Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

by Blumenthal, John

  “It would have to be…the recollection of a specific…experience that…took place in the past. Maybe a…specific incident, unlike the one you just described…that had occurred…prior to the accident.”

  Although I was loath to utilize maritime vocabulary of any kind, I felt as if the good doctor had indeed taken the wind out of my sails.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As I had not seen nor heard from Sheriff Grimsby in quite a while, I was surprised to receive a telephone call from him one evening. I had recently returned to my abode following a splendid early dinner with Abigail and Balthazar. When my phone rang, I had been in the midst of rearranging the books on my parlor shelf into alphabetical order. Of course, due to my extensive library of fictional works, I had not invited Abigail over to my apartment.

  “It is nice hear from you again, Sheriff,” I said. “May I ask the reason for your call?”

  He growled quietly as I suspected he was of the opinion that I was not being entirely truthful. “William Octavian Butler.”

  I engaged in a short bout of throat clearing. “And why, pray tell, would you phone me about him? We have conversed before on the subject.”

  “Well…” Grimsby began. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “And what might that be?”

  The good sheriff paused. “You see, Professor, since Butler is still a suspect in Ms. Bird’s case, I have to ask him a few questions.”

  “And what is stopping you from accomplishing that task? You merely have to utilize the telephone.”

  “I wish it was that easy, Professor. I have to interrogate him in person.”

  “And how, may I ask, does this concern me?”

  Again, he did not respond for a few seconds. “Well, according to regulations, the county has to pay his expenses, which means we have to get him here and put him up in a hotel.”

  “Good for him,” I said. “He will no doubt be thrilled at the prospect of revisiting our magical metropolis.”

  “Oh, he’s thrilled all right.” I perceived a distinct edge of sarcasm in the sheriff’s voice. “He arrived here this morning and we got him a room at the Motel 6 and—”

  “Oh Lord! Surely you jest? Said establishment is not worthy of housing pigs.”

  “Tell me about it. He refused to stay there. Threatened to go home.” He was silent for a moment. “So, I was wondering…well…if you could put him up at your place?”

  “Certainly not!” I said.

  Unruffled by my exclamatory refusal, he said, “We’ll pay you for your trouble, Professor. Just for twenty-four hours. Then he’ll be on his way home.”

  The prospect of once again having to spend twenty-four hours with William Octavian Butler was not a terribly attractive prospect, although I did owe Felix several hundred dollars for unpaid rent. But it was not the pecuniary aspect of the arrangement that suddenly appealed to me, although any financial boost was welcome. I worried that if Butler stayed elsewhere, he might attempt to visit Abigail, and I did not wish for this to occur. It would be preferable if I were able to keep a watchful eye on him. Besides, I bore some fondness for Grimsby and was not averse to doing him a favor.

  “Make it three hundred and I will grant you your request,” I said.

  “Really?” the sheriff said, perhaps surprised at the alacrity of my agreeable reaction. “Three hundred it is. Do you mind if I drive him over now? He’s at the station and he seems to be getting kind of restless.”

  William Octavian Butler arrived at my domicile half an hour later, carrying the very same ancient, overstuffed duffel bag. I walked down the outdoor stairs to greet the famous author at the front stoop. He sported a pair of wrinkled cargo shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with a mediocre lithograph of The Bard. Before greeting me, he stopped on the sidewalk to light a cigarette.

  “Hello there, old sport,” he said.

  Forcing a smile, I said, “Greetings, William. What a pleasant surprise.”

  He grunted as if he found this difficult to believe.

  “This whole goddamn interrogation shit is such a bloody hassle,” he said. “I’ve nearly completed a first draft of my second novel and now I had to get on a goddamn plane for this pointless exercise.” He patted his duffel. “In fact, I have a copy of it right in here. I think it’s rather good.”

  “Your second novel,” I said, with a trace of envy. ”How very exciting.”

  He did not acknowledge my congratulatory remark. Perhaps he was hoping that I would ask to read it.

  “What is the title, if I may ask?” I said. “I will certainly obtain a copy as soon as it is released. I do so enjoy your work.”

  “My tentative title is A Man Named Horace. What do you think? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, very much,” I lied. “Quite…um…catchy, as they say.”

  A moment passed as he contemplated my stammering reply. “By the way, how is Abby?”

  “Making excellent progress, I am happy to report.”

  He nodded pensively. “Maybe I should pay her a call.”

  “I think that would be unwise at this time. She is still engaged in the process of re-orientation.”

  “Maybe she’ll recognize me.”

  “I’m afraid there is little chance of that,” I said. “I think it best that you stay away, William. I fear that it would only confuse her.”

  Oddly, he was not insistent and merely said, “Okay, if you say so.” He blew a trail of smoke out of his nose. “By the way, Archer, thanks for agreeing to put me up for the night. Have you seen that godawful motel?”

  “I have never actually ventured inside, for fear of contracting a disease, but I have observed the layer of a mud-like substance in the swimming pool on several occasions when passing by and I would not be surprised if said mud-like substance was, in actuality, fecal matter.”

  “Don’t you folks have a goddamn health department?”

  “We do, but the inspector is related to the owner of said motel.”

  He exhaled more smoke. “Soon as I finish this cigarette, we can go inside, if that’s okay with you. It’s damn hot out here.”

  “Bit of a heat wave,” I said.

  He nodded. “Got any beer?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The following day, I drove my houseguest to the police station for his session of questioning, whereupon Sheriff Grimsby handed me a check for three hundred dollars as promised. Prior to the interrogation, I bid an awkward adieu to Mr. Butler. Thankfully, he was scheduled to depart Highland Falls in the afternoon, assuming he was innocent, which I knew he was. As he was an impulsive, willful sort of fellow, I worried that he would ignore my warning and visit Abigail, should there be any intervening hours of inactivity where he was left to his own devices. Thus, I insisted on taking him to the bus station myself and he gratefully accepted.

  

  On my way back from the police station, I found myself with some time between classes so I paid an unannounced call on Abigail. When she greeted me at her front door, she was vigorously brushing her hair, which was quite wet. I immediately noted that she was wearing a silk robe, ostensibly of Japanese origin, the sheerness of which afforded me an excellent view of the contours of her bosom. I could barely take my eyes off this thoroughly appealing sight, though I did my best, lest she conclude that I was ogling her. Yes, I had seen her in a bathing suit before but this particular garb was revealing in a far superior manner. Oddly, she was also wearing black galoshes. After stepping into the foyer, I noted that the climate inside her apartment resembled that of a tropical rain forest. As it happened, a week of unseasonably sweltering weather had recently descended over Highland Falls.

  She gave me the customary cursory hug and said, “Please excuse the informal nature of my attire, Archer. As you’ve probably noticed, it’s unusually warm in here.”

  “It is a be
autiful robe. You look quite striking in it, Abigail. Quite striking indeed.”

  She blushed. “Thank you, Archer. So far, I’ve taken three showers today. My air conditioner seems to be broken.”

  Again she was a damsel in distress and I would have offered to repair

  her air conditioner, but I lacked the necessary mechanical skills, save for some ability to change light bulbs, and even that was a challenge.

  “Have you perchance called a repairman?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I guess many others in the town suffer from this same inconvenience. He informed me that it would take a week for him to inspect and repair mine.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “If you wish, I’ll put on something more formal,” she said.

  “No, no, no, do not trouble yourself,” I said with perhaps too much urgency. “I believe I can endure the sight of you in this attire, although I do not comprehend why you are wearing rain boots.”

  “My bathroom floor is quite wet from all the showers I’ve taken today. I don’t want to slip and injure myself.”

  “I see,” I said. “Very wise.”

  “I am afraid that my water bill will be astronomical.”

  We then seated ourselves on her sofa and I consumed several jellybeans that resided in a bowl upon the coffee table . As Abigail was aware of my penchant for confections, she maintained a variety of them throughout her apartment.

  “If you wish to remove some of your clothing, please do so,” she said.

  I looked at her. Was this an invitation for a full or partial removal of my attire? Did she perhaps wish to engage in a sexual romp? Or was she simply concerned for my comfort? I was, after all, perspiring profusely. Even after carefully studying her face—there was no blush to be found there—I could not discern the answer to these questions, so I merely unknotted my long paisley tie, (I no longer sported bowties) and opened the first two buttons of my shirt. “Much better,” I said.

  She looked at me appreciatively. “Great!” she said. “I was…concerned about your comfort.”

  As I stole a glance at her, I felt a surge of lust overtake me. After all, I was a young man with a normal testosterone level, or so my urologist had informed me. I contemplated moving toward her but I immediately decided that such an aggressive act would be premature, as I had not known the new Abigail for more than a few weeks. Perhaps she was merely in a lustful mood, one that would require no more than the attentions of any random member of the male species; or perhaps this was a misjudgment on my part. The situation was indeed quite difficult to analyze so I eventually opted for prudence. I heard her sigh. A few moments of silence passed during which I offered her a weak smile. Abruptly, she rose to her feet, appearing somewhat irritable, a reaction to the heat, I concluded. “May I refresh your glass, Archer? You are perspiring and it’s important to keep yourself hydrated in weather like this. I wouldn’t want you to suffer heat stroke due to lack of hydration. One must look out for the wellbeing of one’s friends.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Then I’ll get one for myself. I think I’ve had fifteen glasses of water since I woke up.”

  I groaned. When I had inched toward her on the sofa, her sudden rise to a standing position led me to believe that she was not desirous of engaging any further. Again, I did not wish to force myself upon her. I recalled sadly that she had again referred to me as merely a “friend.”

  “I simply can’t endure this heat a moment more,” she said after returning from the kitchen with her glass.

  “Perhaps we might venture into your kitchen and thrust our heads into the refrigerator freezer for a few moments.”

  She laughed and sat down again. “I can just see that! How very funny!”

  Though I had been jesting, I could not help but chuckle at the image.

  She fanned herself with her palm. “I was thinking that maybe you would like to accompany me to town so I may buy a fan. I’d like that very much.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I would rather have remained on the couch with her in hopes that something of an intimate nature might arise.

  But Abigail seemed excited by her idea. “Okay then. I’ll change into some appropriate clothing and then we’ll go. I’ll be quick about it.”

  In a monotone, I said, “Take as long as you require.”

  Apparently, she had detected the morose tone of my voice. “Is something wrong, Archer?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  Ten minutes later, she emerged from her bedroom clad in a pair of long shorts and a baggy T-shirt and we departed. While her spirits were high, I sulked as we walked down shady, tree-lined streets toward the hardware store on Main Street. But then, to my surprise and delight, she performed a gesture that thrilled me to my very core—she took my arm! Was this, I wondered, a sign of affection or was she merely fearful that, without the support of my elbow, she would trip over a badly paved area of the sidewalk? After all, she was a trifle clumsy.

  

  Dean Fletcher’s office resembled a florist shop that had recently run out of merchandise. The absence of any sign of his formerly thriving orchids gave the space a dreary ambience that, in spite of my complete lack of interest in flowering plants, saddened me, although the dean’s face registered no visible sign of distress. There still remained a few small dollops of soil on several of the side tables, a tragic reminder.

  The dean was scheduled to remove his belongings from his office in three days, and as we spoke, I glanced at the piles of boxes that stood atop each other in the room, surrounding us like the turrets of a castle. Yet he did not mention the absence of his orchids, for which I was thankful.

  Moments before, I had been driving to the police station, for William Octavian Butler had completed his interrogation session with the sheriff and I had promised to convey him to the bus depot. It was during my journey to said precinct that Ms. Anastasia Goldfine alerted me via cell phone that the dean desired to meet with me as soon as possible As there would be insufficient time to complete both tasks, I telephoned Grimsby and told him of my dilemma, whereupon he assured me that he would deliver the esteemed author to the Greyhound depot himself.

  The dean gave me a curious look. “Tell me something, Archer,” he said. “How desperately do you wish to be dean of the department?”

  I glanced out the window. On the quad, Frisbees were flying about like alien spacecraft, many of them crashing into trees.

  I turned my attention back to the dean. “Quite honestly,“ I said, “I have very few skills in the art of administration. I will happily confess that my sole interest in the position was to secure an improvement in my deplorable financial status. Alas, I am finding it difficult to exist comfortably on the salary I am currently paid.”

  “I see,” he said. “Yet you did have the clever insight to delegate your duties to Ms. Goldfine, while Eliot performed his obligations on his own.”

  I was surprised. “How did you discover this?”

  “Ms. Goldfine informed me.”

  I nodded. “It is quite true. I utilized Ms. Goldfine’s talents largely because I had no idea what I was supposed to do while the very apt Ms. Goldfine did. However, one would think that you would approve of Eliot’s diligence more than my lack thereof.”

  Dean Fletcher studied my face, leaning forward in his chair as if he could not see me clearly from his former position. “Archer, if I understand you correctly, it appears that you would prefer that I choose Eliot for the position.”

  I stared back at him. “I had assumed that Eliot would be your choice anyway, Bob. After all, it was I who failed in my obligation regarding your beloved orchids.”

  “Nonsense,” the dean said. “Ms. Goldfine also informed me that you made a supreme effort to nurture them throughout your term of office. I have a theory regarding the
identity of the person who apparently poisoned them.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I believe that Eliot, in an attempt to sabotage your chances of receiving the position, was the culprit in the untimely death of my orchids.”

  I vigorously shook my head. “It was most assuredly not Eliot.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Eliot is not a savage murderer of plants or, for that matter, any living species of life. I have come to like and respect Eliot very much over the past weeks, and I am certain that he would never resort to such puerile antics.”

  “Yet he desperately wants the position.”

  “It is quite true that he is an ambitious man. But this heinous act of subterfuge is below him. We have spoken of this matter as I, too, initially suspected him.”

  Dean Fletcher rose to his feet, and began to pace the room, taking great care to avoid tripping over the multitude of boxes that were scattered about. He stopped to look at me. “It may then come as a surprise to you that I had decided to choose you as my successor.”

  For a moment I was struck speechless. “I am indeed surprised and flattered, but I believe that you would be making an error in selecting me. You see, I have no particular ambition for the job. I would rather be spending my time pursuing other goals.”

  “Such as what exactly?”

  “It has always been my dream to write an excellent novel,” I said. “I have recently been encouraged by several people whose opinions I respect.”

  “I see,” the dean reflected. “So in effect, you’re declining the position?”

  “Quite correct.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “It is true that once the school year begins, the job will require attention and much of it will fall out of Ms. Goldfine’s purview.”

  “Then Eliot is your man.”

  The dean wandered back to his desk chair, sat down, and stroked his chin. “You are a good man, Archer, and you’re certainly worth more than the paltry salary you’re currently receiving. As my last act as dean, I’ll see to it that you are paid more handsomely.”