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."" Unwilling to be eclipsed by her fugitive celebrity, Anita 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."" 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.