When I found Ms. Bird in the crowd, she was seated on a bench licking a scoop of strawberry ice cream that was perched precariously on a waffle cone. Several dollops of it had dripped onto her garment and I quickly produced a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped them off.
“Thank you, Professor,” she said. “Such a sweet gesture.” Then, to my surprise, she offered me a long, penetrating look that seemed to bespeak such great warmth that I was forced to look away. Or perhaps I misinterpreted it.
“It was…um… nothing,” I said.
Ms. Bird sighed wistfully. “You have once again rescued a damsel in distress although, as we once concluded, something as negligible as drips of ice cream do not really qualify as distress.”
“Per our previous discussion of its definition, I would guess it does not,” I said. “Perhaps just a minor attempt at gallantry meant to rescue a woman from inadvertently besmirching her attire.”
“Nevertheless, you’re quite chivalrous.”
“Thank you. I was concerned that your dress would be stained, although in my experience, stains derived from dairy products can be easily dispatched.”
“Do you have much experience with laundry?”
“I am loath to admit that I do,” I said. “I wash my own clothing at a nearby laundromat as my landlord refuses to repair the laundry appliances located in the basement.”
“An impressive talent,” she said.
“And a handy one should I ever decide to abandon teaching and become a housekeeper, although that is not likely to occur.”
Ms. Bird laughed. “It’s always good to have a contingency plan,” she said, continuing our amusing banter.
“Indeed.”
“Would you care for a taste of my ice cream? It’s homemade, or so I was told. It’s probably not but it tastes great. Strawberry. My favorite.”
“I find that strawberry fails to excite my taste buds,” I said. “I’m afraid I am a devoted chocolate man, although I do occasionally have a fondness for vanilla if it is accompanied by a product known as Hershey’s chocolate sauce.”
We bid adieu in the parking lot, where I escorted her to her automobile. Once again, she dug through her purse but was unable to locate her car keys. Frustrated, she dumped the contents of said receptacle on the hood of said vehicle. These included three books that appeared to have come from the library—Heart of Darkness by Mr. Joseph Conrad, The Wapshot Chronicles by Mr. John Cheever and Seize the Day by Mr. Saul Bellow.
“You will enjoy those,” I said.. “Excellent choices.”
“I’ve read Heart of Darkness already,” she said. “It was a long time ago. But I feel I didn’t fully understand some of it so I’ve decided to read it again. It can be a little dense in parts.”
“True. I had some difficulty with that identical dilemma when I first read it as a lad of seven.”
“Seven! My God! Such a precocious little boy you must have been!”
“In all modesty, that is quite true—I was somewhat advanced, but alas, far from a genius. My young intellect did not comprehend mathematics or chemistry, nor was I proficient in music. I do, however, seem to have an analytical mind. Perhaps a trifle too analytical at times.”
“Do you play a musical instrument, Professor?”
“At the behest of my parents, I made an attempt at learning the violin but after two excruciating years of private lessons, I concluded that a continuation of said instruction would be pointless as my fingers lacked the proper coordination. My father plays the violin quite adeptly, but I did not inherit his talent which disappointed him greatly as he wished to engage me in duets.”
“I studied the tuba with a similar result,” she said.
I reflected upon this. “An interesting choice. But the tuba is quite a heavy instrument, is it not?”
“It is,” she said, “and I am ashamed to admit that I dropped it on my foot more than a few times.”
“Perhaps a flute would have been a wiser choice..”
She smiled and finally located her keys. I did not want her to depart just yet as I wished to see her again the next day. But I found myself stymied, for I had no idea as to what our next activity should be and it would be incumbent upon me to suggest something specific. But what would that be? I was at a loss.
Of course, I was also concerned that she would interpret such a suggestion as unwanted boldness on my part and thus reject my overtures so I said nothing. After all, we had already completed one outing and I was unsure as to whether she wanted to see that much of me.
“The weather is supposed to be glorious tomorrow,” she said.
“Is it?”
“That’s the prediction,” she said. “It would be a shame to waste such a day indoors. How would you suggest I resolve that problem?”
“By being outdoors.”
“Excellent suggestion. Do you plan to spend the day outdoors, Professor?”
“I have no specific plans, but perhaps I shall take a book and peruse it outdoors,” I said.
“Then we’ll be doing the same thing outdoors.”
“It most certainly does appear that way,” I said. “Perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?”
“Well, I was going to say…”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps the …um…weather report will prove to be wrong.”
She gave forth with a deep exhalation. “I doubt it,” she said. “But if that is not the case, and the climate is as expected, maybe we could find a place and read outdoors in each other’s company.”
“That would be most excellent!” I said. “But where specifically?”
She assured me that she would think of something interesting with which to occupy ourselves. Before we departed, she shook my hand and once again thanked me for the earrings, which now dangled from her earlobes.
“Good bye, Professor. Thank you again for the earrings. I had a wonderful time.”
“As did I.” It was then that I decided to say something audacious. “Perhaps we should address each other with our given names from this point on, Ms. Bird, for I feel we have progressed to a stage of friendship that surpasses the formal greeting.”
“Good idea,” she said. “I was hoping to suggest that myself.”
I could barely mask my joy.
“However,” she said, acquiring a more serious look, “I think we should probably revert to our surnames when we’re in class or in any other situation that would require more formality.”
“Yes, of course. Excellent point.”
She was reflective. “But would you mind if I called you Archer instead of Ishmael? Please don’t be offended. It’s not that I don’t like your given name but it would make me feel as if I’m addressing a character from Melville.”
I understood this, for many others had expressed some discomfort with pronouncing my first name. “Not at all,” I said.
“Well, good bye then, Archer.”
“Good bye, Abigail.”
I watched as she drove off, her car meandering dangerously through the lot and nearly colliding with a trash receptacle. After she had departed, I was forced to circle the parking lot on foot three times in search of my vehicle, for I was not able to remember where I had parked it, an embarrassing and frustrating predicament that frequently afflicted me. Of course, on this particular day, my confusion may have resulted from the fact that my mind was consumed with thoughts of Abigail. Eventually, I located it. Once safely inside my vehicle, I put on a compact disk of Mozart’s Requiem Mass and sang along until I arrived home.
Abigail had packed a basket of comestibles that consisted of ham and cheese sandwiches, a variety of raw fruits, lemonade, yogurt, and chocolate cupcakes for she had suggested in the morning via cell phone that we indulge in a picnic near the Falls. I was agreeable, although in truth I did not
care for consuming food on the grass, as there would doubtless be ants and other forms of intrusive wildlife that would take considerable interest in invading our chosen area in search of nourishment. Yet, to please her, I feigned enthusiasm and followed her along a circuitous path that led us through all manner of trees and brush until we came upon a grassy glade that she had visited before, and spread our victuals out on a blanket that she had provided.
Abigail surveyed the area. “Isn’t this an absolutely beautiful spot, Archer?” .
“Quite a scenic locale,” I said. “A veritable Garden of Eden.”
“Though absent of serpents.”
I chuckled. “Happy to hear it.”
“Aren’t you glad we came?”
“Ecstatic.”
In order to appear appropriately attired for our adventure, I had chosen an ensemble that included a light blue button-down shirt, a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts, black knee socks, dark brown dress shoes and a Panama hat to protect my face from the solar rays. To be prudent, I had smeared a layer of white zinc oxide on my nose and below my eyes, a precautionary rendering that resembled Native American war paint.
I did not wear a bow tie or, for that matter, a tie of any sort. Abigail seemed pleased by my appearance, though she made no mention of it.
Once we had settled upon the blanket, we consumed our assorted foods. Abigail, who wore a pair of purple sweat pants, a frilly, short-sleeved blouse, and yellow running shoes, removed said attire, under which she sported a modest black one-piece bathing suit. She then took from her purse a giant tube of sunscreen, which she squeezed with too much force, causing a blob of the white goo to explode from its container and land on her thigh. After ineptly slathering her quite fetching body with sunscreen, she lit a cigarette, lay back on the blanket, and basked in the blinding sunlight as I sat nearby stealing glances at her anatomy while chomping on a cupcake and chattering on about Wuthering Heights and the contrary elements of Heathcliff’s character. Perhaps I should have removed my shirt, applied some sunscreen onto my own physique, taken up the space beside her on the blanket, and let my fingers meander toward hers, but I was uncertain as to whether she would find such a gesture intrusive. What if she interpreted such a meeting of hands as an unwelcome act of intimacy? Did she consider our relationship to be a formal one between a professor and his student? Were we merely friends? Or did she desire a deeper affiliation? I did not know. After all, not long ago, she had glumly informed me that she possessed no friends. Perhaps I merely filled that vacancy.
No, such a bold physical advance would not do—I would require verbal permission of some sort. At first I did not know how to approach this delicate subject, but finally I said, “Abigail, I must tell you how delighted I am that we have become friends.”
“So am I, Archer!” she said. “I truly enjoy your company. It’s so pleasing to have finally found a friend in this dreary town.”
This was not the reply I had hoped for, but I said, “Yes.”
“And we have so much in common! A love for literature, punctuality, a passion for crispy bacon…”
“And we agree on the practicality of bibs.”
“Yes. Bibs as well.”
I waited for her to embellish beyond bibs but she did not, so I made another bold attempt at verbal seduction. “But all that aside, I believe we have come to a certain stage, at least I have, at which we—”
But suddenly, she sat up. “That reminds me,” she said. “I have an announcement!”
“Oh?”
She smiled broadly. “I’ve decided to write a short story!”
This, too, was not the direction I had anticipated. Perhaps she had perceived that I was planning to express a greater interest in her and had therefore deliberately interrupted me rather than face an awkward query. Although discouraged by this, I said, “A short story! That is marvelous, Abigail! Do you as yet have an idea?”
She scrunched up her lips. “Well, not exactly. I may have spoken too soon.”
“Well, I am certain you will think of something,” I said.. “From what I have gathered thus far, you have an excellent imagination.”
“Thank you, Archer.”
“You are most welcome.”
She paused. I noticed that there was a streak of sunscreen on the left lens of her glasses. “May I ask you for a favor, Archer?”
“Certainly,” I said. “I am at your service.”
“When I finish it, or should I say if I finish it, I would love to have you read it and offer me your comments.”
“I would be more than happy to.”
“Maybe you could be my mentor if you have the time.”
Thrilled by this notion, I said, “Most agreeable!”
“You must be honest in your critique though, Archer.” She waved her index finger at me. “Totally ruthless. I’m afraid you may dislike it and claim otherwise to spare my feelings because you are most kind and sensitive to the feelings of others, but I must know whether I have any talent for fiction or if I’m just deluding myself.”
“I promise you, I shall be brutally honest,” I said. This was a lie for I knew I would certainly not be cruel if said attempt was not to my liking. “Tell me, do you suppose it will be a humorous tale?”
“Yes. That’s my intention,” she said, “although I hope there will be some meaning behind it.”
“Well, I look forward to reading it, Abigail.”
“Great.” At that, she leaned toward me and, for a moment, I thought she was going to reward me with a kiss, but she merely grabbed her purse, which resided near my legs. A second or two of rummaging passed before she pulled out two hardcover books.
“Abigail, as I was trying to say before, I—”
But she interrupted me again. “Would you sign these for me?”
She held up both of my novels. I was astounded. “Certainly,” I said. “I am honored. No one has ever asked me to do that before.” I searched my pockets. “Do you by chance have a pen, Abigail?”
“Let me look.” Once again, after a fruitless search, she upended the purse over the edge of the blanket. Why, I wondered idly, do women carry purses if they are never able to locate the items they require? Alas, there was no writing utensil to be found.
“Well, maybe you can take them home, sign them and bring them to class. You may inscribe them to me as well if you wish. I would like that very much.”
“That would be my pleasure,” I said.
“Wonderful! Thank you so much, Archer!”
“You are most welcome.”
After we exchanged a smile, Abigail did something that I found to be
a trifle odd. She abruptly rose to her feet and took several deep inhalations. Then, she launched into an impromptu display of gymnastics that included a series of deep knee bends, followed by a sequence of an exercise known as jumping jacks. When she ceased this performance, she was perspiring and a trifle breathless.
I handed her a cloth napkin and she wiped her face with it. “Abigail, pray tell, what inspired this sudden activity?”
She shrugged. “I suppose I just had a burst of energy. That happens sometimes after I’ve been lying about after a meal.”
“I see.”
I noticed then that she was gazing at the waterfall. “Are you athletic, Archer?”
“Beyond an insignificant talent for the game of croquet, I’m afraid I am not,” I said. “And sadly, I am not much good at croquet either, having only engaged in it on one occasion. I do ride a bicycle but I feel that I am somewhat inept at that as well.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you riding it,” she said with a charming laugh. “In my opinion you would be well served to purchase a bicycle that isn’t quite so wobbly and misshapen.”
“I most heartily agree. Perhaps one day I shall.”
“You might even purchase a Vespa for more rapid tr
ansport.”
“I doubt whether I would survive a motorized vehicle of that nature, but I shall give it some thought.”
Abigail dropped the cloth napkin on the blanket and then strode toward the stream that trickled beneath the waterfall, whereupon she proceeded to splash handfuls of water on various parts of her anatomy. This was indeed a most pleasant sight to behold for she resembled Botticelli’s beauteous creature as portrayed in the artist’s magnificent painting, The Birth of Venus . I could hardly take my eyes off her.
“Maybe I’ll climb those rocks,” she said, pointing to a wall of squarish boulders that began at the foot of the waterfall and ended at the top.
“Is that wise?” I asked. “Such an endeavor appears quite perilous to me. I fear for your safety.”
“I appreciate your concern, Archer, but I’ve done it before several times without incident following my occasional morning jog. As you can see, it’s no more than a staircase of rocks. I assure you, this is not very challenging. I believe you’ll be impressed with my agility.”
“You do not need to impress me with your physical agility, Abigail,” I said. “You have already impressed me with the agility of your mind.”
“What a sweet thing to say!” she responded with a warm smile. “You’re a perfect gentleman, Archer!”
I had hoped that my remark would cause her to abandon this climbing endeavor but apparently she seemed determined to engage in it, for she then sat down to put on her running shoes. After an exhalation, she strode toward the rocks.
I watched with some anxiety as she easily clambered up the first rock and then proceeded to stride effortlessly to the second and the third. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and to observe the view, and then continued upward. Within five minutes, she had reached the summit.
“My, what a breathtaking vista!” she shouted down to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me up here, Archer? It’s really very easy.”
“Quite sure, but thank you for the invitation.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 8
