“I believe I am,” she said. “And I can’t wait for you to read it!”
“I look forward to it.”
“I hope I’m not being too forward, but I was hoping that we could meet several times in order for you to help me improve it. That is, if you have the time. I know how busy you have been lately.”
As she finished speaking, something auspicious occurred to me: Perhaps she thought that a series of mentoring sessions would afford her the opportunity to see me more frequently. Yes, I thought jubilantly, that might have been the reason all along!
“I do not think it forward at all,” I said. “I’m certain that I can find the time. Perhaps we can convene in the evenings after your duties at Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium. I am available most evenings.”
“Perfect!”
“Splendid,” I said. “Do you perhaps have the pages with you? It might be helpful if I was able to peruse the manuscript prior to our meeting.”
“I have yet to print it out in manuscript format, which I would prefer. I will do so tonight. You may read it when we meet.”
“That will do nicely. When do you wish to begin?”
“Are you busy tomorrow evening?” she asked.
I was encouraged by her wish to commence without delay. “I believe I have no plans.”
“Then Friday it is!”
“Shall we say about eight o’clock at my apartment?” I said.
“Okay. It should be ready by then. Before I print it, I just need to double check for grammatical or spelling errors.”
“Your grammar, as displayed in your homework, has always been quite exemplary,” I said. “Impressively so, I might add.”
“Why thank you, Professor. I try very hard to achieve perfection in everything I write.”
“As do I.”
Although I had possessed no ulterior motive when I suggested my domicile as our meeting place, it occurred to me a moment later that this would be the ideal location. I would make some wine available to her and hope that its consumption would lead to a confession. Seduction was not my objective, for I am not the type of fellow to take advantage of a woman. Perhaps I would indulge in a glass or two myself and thereby find the courage to elucidate the depth of affection I felt for her. Yes, this would be the perfect occasion!
She thanked me again quite profusely, bid me farewell, and exited the office, only to reappear five seconds later.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “I have some more news.”
“And what might that be?”
“William Octavian Butler, the novelist I spoke of, will be coming to Highland Falls on Saturday afternoon to read passages from his book at the town library! Isn’t that exciting?”
In a decidedly flat tone, I said, “Yes, that is indeed most electrifying.”
“The librarian, Miss Tuttle, was absolutely beside herself when I told her of it. She believes it will draw quite a crowd.”
I attempted a facial expression that I hoped resembled a smile. “If I may ask, where will he be staying?”
She pondered the query. “That hasn’t been arranged yet,” she said. “The Motel 6 is certainly not appropriate for a man of his stature so I suppose—”
“He may stay at my apartment,” I said. “It is no palace but I have two bedrooms and sufficient towels.”
Abigail broke into a smile. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“It seems like an imposition.”
“I’m happy to oblige.”
“That’s so generous of you, Professor,” she said.
“Then it is done!” I said. “If I may ask, how long will he be staying in our fair town?”
“The reading will be on Saturday afternoon, just after he arrives, and I believe he said he would depart later that day, for he has another event to attend. I can’t thank you enough.”
I tilted my head in a bow. “I live to fill your days with joy.”
Perhaps she thought this a witticism, for she laughed softly. It had not been intended as such. “I will leave you to your labors now, Professor,” she said, and before I was able to inform her that my duties required very little in the way of actual labor, she had vanished.
Chapter Ten
Several hours prior to Abigail’s scheduled appearance at my apartment on Friday evening, I visited the supermarket and purchased a bottle of affordable Pinot, a scented candle, and an array of hors d’oevures that I hoped she would enjoy—a triangle of Brie, a box of crackers, a jar of Greek olives, an onion dip, miniature carrots, cornichons, and a giant bag of Cheetos. As I was about to pay for these items, it occurred to me that I did not possess a single wineglass, so rather than subject her to ingesting wine via a plastic cup or chipped tumbler, I scurried off to the wine section and found a package of four, which were on sale for $4.95. I also realized that I lacked a corkscrew and chose one of those as well.
Just then, I felt a hand tickle the back of my neck. “Hello, Ishmael,”
Constance said as I turned.
“Heigh ho, Constance!” I said, quite delighted to see her.
We then embraced, as was our custom. A shopping basket, laden with an assortment of victuals, was parked on the floor beside her. I then noted that she was surveying the contents of my cart with great curiosity.
“If I were to guess, it would seem that you’re having a party, Ishmael.”
“I would not call it a party per se as there is but one bottle,” I said. “Tonight I will be commencing a mentoring session with the young woman I spoke about when last we encountered each other. You might remember her?”
“Of course,” she said. “Abigail Bird.”
“Quite correct.”
Constance smiled. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I met the young woman just this morning.”
Stunned by this bizarre news, my visage registered confusion and I concluded that she was playing a trick on me. “Surely you jest, Constance.”
“Nope. I’m completely serious.”
“And how, may I inquire, did this encounter come about?”
“Well,” Constance said, “it was quite by accident, of course. We happened to be standing in line together at the bank. I found myself staring at her. She looked familiar and at first I thought she was one of my students.”
“Continue.”
“We struck up a conversation and I suddenly realized that she was your Abigail,” Constance said. “I recalled the photograph you’d showed me.”
“How utterly amazing!”
“Not really,” Constance said. “It’s a small town.”
“True.”
“She’s quite charming, as you told me, although a bit shy,” Constance said. “Yet, I must say, we got along famously.”
“What did you speak of?”
“The annoying existence of long lines at banks and random chit chat of a similar nature.”
“Did you happen to mention that you knew me?”
“Of course not. That would have been a little odd, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose it would have been a trifle suspect.”
“But when she confessed that she barely had any friends in town, I suggested that we meet for coffee one day.”
“When?”
“We haven’t decided that yet,” she said. “We exchanged phone numbers. I will call her next week.”
“Well,” I said, “this is certainly a most interesting turn of events!”
“Yes.”
I glanced at my watch. “I do not wish to be rude, Constance, but I am afraid I must depart. The hour of my consultation with Ms. Bird approaches and there is much to be done.”
“I won’t keep you,” she said. “Good luck.”
“Many thanks, Constance. We shall see one another anon.”
Moments later,
on my way out of the supermarket, I passed through an area of the store that displayed bouquets and potted floral arrangements. On an impulse, I stopped to inspect several of these horticultural items and, after a moment of contemplation, decided that presenting Abigail with a bouquet of roses would be an excellent way in which to begin the evening’s proceedings as they symbolized romantic intentions. Thus, I purchased one dozen red roses and asked the attendant to wrap them in colorful tissue paper. As I watched this procedure, I silently applauded my ingenuity.
Upon returning to my apartment with my sack of groceries, wineglasses, and flowers, I began the process of making the place presentable. I removed the debris from my coffee table and vacuumed the floor, although the receptacle bag of said vacuum device, purchased at the thrift store, bore a minute puncture and thus nearly exhaled as much dust as it inhaled. I then commenced to spray the glass with a remarkable product known as Windex that the prior resident had left behind, flung my bathroom towels into a hamper, replaced them with fresh ones, and straightened up the kitchen. Following this, I brought a table and chairs into the parlor and set them in a dark corner. After placing a tablecloth on said table, I decided to put the candle in the middle of it, although I possessed no candelabra or any other means of displaying the taper. Should I glue or tape it in an upright position to the table or place it in a drinking glass? In the end, I decided to forego the candle. After all, I had no idea why I required such an item for there was sufficient illumination to be had from the overhead lights.
Then it occurred to me that a more potentially romantic arrangement for our discussion of her story would be for us to sit side by side on the couch rather than at a table, so I moved everything back to the kitchen. The top of the coffee table would suffice as a surface on which to place materials. Finally, I filled my kitchen sink with two inches of water, into which I placed only the stems of the roses, as I did not possess a vase.
At six forty-five, I shed myself of my clothing and stepped into the shower. At seven o’clock I exited said shower, applied a generous lathering of deodorant, combed my hair, glanced critically at the mirror’s image of my physiognomy and made a journey to my closet. After surveying my choices, I decided on a striped, button-down shirt, a pair of beige pants, and brown loafers.
At seven-thirty, I re-entered the kitchen and arranged the hors d’oeuvres on a large plate, which I brought into the parlor and placed in the center of the coffee table beside the bottle of Pinot, two of my recently purchased wineglasses, and the corkscrew. For a moment, I was indecisive about exactly where to position the throw pillows but eventually I placed each one at the corners of the sofa. The correct placement of throw pillows has always been a challenge for me.
Once I had completed my preparations, I placed myself on a chair by one of the front windows and awaited Abigail’s arrival. I knew from experience that she would appear at precisely eight o’clock. At seven fifty-five, I peered between the slats of my ancient Venetian blinds and waited, hoping to espy her car when she parked it at the curb.
But Abigail did not arrive at eight o’clock. Nor did she appear at one minute after eight or eight-fifteen or eight-thirty. At first, I thought that I had mistaken the date, but after consulting my calendar, I determined that I had not. Perhaps she had been unpredictably detained and had attempted unsuccessfully to telephone me. Reception in certain areas of Highland Falls was frequently inadequate, especially in some of the more remote locations, so I postulated that she might have experienced a vehicle breakdown in such an area. At precisely eight-thirty-five, having recently charged my cell phone, I called her but received no answer other than an invitation in her lovely lilting voice to leave a voicemail, which I did. I knew however that, like me, she often failed to charge hers. Two hours passed with no communication from her.
Could she have forgotten about our appointment? This was unlike her, but people occasionally suffer from lapses of memory, as have I on more than one occasion. Moreover, she had been anticipating our session with considerable eagerness and had never missed a writing class or any other assignation.
By eleven o’clock, my displeasure at her tardiness soon developed into disappointment at her absence and was then transformed into anxiety over her wellbeing. Not knowing what else to do, I called Constance who had apparently been asleep when her phone chimed, for her voice was muffled and hoarse as if interrupted from slumber.
“Who the hell is this?” she asked.
“It is Ishmael Archer,” I said. “And there is no need for vile language.”
“For God’s sake, Ishmael,” she said. I could not help but perceive a distinct note of displeasure in her tone. “I was sound asleep.”
“So I gather from the irate tone of your voice.”
“I hope this is an emergency.”
“I believe it is,” I said. “You see, Abigail was supposed to arrive at my apartment for our mentoring session at precisely eight o’clock and she has yet to make an appearance.”
“That’s why you called? Jesus Christ, Ishmael. Maybe she just forgot.”
“Doubtful, for Abigail is a most responsible and punctual woman. And please do not invoke the name of the Christian savior when addressing me.”
“I’m sure she has a good excuse,” she said. “May I go back to sleep now please?”
I ignored her request. “I am quite worried that something sinister has befallen her.”
“Sinister? In Highland Falls? I doubt it. But why are you calling me?”
“Because I do not know who else to call or what I should do,” I said. “Perhaps it would be wise to notify the local constabulary.”
“I think they usually require twenty-four hours before acting on the information. Do it tomorrow if she hasn’t shown up.”
“But perhaps she has suffered a burglary or a mugging,” I said. “There are a thousand possibilities. The mind boggles, so to speak. In any case, it is my considered opinion that we should perhaps repair to her apartment at once and see for ourselves.”
“We?”
“Are you not an aficionado of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend Mr. Watson as you once informed me?”
“Yes, but as a reader not as an aspiring detective,” she said. “Besides, I am not breaking into her apartment.”
“No need. Abigail does not lock her front door.”
“How do you know?”
“I once observed it.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” Constance said. “Goodnight, Ishmael.”
“I shall pick you up poste haste and we shall hie via my vehicle to her dwelling,” I said.
“Absolutely not. I—”
Twenty minutes later, after a cursory search of Abigail’s apartment, yours truly, Sherlock Holmes, and his trusty sidekick Watson, in the guise of Constance Oswald, did not find her. More worrisome was the fact that Abigail’s car was not parked in her driveway.
Although Constance wished to return to her bed following our inspection of Abigail’s abode, I beseeched her to accompany me to the police station to report Abigail’s disappearance. At first she refused but after much groveling, I managed to persuade her, although she was decidedly ill-tempered on our drive to the headquarters of the local police.
When we arrived, Sheriff Walter Grimsby’s feet were propped upon his cluttered desk and his attention was directed to a television set that was attached to a corner wall. He was watching a police show. His fingers were orange, and crumbs of an identical color had created an asymmetrical pattern on the part of his light brown shirt that covered his sizeable abdomen. The explanation for this was a half empty bag of Cheese Puffs that lay between his legs. He was munching on one of these flavorsome snacks when we approached his desk. I have always been a devotee of cheese snacks so I felt an immediate rapport with him.
Sheriff Grimsby then inquired as to the purpose
of our visit and I informed him that Abigail was missing. Years ago, he had stopped me on Route 11 for driving at night with an unlit taillight but I doubted that he recognized me.
Sheriff Grimsby did not move from his position. “How old is she?” he said. “Is she a kid?”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“Okay,” the sheriff said. “That’s good. I’m glad it’s not a kid. And how long has she been missing?”
“We do not know for certain,” I said. “I last encountered her at approximately two o’clock yesterday afternoon in my office on the campus of Longfellow College, where I presently am employed as a professor of English literature and acting dean. We had then scheduled an appointment to meet again this evening at eight o’clock, but she did not appear.”
“Professor of literature, huh? Read any Grisham?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I highly recommend him.”
“I shall look into it.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Constance sighed and then yawned. This was clearly not an occasion for a discussion of popular literature.
Sheriff Grimsby asked, “Are either of you next of kin?”
Constance looked at me questioningly. I wondered whether this information would in some way be a requirement in his pursuit of the case. Grimsby looked impatiently at both of us.
“Well?” he said. “This isn’t a trick question.”
“I am…her uncle,” I said with a stammer. “And this is her… mother.”
Constance gave me a look that bespoke extreme disapproval.
The sheriff then scratched his head, which had but a few strands of wispy hair pointlessly arranged to cover a wide terrain of baldness. “Technically, we don’t usually look for missing persons for twenty-four hours. You probably know that from watching cop shows on TV. But I got nothing better to do right now so I can take down the info.”
He then proceeded to ask us a number of predictable questions. I produced the photos I had taken of Abigail and followed this with information concerning the make, color and approximate age of her automobile.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 12