After a few more minutes of enjoying the vista, she climbed down, carefully watching her feet. Soon she was at my side again. A wave of relief coursed through me.
“Well done, Abigail. Brava!”
“Why, thank you, Archer,” she said. “Why did you not join me?”
“I am afraid I suffer from vertigo,” I said. “I first realized this when I was but a lad of thirteen. You see, my Uncle Alphonse, who was the only athlete in my family, had a fondness for the sport of skiing and he entreated me to join him on a trip to Hunter Mountain. I found myself paralyzed with fear as I sat in the chairlift. From that day on, I have eschewed heights beyond twelve inches.”
“My goodness! Twelve inches!” She shook her head in disbelief. “I attempted skiing once myself and spent most of the time on my rear end in the snow. It was quite a spectacle as you can well imagine.”
She then removed her footwear, adjusted the blanket and continued to bathe in the sunlight. As I had nothing to do, I pulled a book from my satchel.
“What are you reading?” Abigail inquired.
“I thought Dostoevsky would be appropriate for such a glorious day,” I said. “I assume you have read Crime and Punishment.”
“Of course. It’s one of my favorites.”
“I suspected as much,” I said. “I am of the opinion that—”
I stopped abruptly in the midst of my sentence for Abigail was once again overtaken by the need to sneeze repeatedly. After the third sneeze, I produced a cloth handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her, whereupon she blew her nose in it until the cloth appeared to be saturated.
“Are you all right?” I said when the sneezing finally ceased.
“Quite all right,” she said. “Thank you. But if you don’t mind, I’ll take the handkerchief home and wash it myself as it contains some mucus.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll iron it as well.”
“You are most clairvoyant, Abigail,” I said. “It is true that I do prefer my handkerchiefs pressed, although not starched for I fear that the introduction of a toxic chemical might have the effect of irritating the nasal passages.”
“I totally agree.”
More common ground, I thought. Starch.
At four o’clock, when the weather grew too hot to continue sunbathing, we decided to pack up our picnic basket and blanket, but before we departed for our hike through the meandering trail that would return us to the road, Abigail commenced to rummage through her purse again, for what I did not know. After five minutes of this hopeless endeavor she gave out with a weary sigh and concluded her fruitless search.
“Archer, would you mind taking a photograph of me?” she asked. “It appears that I’ve left my cell phone at home.”
This elicited a smile from me for I suspected that she wished for me to have a photograph of her as a keepsake. “For what purpose if I may ask?”
“I’ve been promising my father that I would send him a picture,” she said. “It will be his birthday soon and we haven’t seen each other for quite some time.”
“Oh,” I said. “And your mother?”
Abigail glanced away. “My mother, I am sad to say, is no longer living.”
This revelation came as a surprise and for a moment I did not immediately know how to respond. “I am very sorry to hear that, Abigail, and please accept my sincere condolences.” She gave me a half-smile. “I do not wish to pry, but if I may ask, how did your poor mother succumb?”
“She died when I was but a teenager. She was involved in a ghastly car accident.”
“How very sad, Abigail.”
“Yes,” she said. I observed that her eyes had become lachrymose. “But I’d rather not talk about it any longer.”
“Of course. I fully understand.”
She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. I wanted so very much to take her in my arms at that moment and comfort her, as she appeared terribly forlorn.
“Now, if you would please take that photo,” she said. “My father has been quite adamant about it and I don’t wish to displease him.”
Fortunately, my cell phone was charged, although the battery level was dangerously low. Abigail stood beside a tree and positioned her body into a number of different poses as I moved a few feet away, aimed the camera, and snapped several shots. After completing this task, I showed her the results and she nodded her approval.
“There,” I said. “I shall send them to your phone later.”
“Thank you, Archer.”
And then we departed. After plodding through the brush, I proceeded to drive her home in my Subaru. On the journey home, Abigail and I engaged in an amusing game in which one of us would produce the name of a minor character from a work of classic fiction and the other would guess which novel contained said character. Much to my delight, Abigail was amazingly adept at this pastime and stumped me with Cornelia Blimber, a school matron in Dombey & Son.
But before we arrived at her apartment Abigail suggested we partake of an early dinner, as it was after five o’clock and she required some nourishment for she had not eaten a great deal during our picnic. As it was still quite warm, we decided to consume our meal at an outdoor restaurant in town that afforded an excellent view of the mountains. She had apparently visited this establishment several times in the past and informed me that it was an excellent place for the purpose of viewing passersby. She was, she revealed, an avid people-watcher.
As it was still early, there were but a few patrons and we were easily able to find an outdoor table. Our location at the front of this restaurant also afforded us a view of the trickle of humanity passing by as Abigail had wished. We each ordered lemonade and a club sandwich and as we consumed these items, we engaged in another amusing game. To wit, whenever a human came into view on the street, we would name a fictional character that each of us thought resembled said passerby.
“Tom Sawyer!” Abigail said in a low voice as a mischievous-looking twelve-year-old boy walked by. “That’s definitely Tom Sawyer!”
I squinted in the direction of the young man. “Perhaps,” I said, “but Twain never really described Tom’s features. Or did he? I forgot.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s my mental image of the character. Many authors don’t offer precise descriptions of those that populate their books. Some do but not all.”
“Quite correct. But my guess would have been Pip.”
“Pip?” she said. “No. You’re quite wrong, Archer. This young man looks nothing like Pip.”
“I beg to differ.”
Our difference of opinion did not appear to daunt her enthusiasm.
“Okay,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.” She surveyed the area. “How about that slender, wrinkled older gentleman in the straw hat standing by the tree over there?”
I followed her eyes. “Well….hmm…my guess would be Santiago.”
“Yes!” she said. “That would have been my guess as well. What a coincidence. Great minds and all that I suppose.”
Abigail’s delightful merriment was contagious and I soon found myself enjoying this sport. Nodding in the direction of a young woman who was engaged in window-shopping, I said, “Lydia Bennet.”
“Not at all,” Abigail said. “That’s definitely Jane Eyre.” Then her eyes sparkled. “Amory Blaine. Over there by the car.”
“Do you think so? To me he resembles Inspector Javert.”
This of course was absurd and Abigail punched me lightly in the arm. “Not at all,” she said. “You’re kidding right?”
“Yes,” I said. “The man who just passed by—Atticus Finch.”
“You’re not serious. That’s the spitting image of Dorian Gray!”
I gazed around at the populace and pointed at a stout, jolly man. “And who is that?” I asked.
She squinted. “That’s obvio
usly Mr. Wilkins Micawber.”
“Hmm. I do not think so.”
“Maybe you need a new pair of glasses, Archer,” she said. This was a new twist—I had not known that Abigail was so…feisty. But it was not displeasing as I suspected that she was merely being playful.
I removed my spectacles and cleaned them with a napkin. “No,” I said. I placed them back on my nose, whereupon I looked at the fellow again. “Defintely not Micawber. Perhaps it is you who needs new glasses.”
“These are new glasses. Without them I’m quite blind.”
“Then we shall have to agree to disagree.”
“All right,” she said. Then with a wicked smile, she added, “But you are quite mistaken.”
It was just past seven o’clock when we departed the restaurant, but we continued our game as I drove her home. When we arrived at her abode, I carried the picnic baggage and accompanied her to the door. We stood there for an awkward moment and I wondered whether she was expecting me to deliver a goodnight kiss upon her lips, but I was paralyzed and did nothing. A moment passed. Perhaps, I hoped, she would ask me to accompany her inside for a glass of lemonade or something of that ilk, but she did not, a gesture or lack thereof that I interpreted as a sign that she did not expect further involvement. Had I offended her during our argument regarding the fictional identities of the passersby? Could she be that sensitive? After all, it was just a game. In any case, I handed her the picnic basket and blanket and we shook hands. She did not search for her key, which would have taken her a good hour, but instead just opened the door. I found this odd, although crime was nearly nonexistent in Highland Falls so perhaps she felt safe enough to keep it unlocked. Or perhaps she had lost her key. Momentarily, she disappeared behind said unlocked door and I returned to my car. Once inside, I sat there banging the steering wheel with the heel of my palms until I felt them begin to bruise. Then I motored off into the night.
Chapter Eight
At first, I thought I would simply scrawl my name on the title page of each book but upon further reflection, I suspected that a mere signature would be dreadfully impersonal and might disappoint Abigail. I recalled then that she had said that an inscription would especially please her. Hmmm. The words, To Abigail, Best Regards, Ishmael Archer, was too impersonal and would not do at all. But what sort of sentiment should I concoct? Due to the abysmal failure of both novels, I had never been invited to sign or inscribe a book, so I was temporarily in a quandary.
I struggled with this question for at least two hours, considering more than a few potential inscriptions and scribbling them on pieces of paper before committing them to the title page of the first book. Should I merely write the words, Love Ishmael Archer? Was that too audacious? Perhaps just, Your devoted friend, Archer? Was that too ambiguous? Or simply, Your excellent friend, Archer? Or maybe, Your Obedient Servant, Archer? No, even for me, that was too archaic.
Hells bells!
It then occurred to me of a sudden that it would be most imaginative, and perchance quite pleasing to her if I formulated an amusing sentence or phrase to precede the signature. How marvelous it would be to observe her giggling joyously at the cleverness of my words! Yes, this would certainly add to her enjoyment as well as to mine! Excitedly, I penned a few possibilities. To wit:
Many thanks for being among the handful that have read this book!
Write what you know, but keep some of it for your next book.
The pen is mightier than the sword, but perhaps not in actual combat.
No, no, no. None of this twaddle would do. Thoroughly discouraged, I crumpled the page and angrily hurled it in the direction of my trash receptacle, missing it by at least a foot. Desperate in my search for inspiration, I located a stale Butterfingers chocolate bar in a kitchen drawer and eagerly consumed it. Miraculously, the sugar contained therein jolted my imagination and I wrote these words:
To Abigail—Books are food for the soul and should be consumed with relish. Affectionately, Archer.
Perfect!
After I carefully copied these words on the title page of the first book, utilizing a neat but somewhat loopy cursive, I was immediately plagued by another impasse. Should I duplicate that exact sentiment in the second book, formulate another inscription, or would it be preferable to simply sign my name? After all, I reasoned, what purpose would there be for redundancy? Yet, it would be a clever touch to add something of an equally humorous nature. After much deliberation, I came upon the perfect words:
To Abigail—My most talented and punctual student with whom I share an enduring affection for literature, bacon, and bibs. With affection, Archer.
As I wrote these words on the title page, taking care not to smudge them or in any other way obscure them, I found myself chuckling a bit at my own ingenuity and hoped that Abigail would be similarly amused and perhaps even touched by my words.
On the Tuesday following the Memorial Day weekend Constance reappeared on campus, having returned from another journey to visit her ill aunt. As my next class would not convene again until Wednesday, I had virtually nothing to take up my time save for an enchanting visitation to my neighborhood laundromat, followed by several hours of equally delightful starching and ironing at my apartment. So that afternoon I retired to the faculty lounge, where I read a seemingly endless and somewhat obtuse short story that had been published in a recent issue of The New Yorker, although I found it difficult to concentrate as my mind was cluttered by thoughts of Abigail and my frustration at not having been more courageous at the close of our weekend activities.
In the midst of my gloom, Constance strolled into the room and sat in the chair beside me. We exchanged pleasantries and I inquired about the status of her aunt’s health. Apparently, the prognosis was quite encouraging, although Constance feared that it might soon become necessary to find a suitable assisted living establishment for the poor woman.
“I have some interesting news,” I said, after expressing my sympathies.
“Do tell.”
I paused. “I have made the acquaintance of a delightful young member of the fair sex, and I believe I have been struck by Cupid’s arrow, as they say. It began as nothing more than a friendship but it has miraculously achieved, at least for me, significantly more depth within a short period of time.”
Constance narrowed her eyes at me in a manner that bespoke confusion. “Ishmael, you told me weeks ago that you had no interest in women due to your unfortunate marriage and your previous and subsequent rejections. Has this state of affairs changed in such a short time?”
“I do believe so,” I said. “Besides, I expressed that gloomy proclamation several months ago. A person can undergo changes in outlook.”
“I suppose that’s true, but it seems a bit sudden. If I may ask, who is this lucky young woman?”
Although the decibel level of her voice was louder than acceptable in the lounge, no one but the two of us inhabited the chamber so there was no need for me to shush her, yet out of habit I spoke in a low voice although I was virtually brimming with excitement.
“She is a student of mine,” I said. “Very bright, very talented, an exceptional young lady in every respect and quite fetching as well. In fact, I happen to have several photographs of her. Would you care to see them?”
“Okay.”
I located my cell phone and found the photos of Abigail that I had taken at the glade. I gazed adoringly at them for a moment and then handed the phone to Constance who took quite a long time inspecting them.
“Quite lovely,” she said as she studied the pictures. “Very… soulful. Something warm and endearing about her eyes.”
“Yes. She is even more breathtakingly beautiful in person.”
“Well, I can certainly see why you’re so taken with her,” Constance added as she handed the phone back to me.
“I am quite smitten,” I said
.
“Well, I look forward to meeting this young lady who has succeeded in repairing the damage to your heart, Ishmael. She must be quite an amazing woman.”
“Indeed she is,” I said.
It was shortly thereafter that I received some distressing news.
I had encountered Abigail on the quadrangle one cloudy afternoon as she sat on a bench, consuming a Cobb salad. The sun lit up her hair in a most appealing way. I was delighted to see her and inquired as to whether I might join her on said bench. As she was most agreeable, I settled myself beside her.
“You look most lovely today, Abigail,” I said.
“Thank you, Archer. I believe my sunbathing at the glade has produced a most pleasing tan.”
“Indeed it has. Unfortunately, my anatomy remains quite pale.”
“As mine will be in a few days once the coloration has faded.”
A moment of silence prevailed, during which I was momentarily lost in contemplation. I thought this chance encounter might be a propitious time in which to give voice to my feelings for her. But once again the opportunity did not present itself. I had just formed some words in my brain when Abigail suddenly looked at her timepiece and rose to her feet.
“I wish I could stay longer and converse with you, Archer, but I’m afraid I have a bus to catch in an hour, and I must hurry home and make myself ready, as I may spend the night. Or I may simply take the night bus home so that I may be present at our class tomorrow afternoon. I’m not sure yet.”
Foiled again, I thought. “Where are you off to, Abigail?” I asked.
“Syracuse.”
“Why are you not driving?”
“Have you not heard the forecast?” she said.. “Torrential rains have been predicted. I do not like to drive in such weather.”
“Nor do I,” I said. “The bus is a very sensible alternative.”
“Yes, and it allows me the comfort to read.”
I looked skyward and perceived a few darkish clouds “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, takes you to that fair city of magic and light?”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 9