Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

by Blumenthal, John

  “No, I mean it. There was something there, believe me. Don’t give up, Archer. You have talent.”

  Of a sudden, I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia, for I recalled how Abigail had spoken similar encouraging words to me at our very first encounter in the library conference room. It seemed such a long time ago.

  “Perhaps I shall,” I said, although I was relatively certain I would not undertake such an arduous chore ever again.

  “Good man!” Eliot said. “If you think you need any editorial guidance or merely an educated opinion, I would be happy to offer my services.”

  “Very kind of you to offer.”

  I glanced at my watch and was astonished to learn that it was twenty minutes past midnight, well beyond my usual bedtime. The hours had passed so quickly! As I took my leave, Eliot embraced me warmly and inquired as to whether I was sober enough to drive. If I was not, he said he would gladly take me home. After thanking him for this kind gesture, I assured him that, in spite of my alcoholic intake, I was capable of driving and requested that he convey my deepest thanks to Sandra. Their kindness and generosity had uplifted me for the first time in many weeks.

  

  As the fall term was scheduled to commence shortly, I made it my purpose to visit Abigail as frequently as possible. By this time she was comfortably situated in her apartment and walked about without the aid of a cane. She no longer took an interest in libraries or bookstores. Dr. Partridge had performed her task admirably. As Abigail’s apartment was devoid of novels, she read nothing but newspapers and magazines, neither of which caused any delusionary relapses.

  By this time, Balthazar and I had begun to think of Abigail as Abigail One and Abigail Two, the former being Abigail as she had been prior to her fall, and the latter as she was in her present state. The numerical attachments to her name simply made it simpler for those who knew her to make references regarding her two identities.

  Sadly, she regarded me as no more than a new friend, or at least that was how it appeared to me. Occasionally, I would bring her flowers or boxes of chocolates, for which she expressed gratitude but did not interpret as romantic gestures. Yet I could not help but hope that one day she would lift herself on her tiptoes and kiss my cheek as she had done once before.

  Most pleasingly, her eyes always glowed with delight at the very sight of me. “Hello, Archer!” she said on the occasion of my most recent visit. “How lovely to see you! You seemed a trifle gloomy when we last met.”

  “I am in excellent spirits today, Abigail, especially now that I am in your presence. Thank you very much for inquiring.”

  She flushed. “You’re most welcome.”

  I handed her a box of chocolates that I had painstakingly wrapped. “These are for you. They are called Godiva chocolates although I haven’t the slightest notion why anyone would name such confections after a woman of British nobility who rode unclothed upon a horse.”

  “Thank you, Archer. You are so thoughtful.” Abigail then proceeded to carefully remove the paper, whereupon she opened the box and extended it to me. “Would you care for one?”

  “Perhaps I shall indulge my sweet tooth,” I said, liberating three of these delectable items from their enclosures. It had become my habit to consume most of the chocolates I brought her. “Quite tasty!” I said.

  After placing the box on a nearby table, I said, “And how are you getting along today, Abigail?”

  “Just fine. I do so much enjoy seeing you,” she said. “Except for my father you are my dearest friend. Actually, come to think of it, you are my one and only true friend and for that I am most grateful.”

  Thereupon, after a cursory glance at her half-empty bookshelf to check for literary trespassers, I sank into the cushions of her couch. “May I offer you a drink of some sort?” she asked politely.

  “Do not trouble yourself. My thirst was recently quenched by a gargantuan container of Coca Cola.”

  Then she sat at the other end of the couch but only after banging her right shin on the coffee table. “Tell me,” she said , massaging her leg. “How goes your job as acting dean?” I had recently informed her of this temporary appointment.

  “In truth, I have delegated much of the work to my assistant, Ms. Anastasia Goldfine. You may recall that I mentioned her to you previously.”

  “Of course,” she said. “And how are the orchids?”

  “Alive and thriving.”

  “Excellent! Perhaps you have a green thumb after all, Archer.”

  “I would attribute their well-being to good fortune.”

  “You’re being too modest. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have many hidden talents.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Unfortunately, few have come out of hiding.”

  Abigail chuckled, but as her laugh faded, she looked into the distance and I could not help but notice a profound sadness in her eyes.

  “Is something amiss, Abigail?” I asked her.

  Turning her eyes to me, she said, “You’ll think it’s silly.”

  “Please tell me. I must know.”

  “Well…it’s just that I get so awfully…bored,” she said. “I spend most of my days alone just watching the television but, except for the occasional educational program, there’s little of interest to me.”

  “Yes, I too can seldom endure that miserable contraption.”

  “Perhaps…” she began to say.

  “Perhaps what?”

  “I suspect that you’re very busy, but maybe you’d be kind enough to escort me somewhere when time permits—a film, or dinner. Perhaps just a walk in the park.”

  As Dr. Partridge had not discouraged the viewing of films, it would not be problematical for me to accompany Abigail to the cinema. “I would be most delighted to do that, Abigail. I wish I had thought of it myself. Perhaps we can enjoy some diversion together this coming weekend. I will give some thought to what sort of entertainment is available in this wasteland.”

  Her eyes sparkled in a most delightful manner. “I would so enjoy that,” she said. “Thank you, Archer. You are so thoughtful and kind.”

  “That is because I like you very much, Abigail. Very much indeed.”

  “And, as I hope you know, the feeling is mutual,” she said.

  As she looked at me, I searched her eyes for the slightest glimmer of recognition but, alas, I perceived none. Perhaps I hoped she would utter an observation that would indicate a recollection of our past association but this did not occur. Yet I did my utmost to remain optimistic. At least she liked me. This was an excellent start.

  Abigail had been allowed to return to her job as a server at Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium and I had hoped that the aroma of barbecued red meat emanating from Phil’s kitchen might stimulate a memory but that did not appear to be the case. To her carnivore-loving patrons and restaurant colleagues, she appeared perfectly normal. She simply did not remember any of them until they were reintroduced to her. I had forewarned them about her amnesia and they were most understanding.

  

  On the Tuesday following the extended Labor Day weekend, Dean Fletcher returned to campus and informed Eliot and me that he had not yet chosen his successor, but that his choice would be imminent. In the meantime, he would occupy the position himself although he assured us that he would vacate the premises within a week. I personally returned his keys and followed him to his office to recover some of my belongings. The moment we stepped into the room, we were greeted by a horrific surprise that caused both of us to register extreme shock—the orchids were quite dead, their leaves black and wilted. When he beheld this unanticipated devastation, the dean gasped as if he had just witnessed an automobile accident and, after giving me a look of extreme displeasure bordering on fury, scurried toward them to inspect the extent of the damage.

  “What the hell happened, Archer?” he said, clearly infuria
ted.

  “I’m afraid I do not know,” I said. “I watered them as per your detailed instructions and fed them precisely the correct amount of fertilizer.”

  “Obviously, you did something horribly wrong.”

  “Inconceivable,” I said. “I dutifully tended to them yesterday afternoon and they were quite alive and prospering. It seems impossible for one to believe that they would simply perish overnight.”

  “Well, evidently they have!”

  “In my humble opinion, a gradual decline in their well-being, such as a browning and a slight wilting of the leaves would have most likely preceded total annihilation. Do you not agree?”

  “You were responsible for their care. I trusted you, Archer. This is a catastrophe of considerable dimension. A virtual abomination!”

  I thought at that moment that the dean was perhaps inflating the parameters of the tragedy that stood before us. The word “abomination” seemed somewhat of an overstatement and one that was customarily used to describe events of a far graver nature. However, fearing a further outburst of anger, I did not call his attention to this.

  “Please leave now, Archer. I would like to mourn in private.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said and hurried out of the room.

  Directly following this disquieting encounter, I stormed down the hallway and barged into Eliot’s office where I found him at his computer.

  “Ah, Archer,” he said. “To what do I owe this—?”

  “You did it, didn’t you?” I said in a voice filled with rage, which was unlike me, as I seldom lose my temper.

  “Did what?”

  “Poisoned Dean Fletcher’s orchids, of course!”

  Eliot’s visage registered a look of confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bob’s orchids are quite deceased. As they were in tip-top condition yesterday, my conclusion is that you viciously destroyed them in order to sabotage my chances of becoming dean.”

  Eliot raised his eyebrows. “I did no such thing!”

  I did not believe him. “Who else would have a motive to undertake such a ruthless act? Clearly, you sneaked into his office last night and watered them with some poisonous concoction. There exists no other logical conclusion.”

  “Still, I tell you I am innocent.”

  I gave him a look of profound skepticism. “You were until recently in possession of the keys.”

  “I gave them to you a long time ago!”

  “You could easily have made copies.”

  “I swear on the grave of my mother that I did not do this,” he said.

  “I thought you recently informed me that your mother is still alive.”

  “Technically she is, but she’s very ill and will probably succumb in a short period of time, the poor lady.”

  “Oh. Well, I am sorry for your imminent loss and subsequent grief, and please accept my condolences in advance, but as she still breathes, you can not swear on her grave as she does not yet reside underground.”

  Eliot stood up. “Archer, please believe me when I tell you that I did not commit this heinous crime. I would never resort to such underhanded shenanigans, I promise you.”

  “But you desire the position, do you not?”

  “Yes, but if I am to be selected, I want it to be for my proficiency alone, not because of some childish act of subterfuge. I hope you know me well enough by now to see that I am not that sort of vile person.”

  His statement gave me pause. I thought about how kind Eliot had been to me in the recent past. It was indeed difficult to believe that he would resort to such abhorrent and infantile behavior. I looked into his eyes and saw no trace of guilt in his expression.

  “Perhaps I am mistaken then,” I said. “If so, please accept my apologies, Eliot. I may have jumped to an incorrect conclusion. You have indeed shown me great kindness in the past weeks.”

  “That’s because I have grown to like and admire you, Archer.”

  “As do I you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Then who might the vile culprit be?” I asked.

  Eliot looked me in the eye. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  

  Although I was troubled by the mysterious orchid catastrophe and curious as to the identity of the perpetrator, I pursued no further investigation into the matter. At this stage, I no longer held out much hope of succeeding Dean Fletcher. The promotion to a loftier position, in spite of the added remuneration, was of no great concern to me, for Abigail remained my foremost focus. As I had promised her, we attended the cinema together. Unfortunately, there was but one theater in our town and therefore the choice was limited to a rather insipid love story. Although I enjoyed the soundtrack—Dvorak’s Slavonic Dance Number 2 in E Minor, which I had struggled in vain to play on the violin as a child—I found the film to be somewhat maudlin. But I noticed halfway through, when the lovers parted, that Abigail was sniffling. Thinking that this nasal congestion might have been an outbreak of allergies, I glanced at her and noticed a lone tear meander down the crease of her nose. As a consoling gesture, I attempted to place my hand over hers but her hand was not available at that moment as it was in the process of moving popcorn from a bag to her mouth.

  We followed this outing with several strolls though the town’s many parks, and suffered through a dreadful one-act play at the Methodist Church. Sometimes, we would simply sit on a bench and converse, and I soon came to the realization that, as Dr. Partridge had predicted, Abigail Two was essentially the same delightful creature that she had been as Abigail One.

  Then one day, I was visited by an ingenious idea. In the hope of stimulating her dormant memory, I decided to escort her to a place we had visited together during the weeks preceding her fateful accident.

  Although there would be no art fair in Highland Falls until the following summer, I managed to find a notice in the redundantly named Highland Falls Tribune Bugle Gazette that advertised a similar event to be held in the neighboring town of Orangeville. Abigail appeared quite excited about the prospect of attending said event and when she asked me to suggest suitable apparel (she could not recall ever attending an art fair), I surveyed her armoire and suggested the same ensemble she had sported at the Highland Falls affair. Clad in the identical clothing I had myself donned previously, we drove to Orangeville on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

  We wandered from one exhibit to another, trading humorous critiques of the amateurish art as we had done before. Many of these appeared to be the very same waterfall paintings we had encountered at the Highland Falls art fair many months before. I wondered idly whether any of them were the handiwork of Sheriff Grimsby’s daughter, Tilly.

  After completing our tour of this museum of horrors, I led Abigail to the area of the fair where crafts were displayed. I watched her carefully as she roamed from one table to the next, examining ceramic bowls, silver jewelry, wood-crafted salad bowls and the like. Then, as luck would have it, I happened to spot a pair of feathered earrings not dissimilar to the ones I had bought her at the Highland Falls’ art fair.

  “These are quite charming,” I said, pointing to the aforementioned trinkets. “Do you not think so, Abigail?”

  She arrived at my side and took them in her hands. “They’re lovely!” she said. Having observed this exchange, the vendor then stood up from his stool and indicated a mirror that was suspended nearby. Quietly, Abigail gazed into the glass and raised the earrings to a position in front of her earlobes, and I saw her expression light up with a most satisfied smile.

  “You’re right, Archer,” she said. “They are quite fetching. I think…I will take them!” At that, she began to rifle through her purse.

  “Allow me to purchase them for you,” I said.

  “That’s all right. My wallet is in here somewhere.”

  “I insist.”

&nbs
p; “But Archer, I mustn’t let you spend all your money on gifts for me.”

  Gazing at the price tag, I said, “I strongly doubt that the expenditure of eight dollars and ninety-five cents will reduce me to abject poverty. I wish to make them a gift, a memory, if you will, of our pleasant day.”

  Later, as we made our path to the parking lot, I recalled that Abigail had consumed a strawberry ice cream cone on the day we visited the Highland Falls art fair so I set about to find a vendor who offered such comestibles but there were no such vendors present. Little matter. If she could not recall the previous purchase of the earrings, there was little doubt that an ice cream cone would make a significant difference.

  But when I brought her home that night, she did something that astonished me. Before she had opened her front door, she suddenly stood on her tiptoes and gave me a peck on the cheek. I was taken aback. This seemingly spontaneous gesture excited me greatly and I wondered whether Abigail Two was gradually turning back into Abigail One.

  

  “I’m sorry, Professor, but I…do not believe so,” Dr. Partridge said after I had reported Abigail’s kiss of the previous night.

  Thrilled by the possibility that this encouraging sign indicated a moment of recollection, I had excitedly phoned the doctor. Now I was deflated by her reaction. “But she had performed just such an act of affection when she was Abigail One, albeit in a different location,” I said.

  I could hear her sigh as she probably sensed my disappointment. “As you know…Abigail Two is still a woman with…normal emotional reactions. It was merely her way of…expressing her appreciation.”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand,” I said.

  “Let’s say she had a dog…and the dog did something that she found…pleasing. Her reaction would probably be…to pet the dog. It would not mean that…she had awakened from Abigail Two to…Abigail One.”

  “A canine analogy. How flattering.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It did not mean…to offend you.”

  “No matter,” I said. “So tell me this, doctor. Precisely, what sort of action or expression from her would comprise a return of memory?”