A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 29
Billy closed his mouth, defeated.
Bridget joined Billy in his pretense of staring out the window then, as though suddenly moved by the stars above, she allowed one note on the subject. “I will say this: If you break her heart again, all six of us will come after you.”
Billy nodded solemnly. “I understand why you feel that way. But, in his defense, I want you to know Blaine has changed a lot over the years.”
Now it was Bridget’s turn to question her perception. Why had Blaine just referred to himself in the third person?
“But that’s not why I’m here,” Billy said, changing the subject quickly.
“Oh,” said Bridget. “Why are you, then?”
Billy gripped the floral comforter and inhaled deeply. “Well, as a matter of fact, I wanted to talk about Billy.”
Bridget sighed in a way intended to convey wizened fatigue, like a mother who has spent the entire day trying to convince her child not to eat his socks.
Sighing is a good sign, Billy thought and forged ahead, encouraged. “I realize Billy’s done some stupid things over the years.”
“A lot of stupid things,” Bridget interrupted.
“A lot stupid things,” Billy conceded. “And sure, he’s got some flaws—”
Bridget nodded vigorously.
“But, of course, he’s only human. What I’m getting at and I am getting at something.” Billy paused again, flustered. Then, impulse and desperation seized. “What I need to know is have you given up on him already or are you just waiting for…”
“Yes?” said Bridget.
Billy inhaled. “Waiting for the perfect pitch?”
Bridget tensed up and turned away but her interest was finally piqued. She shifted her gaze from the window to her fingernails then looked Billy in the eye and tried for directness. “Blaine, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you talking about?”
Now, it was Billy’s turn to avoid eye contact. Searching for some, any new object on which to fix his gaze, he examined a large hydrangea on Bell’s comforter as though he was a botanist researching the shape of the petals. “I hope you’ll forgive the imposition,” he began sheepishly, “but I am his brother and his best friend and … well, I’m worried about him.”
Wholly unsatisfied with this response, Bridget shook her head angrily and then, refusing to accept this as an answer, she widened her eyes and stuck out her neck, willing Billy to speak.
Billy had no choice, he realized, but to elaborate. It was his fault anyway for being so bold as to choose this mode of indirection. So, accepting the fate he had so boldly carved out for himself, he squeezed the quilted hydrangea into a tiny dot and, without further delay, launched into an extemporaneous monologue. “I think he’s finally ready to be the man you want him to be. See, he honestly thinks that you two are counterparts, not just good for each other, but two halves of the same creature. For the first time in his life, he knows he needs to be with you. And he’s scared…” Suddenly, fear grabbed Billy’s chest but he forced himself to continue. “He’s scared that his life won’t make sense unless you’re in it.”
Billy stopped to catch his breath and steal a glance at Bridget. But a cautious look revealed she was captivated and so, gaining momentum, he took some poetic license. “Of course, he knows he’s been a fool, at times, a total jerk, but he knows he’s nothing without you, Bridget. And he wants to evolve with you, for you. He wants to grow old together. What do you think?” Billy asked, finally making eye contact. He realized, for the first time since he’d started speaking that sheer emotion had pulled him down from the bed, that he was now on the floor of the bedroom, kneeling in front of Bridget. “What do you think?” he whispered. “Will you or won’t you?”
Bridget opened her mouth to respond but stopped, reconsidering. The intimacy of their conversation was palpable, not to mention fraught with Billy’s odd, symbolic position. “Blaine,” she said, recoiling slightly. “This is awfully strange.”
“What?”
“You know what…” She scanned the room nervously. “Talking about Billy with you…”
“Of course, I realize,” said Billy. “But humor me anyway.”
Bridget shook her head despairingly and looked down at the floor, and though she had had no intention of confiding, she suddenly found herself overwhelmed by her own confusion. “To be honest,” she said, “I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to anyone. Sometimes, I think there’s something wrong with me, that there’s no one in the world who would make me happy. Trot is a wonderful boy.” She paused. “He’s going to be a great man. Still, there’s no denying that we’re not quite right for each other and this is all the more obvious whenever I’m with Billy. When I’m with Billy, the world makes sense. I feel calm and happy. I’m constantly torn between which I prefer, talking to him or kissing him. When I’m with Billy…” She trailed off. “When I’m with Billy…” She paused. “Well, I am a barnacle and he is a finch. It’s as though we’re members of two symbiotic species. When Billy and I are together, I feel like no matter what happens to the world—big bangs, droughts, ice age, war—as long as he and I are together, we’d be just fine.”
Billy couldn’t help himself. He took Bridget’s hand in his own.
Immediately, Bridget was accosted by all the usual sensations: tingling fingers, burning ears, dry throat, swerving stomach. “This is going to sound strange,” she confessed. “Perhaps more to you than anyone, but when I’m with Billy, I feel…”
Billy nodded.
“When I’m with Billy, I feel…” She paused.
“Yes,” Billy whispered, leaning closer.
“When I’m with Billy, I feel as though … I feel as though I’ve found my twin.”
Billy leaned yet closer as though pulled by a magnetic force.
Bridget too edged toward Billy. Then, without warning, she flinched. She was suddenly struck by a familiar scent, a certain familiar eye shimmer. Suddenly, she felt so many sensations she thought she might faint. The protective layer surrounding her heart mysteriously evaporated and, in the process, seemed to expose raw nerve endings. She had never felt this way around Blaine, never considered him anything but a pest. Now she felt so different in his presence, it was as though he was … someone different.
An epiphany has the curious power to make time slow down. And yet awareness came on quickly as Bridget felt the unmistakable thrill. She needed no dog nor baseball cap to discern the identity of her suitor. She only felt this specific sensation around one particular person. Unfortunately, this excitement produced one unexpected problem. Billy was so overwhelmed by love that he failed to hear the commotion in the hall as Charles devoured his proposal cake, hook, line, and diamond.
* * *
Bell had been pacing the apartment in a state of helpless rage, making herself conveniently scarce on sight of Billy’s entrance. Despite her lovely afternoon, her brain was a maze of conflicting thoughts, a pinball machine of opposing desires. The previous evening haunted her with aching precision, reminding her at every turn of her humiliating error and Bridget’s maddening embarrassment of riches. And though she was loath to admit it, she was needled by one other distraction, consumed by an unhealthy preoccupation with her father’s contest. Though she hated to play into his warped notion of a meritocracy, she was even more scandalized by the thought of someone else winning. She was caught in a cycle of vengeance and self-recrimination, as repulsed by her father’s strange scheme as she was by her susceptibility to it.
For somewhere, deep beneath the surface of Bell’s hopes and dreams for her life was the cliché notion that by this age, she would be married. And though she cursed herself for indulging such an unoriginal thought, when she was honest with herself, and she rarely was, she was deeply terrified by the prospect of having a child on her own and sincerely regretted her lapse in judgment, or rather the excessive amounts of vodka and fruit punch that had caused the lapse in memory that had caused the lapse in judgment that had permitted the string of irresponsible behavior that had technically caused the conception. It didn’t matter how many times she played out the scene in her head, informing her parents with a rueful smile that she had gotten pregnant and then married and that this was finally, irrefutable proof that she was dyslexic. It was perfectly obvious even to Bell how this flippancy would come across. And yet, despite the tangled state of the neurons in her brain, Bell finally found clarity just after midnight. For the first time since arriving at home, she knew her course of action. She no longer had delusions about romance. She would accept Blaine’s proposal even if she had to say it for him.
Blaine was sitting on his fire escape when Bell arrived in his room. He had assembled an absurdly romantic vignette replete with champagne, a checkered picnic blanket, and an impressive array of starlight. Indeed, in this particular contest, Blaine outranked his brother. There was no denying that Blaine was superior to Billy in the realm of courtship. His gaze betrayed just the right amount of care and detachment. The angle at which he leaned toward Bell was at once indifferent and possessive. Words fell easily off his tongue even before the Champagne. And his scent, even the slightest whiff of his musk was enough to send Bell into seizures. Of course, it is folly to consider love a performance, to turn romance into an audition. Still, Bell couldn’t shake the sense that she was in the hands of an expert.
Blaine toasted their history and Bell pretended to sip. But she might as well have been drunk. Even without taking a sip, she felt giddy and light-headed. Finally, she spoke if only to jar herself from a trance. “Oh, Blaine,” she said. “It would never work. I far prefer the daylight to this corny starlight stuff.”
Luckily, the two neighbors shared identical goals so neither one noticed the clumsiness of the other’s tactics. Indeed, the intentions of the one colluded with the other’s, blessing the night with the odd and unlikely coincidence of a mutual seduction.
“Pretend it’s a million years from now,” Bell said. She laced her legs through the grates of the fire escape to dangle underneath. “Evolution has been hard at work. Romance has completely changed. Men don’t bring flowers anymore. Now, women are responsible for courtship.”
Blaine clasped his hands behind his neck to form a pillow for his head. “That sounds very nice,” he said. “I’ll take a one-way ticket.”
“Girls have to do everything,” Bell went on. “Chocolates, wine, roses. They routinely make the first move. Even the proposals.”
“Shocking,” Blaine said, feigning horror. “What a state of affairs.”
“Oh, but it’s so much better,” Bell said. “No more Sadie Hawkins dances.”
Blaine played along with Bell’s ruse, adopting the mock seriousness of a professor. “How very curious,” he said. “In this place, this time in the future, are these women large and muscular?”
“Oh no, on the contrary,” Bell said. “They’re gorgeous creatures.”
Blaine lifted his head from its “pillow” to rest his chin in his hands. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “how do these creatures propose?”
“The same way boys do now,” Bell said. “Lots of pomp and circumstance. Endless digressions, overly ornate anecdotes, stammering, hemming, hawing.”
“So, all the traditions remain,” Blaine said, “in this future place. A girl, for example, might get on her knees.”
“Yes, she might,” Bell confirmed.
Blaine emitted a sharp little laugh, surprised by Bell’s forwardness.
Bell offered a mischievous smile. They were finally playing tennis. “Luckily,” she said, “all the rules have changed.”
“For example?” Blaine asked.
“For example,” Bell said, “it’s no longer frowned upon to propose without a ring or at a baseball game. And, though you may find this shocking, there’s no negative connotation whatsoever associated with proposing after sex.”
“Is that right?” Blaine asked.
Bell nodded soberly. “As I said,” she confirmed, “things are very different. Evolution changes everything.”
“And how do I get to this place,” asked Blaine, “this time in the future?”
“You have to be very good,” said Bell.
“But when?” Blaine demanded.
Bell smiled coyly and took her time answering the question, determined to enjoy ten years of delayed gratification. Finally, once she was sure that Blaine was sufficiently unnerved, she said, “You’ll have to be patient. Someday very soon.”
19
Wanderlust
Just when it seemed the Barnacle girls had begun to reunite, a new rift arose, sprinkling them like confetti at a surprise party. Having spent the entirety of the night tormented by restless dreams, Beryl awoke early on Tuesday morning with such a bad headache that she felt exempt from going to school. In truth, she hoped to accomplish something higher on her list of priorities. Despite the frequency of Latrell’s expeditions and the inevitability of his return, she was horrified by her family’s response. Her mother’s ineptitude was startling, her father’s coldness was chilling, the indignity of their reactions surpassed only by her sisters’ indifference. It was now the fourth consecutive day of Latrell’s absence. She had no choice, she now realized, but launch her own search.
For days now, Beryl had been battling a very uncomfortable feeling but, with every day of Latrell’s absence, it was harder to deny. What else could explain the vague feeling of sadness she had felt since he’d left? What else could explain the angry knot stiffening her stomach? Latrell incited feelings she was ashamed to admit. Even the rosebud-lined pages of her diary were too dainty for such indelicate thoughts. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she felt the same wet prickle she experienced while watching certain very salacious soap operas, the same guilty delight she had felt last summer, when she walked into her mother’s apartment unannounced and, catching the construction workers unawares, had seen a man’s naked chest. But for now, she had to confine herself to a safer realm and so replaced her feelings of love with those of irritation.
Latrell had certainly done his best to fall out of her good graces. The last few times she’d accompanied him on expeditions, he’d been decidedly ungrateful, mean-spirited even, blaming her for the slightest misstep, using her as the scapegoat for his disappointment. And yet, for some unknown reason, she continued to forgive him. He had only pay her the smallest heed for her to forget the last affront, had only smile in the right way to earn back her adoration. Though she kicked herself for the weakness, she was hopelessly vulnerable to him. He was simply better than any of the other boys she knew. His dark eyes always appeared to be plotting something wonderfully exciting. And his body; she couldn’t help notice his recent growth spurt. His shoulders were now visible through his school shirt, his torso long but still lined by a thin layer of baby fat, his legs already coated by the finest manly fur.
As a woman, Beryl was blessed with self-knowledge, if not self-awareness. She comforted herself with the reminder that she and Latrell were not technically related. Prophecy also assuaged her fears. She was certain that Latrell would find his real father sooner or later and therefore felt justified in entertaining her crush. Soon enough, she predicted, Latrell would move out and her feelings would be less scandalous. Even so, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears over her breakfast cereal, from settling into a grumpy slouch, from jumping every time the phone rang, lurching when the front door opened. So it was with great relief that Beryl resolved to launch her own search. If Latrell wouldn’t come back of his own accord, she would simply find him herself.
Reaching underneath her bed, Beryl produced the folded blueprints: a detailed, encrypted map of the entire city of New York. Long ago, she and Latrell had collaborated to make this guide. “X”s marked the city’s bars, schools, churches, synagogues, hotel lounges, and any other places one might find a piano. Places of worship were also marked with stars because they sometimes allowed wayward children to stay for the night. Beryl was not surprised that Latrell had skipped out, had even been warned in a sense by his recent insistence that he was close to finding his father. And yet despite the reliability of Latrell’s flights and returns, Beryl sensed that this time her adopted brother had strayed dangerously far and that he needed her help.
Luckily, Beryl was armed with the telepathy of a twin. For the past few years, the two best friends had privileged each other with their every passing thought and, therefore sensed it immediately whenever the other was in trouble. Beryl began with a quick review of Latrell’s historic forays. Over the years, he had taken shelter in the most unexpected venues, among them the scaffolding behind Lincoln Center, the indoor birds section of the Central Park Zoo, the basement of the public library, and the gift shop of the Guggenheim Museum. This last venue was his favorite, not only because of the pieces it contained but because it offered the added bonus of lovely midnight strolls down the spiral ramp.
Of all these spots, Lincoln Center offered the most luxurious accommodations, since nearby restaurants had generous leftover policies and in the summer, weather permitting, there were free outdoor concerts. The Central Park Zoo also provided undeniable benefits. The birds’ nocturnal coos and gurgles made for a pleasant slumber. The public library was the best deal if you could bear the hard sleeping surface. Simply by purchasing a library card, you could enter the library around five, find a forgotten stack, and settle in for the night. But of all these places, Latrell’s favorite was Central Park. It offered an endless variety of sleeping nooks, among them the children’s carousel, the tunnel at the Bethesda Fountain, and the space underneath the mushroom at the statue of Alice. And, as though these lovely vistas failed to offer enough temptation, you were always within a sprint of a covered bridge during rain or inclement weather.
The most difficult aspect of sneaking out was, of course, averting piano practice. After Beryl’s boycott the week of Passover, Barry had been enforcing the daily regimen with new and oppressive rigor. By way of punishment and as a practical measure, he demanded that Beryl play for ten extra minutes a day to make up for the time she’d lost. He supervised this regimen at a distance, monitoring her practice from his office at the other end of the hall. Even from there he made his presence felt throughout the hour-long session, adding to Beryl’s discomfort by sporadically bellowing comments.
