Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

by Blumenthal, John

  “Um—”

  “Surely someone must have escorted me to my high school prom, although I do not recall my high school prom for some reason.”

  “Perhaps it was uneventful.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So there has been…no one?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, perhaps one day, a gentleman of superior intellect, excellent character, attractive facial features, and admirable kindness will sweep you off your feet, as they say.”

  I looked at her expectantly and she smiled at me, albeit with some measure of ambiguity. Apparently the subject was of no further interest to her, for she proceeded to make an optical survey of the room, rolling up her sleeves as if she were about to chop wood with an axe. “Now if you have no further questions regarding the history of my love life or lack thereof, shall we get to work?” she said.

  “Work? What work?”

  She placed a hand on her hip. “I swear, Archer, you can be such a…silly goose sometimes.”

  “I have little knowledge of geese, having never encountered one in close proximity, thus I do not know whether silliness is a state of mind that they possess, although I would guess not.”

  “For goodness sake, it’s just an expression, Archer. By ‘work’ I meant the cleaning of this filthy apartment. Now, do you have a broom, a dustpan, and other such items?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “A vacuum cleaner?”

  “Yes, although it has a small hole in its receptacle bag.”

  “Cleaning products?”

  “A few.”

  “And an apron? I don’t want to soil my clothing.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then get them this instant,” she said in a playful tone. “I’ll do my best to tidy up this horrific mess.”

  “You wish to clean my apartment?” I asked. “That is not necessary, Abigail. I will see to it myself, by the by.”

  In spite of my protestations, she insisted, so I reluctantly located my cleaning products, all of which resided in my pantry, and we both set about to make order among the chaos. Abigail flew about the place like a whirlwind and instructed me regarding which tasks I was to perform, checking from time to time to make certain that I was doing an acceptable job, scolding me when she found fault with my results. The process took several hours and when we had completed the task, my apartment was spotless. With a weary exhalation, she collapsed on my sofa, whereupon I repaired to my bedroom to change my dirty attire. As I was about to unbutton my shirt, I suddenly realized that leaving her alone in a roomful of books was a grave error. When I hurriedly returned to the parlor, I was distressed to behold her standing in front of my bookshelves, ostensibly admiring my collection of tomes.

  “Have you read all of these?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be an avid reader.”

  “I am.”

  “What sort of books are they?”

  “Mostly fictional works. Quite boring, I must say. Not of any real interest at all. Frivolous entertainments.”

  She pulled a novel from my shelf and perused the cover. It was an ancient paperback edition of David Copperfield, one that I had purchased at a used-book sale as a teenager. I was tempted to pull it out of her hand, but I desisted, so as to avoid any questioning by her regarding my motives for such rudeness.

  “I confess that I don’t read fiction,” she said. “I have no interest in such entertainments.”

  “So you have said. It is a waste of precious time. There are so many other interesting things to do in life.”

  Admittedly, I felt a distinct uneasiness upon hearing myself utter these words and was somewhat angered at myself for my prevarication. Naturally I had never spoken such defamatory words regarding books before! Yet I felt a great sorrow for Abigail for she had once so enjoyed literature. Books had once given her such immense pleasure. Great novels had been her consuming passion, and I mourned the loss of her desire to write, for she had possessed considerable talent for it. Indeed, it had been this common obsession that had originally brought us together. I wished there might be some method with which to reawaken her interest without stimulating a delusional episode, but I knew that this would never come about. And so, I watched sadly as she returned the paperback to the shelf and suggested we take a walk.

  

  Several days thereafter, I nearly tumbled off my bicycle when one of my pedals broke. I decided to take Mr. Williger up on his kind offer to repair my mode of conveyance and walked the unwieldy contraption to my former student’s dwelling.

  When I arrived at the fraternity house, I was compelled to engage upon a circuitous route to the entrance, as the front lawn held an obstacle course of paraphernalia, such as beer cooling devices, athletic equipment, and lawn chairs. Following a series of knocks on the front door, a young gentleman, who sported a pair of ladies’ panties on his head, greeted me.

  Apparently, he recognized me as a professor for he hastily removed his improvised hat, although it was not my intention to mention the inappropriate placement of it. The young man was indeed familiar with my former student and informed me that Mr. Williger no longer resided at the frat house and that he had taken up residence in the town. He gave me the address.

  Later that day, I stuffed my bicycle into the trunk of my car and drove to Mr. Williger’s new address. I found him in the driveway, his head hidden under the raised hood of an ancient Buick. I opened my trunk, removed my bicycle, and wheeled it toward him. The clattering must have alerted him to my presence, for he pulled himself out from beneath the hood and greeted me enthusiastically.

  Looking down at my sorry two-wheeled vehicle, he laughed. “You still riding that thing, Professor?”

  “Yes, and it nearly killed me,” I said.

  “I’ll bet it did. Let’s have a look.”

  At that, he squatted down on one knee and fiddled with several bolts, inspected the tires and pulled out a loose spoke.

  “Can you repair it?” I asked.

  Mr. Williger rose to his feet whereupon he stroked his chin. “Yeah.”

  “Excellent! I will be more than happy to reimburse you for the parts and labor.”

  He shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “It’s on the house, Professor.”

  “You, sir, are a prince among men.”

  Mr. Williger stared at me for a moment and rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. He appeared to be pondering something and I assumed it pertained to the possible reincarnation of my bicycle.

  “Professor, I have a confession to make,” he said, looking away. “I did a really bad thing. I fucked up, if you’ll excuse my French.”

  “In point of fact, Mr. Williger, the epithet you have just utilized to describe the onerousness of your act is not of the French tongue, nor does it derive from that language. I believe its origin is Germanic or Dutch. The French have a quite different word to describe the act of intercourse.” It did not appear that he had been listening for he stood there in silence. Momentarily, I grew impatient. “Pray tell, Mr. Williger, what is this wicked act of which you speak?”

  My former student took a deep inhalation and closed his eyes before speaking. “I poisoned Dean Fletcher’s flowers.”

  This admission seemed so preposterous that I wondered if I had heard him correctly, and required a moment to digest his words. “Why would you do such a dastardly thing, Mr. Williger?”

  “I swear it wasn’t my idea, Professor,” he said, raising a palm as if he were taking a solemn oath of office. “She put me up to it.”

  “She? Who, may I ask, is this female personage of which you speak?”

  “My girlfriend,” he said. “Well, my old girlfriend. We broke up.”

  This confused me even more. “Again, you are not fully illuminating me, Mr. Williger. Who is this paramour
of which you speak?”

  “Sandra Altschuler.”

  I erupted with a guffaw. “That is patently absurd.”

  “It’s true. It was her stupid idea.”

  “Assuming that this is not a fabrication, why would Sandra Altschuler, of all people, wish to assassinate Dean Fletcher’s botanical specimens?”

  “She told me it was just a prank. She had the keys to the office. I used bleach, in case you wanna know.”

  “Well, it was quite effective,” I said.

  “But later I found out her husband was up for the dean’s job, so I figured she got me to kill the plants so the other guy wouldn’t get it. I didn’t find out until yesterday that the other guy was you.”

  “And how, may I ask, did you gather all of this information?”

  “Everybody on campus knows about those frigging orchids, Professor.”

  He appeared to be so shaken that I was inclined to relieve him of his guilt. “No matter, Mr. Williger. As it happens, I did not really desire the job.”

  He immediately brightened. “Really?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He wrinkled his brow, most likely in confusion at my remark. “So you’re not mad at me, Professor?”

  “I am not, although I do not approve of childish nonsense such as this. and I mourn the tragic loss of plant life.”

  “Know what I think?” he said.

  “I do not possess the gift of telepathy, Mr. Williger.”

  “I’m just guessing, but I think she found some other guy to fool around with. Maybe she wanted her hubbie to keep busy so she’d have more…free time, if you know what I mean.”

  I considered his speculation but found it somewhat lacking in logic. “Most likely, she simply wished to help him fulfill his ambition.”

  “Like I said, just a guess.”

  “Rest easy, Mr. Williger. I bear no anger toward you and I appreciate your honesty.”

  Thereupon, Mr. Williger, whose eyes had dampened, stepped toward me, and much to my astonishment, proceeded to embrace me.

  During my drive back to campus, I pondered Mr. Williger’s convoluted theory regarding Sandra’s motive for destroying Dean Fletcher’s colorful interior garden. She had never displayed any ill will towards me that I was able to discern. I had, however, observed that Sandra felt a palpable disdain for Eliot, a feeling that was confirmed by her sexual involvement with Mr. Williger. Perhaps my former student had guessed correctly—that she wished to keep her husband locked to his new desk late into the night in order to give her more freedom with which to pursue her adulterous affairs, which no longer included Mr. Williger. True, it sounded ludicrous, yet I must confess that my curiosity was piqued.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I will readily admit, albeit begrudgingly, that it was William Octavian Butler’s second novel, or rather Abigail’s reaction to it, that inspired me to create my own oeuvre, although my motivation was not derived from the content of the blowhard’s fictional work, for I had not read it. As my tale was nothing more than a detailed accounting of certain recent occurrences in my own life, the formations of plot and character were undemanding.

  I was unable, however, to determine the precise genre of the emerging work. Was it fiction or nonfiction? Perhaps this would depend entirely on the reader. To outsiders, it would be considered fiction; to others, nonfiction. In truth, it was a memoir, although my purpose in writing it was to present it to Abigail as a work of fiction. I was confident that she would agree to read it to please me. It was, you see, a deception of sorts and, although I am not a fellow given to trickery, I made an exception in this case for I perceived that the desired result would justify the means.

  There were two protagonists in this tale—a fellow named Ishmael Archer, a professor of English, and Abigail Bird, an unmarried student with a master’s degree in literature and a part-time job as a waitress. These two characters resided in a small town named Highland Falls, located at the foot of the Adirondack Mountains in New York State. Professor Archer was employed at an unexceptional institution of higher learning known as Longfellow College. The story commenced at Professor Archer’s summer creative writing course, and concluded when the aforementioned Ms. Bird suffered a fall in a glade by the town’s waterfall.

  As my days were filled conducting lectures on literature and the grading of papers, I wrote late at night, often remaining awake until the early hours of the following day, my energy fueled by inspiration and copious amounts of strong coffee. I became a man consumed by a growing obsession, filling pages with words that came to me in such a cascade that my fingers could barely keep up with my mind.

  During this intense process, I took frequent evening breaks during which I visited Abigail and proceeded with my courtship of her, a process that included the occasional jaunt to a restaurant or a movie or, occasionally, to a mediocre drama performed at the college. I needed this occasional hiatus, as my lower back was beginning to suffer the painful effects of prolonged hours of sitting in my poorly designed desk chair.

  On another occasion, I happened to encounter Constance. I had been attempting to climb upon my bicycle, which Mr. Williger had repaired quite expertly, when she called out my name. When I espied her striding toward me, her arms yet again overladen with books and papers, I removed my helmet from my head and my body from my two-wheeled vehicle to greet her.

  “Have you taken up the lifestyle of a hermit, Ishmael?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

  “I have undertaken a project of sorts and it is this that has kept me in my place of residence.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “May I ask what sort of project it is?”

  It was with a certain degree of pride that I said, “I am currently in the midst of penning a book.”

  “That’s great news! I’m so happy for you, Ishmael,” she said, embracing me. “What inspired this sudden burst of creativity?”

  As I did not wish to reveal the details behind my inspiration, I merely said, “Who knows from whence creativity springs?”

  “So tell me. What’s it about?”

  I wavered. “You might call it a love story.”

  “I see. That’s it? No further details?”

  “Perhaps at a later date.”

  “Why are you being so mysterious?”

  I shrugged. “The book is currently in its infancy. I will be glad to fill you in when it has matured.”

  “Okay, so when may I read it?”

  “When I have completed it, of course.”

  “If it’s fiction, don’t let Abigail read it. We don’t want to go through all that again, do we?”

  “Do not worry, Constance,” I said. “I am well aware of the consequences should Abigail read it.”

  Wishing not to field any further inquiries, lest I inadvertently reveal my deception, I climbed back onto my bicycle and carefully placed my helmet atop my head. “The muse beckons,” I said.

  “Don’t be a stranger!” Constance shouted after me.

  “I will see you anon,” I said, and off I went.

  The following day, Eliot stepped into my office as I was grading a stack of utterly atrocious essays regarding the character of Hetty Sorrel in Adam Bede. He reminded me of his previous offer to celebrate his ascension to the role of dean. I recalled the invitation but had assumed he had forgotten about it, as it had been issued in a casual fashion. Despite my excuses, Eliot was adamant.

  “Don’t forget, Archer, I’m the dean, ergo your boss,” he said with a good-humored tone. “I therefore order you to be at my house this Thursday at seven o’clock.”

  And so I duly appeared at Eliot’s house five minutes prior to the designated time. Owing to the demands of my writing venture, I had once again existed on little more than junk food for the last few weeks, so I found a hearty meal to be a most welcome relief from chips, cookies,
and Cheetos. Sandra delivered a sumptuous repast. We toasted Eliot’s success several times, although my glass was filled with Sprite rather than champagne, for I wished to remain alert for the remainder of the evening in order to write.

  At one point, Eliot excused himself and ambled into his garage where he kept his wine. Sandra and I smiled at each other pleasantly as he disappeared into his makeshift above-ground wine cellar.

  “I have come upon an interesting coincidence, Sandra,” I said. “It appears that we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Oh? And who is that?”

  “A young gentleman by the name of Mr. Williger.”

  If she was startled, I was unable to perceive it in her expression. “I don’t believe I know him. Is he one of your students?”

  “He was. He has since graduated.”

  “Nope, don’t know him.”

  “Yet, he claims you are quite well known to each other.”

  Taking a sip of her wine but keeping her eyes on me, she said,

  “I’m sorry, but the name escapes me.”

  “Such an alibi is ineffectual, Sandra. The fact is, I happened to catch sight of you and Mr. Williger in your convertible on the day of the Highland Falls art fair. You were parked in the shade not far from the Porto-Potty.”

  She blushed. “Did you happen to see—?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  For a moment Sandra did not speak. “Well, that’s pretty goddamn embarrassing. Were you spying on me, Ishmael?”

  “Most certainly not! I was merely approaching the portable commode to relieve my bladder.”

  “Oh Christ,” she said, placing her palms over her eyes. “You won’t tell Eliot I hope?”

  “I shall not breathe a word as I do not wish to cause any distress, yet I have a question which I would like you to answer truthfully.” I paused for a moment. “Please tell me precisely why you engaged Mr. Williger to murder Dean Fletcher’s orchids.”

  “He told you that?” Sandra said, outraged. “Dammit!”

  “Yes, he did indeed inform me of this deplorable act, for he felt a great deal of guilt about it.”