They play it as a great love story--Abbie and Anita, salvaging their mutual love and esteem and their small son america from the post-revolutionary shambles of the Seventies. Their letters through the first year of Abbie's new life underground--he rues the escalating cost of hair dye--are embattled, tough, incurably funny. Abbie, who skipped out following a drug bust that would have sent him up for 25 years, nails it when he describes himself as ""the exact opposite of a yoga state. . . . My best disguise would be a frontal lobotomy."" Signing himself by turns ""Fanny Hill,"" ""Your wounded comrade, Corpus Delicti,"" and the ""Chattanooga Choo-choo,"" he is irrepressible, cheerful, always performing; negativistic thinking and the Reality Principle are the first enemy of the Revolution. Anita, beleaguered by mounting bills, the FBI, a child's cough, getting on welfare, writing--plus carrying through the investigation to clear her husband--is less sure. Unwilling to be eclipsed by her fugitive celebrity, she struggles one day at a time. ""I would like to believe we are not so different from other downwardly mobile, disappearing families on the American scene."" They argue politics, Abbie brags about his vasectomy, they swap news of Chile, the IRA, Palestine, Timothy Leafy (""the swine""), and Angel--Abbie's second wife (""Yes, it's time we had a new look at polygamy""). Anita is the enduring heroine, he the absent Court Jester not yet comfortable with the idea ""of being an appendage to your strength. . . . Like some political paraplegic."" Both of them come off unvanquished--he the loyal bigamist, Anita ""your co-conspirator in subversive love.