“Well…” she said. “An old college friend of mine is having a publishing party and I’ve been asked to attend. At first I declined, but he was adamant so I changed my mind.”
This came as a bombshell. I was thoroughly taken aback. “He?” I asked, attempting to mask my surprise and shock.
“Yes. Perhaps you have heard of him—his name is William Octavian Butler.”
“I have not,” I said. “Whyever do you believe that I might have heard of this gentleman?”
“He’s an author.. His first novel was recently released. It has received the most marvelous reviews. Do you not read the New York Times Book Review section?”
“Religiously,” I said. “But it might have escaped my attention.”
“It was the lead review,” she said. “On the cover.”
I was struck speechless. Was this fellow perhaps a former paramour of hers? I wondered. For what reason would she be staying overnight, if that was what indeed she planned to do? Would he seduce her? Would she submit to such overtures? All manner of ghastly scenarios invaded my mind.
As she was in a hurry, I did not wish to further pry into this matter—perhaps at a later date I could couch my curiosity in a casual manner. Nervously, Abigail glanced at her watch again. “I’m so sorry, but I must be off, Archer,” she said. “I hope to see you tomorrow, if I am back, which I hope to be. I would hate to miss your class. Goodbye for now.”
In a weak voice I bid her farewell and watched with dismay as she scurried down the flagstone path.
Benumbed, I remained on the bench, once again overtaken by a profound sense of dread—the mere fact that she found this assignation in Syracuse more important than attending my class threw me into an abyss of despair. I was lost in thought and did not realize that I had been sitting there for half an hour until I gazed at my timepiece. Then, in a flash of enlightenment, I knew what I must do, so I arose from the bench and sprinted to my car.
As I sped toward town, my Subaru began to shudder and shake in a most worrisome way. I was so fearful that my crippled heap of metal would succumb to its automotive illness before I was able to complete my journey that I pulled in to the nearest petrol station, the work place of my mechanic, Mr. Jack Nuckles. Glancing at the dashboard clock, I was reassured that I would have time to catch Abigail before the bus departed.
With the car quaking ominously, I parked in front of the service garage and was soon greeted by said Mr. Nuckles, a fellow of questionable honesty who resembled a ponytailed, tattooed version of John Steinbeck at the approximate age of forty. He was wiping his hands on a rag as he approached me and studied my car, which looked as if it was about to explode due to the recent appearance of a cloud of noxious steam that emanated from beneath the hood.
“Hmm,” he said. “This doesn’t look good, Professor.”
“I gathered that, Mr. Nuckles,” I told him. “I was of the opinion that you had repaired all the defective parts several months ago.”
“I did.”
“Are you now trying to inform me that the new parts you installed, which I might remind you, came with a warranty, have now become dysfunctional?”
Some of the steam that escaped from the hood floated in our direction and Mr. Nuckles waved his hand to scatter it about. “This looks like a whole different problem, Professor,” he said.
“Oh?”
He snickered in a way that sounded ominous. Then he opened the hood carefully, using his rag to protect his hand from the heat. “Hmm,” he said once again as he leaned his body forward to inspect the circuitry.
“Looks like it’s finally headed for the junk yard, Professor. I’ll give you two hundred bucks for it. Parts must be worth about that.”
“But I am in something of a hurry, you see,” I said. “I must get to the bus station in twenty minutes in order to bid bon voyage to a particular friend of mine who is about to depart. Surely there must be something you can do.”
“Can’t help you, Professor,” he said. “It’s dead as a door lock.”
“Door nail.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I sighed. “Is there a vehicle I can borrow for a few hours?”
“Nope.”
I glanced at my watch and was alarmed to see that it was already 4:10. “It is imperative that I get to town post haste,” I said. “I must take a taxi.”
“There’s only one cab in town and it ain’t available right now.”
“And how may I ask do you know this?”
Mr. Nuckles hooked his thumb toward the area directly behind him. “Because it’s sitting on top of the lift right there in the garage.”
A quick look confirmed that the taxi was indeed hoisted above ground in the manner he had described.
“Tough luck, Professor.” He then wiped his brow with his rag, an exercise that removed the perspiration but left a streak of grease on his forehead.
“Perhaps you could give me a ride,” I said. “I will pay you.”
“Wife’s got the car today. Grocery shopping at Costco.” He then looked down the road. “Probably take you about a half hour to run there. Twenty if you sprint.”
I groaned in frustration. “I suppose that will be my only option,” I said, whereupon I handed him the key. “In the meantime, see what you can do.”
Mr. Nuckles then glanced toward the heavens. “Better get a move on, Professor. It looks like it’s gonna rain in about five minutes.”
I followed his gaze skyward and saw that his forecast was likely correct as a fleet of dark, foreboding cumulonimbus clouds had gathered overhead. The prospect of appearing soaked to the skin in front of Abigail was unsavory, but I bade Mr. Nuckles goodbye and began to trot toward the gas tanks.
As good fortune would have it, I saw Eliot Altschuler’s truck pull in beside a gas pump just before I made it to the highway. Eliot removed himself from the vehicle and walked around toward the tank.
“Eliot!” I shouted.
He stopped and turned his head. “Archer,” he said. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a class?”
“No, it’s tomorrow,” I said. “I desperately need to get into town, Eliot. It’s an emergency. Can you perhaps give me a ride? I would be eternally grateful.”
“Sure. Just let me fill my tank. Shouldn’t take but a few minutes. I’m just topping off, which is an unnecessary precaution I often take.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “You know, Eliot, this will be the second occasion in which you have been my roadside savior. I sincerely thank you for your courtesy. I hope to return the favor one day.”
“No need,” he said. “I’m happy to help.”
Several minutes later, I was seated in Eliot’s truck as he drove toward the town at a speed that was ten points below the speed limit. I contemplated asking him to increase his velocity but decided not to. Even at forty-five miles an hour, I would doubtless arrive at the Greyhound station on time.
“I haven’t seen you lately, Archer.” Eliot fumbled with the radio dial. “Where have you been?”
“Here and there,” I said. “I believe it is you who have seldom emerged from your… or rather Dean Fletcher’s office.”
“Yes, I suppose I have been something of a phantom lately,” he said. “There is so much work to be done. And those damned orchids.”
Before I could offer commentary on Dean Fletcher’s curious obsession with plant life, a flash of lightning lit up the darkening sky and was predictably followed seconds later by an ear-shattering bolt of thunder.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, Archer,” Eliot said.
“And what would that be?”
He paused and switched on his windshield wipers although there was barely a drizzle. “It appears that you have been seen more than a few times in the company of a student of yours,
a Ms. Abigail Bird.”
My first reaction was to cough.
He looked at me. “Quite an attractive young lady, if I do say so. I believe she is enrolled in your writing class.”
Trying to sound casually dismissive, I said, “She has demonstrated some bonafide talent for writing. I have merely taken it upon myself to mentor her.”
Now the rain was beginning to fall more forcefully and Eliot increased the metronomic speed of his wipers.
“I assume you are aware, Archer, that there are rules regarding the fraternization between male teachers and their female students.”
“I am aware of that, Eliot, but strictly speaking, does this edict include local folk who are merely auditing the class?”
“I don’t know but my instincts tell me that a sexual liaison between even unregistered students and teachers might be frowned upon.”
I feigned a bout of boisterous laughter. “Sexual liaison!” I said. “That’s absurd! I assure you, Eliot, this sort of salacious activity has not taken place between Ms. Bird and myself.”
But Eliot did not respond immediately. “Well, my advice to you would be to tread with caution during the mentoring of Ms. Bird.”
“You may trust me, there is no need to tread with caution.”
Eliot stopped at a traffic light, for we had finally reached the top of Main Street. It was now pouring. Then he turned to me and asked, “Now where was it you wanted to go, Archer?”
“The Greyhound bus station on Elm Street.”
“Are you embarking on a trip?”
“No,” I said. “I am merely seeing someone off. Bidding them bon voyage, as it were. Perhaps you could drive a trifle faster,”
“In this downpour? I can barely see through the windshield as it is and I do not want to wreck my truck.”
By the time Eliot and I arrived in the center of town, enormous puddles had formed in depressed areas of the streets and drivers were compelled to proceed at a snail’s pace in order to avoid hydroplaning. Several vehicles had stalled, thus making it nearly impossible to proceed. The time of Abigail’s departure was fast approaching, so when Eliot braked for a stop sign, I opened the door and leaped out of the truck
“Where in blazes are you going, Archer?”
“I’ll arrive there faster if I run. It’s a mere two blocks.”
“You’ll get soaked to the skin.”
I did not wish to lose precious time by engaging in a conversation about my impending state of wetness, so I quickly thanked Eliot and began to run.
I was, as Eliot had predicted, drenched by the time I progressed to the corner, my shoes squishing with every footfall. Half a minute later, I reached the station and stopped on the sidewalk across the street, gasping for air and mournfully watching as Abigail’s bus took leave of the depot. As I stood there in a veritable waterfall of rain, I immediately became aware of the foolhardiness of this entire enterprise. My crazed race to the bus station had been meant as a subtle gesture to demonstrate my fondness for her and thus give her reason to abstain from a romantic entanglement with this Butler fellow, but even if I had succeeded would she have perceived it as such? What if Abigail, upon seeing me before her, drenched and breathless, had interpreted my appearance there as bizarre? After all, she was merely going to Syracuse for a short period of time and not traveling to far off parts of the world for three months. Romantic gesture indeed! What sort of insanity had overcome me? Yes, I realized, I had been on a fool’s errand.
Accompanied by a deafening soundtrack of thunder, I trudged to my apartment, barely aware that my clothing had stuck to my skin. The only impediment was trying to navigate because my glasses were fogged up and dotted with drops of water but somehow I managed to arrive home without walking into any trees or slipping on the dangerously slick sidewalks. I was, however, splashed upon by several passing cars but it made little difference as I was already quite saturated.
My landlord, Mr. Felix S. Eugenides, was standing precariously at the top of a ladder busily removing clumps of leaves from the gutters when I arrived at my palatial dwelling. Wisely, he was wearing a yellow rubberized hat and matching rain parka and pants, the sort of garb sported by…dare I say it...seamen during rainstorms. He did not espy me, nor did I say anything to make my presence known to him. I was simply too desolate to engage in conversation with Felix, who I knew would question my foolhardy decision to stroll in this monsoon without a raincoat or umbrella. Then, he would most likely offer me a glass of ouzo or a plate of dolmades.
But apparently he had spotted me. “Hello there, Professor Archer. Could you help me out up here?” he shouted. “I got another ladder in the garage.”
I cupped my hands around my mouth in imitation of a bullhorn. “I would be happy to, Felix, but as you know I suffer from vertigo.”
“Oh yeah, I remember.”
“We shall talk again soon, Felix,” I said.
“Looking forward to it, Professor.”
Inside my apartment, I dashed to the bathroom, so as not to create puddles on the parlor floor, removed my sopping garments, folded them neatly, and placed them in the bathtub. I then applied a towel to my rain-soaked anatomy and, once I had achieved an acceptable degree of dryness, stepped into a pair of flannel pajamas. Thus outfitted, I located a box of stale Oreo cookies in my pantry, poured myself a cherry Coke in which to dunk said cookies, repaired to my parlor and dropped into my armchair to sulk.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of me and drove me to my laptop computer, whereupon I entered the name “William O. Butler” into a space provided by my search engine. Several people of that identical name appeared on my screen—one, an award-winning podiatrist from Biloxi; another, a deceased Las Vegas lion tamer that had succumbed to the angry jowls of a lion inadequately tamed; the last was our esteemed author. Admittedly, I felt a slight jolt of glee at the fact that his name had not appeared first and did, in fact, follow those of a podiatrist and an inept lion tamer. Of course, this most likely would not have occurred had I included his middle name.
I noted that Abigail’s paramour resembled Ernest Hemingway in hair and beard style, although Butler was of considerably greater girth. He hailed from South Carolina and possessed a master’s degree in creative writing from Harvard.
The young author’s novel was entitled Stones in the Wind, a concept I did not comprehend, for any wind that could lift a stone would have to be of tornado strength. Was it perhaps a novel about meteorological phenomena or geology? Or both? The reviews, however, were indeed exceptional. The New York Times called it “A brilliant debut.” Publishers Weekly gave it a starred review. Other publications of note also gushed with similar praise, anointing Mr. Butler a young novelist with great promise. Not wishing to perform any more research, I switched off my computer.
After further rumination concerning the nature of Abigail’s involvement with this fellow, I made myself a cup of cocoa, promptly burned my tongue as I drank it, and retired for the evening, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.
To my considerable relief, Abigail was present in class the following day, although she was twenty-three seconds late. When the church bell had struck three o’clock, I had grown quite agitated at the prospect that she would not attend at all. But then, to my relief, she appeared. Although she arrived well before the others, her lack of precise punctuality did not bode well. Yet I was overjoyed to see her. I did, however, notice that she yawned three times before she took her seat and twice thereafter, which caused me to conclude that she had arrived home at a late hour. Her eyes were a trifle reddish and her hair slightly disheveled, though neither of these minor conditions in any way lessened the quality of her beauty. Just gazing upon her had the effect of reinvigorating my affection for her.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Professor,” she said breathlessly as she took her usual seat beside
me.
“No apology necessary. Your past record of punctuality allows me to excuse this one occasion of tardiness.”
“I thank you for your magnanimity, but it’s inexcusable.”
Dismissing her statement with a wave of my hand, I said, “Nobody is perfect, Ms. Bird. But you appear to be somewhat fatigued or perhaps under the weather.” (I had addressed her as “Ms. Bird” as per our agreement to use formal appellations during classes.)
“Yes, I’m a bit tired, Professor,” she said. “You see, I missed the first bus back to Highland Falls last night.”
“Ah, I see. Perhaps the torrential rain delayed you,” I said. “I assume there was precipitation in Syracuse?”
“Oh yes! It was like the flood that plagued Noah, although I don’t believe Noah actually existed.”
“Nor do I.”
“In my opinion, the Bible is nothing more than a fairy tale.”
“I am in complete agreement on that point.”
“Why the heck would the Creator, if such a phenomenon exists, choose a five-hundred-year-old man with no carpentry skills to build a ship the size of an aircraft carrier?”
To this I added, “And, who cleansed said ship of what must have been a constant deluge of fecal matter?”
“Good point,” she said. “But I must say, the Bible is quite an amusing work of fiction.”
“With which I also agree,” I said. “Except perhaps for all the abomination business which seems a trifle barbaric, not to mention repetitive.”
“True.”
“Are you by chance an atheist, Ms. Bird?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “And you, Professor?”
“Good Lord, yes!”
Abigail laughed. “Ha! Very funny, Professor!”
“Thank you,” I said. “Occasionally, I am given to engaging in humor, particularly dreadful puns, although mostly by accident.”
There followed a quiet moment. I was delighted to learn that we shared religious beliefs or, as it were, nonbeliefs, but I was more intent upon diverting the conversation to her activities of the previous night.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 10
