A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 27
“So this is some kind of protest?” Bell asked.
“Compared to Billy and Blaine,” said Benita, “I think Charles is very deserving.”
Flummoxed again, Bell tried to match words with thoughts. “What do they have to do with this?” she asked.
“I hate to break it to you,” said Benita, “but Blaine’s not after love.”
“Oh, really. What’s he after?” asked Bell.
“The same thing as Charles,” Benita said. “Someone to play with, pat his head, and occasionally buy him dinner.”
Bell stared at her sister now with all-consuming hatred. “Don’t you have school or something?” she asked. “It’s Monday morning.”
“Oh, poor Bell,” Benita said. She offered her sister a pitying look. “I have bad news for you. It’s Monday afternoon.”
Again, Bell heard a chorus of critics echoing in her head. Would she still be this incompetent, she wondered, when she was a mother? Newly determined to leave the house, she dismissed Benita’s critique. Without further delay, she opened the front door and rang for the elevator.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Benita advised.
“I’ll take my chances,” Bell said.
“Okay, suit yourself,” said Benita. “I, for one, would rather take the stairs than face the wrath of Jorge.”
Instinctively, Bell touched her head as though to will comprehension. Suddenly, her heart stopped in mid-beat. She’d completely forgotten her promise.
“Apparently, you had some deal,” Benita said, effecting both specificity and vagueness at once. “Something about working his shift … some sort of birthday present.”
“Oh God,” Bell said. She took an involuntary step away from the door. “Oh God,” she repeated, then, to herself, “I’m a terrible person.”
“Yup,” said Benita. “Luckily, Mom covered for you. Or you’d be in hot water…”
In an instant, all the blood in Bell’s head rushed down to her toes.
“If she hadn’t,” Benita went on, now relishing the look on Bell’s face, “Jorge would definitely have been fired. Mr. Finch was not happy about having to use the stairs.”
Surprise took its time to work its way through Bell’s nervous system. When shock finally turned to comprehension, she moved from the foyer to the living room, locking the front door behind her. Indisputably, guilt is an empty emotion of questionable value, usually designed to comfort the guilty and rarely to help the victim. But now, guilt produced a productive reaction in Bell, spurring her to take incremental steps away from the elevator.
“Anyway,” Benita continued, “I won’t bother you with the details.” Her already proud smile swelled into one of largesse. “Jorge just got to the building so you can talk to him yourself.”
Bell stared into space for a moment, digesting her remorse. But, resisting the overwhelming desire to run, she planted her feet to the ground and prepared to own up to her mistake. Benita regarded her sister from a new stationary position, having taken a seat on the sofa to better enjoy her older sister’s disintegration. Still, Bell found the inner strength to approach the front door. However, her confidence faltered as soon as it had returned. The sounds of muffled banter and whistling ropes announced the elevator’s imminent arrival on her landing. Losing resolve suddenly, she flinched away from the door and hurried back down the hall past her bedroom, shoving the back door open for an emergency evacuation. Taking the stairs two steps at a time, she descended all the way to the sidewalk, then darted onto Fifth Avenue seconds before the elevator returned to the ground floor. Now, at a full sprint, she dodged oncoming traffic and entered Central Park on Sixty-sixth. At the Boat Pond, she finally slowed to a walk. Jorge’s shift lasted until eight o’ clock. She would take a very long stroll.
Outside, April made itself known with all the telltale signs. Everywhere in the city, people shed their winter clothes, baring limbs too pink to reveal, unveiling parts of their bodies long before they should have been shown. The air presaged the future months with gusts of summer heat, causing men to peel off their jackets, children to run in senseless circles, women to hike up their skirts. A troop of private-school girls paraded past the Alice statue in one neat, single-file line, their blue and white uniforms causing them to look like a flock of exotic birds. It was the kind of weather that confronted you the moment you awoke and filled you with the urgent desire to call someone you barely knew and drag him to a picnic. Whereas Fifth Avenue had seemed, days ago, a street made only for cars, it suddenly teemed with human traffic. Every inch on the horizon was devoted to merriment of some kind. On a day like this, Bell cautioned herself, she was seriously at risk. On a day like this, she was an easy target; she could fall in love with anyone.
It was that magical time that falls on a different week every year. It is the moment just after the first bloom, when the blossoms are at their most luxurious, and the rest of the trees in the park have yet to burst in full force. But even these trees seem close to shedding their winter pallor. The promise of buds casts the faintest shadow over their uppermost branches, tingeing every third tree, with a film of light pink. Every single blade of grass demanded consideration. Forsythia hung just above the ground. Tulips burst like tiny trumpets. Daffodils strained to keep up. Tree branches seemed to reach for the ground to caress people’s shoulders. One magnolia tree opened in a magnificent array, its flowers hovering on its branches like a hundred roosting doves. A cherry blossom, still weeks from its blushing debut, already flirted with springtime, each bud straining to the sky like clamoring baby birds. As Bell turned west onto the Great Lawn, her furrowed brow melted into a smile. There is simply nothing more glorious than springtime in New York.
Bell took a seat on an empty bench, permitting herself to revel cautiously in a patch of sunlight. She sat still, for a moment, surveying the park then she noticed a familiar presence. Trot sat just three feet away, wholly absorbed in a book, his carriage the picture of wistful defeat and decidedly un-springlike introversion. From his rumpled shirt, creased in intricate patterns, and the slightly wild look in his eyes, Bell wondered, for a moment, if Trot had simply camped out in the park for the night. Still, Bell couldn’t help but note a decidedly adorable trait. Trot was so completely engrossed in his book that he unconsciously moved his lips as he read, forming the words, as though chanting a prayer.
“Trot,” said Bell. “I forgot you and I have the same boss.”
Trot stared at Bell, stalled by surprise. He was accosted by the paranoid notion that Bell could tell, simply by looking, that she had been on his mind. Finally, his face brightened and he remembered his good manners. Playing along with her joke, he added, “Oh well, you know how it is. Failure doesn’t check the clock.”
Bell affirmed with a sage nod. “Who needs a water cooler,” she joked, “when you can have this?”
Trot matched Bell’s earnestness with his voice. “Paychecks, insurance, retirement plans. Petty office politics,” he scoffed.
Suddenly, Bell was accosted by a loud, mocking inner voice. Who was she kidding anyway? Failure required failing at something and she could not even claim that. Failure at something meant having tried first. She could not even call herself a failure. She was merely unemployed. “So, are you feeling better?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“Much,” Trot lied. He forced his frown into a weak smile.
“But spring has sprung,” Bell announced. “The season to start over.”
Trot mustered a hopeful look but skepticism weighed it down. “I thought spring was the best time to fall in love.”
“No. Who told you that?” Bell asked. “It’s the best time to be alone.”
Trot offered Bell a grateful smile meant to convey two things: to thank her for her valiant effort and to silence her forced optimism. “Oh Bell,” he said, finally giving up the ruse of composure, “How could something so simple be so complicated?”
“Do you want my honest opinion?” asked Bell.
“Sure,” Trot said, wincing slightly.
Bell spoke before she could censor herself. “I’m just not entirely sure you and Bridget are meant for each other.”
Bell regretted the bluntness immediately. But Trot seemed unfazed and appeared to consider it.
“Men and women are incompatible,” Trot said. “Two totally different species.”
“That much is obvious,” Bell agreed. “The better question is which will be the first to face extinction.”
“When did you become so cynical?” Trot asked. “At least I have a good reason.”
“I’m bad at being in love,” Bell sighed.
“Did you ever consider that the problem isn’t love but the people you’ve chosen?”
Bell paused to consider this wholly foreign notion.
Trot stared into space as though mesmerized by something in the distance.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Bell mused, “if we could make requests? If we could petition evolution for a couple of improvements.”
“Would they be for this lifetime,” Trot asked, “or suggestions for future generations?”
“For the here and now,” Bell said.
“What kind of suggestions?” Trot asked.
“Strictly outrageous demands,” Bell said. “The ultimate wish list.”
“I see,” said Trot. “Would these wishes be restricted to changes on yourself? Could you, for example, petition this force—”
“Let’s just call it evolution,” Bell said.
“Could you, for example, petition evolution to make you handsome and rich?”
Bell adopted the sober, judicial tone of a child explaining the rules to a board game. “You could change yourself in any way that would aid your survival. For example, I wish I had stronger ankles so they wouldn’t hurt so much in high heels. And I wish my knees wouldn’t ache when it rains. You know, things like that.”
“I know what I want,” Trot declared as though addressing a store clerk. “I would like to say the right thing at all times, not just twenty minutes later.”
“I would like that, too,” Bell agreed. “I’d also like a better wardrobe. And while I’m at it thinner thighs, fuller lips, immunity to the common cold, and a better relationship with my father.”
“Well,” said Trot, “as long as you’re not holding back … I would like a more muscular frame, more hair on my chest. I would appreciate not going bald and I could use a new pair of pants.”
“I want new clothes, too,” Bell said, feigning impetuousness. “And while I’m at it, I’ll take naturally blond hair, a more magnetic personality, and the ability to draw.”
“That will be quite enough,” Trot said.
“And why is that?” Bell asked.
“Because, if I had to guess, I’d say this force—”
“Evolution,” Bell corrected.
“Evolution, nature, God, whomever … I’d say this force works best for those who really need these improvements, who require these changes in order to survive, as opposed to those people who are…”
Bell nodded.
“As oppose to those people who are…” Trot paused. “Already perfect.”
Bell began to contest this claim then realized it had been a joke, or rather a very sweet, backhanded compliment. She sat in silence, blushing slightly, beguiled by Trot’s kindness. But suddenly she remembered Bridget and her smile abruptly faded.
“My next day off is Thursday,” said Trot. “I have a good idea. We could go to the Museum of Natural History and tell the animals what’s wrong with them … unless you have a new boss by then.”
Still smiling, Bell raised her head and nodded vigorously then, remembering her commitment to Blaine, looked down at a nearby pigeon. “Oh no. Thursday, I can’t,” she said.
Trot’s whole carriage fell. He’d clearly overstepped his bounds. What on earth had he been thinking? Seeking a purpose for his hands, he clasped then unclasped them in his lap then, desperate to find some new use, commenced straightening his shirt with obsessive attention. “Well, I’d better go,” he managed. “I have work in an hour.”
But Bell was not ready to say good-bye. “I’ll walk you some of the way,” she said. “If you want company.”
Trot smiled and admitted that he would indeed, if Bell didn’t mind walking downtown. So, ignoring their better judgment, the two wandered gradually south, strolling through Sheep’s Meadow and past the carousel before parting on Fifty-ninth Street and Columbus, at which point Bell took her time walking home, grateful for some time to think and slow her racing pulse.
* * *
Billy paced madly in Blaine’s room, making and unmaking decisions. His mind, in contrast to his tidy surroundings, was an unruly maze of questions. With a ring or without a ring? At sunset or at seaside? Simple or sophisticated? Daytime or dark? He was beginning to fear he was trapped in a nightmare starring the Barnacle sisters. Perhaps it was foolish, Billy decided, to heed his brother’s advice. Blaine did not hold the keys to romance. Blaine’s only credentials were a list of angry ex-girlfriends and a failed marriage. Perhaps, Billy thought hopefully, Blaine had overcomplicated the situation. Perhaps, he had only speak from the heart and Bridget would come to her senses. And yet, within seconds of adopting this new optimistic stance, his mind was flooded with new concerns. The simple approach had already failed. He needed a showstopper. Once again, poor Billy was accosted by doubt. An elaborate plan was the wrong approach; he and Bridget were beyond these games. Their love transcended petty symbols. He had missed the point, he suddenly realized. They didn’t need fireworks or diamonds. They simply needed to talk.
Comforted, Billy hurried to his room for a quick change of clothes. Unfortunately, he was thwarted again. In the span of one day, Blaine had completed his invasion, adding to the existing clutter in Billy’s room with several bags of dry-cleaned suits, five cardboard boxes full of books, an impressive collection of DVDs, and various and sundry props delivered from his previous apartment. Irritated, Billy ransacked his room to find a path to his closet, but the route had been blockaded by a large wooden armoire, forcing him to scour the visible parts of the rug for remnants of his wardrobe and to discover that the only accessible items were irreparably filthy. So, despite his brother’s stringent policy on lending, Billy indulged in some free shopping with complete conviction.
He returned to Blaine’s room and opened the doors to survey Blaine’s closet. It displayed an array of oxford shits, boasting every color of the spectrum, organized by maker and color. Billy took his time selecting, trying on various shades and patterns before finally deciding on a lavender one that, he hoped, emphasized his naturally rosy complexion. Satisfied, he walked to the mirror and assessed the goods. Oh, how cruel the years had been to his once-careless looks. He’d undeniably gained weight. The hair was definitely a problem. Perhaps he should approach weekly tennis with renewed vigor, join Blaine in his trips to the gym, perhaps even take up some daily calisthenics. Why would Bridget ever choose him versus someone who was clearly more handsome? And yet, despite his misgivings, Billy assumed a positive outlook, wetting his fingers and mussing his hair with a couple of violent thrusts. Still glaring at his reflection, he lapsed into his good-luck routine, widening his eyes and striking an effortless look of surprise as though he had just been stopped on the street by a very old acquaintance. Finally, Billy left the mirror and headed down the hall, forcing his face into a smile just in time for his arrival at the Barnacles’. Benita saw him through the viewer and opened the door before he knocked, administering a look that conveyed in equal parts, loathing and desire.
“Oh, it’s you again,” she said, pushing the door closed again.
“Hey, kiddo,” Billy said. “If you grab your coat quickly, maybe I can ditch your sister and take you out instead.”
Benita said nothing, only looked past Billy, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
“Oh Bitty, don’t be angry with me,” said Billy.
“How can I be angry,” she asked, “with someone who doesn’t exist?”
“Now, don’t be a brat,” said Billy. “I know you still love me.”
Benita paused to consider this in earnest, cocking her head to one side curiously then, arriving at her decision, said, “I love you less than a chair.”
Straightening, Billy peered over her head, surveying the area for Bridget but, failing to find any evidence, he lunged suddenly at Benita, succeeding in lifting her from the ground and turning her upside down.
“Let me down,” Benita cried. She flailed wildly at Billy’s knees.
“Not until you apologize,” said Billy.
“No, I won’t,” said Benita. “I don’t care if you keep me here all day.”
“Very well,” said Billy. “Then, I guess you give me no choice.”
Blood surged into Benita’s head, turning it a deep crimson color and, still smiling innocently, she reached down and pinched Billy’s shin.
“Hey,” Billy shouted, hopping on instinct onto the uninjured leg. “Don’t do that again unless you want to be dropped.”
“Funny you should use that word,” said Benita. She let this statement hang for a moment. “Maybe it would benefit you to take your own advice.”
It took Billy a moment to understand Benita’s implication. He was torn between interpreting the logic of a child or that of a crazed maniac. When her meaning finally registered, he sped the clarification process by rapidly swinging her right-side up and lowering her to eye level. “What word?” he demanded.
“‘Dropped,’” Benita said.
“What about it?” Billy asked.
Benita said nothing. “I will only tell you,” she negotiated, “if you put me back down.”
Billy placed her back on the ground with a slightly violent thud and then lengthened himself to his full height. “Now, fess up,” he insisted.
“It’s no big deal,” Benita said. Height difference weakened her confidence slightly, reinforcing Billy’s advantage. “I just wouldn’t get your hopes up. You’ve got competition.”
At this point, Billy reached his limit on patience and understanding. Bile got the better of him, turning vague annoyance into full-blown anger. “Benita, this is serious,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders. “If Trot came to see Bridget last night, I need to know this instant.”
