Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

by Blumenthal, John

  “I suspect it was an excellent party,” I ventured cautiously.

  “Oh yes,” she said with some excitement. “There were many interesting people from the world of publishing present—authors, editors, agents, and such. I believe you would have enjoyed it.”

  I hesitated. “And your friend, Mr. Butler? Was he pleased?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “So I imagine it was a pleasant reunion for you both,” I said. “Are you and Mr. Butler close friends? I do not wish to pry.”

  “He was at one time my boyfriend.”

  “I…uh… see.” Though I had suspected as much, the words of truth emanating from her lips horrified me. “Forgive me as I do not mean to intrude into your personal life.” I noticed then that I was holding my breath.

  “You and I are good friends, Professor, so I don’t consider it an intrusion,” she said. “So yes, it’s quite true that we were involved romantically at one time, but my present relationship with the gentleman is strictly platonic.”

  “Ah,” I said, exhaling. ”You do not have to divulge any more information if you do not wish to, Ms. Bird. It is none of my business. I fear I am being too forward in asking you these questions.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Not at all, Professor. It’s simply part of my past and you’re most welcome to hear it. There’s nothing secretive about it. But I don’t want to bore you.”

  “You could never bore me, Ms. Bird,” I said. “I have a sympathetic ear, so to speak. You may divulge further if it pleases you.”

  She was silent for several seconds, perhaps gathering her thoughts. “Well, the fact is, William ended our romantic relationship several years ago. You might say he broke my heart. I was quite devastated as you can well imagine. The experience made me quite wary of further involvement with men.”

  This gave me pause. Was Abigail’s wariness regarding romantic entanglements the reason behind her reluctance to express her feelings for me, assuming those feelings actually existed? If so, this would be a difficult barrier for me to overcome since I suffered from the identical problem.

  “I suspect you admire him for his authorial talent,” said I.

  “Yes. In fact, I think you would like him, Professor. I believe the two of you would get along famously as you are both writers. So much to discuss!”

  I wanted to say “doubtful,” but I restrained myself. “Well, if he ever visits our fair burg, I—”

  “He might!” she said. “I’m trying to persuade him to come to Highland Falls and give a reading at the local library.”

  Had I, at that moment, been masticating a piece of Juicy Fruit, my favorite chewing gum, I would doubtless have either swallowed it or accidentally spat it upon the table. Why, I wondered, would a novelist “of great promise” wish to visit a library as insignificant as the one located in our fair town for the purpose of reading an excerpt of his novel for the twelve elderly ladies whom regularly attended such events primarily for the free cookies and fruit punch?

  “How nice,” I said. “I shall…um…look forward to meeting him should the opportunity ever transpire.”

  “Great!”

  And where, I wondered, would Mr. William Octavian Butler reside while present in Highland Falls, should that visitation ever actually occur? Would he take a room at the rundown Motel 6, which boasted color TV, WiFi and air conditioning but was, in fact, virtually uninhabitable by the human species, although bedbugs and other similar creatures probably found it a most enjoyable habitat? No, most likely, he would find such a hellhole unacceptable and stay at Abigail’s apartment, where he would attempt to seduce her, as I had previously envisioned. The mere thought of this intimate scenario made me quite aghast.

  Fortunately, Abigail appeared not to notice my disgruntled expression. “By the way, Professor, did you by chance have the opportunity to autograph your novels for me?”

  “I did indeed,” I said, removing them from my briefcase and setting them before her on the table.

  “Wonderful!”

  Smiling radiantly, she turned to the title page and perused the words. I was pleased to see a most enchanting smile cross her countenance, followed by a laugh. “That is so very sweet, Professor!” she said. “Such a lovely, thoughtful inscription. I’m touched and quite amused.”

  “I am most happy that you are pleased,” I said. “And now the other.”

  She repeated the procedure, read the inscription, and laughed again. “Hilarious!” she said.

  “I’m glad you find it so.”

  “Thank you so very much.”

  “Thank you for requesting it of me.”

  Then, of a sudden, she rose to her feet and, after first eyeing the doorway, gave me a cursory peck on the cheek. This was indeed a most pleasant surprise and I immediately felt my pulse quicken. Her lips had touched upon a section of my visage! Oh joy, oh joy! Surely this had some meaning. Granted, it was the sort of innocent buss that one might bestow upon one’s grandmother’s cheek, but I was considerably buoyed by the gesture. I noted that both of our faces were flushed and Abigail looked away, perhaps discomfited by her impulsive act.

  “I will always prize these,” she said, reoccupying her chair. “They will have a special place on my bookshelf.”

  “I am truly honored.” Then, daringly, I placed my hand upon her shoulder. I was most pleased that she did not remove it.

  “I only have one other autographed book in my possession,” she said. “It, too, is inscribed.”

  “And which one is that?”

  “The one I received from William last night. He wrote a clever inscription as well.”

  At that, my elation turned immediately to jealousy. “Did he indeed?”

  “Yes.”

  The fact that Abigail had still not removed my hand from her shoulder was a source of considerable encouragement to me, although her statement regarding her reluctance to engage in romantic involvements was of profound concern. I was, at that moment, terribly conflicted. Or was I simply being too analytical?

  Unfortunately, I had no opportunity to address this conundrum because at that moment, Mr. Williger, the recipient of Sandra’s recent oral stimulation, ambled into the room ten minutes and twenty-six seconds late and plopped himself down in his usual seat, oblivious to my peevish grumbling. Needless to say, I removed my hand with some alacrity from Abigail’s shoulder. The other students soon followed. Yet I made no mention of their tardiness for I had been content to spend the time conversing with Abigail.

  As the class proceeded, I could not help but steal glances at her, but she seemed quite oblivious and did not return my looks. Was she preoccupied? Was she perhaps dreaming of William Octavian Butler? Or was she simply weary from her late arrival home?

  Following my class, Abigail did not remain after the others had decamped, as she customarily did. She offered no explanation and I did not inquire. Feeling quite dejected and abandoned, I bid her adieu.

  Chapter Nine

  Following his return from Scotland, Dean Fletcher announced that Eliot would continue as temporary dean until mid-July, whereupon I would act in that capacity until the commencement of the autumn semester. Apparently, he had been pleased with Eliot’s performance (and much relieved to observe that his orchids were in excellent health) but wanted to give me the same opportunity to impress him with my administrative abilities. Once the campus reopened to full-time students, he would make known his choice of successor.

  I had, by then, sold my decrepit Subaru to Mr. Knuckles for two hundred dollars, which briefly left me without a vehicle. As there was no public transportation to be had in Highland Falls, and because the expense of employing a taxi would cost me more than I could afford, I rented a car for an excellent rate from Mr. Knuckles. It was a previously owned Toyota that bore a mere 85,000 miles on its odometer, although I suspected that Mr. Knuckles had adjusted it lower. Yet
it seemed to be in passable shape and boasted an excellent rate of mileage per gallon so, thankfully, money would be saved on that expense.

  My class concluded a week before I was scheduled to assume my loathsome duties as Eliot’s replacement. Out of magnanimity, I gave all my students a passing grade despite their mediocre abilities. Messrs. Williger, Walker, Riverdale, and Weathers had in fact improved slightly, although they had seldom been punctual. Mr. Walker’s horrendous spelling errors became fewer; Mr. Williger seemed to have gained a more competent grasp of grammar; Mr. Riverdale ceased writing obsequious stories, and Mr. Weathers abandoned plagiarism. Beyond that, their abilities did not yield any promise of actual talent, although I was impressed that they had each handed in their homework assignments on time and gratified that their attendance record was perfect. All four of them were overjoyed that they would now be allowed to graduate, and on their way out of the room, each shook me by the hand and thanked me. Mr. Williger did so with great fervor and mentioned that his father would have assassinated him had he not graduated, though I assumed this to be an exaggeration.

  “You saved my ass, Professor,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Happy to be of service, Mr. Williger.”

  “Ya know, for a prof, you’re pretty cool,” he said, and then he took my hand again and shook it warmly.

  Abigail remained for a moment or two in the classroom on the final day of our gathering. “Have you commenced writing your short story?” I asked her.

  “I have made an outline, Professor, and I hope to commence the writing of the actual story shortly.”

  And then, much to my sorrow, she vacated the premises.

  

  Although Eliot assured me that it was unnecessary to dress formally for my temporary position, I ignored his advice and sported a light summer blazer, my usual bow tie, dress shoes, and matching formal summer slacks on my first day as temporary dean. It seemed to me that a college dean, whether temporary or not, should be properly attired so as to project an air of dignity. I did not know what to take along to the office other than a bag lunch, my favorite pen, and my laptop. The day before, I had borrowed a copy of Mr. William Octavian Butler’s acclaimed novel from the Highland Fall’s Library, so I brought that as well, albeit reluctantly. These items I placed in my old leather briefcase, the one given to me by my parents for my sixth birthday, along with a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary.

  Eliot and I met in front of Dean Fletcher’s office door and he handed me the keys.

  “A word of advice, Archer—do not forget to water the goddamn orchids,” he said. “Probably the biggest responsibility of the job. An insanely thorough list of instructions for their care and nurturing is lying on the desk.”

  “The orchids will be attended to with great attention,” I said.

  “Oh, another thing,” he said. “Make sure you do everything yourself. Ms. Goldfine is efficient but not terribly reliable.”

  “I shall tread with caution.”

  Shaking my hand, he said, “Well, good luck then, Archer.”

  “Many thanks, Eliot.”

  He patted me on the back and walked off. Before entering Dean Fletcher’s sanctum, I noted that the ancient Anastasia Goldfine was standing over a file cabinet, holding a piece of paper two inches from her eyes. I bid her a good day and she acknowledged my presence with a somewhat condescending smirk.

  Unfortunately, I was not sure exactly what it was I was supposed to do as temporary dean, but there was a stack of file folders on the desk so I proceeded to examine them. After a cursory inspection, it appeared that they consisted of memos from members of the English Department, résumés of the students that would be entering Longfellow as freshmen in several months, and personnel files sent down from Human Relations. After I had carefully perused them all, Ms. Goldfine shuffled into the office and removed them from the desk.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Goldfine, but what are you doing?” I said.

  Her face configured into an expression of confusion. “I’m filing them, of course.”

  “Filing them where?”

  “Oy. Where else?” she said. “In the filing cabinet.”

  “Yes, I am aware that files are frequently placed in filing cabinets, but should I not first review them?”

  “Why?”

  “Is that not my job?”

  She snorted. “What, if I may ask, were you planning to do with them?”

  “I really do not know,” I said. “Compose replies to the memos?”

  With a wave of her bony hand, she said, “Not to worry, Professor, I usually write the memo replies.” She pulled one off the top and held it close her eyes. “Take this one, for instance. Professor Moss is complaining about his office air conditioner again.”

  “And how will you answer said memo?”

  “Professor Moss is a putz,” she said. “Do you know what the word ‘putz’ means?”

  “I believe I do, Ms. Goldfine,” I said. “It is a Yiddish term that refers to a useless personage who engages in unproductive activity. It also refers to the male sexual appendage, I believe.”

  “Close enough,” she said. “Professor Moss sends a memo about his air conditioner once a week in the summer. The maintenance guy says there’s nothing wrong with it. Professor Moss just doesn’t know how to adjust it.”

  “I see.” I recalled Eliot’s advice about the danger of entrusting Ms. Goldfine with executive duties and narrowed my eyes. I did not wish to insult her by insisting on dealing with the paperwork myself.

  She seemed to have read my mind regarding the needlessness of me performing any actual work. “That Eliot fellow was a very nice man but he didn’t trust me,” she said. “He wanted to do everything himself. He’s also a schmo. You don’t look like a schmo to me. Just relax, eat your lunch, water those cockamamie flowers, read a book, take a nice little nap, play Solitaire on the computer, do whatever you want. It’s only the summer session, not much to do. I’ll take care of everything.”

  At that, she shuffled out. I did not know how to proceed. Should I ignore Eliot’s advice and let Ms. Goldfine perform all my duties or not? After a moment of thought, I decided that I would give her a chance to prove her aptitude. If there were complaints, I would gently inform her that I would take the reins, so to speak.

  This left me with nothing to do. After idly leafing through Dean Fletcher’s exhaustive four-page list of watering and fertilizing instructions, I rose and inspected the orchids, bidding Esther good day, and then returned to my desk. As it was too early for lunch, I put my feet up and extracted the local library’s only copy of Mr. William Octavian Butler’s novel from my briefcase.

  

  And so, I occupied Dean Fletcher’s dreary office day after day, allowing Ms. Goldfine to perform all my responsibilities, save for the care of the orchids, which appeared to be the only task that she would allow me to fulfill, as she did not wish to. Contrary to Eliot’s warning, I found her to be admirably qualified. My only exposure to actual paper involved applying my signature to certain documents, although she offered to forge it on my behalf. Thus far, there had been no complaints, except for the incessant memos from the somewhat technically challenged Professor Moss.

  Within two days, I had finished William Octavian Butler’s novel and, much to my annoyance, had found it to be most compelling and more than worthy of the complimentary reviews it had received. It was abundantly clear that the man was truly gifted, albeit a trifle wordy with his descriptions, as if he were trying too hard to display his literary agility. The characters sprang to life, the action proceeded at a perfect pace, and his style of writing was both original and highly amusing. More importantly, the book explored its subject with great profundity. To say that I was envious would be an understatement, for the quality of my own work in the art of fiction was amateurish in comparison to his, yet I was objective enough to set
aside jealousy and applaud his achievement, even if it exposed my own literary shortcomings. Although Abigail had assured me that she was not interested in Mr. Butler, I continued to worry that she would take a more romantic interest in him. After all, fiction was her passion and I feared that Mr. Butler’s work would, for her, eventually translate into the passion of romance. It did not help that my own efforts as a novelist were sorely lacking, which was more than apparent given her critique of my work. While I was no expert in affairs of the heart, I had learned from certain novels that love was not entirely dependent upon achievement but rather a matter of seemingly inexplicable factors. Could this be true?

  Unfortunately, I had not seen Abigail for the past ten days and wondered whether I had offended her in some way. But one morning, to my considerable relief, she entered my office whilst I was in the process of applying my signature to some documents, the subjects of which I did not entirely understand. Ms. Goldfine had merely dropped them on my desk, with the words, “Sign these.” At least I appeared to be busy when Abigail strode into the room, and I was glad she had not caught me in the midst of a nap, a habit I had developed following my afternoon repast.

  “I have some excellent news!” she said.

  A bolt of acid shot through my stomach. “Oh yes?”

  She frowned. “I’m not disturbing you am I, Professor? I simply couldn’t wait to tell you!”

  “Not at all. Do tell me what has caused you to be so overcome with joy.”

  She clapped her hands. “I’ve completed my short story!”

  My apprehension instantly vanished and I realized that I, too, was grinning. Perhaps her writing had been the reason behind her lack of attention toward me. “That is indeed excellent news!” I said.

  “I’ve so enjoyed the writing process, Professor!” Her eyes sparkled with happiness. “I’ve been a hermit, writing during the early mornings hours and then staying up all night for the last week to complete it. I have not been able to tear myself away!”

  “But now you are satisfied with it?”