Utterly delightful! A masterpiece by comparison!
Thoroughly captivated by her considerable authorial talents and humorous wordplay, as well as her superior imagination and ingenuity, not to mention the spelling and grammatical perfection, I penciled in an enormous A-plus at the top of the page in block letters but then realized that I was not allowed to give her an actual grade for, as I mentioned previously, she was auditing the class. So I erased the A-plus and instead wrote the words, “Clever and humorous!” at the top of the page. In my fervor, I was tempted to add two more exclamation points but I have always found that particular redundancy to be both puerile and unprofessional.
This, I thought, was a most exceptional woman!
Having completed my corrections several hours before the commencement of my second class, I decided to indulge in a bite of breakfast at the school cafeteria, perhaps a Belgian waffle swimming in an ocean of maple syrup and lathered with butter, accompanied by four strips of over-grilled bacon. As I strode toward the entrance I noticed Ms. Bird standing quite alone beneath an oak tree attempting to ignite a cigarette with a lighter that appeared unable to produce a flame. So excited was I by her admirable submission, I could barely wait to inform her of my opinion so I strolled toward her and, upon arriving at her location, extracted a lighter from my pocket.
“Professor Archer!” she said. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Allow me, Ms. Bird,” I said. Gallantly, I held the torch beneath the unlit end of her cigarette. Before leaning in toward it, she swept her long auburn hair out of her face, no doubt a sensible precaution intended to keep me from accidentally setting her comely locks on fire.
“Thank you, Professor,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
“That was so... I don’t know…charmingly nineteenth century,” she said as she released a plume of toxic smoke from her mouth. Her face brightened with a delightful grin. “So very… refreshing.”
“What is?”
“The way you said ‘allow me’ before you lit my cigarette for me.”
“A damsel in distress and all that,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t mean to nitpick, Professor, but I’m not certain that this actually qualifies as distress in the classic sense. I would think that a damsel in distress would involve a more distressful distress.”
“Such as what?”
“Well,” she said, “for example, true distress might be if I had been tied to some railroad tracks by a villain and you rescued me from a horrible, gruesome death.”
“Why would someone attach you to railroad tracks?” I said. “In point of fact there exists no railroad here in our fair town, thus making the existence of tracks unnecessary. Said absence of tracks would likely pose a problem for the feasibility of railroad travel for the very word implies the existence of rails. One would need to travel to Orangeville to find railroad tracks.”
“I’m just citing a hypothetical example of what I take to be distress.”
I ruminated. “To be truthful, Ms. Bird, I disagree regarding these so-called degrees of distress. Perhaps igniting your cigarette would not qualify but it seems to me that involuntary attachment to railroad tracks would be too severe and somewhat absurd, not to mention unlikely.”
She swatted an insect that had landed on the tip of her nose. “Maybe you’re right, Professor,” she said.
At once, I felt that I may have been too harsh in my refutation of her theory regarding the severity of distress and did not wish to appear argumentative. “Nevertheless, perhaps we shall compromise and refer to your inability to set aflame your unlit cigarette as difficulty rather than distress. Is that more appropriate?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But you were still quite gallant in relieving me of this difficulty.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I am occasionally given to gallantry if the opportunity presents itself.”
She exhaled a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth so as to avoid blowing it in my face, although due to the breeze, I was soon engulfed in it. “Do you smoke cigarettes, Professor?” she asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“You carry a cigarette lighter in your trousers.”
“Ah. No, I do not indulge in the smoking of cigarettes,” I said, “but I do on rare occasions enjoy a pipe, although I find that the maintenance of said instrument tends to outweigh the pleasure derived from its use, what with all the accumulated saliva. The torch I carry in my trousers is also quite convenient for igniting my stove.”
Ms. Bird held up her cigarette and regarded it with a mixture of guilt and dismay. “It’s an awful habit, I know, but I’m not a heavy smoker,” she said. “I enjoy only three cigarettes per day. They seem to relax me and also give me an odd sense of clarity. I don’t think I’m addicted.”
“I would agree that such a minor indulgence would most likely not be considered addiction,” I told her. “I do not wish to be too inquisitive but do you partake of cannabis and similar mind-altering substances?”
“Never!”
“Alcoholic beverages?”
“No more than the occasional glass of wine,” she said. “And you?”
“I do not engage in the inhalation of any substance with the exception of oxygen. Nor do I care much for spirits although when proffered wine, I have been known to sample a sip or two for I have discovered that after two glasses of the grape, I become quite inebriated. You see, I have very little tolerance for alcohol.”
I gazed at her. Clad in an oddly patterned shirt, a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts, white running shoes, and pea green socks, with her hair falling freely about her shoulders, she was even lovelier than she had been in class. There was some manner of indescribable warmth about her, a rare aura of kindness, if you will, that drew me to her.
At the same time, she appeared to be taking my measure, finally withdrawing her striking light blue eyes after a moment to stamp out her cigarette. “Do you always wear bow ties, Professor?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Ever since I was six years of age.”
“That’s a trifle eccentric for a six-year-old child.”
“Perhaps.”
“Although I do appreciate eccentricity,” she said, “a bow tie is a defining choice of attire, one that lends its wearer an air of gravity. I am not being critical. Quite the contrary.”
“I did not take it as such.”
She appeared mollified. “May I ask why?”
“Why what?”
“Why, if I may ask, do you wear bowties?”
“I have found in the past that I have a tendency to inadvertently dip the more customary neckties into bodies of liquid such as soup or sink water. This is less likely to happen when one sports a bow tie.”
“True enough,” she said. “Yet it’s a little crooked.” At that, she reached out to straighten it, an act that I found most pleasing for it seemed an intimate gesture of sorts. “It becomes you. You look quite handsome with a bow tie, Professor. Most men don’t but you do.”
“Why, thank you, Ms. Bird,” I said with a slight tilt of my head. I was, of course, delighted that she found my appearance agreeable and a curious sensation of warmth, that I suspected was a blush, spread across my visage. “You are very kind to say so.”
“I hope I was not again being too forward, Professor.”
“Not at all, Ms. Bird. I enjoy complimentary words as do most people.”
Throughout our conversation, I had been bursting with the temptation to congratulate her on the inspired composition she had submitted to my class, but instead I opted to surprise her later when we convened in the conference room. I confess I was a bit surprised that she had not inquired about it. Perhaps she thought it inappropriate to do so in the present environment.
She glanced at her watch. “Oh my goodness!” she s
aid. She appeared somewhat alarmed. “I’m fifteen minutes late for work!”
“Oh? Where might that be?” I asked.
“At the college library.”
“So you are a librarian!” I said. “A noble profession indeed!”
“I’m just a part-time volunteer.”
“And your profession, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“It’s not really a profession but I also work weekends as a lowly server at Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium in town. Have you eaten there, Professor?”
“I have not.”
“Just as well. It’s a dreadful place, but the gratuities are quite substantial.”
“Has this always been your line of work?”
“No,” she said. “I have a master’s degree in English from New York University. I’m taking the summer off, escaping the hurly burly of urban life. I haven’t as of yet decided whether I want to teach or write. Perhaps your tutelage in our writing forum will help me make that decision. But now, if you will accept my apologies, I must run, Professor. I’ll see you later in class.”
“I look forward to it.”
“So do I!” she said.
“Adieu, Ms. Bird. Godspeed.”
Disappointed that we would not be able to continue our engrossing discourse, I watched her scurry off, with some adorable clumsiness for she nearly ran into a bush. Across the lush wide lawn of the quadrangle she jogged, her long hair blowing in the breeze.
While Messrs. Williger, Walker, Weathers and Riverdale scowled during my lengthy critique of their homework, Ms. Bird did not utter a single word, fearing perhaps that her superior effort and my complimentary words at the commencement of the class might cause resentment from the others. I utilized a fair amount of time lecturing Mr. Weathers on the inadvisability of plagiarism, pointing out that I had a vast knowledge of literature and would no doubt be able to discover heinous crimes of this nature. I also made it clear that anyone caught resorting to similar malfeasance would receive a failing grade and that I much preferred inept writing to copying the work of others. He admitted his culpability with appropriate humility, offering no excuse, and promised me that he would never indulge in this corruption again. Having adequately berated Mr. Weathers, I moved along to Mr. Riverdale, informing him that flattering me would not result in a superior grade, and that he had misspelled my surname. Mr. Williger received my congratulations regarding his spelling prowess and I suggested that Mr. Walker utilize the spell check feature of his computer.
Previously, after handing out copies of Ms. Bird’s composition to the others and explaining to them why it demonstrated such an exceptional level of competency, I had been appalled to learn that none of them understood her references to the novels contained in the body of the work. Thus, I was compelled to explain it to them. Moreover, I fully expected each of them to display some form of verbal or facial disdain toward Ms. Bird but to my surprise, they treated her with graciousness. Perhaps they found her too humble in her attitude or too attractive to merit their contempt.
Near the end of class, I explained their next assignment, which consisted of writing a description of a character, a process that would require them to employ adjectives in order to bring that fictional person to life.
The incorrigible Mr. Williger thrust his hand skyward. “How long does it have to be?” he asked once again.
I was tempted to sigh meaningfully, as Mr. Williger’s obsession with length revealed his lack of interest in actual writing, but I restrained myself.
“Two or three hundred words,” I said in a monotone. Mr. Williger seemed to be stifling a groan but I ignored it and continued. “Try to be creative, choose your words with care and precision. This assignment will be due next Wednesday as I have decided to cancel class for Friday and the following Monday and thereby allow you to enjoy the Memorial Day weekend.”
Predictably, upon hearing this happy news, the four young men burst forth with subdued hoots and Mr. Weathers punched his fist at some imaginary object in the air and said, “Yes!”
“Are there any further questions?” I asked.
They all shook their heads as I had expected.
“Then you may go now.”
Again, they all dashed out of the room. Ms. Bird, however, remained in her seat once the others had shuffled out. After she had expressed her gratitude at the adulatory words with which I had described her composition, she said, “So how was your breakfast, Professor?”
“Splendid,” I said. “The cafeteria concocts a delicious Belgian waffle. Do you have a liking for Belgian waffles?”
“Not really.”
“Bacon?”
“I adore bacon!”
“Crispy?”
“Oh yes. As crispy as possible.”
“Then we have much in common in the area of bacon.”
“We do!”
She removed her glasses and wiped them carefully with a small, square microfiber cleansing cloth. Her eyes squinted as she performed this operation.
I glanced at my timepiece. “Hark, it is almost time for luncheon.” I said. “I sense pangs of hunger, for my breakfast was not sufficient to satisfy my appetite.”
“Coincidentally, I’m famished as well,” she said. “I suppose I’ll go to the cafeteria. They do serve a decent hamburger.”
“I agree,” I said. “In point of fact, my plan is to consume one. As it happens my destination for the afternoon’s repast is also the cafeteria.”
“So you said. May I ask, do you usually eat alone, Professor?”
“Occasionally I am joined by one of my colleagues at the breakfast hour, most frequently Professor Antoinette Moreau who teaches French and possesses a love of Belgian waffles as she herself is Belgian, although I do not mean to infer that hailing from Belgium requires a citizen of that country to love Belgian waffles. She is a rather stout woman and I have observed her ingest as many as five in one serving. But to answer your query, yes, most of the time I dine by myself.”
“As do I,” she said. Then, with a sigh, she added, “I don’t really have any friends. I haven’t lived here very long.”
I began to pack up my materials. “Alas, I have only a few myself,” I said. “They are Professor Potter, who is ill; Mr. Felix Eugenides, who happens to be my landlord; Madame Moreau, and a professor of anthropology by the name of Constance Oswald, whom I recently met. It seems that my closest friends are those that exist only in literature—Silas Marner, Bathsheba Everdene, Pierre Bezuhov, David Copperfield, to name but a few.”
“Those are some of my best friends as well!” she said.
“A lively and entertaining cast of characters.”
“So true,” She watched as I closed my briefcase. “I was just thinking, Professor, since we’re both going to the same place, at the same time, to have the same lunch, I suppose it would be sensible for us to accompany each other and eat at the same table. I hope I’m not once again being too forward, Professor.”
Delighted by her suggestion, I said, “No, not at all, Ms. Bird.”
She knitted her brow. “On second thought, maybe it would be inappropriate,” she said.
“Oh?” I attempted to hide my disappointment. “In what way, pray tell?”
“I worry that this co-dining plan might be a violation of the student teacher code, assuming that one exists.”
“Hmm. I would doubt it,” I said. “After all, it is only an innocent lunch.”
“Are you sure you won’t get into trouble?”
Again, I considered the issue. “It is true that you are my student, Ms. Bird, but you are not officially registered at the college and as a result will receive no grade from me, so indulging in a meal together would probably not qualify as a contravention of the rules as no favoritism is involved. We could always claim it was a conference if such an alibi would eve
r be required.”
“True,” she said. As she positioned her thick glasses back on her nose I noticed that she was not wearing a wedding ring. “But what will happen if you get into serious trouble and be reprimanded or lose your job? I would not want that on my conscience.”
“I am willing to risk whatever fate awaits me,” I said. “Shall we throw caution to the wind, Ms. Bird and commit this potentially criminal venture?”
“Lead the way, oh captain, my captain,” she said.
Chapter Seven
After Dean Fletcher had departed for Scotland and most of the faculty had vacated the premises, a delightfully peaceful ambiance reigned on campus, affording one the opportunity to wander about almost anywhere without being besieged by the usual hordes of students and teachers. As someone who does not particularly enjoy social intercourse, I did not find this new state of affairs lonely in the least. Now, there were no lines at the cafeteria; the library and faculty lounge were usually unpopulated; most of the frat houses were closed and, with the exception of the thirty or so gloomy summer school students, the campus was not the usual hotbed of hormone-induced undergraduate mayhem. I could walk along its stoned paths without the fear of being hit in the head by a Frisbee or a football. Moreover, as my schedule consisted of a mere three short classes per week, there would be ample time during which I would be able to read and partake of relaxation. Perhaps I would even venture to New York City for a weekend and visit Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx where Herman Melville is interred. A pilgrimage to his burial place might well result in a lasting connection to the man who inspired my parents to name me Ishmael. This was an homage I had hoped to perform since I was a child.
But I digress.
Eliot was busy attending to his new duties as acting dean, thus he rarely made an appearance in public. I saw little of Sandra, who spent most of her days sunning herself on a chaise beside her forty-foot pool, a pastime that she invited me to participate in more than once and to which I declined, citing the tendency of my pasty white skin to easily acquire a sunburn. The only person I missed was Constance, who had been summoned back to Minneapolis on the Friday prior to the Memorial Day weekend—her poor aunt had taken a turn for the worse.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 6