A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 33
Bunny gave her head a tiny, almost indiscernible shake. “Bell was out of the house,” she said.
“But that’s impossible,” Billy said, regarding Bunny with new suspicion. “Blaine would never … Bridget would never … That night, I was…”
Bunny nodded gently as though humoring a child. “You have no idea how much it pains me to tell you this,” she said.
“There’s simply no way,” Billy insisted. He looked up at Bunny helplessly as though imploring her to change her mind. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” he snipped. “I’ll just talk to her myself.”
Bunny placed her hand on Billy’s and offered a pitying look. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “This must really smart.”
Billy opened his mouth to respond, but quickly stopped himself, resolving that further protest would only be construed as poor sportsmanship. Instead, he sank deeper into his chair so that he was eye level with his drink, then signaled the waiter to order one, perhaps two more drinks.
21
High IQ
In Beth’s opinion, it was so absurd as to exceed the realm of truth. She had not even thought it possible to be suspended from college for doing too much work. And yet, she had been asked to take a short “period of reflection” in order to gain the appropriate remorse and write a short essay to the disciplinary committee explaining why she had thought herself exempt from the science lab’s regular hours of operation, despite her three years in the department, the lenient stance of her professor, and the clearly written schedule printed on the door. Of course, the blow was worsened by Beth’s sense of her research. She felt she was at a precipice, finally nearing the sparkling conclusion she had sought for years. Still, as she rode the train from Boston back to New York, she did her best to find the benefits of her unexpected dismissal. Perhaps, it would be a welcome change to be home with her sisters. At the very least, she could further investigate the second area of her scientific interest: the effect of too many cohabitating females on homicidal tendencies.
Beth returned to the apartment just before dinner on Tuesday night. Within minutes, she experienced an attack of claustrophobia that caused her to feel as though she were trapped in a rapidly shrinking elevator. Breathing deeply, she muttered a greeting to the family then, after expressing her deep ambivalence about being home, hurried down the hall to her bedroom to mutter in private. Immediately, she found a new outlet for her anxiety. How was it possible, she wondered, for her bedroom to smell even worse than when she’d left? Why did Belinda feel there was an inverse relationship between having good hygiene and having a good time? Indignant, Beth dropped her bags on the floor and commenced a cleaning tour of the room. But even after a heartfelt scour, the room still reeked of scented candles, dried beer, and stale smoke. Irritated, she opened the window and waved air into the room. As she peered outside, her foul mood corrupted her surroundings. The usually picturesque park looked tiny and theatrical, not grand and dignified as it did in daylight. The budding trees seemed to have been placed there by set designers, the clumps of flowers painted on by sentimental sketch artists. Closing the window, Beth faced her room and contemplated a new pastime, wondering idly what it would be like to live alone.
But, despite the ample books on the shelves and the abundant distractions of the apartment, less than an hour after returning, Beth was excruciatingly bored. She had read everything in the library. She had examined every item in the collections. She had no interest in television. Her mind, she feared, would turn to mush without the stimulation of her work. Her sisters did little to help the situation. Bell had evacuated her bedroom to allow Bridget the space in which to pack in private, turning the living room into her own private clubhouse. She was now lying in front of the television as though held there by a magnetic force. Thinking ahead as to ways to avoid running into her sisters, Beth made a quick foray into the kitchen and stocked up on enough provisions to last her several days. Thus equipped, she hurried back to her bedroom and remained there in a self-imposed quarantine, scanning her shelves for distraction before finally settling on a plan. She would classify and label every item in the apartment’s poorly organized collections beginning with the shells, since they were closest to her bedroom and her heart. Relieved, she entered the shell collection with the intention of passing several quiet hours dismantling the shelves and organizing them by color and alphabetization.
But even before a cursory scan of the cowries and the conchs, Bell sensed something was amiss. She was now a full three inches taller than the last time she had been in the room and, as a result, viewed her father’s prized prehistoric barnacle from a very different perspective. Before, she had stood at a slight tilt from the beloved specimens and was forced to crane her neck to see their details or tiptoe to remove them from the shelves. Now, she stood at eye level with the odd, ridged creature and was therefore endowed with a far more intimate knowledge of its parts. Careful not to upset the other shells on the shelves, she removed the prized barnacle, the first recorded specimen on record, dislodging it from its place on the shelf to examine its lovely purple shell and its odd, extended organ. On an impulse, she pulled at the sliver of pink that protruded from inside the shell as though she was pulling chewing gum from her sister’s mouth. Immediately, revelation slackened her muscles, causing her to nearly drop the shell. In an instant, she glimpsed the clue that had eluded her for so long. Darwin’s calling was so much stronger than science: It was an affair of the heart.
Since entering college three years ago, Beth had made good on her promise to investigate her father’s long-time obsession, looking into Darwin’s famous delay with the intensity of a criminal detective. Her eyes, her posture, her social life all attested to this fact. Hours were spent sequestered in the undergraduate lab, huddled between dissections and drawings, her notebooks piled dangerously close to flaming Bunsen burners. Initially, barnacles had been something of a disappointment. In fact, Beth would have gone so far as to say barnacles were boring. Their shriveled purple bodies were indistinguishable from one another but for the most minor details or their numbered tags. Every barnacle was as homely and straightforward as the next. When pulled, prodded, and pinned across a dissection plate, they all bore a vague and unfortunate resemblance to a pink worm.
Gradually though, Beth gained the refined perception of an expert and learned to discern the species’ more subtle identifying traits. Every barnacle, regardless of its subclassification, had the same wormlike trunk, the same fine, fluttering feet, a rigid shell covering in shades of lavender to blue. Every barnacle had a tiny opening at the top of the trunk, the portal for the binding glue with which the barnacle attached itself to rocks, ship hulls, or the bellies of whales, according to geographical demands. Every barnacle observed the same mating rituals—or rather the lack thereof—reproducing like its cellular predecessors by virtue of an immaculate conception, splitting on itself as though the presence of another creature was simply too great a burden. As a member of the crustacean kingdom, every barnacle boasted the same dubious skill as the crab, capable, much like the worst houseguest, of taking comfort almost anywhere.
By her sophomore year, Beth could fairly be called a specialist. She could tell apart the different subclasses after only a brief examination and, on a very good day, by holding them in different hands with her eyes shut tight. She knew the difference between the ridge length of the Mediterranean and Morroccan subclass. She could tell a throned from a thorny barnacle without counting the serrations on the trunk. She knew an Atlantic from a Gulf Stream specimen by the color of its shell; one was a very deep purple while the other was a distinct shade of mauve. Still, as far as she was concerned, barnacles were a naturalist’s nightmare, adapting relatively little over the history of the world. Even after three years of such scintillating study, barnacles still seemed so banal to Beth that she was forced to question her father’s theory. It no longer seemed a shocking decision that Darwin had favored the finch. The finch provided a vibrant, colorful illustration of evolution, while the barnacle was nothing more than a shriveled little wimp. Indeed, Beth was hard-pressed to believe that the barnacle had ever obsessed anyone, let alone been cited as a possible contender for the origin of life.
But now she entertained a radical new thought. As she stood at the shelf, examining her father’s rare prehistoric specimen, curiosity turned to wonder and wonder turned to astonishment. Overwhelmed, she dropped to the floor to examine the creature more closely, running through a potential chain of events like a detective solving a crime. The animal she held in her hands at the moment was a hermaphrodite; in other words, a creature decidedly blessed with the power to reproduce without the bother of courtship. But, in all Beth’s time studying the minute parasite, she had never before encountered such a strange specimen; modern Barnacles uniformly appeared in the two traditional genders. Stumped, she stared at the freak of nature with new curiosity. If this was the first incarnation of the barnacle, after several generations in nature, she now realized, the barnacle must have changed its identity. Inspired, she ran through a potential sequence by which such a miracle could occur.
First, the hermaphroditic creature developed a parasite pocket that in turn attached itself to the shell. Over time, this pocket accumulated a supply of reproductive material, expanding into a large gelatinous sac like a slowly inflating balloon. Finally, this inflating sac grew too large for its host, detaching from the shell like a crisp autumn leaf. And yet, this sudden fall from grace marked a new beginning. Once liberated, the parasite pocket grew gradually more self-sufficient until it could eat, see, and move independently. Finally, the new creature achieved the coveted status of its host. Endowed with distinct reproductive material it, too, could “give birth.”
But now, as Beth stared at the wrinkled tip of this aged barnacle, she considered a new and scandalous twist on its evolutionary sequence. What if when the humble hermaphrodite finally spread its proverbial legs, it did not descend into the male form but rather evolved into an adorable baby girl? What if the female gender of the species evolved before the male? What would that mean to Darwin’s famous theory of evolution? What would it mean, Beth suddenly considered, to the history of the world? In an instant, Beth was struck with the full implications of such a question. What if Eve never sprang from Adam’s rib? What if, in the history of life, Eve came decidedly first?
Now, as she sat on the floor of the shell collection, Beth grew suddenly alarmed. She was accosted with an overwhelming desire to distance herself from her work. The author of such a theory could only live out one of two fates: her name would be written in history books or she would be tarred and feathered. Suddenly, Beth saw Darwin in a very different light. His famous delay now seemed perfectly plausible. She, too, could envision spending twenty years, testing and retesting such a theory and ultimately censoring its publication. Better this than spend the rest of her life mocked by her community. Now, she knew for certain that her father’s assumption was false. The real question was not why Darwin abandoned barnacles but why he had not done so sooner. Still, amidst the upheaval of her revelation, Beth conceded one undeniable perk: The author of such a radical theory would surely win her father’s contest, if not his heart.
* * *
While Beth was safely ensconced in the privacy of her bedroom lab, Beryl confronted science up close, completing her trek through the depths of Central Park. A morning tour of the bramble had left her decidedly empty-handed but for the telephone numbers of a handful of friendly bird-watchers who insisted that she join them for their weekly gatherings. The upper quadrant of the park had been a total disappointment. Latrell was not to be found in any of his usual haunts and none of the acquaintances he’d made over the years had any idea of his whereabouts. Still, despite the dismal rewards of the first day of her search, Beryl refused to be discouraged and focused instead on a strange prescient feeling that currently flooded her head.
Beryl had suspected she was psychic since she was four years old. Though her sisters refused to acknowledge this talent, she was comforted by the fact that she had ample evidence to prove her claim regardless. Indeed, Beryl perceived time and space in a different manner than most. She saw the future quite literally, as though it were a sign just ahead on the highway or a distant shape on the horizon. Of course, the first time a premonition occurred, she didn’t recognize it as such. At the time, she was building a sandcastle on a family holiday. While her sisters toiled happily on an elaborate mote surrounding the central turret, Beryl saw an apparition of a rolling wave that appeared with such perfect clarity that she actually felt its moisture on her bare shoulders. Distressed by the prospect of losing the fruit of several hours’ labor, Beryl urged her sisters to relocate farther up from the shore. But the others ignored Beryl and continued to shovel happily, teasing their sister about her penchant for needless worry. Accepting her lack of influence, Beryl gave up her campaign only to watch the castle ravaged seconds later by a sudden thunderstorm.
Over the years, Beryl’s premonitions varied in accuracy. She grew to understand that the images she perceived were not always literal warnings but rather metaphorical suggestions. For example, when Bridget and Billy first began dating, Beryl had a distinct vision of the number seventy-six and understandably assumed she had glimpsed a hint at the duration of the romance. The number, she later realized, did not denote the span of the affair but rather the position of the quarterback who would eventually tear them apart. At the beginning of Beth’s senior year in high school, Beryl had a vision of an ivy leaf and made the reasonable assumption that it foretold the poisonous rash. For weeks, she campaigned her older sister to avoid forays into the woods. Three months later, Beth was accepted into Harvard.
In truth, in almost every case, Beryl’s predictions were slightly askew, requiring an extra act of associative thinking as well as a feat of the imagination. And yet, her family attributed her predictions to mere coincidence, noting the frequency of her miscalculations as opposed to her successes and, when she was correct, writing it off as a lucky guess. Still, despite this lack of support from her family, Beryl was sure she was on the brink, close to cracking the code with which she might reliably know the future. Indeed, minutes before Bell had returned to the apartment a week earlier, Beryl had seen the image of a ringing bell and made the mistaken deduction that she was late for something. So, even despite her erratic track record, Beryl paid special heed to the premonition filling her head at the moment: the image of a red feather. She erroneously assumed the image pertained to her sister Benita. Momentarily blinded by her literality, Beryl abandoned her current project of feeding the ducks at the Boat Pond and stood from her bench to head south again, toward the Central Park Zoo.
It was now nearing eight o’clock, the hour at which the park transformed from a place for children to adults. The music of street performers, before a cheerful backdrop, grew suddenly more pronounced, the high notes somehow more menacing without the treble of children’s shouts. As if on cue, flowers on the ground shifted from daytime’s warmer tones to more somber pastel shades like a photograph drained of color. Even the sun itself submitted to this sudden shift, weaving gray and silver shadows into the last rays of daylight. Finding the area empty but for a few stragglers, Beryl hurried past the Bandshell, picking up her pace as she hurried south. As a result, she failed to notice the approach of a speeding runner and collided with him head-on. Shaken, she muttered a rushed apology, stopped to regain her bearings, and hazarded a quick ambivalent glance toward the safety of her parents’ apartment.
By the time she reached Sheep Meadow, the park had completely transformed. This was not the New York she knew, but an entirely different planet. The area seemed to inhabit its own particular season, not yet touched by the warmth of spring and yet too full of buds for winter. The darkening sky only brightened the sparse but striking colors within. Bursts of nearly neon green dotted the first trees. Patches of white and gold poked up where daffodils began their stints. Hazy pink in three different shades forecast magnolia, dogwood, and cherry blossoms. As she walked, Beryl did her best to ignore whole chunks of her imagination, dispelling countless urban myths and years of warnings from her parents about danger in the park after nightfall. Despite her racing pulse, she pushed deeper into the park, veering west where she should have turned east in order to get back home.
The promenade, always a place for peaceful contemplation, now seemed a haunted entryway. Its canopy of grand elm trees no longer traced an arch in the sky, but tilted and swayed downward as though to shroud people underneath. Gradually, darkness worked its magic on her eyes and imagination, turning tree branches to tentacles, tiny buds to peering eyes, and a light spring breeze into an ominous whispered threat. Accordingly, Beryl was quite surprised and more than slightly relieved to find Sheep Meadow crowded with people who appeared far too busy to be bothered with nefarious deeds. Teenagers huddled in small circles, passing around glowing twigs. An older group played music on a boom box, lowering the volume every several seconds as though this simple act might enable them to escape detection. With every step, Beryl discovered a new, unique population, each one using the park to a different and more wonderful end.
Suddenly, Beryl was overwhelmed with the sense that she’d been duped. This was not the Central Park she’d been told about. Where were the trolls and convicts, the roving bands of boys on bikes, the murderers and the drugs? None of the dangers of which she’d been warned seemed possible in this enchanted place. Her parents had led her astray, she now realized, in order to keep her in check. Central Park was no more dangerous at night than the apartment in which she’d grown up. In fact, it was safer, she now concluded, for various reasons. In the park, for example, there was no risk of being besieged by Benita. Comforted, she continued south with a new, if somewhat unjustified sense of her safety, heading deeper into the park even though it was fast approaching nine o’clock.
