A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 37
Bella moved quickly from her chair and took the seat next to Barry. She covered his hand with her own and nodded encouragingly.
“While you have spent the last seven days attempting to build your futures, I’ve been taking apart my past, remembering … reliving. Thirteen years ago,” he said. He trailed off, unable to speak.
Bella smiled lovingly and patted Barry’s hand.
“Thirteen years ago,” Barry repeated, “I made a grievous error. At the time, I thought it was necessary. At the time, I thought it was helpful.” Finally, emotion overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
For a moment, the room was completely still, devoid of movement and breathing.
“Latrell is my son,” Barry blurted out. He forced himself to look at his daughters. “Latrell is my son,” he whispered and then, simply, “I’m Latrell’s father.”
Indeed, Barry’s recent trip to Coney Island was not the senseless detour it seemed, but rather an attempt to quell his conscience by finding its tormentor. Though he had failed to locate it in any of the likely places, he had eventually found his way to remorse like a blind man to music.
Beryl barely batted an eye in response to the latest announcement. She had played Beethoven’s Fifth enough to expect a sudden turn in the last movement.
Bella, who had guarded the secret for years, smiled proudly at her ex-husband.
Beth and Belinda remained speechless.
Bunny squinted and muttered.
Benita recovered first to point out a pressing new technicality. “Wait,” she gasped. “According to your rules, that means Latrell automatically wins the contest.”
Benita’s announcement sent a new ripple into the fractured crowd.
“I suppose you’re right,” Barry said, newly confounded. But he quickly regained composure. “Consider yourself lucky.” He shrugged. “There’s no faster way than inheriting money to ensure it gets squandered.”
“It’s no fair,” Benita wailed. “I win for finding Beryl. What could be more important than bringing the family back together?”
“Benita, would you please shut up,” said Belinda.
Once again, Benita lunged at Belinda, this time grazing her cheek with her nails and obstructing Beryl’s view of the television in the process.
“All of you, please be quiet!” Beryl yelled, surpassing the crowd’s volume. “They’re tied in the top of the ninth. I need to see this.”
Finally, Bella took command and issued the leveling blow. “Benita,” she said, “you can’t win the contest.”
“Why not?” Benita stomped her foot.
“Because Barry’s not your father.”
At this, Bella cleared her throat to make her own confession. Soon after discovering Barry’s tryst with Brandy, the governess, Bella was confronted with more unfortunate news when Mrs. Brown, Brandy’s irate mother, called to inform her that her eighteen-year-old daughter was pregnant. Horrified, Bella begged Mrs. Brown to keep Barry’s betrayal to herself, promising anything to keep the scandal a secret. The two women arrived at a settlement. Bella would send Brandy a monthly sum and Brandy would put the child up for adoption. Both women felt comfortable enough with this agreement; Mrs. Brown because it enabled Brandy to move past her mistake, Bella because it allowed her to bury her anger in monthly installments.
But, as every woman knows, resentment digs a shallow grave and it did not take long before Bella’s reached the surface. It was not so much that she resented Barry for having the affair, but rather for the more egregious crime of conceiving a son with another woman. Sadly, this forced her to question herself instead of her husband. Tormented, she arrived at the perfect revenge. She signed up as a volunteer for the Bronx Boys Home and ostensibly inherited a family of forty sons. In fact, the choice to adopt Latrell was not the coincidence it seemed, but rather an elaborate plan, a calculated decision. As soon as she met Latrell, her motivation changed, her mission evolving from one of revenge to one of renewal.
But Bella was not without blame. She had made certain choices earlier in her marriage that contributed to its deterioration. After daughter number five, she began to question the underlying science. And after careful study of current research, she began to consider that the problem was not her x chromosome, but rather Barry’s y shortage. In the hopes of solving this mystery, she took matters into her own hands. She conducted her own experiment: when attempting to conceive child number six, she made a “constant” of herself and a “variable” of her partner. To this day, neither Barry nor Benita’s biological father knew the culprit. One could only infer from Benita’s traits: x or y, Barnacle or Finch, Barry or Peter?
“So, I’m related to Billy?” asked Benita.
“I’m afraid so,” Bella confirmed.
Benita’s face registered fifteen different emotions. But she skipped the trembling that typically preceded tears and advanced to the bellowing part.
“Take heart, Benita,” Barry chirped. A devilish look replaced his somber expression. “If you’re very nice to Latrell, maybe he’ll share his inheritance.”
Yet again, the room devolved into abject chaos. Bunny rose quickly to quell the crowd. “Don’t worry, Benita,” she said, “Latrell won’t get your money. When your father and I got married, we signed an ironclad prenup. Most of the contract is a blur. My lawyers just told me where to sign. But there’s one clause in particular I remember: If Barry cheats on me at any time, I’m entitled to every penny.”
Guests and family barely flinched, now completely immune to surprise.
“Oh my God,” Beryl gasped.
“I don’t believe it,” Beth seconded.
“No,” Beryl said. She pointed at the television. “In the box … next to the announcers.” She grinned. “Latrell’s at Yankee Stadium.”
* * *
Five miles north, the stadium boasted its own particular brand of madness as the game headed into the ninth inning with the underdog in the lead. With the Red Sox a staggering four runs ahead, Blaine and Billy stared at their futures: Blaine, a complete and total nervous wreck, intermittently switching his gaze from the scoreboard to the dugout and Billy, several rows higher, indulging in a preemptive sigh of relief, stretching his arms above his head and extending his feet. As the ninth inning commenced, Blaine and Billy exchanged their usual telepathy. But though their prayers were exactly the same, their fears were very different. Billy was more determined than ever to propose to Bridget and, regretting the bet he’d made, frantically cheered for the Sox. Blaine, however, due to Barry’s disconcerting confession, now second-guessed his plans to propose and, for the first time in thirty years, prayed for the Yanks to lose.
Every species of Red Sox pitcher boasted a unique specialty, adding its own specific hierarchy to the pecking order of the stadium. The starting pitcher launched the game, pitching the first hundred-odd throws with the same obvious intent, to give up a couple of hits and runs with the expectation that the closer would prevent further scoring. The middle-reliever entered the game in the fifth or the sixth inning with the unglamorous goal of continuing the starter’s efforts and maintaining the status quo. The closer occupied the highest position on the totem pole. He arrived on the scene for one reason alone, to lead his team to victory. Bred for this precise purpose, the closer had one mission alone, to throw the lights out of the ball for one straight inning and then go home. Closers were always colorful types, and often intimidating figures. The rock stars of baseball, they were widely known for their tempers and reckless behavior. Cox had a unique advantage even among this wild species, having mastered a crushing fastball, a slider, a curve, a splitter, and a knuckle ball so lethal that it had earned him the nickname “Cox the Killer.”
Suddenly, the loudspeaker crackled and buzzed, demanding everyone’s attention. The entire stadium stood in an ovation as Johnson strode from the dugout to take his place at home plate. At six foot five, he didn’t appear to walk like most human beings, but seemed to sail just above the grass like some sort of futuristic machine propelled by hydrogen. Due to his 20/10 eyesight, Johnson boasted another decisive asset. It was said that he could read the label on the ball as it left the pitcher’s hand. At once a natural and obsessive student of the game, he was rumored to require his lovers to share the bed with his bat. Even from eighty feet above, one could tell how handsome he was. As he walked, he tipped his hat to the crowd and puffed his chest proudly, inviting hollers from every Sox fan from New York to Boston.
Blaine noted Tug’s confident entrance with mounting concern and did his best to diffuse it from his seat with an outpouring of negative energy. “Tug’s really on the ropes,” he said.
“No he’s not,” Bell snapped. “Last season, he hit three-twenty with a hundred thirty RBIs and forty home runs.”
“Watch it,” said Blaine. “Hubris is the Yankees’ fatal flaw. Look what happened last year. They can’t afford to get overconfident.”
Bell turned to Blaine and regarded him strangely, confused by his ambivalence. In the thirty years she’d known him, she’d never heard him utter even the most minor critique of his team. “Still,” she said, “let’s not forget the legendary series-winning run when Johnson hit Cox’s tenth pitch out of the park with a full count on his shoulders.”
“Please,” Blaine scoffed. He racked his brain for a suitable rebuttal. The hypocrisy of his next comment appalled even him. “What happened that year was a total fluke. A once-in-a-lifetime event.”
On the field, Johnson adjusted his cap, causing more wild applause in the crowd.
“What do you think the odds are?” Bell asked.
“Slim to none,” Blaine said.
At this same moment, Cox sidled up to his place on the pitcher’s mound, sending a second shock through the stadium, turning excitement to mayhem. Up in the bleachers, Billy and Bridget strained to get a better view of Cox, both praying for different teams to win but, unbeknownst to Bridget, rooting for the same outcome.
Down on the field, Cox accepted Johnson’s challenge, striking a formidable pose, making up for what he lacked in height in his ample girth. He leered at the crowd through his facial hair as he walked to the mound. His compact, muscular frame gave him a heft that Johnson lacked, endowing him with the same density and threat as a military tank. Cox’s signature tactics were well known throughout the league, his windmill windup designed as much to instill fear in the batter as to amplify the speed of his pitch.
“Cox, don’t let me down!” Billy shouted, standing from his seat.
Bridget bristled at the noise. “Billy, if you’re going to cheer that loud, could you please try not to do it so close to my ear?”
But Billy was now lost to Bridget, completely possessed by the game. “With forty-five consecutive saves,” he chanted by way of comforting himself, “Cox pitched eighty scoreless innings last year. No one would dispute he’s got the fastest fastball in baseball.”
Billy fumbled for his pulse as he squinted at the scoreboard. He dared not take a breath of relief. As the game headed into the bottom of the ninth, the Yanks were down by four runs.
Suddenly, the stadium went silent. All noise faded into a point. Johnson took his stance at the plate. Cox remained frozen for several moments, relishing the charge in the air. Then, without further fanfare, Cox commenced his windmill windup, emitting, with each rotation of his arm, an even louder grunt. But this sound was soon overpowered by something even more powerful, as Cox’s hurtling, shoulder-high curve ball skimmed Johnson’s kneecaps and seemed to approach a sonic boom.
“Low and outside. Ball one,” yelled the announcer.
The stadium erupted.
Billy raised his arm and pumped his fist. “All right, here we go, Sox.”
“Don’t get too worked up,” said Bridget. “It’s not over yet. It could always happen again. Full count and then … pow.”
“No, don’t say it!” Billy yelled, grabbing Bridget’s shoulders forcefully.
Bridget shoved Billy away, indignant. “God, what’s gotten into you?” she sniffed. “It’s just a game, Billy.”
Humbled, Billy loosened his grasp and shrugged an apology. “Sorry,” he said, then by way of explanation, “I’ve got a lot riding on it.”
The crowd’s volume swelled and receded as the scoreboard switched to reflect the first ball. Gradually, all attention drew back to the field. Johnson stepped coolly to the plate while Cox took his sweet time getting into position.
“Cox in the stretch,” said the announcer.
Pure silence for another moment. Cox repeated his bizarre windup and released the ball with celestial speed, causing Johnson to swing and miss so completely that he checked his bat for defects.
“Strike one.”
The stadium exploded in a million angry sounds, a perfectly awful symphony of hollers, hoots, and yelps.
Down by the field, Blaine rejoiced in this progress for the Sox. Though he was now barely breathing, he turned to Bell with renewed hope. “There we go. Keep it up,” he cheered. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Up in the bleachers, Billy closed his eyes and muttered a heartfelt prayer. But he made this appeal in vain; when he opened his eyes, the ball was halfway across the field, whizzing past Johnson’s nose.
“Ball two,” yelled the announcer.
The audience booed and hissed.
Cox took advantage of the noise and tried a follow-up punch, sending a ball, at lightning speed, into Johnson’s stomach.
“Ball three,” yelled the announcer.
Finally, the crowd lost control, conscious of the possibility of a repeat performance. Each section made a dissonant sound like an orchestra of confused musicians.
“And so Johnson works the count full,” Bell taunted, mimicking a sportscaster.
Overwhelmed by mixed emotions, Blaine could feel his heart beat through his chest. And, just sixty feet away, Billy experienced the very same sensation. Yet again, the two were cursed with matching meditations. Perhaps nurture gets the last laugh, Blaine decided. Not so fast, Billy thought. Slow and steady wins the race.
What followed was a series of pitches so bizarre no psychic could have made the prediction. The fourth and final movement of the ninth inning ended with a hair-raising, if slightly expected eleventh-hour modulation. Unfortunately, the rest of the Barnacle family was stuck in traffic on the FDR Drive so they missed the major-to-minor shift and the rollicking trumpets of the triumphant finale. But they managed to catch the cab radio’s sportscast and they were, of course, equipped with Beryl’s nearly 99 percent accurate crystal ball.
“Cox in the stretch,” the announcer yelled over the cab radio. “He fires. It breaks. Johnson can’t get a piece of it. Cox in the stretch. He fires. It flies. Johnson hits it down the left field line. It curves, but he fouls! Cox in the stretch. He fires. Johnson hits it way out to the right. That ball looked like it had legs, but the wind had its way with it. Foul! Now, Johnson calls for time. He paces and smiles at the crowd. Cox stares him down. Johnson takes his time coming back to the box. The home plate umpire gives a warning. He nods, apologizes. Cox in the stretch. He fires. It pops. And Johnson … no, it can’t be. Lightning, my friends, just struck twice as Johnson hits his first grand slam of the season. My friends, this one’s out of the park.”
By the time the cab reached Yankee Stadium, fans were already streaming out. But, ever unflappable, the Barnacle family fought the tide of the crowd, converging on the baseball field like cops on a drug bust. Newly accredited by the win, Beryl led the group across the field, climbing the stairs to the announcer’s box, and ending at the organist’s booth. As predicted, Latrell sat on the bench, slumped over the organ, exhausted from his time on the lam and still reeling from another failed attempt. And yet, his search had paid off in one unexpected way. The organist’s booth boasted the best view of the park and the most immediate jolt of the game’s exhilaration. Luckily, Latrell’s odyssey had finally come to an end. Barry swallowed hard and looked him in the eye. “Latrell, I’m your father,” he said.
And so it was that the Yankees won their opening game against the Red Sox with Johnson making another historical comeback, sending in all three bases off a ball and dancing into home plate. Of course, this had another equally momentous implication. Blaine had technically won his bet with Billy despite the fact that, for the first time in his life, he badly wanted to lose. Still, he felt he had no choice but accept the fate he’d chosen. He inhaled deeply as though taking his last breath, knelt down on the stadium floor, and prepared to end his free life.
“Bell, will you marry me?” he asked.
Bell said nothing for a moment, just stared at Blaine curiously. Suddenly, she was graced with clarity and, seeing through Blaine’s confusing facade, she realized she would rather be alone than settle for him. “No,” she answered.
“No?” asked Blaine.
“No,” Bell repeated.
And with that, Bell kissed Blaine on the cheek and hurried out of the stadium, determined to make good on a promise to spend an afternoon at the Museum of Natural History in the company of more benevolent creatures.
Much higher up, evolution itself orchestrated the symphony’s coda as Billy proposed to Bridget for the third time, now without having to utter a single word. Indeed, like all great lovers, the two were blessed with the telepathy of twins. As a result, Bridget understood Billy’s intent before he said it and simply smiled and nodded. For the next half hour, the two old friends kissed as though they’d just won the World Series, stopping only occasionally to laugh and reminisce.
A baseball stadium, during a game, is a testament to man’s potential. But when a stadium is completely empty, it produces the strangest sensation. The space holds too much hope and yearning for one man alone, much like an empty concert hall without any musicians. Now, removed from the sounds of the game, Billy and Bridget adjusted to the quiet. All at once, they felt the urge to kneel. The stadium had become a cathedral. And somewhere, higher even than the nosebleeds, nature and nurture shook hands.
