Chapter Two
Longfellow College, a mediocre institution of higher learning, was situated in the insufferably dreary town of Highland Falls, New York, a mere forty miles north of the magical metropolis of Syracuse. Nestled in the foothills of the mighty Adirondack Mountains, which accounted for Highland Falls’ disagreeable climate, the college had derived its title from the estimable American poet, Mr. William Wadsworth Longfellow who, at least in my humble opinion, would have found it an establishment unworthy of bearing his name.
Perhaps the only civilized feature of this otherwise bleak collegiate environment was the campus’s faculty lounge, which had, over the years, become my sanctuary. Designed in the style of an old English gentlemen’s club, it contained uncomfortable wingback chairs, oaken tables and an oversized stone fireplace that looked as though it had not been ignited since Calvin Coolidge occupied the White House. Hanging on its walls were several rows of faded prints that depicted horses and their riders engaged in the witless sport of foxhunting.
When the lounge’s dusty draperies were pulled back, which was not often the case for its inhabitants appeared to prefer a funereal ambiance, one was afforded a splendid view of the lush green meadows and forests that stretched for miles below, for Longfellow sat on the plateau above the town. In the distance, the viewer could behold the rather pathetic excuse for a waterfall (it was more of a large dripping faucet) from which the town of Highland Falls had derived its name. Apparently, the pioneers who first settled the region in 1845 were sorely lacking in imagination. From November through April, a layer of snow concealed the grassy fields, but by early June, a plethora of wildflowers provided a pleasing array of colors. Although academically undistinguished, at least the college had been placed in a scenic location, although its architecture—classic Greek Doric columns, pediments, crepidoma, and porticos—gave the institution an unmerited appearance of gravity.
Thankfully, the other members of the staff who frequented the lounge were customarily silent within its walls, whispering on occasion to each other as if they were in an ancient catacomb, thus affording me the concentration required to read without being disturbed. Occasionally, a new member of the faculty, unaware of the unwritten rule of silence, would create a disturbance, which was soon silenced by the disgruntled facial expressions or muted harrumphs
emanating from the other professors in attendance.
It was on an overcast day in April when one such newcomer, a personage of the female variety, entered the room and approached the seat beside mine. Her arms were overladen with books, papers, folders, and other paraphernalia, all of which she accidentally dropped to the floor beside the neighboring chair just prior to occupying it. The other inhabitants of the room, startled by the sudden thudding noise, looked up and grunted emphatically as she bent to alleviate the floor of her scattered papers.
“Dammit,” she said in a normal tone of voice, which elicited another series of grumbling and outbursts of shhhhh from the others. I watched her struggle for a moment and then, as I perceived that she was not making much progress, squatted beside her on my knees in order to assist her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Very kind.”
“My pleasure.”
“I left my backpack at home,” she explained. “I do that a lot.”
In a whisper, I said. “You might want to keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“An unwritten code of conduct, if you will, though its origin is reputedly unknown,” I said. “Silence reigns within these august walls.”
“Oh.” This utterance was followed by a dismissive word that sounded to me like pffft.
I stole a look at her as I helped her organize the sea of papers. In spite of her somewhat disheveled gray hair, she was an attractive woman possibly in her fifties. Her garb included several oversized silver rings and a random collection of metallic bracelets that jingled like sleigh bells whenever she moved her arms.
She extended her hand. “Constance Oswald, no relation to the assassin.”
“Ishmael Archer.”
She offered me a lopsided grin. “May I…call you Ishmael?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very clever.”
She wore a wry smile. “How are things going on the…hahaha… Pequod?”
I winced and let forth with one of my humorous rehearsed retorts, to wit, “The crew is having a whale of a good time.”
She laughed, but to my relief, did not launch into any further references to my name. “My apologies,” she said. “I imagine you probably get that a lot.”
“I do, but it no longer disturbs me,” I said. “However, most people address me by my last name, which is Archer.”
“I prefer Ishmael if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I said, offering her a smile. After a moment, I inquired, “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, is your discipline?”
“Anthropology.”
“Fascinating field of study,” I said. “Mine is English Literature.” After a few seconds had passed, I added, “Oddly, I do not believe I have observed your presence on our beloved campus.”
“I haven’t been here very long,” she said. “I’m subbing for Prof-
essor Potter who has been ill. I hope to stay beyond the summer term.”
“Ah yes,” I said. “Potter is a particular friend of mine. A lovely fellow.”
Having by this time arranged her formerly scattered materials into orderly piles, we placed them on the nearby table whereupon she
collapsed into her seat and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her shirt.
“Is it hot in here or is it me?” she said..
“Although I am not familiar with the normal state of your body temperature, I will concede that it is indeed quite warm,”.
“Well, thanks for the help, Ishmael.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Oswald.”
“Constance.”
Then she carefully placed a pair of reading glasses upon her aquiline nose and, after shuffling through papers with an impatient growl, removed an item from her stack, whereupon I returned to my book, The Gulag Archipelago.
When I glanced over at her she was furiously scraping her yellow highlighter pen over a paper on her lap, a procedure that created an annoying sound not unlike that of an endangered piglet. “My God. Can’t these kids spell?”
“Alas, having encountered this myself on many occasions, one may wonder whether the subject has been stricken from high school curricula.”
“Certainly seems like it has.”
“Fortunately, this was not the case when I attended school,” I said. “In all modesty, I am proud to say that at the age of ten I was the victor in a college spelling bee. I received a trophy which currently resides in my room at the residence of my parents.”
“Congratulations,” she said, in a slightly droll tone. “What was the winning word?”
“Boustrophedon.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It is an ancient form of writing.”
“How ever did you know this odd word, Ishmael?”
“I read a great deal and I suppose I encountered it,” I said. “Are you perchance a reader of fiction, Constance?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got much time for reading except for scholarly journals,” she said. “But I have read quite a few Sherlock Holmes mysteries. I do love Conan Doyle.”
“A superlative author,” I said. “I believe I have twice consumed his entire oeuvre which consists of fifty-six stories and four novels.”
“Impressive.”
“Mandatory reading for a confirmed bibliophile such as myself,” I added. “Literature, you see, is my life.”
After digesting this information, she asked, “Have you ever written a novel yourself, Ishmael?”
I grimaced. “Alas, a tale o
f woe.”
“Is that the title?”
“No,” I said in a melancholy tone of voice. “That is a description of the outcome.”
She offered me a look that betrayed a soupçon of sympathy. “If you don’t mind my asking, what in blazes are you doing at this second-rate institution?”
I let forth a melancholy groan. “Alas, that is yet another tale of woe. It involves the wicked antics of my former wife, Amanda Archer, née Blackstone.”
Although we were speaking quietly now, several of my colleagues were clearing their throats meaningfully. Ahem, ahem.
Tilting her head to indicate the four other occupants of the lounge, she asked, “Who are these people anyway? I mean individually.”
“Well,” I said. “The gentleman with the goatee is Spencer Cranepool, Physics; beside him is Arvin Dykestrom, Math; the woman is Antoinette Moreau, French; across from her is my chief rival for Dean of the English Department, Eliot Altschuler.”
“Isn’t Bob Fletcher the Dean?”
“Yes, but he recently proclaimed that he will be commencing his retirement in the month of September.”
“And you’re in contention for the job?”
“I am, although I seem to be somewhat conflicted on the matter.”
“Why is that?”
“In truth, I possess no administrative skills,” I said. “But the remuneration is considerably higher and my Subaru is headed for the automobile graveyard, so to speak.”
At this juncture, Constance searched in her purse and extracted an electronic device known as an iPod and a set of headphones, the cords of which she commenced to untangle. “You don’t mind if I listen to some Bach do you?” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude—I’ve enjoyed our conversation—but I must grade these papers before my next class.”
“Proceed as you wish,” I said. “I am not offended in the least.”
Just prior to placing the headphones over her ears, she slanted her head toward the other four occupants of the room and said, “So tell me, is everybody at this second-rate school as boring and stuffy as they are?”
“Eliot and Ms. Moreau are occasionally quite personable, but some of the older professors would certainly qualify for your descriptive terminology.”
“Thank God you’re not one of the older ones,” she said. “I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m guessing you’re what, in your late twenties?”
“I am currently in my twenty-ninth year, if one does not include time spent in the womb,” I said. “I inhabit this chamber for the peace and quiet it affords, not for the excitement.”
“Where do you go for excitement?”
“Usually the library.”
“And what a huge improvement that must be,” she said. I detected a degree of sarcasm in her tone. “Is there dancing between the bookshelves?”
I was on the verge of uttering a reply regarding the inappropriateness of dancing in a library but before I had the opportunity, my new acquaintance placed the headphones over her ears and resumed correcting papers, so I returned to the icy winds and forbidding landscape of Siberia.
Among its other liabilities, Longfellow College was not a well-
endowed institution, and for this reason, my salary could best be described as paltry. As free faculty housing was sparse, I had been compelled to rent an inexpensive apartment in town. It was an austere two-bedroom affair two blocks away from a shabby strip mall that featured a convenience store, a church thrift shop that reeked of musk and naphthalene, and a laundromat with a clientele that seemed to consist primarily of women wearing pajamas. The only one of these establishments I frequented was the laundromat because the washer and dryer in the basement of my apartment building were ancient and thereby nonfunctional, and my landlord, Mr. Felix S. Eugenides, a mustachioed fellow of Greek descent who sported the same malodorous sweat suit nearly every day, was either unable or unwilling to repair or replace these machines. Thus, I was compelled to utilize the nearby laundromat, haul my garments home in pillowcases, and then perform my own pressing in my parlor, having purchased a used ironing board and iron at the strip mall’s thrift store for a reasonable price.
In spite of my landlord’s reluctance to repair the aforementioned appliances, we had, over the years, become excellent friends, for Mr. Eugenides bore a particular interest in the works of Ernest Hemingway. Although entirely self-taught, his literary perceptions were surprisingly insightful, and we have convened on a number of occasions at his apartment or mine for the purpose of discussion, during which we customarily imbibe a Greek concoction known as ouzo, which has a taste not dissimilar to that of black licorice. Although I seldom partake of spirits, I do have a particular fondness for all manner of licorice.
But I digress.
Upon taking up residence in Highland Falls some years ago, it did not take me long to discover that this sleepy burg was not exactly a hotbed of cultural activity and offered only one cinema, a foul-smelling bar that featured live country music—a style of noise of which I am not a particular enthusiast—and the occasional play produced by members of the Methodist Church in conjunction with the local high school. These were primarily ancient Broadway musicals for which I have absolutely no interest; the plots are invariably inane and the accompanying music is either insufferably bland or maudlin or both. Naturally, Longfellow’s drama department performed plays—the predictable Beckett, O’Neill and Ibsen standards with symbolically barren stages—but these were amateurish and I suspected that the lack of props and sets was due more to the drama department’s trifling budget than any attempt at achieving depth.
Due to its elevation, Highland Falls was especially prone to blizzards that occurred throughout the winter and into the early spring. One evening in April, I made the profound miscalculation of attempting to drive to my abode in the midst of one of these meteorological holocausts. My windshield wipers, which were sorely in need of replacement, were not clearing off the snow so much as just moving it around to various sections of the windshield, and my back window had been transformed into a glacier.
After five exasperating minutes of attempting to navigate with virtually no visibility, my situation took a turn for the worse as the car commenced to shudder and backfire in a most ominous way. Glancing at the gas gauge, I was alarmed to behold that the arrow stood at empty. This was, as they say, a perfect storm (no pun intended), which promptly deteriorated when the engine suddenly shut down completely. I had no option but to coast to the side of the road, a maneuver that I performed ineptly as the vehicle skidded into a snowbank.
Once securely embedded in this polar icecap, I attempted to restart the ignition but my efforts produced no response, so I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to summon help, only to discover that I had once again forgotten to charge it. Traveling by foot to town was not a judicious option for it was a ten-mile trek and I did not wish to become an ice sculpture.
Consumed by anger, I exited the car, hoping to flag down a good Samaritan for aid, although it occurred to me that only a mooncalf like me would have had the lack of common sense to drive in this weather. To make matters worse, I realized that I had forgotten to wear a hat.
After half an hour, I observed a vehicle approaching through the blinding snowfall. Thankfully, it slowed to a stop behind my Subaru. Although it was covered with snow, I recognized the vehicle immediately—it was Eliot Altschuler’s black pick-up truck. I also noticed that his spouse, Sandra, occupied the passenger seat.
It was with some difficulty that Eliot opened his car door for it was likely frozen shut, and when his feet touched firmament, he immediately slipped on the ice but righted himself and therefore did not fall. Of course, unlike me, he was attired appropriately for such weather.
“Is that you, Archer?” he said, as he grew nearer, shielding his eyes with his hand. He was wearing one of those Russian fur hats, thick le
ather gloves, a lined Parka, and high rubber boots. He resembled J.D. Salinger dressed as Ernest Shackleton on a polar expedition.
“Indeed it is,” I said, glancing with some irritation at my vehicle.
With an expression that belied a mixture of jocularity and pity, Eliot also cast his eyes at my ancient Subaru, which was now covered with snow to such a thorough degree that one could barely discern that it was in fact an automobile.
“It appears that my vehicle no longer contains petrol and I suspect my battery has perished as well,” I said..
“Bad luck,” Eliot said. “What year is this heap?”
“If I recall correctly, it was manufactured in 2003.”
“At least Subarus hold their value,” Eliot said, as if this observation would in any way brighten my day. “You could probably get a thousand for it and maybe write off the loss of value on your taxes.”
I was somewhat annoyed that I was standing hatless in the midst of a blizzard discussing automobile depreciation. “Perhaps you would be good enough to drive into town and alert a mechanic in possession of a towing truck.”
“Don’t you have a smartphone?” he said.
“Of course, but, alas, I forgot to charge it this morning—a frequent tendency of mine,” I said. “I suppose one cannot in truth call it a ‘smartphone’ unless its owner is actually smart, ha ha ha.”
Eliot narrowed his eyes at me as if inspecting an otherworldly life form “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “There’s only one mechanic in town anyway, and he’s probably out shoveling Main Street with his snowplow.”
This complication had not occurred to me.
“Let’s have a look,” Eliot said. At that, he attempted to lift the hood but it was too weighted down with snow and did not budge. “Don’t just stand there, Archer. Give me a hand here. This bloody thing must weigh a ton.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 2