A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 23
“They took us to the exact same place and said the exact same thing,” Bell said, her volume rising noticeably.
“So,” said Bridget. “It’s not such a shock. There are only so many places to go. They both just chose the most interesting place in the neighborhood.”
“Bridget, don’t be obtuse,” said Bell. “Our nights were identical.”
“Of course, they were identical,” snapped Bridget. She stood suddenly from the bed. Whatever bond had existed between the sisters a moment before had been broken. “What do you expect?” she went on. She paced the full length of the room. “We went out with identical twins. Ever since they were little boys, they’ve been doing bizarre things like this. They say the same thing at the same time, they get sick at the same time, their game score in tennis is practically even and, in case you’ve forgotten, almost ten years ago, they climbed in our window within ten minutes of each other, and…” Bridget trailed off suddenly. “Oh God. Do you think?” she asked.
Bell nodded solemnly. Slowly, she recalled the events of a night ten years earlier. Hindsight, she realized, was better than 20/20. Hindsight was clairvoyant. The double proposal was not a fluke; it was a practical joke.
“At the time,” Bell said, thinking aloud, “we credited nature.”
“But, over the years,” Bridget jumped in, “nurture molded their differences.”
“Then why, after spending so much time apart, would they act like they shared the exact same brain unless they had planned it beforehand as some sort of elaborate stunt?”
Still leery of Bell’s thesis, Bridget played devil’s advocate. “Sometimes, two different roads take you to the same place.”
“Why are you making excuses for them? We are the butts of this joke.”
Bridget stopped pacing, her route blocked by the bedroom door. She glanced out the window helplessly, as though another person waited just outside with a valuable third perspective. “Oh, Bell,” she said, “does it really matter? We had fun either way, right?”
“That is not the point,” Bell snapped.
“What is the point?” asked Bridget.
“You should be totally outraged,” Bell said. “You should be indignant!”
“Oh Bell, you’re such a grouch,” Bridget said.
But Bell had made her point. Defeated, Bridget limped across the room and threw herself across the bed.
At Bell’s request, the girls retreated to their father’s office, locking the door so as to prevent unwanted interruptions. Over the years, Barry had compiled a comprehensive file, charting the twin’s every move in scrupulous detail. The files presented a colorful mosaic of the boys’ histories: height charts, IQ scores, locks of hair, lost teeth, A papers, blue ribbons. Blaine’s fifth-grade science fair project presaged his future obsessions: a test of the durability in soda, water, and acid of nickels, dimes, and quarters. Billy’s first poem was penned in the tiny, curling font of a deeply obsessive mind and, incidentally, both girls had to agree, a terrible poem. Growth charts of the boys revealed that Blaine had always been an inch in the lead. Even Blaine’s baby booties exposed the discrepancy; they were a full size bigger than Billy’s. The archives, spread out on the floor, presented a compelling case, amounting to nothing less than Billy and Blaine’s life stories. And yet, in some way, this evidence revealed more about Barry than the boys. This was not the research of a scientist, but the scrapbook of a doting dad.
It was, of course, very sensitive work to make their analysis. In fact, Bell told Bridget, it was entirely critical to their mission that they block off their hearts from emotion as though staunching the flow of blood with a tourniquet. In order to know the truth, she felt, one must view reality from a distance. In order to know love, she reasoned, one must first fall out of it. To be sure, romance can benefit from such ascetic objectivity, permitting the student to filtrate the elements, to separate lust from passion. But there are also risks involved in taking this tack. Such a clinical approach threatens to corrupt love’s natural process. Still, Bell felt completely justified in her investigation, convinced the best way to tell true love from false was to place it under a magnifying glass. Bridget, however, was a reluctant apprentice. She was still not convinced that the boys had conspired and objected, she said, on empirical grounds to Bell’s behaviorism. Her argument was based in girlish emotion. She claimed the boys’ prank, if it was one at all, was meant with the best intentions.
“We enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we?” she asked. “What harm did they really do? Besides, if we confront them now, we’ll just look like idiots.”
But Bell held firmly to her point. Love was already brutal enough.
Finally, Bell had no choice but petition her sister, for she knew that their best shot at revenge was to join forces. They must sacrifice themselves for the cause and go on second dates with the boys. But this time, they would be on their guards, armed with chilling awareness and emotional indifference.
“This is the perfect experiment,” Bell argued, “to discern the boys’ true motives.”
“This is the perfect way,” Bridget countered, “to rob life of all its romance.”
“This is the perfect test,” Bell tried, “with which to gauge Billy’s manhood.”
Here was a game of huge proportions, both girls finally agreed, at once a challenge to nature’s might, nurture’s malleability, and a battle in the oldest contest in the world, the war between men and women.
“Here’s to sugar on the strawberries,” Bell said, raising an imaginary glass.
“Here’s to sugar on the strawberries,” Bridget seconded.
And they laughed so hard that neither one noticed as a wholly unforeseen new variable entered the experiment.
* * *
Billy awoke on Sunday morning in a state of complete bafflement. This was not merely the confusion of a hangover. He was at a loss for certain vital statistics, such as how he’d gotten into his bed and the decade in which he lived. Memory graced him in stages as he winced at a patch of sunlight. He was not in his room, but rather in Blaine’s. And, if he could glean anything from the creases on his face that formed the perfect shape of shirtsleeves, he had fallen asleep in his clothes and slept quite soundly. Despite this rush of disturbing information, he was greeted with some happy news. By some stroke of luck, he had worn a shade of blue last night that did wonders for his complexion. Another discovery amplified this sense of good fortune. A bright red patch on the upper corner of his neck promoted an obvious deduction.
Unfortunately, something in the image triggered a critical neuron in his brain, causing Billy to regain a patchy recollection of his night, along with the crushing awareness that this spot was not a love bite but rather a climbing scrape. Now, the remainder of his evening flooded his consciousness with cruel specificity. At some point around three o’clock in the morning, he had tripped back to his room from the Barnacle apartment to find his room occupied by Blaine. Still, one remaining missing fact perpetuated his mental fog. Billy blinked as he surveyed his room. What on earth had he been doing?
The boys’ living quarters resembled the girls’ only in physical layout. But due to the size of the Finch family, both boys had enjoyed the privilege of solitary habitation, while the girls across the hall, cursed with overcrowding, had been forced to double up. Both rooms were perfect expressions of the boys’ respective personalities. Billy’s exhibited the lack of hygiene and order befitting a teenage boy as well as the early, if slightly strained, signs of a young man trying to emerge. The walls were crammed with colorful posters of athletes and lascivious-looking women, the shelves were cluttered with trophies, board games, and toys left over from childhood. The room’s remaining surface area was covered with the prerequisite mural of female body parts, advertising beer and ski equipment as though the closet hid a secret stash of items for purchase.
But underneath the typical litter of so many male hormones, there was evidence of a quiet sensitivity, one might even say an artistic sensibility. A black-and-white photograph of his mother developed during a summer photography course; a montage of cartoons torn from the New Yorker with scrupulous carelessness; towering stacks of screenplays; and, tacked up to a corkboard, thirty pages of a novel he’d never finished. All of these things could be found in odd corners of Billy’s room like bloody fingerprints at a crime scene. Each artifact was evidence of some secret, delicate part of Billy’s soul struggling to break through the more mundane aspects of his masculinity.
Blaine’s room, on the other hand, was entirely devoid of testosterone. It exhibited the direct influence of his mother’s femininity. The room’s color scheme was an intricate balance of solid and patterned fabrics, combining a powder blue duvet with darker blue accents and a simple beige-and-white striped wallpaper that elongated the walls while drawing the eye toward the window. If possible, Blaine had managed to surpass even Mrs. Finch’s attention to detail. He was not only the recipient of her acute eye but the lucky beneficiary of all the fabric she had amassed over the years. As a result, he had developed a painter’s sense of the complementary relationships of colors and had graced the walls with four paintings he had completed himself. The paintings were simple color blocks but quite expert in their contrasts, harmonizing perfectly with the room’s palate.
He kept an old-fashioned manual typewriter on his desk purely for aesthetic effect and stowed his laptop underneath in a convenient but well-hidden chamber. In the spring, he removed a small vase from this drawer and placed it on the edge of the desk so as to enjoy one added sliver of color. As though in silent acknowledgment of the room’s fastidiousness, he had searched the city for the perfect cohesive detail. Finally, he had found the exact thing at the weekly flea market on Twenty-sixth Street, a large black-and-white photograph of Muhammad Ali, arms raised in flight. The image provided the perfect backdrop for his screenwriting efforts, serving as a reminder that all drama was born in conflict.
As teenagers, the boys had shared a room for one brief and ill-fated month after a misguided attempt to merge their real estate. In the hopes that a single empty room could be devoted to nefarious activities, the boys doubled up in Billy’s room, constructing a bunk out of their two beds and converting the spare room into an all-purpose area. In concept, the extra room was meant to serve a variety of needs, acting as a clubhouse, a liquor cabinet, a hi-fi center and ladies’ lair. Unfortunately, the plan backfired within a couple of weeks when the twins’ notorious single-mindedness compelled them to bring young ladies to the room during the same time slot. As a result, they quickly reclaimed the titles to their original rooms and returned to their original configuration. They resided in these separate bedrooms up until they went away to college, using Central Park and neighborhood bars to serve the same needs as the spare room.
Lately, however, Blaine had taken it upon himself to adjust the living arrangements. Upon returning from his nuptial apartment to his parents’, he had found that sleeping in his childhood room was simply too painful a reminder of his adult failures. So, without consulting his parents or Billy, he had taken the liberty of switching rooms, eschewing his own bedroom in favor of Billy’s. This move, he felt, threatened no one in particular since the layouts of the two rooms were mirror images. He felt further justified because when he made the switch, Billy had yet to return. When he did, of course, he lacked Blaine’s tragic circumstances and the claim on real estate to which they entitled him. Moreover, Blaine felt such brazen acts were the birthright of the firstborn son. Of course, this move had repercussions Blaine could never have foreseen, depriving friends and family of yet one more method with which to tell the twins apart.
Finally, acknowledging the time, Billy fumbled from his room and walked, or rather crept, down the hall in search of some clean clothes. He reached the door to his bedroom and tapped it open with his foot. Immediately, he was forced to squint. The sun struck the window at such an angle as to transform it into a mirror, causing Billy to confront his own reflection. He stared at himself for a moment, taken aback but not altogether displeased. In fact he decided, if he dared say so, he was looking rather handsome. His clothes were smart if a bit rumpled on the side on which he’d slept, but the rumpling did him no great disservice, causing him to look at once rugged and sincere, boyish and yet virile.
His hair looked coifed but not intentionally so. His eyes were younger than the rest of his face. His cheeks, though slightly full for his age, were tinged a charming pink color that made him look quite lovable. It was, of course, more difficult to deny the effects of time on his hairline, but even now, as he ran his hands through his hair, he was not hard-pressed to see how baldness could give a man the mark of distinction. He had certainly put on a couple pounds but you could never call him “fat.” Satisfied, he gave his hair a tousle. However, he stopped tousling in his tracks when he realized, to his great confusion, that his reflection was not tousling back.
“What are you doing?” Blaine demanded.
Billy stared at Blaine, perplexed. He checked his brother’s face for inconsistencies as though it were entirely plausible that he had just addressed his reflection and his reflection had addressed him back.
“Billy,” said Blaine. “Snap out of it. Why do you look so stunned?”
“Oh, it’s you,” Billy sighed. “Without your baseball cap on, you look … well, you look like my reflection.”
Blaine scoffed as though Billy had just uttered the most mundane of statements. Had he said “the moon is made of cheddar cheese,” he might have earned a better reception.
“I suppose it’s only natural,” Billy muttered. “It happens to everyone else.” Kicking himself, he stared at Blaine, then brought his fingers to his neck to make sure his heart was still beating. Comforted by the beat of his pulse, he scanned the bedroom curiously. Finally, his outrage returned. “Anyway,” he said, “this is my room. What are you doing?”
“Mom said I could stay in here,” Blaine snapped. He placed his hands on his hips.
“Did it ever occur to you to check with me first?”
“It’s not your room anymore,” said Blaine.
“Of course it is,” said Billy.
Blaine assumed the impertinent air of a very seasoned attorney. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said. “You’re here voluntarily.”
Failing to find a response for this, Billy looked at the ground, then, still flustered, alternated his gaze between Blaine and his own belongings.
Finally, Blaine took pity on Billy and offered him a chair.
“Sorry to wake you,” Billy said.
“No, it’s perfect,” Blaine said dryly. “I find the best cure for a hangover is not to sleep at all.”
“Good,” said Billy. He managed, as always, to miss Blaine’s sarcasm. He settled into a large stuffed chair whose cushion boasted the additional padding of a heap of dirty laundry.
“So,” said Blaine. “What happened last night? Did she fall to Cupid’s arrow?”
“No, she did not,” Billy sniffed. “As much as I hate to admit it.”
“That’s terrible,” Blaine said, sighing. “Tell me what went wrong.”
Billy regarded his brother with appropriate suspicion. Such overt shows of compassion from Blaine were always accompanied with some risk. “Where should I begin?” Billy began, eyeing Blaine cautiously. Then, giving him the benefit of the doubt, he asked, “In short, what didn’t?”
Blaine, who was now sitting on the bed, switched into a reclining position, placing his hands behind his head in an exaggerated show of interest.
“It’s my fault for proposing without a ring,” Billy said. “I should have listened to you.”
“What were her objections?” Blaine asked. He tilted his head to one side like a bored therapist.
“Oh God,” Billy sighed. “Where to start? The proposal. The ring. The suitor.”
“Consider it a blessing,” said Blaine. “Now you know what you’re dealing with. Who wants to devote his life’s work to someone so high-maintenance?”
Billy crossed, then uncrossed his legs, considering Blaine’s counsel. His advice was sound but also carried the impersonal ring of words from inside a fortune cookie. “Hopefully, Mom will take pity on me and give me Grandmother’s ring.”
“Oh no, don’t do that,” Blaine said, his voice jumping an octave. He quickly qualified his response. “Don’t let her think she can push you around. Make her sweat a little.”
Startled by his brother’s tone, Billy glanced at Blaine then, doubting himself again, he replaced his head in his hands and resumed moaning.
“The last thing you want to do,” Blaine went on, “is come across as desperate. If you capitulate too quickly, you set a bad precedent.”
“Grandmother was a very tough lady,” Billy countered. “And she liked that precedent.”
“Fine. Don’t listen to me,” said Blaine. “Just don’t be surprised if you get another rejection.”
Billy slumped deeper into the upholstery of his chair, then, tiring of his surroundings, removed a dirty shirt from the pile on his chair and used a soiled oxford shirt to block the sunlight and completely cover his face.
“Can I just say one last thing?” asked Blaine.
Billy muffled his assent through the shirt.
“If I were you, I would take the day off. You can’t afford another strike.”
Billy began to construct his rebuttal but quickly thought better of it. Perhaps he should heed his brother’s warning and take a short hiatus. Lacking the strength to decide either way, he sat paralyzed for a moment and then, in the absence of a better plan, resolved to take a short nap. Without further delay, he emitted one last helpless sigh and thanking his brother for his help, he hoisted himself from the chair without removing the shirt from his head, and stumbled back to Blaine’s room. Perhaps the room trade would result in some inadvertent lucky break, blessing Billy with Blaine’s luck as though by osmosis.
15
Double Vision
