A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 34
By the time Beryl reached the zoo, the world was entirely dark. The sounds of the animals seemed louder somehow as though nighttime had adjusted the volume of New York, amplifying the noise inside the park and silencing everything farther out. Humbled, she took a seat on the long low bench facing the zoo. Glancing up at the Delacorte Clock, she was reminded of her childhood, afternoons spent listening to the clock’s melodies and tracking the dancing animals. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, her perception improved, causing her to note nearby details with heightened awareness. A clump of white tulips beside the gates of the zoo strained their necks like a school of swans. The rush of traffic on Fifth Avenue bore an amazing resemblance to the ebb and flow of the ocean. For the first time ever, Beryl noted the surprisingly low height of the fence around the zoo. It was a wonder, she decided, that more people didn’t climb over to enjoy a midnight promenade without the distraction of tourists.
But before she could spend another moment contemplating such a crime, something inordinately strange occurred, ostensibly turning nature upside down and bringing the animals to her. As she sat in front of the old Arsenal, staring at the gates of the zoo, she became aware of a faint chirping coming from the shrubbery. It took Beryl several moments to locate the source of the noise and, once she had, to congratulate herself on another apt, if muddled premonition. Mrs. Finch’s fledgling red-tailed hawk teetered in the dirt, either indulging in nocturnal predation or trying to find its way home.
* * *
While Beryl combated the wilderness in nearby Central Park, Belinda confronted her own savagery on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Poor Belinda shared her sisters’ wildness but none of their savvy, lending credence to the notion that genes skip over siblings like stones over water. Despite the initial excitement she had felt about her scheme, Belinda was having second thoughts. By the third day of her engagement, Belinda wanted to break it off. She had been sustained for several days by the thrill of bad behavior and a short but enjoyable honeymoon in Coney Island. The two had spent two blissful days in the amusement park, indulging in such liberal consumption of the Cyclone and Nathan’s famous franks that they promptly ran out of money. As a result, the young lovers were forced to abandon their vacation prematurely, forgoing their plans to travel across country and formalize what was currently only a symbolic union in Las Vegas, the official domain of moronic romance. Lacking the funds, driver’s license, and red convertible to do it in style, they had no choice, they realized, but opt for a more modest holiday. Though both had been tempted to admit defeat and return to their parents’ apartments, they had kept the sentiment to themselves and spent the last two nights camping out at a construction site in the East Village.
By now the particular joy of upsetting her parents had been replaced by an overwhelming urge to enjoy their food and shelter. This sensation combined with the new glare of longer springtime days to offer Belinda a more complete sense of her companion. She kicked herself for failing to detect his defects earlier. The boy’s shaved head pointed to a raging temper, his piercings revealed masochistic tendencies, and his maniacal obsession with Belinda belied deeper mental glitches. The fluorescent light of the train had obscured his facial acne, a problem that, Belinda now realized, had plagued him for many years. His unfortunate reddish brown hair precluded the possibility of her ever taking him seriously. His nose was slightly too large for his face. His clothes were filthy and smelled horribly and buried far beneath their grime was an absurdly spindly frame. Still, Belinda did her best to think positive thoughts. She took some pleasure in imagining the look on her father’s face when she finally worked up the nerve to bring her new husband back to the apartment.
Arm in arm, Belinda and the boy wandered through the East Village, stopping first at a vintage record store to pretend to browse for music. After bothering the clerk to help them find obscure records they couldn’t afford, they commenced a more pressing hunt, seeking a skilled tattoo artist capable of penning one’s name on the other’s earlobe in commemoration of their impulsive act. After some searching, they located such an artisan in a dank parlor on St. Mark’s Place. But at the last minute, Belinda suggested a switch to piercings instead of tattoos. Tattoos were cliché, she insisted, and prone to fading over the years. Matching lip rings were a far more potent symbol. Unfortunately, Belinda and the boy’s plans were foiled once again. Their combined finances only allowed for one of the two to be pierced.
The boy quickly offered an equally compelling alternative. He knew of a restaurant in Chinatown, a favorite of underage delinquents that looked the other way when serving minors and also worked within their budgets, offering an eight-person scorpion bowl for under five dollars. Unfortunately, Belinda had little firsthand experience with the substance and so had no idea that two of these drinks would put her under the table. Within half an hour, Belinda had lost track of her previous concerns, released, by virtue of rum and fruit juice, of both memory and conscience. All thoughts of her family blurred to a vague, nagging sensation. Even her odd companion transformed from a mongrel into a prince. Inside an hour, she was already feeling the first prickle of nausea. Her balance was bad enough to bring her to the floor, her judgment poor enough for her to order a third drink, her vision distorted enough for her to see similarities between this boy and certain rock stars. Her better angel was absent enough for her to find herself pinned up against the wall in the restaurant bathroom, lips locked, head thrown back, pants dangling, her sense of space shifting with the slightest movement.
Bell and Bridget had warned her about the dangers of getting “blitzed.” When one was blitzed, one was vulnerable to bad boys, subject to one’s whims and disorientation. When one was blitzed, one lost one’s inhibitions, good judgment, self-respect, and sometimes a very good pair of shoes. But her sisters had not mentioned the various benefits, that getting blitzed permitted you to break laws of physics, that one could actually lose track of both time and space, that the phrase “to tear off one’s clothes” was not merely a euphemism but actually how clothes came off, that one could lose one’s cares, self-consciousness, and several hours of one’s life and then somehow find oneself in a strange place with an even stranger boy and have absolutely no recollection of how one got there not to mention that one had yelled “I’m wild” while flashing all of Canal Street.
As a result, Belinda was all too susceptible to stupid, impulsive ideas and was halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge when she realized her mistake. The boy knew of a judge-turned-shaman who lived in a basement apartment across the river and was certified to perform legal marriages for a very reasonable bargain. Now, looking back at Manhattan from the bridge, Belinda admired the sparkle of the city, awed not only by its wondrous electric output but by a desperate desire for it to stop spinning. Unfortunately, horizontal and vertical lines soon merged into one, causing the skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan to tumble into the East River. But, for the moment, she was too drunk to realize her precarious state and gladly accepted when the boy offered to carry her the rest of the way. Being carted across the Brooklyn Bridge provided other consolations, among them a moment to nurse her headache, a renewed appreciation for her fiancé, and a second shot, however slim at winning her father’s contest.
22
Endurance
Bell awoke on Thursday morning to the sound of a family gathering. It had been exactly one week since she returned; an appropriate amount of time, she now concluded, for a resurrection. Once again, she made the trek to the front of the apartment, finding her bedroom strangely lonely without Bridget’s constant prattle. The rest of the Barnacle apartment reflected this same emptiness, much like a baseball team who had lost its best player to injuries. Aside from Bell, Beth and Benita were the only two Barnacle sisters in residence. Bridget had returned to her apartment to reconcile with Trot. Beryl was still roaming the city, looking for Latrell, and Belinda, though everyone naturally assumed she was still at school, was nursing a hangover on the banks of the East River.
But, despite the two recent departures, the house maintained a constant volume. Beth’s return did its part to replace the previous noise, supplying Benita with a new and vocal sparring partner. At the moment, the third and sixth sister were assembled in the living room, both busied by the same goal, trying to simulate the noise of all six sisters with their yelling. This chaos was the girls’ response to Barry’s latest announcement. He had issued another invitation, a seder to celebrate the last day of Passover or, more accurately, to celebrate the fact that Passover was over. It would be an evening of announcements and denouncements, he explained. Every member of the family would be given the floor to argue why she was entitled to the prize and to heap slander upon anyone else who dared make the same claim. Barry would make his decision immediately after the meal, rendering one of the Barnacle girls an heiress by the time dessert was served.
Spurred by the noise, Barry rushed from his office to the living room. He stood at the door, observing the mayhem with impartial amusement as though he’d merely happened upon the scene, and not set it in motion.
“I have bad news,” Benita announced.
“What’s that?” Barry asked.
“Bell, Beth, and I are the only ones here. I guess that means the others are not eligible anymore.”
“Nonsense,” said Barry. “Where’s everyone else?” He scanned the room impatiently, noting the diminished population.
Benita frowned with transparent delight. “Bridget went home, Belinda’s at school, and Beryl, well, Beryl’s not around.”
Barry scowled at Benita as though searching for a flaw in her logic.
“I’m afraid I can’t make it, either,” Bell said, shooting her father a defiant look.
“Why not?” Barry demanded.
Bell shrugged innocently. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
Barry offered Bell a sharp look, acknowledging her successful manipulation. A date was the one thing he could not overrule since he himself had made it an urgent mandate. Lacking the energy to issue the traditional reprimand, he simply sighed and closed his eyes as though eclipsing the world better enabled him to shut out his profound disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Bell said. “I’m sure I won’t be missed.” And, having heard Benita’s monologue recently enough to remember it verbatim, she recited Cordelia’s famous words. “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. I love your majesty according to my bond, nor more nor less.”
Yet again, the noise in the apartment spiked to a dangerous level, every sister doing her best to deafen the others with her point of view. Refusing to submit to hysteria, Bell settled into the sofa and opened the newspaper. According to her ritual, she refused the front page even a perfunctory scan, eschewing more pressing news in favor of the obituary section. It was, indeed, an odd compulsion but it comforted her to see the lives of other New Yorkers summarized in fifty words or less. First, she read the notice for a ninety-year-old man. He had died of natural causes, leaving behind a sprawling family. Then, she read one for an elderly lady who had died rather suddenly. She had lived with several cats and a bird but had little family to speak of. Saddened, Bell searched the page for a more hopeful story. Unfortunately, the next obituary was even more maudlin than the last, a freak accident involving a very young girl; the tragedy as sad as the odd, hurried prose in which it was written. The deceased girl was the same age as one of her sisters. Suddenly, Bell thrust the newspaper down. The obituary described Beryl.
Benita laid low while the house was ransacked, terrified to confess her knowledge of the crime. She was unwilling to relinquish Beryl’s whereabouts lest she forfeit her side of their trade. Within minutes, every member of the family had concocted her own theory. Barry was not concerned at all, convinced Beryl had lost track of time in pursuit of a contest prize. Bunny was sure she had fallen in love and was holed up at some boy’s apartment, the greatest threat to her safety secondhand smoke and bad music. Beth suspected she’d joined a band of roving gypsies, preferring their company to her family and seeking their tutelage in the art of crystal-ball reading. Benita did her part to throw her family off the scent, suggesting Beryl had been unhappy for years and was probably gone for good. But Bella was blessed with a mother’s sixth sense and guessed the reason for Beryl’s flight; deducing correctly that her daughter was ransacking the city for her adopted brother. Unfortunately, this knowledge failed to offer Bella much comfort. Now, two of her beloved children roamed the city as opposed to one.
Deeming all of these theories unduly melodramatic, Bell returned to the solace of her bedroom. She had reached the penultimate round of her own competition and needed to focus. Of course, she knew perfectly well that she had resorted to foul play, securing Blaine’s affection with less than honorable tactics and stooping to new levels in desperate behavior. But circumstance had foreclosed her options. She could no longer afford the luxury of immaculate standards, and so she did her best to find the positives in her situation. Though Blaine was perhaps not the man most likely to provide her with unconditional love, he would at least join her in the task of providing for her child. Or, at the very least, he would permit her to approximate her father’s expectations while she found a way to provide for herself. Of course, Bell knew that marrying Blaine was a compromise of sorts. But reality required such acknowledgments. “Compromise” was just another word for “getting what you want.”
Renewed, Bell focused on the current task, selecting the perfect uniform for her date that evening. Finding an outfit that was both alluring and casual was one of life’s great challenges. One could always couple jean shorts with a snug black camisole but there was something about this particular ensemble that betrayed a certain desperation to showcase one’s attributes. Jean shorts always ended up causing so many unforeseen problems. The exact length and extent of the fringe often required last minute alterations and, even worse, caused shedding at the most inopportune moments. Cotton pants were certainly another viable option, but unless they were cut in the latest style, they risked making one look as though one was heading off on a camping trip.
Skirts were always a welcome possibility after the endless New York winter, allowing a girl to enjoy added freedom of movement or, when necessary, to speed the negotiations of a first date. But skirts and baseball stadiums made for such an awkward match, subjecting the wearer to mysterious surfaces and, when one was not vigilant, the odd, unwelcome itch. Jeans then, perhaps, were the best option, sensible and still sexy, permitting a girl to maintain the illusion of nonchalance, even when she had put hours into her appearance. Her anxiety allayed by this careful analysis, Bell redirected her energy to the next decision: Which of the shoes Bridget had left behind provided the adequate lift for her silhouette without seeming overly dressy? Finally, a full hour later, Bell reached a satisfactory decision. She wore dark blue jeans, a white camisole, a pair of black kitten heels with green polka dots, and Blaine’s beloved Yankees cap to complete the ensemble.
Appraising herself in the mirror, Bell took in the full significance of the upcoming moment, and then proceeded cautiously to the living room to await Blaine’s arrival. Unfortunately, her confidence faltered in the presence of her sisters. Beth and Benita had joined forces to combine the collective power of their disapproval. It was unspeakable, Beth explained, for Bell to go to the game while Beryl was still at large. More to the point, it was moronic for Bell to spend time with a boy with such transparent motives. Benita simply grinned and claimed that Bell was headed for disaster. But Bell did her best to ignore her sisters; she had worked too hard to give up now. If life were a baseball game, this would be the ninth inning.
* * *
One faces, at certain junctures in a romance, a choice between desire and dignity. And though he was torn, Billy had no choice. The only graceful thing to do was to break things off with Bridget. At noon on Thursday, he sat on his bed, paralyzed with anger, debating, for the twelfth straight hour, whether Bridget’s or Blaine’s betrayal was more wicked. Bridget’s was worse, he decided. He expected such treachery from Blaine. No, he changed his mind again. Blaine had sinned against his own blood. Blaine was the real bastard. Fuming, Billy comforted himself with a new resolve, plotting an elaborate and mortifying revenge for both parties. Luckily, Blaine’s revenge was already in the works. Since finding out, Billy had assaulted his brother with an aggressive silent treatment. Unfortunately, Blaine had been in such a good mood that he had not yet noticed Billy’s boycott and had left the apartment for a jog before Billy could inform him of it. Bridget’s revenge was slightly harder to implement than Blaine’s due to the fact that her feelings about Billy were already somewhat ambivalent. And yet, Billy realized, there was one perfect solution. His sudden and violent disappearance from her life could put an end to that.
Billy tore out of his bedroom and headed for the Barnacles’. His speech, he decided on his way down the hall, would be merciless and pithy, causing permanent emotional scars without requiring too many words. His stance, he decided in the foyer, would be humble but self-assured. He would swear his eternal wrath at Bridget, vow never to speak to her again, and itemize his plans for revenge all inside thirty seconds. Furthermore, he decided as he waited for his knock to be answered, he would demand repayment for his grandmother’s ring. Bridget had likely reached in and recovered it from the dog’s belly, and then hidden it in some dark, cushioned drawer to appraise and later pawn. But as he stood at the Barnacles’ door, Billy’s confidence faltered somewhat. He acknowledged the great challenge of such kiss-offs, conveying complete and utter apathy while going to so much trouble. Either way, he was spared the burden of a performance. By the time he reached Bridget’s room, Bridget was already gone.
