I was motoring down Walnut Street, some three blocks away from my destination, when I encountered a sight that nearly caused me to lose control of my vehicle—Abigail was walking down said avenue with a young gentleman. At first, I thought my eyes deceived me—perhaps this woman merely resembled Abigail, a doppelgänger but it increasingly became apparent that such was not the case. As my car approached them, I slowed a little, not wanting to allow her the opportunity to notice me. I was thoroughly distraught and did not know quite how to behave in a situation such as this without causing embarrassment.
The gentleman in question was several inches shorter than Abigail, quite thin and lanky, perhaps in his thirties. Beneath his baseball cap, emblazoned with the logo of the New York Yankees, I could discern a stubbled beard. His cargo pants and wrinkled sweatshirt suggested a man possessed of no particular sartorial taste or grooming, yet the two of them appeared to be engaged in animated conversation. They were not, however, holding hands or otherwise physically engaged, to my considerable relief.
When I arrived at the first intersection, I impulsively performed an illegal U-turn, an act that resulted in a raucous cacophony of honking cars, and drove slowly back down the street until my vehicle was about twenty yards behind the two. Were I to again drive past them, Abigail might notice my automobile, and I did not wish to be thrust into an awkward situation requiring me to remove myself from my car and interrupt their conversation.
Yet, I was beside myself. At the next intersection, I turned right and, once out of their range of sight, sped back to my apartment. Who, I wondered, was this fellow? Where had they met, and what was the precise nature of their relationship? Abigail had mentioned nothing to me regarding an affiliation with another man. Had she deliberately kept this information from me and if so, why? For how long had this association been going on? When had it begun? Was he a colleague from her job? A customer? Someone she had recently met at the local Starbucks? Had they shared a bed? If not, were they about to? Whoever the gentleman was, this situation would not do. As a confirmed pessimist, I feared the worst.
I do not know why it took me so long to realize it, but at that moment it occurred to me that Abigail would not remain forever without a true paramour. After all, a woman had certain…needs. Perhaps she wished to marry and produce offspring. We had never discussed these topics.
Yes, it was indeed time for me to stop delaying my declaration, for the prospect of losing her was inconceivable. I could dillydally no longer, come what may.
That evening, I hied myself to Abigail’s dwelling. Of course, I was quite fearful that I would find her in the amorous embraces of the sartorially challenged young gentleman, but I could no longer delay. In order to fortify myself for this worrisome mission, I had imbibed half a glass of wine.
To my relief, when Abigail appeared before me in the doorway, she was not clad in an ensemble that could be considered seductive—she was attired in a pair of yellow flannel pajamas emblazoned with images of chimpanzees, and a pair of fuzzy red slippers. As she opened the door and ushered me inside, I glanced around the room for signs of the interloper and was relieved to find no visible evidence, not that I was quite certain exactly what it was I was looking for.
“Why, Archer!” Abigail said. “What brings you here at such a late hour? Not that I am unhappy to see you.”
In point of fact, it was only seven o’clock, but I made no mention of this. “I must speak with you, Abigail. On a matter of some urgency.”
“You look so serious, Archer,” she said. “Is there something unpleasant you wish to tell me?”
“Not at all. I hope you will find it most agreeable.”
She studied me. “Yet, you appear somewhat…nervous. You seem to be fidgeting.”
“I assure you, I am quite calm.” In truth, my stomach felt as though it were housing a family of moths that had recently ingested an overdose of amphetamines.
“Oh. Well, please do come in and make yourself comfortable.”
I had come to Abigail’s residence with two purposes in mind—the first, to determine the depth of her relationship with the young gentleman; the second, to finally declare my feelings for her. But as I gazed at her, I decided that the long-awaited declaration should take precedence. The identity of her mysterious companion would be irrelevant if she rejected me.
I settled upon her sofa. Then I patted the area beside me, an indication that I wished for her to sit there, to which she readily complied. Although my mind was conflicted, I suddenly felt the strong urge to revise my strategy by prefacing my remarks with a forbidden subject. Generally, I am not a man given to impulsiveness but on this particular occasion, I found myself possessed of an overwhelming desire to begin my declaration with an honest revelation that would expose the true duration of my love and adoration for Abigail. In retrospect, I believe I simply wished her to know that my courtship of her had predated the one in which we were currently involved. And, as Abigail had observed, I was indeed fidgeting.
I boldly took both her hands in mine. For a few moments, I paused.
“Abigail, I have something of great import to tell you.”
“All right,” she said. “By all means, please proceed.”
“Do you remember reading my story not long ago?”
“Yes, of course.”
I hesitated again, knowing that Dr. Partridge would certainly disapprove of what I was about to say. “Do you perchance remember a part of the story in which the Abigail character consumes a strawberry ice cream cone at the art fair and spills a few dollops on her dress, which are then removed by the Archer character?”
“Why, yes! I found it a most touching scene, as I told you.”
I drew a deep breath. “The part about the strawberry ice cream cone did not in actuality appear in the story.”
Abigail frowned. “Of course it did.”
“No, it did not. I promise you. I reread the story several times and found nothing relating to this scenario.”
I observed the bewilderment in her eyes. “Well, perhaps I simply imagined it in some way. I don’t know. A dream, perhaps.”
“No,” I said. After a moment of silence, I added, “This event actually took place at an earlier time.”
She laughed, as if I had just told her a mediocre joke. “Had that been the case, I’m sure I would have recalled it.”
“You did! In point of fact, this episode did indeed take place and it was you who spilled the ice cream, and it was I who wiped it away with my pocket handkerchief.”
“You jest, Archer,” she said. “That’s impossible.”
I sighed and decided on a different approach. “Do you remember the part in which the Abigail character suffers a fall from the rock staircase at the waterfall?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And that she hits her head and falls unconscious?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that too actually occurred.”
“Oh yes? To whom?”
I gripped her hands tighter. “To you.”
Again, an expression of bafflement overtook her visage. “Archer,” she said in a firm tone, “I am not finding this at all humorous.”
“It is not intended thus, Abigail. I am being perfectly serious. The fact is, you suffered what is known in medical terminology as a traumatic brain injury some months ago after falling from the aforementioned rock wall.”
“No, this is most assuredly not true.” Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Archer, have you been drinking alcohol?”
“Of course not! I assure you, I am quite sober.”
“Perhaps you have taken a mind-altering drug of some sort then?”
“Absolutely not!”
“A severe blow to the head?”
“No.”
“Perhaps it was something you ate?”
“Nega
tive.”
Her face flushed and her eyes commenced to display signs of anger. . “Then why are you speaking such utter nonsense?”
“It is not nonsense, Abigail,” I said. “As a result of your head injury, you were in a coma for several weeks and when you awoke you had no memory of your past life, nor do you at present.”
At that, I felt her body stiffen and she pulled her hands out of mine. I could feel her ire mounting. Perhaps I should then have ceased my narrative, but I found myself unable to do so and continued. “In your past life, you were a dedicated reader of literature and wished to become an author. We first encountered one another at a creative writing class that I conducted.”
“Archer, I wish to change the subject,” Abigail said. “I am finding this imaginary tale of yours quite disturbing.”
“You did not recognize me when you awakened from the coma, nor did you even know the identity of your father.”
“I beseech you to stop at once! I did not take you to be a liar!”
Yet still I persisted. “The reason you have two sets of Indian earrings is because I bought you one set before your coma and the other afterwards.”
Abigail clapped her hands over her ears and commenced to hum a tune. “Enough of this!” she said.
Rather than remove her hands from her auditory organs, I raised my voice. “Abigail, you must believe that I—”
“STOP!” she said, rising to her feet. As I had never witnessed her in a state of wrath, I was taken aback.
“I believe, though I am not certain, that during this pre-coma stage, you held some romantic feelings for me,” I said. “I admit that I had great…affection for you at this time and—”
But I believe that she did not hear my words for her hands remained over her ears and my declaration produced no effect. Blinded by rage, she removed one hand and pointed at the door.
“I would like you to leave now, Archer,” she said.
“Did you not hear what I just said?”
“No, I am no longer listening to you.”
“But—”
“Get out!” she said. “I believed that we were friends, but clearly we are not. I no longer know what to think of you!”
“Abigail please…I just told you that I—”
“Get out of my sight, Archer!” she said. “How many times must I say it? I cannot bear this cruel nonsense anymore!”
“Abigail, please believe me when I say that—”
“GET OUT! GET OUT!”
“Abigail, I beg you, please be reasonable. I did not mean to upset you. You must believe that I have no reason to lie.”
Abigail’s visage was now deeply flushed; a vein stood out on her forehead; her hands trembled. I made an attempt to calm her by taking her hand, but she withdrew it and marched to the door, which she then opened. “Leave me now and never come back. This is a cruel, cruel joke and I do not know why you are acting in this way. Your behavior is… reprehensible! I do not wish to ever see you again.”
“Please calm yourself,” I said.
“I will not! How many times must I repeat it? Leave me this instant. NOW!”
Mournfully, I stood up and trudged to the exit, but then I turned to face her one more time. “Abigail I—”
“Goodbye, Archer.”
And then she slammed the door shut with so much force that I thought it would remove itself from its hinges.
Utterly forlorn, I stood before her front door and listened to the sound of her weeping. My heart was pounding with such force that I feared it would escape my chest and aviate itself into a shrub. A moment later, I heard the distressing sound of a lock engaging from within the house. What foolishness had I perpetrated? Why had I surrendered to impulse? Why had I persisted in the face of her mounting anger? Had I lost my mind? Of course, I desperately wished to re-enter the premises for the purpose of apologizing and perhaps even consoling her, but I did not wish my reappearance to increase the level of her rage. The damage had been done and could not be erased. My conclusion was that it would be most prudent to allow her time to calm herself. As I walked down her front stairs, it was necessary that I hold the bannister, for I was nearly blinded by optical liquidity and did not wish to lose my balance and topple into a hedge. Once safely at the curb, I robotically opened my car door, stepped into the driver’s seat and drove away into the night.
I did not know how long I had been driving, nor was I even aware that I was on Route 11, until I noted the “Welcome to Orangeville” sign that stood on the side of the road, its letters somewhat obscured by black swaths of graffiti. I did not really know my way around Orangeville, for I had not been there often, but on a whim, I exited the highway and proceeded into the small neighboring burg. Had I continued on Route 11 I would most likely have gotten hopelessly lost.
Though it was only eight o’clock, the avenues of said burg were deserted and the stores were closed. Having no particular destination, I motored randomly down the streets, one of which took me to an establishment called Doolittle’s Olde English Tavern, which I presumed to be a place that served alcoholic beverages. Though I was not desirous of consuming liquor, I felt an urgent need to relieve my bladder, for I had consumed a Jumbo-sized Pepsi Cola earlier in the evening.
To my surprise, Doolittle’s Olde English Tavern possessed quite a pleasant ambience. Soft lighting emanated principally from an antique chandelier that hung above a long polished mahogany bar and an assortment of oak tables. A grandfather clock ticked annoyingly from one of the corners and a row of nineteenth-century portraits of British nobility graced the walls. The bartender wore a red-striped vest and a bow tie. Even the bathrooms featured antiquated fixtures, and the gender identification signs on the doors were simple brass renderings of men and women dressed in old-fashioned attire—top hat, tuxedo, and cane for the men’s lavatory; hoop skirt, wide-brimmed hat, and bodice for the ladies’ room. .
Following my journey to the lavatory, which was impeccably clean, I contemplated departing but instead settled myself onto a bar stool at the elbow of the bar, for I did not wish to sulk and pace within the solitary confines of my oppressive domicile, and peaceful slumber would surely be impossible. My seat afforded me an excellent view of the other patrons who were present—a well-dressed elderly gentleman conversing with the bartender, a youngish couple, each absorbed in their cell phones, and a blonde woman clad in a business suit who smiled at me as I sat down. To my left hung a black-and-white photograph of Big Ben.
“What’ll it be, mate?” the bartender asked in a British accent.
“Are you, by chance, Mr. Doolittle?” I said, for no particular reason.
“No. There is no Doolittle.”
“How curious. Perhaps your establishment derives its name from Mr. George Bernard Shaw’s delightful play Pygmalion?”
“No. Don’t think I ever saw it,” he said after a moment of contemplation. “So what can I get you?”
I gave the matter some thought, “Well, perhaps, good sir, you might be kind enough to suggest a suitable libation that would magically quell the intense distress of a man who has suffered the loss of the woman he dearly loves because he voiced to her something that angered her greatly, whereupon she ordered him to depart her abode posthaste.”
After a moment of open-mouthed silence, the bartender gave forth a whistle. “Good Lord, that was a bloody long sentence.”
“I am given to verbosity on occasion. My apologies.”
He waved it off. “Well… the appropriate drink would depend on whether you want to be relieved of your sorrow or wallow in self-pity.”
“The latter.”
“I’d suggest wine then. Preferably red.”
“So be it.”
As it happened, he was quite correct. After two glasses of this beverage, I was even more desolate than I had been an hour before. Yet I or
dered another.
I was so consumed by thoughts of a dismal nature that I failed to notice that the aforementioned blonde female had dismounted her bar stool and materialized beside me. She, too, was consuming wine.
“Hard day at the office?” she said.
As this was none of her concern, I considered remaining silent but did not wish to appear rude. Thus I replied with a curt, “No.”
“Death in the family?”
“No.”
“Dog died?”
“No.”
“General angst about the state of mankind?”
“Of course, but that is not it either at the moment.”
She drummed her fingers on the bar. “Evidently, having reached the conclusion that I was not interested in conversation but not yet ready to surrender, she said, “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral? Maybe we could play charades.”
I did not offer a response, yet she possessed a kindly face and a pleasant smile and, having consumed two glasses of the grape, I was somewhat inebriated.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you to your sulking. Enjoy your—”
“A woman,” I said. “It concerns a woman.”
She nodded sagely, mounted the stool beside mine, and introduced herself as Carlotta Engelwing, C.P.A., whereupon I informed her that my appellation was Martin Chuzzlewit, D.D.S. “It’s usually about a woman,” she said. “I should have guessed. Silly me.”
As I did not wish to enlighten her regarding the curious reasons behind my recent tragic encounter with Abigail, for these would more than likely cause Ms. Engelwing, C.P.A., to question my sanity, I merely said, “I am afraid my paramour has jilted me.”
Ms. Engelwing smiled and touched my hand. “Welcome to the club, honey.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 23