Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

by Blumenthal, John

  I smiled. “That would be most welcome, Bob. I thank you.”

  He rose again and we shook hands. “I’ll miss you after I leave this beloved campus, Archer,” Dean Fletcher said.

  “As I shall miss you,” I said with great sincerity, “but I am certain we shall see each other again at various ghastly gatherings.”

  He laughed. “Well then, goodbye for now.”

  “Goodbye, Bob.”

  I got to my feet and made my way toward his door. Yet before I passed through it, the dean spoke. “By the way, how is your friend Abigail Bird doing?”

  “Much better. Functioning normally at least.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Give her my best wishes when you see her next.”

  “I shall be most happy to.”

  

  Later that evening, Constance and I dined together. As Professor Potter continued to suffer from his illness, Constance had been asked to remain as his substitute until he recovered. She invited Abigail and me to celebrate her good fortune at one of the town’s more civilized taverns, a place unimaginatively called “The Tavern.”

  Because of my low tolerance for alcoholic beverages, I was planning to order a lager but Constance insisted I join her in imbibing a flute of champagne instead and so I reluctantly agreed, although the “champagne” consisted of a mixture of cheap white wine and club soda. We clinked glasses and I offered her my congratulations regarding the extension of her employment at Longfellow, to which she responded with a smirk.

  “I believe we have another cause for celebration,” Constance said.

  “Oh? What might that be?”

  “I think you know what I mean, Ishmael. Don’t play coy.”

  “In all honesty,” I replied, “I have no idea of what you are speaking.”

  Without answering my query, she lifted her glass and proclaimed, “To the new dean of the English department.”

  I followed suit and raised my flute, which was actually a chipped highball glass “Yes,” I said. “To Eliot Altschuler!”

  Constance’s glass made it halfway to her mouth, a look of confusion etched on her face. “What?” she said.

  “To Eliot Altschuler, the new dean.”

  “He appointed Eliot? That’s not possible. He told me it was to be you. He promised me!”

  “Who promised you?”

  “Bob, I mean Dean Fletcher. I thought I had talked him into it.”

  Now I was confused. “Why would you attempt to talk him into it?”

  “I thought you said you needed the money,” Constance said.

  I nodded. “I appreciate your kindness, Constance, and Bob was indeed prepared to appoint me, but I declined. Fortunately, he took pity on me and was kind enough to offer financial advancement, for which I was most grateful.”

  “That was good of him,” Constance said.

  “Yes. Besides, Eliot worked hard at the position. I merely watered the orchids as instructed. Ms. Goldfine performed every other duty.”

  Thereupon, Constance and I engaged in animated conversation. As we had invited Abigail to participate in our dinner, I voiced concern that she had not yet made an appearance and that she had not called or texted to explain her tardiness. I found this worrisome, for Abigail, in spite of her confusion regarding her identity, had once again embraced punctuality.

  Filled with anxiety, I called twice and left several voicemails. After these went unanswered, Constance and I decided to repair to Abigail’s apartment in order to make certain that nothing was amiss. We were relieved when Abigail opened the door to greet us. She appeared to be quite joyful at the sight of us as she ushered us in.

  “You’re early!” she said.

  “Abigail dear, you were supposed to meet us at The Tavern,” I reminded her. “An hour ago.”

  Abigail’s brow furrowed. “That is not true, Horace. I do believe you and Lucinda were supposed to come here for cocktails at eight o’clock. We arranged it last week when I saw you buying Brie at the cheese shop in Brooklyn. Don’t you remember? I invited several of our mutual friends—Leonardo and Alphonse and their wives—but they haven’t arrived yet. We’re going to hear about their recent trip to Bangkok and the marriage of their illegitimate daughter Eunice who, as you will recall, is afflicted with narcolepsy. Perhaps you forgot.”

  Constance and I exchanged a look, which I could best describe as a combination of shock and dismay. A cursory glance around Abigail’s parlor quickly revealed the source of her delusion. William Octavian Butler’s manuscript, the insipidly named A Man Named Horace, lay wide open on her coffee table.

  Part Five

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ordinarily, I am not one given to anger, but my voice trembled with fury when I confronted William Octavian Butler by telephone the next day. I voiced more epithets than I had ever spoken in my entire life, a past record that included a diatribe aimed at my former wife Amanda Archer, née Blackstone some years before, following the transformation of my PhD thesis into ashes, although she had been absent at the time of my outburst. Butler explained that he had missed his bus and had decided to visit Abigail while waiting for the next one. Predictably, she had not recognized him, and he had left her apartment in short order, but had inadvertently left his duffel bag behind. He speculated that she had probably looked through it and had discovered his manuscript, which she had then at least partially read, most likely out of curiosity. He claimed that it had not been his intention for her to peruse it, although he admitted that he had mentioned it to her. But his explanation was of little mollification to me, as I had emphatically asked him not to visit Abigail. His subsequent request that I return his luggage via Federal Express, and his assurance that he would reimburse me for the expense, caused me to launch into yet another litany of epithets, characterized by a juxtaposition of the word “beetlebrained” with the word “simpleton,” a slight redundancy, granted, but well worth the grammatical infraction.

  “Was this manuscript your sole copy?” I asked, attempting to contain my rage.

  “My only copy of the latest draft.”

  “Do you perchance have a copy of a previous draft?”

  “No,” he said.

  “What a shame,” I said. “Because said paper manuscript now resides quite thoroughly charred in a large trash receptacle commonly known as a dumpster situated in an alley behind Abigail’s abode. It is accompanied by your computer, which sustained considerable damage when it met the sidewalk. Good day to you, you simpering, pompous thimblewit.”

  So rattled was I from this confrontation that I poured myself a glass of wine to calm my overwrought state and consumed its contents in one long gulp. The bottle of wine, I recalled sadly, had been the very one that I had purchased on the day Abigail One had been scheduled to appear at my apartment for our first mentoring session. I had opened it somewhat ineptly with the corkscrew I had acquired at the supermarket on the same day, and consumed it from one of the same wineglasses I had purchased there. This upsetting recollection caused me to indulge in another glass.

  Naturally, on the night of Abigail’s relapse, Constance and I had immediately driven her to the hospital, although this required us to first convince her that Butler’s characters, Leonardo and Alphonse, had suffered a minor accident and were themselves receiving medical care. Upon our arrival, she was sedated and admitted to the psychiatric ward for a repetition of the hypnotherapy. Dr. Partridge confirmed our speculation that Abigail had read a portion of Butler’s novel and then fallen asleep, only to awaken as one of his characters.

  If the hypnosis again proved successful, Abigail’s present delusion would be erased from her memory, and Abigail Two would become Abigail Two again. I had feared that she might become an Abigail Three but Dr. Partridge assured me that this was unlikely to occur, as there had been no repeated brain injury to obscure her memory of herself as Abigail Two. S
he had merely taken a nap. This was, of course, a great relief to me, although I harbored some doubts. I called Balthazar to inform him of this new development and repeated Dr. Partridge’s prognosis. He promised to come to Highland Falls as soon as he was able.

  As Balthazar and I perceived, Abigail seemed to be making steady progress over the next few days. Dr. Partridge assured us that, barring any unforeseen developments, it would be no more than a week before Abigail would emerge from the pages of William Octavian Butler’s novel and once again assume the identity of the second Abigail Bird. Nevertheless, I again found myself in a state of apprehension over poor Abigail’s plight for I had grown quite close to her as Abigail Two and did not want our revitalized friendship to fade from her memory. On the fifth day of her treatment Balthazar departed, promising to return after completing several emergency bypass procedures. After he left, I summoned the nerve to prove to myself that Abigail did indeed recall my identity.

  “Do you know who I am?” I asked her.

  She did not pause. “Of course, Archer,” she said with a bright smile. “What an odd question. Why would I ever forget you?”

  “Do you recall how we visited the art fair not long ago?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “In Orangeville. How could one not recall all that horrible, horrible art?”

  “Did I purchase something for you there? Do you remember what that was?”

  “The lovely earrings, of course!” Then she frowned and gave me an odd look. “Why are you asking me these questions, Archer? Is it you who needs reminding? Has your memory of these events faded already?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I’m very relieved to hear that,” she said. “For a moment I thought perhaps you’d hit your head and were suffering from a bout of absent-mindedness or temporary amnesia.”

  As she laughed, I breathed a sigh of relief for it appeared certain that we could resume our relationship and that I would not be compelled to begin anew and woo an Abigail Three. If that had proved necessary, I would have happily restarted our courtship for by this time it was clear to me that I was still in love with her regardless of the numeral that followed her given name.

  

  Just after I had declined Dean Fletcher’s offer of promotion, I had attempted to congratulate Eliot on his triumph but I had been unable to accomplish this in person for, as I was informed by Ms. Goldfine, Eliot and Sandra had traveled to New York for a long weekend before classes resumed. On the day that Eliot returned to campus, I found him in his newly inherited office, filling the empty bookshelves with his vast collection of literary masterpieces, many of them bound in leather for, unlike me, he possessed the means to acquire these attractive treasures.

  “Archer! How nice to see you! Have a seat.”

  I gazed around the room. There were no chairs present. “Where?” I asked.

  “My mistake,” Eliot said. “I’m having the old ones replaced, and I stupidly gave them to Goodwill before the arrival of my new ones. Pull up a box, my friend.”

  After a moment, I found one that supported my weight and lowered myself onto it. “I came to congratulate you, Eliot.” I said. “I was hoping to come earlier, but you were in Gotham with your charming wife.”

  “I needed a few days off before assuming the dean’s duties,” Eliot said. “Quite a bit of work to be done now that classes have begun.”

  “Yes, I would imagine so.”

  “I hope there are no hard feelings, Archer,” he said.

  “None at all. You possess the skills I lack.”

  I then glanced through the door at Ms. Goldfine who was seated at her

  desk, arranging papers.

  Eliot followed my gaze. “Unfortunately, the good Ms. Goldfine is, as usual, hopeless,” he whispered. “It would be most helpful if she were able to aid me in my daily workload.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you can train her.”

  “I doubt it. I’m afraid I will not have the time.”

  “During my brief tenure as dean, I found her to be most helpful in some matters,” I said. “You may wish to reconsider.”

  Eliot looked at Ms. Goldfine as she continued her work. “Well, if that is your advice, perhaps I shall.”

  “In any case, hearty congratulations, Dean Altschuler,” I said, extending my hand. “You certainly earned this promotion.”

  Eliot beamed. “‘Dean Altschuler.’ I must say, I like the way that sounds. But I insist that you continue to call me Eliot.”

  “All right…Eliot.”

  “Perhaps we can get together for a drink soon, Archer. I know Sandra would love to see you.”

  “That would be splendid,” I said. “Anytime.”

  

  Dr. Partridge released Abigail from the hospital a few days later and I motored to the medical facility to fetch her. She seemed quite elated to see me, for it had been a few days since I had last visited her. As I held my car door open for her, she paused for a moment and gazed at the entrance to the medical center.

  “Archer, can you tell me why I was in the hospital?”

  She had never asked this question before so I was uncertain as to the manner in which I should reply. The first time Abigail had undergone hypnotherapy, Dr. Partridge feared that her patient might inquire about the reasons behind her hospital sojourn, and had convinced her that she had been admitted for a routine physical, but perhaps the doctor had neglected to repeat the story on this occasion. I hesitated, but Abigail was intently studying my face so I knew that I would have to quickly invent some counterfeit explanation, yet I did not wish to prevaricate.

  “You do not remember?” I asked.

  Abigail contemplated. “No, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “Well…it seems that you…suffered a lapse of sorts…several days ago in your apartment.”

  “What do you mean by a ‘lapse’?”

  “I am not sure,” I said, relieved that I had avoided the need to fabricate an entirely bogus story. “Unfortunately, I am not familiar with the official medical terminology. The doctors determined that some minor tests were necessary.”

  Abigail nodded uncertainly as she stepped into my vehicle. “Do you mean that I fainted or lost consciousness?”

  “I suppose. In a manner of speaking…”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I assume they concluded that it was not serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Without further discussion of the matter, I snapped on my seatbelt and clumsily maneuvered the car out of the hospital’s parking lot and onto Route 11. To prevent her from pursuing the topic, I switched on the radio. But momentarily she turned down the volume.

  “How long have we known each other, Archer?” she asked.

  I looked at her and wondered why she had made such an inquiry. It was a somewhat delicate question, to be sure. “I’m not precisely certain. Quite a long time, I believe. Why do you ask?”

  “It just occurred to me that I have never seen your apartment.”

  “I am afraid it is not much to behold,” I said. “Hardly a palace, I assure you. Quite dark and gloomy, in point of fact.”

  “Be that as it may, I would still like to see it.”

  “When?”

  “I was thinking perhaps now.”

  This caught me by surprise but I was unable to formulate a credible reason to deny her request. Due to the enormous collection of fictional works that resided on my bookshelves, I feared that such a venture might be unwise. I would have to make certain not to leave her alone in my parlor where the shelves stood. Of lesser importance was the fact that, having been otherwise occupied for several days, I had neglected to straighten up.

  “Oh my,” she said when we entered my untidy apartment. “It looks like you haven’t cleaned this place in weeks. I took you to be meticulous about cleanliness. This is very distress
ing,” she said in a mocking tone.

  I looked about and beheld the chaos that characterized the interior of my residence. Fast food cartons were scattered about, dishes were piled up in the sink, and a layer of dust had accumulated on various surfaces. Moreover, the apartment bore a noxious odor that could be best described as that which emanates from rotting foodstuffs. Ashamed at the disarray, I said, “I am afraid that I have been otherwise occupied. I am usually, as you say, quite meticulous regarding tidiness, but alas I have lately neglected my housekeeping duties. For this I apologize.”

  Sniffing the air, she said, “My goodness! It positively reeks in here!”

  “A result of food that has declined to the spoiling phase.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “Archer, you desperately need a housekeeper or a wife who will insist that you keep things tidy.”

  “Alas, I cannot afford a housekeeper, and the woman to whom I was once betrothed possessed no enthusiasm for cleanliness. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “How odd,” she mused, scratching her head.

  “Odd?”

  “I was not aware that you had previously been joined in matrimony.”

  In point of fact, I had revealed to her a few details of this unsavory episode of legal bondage prior to her mishap at the glade but had not mentioned it after the calamity. “Perhaps I neglected to inform you,” I said. “It is hardly a fond memory and, as a result, one of which I seldom speak.”

  “I see,” she said. “In any case, I assume you must have far more expertise on the subject of the opposite sex than I do.”

  “Most of it unpleasant, unfortunately.”

  It was then, of a sudden, that a most interesting insight occurred to me. To wit: In all probability, the erasure of Abigail One’s memory had left her with no recollection of any romantic entanglements from her past. She had ostensibly forgotten her collegiate lover, William Octavian Butler.

  “I do not wish to enter private terrain, Abigail, but have you had many suitors in your life?”

  She frowned. “None that I can recall. Isn’t that odd?”