Once he had turned the corner into the terrace, Constance said, “Nobody calls me Connie. What nerve to assume that. You introduced me as Constance.”
“I would suppose he was just attempting to exude a friendly manner. He’s—”
“Shit!” Constance said. Without explanation, she leapt to her feet and hastily gathered her materials. “Fuck!” A few of the students sitting nearby turned their heads our way. “I’m late for my next class! Fuck!”
This lack of memory regarding her schedule seemed to be a recurring theme. After a hurried goodbye, she dashed out of the room, successfully balancing the potential avalanche of books and papers. Apparently, she had forgotten her backpack again.
Chapter Four
Summer arrived and the climate evolved into one that was oppressively humid, although now and then there existed several days that one might consider temperate. Occupying a wooden bench situated in a shady spot on the quadrangle, I watched as a stream of students, aided by their parents, scurried in and out of their dormitories and fraternity dwellings, their arms laden with all manner of furniture, boxes, and other objects necessary for collegiate residential living. It was indeed a chaotic scene reminiscent of tiny ants rushing about, dutifully carrying nourishment to their brethren.
The creative writing class that I had been assigned to conduct was to be held in the school library rather than in a regular classroom or lecture hall. Perhaps the proximity to books was the motivation behind that decision. But when I studied the roster, I immediately understood the reason, for it revealed that a mere five people—four male Longfellow seniors and one woman who hailed from the town—would be attending the class.
As I am always strictly punctual, I arrived at the designated chamber ten minutes before the class was scheduled to commence and, after fruitlessly struggling to open the windows for ventilation, glanced at my wristwatch, which indicated that the scheduled hour had nearly arrived.
The only one of my new students who had the courtesy to arrive on time was the young lady from Highland Falls. While shaking my hand, she introduced herself to me as Abigail Bird and explained that she was auditing the class. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, quite fetching in a bookish sort of way, and except for her thick-framed spectacles, she possessed a visage not unlike my image of the fictional character Tess Durbeyfield. Her hair was piled in a lopsided bun atop her head and she wore a long dress, penny loafers, and a frilly blouse buttoned to the top. She greeted me with a charmingly bright smile and expressed her delight at attending the class, addressing me as Professor Archer with a noticeable tone of admiration in her voice. After surveying the conference table, she chose the chair closest to me, pulled a notebook and several pens from a leather briefcase, organized them in a neat row on the table, and sat down.
“Am I the only student, Professor Archer?” she said as she consulted her timepiece. I was unable to discern whether she was excited or disappointed by this possibility.
“No,” I said. “But you are the only one who has demonstrated the manners to be on time for which I thank you, Ms. Bird.”
In a voice that betrayed pride, she said, “I’m a stickler for punctuality, Professor. I don’t like to be late. It’s rude and inconsiderate.”
“And an admirable trait that I happen to share,” I said. “I am proud to say that I have only once been tardy to a class and that misfortune was caused by a flat tire on my ancient bicycle, which I purchased from a young scoundrel who I believe was aware of the vehicle’s faulty status when he sold it to me, but failed, most likely on purpose, to inform me of its deficiencies.”
“That’s deplorable!”
“Indeed.”
“But an accident is probably a legitimate excuse for tardiness,” she said with a nervous laugh. But then she took on a more serious tone. “Did you injure yourself, Professor?”
“Not in any catastrophic way,” I said. “I merely sustained a bruised knee cap and a momentary loss of dignity as there were others nearby who witnessed the embarrassing event and, for reasons that defy logic, found it amusing. Most kind of you to inquire.”
Her look of concern transformed itself into a smile. “I’ve been so looking forward to attending this class ever since I learned that it was open to non-registered students.”
“I am flattered,” I said with a slight bow of my head. I was beginning to find this woman a delight.
A moment of silence ensued but I soon filled it with words, this being the most practical method with which to combat the lack of sound during a conversation.
“Is it by chance your ambition to become a writer of fiction, Ms. Bird?” I said.
She pondered the question for a moment. “I’m not sure, Professor,” she said. “I do love to write but I don’t really know if I have any talent for it.”
“Well, we shall soon find that out, shan’t we?” I said with a smile. “What sorts of genres do you enjoy crafting?”
“I particularly like writing satire. I adore Jane Austen, Mark Twain, and Chaucer; not that I’m comparing my amateur scribbling to theirs.”
“As I am sure you know, the art of effectively composing humorous prose is quite challenging,” I said. “It requires a certain sort of facility.”
“Very true.”
“Do you read much, Ms. Bird?”
“Oh yes. Ravenously! At least two books a week, sometimes three if time permits.”
This I found most encouraging. I did not mean to be condescending, but a well-read, attractive woman from Highland Falls was most likely a rarity. “Which contemporary authors do you particularly prefer, Ms. Bird?”
“I enjoy the works of Umberto Eco, Phillip Roth, John Irving, Thomas Pynchon, Toni Morrison, Heller, Cheever, Marquez, and other serious authors of literary fiction.”
“As do I,” I said. “And what, if I may inquire, have you read of late?”
She seemed on the verge of speaking but hesitated. “Well…” she said. “You might be interested to know that when I learned you were teaching this class, I read both of your novels.”
So astonished was I by this admission that I was temporarily struck speechless. “Where ever did you find them?” .
“Unfortunately, neither of them was available at the library so I purchased them at a bookstore in Syracuse last week. Actually, I had to order them.”
“Alas, they have departed from the shelves of bookstores,” I said.. “I suppose your purchase will therefore explain the forty cents I may receive in royalty payments from my publisher.”
She found this statement humorous, as it had been intended, and laughed most heartily. Although impressed by her, I must confess that I briefly suspected a possible motive behind Ms. Bird’s flattery. Perhaps she was buttering me up, so to speak, in the hope that I would give her a superior grade; but anon, I remembered that she was simply auditing the class and would, therefore, not be the recipient of an actual grade. Ergo, I concluded, it was not flattery.
“I am reluctant to ask,” I said, “but did you like them?”
“May I be honest?”
I cringed—in my experience those four words did not bode well. “Of course. I would expect nothing less. Fire away, as they say.”
She paused as if trying to decide how to approach her response. “Well...” she began. “There were some excellent parts. I enjoyed your style of writing, and your ear for dialogue is exceptional, but the characters could have been developed a bit more; the descriptions were a trifle wordy, and the endings of both books were somewhat unsatisfying. In spite of that, I enjoyed them very much. But I am hardly a critic.”
I was silent for a moment, which she seemed to misinterpret as displeasure because she said, “Oh gosh, I’ve angered you, Professor. I’m so very sorry. I am much too critical and I have an annoying tendency to be blunt.”
“Not at all. I am most pleased that you were g
iven to honesty for it is a rarity these days. In point of fact, the reviews were not dissimilar to your opinion. I, too, am aware of their numerous shortcomings. I suppose I am not much of a novelist, which is a great disappointment to me as I had once dreamed of creating a formidable work of fiction, although I take some pride in my teaching abilities.”
“I hope you don’t find it presumptuous of me to say this, but I believe you have considerable talent.”
Once again, I bowed my head. “Why thank you, Ms. Bird,” I said, gazing into her captivating blue eyes. “You are most kind.”
“I don’t mean to flatter you, Professor. I speak the truth. I believe you should write another. One should never give up if one truly has the passion and it is quite clear that you do.”
I was about to inform her that I had recently committed an act of arson by setting aflame the first two chapters of a novel which had resided in my desk drawer for over a year and richly deserved its transformation from paper to ashes, when two of my new students straggled in ten minutes after the appointed hour, with not so much as a greeting, and slouched into chairs at the far end of the table. Both of them appeared to be somewhat lethargic, no doubt from some late night carousing involving copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.
Five minutes later, the remainder of the class, two seniors whom I recognized as members of the football team, burst into the room laughing hysterically, and repeated the actions of the first two, abstaining from acknowledging my presence and occupying chairs at the far end of the table from whence they continued their banter. I noticed that when they perceived Ms. Bird, they both began to throw her glances that fell just short of leers. Ms. Bird wisely avoided eye contact. I winced at the prospect of reading their future assignments, the first of which would be due two days hence.
Before I had the opportunity to introduce myself and utter a few words regarding the purpose of this seminar, one of these fellows, a gentleman wearing aviator sunglasses perched atop his head, raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr....um…?”
“Williger,” he said. “I have a question, Prof.”
“And what might that be, sir?”
“How long will this class be?”
“Precisely two hours,” I said. “I trust that the length of this period of time will be endurable.”
At that, he and the other boys groaned in unison but I noticed that Ms. Bird appeared peeved by their behavior and proffered them a distinctly reproachful look.
“Do not worry, Mr. Williger,” I said. “If you pay attention in class and complete your homework in an expeditious way and with an acceptable level of proficiency, you will be pleased with the outcome. I will not require much of you beyond that. I do not expect to create a budding Dostoevsky or Kafka in this class. Does that meet with your approval, sir?”
A collective sigh emanated from the male contingent and Mr. Williger mouthed the word, “Awesome.”
I winced, for I despised the frequent misuse of that word. “Mr. Williger,” I said, “the Pyramids of Egypt are awesome. The Great Wall of China is awesome. The fact that I do not expect this class to be difficult is most decidedly not awesome.”
“Whatever,” he said.
Although this was another word that I found objectionable, as it had a dismissive quality about it, I did not voice my distaste for it. “Now, if you will kindly permit me to commence—”
“Sure, go ahead, Prof.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Williger.”
“No problem.”
The room finally descended into silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic and somewhat annoying tapping of Mr. Williger’s pencil upon the surface of the table. I proceeded to expound upon the art of writing, explaining to them the methods used by authors to create characters and plots, and enlightening them in some detail about the employment of suitable adjectives and adverbs, illustrating my points with examples of description and dialogue taken from several classics of literature. Although only Ms. Bird took notes, I was relieved to see that the boys were at least paying attention or creating the illusion. Apparently my promise regarding the ease with which a passing grade would be achieved had succeeded in assuaging their somewhat disagreeable behavior.
“Mr. Williger,” I said in the midst of my lecture. “I would be most appreciative if you would be kind enough to cease the percussion created by the point of your writing utensil upon the tabletop. I find it somewhat annoying.”
His brow wrinkled, seemingly in confusion. “Say what?”
“Put the pencil down.”
“Sure, no sweat,” he said, promptly obeying my entreaty.
As I completed my oration, Ms. Bird crossed her legs repeatedly and I noticed that the copper coin was missing from one of her penny loafers. I was tempted to inform her of this discrepancy but did not, lest I embarrass her. Nevertheless, I must confess that the temptation was something of a distraction.
At the close of my lecture, I detailed the elements of their first assignment. “In order for me to determine the extent of your writing ability,” I told them, “I would like each of you to compose an original paragraph or two that can be about anything you wish—a short autobiography, a description of something, perhaps an accounting of an experience you may have had that made an impression on you or a short discussion about things you particularly enjoy etcetera. Anything at all.” I then instructed them to deposit their homework in my mail slot on the morning prior to the class so that I would be able to read and grade them before we met again in the conference room, thus leaving enough time for discussion. “Any questions?”
Yet again, Mr. Williger thrust his hand in the air.
“Yes?”
“How long does it have to be?” he asked.
I struggled to maintain my composure. “I do not require you to write a tome. Two hundred words will suffice. Please be advised that I will be on the lookout, as it were, for grammatical and spelling discrepancies so please pay special attention to those criteria. Are there any more queries?”
I glanced at Mr. Williger but thankfully he did not stab the air with his hand this time, so I said, “Class dismissed. I shall see you on Wednesday. Please attempt to be punctual this time.”
Predictably, all the male members of the class dashed out of the room without so much as a polite goodbye. Only Ms. Bird remained for a moment following the departure of the others
“I enjoyed your lecture, Professor Archer,” she said.
“Very kind of you to say so, Ms. Bird.”
“You must think me disingenuous, since I’ve complimented you and your abilities numerous times.”
I looked at her. “Are you being disingenuous, Ms. Bird?”
“Not at all, Professor!” she said. “I have no ulterior motives. I never engage in flattery.”
“Then I shall take you at your word.”
She offered me a smile that was laden with warmth, or so I perceived it to be. “May I ask you a question, Professor?”
“By all means.”
“How do you summon the enthusiasm to teach people who clearly don’t wish to learn, such as these four young men?”
I was about to deliver a lofty discourse regarding the possibility that any mind, no matter how ostensibly vacant, can be stimulated by the power of words, but instead I merely said, “It’s a living.”
Chapter Five
Dean Fletcher was not scheduled to depart until mid-June, so Eliot and Sandra Altschuler took it upon themselves to bestow upon him a bon voyage party, which was to take place at their splendid Victorian home, an act that I interpreted as an attempt to further curry favor, as it were, with the man who had appointed Eliot to his temporary position. As I detested festive events, I was reluctant to attend but I concluded that the dean would certainly react unfavorably to my absence, so I elected to make an appearance, albeit a brief one.
I arr
ived at Eliot and Sandra’s home ten minutes before the designated hour and thus found myself to be the first guest, the only advantage being that I was able to secure an excellent parking space in their circular driveway. The only ones present at this time were Eliot, Sandra, and a young woman clad in some sort of plaid Scottish outfit, no doubt a maid. All of them were involved in preparing the room with the usual festive party accoutrements. When the maid ushered me in, Eliot was astride a ladder, attempting to thumbtack a brightly colored sign that read “Bon Voyage,” to the top of an arch that separated the parlor from the dining chamber, whilst Sandra stood a few feet away from him, directing his labor with the words, “Two inches to the left, a bit higher, no more to the right, Eliot, for God’s sake,” and so forth. The maid was occupied with the task of setting up edibles and potables on a long folding table that was covered by a paper tablecloth illustrated with the implements of golfing. As I had purchased a gift for the dean, I placed it at the end of the table.
When Sandra beheld my presence, she welcomed me with a warm embrace that lasted perhaps ten seconds longer than propriety would have dictated under these particular circumstances, one that involved enough frontal pressure for me to become more than aware of the considerable dimensions of her bosom as it pushed into my upper torso. Upon my entry into the parlor, Eliot caught sight of me and nearly fell off his ladder as a result of the distraction. “Hello there, Archer!” he said with some enthusiasm. “Happy to see that you’re early. Can you give me a hand up here? I can’t seem to center the damn thing to Sandra’s liking. We have a step stool you can use.”
“Alas, I’m afraid I cannot be of any service, Eliot,” I said.
“Why is that?”
“You see, I am quite terrified of heights.”
Eliot glanced at the floor below. “Archer, it’s three feet off the ground.”
“Which happens to be two feet higher than I am able to climb without suffering a bout of extreme dizziness and disorientation,” I replied. “Regurgitation is also a distinct possibility, albeit a somewhat remote one, yet I do not wish to soil your carpeting with the bile-laden contents of my abdomen.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 4