A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 22
As it turned out, the live animals looked quite a lot like the stone sculptures except they were, if possible, decidedly more stoic. The mountain lion, a new transplant, prodded and pushed a sleeping cub as though the night permitted him to drop his act of intimidation. A troop of marmots, blessed with a startling re-creation of their natural habitat, huddled secretively under a tree, seeming to finalize the details of their escape route. The seals slept on their island rock, occasionally rousing to stretch their necks like ladies at a beach club. Nearby, the moon made silver ripples on the water’s surface. Everything around them was perfectly still except for the occasional rustle of trees and hushed city traffic. Entranced, the two old friends tripped up the steps that lined the seal tank and sat in silence for several minutes, their knees barely touching. There was simply no denying it, no matter how hard Bridget tried. When she was with Billy, she felt inexplicably happy. Unfortunately, she lacked the words to express the sentiment. And, every so often, this feeling alone caused her to erupt into laughter.
“What?” said Billy.
“Oh, nothing,” said Bridget. “I was just thinking about something.”
“What about?” he asked.
She paused to consider. “Nothing in particular.”
The two fell into silence again but soon Bridget broke it with another laugh, this time breaking into a more extended fit of combined hiccups and chortles. Again, when pressed, she claimed nothing in particular had caused her sudden outburst, at which point Billy became increasingly intent on finding the cause. Still, regardless of his determination, Bridget failed to cite one trigger and only grew more prone to giggling the more Billy pressed her. In response, Billy waged a new campaign, whereby he attempted to cure Bridget’s laughter with a series of absurdly serious faces, a tactic that only succeeded in producing the opposite effect of sobriety and finally caused Bridget to erupt into complete hysterics. Enraged by this slow escalation and his utter powerlessness to stop it, Billy finally burst himself, demanding that Bridget explain the joke or else stop laughing at once.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.” She forcibly flattened her mouth with her hands as though muscles and mood could be forced to mirror one another.
“Unless you have further comments,” Billy said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
On sight of his overly serious face, Bridget struggled to stifle a laugh. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll go first. You have something in your teeth. Looks like spinach.”
Humbled, Billy opened his mouth and removed the offending object. He sat in embarrassed silence for a moment and fixed his eyes to the ground. But he forced himself to speak quickly, scared that any further delay could finally cost him his chance. “Bridget, I have to show you something.”
“Come on. No more suspense,” she said.
Billy nodded and inhaled deeply, wrung his hands out, cracked a knuckle then, without further fanfare, raised his hands to his head and removed his Red Sox cap. “As you know, I gave you this cap once before but you wouldn’t accept it.”
Bridget straightened suddenly then turned to face Billy head-on. There was something vaguely familiar about his tone, the theatrical lilt in his voice, his absurdly formal verbiage; the sincerity was uncharacteristic. All of it carried the unmistakable echo of a familiar ritual. But she quickly forced herself to dismiss the thought. The chances were one in a million. Billy would never. Would he?
“Time stopped for me ten years ago when you rejected my proposal…”
Bridget narrowed her eyes at Billy. Had she heard him correctly? His gaze betrayed too much intent, like a clown at a children’s party. He stressed certain syllables oddly as though he had rehearsed this speech in front of a mirror. Of course, it was cruel to treat love as a game, romance as an audition. Still, Bridget couldn’t help wishing Billy would relax a little.
“That night ten years ago…” Billy went on. He paused, searching for words.
Bridget took the opportunity to make a mental list of his defects. So often, Billy’s earnestness denied the world its subtleties and, even worse, his ego conspired with his earnestness. He was like a suitor from another time, his methods embarrassingly outdated. He was worse than a hopeless romantic; he was positively constipated. He was also way too easy on himself, awfully fond of his own voice. He had an incurable weakness for melodrama to the point of being maudlin. How could she ever love someone so oblivious to his shortcomings? Of course, there were a few key facts that Bridget had to concede. Billy was sweet, admirably tenacious, often funny, charming even, and, at the moment, his big green eyes looked completely irresistible. Unfortunately, the power of this sentiment prohibited its translation and, despite her efforts, Bridget burst into giddy laughter once again.
Billy stared at the ground for a moment, completely confounded then, taking a last gulp of air, began his speech again. “Bridget,” he said, but suddenly his script raced out of his head. Vowels abandoned consonants. Words merged into a senseless blur. He racked his brain for poetry but found cliché instead. “Since the first day we met,” he began. Oh God. What was he thinking? “You see, I’ve always known,” he tried. No, that wouldn’t do either. “Remember when Tug was signed by the Yanks.” Oh God. This was harder than he’d thought. “Oh to hell with it,” he said. His eyes widened with genuine terror. “Will you marry me?” he asked.
Spending ten years avoiding these words had infused them with a certain sacred power. As a result, Bridget had always assumed that she would surely collapse should Billy ever utter them. But now she surprised even herself with her measured response. After waiting a moment to catch her breath, she said, “Oh Billy, not again.”
Billy stared at Bridget for a moment, at a loss for words. Of course, on some level, he’d expected her to say no, but now that it had been uttered, he refused to accept it. “Why not?” he demanded.
“Well, for one,” Bridget began, “there’s no ring in sight. It needn’t be big nor impressive. The point of the ring is to prove to the girl that you planned ahead. Second of all, that was one of the worst proposals I’ve ever heard. Terrible delivery. Weak preface. Where was my charming anecdote? As far as originality, I couldn’t even begin to judge. I lost you after the first sentence. Everything else, you mumbled.”
Billy stared at Bridget now with new irritation. Who did she think she was anyway? She was acting like Billy was an Olympic skater and she was the Russian judge.
“Regarding the ring,” Billy stammered. “I will get one soon. I just thought…”
“What did you think?” asked Bridget.
“I just thought I had better rush since I have…”
“Yes?” Bridget crossed her arms.
“Since I have…”
Bridget raised her eyebrows.
Billy took a deep breath. “Since I have competition.”
“Competition,” Bridget cried. She stood suddenly from the step. She stared at Billy indignantly as both hands flew to her hips. “Of all the unromantic things…” she cried. “Oh, Billy.” She shook her head. Suddenly, her voice dropped an octave. “You’d think with all the practice you’ve had,” she said, but she trailed off, still shaking her head as though she had been rendered speechless by sheer disappointment. “Well,” she mustered finally, “Billy, you botched it again.”
“No,” Billy wailed. He fell to his knees. “I’ll do it better next time.”
Bridget’s sigh carried both anger and fatigue. “I won’t hold my breath.”
Seizing the chance for a dramatic exit, Bridget stormed out of the park, leaving Billy alone with the animals in the zoo to contemplate his second strike. Still, from one perspective, the night had been a success. Billy had added one truly horrific proposal to Bridget’s all-time-worst list.
And yet, this very silly night had serious consequences. Bell rose suddenly in Blaine’s estimation while Billy sunk in Bridget’s. Worst of all, the boys did themselves a terrible disservice, subjecting themselves to unforgivably bad hair and condemning any passersby to utter confusion. As promised, without their caps on, the twins were indistinguishable. Even those who had known them since birth were liable to mistake one for the other.
14
Mean Streak
Sunday mornings at the Barnacles were always a competitive affair long before the contest wrought its own peculiar havoc. The whole family assembled at the dining room table and, while they raced to inhale the meal, engaged in a daily cutthroat attempt to annoy each other into skipping breakfast. Still, when she woke, Bell was cheered by a positive passing thought: Beth and Belinda were back at school, which reduced the female population from six to four and hopefully, in turn, the volume. But Bell’s hopes were dashed the moment she took her seat at the table. Even with Beth and Belinda away, the apartment still veered dangerously close to maximum levels of chaos. The noise produced by Beth and Belinda had been immediately replaced, as though by an interior thermostat whose purpose was to maintain constant unrest as opposed to room temperature. In fact, the current residents, the two eldest and youngest sisters, were a dangerously combustible group, the combined volume of Bridget and Benita alone enough to power a small city. As a result of this slight escalation and the looming presence of the contest, breakfast conversation teetered on the edge of total madness.
“Would you please pass the milk?” Bell demanded.
“Would you like me to pass it clockwise or counterclockwise?” asked Benita.
“Do you think she cares which way you pass it?” asked Bridget.
“How would I know?” asked Benita.
This standoff of meaningless questioning was not any ordinary fight. It was rather a hallowed family game, a favorite mealtime distraction that had evolved long ago in response to Barry’s mandate that his daughters question everything. As though to prove the absurdity of their father’s request, the girls took him at his word, answering questions with more questions, sometimes spending entire meals without uttering a declarative sentence. Like every other sport at which the girls competed, this was a ferocious game. But today there was a new intensity to the exchange, since all discussion at the table quickly led back to the contest.
“I just thought you should know,” Benita announced, “I’m about to win.”
“It’s not a good idea to brag,” said Beryl. “The future abhors planners.”
“Benita, I hate to break it to you,” said Bell, “but you have as much chance of winning as the Sox have of beating the Yanks again.”
Of all the taunting, it was this comment that put Benita over the edge, causing her in mid-spoonful of cereal, to spit her milk across the table. Due to group consensus, Benita was given two options: She could either leave the table immediately or refrain from speaking altogether.
“Don’t mind Benita,” Beryl declared. “She’s obviously just jealous. Everyone knows Bridget’s one night away from winning the contest.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Benita.
“And why not?” asked Bridget.
Benita looked from Bell to Bridget slyly, then puffed out her stomach and patted her belly, intimating she was onto Bell’s secret.
Though she wanted more than anything in the world to slaughter her sister in cold blood, Bell did her best to control her homicidal feelings. Instead, she funneled her reproach into a glare and, still eyeing Benita in a threatening way, stood from the table and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Seconds later, Bridget muttered an excuse for why she, too, had to go and hurried down the hall after Bell, anxious to discuss the night’s events.
Bridget insisted on recounting first, as was the custom. But her enthusiasm precluded a linear retelling, causing her to speak in an annoying digressive manner that combined endless tangents, dreamy generalizations, and rhetorical questions. Had Bell realized, she wanted to know, how pleasant it was to stroll in Central Park at night, that it wasn’t even particularly scary once you got used to the dark? Had Bell ever noticed how spring’s first leaves shimmered under the lampposts, causing them to look the same at two in the morning as they did in broad daylight? Had Bell ever known how easy it was to sneak into the Central Park Zoo? Did she have any idea how completely adorable seals looked when they were sleeping, that they all huddled up in a little clump like a pile of dirty laundry? More importantly, did Bell have any idea how much better Billy was looking these days? Had she ever noticed, I mean really noticed, the color and intensity of his eyes? Had Blaine experienced the same transformation? Since the twins were identical in every way, had Bell had just as much fun?
“Yes” had been Bell’s slightly irritated response to Bridget’s breathy questionnaire, especially as she began to detect the resemblances between their two dates. Still, despite her aggravation, she listened as though she were two people. On the surface, she was the attentive older sister, eager to interpret and offer advice. Underneath, she was a meticulous scientist, scrupulously gathering data. What, exactly, had Billy said? What time did they enter the park? Why did they choose the Central Park Zoo instead of the Boat Pond? Had he checked his watch a lot? Did he seem distracted? As Bridget rambled, Bell peppered her sister with questions, engaging in a tacit investigation, pressing her sister for specifics. Unfortunately, Bridget didn’t offer Bell much help. She’d been very drunk, she claimed, and now could not remember much. Luckily, she did remember one critical excerpt from the night. In fact, she remembered every word of Billy’s memorable monologue.
“Bell, you’re not going to believe what he said next.”
“Oh, you must tell,” Bell said dryly. “I can’t take the suspense.”
Bridget batted her eyes demurely, pausing for effect. “Bell,” she said, then paused again, “Billy proposed to me.”
“He what?” Bell snapped.
“You heard me,” Bridget repeated. She shook her head and widened her eyes as though in reluctant effort to discern between the truth and a perfect dream.
“You’re kidding,” said Bell.
“Oh, he did it very badly, but that’s hardly the point.”
“Bridget, please be serious. Did that really happen?”
“I know,” Bridget said. She shook her head again in that same slightly insufferable way then smiled to herself as though enjoying her own private joke. “Isn’t that insane? I can hardly believe it myself.”
“No,” said Bell. “It’s terrible.” She looked away from Bridget as though to complete complex mental calculations.
“Oh, he’ll get it eventually,” Bridget went on. She stood and walked to her dresser to stand in front of her mirror. Lifting a hairbrush to her head, she indulged in one luxurious stroke then stopped and addressed her reflection. “Maybe next time you could help him out. You know, coach him a little.”
Bell said nothing for a moment, distracted by Bridget’s supreme self-absorption, but she did her best to focus again on the evidence. Perhaps she should not bother Bridget with the news until she was sure exactly what had occurred. But glancing at Bridget once again, she found her engaged in the odd ritual of looking in the mirror and singing to herself and, deciding Bridget could handle it, she smiled heartily, and cleared her throat. “Bridge,” Bell said, “what I’m about to say will probably upset you.”
“Try me,” Bridget said and smiled. “Today, I’m immune to stress.”
Bell smiled and looked at the ground, inspected the rosebuds in the rug’s floral border, and debated, but only for a fleeting second, the selfishness of ruining Bridget’s good mood. “Last night,” Bell said, “well … oddly enough…” She paused, searching for the right words. “I’d guess about ten minutes before Billy asked you, Blaine asked me, too.”
Bridget squinted and wrinkled her nose. “Ha-ha. Very funny,” she said. “Then, let me guess,” she said, playing along, “at precisely one thirty-seven, he sneezed three times, then lost his balance and stubbed his third toe.”
“Bridget, it’s not a joke,” said Bell.
“I know,” Bridget said, “which explains why I’m not laughing.” Bridget offered Bell a frivolous smile as though to flaunt her unflappable good humor.
But Bell held fast, combating Bridget’s mirth with her most serious look. “Why would I make this up?” she asked.
Bridget narrowed her eyes skeptically.
Bell nodded for emphasis.
“What do you mean?” Bridget demanded.
“Exactly what I said.”
“What did he say? What did you say? Why are you making this up?”
“Bridget,” said Bell. She let the word hang in the air.
“You know, Bell,” said Bridget. “It’s not nice to do this just because you’re jealous.”
Deciding a calm, neutral gaze was the most efficient way to make her point, Bell said nothing, only sighed and walked toward her sister, then extended her hand and placed it patronizingly on Bridget’s back. Bridget shirked Bell’s hand away, but the gesture had the intended effect, causing Bridget to look, still in the mirror, from Bell to herself then finally, accepting Bell’s authority, to crumple onto the bed. Relieved by Bridget’s détente, Bell followed her sister across the room then, doing her best to suppress a satisfied smile, sat next to her on the bed.
“What did you say in response?” Bridget asked.
“I said ‘no,’ of course,” Bell said. “A boy’s got to work for these things.”
Bridget stared harder at her sister then focused her gaze at the wall, as though awaiting a slide show.
“What did you say?” Bell demanded.
“Obviously, I said ‘no,’” Bridget snapped. “He didn’t have a ring. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”
Though she was tempted to take issue with one of many of the problems with Bridget’s statement, Bell forced herself to remain on message. “Bridget,” she said. “Don’t you think this is a little weird?”
“No,” snapped Bridget. “For all we know, it was just a coincidence.”
