpose, but she has not become frustrated or angry. She is leaning over, using both hands, pulling the giraffe’s head, and the world is simply not working as it supposed to, as it has up to this point. The reason that Abbott’s daughter can’t lift the giraffe is that she is standing on it. Once she steps off of the animal, she has a much easier time lifting it, which she does, with neither pride nor humiliation. And then, giraffe clamped in her armpit, she moves forth to the next thing.
26 On Containment
As Aristotle probably asked, Is it not prudent to diagnose the diagnoser? Briefly, then: Abbott’s parents were divorced when he was nine years old. Afterward, his parents had joint custody, so Abbott moved between their residences every two weeks. These transfers occurred on Sundays, in late afternoon or early evening. And there was, as in some convoluted geocentric model of the heavens, motion within motion: His mother, with whom Abbott lived half the time, moved six times in the eight years of the custodial arrangement. One consequence of this Ptolemaic childhood was that Abbott at a young age became preoccupied with luggage. Suitcases, duffels, bags, satchels, backpacks. And not just luggage, but any item within which other smaller items might be tidily placed. Chests, trunks, bins, tubs, baskets, folders, cartons, envelopes, pillowcases, pockets. The sturdy cardboard box. And tonight Abbott is in his garage, searching for something that he forgets immediately when he sees, tucked in the corner like some neglected pet, his rooftop carrier. It’s covered in cobwebs, but still modern and sleek. At thirteen cubic feet, it’s capacious enough to hold several large suitcases and a pair of nice water skis. (Abbott does not water-ski.) The carrier is durable and lightweight, surprisingly easy to install upon the car’s roof rack. Its latches, one on each side, can be locked and unlocked, locked and unlocked, with a small silver key that glints on Abbott’s key ring. He looks for the key there, on his key ring, and eventually finds it. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger. There is an extra key he can keep in a special place. Abbott would like to take a trip. He would like, actually, to have taken a trip. He would like to return from a trip. He would like to ease the carrier manfully off the car’s roof and wipe it down like a weary steed. He would like to take a firm but tender grip of its black aerodynamic flanks and then position it carefully on a custom-built pallet in the corner of the garage, which is, after all, yet another pleasing container. Abbott turns in a slow circle. He has no idea what he is in here to find. There are so many things in the garage—scattered tools, furniture, a grass-seed spreader—far more than could ever fit in the carrier. It’s a discouraging mess. The space is not used well. The pallet he could probably build if he ever had time. Today is, what, Sunday? On Friday Abbott will have another child.
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