The Look The Rabbit Has
When I heard the first rumbling of the Tiger Woods story I figured out right away that the bit about his wife Elin Nordegren smashing the back window out with a golf club to help him out of the vehicle didn’t scan, and she probably broke it in a domestic dispute. Even people with more money than they can ever spend have problems, and they can replace the window, or even the whole Escalade. So I didn’t think much about it right away. And the joking has started to filter in around the watercooler.
Last night as I drifted off to sleep, I remembered that they have two young children in that house.
I don’t know for sure if anyone hit anyone. We don’t have much in the way of facts, just some sketchily sourced reporting, some sensational allegations and a bunch of headlines. But thinking about the story last night, I remembered what broken stuff means, and looked at all the snapshots my mind can’t throw away. The upturned formica kitchen table. The wooden salad bowl lying near the kitchen window, which it hit but did not break. The half-eaten lobster tail on the floor. The things that did break; the dishes — all of them, in a pile of shards in the kitchen. The T-shaped hole in the wall, base on top and stem below, then the constellation of little marks where the thinner glass shattered on the sheetrock.
And it took me a while to get to sleep, because my body remembered the tight feeling from neck to knees, and the look the rabbit has in the second before it bolts.