Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 17 - C, Cola and Buzzards

“C, Cola and Buzzards”

Chapter 17

     “I don’t like this.” Mr. Abel whispered. Like his face, his sweaty hands were as pale and moist as a poached whitefish fillet. Shadows had pooled beneath his eyes and though he regularly appeared contemptible, Mr. Abel actually seemed ill. Even above the aroma of comfort foods wafting from the kitchen, he smelled more unhygienic than usual. It was clear at a glance, that Mr. Abel had skipped both shower and sleep. It was nearly five-thirty, Mr. Abel stood behind the bar, watched me, I thought of him on the other end of the telephone earlier that morning, touched the shape of the paring knife in my pocket, we both listened as Mrs. Abel’s loud on-the-telephone-voice echoed from the back office down the hall and around the corner. I was safe. The dinner crowd would trickle in at any moment and Mrs. Abel was only yards away. His eyes darted to my hand, I had an apron over the dress pocket, but I could get to the knife quickly if needed.

      Mr. Abel held a stack of stapled typing paper, he waved it in the air, turned it toward me so that I could read the bold red letter “C” that loomed above my name on the cover page. It was my history term paper, I wanted to fly at him with my knife.

“You find this mark acceptable?” Mr. Abel flitted through the ten pages and dropped my report on the counter-top. Things had shifted since my apology to Mrs. Abel just an hour earlier, certainly, I’d broken a few plates trying to escape her husband but I’d upheld the lie about busing tables and being a klutz. With my false admission I’d become more than a victim, I’d spoken my part to keep Mr. Abel’s wife ignorant and my father blind. I was a participant, along with the Crowns, caught in Mr. Abel’s deceit. As if he had the right, Mr. Abel had found my schoolbooks behind the counter, pulled my term paper and inspected it. He drummed the long fingers of one hand on the bar counter and cast a wary eye over my head toward the front door of the tavern.

“That’s up to my father, just like what I wear.” I said. Mr. Abel had been annoyed when he’d learned that I would not be wearing the new clothing he had provided via his wife. This isn’t what I want. Your father said this? Just what would he know about it?

     Overall, my grades were not stellar but I’d always managed to pull decent marks when pressed enough. The “C” on that history paper had been earned; I’d slapped it together two days late for no good reason. Mr. Abel looked at me again, for a few moments he seemed more worried than sick.

“There are no correction marks at all, no comments.” Mr. Abel said. “This professor didn’t even read it. Tell me, is this always the case? These grades?” he asked.

“Why don’t you ask my father about it?” I said. Mr. Abel pursed his lips, Mrs. Abel’s shallow laughter echoed in the background.

“I didn’t know about this.” Mr. Abel said. He wiped his forehead with the palm of one hand, coughed once before he continued.

“Your history professor is Sommers.” Mr. Abel leafed through my paper once more as if he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. I’d already finished preparing the tables; I thought that I could cut a couple of pies slices before customers arrived for dinner. I began to walk into the kitchen when Mr. Abel spoke. “You’ve brought this on yourself.” he said.

     I turned, stared, felt thankful that he was behind the counter; he’d said the same thing when I’d arrived for work earlier. Are you still angry with me? Of course, I may have been a little crude but you do these things to me. Do you see what has happened? Amelia, look what you’ve done. I’m impressive.Yes? You are the cause. Mr. Abel had spoken within earshot of all three Crowns, he’d laughed when I looked toward them for some form of help or acknowledgement.