Abbott Awaits by Chris Bachelder

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’treally 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?”

25 The Obstetrician’s Tale
    â€œIt’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.”

26 Abbott and the Oversized Load
    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 hispalm 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