After much grunting, we managed to raise the hood. I held it open as Eliot inspected the car’s wiry innards. “Battery’s fine,” he said. “Hold on a moment. Sandra knows more about these things than I do. Her father used to race cars at Le Mans.”
Hugging myself to keep warm, I watched as Eliot ambled back to his truck and knocked on his wife’s window, which she then lowered.
Momentarily, Sandra appeared before me. She wore a long brown mink coat and fur hat. She smiled warmly at me. “Hello, Archer,” she said as she embraced me tightly. “What have you done to yourself now, you poor man?”
“The usual cock-up,” I said.
“Would you like to borrow my hat? Your ears are as red as beets.”
Although I did not much care for vegetable analogies, I reflexively touched one of my ears, which felt as if it might crack. “Very kind of you, Sandra,” I said. “But this act of generosity would leave you hatless.”
“I realize that, Archer.”
“I wouldn’t want to deprive you of cranial warmth, Sandra.”
She ignored my response, removed her headgear, shook out her lustrous black hair and placed the garment on my head, pulling it down at the sides to cover my ears. “Now, let’s have a look inside this rattletrap of yours.”
As I accompanied her to the front of the car, I noticed Eliot attempting to stay upright while carrying what appeared to be a gas can from the rear of his truck.
Sandra removed one of her gloves and reached into the bowels of the car, then twisted something. It only took her a few seconds to diagnose the problem. “Loose distributor cap,” she said. “Fixed. Try to start it.”
Obediently, I turned on the ignition. The car burst forth with a sickening rattle but shortly thereafter the engine came to life.
“Utterly amazing!” I said, once again appearing at her side. “You are an extremely talented woman, Sandra!”
She gave me a sly look. “In more ways than one, if you catch my drift.”
Before I could respond, Eliot appeared beside us with the gas can. “I see you’ve fixed it, darling,” he said to his wife.
“Obviously,” Sandra said. I detected some iciness in her tone..
“You’re a wonder, my dear.” Eliot smiled with pride. “Isn’t she Archer?”
“Indeed she is,” I said.
“Eliot,” Sandra said in a voice filled with impatience, “why are you standing there? Fill the poor man’s car with gas.”
“Yes, of course,” Eliot said.
“I’m going back in the truck,” Sandra said, mimicking a shiver. “It’s fucking cold out here.”
As Sandra departed, Eliot began replenishing my tank as I looked on, blowing hot air into my cupped hands. “So,” Eliot said after a moment, “I assume you’re aware that Dean Fletcher just appointed me temporary Dean of the English Department for the summer session.”
The news left me momentarily speechless. I was reasonably certain that Eliot knew that I had not heard this discouraging tidbit of information but I did not wish to appear ignorant. “I did indeed hear that,” I said.
“If I may ask, what will you be doing this summer?” he asked.
“Oh, this and that,” I said. I stammered because I did not have an answer. “There are some exciting plans in the works.”
Eliot cast me a look that belied both skepticism and curiosity but he did not pursue the topic. Then he extracted the nozzle of the gas can and screwed the top back on my tank. “There you go. All filled up. This was great fun, Archer. We should do it again sometime.”
“I trust that is a witticism.”
“Adieu, Archer,” he said. “Drive carefully.”
As he walked back to his truck and gave me a backhand wave, I pried my car door open and climbed inside. The resemblance to an igloo was uncanny. As I started the car, I saw Eliot’s pick-up fly by, kicking up a puddle of slush. It was not until I had reached the Welcome to Highland Falls sign that I realized that Sandra’s fur hat was still atop my head.
Chapter Three
Several days thereafter, whilst I occupied a chair in the school library, reading Middlemarch for the third time (one often discovers new symbolism when rereading the classics) and consuming a sodden grilled cheese sandwich and undercooked French fries from a paper plate, the dean’s secretary, Ms. Anastasia Goldfine, shuffled quietly toward me so as not to disturb anyone and whispered in my ear that Dean Fletcher desired to see me and that there was some urgency attached to the matter. Ms. Goldfine was said to be in her late eighties, and several of the less comedically gifted faculty members had on occasion opined that she had once dated Grover Cleveland.
“I tried to call you on your cell phone, Professor,” she said in a distinctly aggravated tone of voice. “Don’t tell me—you forgot to charge it again.”
“It is indeed charged,” I said, “but I am afraid I turned off the sound so as not to disturb the others in attendance.”
“I had to schlep all the way over here from the dean’s office.”
“An excellent opportunity to enjoy some exercise and fill your lungs with the fresh mountain air.”
“When was the last time you were outside, Professor?” she said. “It’s about twenty degrees. My nose hairs are frozen.”
I resisted an urge to steal a look at the alleged state of her nasal foliage.
When I inquired as to whether she had any knowledge regarding the purpose of this unscheduled tête-à-tête, she merely shrugged. Although Dean Fletcher and I had dined together several times and attended the usual tedious faculty gatherings, he seldom wished to behold my presence in his office for any official reason.
Nevertheless, I hastened out of the building, placed my helmet upon my cranium and leapt on my bicycle, an unwieldy mass of metal and rubber that I had purchased recently from a student of mine. The administration building was just under a quarter mile from the library and, as I had always been fanatical about punctuality, I veered off the bike path and proceeded to take a shortcut on a diagonal path over the snow-covered grass. Pedaling furiously, I maneuvered unsteadily through the thin layer of snow, and after falling only once due to a mogul hidden in the field, arrived there on time.
Two minutes after my arrival, I found myself seated in an uncomfortable reproduction of an Eames chair in Dean Fletcher’s office, trying not to appear too afflicted with boredom as he painstakingly watered one of the numerous orchids that adorned nearly every available space in his office. The dean used a miniature copper watering can and a plastic spray bottle filled with a pinkish liquid, presumably plant nourishment.
Moving across the room to tend to another plant, he said, “Archer, did you know there are twenty-five thousand different types of orchids?”
“Remarkable,” I said.
“Genus Orchidaceae genera,” he continued. “Herbaceous monocots. That means it has only one seed as opposed to a dicot.”
“Your knowledge is most impressive.”
My eyes followed him as he administered to his precious specimens, occasionally leaning in close to study one of the delicate blooms. White-haired and possessed of a black mustache and dark brows, he was exceedingly tall and displayed the bearing and slenderness of Ichabod Crane.
He finally placed the watering can and spray bottle on the side of his desk, straightened a slightly lopsided photograph of orchids on his wall and sat down. “So how’s the world treating you, Ishmael?”
I was sorely tempted to reply that the world was treating me like a cat treats a cat box but restrained myself. “Quite well, Bob. How goes it with you?”
“Busy, busy, busy,” he said. He let forth with a weary sigh. “No end to the paperwork. I am certainly looking forward to summer vacation.”
“A blessed relief,” I said. “And to what locale are you planning to venture, if I may ask?”
His face brigh
tened. “Merry old Scotland. Best golf courses in the world.”
“So I have been informed. I believe the Scots invented the game.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. The Romans had a sport that resembled it somewhat. They called it ‘paganica’ and it dates back to 100 B.C.”
“Live and learn.”
Bob nodded thoughtfully. “Ever been to Europe, Archer?”
“In point of fact I traveled to London some years ago to pay homage to the authors buried in Westminster Chapel.” I recalled the trip and the joy I had felt. “An utterly captivating journey.”
“Sort of a morbid way to spend a vacation though, don’t you think?” he said.
“On the contrary. I found it most gratifying but I agree that it is not everybody’s cup of tea, so to speak.”
“Any plans for this summer?”
“None, I’m afraid,” I told him. ”As it happens, I cannot afford to travel to exotic places. Alimony is draining my bank account.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
I frowned. “That alimony is draining my bank account?”
Bob let forth with a chuckle. “Of course not,” he said. “I’m glad you have no summer plans.”
Startled, I attempted to conceal a smile. Did this mean that he was going to appoint me to a temporary administrative position as he had done for Eliot Altschuler? “No, Bob, I have absolutely no plans at all. I am, as it were, free as the proverbial bird.”
“Then you won’t mind teaching a creative writing course this summer,” he said. “We have nobody to fill the position—Farnsworth is on a short sabbatical as you know—and since you have written several novels.…”
My face attempted to manufacture a smile but I remained silent, for Bob was well aware of my lack of success in crafting fiction.
Having been hoodwinked into teaching several summer creative writing classes in the past, I knew that the drudgery could be nearly unbearable. Summer school was a form of detention reserved for those who had achieved poor grades during their senior year and were thus required to earn the credit to graduate, although it was open to non-students as well and usually attracted an assortment of local aspiring authors.
“That sounds…um…wonderful,” I said. “Truly an honor.”
“There will be some extra money in it of course.”
“I shall look forward to it,” I said, although the pecuniary embellishment would be the only advantage.
“Good man!” he said. Then he pounded the desktop with his fist, which nearly caused his cordless telephone to topple from its cradle. “I suppose you don’t know that Eliot Altschuler will be filling my shoes for part of the summer.”
“I do,” I said. “He informed me.”
“Hmm,” Bob said with a touch of displeasure in his voice. “I had asked him to keep it confidential. But I want to assure you, Archer, that his temporary appointment does not in any way mean I have chosen him for department head.”
Relief swept over me. “I see.”
But Bob was not looking at me. His gaze had fallen upon an orchid that sat in the corner. He was frowning. “Did I forget to water Esther?”
“Who?”
“Esther,” he said. “The pink one in the corner. I have names for each of them. The yellow one by that window is called Mathilda; her neighbors are Bathsheba and Snookie.”
“Perhaps you did water Esther,” I said. “You were in the midst of applying water when I stepped in. Perchance you attended to her prior to my arrival.”
At that, Bob rose from his chair, grabbed the watering can and headed toward Esther. “Better safe than sorry,” he said.
Upon my departure from Dean Fletcher’s office, I strolled past Ms. Goldfine who glanced up from her filing chores and gave me the thumbs-up sign, though I did not comprehend why she had performed this digital maneuver. In truth, I was not especially encouraged by Bob’s assurances that I remained a contender for department head. After all, the task of conducting a mundane creative writing class was a far cry from Eliot’s appointment as temporary dean. While Bob would be golfing in Scotland, Eliot would be in charge of not only me but of the entire function of the department. My task would be to assign basic writing exercises and critique them. I do not mean to appear pompous, but my prior efforts with summer classes had proved fruitless, although I must confess that the prospect of discovering at least one student possessed of some natural talent would provide a measure of gratification.
I decided to drown my sorrows, as it were, in a piece of chocolate cake and a vanilla milkshake, so I repaired to the student cafeteria, where I encountered Constance furiously typing on the screen of her smartphone. The repast that sat before her consisted of a turkey salad sandwich and an ice tea. Over the previous weeks, Constance and I had developed a camaraderie, owing in some respects to our mutual enjoyment of clever repartée.
“Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, I set down my tray..
“Please do.”
She placed her cell phone down beside her plate and looked at my face. “Bad day?” she said.
“As a matter of fact, yes. How did you manage to discern this?”
“The gloomy look on your face is a dead giveaway,” she said. “You look like a man who has just been spurned by his lover.”
“Alas, there is no such person in my humdrum existence at the moment.”
“Oh,” she said. “Unfortunately, the case is the same for me. My love life has been distressingly barren for quite some time now. How long has it been like that for you?” Then she added, “I don’t mean to pry.”
At that, I sucked noisily on the straw that stood upright in my milkshake. Although I was aware that this was not a mannerly way with which to ingest liquid in public, the mixture that held the straw had the consistency of lava.
“I am saddened to say that I have not enjoyed a relationship with a woman since the dissolution of my marriage four years ago,” I said.
She appeared startled. “Not a single woman at all since then?”
“Sadly, no. I had assignations with two women, each of whose company I enjoyed, yet when it seemed appropriate to proceed to an amorous level, I was roundly rejected by each. One of them pushed me away as I attempted to engage her lips with mine and said she would sooner kiss a fish. The other appeared shocked when I made an advance and said I was stuffy. Can you imagine that?”
“What awful women!” Then she put her hand over mine. “You are a most endearing and attractive man, Ishmael, so I don’t understand their seeming revulsion. I’m so sorry you had to endure that.”
“C’est la vie,” I said.
“Well, as they say, I suppose love is complicated.”
“A perceptive truism,” I said. “Suffice it to say, my experience with my former wife, followed by my rejection by the aforementioned women, not to mention a high school crush and a prom fiasco, have caused me to eschew romantic entanglements.”
“Understandable,” she said. “So why are you so depressed today, Ishmael?”
I produced an audible exhalation. “Dean Fletcher wants me to teach a creative writing course this summer.”
“And I’m guessing you find that unappealing?”
“Quite,” I said. “It probably means that—”
I was about to further explain my dilemma, but before I could utter another word, I heard a familiar voice shout out my appellation. It was Eliot Altschuler fast approaching.
“Hello, Archer,” he said.
I managed a facsimile of a smile. “Heigh-ho, Eliot,” I said. “How goes it?” Before he was able to respond, I heard Constance clear her throat, and after three such phlegmy interruptions, I understood the reason. “How unforgivably rude of me,” I said. “Eliot Altschuler, this is Professor Constance Oswald. She is subbing for my dear friend Potter.”
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“Ah yes, poor old Potter,” Eliot said, conjuring his features into a brief expression of solemnity, which then immediately transformed into a smile as he turned to Constance. “Pleasure to meet you, Connie.”
As Eliot was holding a tray, handshaking would not be feasible unless he put it down, which he did not. Without another word to Constance, he turned his gaze toward me. “So,” he said. “Creative writing, huh?”
“And how may I ask did you discover that information so quickly?” I asked. “I myself only learned of it half an hour ago.”
“Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”
“You speak the language of birds?”
Ignoring my witticism, he said, “Not much of a challenge.”
“I beg to differ,” I said with transparently false enthusiasm. “Creative writing classes can be most enthralling.”
“Well, count your blessings, Archer,” he said. “This acting dean position will be no picnic and I will be a slave to the office day and night, while you must simply spend six hours a week discussing the art of writing.”
“Sounds ghastly,” I said, my teeth grinding.
“On top of that,” he continued, “I will have to water all those goddamn orchids three times a week.”
“Make sure you do not forget Esther,” I said.
“Who’s Esther?”
“Never mind.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a muffled chime that seemed to emanate from Eliot’s pocket, which I surmised was not a doorbell. “That’s probably Sandra.” He placed his tray on our table and, with some fumbling, extracted his cell phone from his pocket. “Yes, my darling,” he said. “You’re on the terrace? Okay. I’ll be there in a flash. Just bumped into our friend, Archer. Yes, I’ll tell him you said hello.”
He clicked off and said, “Sandra says hello.”
“So I gathered, Eliot,” I said. “Tell her hello back.”
“Will do. Must be off,” Eliot said. “Nice meeting you, Connie.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 3