I frowned. “There exists a club? How curious.”
“You’re funny.”
“That is not my intention,” said I. “I am not generally thought of as a man of great wit.”
“So you had an argument with this woman?”
“Indeed,” I said. “I attempted to enlighten her about something that she did not wish to hear. Her reaction to this was most unpleasant. It was entirely my fault, and now I sorely regret my actions. She grew angry, ordered me to depart the premises, and informed me quite emphatically that she did not wish to see me ever again.”
“Does she love you?”
“Alas, I do not know.”
“Why?”
“She has never indicated it. She refers to me as a ‘friend.’”
“Have you ever tried to put the moves on her?”
“If by ‘moves’ you refer to sexual advances, the answer is no, I have not.”
“Why not?”
“Because, dear Ms. Engelwing, I am not that sort of fellow.”
“So you’re not normal, you mean?”
“For your information, I am perfectly normal,” I said. “It is, as they say, a long story. May we please move on to other pastures?”
She nodded. “Well then, let me ask you this, Martin. Have you at least asked her how she feels about you?”
“Alas, no.”
“Why not?”
“I am afraid that cowardice, derived from several previous disastrous entanglements with members of your gender, has prevented me from inquiring about it.”
“You know what I think?” she said.
“What?”
“I think you need to grow a pair of balls.”
I gave her a questioning look. “If you are referring to testicles, I already possess the correct number, which I believe is two, and I do not wish to further burden my undergarments with a third. Secondly, I do not think this is even remotely possible.”
She was silent for a moment, as if she was awaiting a punch line. When one was not forthcoming, she said, “I think you know what I meant, Martin.”
“I do indeed. But as I was telling you before regarding my affair
d’amour, I cannot, at this time, inquire about my would-be paramour’s feelings for me or lack thereof because the young lady in question just made it abundantly clear that she does not wish to see me again in the future.”
“Maybe you should just call her and apologize.”
“I dare not for I sense that this approach would cause her to anger even more intensely.”
“Well, as they say, Martin, time heals all wounds.”
I made a disparaging sound with my nostrils. “With all due respect, Ms. Engelwing, I am afraid that I do not subscribe to banal proverbs such as that one. They are mostly incorrect.”
She shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“I am aware of that,” I said. “Please do not take offense.”
“None taken.”
It was then that I felt a distinct signal from my gastric organ that regurgitation would be an imminent possibility, which was confirmed when Ms. Engelwing told me that my face appeared to possess a somewhat greenish coloration. As this sensation commenced to increase in urgency, I tumbled from my stool and, with my hand covering my mouth, made it to the commode, where I proceeded to vomit with more than a little intensity.
As I was too light-headed to safely convey myself home, I temporarily abandoned my automobile in the parking lot, for the bartender had been kind enough to summon a taxi. This journey cost me dearly for it was a fifteen-mile trek. As I did not possess sufficient currency, I was compelled to knock on Felix’s front door for the purpose of borrowing the difference. He was happy to lend it to me as I had recently settled my rental debt, but when he inquired about my unusual inebriation, I assured him that I would illuminate him at a later date regarding the cause of my sorry state of being.
I slept fitfully that night, my mind awash with thoughts of the crisis I had stupidly brought upon myself. The following morn, I awoke with a headache of such considerable severity that I would have happily submitted myself to a guillotine in order to be rid of the agony, although I was reasonably certain that no one in Highland Falls or the surrounding areas possessed such a macabre instrument of decapitation. Instead, I consumed several tablets of a medication known as Tylenol, which somewhat relieved the pain.
Physically as well as emotionally sickened, I canceled my classes for two days and lay abed, attempting fruitlessly to occupy my mind with reading, but I found it nearly impossible to concentrate. As Ms. Engelwing had suggested the night before, I contemplated placing a call to Abigail but soon dismissed this notion, for I feared that she would not be pleased to hear from me while she still harbored such profound displeasure, and I would not be able to endure another confrontation such as the one that had occurred the last time we had been together. Most likely, she would not answer the phone. Balthazar called me to inquire about his daughter’s wellbeing, but I did not advise him regarding our recent dispute. I merely told him that she was quite well. Constance also called, but I did not reply to her voicemails.
Two weeks passed and I began to lose all hope of reconciliation. Although I resumed my classes, teaching was now an entirely joyless endeavor, and my demeanor was decidedly grim. Yet whenever I encountered Constance or Eliot, I produced counterfeit smiles of varying mirth and attempted to act as if there was nothing amiss.
Not wishing to appear utterly foolish, I resisted the temptation to make an appearance at Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium for fear that Abigail might ignore me, a fate that would leave me with no alternative but to sit alone whilst consuming a foul concoction from Phil’s menu. There was also the possibility, albeit remote, that she would throw water or some other liquid in my face.
Nor did I encounter Abigail in town or on campus. Perchance she had taken a romantic holiday with the young gentleman or fallen back into the embraces of William Octavian Butler. The mere visualization of such a horrid scenario caused me to lay awake at night, and I sometimes wished that I had simply maintained my former solitary life rather than engage in a romantic involvement with a female of the species, for at least my former lifestyle—uneventful and unfulfilling as it had been—had held no possibility of emotional turbulence. Returning to monkhood had its appeal.
But I digress.
On several occasions, I drove past Abigail’s apartment building but I did not espy her, for all her curtains and blinds were closed. As I did not wish to appear too pathetic, I abstained from any further surveillance and, from that time on, avoided motoring down her street.
Nearly every night, as I lay abed, recounting every minor detail of my last encounter with Abigail, I wished that I had conducted myself in a different manner. Why had I not silenced myself upon witnessing the onset of her fury? But, as some say, one cannot put toothpaste back in the tube, although on one morning, I attempted this exercise with a container of a dental cleanser named Colgate and found that it was not entirely impossible to do so.
A month passed with no word from Abigail. More than a few times, I dialed her phone number, but I never made it past the sixth digit.
On several occasions, I encountered Constance, and although I was tempted to seek her advice on the matter, I refrained, sensing that she would most likely berate me for having confronted Abigail with the details of her past life. I was well aware that I had horribly misjudged the situation and did not wish to suffer through a scolding.
Instead, I found myself confiding my woes to Felix. He was not a denizen of the so-called ivory tower and ergo the only acquaintance of mine who possessed some knowledge of the ways of the world, especially in regards to the fair sex. After all, Felix had grown up in a family populated principally by women and was the father of two daughters. However, much to my chagrin,
the most perceptive analytical response he was able to muster was a Greek adage that, roughly translated means , “Who understands women? They are all crazy!” Yet, I sincerely enjoyed his company and we set a date for a discussion of Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, an event at which he promised to introduce me to another Greek alcoholic beverage known as Metaxa.
Chapter Nineteen
Apparently, Felix was overeager to begin our scheduled book discussion because I received a knock on my door an hour prior to our scheduled meeting. This had transpired before, and I admit to having been somewhat perturbed by it. Punctuality dictates that one appears at the precise appointed hour, not after ,and certainly not an hour before.(My philosophy regarding punctuality dictates that ten minutes is the limitation for an early appearance.) In any case, I had been in the midst of cleaning my apartment in preparation for his arrival, and the ear shattering cacophony of my second-hand vacuum cleaner nearly prevented me from hearing his rapping. But when I opened the door it was not Felix who stood there.
“Hello, Archer,” Abigail said in a voice that bespoke some degree of annoyance.
“Abigail,” was the only word I could muster.
“May I come in?”
“Yes, of course!”
She followed me inside and proceeded to pace while I lowered my anatomy onto a chair and watched her. I noticed that she was wearing Wellingtons and carrying an umbrella of the type that folds up into a smaller size, an extremely convenient feature. There had been precipitation earlier in the day but it had since ceased. I felt my heart flutter, as if a ventricle was fanning my ribcage. What was she doing here?
Before speaking, she stopped abruptly in the midst of her journey from one end of the room to the other, and held my gaze for nearly ten seconds, although it felt like an eternity. “I’ve missed you, Archer,” she said. “I have missed you very much.”
I was momentarily taken aback by her admission, for it was unexpected, although, of course, encouraging. “And I have missed you as well,” I said.
“It’s been three weeks, Archer.”
“Not to nitpick, but in point of fact, it has been precisely thirty-eight days, seventeen hours and…” I glanced at my watch. “Forty-seven minutes.”
“How have you been?”
“Miserable,” I said. “And you?”
She did not immediately reply. “I, too, have been miserable. The prospect of never seeing you again was… unthinkable.”
“For me as well.”
“I had hoped that you would call or visit me, but you did not.”
“If you recall, you were quite livid when last we encountered one another,” I said. “I believed that you did not wish to hear from me ever again, as you rather pointedly insisted.”
“Yes, this is true, but I had hoped that you might overlook this dismissal eventually and forgive me for my outburst. Are we not friends?”
Friends. There was that word once again, that disconcerting term that I so despised. I stole a furtive glance at her, hoping that she would elaborate but alas she did not, thus leaving me in a state of profound disappointment.
“Yes,” I said. “We are indeed…friends.”
“Good. I am happy to hear that.”
“But I—”
Before I could finish my sentence, she experienced yet another ill-timed sneezing fit, most likely a result of the dust that had been emitted by my vacuum cleaner. I handed her my pocket-handkerchief, and she blew her nose.
Anticipating her words, I said, “Yes, you may take it with you in order to rid it of mucus.” She looked at me quizzically. I then realized that I had spoken these words to Abigail One.
“Shall we take a walk?” she said.
“Yes, if that’s what you wish.”
“It’s a bit dusty in here and it’s irritating my nostrils. Have you been vacuuming?”
“Yes.”
“You really should buy a new vacuum cleaner, Archer. It makes no sense to pull dust out of the carpet only to spread it elsewhere.”
“Quite true.”
Grabbing a coat from the rack that stood beside my door, I ushered her out into the somewhat chilly air, noting that she brought her umbrella along. We descended the stairs and proceeded to stroll down the sidewalk. Periodically, drops of water from the trees dripped on our heads, yet she did not open the umbrella. My state of mind was most anxious and I surreptiously glanced at her several times in an attempt to interpret the expression on her face.
“Is there any particular place you wish to go?” I said.
“No. Just an aimless stroll.”
I gazed upward and beheld several foreboding clouds. “It may rain again. You were quite sensible to have brought an umbrella.”
“If it rains, we can share it,” she said.
I turned to her. “Departing from the conversation regarding possible precipitation for a moment, I thought you might be amused to know that following our argument, I was so desolate that I found myself at a bar in Orangeville where I consumed three glasses of wine and subsequently vomited several times in the lavatory.”
“That is so very touching,” she said. “Not the vomiting part, though.”
I nodded. A moment of silence ensued. “Abigail, may I ask you a somewhat personal question?”
“You certainly may, provided it doesn’t concern that loathsome tale you told me on the evening of our quarrel.”
I decided not to contradict her. “It does not.”
“Then by all means proceed.”
I hesitated. “Just prior to our last meeting a month ago, I happened to espy you strolling down your street with a young gentleman. At this time, I was driving to a shop for the purpose of securing a container of shoe polish, for my footwear had become disgracefully scuffed. I do not wish to intrude, but I am curious regarding his identity.”
She reflected on the subject. “I believe you mean my cousin, Archibald. My father brought him along to visit me. He informed me that I had not seen my young relative in ages. I’m afraid I had quite forgotten him.”
Much relieved, I nodded and mouthed the word, “Oh.”
Moments later, we found ourselves wandering into an unpopulated playground that boasted a seesaw, several swings, monkey bars, and a slide. This sight reminded me of my youth, for my mother had sometimes escorted me to such places, hoping that I would engage in play with the other children. But I found such sport tiresome and always preferred to read while the others cavorted. Ah, youth!
As we continued our walk, I spotted a wooden bench and thought perhaps Abigail and I might sit upon it for awhile, but it was quite damp so we exited the playground and strolled once again down a tree-lined street with no particular destination.
“May I ask you a question, Archer?” Abigail said.
“By all means. Ask away!”
“Did you perhaps assume that I had…a romantic interest in Archibald when you saw us together, since you did not know that we are related?”
“I confess that the thought had crossed my mind.”
Before continuing, Abigail looked down at her shoes. “And did this assumption upset you?”
I steeled myself. “I will admit that it did.”
Abigail scrutinized me as if she had something of great significance to utter. “Archer, do you perhaps…have some affection for me that… exists beyond mere friendship?”
A few seconds passed before I was able to croak out the word, “Yes.”
“Then why have you not informed me of this before? Why did you give me no reason to think it?”
“I wanted to, Abigail,” I said. “But, alas, I was fearful of rejection. It has always been thus for me as I have in the past suffered great humiliation in the pursuit of the fair sex, a complex that commenced in the eighth grade, when I was spurned by a comely young lady by the name of Heloise Chuckerman.
Later, when I attended high school, my prom date—a pretty lass by the name of Alexandra Fernspiegel—cruelly deserted me for another young fellow, a cretin, I might add. It has, as they say, been downhill from there regarding other affiliations, including my disastrous marriage and the two experiences that followed.
“I am sorry to hear that, Archer. You poor man.”
“I appreciate your sympathy,” I said. “But perhaps if you had offered me a signal of sorts that you had emotional feelings for me, I may have acted.”
“But I did!”
“When?”
“Did I not kiss your cheek once?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you remember when I wore that revealing Japanese garment?”
“I do indeed.”
“Were you not stimulated?”
“Yes, but—”
“When we attended the cinema and I wept, were you not moved enough to console me, although, in all honesty, the film was rubbish?”
“Yes, but—”
“Archer, it was you who gave me no—how did you put it?—signal. I believed that you merely thought of us as friends.”
“But that is how you referred to me as well.”
“And how was I to refer to you? We were not related by blood, nor were we lovers.”
“You have a point.”
“Archer, I don’t mean to insult you, but you are quite thick-headed, ” Abigail said, “and much too analytical.”
“Alas, you are not the first person to have made that observation.” Sensing that this was indeed an opportune time for me to declare my feelings for her, I said, “My dear Abigail, I wish to tell you that I do feel quite an—”
But once again I was unable to finish my sentence. Abigail had been swinging her umbrella in front of her legs, not unlike a person afflicted with blindness searching for obstacles. Given her occasional tendency toward clumsiness, I feared that she might trip over it. As if reading my thoughts, she then withdrew it from her path. This came as a relief, but immediately thereafter she came upon a raised flagstone on the sidewalk and tripped over that. As I was standing a foot in front of her, I quickly turned and caught her before she toppled to the firmament. Of a sudden, she was squarely located in my arms. Our faces were no more than three inches from each other, our noses nearly touched and I was able to take in the sweet scent of her breath, which had a minty quality that I recognized as toothpaste. Without forethought or analysis of this happenstance, I kissed her on the lips and was delighted to perceive that she was most receptive to the coupling of our facial orifices.
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 24