A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 32
Calming slightly at the thought, Bell started back to her mother’s room but found that her distress had propelled her to a different part of the hospital. A sign for the maternity ward invited her to enter. It was an omen, Bell assumed, thinking back to her horoscope, from nature itself. Once inside, she couldn’t help but slow her pace to a worshipper’s gait and clasp her hands in deference for the abundance of so much brand-new life. Finally, she reached the glass window of the visitors’ center. Each newborn, nestled in its crib, seemed to lie in an altar of sorts, draped with ceremonial fabric and seemingly lit from above. Now, for the first time since she’d discovered then promptly tried to forget her pregnancy, Bell considered the activity in her own body with newfound respect. Until now, it had seemed completely surreal, detached from the beginning of life, more like a vague, fuzzy concept that would remain that way so long as she avoided thinking about it too much.
Suddenly, Bell glimpsed the full irony of her current state. While she had been lying motionless in bed, her body had been its most active. In her very body, at this very minute, cells were growing, molecules were dividing, genders were being decided. It almost seemed impossible that she had had anything to do with such impressive productivity. How shocking to think she had accomplished all of this simply by having sex. Of course, at this particular moment, Bell failed to glimpse the full enormity of her new responsibility. But perhaps she did begin to see enormity’s tip. For the first time in months, at least since the onset of her recent slump, Bell was graced with wonder, gratitude, and hope for her future. And though she knew it was unrealistic to expect to find inner peace, true love, a new apartment, a stable relationship with her parents, and a good job with benefits overnight, maybe, she decided, she could work toward these things over the next eight months.
Heartened, Bell rushed out of the ward and back to her mother’s room. When she returned, the population of the room had changed. Bella was lying in the center of a small crowd, surrounded by three tall, muscular men all of whom, due to the fit of their scrubs, Bell could quite easily picture naked. Barry stood just behind the men, beaming foolishly.
“Bell, good news,” Bella announced. “It’s only a sprain.” She smiled flirtatiously at the largest man in the group. “Have you met my doctor?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so,” Bell said. She managed an awkward smile.
“Doctor, have you met my daughter?” asked Bella.
The doctor shook his head and smiled, revealing annoyingly perfect white teeth.
Bell made the mistake of glancing at her father. He smiled back, winked conspicuously, and began to mouth something. But realizing his oafish intention, she averted his gaze, accidentally shifting it back to the doctor.
The doctor squinted back at Bell. “Bell,” he said. “Is that you?”
Bell rushed to perform the traditional calculus required in such fits of amnesia, multiplying the passage of time with a variety of different haircuts. Finally, a name merged with the familiar face. Good God, she finally realized. The doctor was Duncan Schoenfeld. “Duncan,” she stuttered, “what a surprise. How nice of you to stop by.”
Duncan regarded Bell with genuine confusion. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m your mother’s doctor.”
Quickly, Bell forced her gaping mouth into a delighted smile.
“Are you around all day?” Duncan asked.
“Actually, I was just leaving,” Bell said. Duncan’s bedside manner, she decided, combined the worst qualities of a game show host and a politician.
Bella, craving her previous position as the center of attention, interrupted the reunion. “Isn’t this room lovely?” she demanded. “It’s the most expensive part of the hotel.”
“Hospital, Mom,” Bell said.
Everyone in the room laughed except for Bell, compounding her sense that life was a joke and she was the butt of it.
Now it was Barry’s turn to change the subject and he did so with characteristic tact. “Dr. Shoenfeld,” he began. He paused in search of the most concise phrasing. “My daughter Bell is still single. You two should go out on a date.”
Mortification feels the same no matter what your age. It races to the head at half the speed at which it moves to the heart. All at once, Bell lost her breath and her ability to speak. She was endowed however with the momentary wisdom emergency affords and somehow knew to evacuate. Refusing to acknowledge her father’s cloddish attempt at matchmaking, she bid her family a proud farewell and hurried out of the room, stopping only to kiss her mother good-bye and to muster a frazzled grunt when Duncan asked for her number.
Even a full hour later, Bell was still shaken by the encounter. She turned onto Fifth in a bemused daze, barely noticing her location as she entered the lobby of the building. As a result, she was unprepared for yet another confrontation. Forgetting her self-imposed quarantine, she found herself in the elevator, inches from Jorge. “Jorge!” she began. “I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?” Cringing, Bell backed into the corner.
Finally, Jorge spoke. “I could have been fired,” he whispered.
“I know,” Bell said. “I’m a terrible person. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Jorge said nothing. He only sniffed and stared more intently at the wall.
“If it makes any difference, I didn’t forget,” Bell tried.
Jorge cocked his head, curious to hear the excuse.
“I overslept,” Bell whispered. She regretted saying it immediately. Even without seeing Jorge’s face, she could discern a small shudder.
The elevator ride to the thirteenth floor took twice as long that day, as Bell fidgeted first with the buttons on her shirt and then with change in her pocket. Jorge said nothing. He only stood, silent and condemning. When they reached the landing, the two parted with the coldness of strangers.
Bell lingered in the foyer for another moment, her heart heavy with remorse, debating an appropriate response to her unforgiveable error. Perhaps she could win back Jorge’s trust with a delicious homemade baked good. Perhaps she could fashion an olive branch from Benita’s crown of thorns. She suspected any meaningful apology would require the passage of time. Still, she yearned from the depths of her soul to make something up to someone. Overwhelmed by this urge, she turned her attention to her mother. Renewed, she rushed down the hall and sprinted up the spiral staircase, determined to sweep Bella’s apartment for its store of lost forks.
Bell’s tour of Bella’s apartment was, in essence, a tour of her childhood, a series of memories relived through forgotten artifacts. A thorough scour of the space under the sofa reaped an army of pens and pencils and a folded program from a Broadway show. A scour of the area behind the stove yielded miniature cakes from her first dollhouse, a pair of scissors, and a crazy straw. In the drawers of an end table in the living room, she found a sixth-grade math notebook, a screwdriver, and a tower of Post-it notes. A thorough search of a filing cabinet yielded six identical birth announcements mounted with pink grosgrain ribbon. She found a pair of ballet slippers tucked behind a bookshelf. But best of all, in all of these places—as well as behind the refrigerator, underneath the dining room radiator, and in a coffee cup used to store pens—Bell recovered a complete set of sterling silver Christofle forks, every single one of the utensils her mother had misplaced over the years.
Satisfied with her scour, Bell amassed her findings then searched the house for one last item with which to complete her gift. She ducked into the storage room and traversed the treacherous path to the sewing box, removed two feet of red ribbon, then tied a bow under the forks’ prongs. She stalled for a moment, debating whether the gesture was too frivolous then, satisfied with her effort, left the bizarre gift at the door of her mother’s bedroom. As she left, she contemplated leaving a letter along with the gift but, uncertain as to whether the letter should be one of explanation, thanks, or apology, she finally resolved to let the forks speak for themselves. Mere words seemed an insignificant means with which to convey her gratitude and regret, to acknowledge her desire to mend their relationship.
Satisfied with her gesture, Bell descended toward her apartment and hurried down the hall, anxious to spend the rest of the day in the privacy of her bedroom. Sadly, she was deprived of this small measure of relief. Bridget sat in the middle of the floor, looking suitably helpless, seemingly marooned by luggage. She appeared to have two opposing goals: refilling her squadron of bags with clothes and muttering to herself.
“What are you doing?” Bell demanded.
Bridget stared at her bags as though at a funeral pyre. “What does it look like?” she barked. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”
Bell said nothing. She only stared at Bridget, trying to decide whether she felt sadness or elation.
“How could I ever love someone who would deceive me like that?” Bridget whispered. “And to think, I was even considering…” Then, in closing, “The little bastard.”
Bell simply nodded and tried to assume an appropriately commiserative look.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Bridget said. And then, in conclusion, “Will you help me pack? I’m going back to Trot.” At this, she buried her face in her hands, resumed quietly moaning, then looked up suddenly and shook her head in response to an inaudible question.
Bell stood still for several moments, taking in Bridget’s last announcement. Yet again, she was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. Dropping slowly to the floor, she sat down beside Bridget and tried to examine how she felt. But now she was accosted by a new sensation that—if she didn’t know any better—she would identify as a dull ache in her heart.
* * *
As Bunny had told Barry countless times, she was impossible to deceive. She would know, she claimed, within a matter of hours if he ever cheated on her. His recent behavior had been suspicious enough of late as to cause her to meet privately with her lawyer and to consult her prenuptial agreement. In matters of the heart, Bunny claimed, she was as sensitive to clues as a cook was to spice, capable of smelling even the most mild of deceptions, even before they happened. Usually, when a woman makes this claim, she means it literally; she smells another woman’s perfume or detects smoke on her husband’s clothes. But for Bunny, the scent of betrayal was subtle. She smelled peppermint on Barry’s tongue and, noting the disparity between the fresh scent and his typically terrible breath, she immediately deduced the reason for the change in his oral hygiene. She quickly found confirmation of her suspicions when she ransacked his pants for other evidence and found a matchbook in his pocket from what was clearly the site of untold debauchery, the Mermaid Hotel.
Convinced of her hypothesis, she stared at the matchbook for a moment then paced purposefully down the hall and climbed Bella’s spiral staircase. Unfortunately, by the time she made it to the fourteenth floor, she ran out of resolve and collapsed in a sniveling heap. Bella searched her apartment for several minutes before locating the source of the noise. Finally, she found Bunny at the top of her stairs, huddled in the fetal position.
“Oh Bella,” wailed Bunny, “I’m so ashamed. I should have listened to you.” Grabbing hold of the banister, Bunny lifted herself from the floor and then looked at Bella, her nose glistening and her eyes streaked with mascara.
Bella was conflicted for a moment: Should a first wife feel compassion for a second wife, particularly when the second wife was the one for whom she had been ditched? Of course, it was entirely within her rights to turn Bunny away. But Bella was blessed with a big kind heart and, of course, there was something deliciously satisfying about seeing Bunny so contrite and desperate.
“I can’t believe it,” Bunny sniffled, tipping toward Bella.
Instinctively, Bella opened her arms.
Bunny burrowed herself into Bella’s shoulder and began sobbing uncontrollably. “Bella,” she whimpered, “I don’t know what to do. I never thought it would be me.”
“There, there,” Bella said, patting Bunny’s back, “none of us ever do.”
“I’m one of them now,” Bunny whispered, “those women who think they’re immune. Except I have no right to complain because I’m guilty, too.” Bunny stopped talking in order to exhale for the first time since entering the apartment.
Bella was forced to concede Bunny’s point. Her previous role as a home-wrecker earned her only measured sympathy. “Hush,” Bella said, “it’s going to be fine. He’s just going through a phase.”
Bunny sniffled then raised her volume. “And an entire generation of women.”
“What can I do to help?” Bella asked. Once again, indignation surfaced. There was a name for Bunny’s situation. It was called “just desserts.”
“Nothing,” Bunny whimpered. “You’ve already done too much.” She turned again to face the stairs and bolstered herself for her return trip but she broke down again before she could take her first step. When she turned back to face Bella, she was in a pitiful state. “Oh Bella,” she said, “I hate to ask, but do you mind if I stay a few nights?”
It was decided, despite the odd circumstance of the arrangement, that Bunny would stay with Bella until the sooner of two things: either she figured out her next move or served Barry with papers. In truth, Bella was happy to have a new houseguest, relieved by the companionship and the distraction from Latrell’s absence. The two women spent the remainder of the afternoon trading stories over tea, creating a voodoo doll of sorts whereby they listed Barry’s worst traits and his most valuable assets.
Of course, for all her criticisms of Barry, Bunny was far from blameless herself. And because she was far from bad looking, arguably even quite sexy to younger or foreign men, she had had no trouble, over the years enacting various, she felt, compensatory seductions. During her short marriage to Barry she had sought such revenge several times, indulging in a series of crushes on members of the extended Barnacle family. She felt this was justified not only due to the laws of quid pro quo but because every one of her paramours, each one boasting a different trade, had taught her a different skill. Bella’s carpenter, Dennis, educated her about the physics of furniture, imparting useful information, like which household objects held more weight, chairs or tables. Her kabbalah teacher shared various tricks on an enhanced experience in prayer, providing Bunny with firsthand tips on achieving ecstasy. Her masseuse taught her the five basic tenets of inner body relaxation. And once in a brief, if thwarted encounter, Billy Finch gave her a private tennis lesson, allowing Bunny, over the course of one very informative session, to bring her service and return from the level of novice to expert.
Because these various teachers had proven so edifying over the years, Bunny had no qualms seeking further instruction during this time of need. So, desperate for a quick refresher course on flirtation, she employed her most alluring vibrato and called Billy to schedule a second lesson. Billy declined but was ultimately persuaded to be a good sport, joining Bunny for a quick drink at Bemelmans.
She arrived before Billy and chose a private corner booth.
“Oh, Billy,” Bunny began, stirring her drink with overzealous attention. “Enjoy your youth while it lasts. Old age just kind of happens.”
“Please,” scoffed Billy. “Last time I checked, you were only two years older than me.”
“Still,” sighed Bunny, “when a man treats you badly it puts years on your life. But let’s not talk about boring things. Give me some good gossip. Bridget never tells me anything. Fill me in on your romance.”
“Well.” Billy swirled the ice in his drink and then held the glass up to his face as though to examine a fleck of dirt. Finally, he replaced the glass on the table. “I’m planning on proposing.”
“When?” asked Bunny.
“Don’t get too excited. I’ve already done it twice.”
“And what happened,” Bunny demanded.
He sighed. “I’ve got two strikes.”
Suddenly, Bunny sat upright and leaned very close to Billy. “Are you going to try again?” she asked.
Billy nodded emphatically.
“When?” Bunny asked.
Billy grinned proudly. “Literally any minute.”
“No,” gasped Bunny. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for the perfect moment.”
Bunny wrinkled her brow and stared at Billy for a long moment. “Oh no,” she said and looked guiltily at the floor, as if to imply that she was cursed with a terrible secret.
“What is it?” asked Billy.
“It’s nothing,” Bunny said. She shifted awkwardly in her seat and looked back at Billy, pairing innocence with obvious omniscience then, though Billy had not posed another question, repeated, “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Bunny,” said Billy. He widened his eyes, entreating her to confess.
Bunny gestured frantically for the waiter and waited for him to return to their table. Finally, after issuing overly detailed instructions for the correct ingredients for her drink, she squared her shoulders and offered Billy a look of condolence. “Two nights ago,” she said, “I saw Blaine go into Bridget’s room.”
“What?” Billy snapped. “That’s ludicrous. Why would he do that?”
“I’m sorry,” Bunny said. “But it’s the truth. I thought you’d want to know.”
Billy said nothing for a moment, considering Bunny’s claim. “Oh, sure,” he said. “That makes perfect sense. He was probably visiting Bell.”
