Sandra sighed and looked away. “I did it because I wanted Eliot to get the job as dean.”
“Yes, I deduced as much.”
“I apologize, Archer,” she said. “I’m really sorry that I fucked things up for you. It was awful of me.”
“Never mind that. I did not really wish to have the position anyway.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised.
I decided to be bold. “I do not know if I believe Mr. Williger, for he is not terribly astute at times, although I do have some fondness for him. In any case, he speculated that perhaps you wished to assure your husband’s success so that you would have more freedom with which to carry on more…shall we say…clandestine activities.”
“Certainly not!” she said. “That’s an awful thing to say, Archer. What a low opinion you must have of me.”
“Trust me, I do not wish to judge you, Sandra. You are free to do as you like. I am not a Puritan. I am merely positing a theory put forth by your former paramour.”
She placed her wineglass on the table. “I killed the orchids because I knew how much that job meant to Eliot,” she said. “He’s a very ambitious man. I want him to be happy. I love him, Archer. My extramarital affairs are a thing of the past, I assure you. We’re trying to patch up our marriage. That was the reason we went on that romantic jaunt to New York a few weeks ago. We stayed at the Plaza and spent much of our time in bed. I swear to you, that is the God’s honest truth.”
Although I was not interested in learning more about their sexual escapades in a bed at the Plaza Hotel, her face told me that she was being truthful. I must confess I felt a trifle embarrassed at having accepted the incorrect conclusion espoused by Mr. Williger. I was about to apologize to Sandra when Eliot stepped back into the room with a bottle of Pinot in his hand. “How about another glass, darling?” he asked Sandra. “It’s your favorite and who knows what it may lead to later.”
As Sandra smiled provocatively at her husband and eagerly extended her glass, Eliot handily popped the cork and winked at me.
Shortly thereafter I completed work on my book, all seventy pages of it. I struggled over attaching an appropriate title and, after a few hours of contemplation, finally chose a simple one that I thought would adequately summarize its subject matter. I titled it, All About Abigail.
Once it was fully edited and devoid of spelling, punctuation, and typographical errors, I printed it and placed it in an attractive plastic folder in order to create a more impressive presentation. Of course, I did not consult Dr. Partridge, for I knew that she would attempt to forbid me from giving it to Abigail, an act that had been my entire purpose in writing it.. My goal was to inspire her to return to her identity as Abigail One, just as she had taken on the identity of a character from Butler’s novel. This, I theorized, would cause her to reveal her past feelings or lack thereof for me. Of secondary importance, my strategy might bring back her love of literature as well as her gift for writing. In all modesty, I must confess, I found the notion quite ingenious.
“What is this?” she asked when I presented the finished manuscript to her the day after I had completed it.
“It is a short…book…a story actually…that I recently finished writing,” I said.
“That’s wonderful, Archer. I’m ever so very happy for you.”
“Thank you, Abigail. I hope you will enjoy it. I plan to dedicate it to you, for I think of you as my muse.”
She seemed astonished at my words. “Truly?”
“Yes.”
“That is such a lovely compliment,” she said, placing a hand over her heart. “I’m at a loss for words, Archer.”
“I would not have written it were it not for you.”
She smiled. “What inspired this sudden burst of creativity?”
“Why you did, of course.”
She frowned. “Is this a fictional book, Archer?” she asked, with a trace of displeasure. “I do believe that you recently told me that you had written several novels in the past but, as you know, I haven’t had the inclination to read them, for which I hope you will forgive me.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is indeed fiction. Although I know you do not care for this genre, I would like to hear your opinion of it all the same.”
“All right,” she said, with a tepid smile. “I suppose that would be all right, but I don’t believe I’ve ever read a fictional tale.”
“That does not matter. I think you will find it to your liking.”
“Well…okay. Do you mind if I read it now while you are here? It seems quite short.”
“Please do.”
It was with a degree of hesitancy that she flipped open the cover. I watched her intently as she turned the pages, demonstrating her amusement by letting forth an occasional chuckle. She even became lachrymose at one point, which I interpreted as a promising sign. In all, it took her an hour. When she had finished, she placed it on the coffee table without a word.
“Did you enjoy it, Abigail?” I finally asked her.
“Oh yes,” she said. “But to be honest, I’m a little confused, Archer.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“You said that this was a work of fiction.”
“I did indeed.”
She frowned, picked up the manuscript again and quickly thumbed through its pages. “But if it is a work of fiction, why didn’t you change the names of these characters? Why did you choose to name the characters Abigail Bird and Professor Ishmael Archer? Did you perhaps lack the imagination to come up with fictional names?”
“No.”
She paused. “Nonetheless, Archer, I think the story is quite fanciful.”
“Does any of it feel familiar to you, Abigail?”
She frowned. “No,” she said. “Why would it?”
I pressed on. “The Abigail in the book took a creative writing class that the Archer character taught.”
“Yes. It seems that this Abigail was most interested in becoming an author.”
“But you are not?”
“I believe I’ve told you several times that I have no interest in it.”
“You have.”
It then occurred to me that I had never actually witnessed Abigail’s past transformations into fictional characters, so I did not know whether they were immediate or gradual. Perhaps if I departed and then returned the next day, she would assume the character’s identity. Maybe she needed to slumber.
Yet, I decided to remain with her and probe further into the matter. “And how did you find the section where Abigail successfully climbs the rocks at the glade by the waterfall?”
“She was most daring and impetuous.”
“And her attendance at the art fair with Professor Archer?”
“Very entertaining.”
“And the character’s obsession with the reading of literature?”
“Interesting but hardly an engrossing detail.”
Perhaps she noted my expression of dismay for her next words were, “You have a remarkable imagination, Archer.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Now I was confused, not to mention thoroughly disappointed. How could this be? It made no logical sense to me. If she had been transformed into Anna Karenina, Daisy Buchanan, and the woman in Butler’s novel, why had she not taken on the identity of Abigail One as she was portrayed in my story?
“Were there any parts of the book that you particularly enjoyed?” I asked eventually, not knowing what else to say.
She gave the matter a moment of thought. “Yes. I liked the part in which Professor Archer attempts to catch the Greyhound bus. That was very suspenseful and quite romantic.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Also, I thought it was so very sweet of Professor Archer to gently wipe the drops of strawberry ice cream that had fallen on
Abigail’s dress. I liked that very much. It was so chivalrous of him. I was very touched.”
“And the accident at the glade? How did you find that?”
“Most tragic! That poor young lady.”
I sighed deeply. Now I worried that I had inadvertently caused poor Abigail’s identity problems to worsen. Certainly, her level of confusion was now elevated. Perhaps I should have altered the names of the characters. Yet, had I done so, Abigail would no doubt have been transformed into whichever name I had chosen for her.
I was tempted to consult Dr. Partridge, in the hope that she would be able to enlighten me about the bewildering failure of my strategy, but I did not, for fear that she would become angry at my recklessness.
Not surprisingly, I was unable to sleep that night. How could I have been so utterly foolish as to think that I, a professor of English at a second-rate college could begin to comprehend the science of delusion, hallucination, and identity loss? I was neither a neurologist nor a psychiatrist; I knew nothing of the intricacies of the human brain and even less about the effects of traumatic brain injury. Yet, I had taken it upon myself to conjure a deception that I had hoped would magically result in a positive effect and give rebirth to Abigail One. In short, I was an addlepate of the highest caliber.
As I lay on my bed, staring at a sinuous crack in my ceiling that threatened to cause the plaster to collapse, most likely on my head, I repeated in my mind the events of the day, dwelling upon each of Abigail’s specific reactions to my interrogation. Yes, there had been some suspense involved in my inept attempt to reach the bus station during a torrential downpour, but she had not actually witnessed this scenario. What did that mean? As for our initial attendance at the Highland Falls’ art fair, the only occurrence she seemed to enjoy was a minor moment in which I had cleansed her dress of an errant dollop of strawberry ice cream. Her tumble from the rocks had simply been, in her word, “tragic.” It was as if these incidents had all happened to someone other than herself. There was simply no logic to be found in the matter.
Impatient at my frustrating inability to attain a state of slumber, I rose and repaired to the kitchen, where I explored the depths of my half-empty refrigerator and, after discovering nothing of interest there, finally indulged in a stale bag of kettle corn. I brought this item to my desk and, for no particular reason, switched on my computer and proceeded to locate the file that contained my story, All About Abigail.
As I idly read through it, taking little joy in the process as it had been such a resounding fiasco, I considered deleting it in its entirety, but it occurred to me then that perhaps something could be salvaged. In all modesty, I had to admit that it was written quite splendidly and, as a romantic story, it might well appeal to a publisher of some reputation. Of course, I would have to alter all the names and expand it, but neither of those alterations would require a great deal of effort. I already knew the story.
But then I stumbled upon a section of the book that nearly caused my eyes to pop out of my head. With mounting exuberance, I perused the segment in question again. I was both astounded and profoundly uplifted by the words—or rather the lack thereof—and, in order to ascertain whether this was indeed the same version that Abigail had read earlier that day, I hastened to my coffee table upon which the manuscript sat and let my fingers flip hurriedly through the pages.
As I had predicted, my inept meddling in Abigail’s case did not please Dr. Partridge, but her displeasure was soon assuaged by my momentous discovery of the previous night. On my way to the hospital, I had called Balthazar, who had arrived at Highland Falls that morning, and requested his immediate presence in Dr. Partridge’s office. Although I did not detail the nature of my fateful discovery to him over the phone, I assured him that it was of considerable import.
“Are you sure…about this, Professor Archer?” Dr. Partridge asked. “There was absolutely no…mention of this episode…in your story?”
“Quite correct.”
“Nor did you duplicate the…strawberry ice cream cone incident during your visitation to the Orangeville art fair?”
“I attempted to, but there were no ice cream vendors to be found on the premises. And of course there was no guarantee that she would once again dribble ice cream onto her dress as she had before.”
“Quite extraordinary…Professor,” she said.
But Balthazar seemed puzzled. “Let me see if I have this straight, Ishmael. You wrote a story about you and Abigail, which was actually a memoir but you presented it to Abigail as fiction.”
“Correct.”
He appeared irked. “That was probably a mistake.”
“Agreed. Although in light of this revelation, perhaps not.”
“And after she read it, you asked her to tell you which parts she had enjoyed the most?” Balthazar continued.
“Correct.”
“And she told you that one of her favorite episodes in the story concerned a strawberry ice cream cone that she had enjoyed at your venture to the art fair in Highland Falls prior to her accident.”
“Correct.”
With every question, Balthazar’s voice became increasingly animated. “Yet this episode was not present in the manuscript that she read yesterday?”
“Correct!”
“You are certain of this?”
“I am,” I said. “Thus, my conclusion is that she has remembered that occurrence from the time before her accident.”
“That’s…utterly amazing!” Balthazar said. He then turned to Dr. Partridge, “In your opinion, doctor, do you believe this to be a breakthrough?”
Dr. Partridge glared at me. “Professor, I am still very…angry at you for taking it upon…yourself to indulge this whim…without first consulting…with me. I had told you before…that such revelations…might be traumatic for Abigail.”
I attempted to project a degree of shame “I know, doctor, and for that I apologize, but you have not yet answered Dr. Bird’s query.”
Dr. Partridge looked first at Dr. Bird and then at me. “It may be premature…for me to say this…but yes, this certainly might…be a breakthrough.”
Part Six
Chapter Eighteen
Sadly, Abigail’s curious breakthrough involving the strawberry ice cream cone appeared to be nothing more than an anomaly, for there were no further remembrances regarding her life as Abigail One, although on one occasion, prior to a dinner date, I happened to witness her examining both pairs of Algonquin earrings as they sat upon her vanity. Her brow was wrinkled, seemingly in perplexity, which led me to believe that perhaps she was in the process of recalling the purchase of the first pair during our outing to the Highland Falls art fair. It seemed such a long time ago, as if I, too, had lived a previous life.
As I sat languidly in her parlor , waiting for her to choose her attire, she held both sets of earrings up for me to behold. “Which pair of these do you think I should wear, Archer? As you can see, they’re quite similar except for the colors.”
“The pair with the crimson stripe matches your socks,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “It does. You’re always such a wizard when it comes to clothes, Archer.”
“Thank you. It is true that I am a fastidious dresser. But why do you suppose you have two pairs of them, Abigail?”
She studied the earrings as if they were rare breeds of insect life. “I really don’t know. I recall that you bought this pair for me when we went to the art fair in Orangeville, but I am at a complete loss regarding the other pair. How bizarre.”
“Perhaps I purchased them for you at an earlier time. Perhaps at another art fair.”
A pensive look appeared on her face. “But we did not attend another fair,” she said. “Besides, although they’re quite attractive, a person doesn’t really need two nearly identical pairs of earrings of Native-A
merican provenance, if that’s really their true origin, which I doubt, not that I’m an expert in such things. Yet it was very thoughtful and kind of you.”
“It was my pleasure, Abigail.” When she had put them on, I said, “They look quite striking on you.”
She gave me a look that bespoke affection, or at least that was my interpretation. “Thank you, Archer.”
As she stood before me with the earrings dangling from her lobes, I was transported back to the day upon which I had bought her the first pair. A moment later, my thoughts turned to the day of the second purchase. Had her reactions on both occasions not been the same? Happily, Dr. Partridge had been quite correct in her prediction that, in spite of her amnesia, Abigail Two was essentially the same delightful, charming young woman she had been as Abigail One. Had she loved me then? Would I ever know the answer? The question gnawed at me. Was she developing romantic feelings for me now? The profound passion I held for her had never dissipated, not even when she had been Anna Karenina or Daisy Buchanan, although her delusion regarding Butler’s character was somewhat irritating. More importantly, Abigail Two’s lack of interest in literature was no longer of any great significance to me, for I had come to the conclusion that a shared interest is not a vital component of love. If a man is obsessively captivated by the sport of baseball and his mate is not, this should not prevent him from loving said mate. After all, books are but stories that contain another person’s view of existence. I do not mean to denigrate literature, for much of it contains profound perceptions of human life and I shall never forsake my fascination with the classics. But sadly, upon reflection, I realized that I had spent most of my days living vicariously through the characters in these tales—I was not Fitzwilliam Darcy, Amory Blaine, or D’Artagnon—and it was a welcome relief to finally exist in a world of reality in which Ishmael Archer was the protagonist, and the story was that of his own life. Abigail had awakened in me a certain depth of feeling of which I did not previously know I was capable.
But then, several days thereafter, a most troublesome chapter in the story of Ishmael Archer commenced. That afternoon, in desperate need of a container of shoe polish, I ventured via automobile to an establishment on Elm Street that sold such merchandise. Although it was February, the weather was most pleasant and required only a light jacket. The recent snow had turned to slush, and beads of water dripped in a steady rhythm from the icicles that had formed upon branches..
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 22