A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 4
“I’m Trot,” Trot said. “Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand cautiously as though to allow the twins the choice of which one should shake it first.
“The pleasure is mine.” Billy extended a hand. “We’ve been dying to meet Bridget’s boy for a while.”
Blaine extended his hand with considerably less enthusiasm and glanced at Trot, it truly seemed, to appraise his clothes. “I’m Billy,” he lied and smiled smugly.
“Trot, ignore him,” Billy jumped in. “I’m Billy. He’s Blaine. If you ever get confused…” He tapped his cap with businesslike precision. “Blaine is foolishly a Yankees fan and I stand by the Sox.”
Trot nodded and smiled weakly, doing his best to appear amused as opposed to alarmed.
The three young men stood in constipated silence until Billy suggested they adjourn to the living room. Trot was certain this was an aggressive act to assert his superior comfort in the Barnacles’ apartment. But, determined not to lose any more footing, Trot attempted to steer the conversation back to familiar territory.
“So, what do you do?” he asked.
Now Billy took the stage, aware due to telepathy, it seemed, that Blaine could not be bothered to reply.
The boys had found a vocation, Billy explained, that provided the perfect arena for their telepathy, pairing up to codirect low-budget movies or, as they preferred to call them, “independent films.” Their first collaboration, Cents and Sensibility, a modernization of the similarly-named Jane Austen novel, earned them praise at a minor film festival, much attention from Hollywood agents, and a distinct low-level celebrity in the world of people who cared about these things. It also earned them brownie points with Bell and Bridget who, age sixteen and twelve at the time, had played the roles of Marianne and Elinor. Arguably, it was during the filming of Marianne and Brandon’s bedside scenes that Billy and Bridget’s romance blossomed. But Bridget, when pressed to defend her compelling portrayal of a lovesick teenager, would always claim the experience ignited her passion for acting, not for Billy.
Before he could elaborate, Billy’s favorite leading lady entered the room. Seeing the boys, Bridget slowed from a sprint and made a conscious effort to appear nonchalant.
“Hello, boys,” she said casually. She turned from the group and inhaled deeply to disguise the act of catching her breath, then proceeded toward the Finch twins and greeted both with a sisterly hug.
Trot watched for evidence of unrequited love as Billy and Bridget embraced.
“Billy, it’s been ages,” Bridget said stiffly.
“Gosh, when was the last time?” Billy recited.
They hugged, Trot thought, quite familiarly and separated too quickly, as though both were conscious of seeming intimate and had choreographed the move in advance.
“Blaine, I’m so sorry,” Bridget began.
“About what?” Blaine asked, genuinely confused.
“Your marriage,” said Bridget.
“Oh, don’t be,” said Blaine. “I, for one, plan to celebrate its completion—that is, if I can still afford a drink.” At this, he nodded down the hall as though beckoning a tardy servant. “Bridget, why don’t you be a dear and go raid Mummy’s cabinet?”
“Yes,” said Billy, “I’ll take the usual. But make it a little stronger today in honor of your high holy days.”
“Here’s to sugar on the strawberries,” said Blaine.
“Here’s to sugar on the strawberries,” said Billy.
And both boys raised an imaginary glass in their favorite toast.
Billy chortled and pretended to choke. Blaine pretended to let him. Trot smiled politely as anger choked his veins.
No one knew the exact details of Blaine’s divorce. What was known was relayed by Jorge, the senior doorman in the building. Jorge had overheard Mrs. Finch chatting in the elevator. After being kicked out by his wife, Blaine had moved back home in need of a month, or so he told his parents, to find a new apartment and to recover from the trauma of being married. Blaine’s bride, Alice Appleton (of the Boston Appletons), was apparently quite relieved. A homely girl with embarrassingly large breasts, Alice Antonia Appleton had always taken great pride in her monogram and had therefore, in some way, dreaded the addition of Blaine’s awkward “F.” Still, her parents sanctioned the marriage, welcoming the chance for their daughter to shed her associations with the Catholic side of the family by joining forces with a full-blown WASP.
Still, it was unclear whether Alice or Blaine benefited more from the merger. Alice was a haughty society girl who was neither particularly pretty nor smart but managed to make the most of her unfortunate figure by running laps around the Central Park Reservoir as though it was a high school track. Blaine had the better name, but his family’s wealth paled in comparison to the Appletons’, his own family’s fortune suffering the fate of so many, eroding gradually over the years much like the dunes of the beaches on which they summered. Despite her refinements, Alice was somewhat uncouth, partial to a certain obscure French perfume that made her smell slightly pungent. Blaine had managed to suffer through it nonetheless, acquiring an immunity to the scent while he developed an addiction to the life Alice’s finances allowed. In a sense, the entire Appleton family filed for divorce from Blaine. They felt they were entitled to all Blaine’s earnings not only because they’d paid for the wedding but because they’d paid for everything else since: the honeymoon, the car, the apartment, the weekend home. Accordingly, they encouraged their daughter, in the settlement, to take Blaine for all he was worth.
“So,” said Trot, fishing desperately for a new topic of conversation. “I always wished I had a twin. It must have been a lot of fun.”
“Pfft.” Both boys simultaneously emitted dismissive sighs then exchanged the same disdainful glance. Blaine bowed, signaling Billy to speak. Billy bowed, signaling Blaine. Again they spoke in unison.
“It ain’t all,” Blaine said.
“It’s cracked up,” said Billy.
“To be,” they said in unison.
The boys glanced quickly at one another and exhaled large gusts of ennui. Once assured of Billy’s silence, Blaine added, “It’s overrated. Trust me.”
Trot looked from one twin to the other, desperate to discern whether this was a performance. He glanced at Bridget as though for a life raft but she offered him nothing.
“Besides, we were always exempt,” said Blaine, “from most of the fun to be had.”
“Fun to be had?” asked Trot.
“You know, all the really good tricks … convincing people they’re seeing double, trading places, switcheroos.”
“Switcheroos?” Trot asked.
Blaine ignored the question. “We really were quite tame. Occasionally, we’d order the same thing at lunch just to spook people out.”
“Except that’s not a good example,” Billy conceded, “because we always order the same thing. Salami and swiss.”
“On rye,” Blaine finished.
Trot looked on helplessly. For the third time, his senses switched into the appropriate mode for a fast-paced game of Ping-Pong.
“If you look closely, it’s quite obvious,” said Billy. “We really look nothing alike.”
“We’re as different as two people can be,” Blaine said. “Only technically identical.”
This last statement, Trot decided, was simply untrue. In fact, as he stared at the twins, he had the distinct impression that the same moment was occurring twice. Even from this distance, the twins were dead ringers, similar to the dot, completely interchangeable were it not for their baseball caps. If they took their caps off, Trot decided, they would be wholly indistinguishable. Indeed, widespread confusion would result. Trot would likely call one by the other’s name, perhaps even confide in Billy while actually talking to Blaine. But, Trot considered hopefully, perhaps their hair was slightly different under their caps. Blaine, Trot imagined, had calculated hair, messy in a purposeful way. Billy’s was probably more haphazard, his easy curls gently tousled like a plump cherub.
But other than their baseball caps, the boys were ostensibly machine-made clones, except for when they were silent, which, of course, was rare. During lulls in conversation, the twins’ mouths fell from their deplorable little smirks to reveal a new discrepancy. Billy’s mouth settled into a relaxed grin while Blaine’s hardened into a pursed little pout that made him look, at least compared to Billy, decidedly mean-spirited. If you were to make the claim that there was any real difference between the boys, you could only argue that they were related species, one nasty, one nice. Of course, there were those who had no need for such trivial means of distinction. Charles, the dog named for Barry’s hero, could tell the twins apart by scent alone. As a result, he treated the boys very differently, greeting Billy with adoring licks and Blaine with a suspicious growl.
Bridget, though she would never admit it, was also availed of such a sixth sense when it came to the twins. She could tell the difference between the two by sheer instinct or, more specifically, by the way she felt in their presence. When Blaine was near, she felt nothing at all, light irritation if anything, as though he were a pesky younger brother or an uncle that no one liked. But when Billy was near, she felt the threat of clumsiness in her feet, a certain quickness in her heart, a distinct tingle somewhere around her heart. She felt younger, lighter, happier, if that was possible, as though the world had just been cleansed of its dust to reveal a new sparkling luster, as though something fun and wonderful could occur at any moment, that adventure was in store even in the most boring places as long as he was near. Indeed, when Billy was in the room, Bridget felt decidedly unnerved, as though a thousand moths had launched inside her stomach. And when Billy touched her hand, Bridget was down for the count. There was no denying she felt a galvanizing thrill.
“Blaine is right about that,” Billy insisted. “We’re really nothing alike. I love chocolate. He likes vanilla.”
“I like the sunrise. He prefers the sunset,” said Blaine.
“I like Paris,” said Billy. “He loves the south of France.”
“I like blondes. He prefers brunettes.”
“Blaine could sleep through a tornado,” said Billy.
“And a light breeze will wake me up.”
Trot eyed the boys skeptically. They grew more inscrutable with every minute. It was impossible to tell if they were being condescending or just plain chipper.
Sensing Trot’s discomfort, Bridget finally intervened. She touched his arm in a manner that betrayed more control than intimacy. “Trot, don’t listen to a word they say. These two practically share a heartbeat. Sometimes, when we were growing up, we would spend whole weeks in the dark. Billy once took an exam for Blaine. Blaine broke up with a girlfriend for Billy. For a whole month, Billy practiced the piano twice every night. Luckily, Charlie here came to our aid.” Bridget patted the invalid dog. “Charlie can tell the difference,” she said. “Isn’t that right, old boy?”
Charles looked up at Bridget and thumped his tail against the floor.
“Charlie, show them,” said Bridget. She smiled proudly like a magician preparing to perform a trick. “Where’s Blaine?” she asked the dog.
Charles remained impassive. He placed his head on his paws and sighed dejectedly.
“Okay. Now, where’s Billy?” said Bridget.
Suddenly, Charles twitched to attention. He wagged his tail enthusiastically, creating a drumroll on the floor. Then, managing to rise, he hobbled to Billy and nudged him with his snout, proving his understanding of the English language and his undying love for Billy.
“See,” said Bridget. She beamed proudly at Charles and leaned down to pat his back. “Had I known this as a child,” she said, glaring at Billy, “it would have saved me a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t listen to Bridget,” said Blaine.
“She’s full of it,” agreed Billy.
“I would take our side,” Blaine advised. “There’s only one of her.”
Bridget regarded the boys skeptically, like a parent deciding on punishment. “In your defense, I will say this: Any girl stupid enough to be fooled by you two probably deserved it.”
Billy chortled then covered his mouth as though Bridget had accidentally stumbled onto a great truth.
Bridget looked quickly from Billy to Blaine.
Blaine shrugged and looked to Billy.
Billy smiled then pantomimed the act of zippering his mouth.
“Oh, don’t you even imply…” said Bridget.
Billy narrowed his eyes at Bridget. Bridget narrowed her eyes at Billy. Their intense focus on each other, Trot decided, was not unlike that of lovers.
“I would definitely know,” Bridget said, “if you two ever tried that on me.”
“Oh really?” asked Billy. “Are you sure about that?”
“Quite,” Bridget insisted.
“And how would you know?”
“Because,” Bridget said, “there’s nothing in the world that can reproduce the way a woman feels in a man’s presence. No one can manufacture the turn in her stomach, the dryness in her throat, the heaviness in her feet, or the thrill in her heart.”
Bridget held Billy’s gaze for a long moment, indicating a personal address. Billy gazed back fondly acknowledging and doubling the sentiment. Finally, Trot manufactured a cough, breaking their trance. Was it possible he had just witnessed an act of courtship between his girlfriend and another man?
“Anyway,” Blaine said, “here’s a foolproof tip if you ever get confused. Billy prefers to support underdogs, whereas I wisely put my money on the obvious winner.” He paused to tip his Yankees cap.
“If it weren’t for these caps,” Billy concurred, “no one would even know we were brothers. You and I,” he said, gesturing at Trot, “look much more alike.”
Trot gave the boys another glance and shifted uncomfortably. Easily, the most insufferable facet of Billy was his taste in baseball. Billy’s loyalty to the team was clearly founded in a lingering nostalgia for his Harvard days. Even worse, he used the affiliation to convey a specific persona, as proof of his masculinity, evidence of his compassion for the handicapped, and testament to his camaraderie with the working class. He had perfected this affectation to such an extent that he had come to forget it was an affectation in the first place and now counted himself among the team’s most diehard fans.
During college, Billy had little interest in the team. But the day he graduated, he sprouted an obsessive loyalty and began watching or listening to every game during the season and collecting statistics with the rabidity of a bookie during the winter months. When he wasn’t appraising team standings, he was engaged in his own analysis of the league, discussing minutiae with anyone who would listen: his brother, cab drivers, even the Barnacle girls. He had come to find sportscasts so comforting he needed them to fall asleep. He had come to consider the opening day of the season a national holiday. He preferred not to bring dates to games lest his companion attempt to distract him too much. Billy might as well have worn the Red Sox white and red uniform instead of his khaki pants and oxford shirt. His affiliation with the team was as much a part of his identity as the fact that he was a twin. The fact that his twin loved the Yankees only cemented the fervor of his love.
In Trot’s opinion, Billy’s alliance with the Red Sox was clearly a put-on, a blunt attempt to confuse his critics and their wholly justified claim that Billy was an incorrigible snob. To be sure, Yankees fans were repugnant in their own specific way, bankers and bluebloods who had seen victory too many times to appreciate its sweetness. A true Red Sox fan, in Trot’s opinion, was an irreproachable soul, tirelessly optimistic, meticulously scientific, and endearingly unflappable. But Billy was a far cry from a true Red Sox fan. Billy’s love was so false that Trot had to wonder if Billy himself had cursed the team, causing the long, and recently broken, hex so often attributed to Babe Ruth. Despite his own affection for the Sox, Trot faced a difficult decision. If only out of principle, he had no choice but to root for another team.
Trot looked to the ground in an effort to obscure his growing hatred. He was about to inquire further into the nature of a “switcheroo” but Benita reentered before he could, causing him to stiffen the muscles in his chest as though bracing for the approach of a hurled object. His mind shifted gears to fight-or-flight mode. He would need all of his senses.
Benita spotted Billy and shrieked, then ran at him at full speed, tackling him to the ground with the force of her delight.
“Benita.” Billy struggled to stand up. When he was back on his feet, he addressed her with, Trot thought, sickening sweetness. “Darling, life has simply been hell without you. Promise me you haven’t fallen for another man.”
Benita swooned and promised she hadn’t and would never in a million years.
Trot waited until he caught Bridget’s eye to mouth a statement he’d waited minutes to share. He squinted with all the venom he could muster and whispered, “He isn’t fat.”
Bridget pretended not to comprehend Trot’s import and gestured for him to follow her to the piano. Everyone would benefit, she decided, from a change of scenery.
The grand piano floated in the middle of the living room like a great beached whale. A young teenage boy sat on the bench, sporadically playing and seeming to ponder the sound of middle C. Every few seconds, he leaned over the piano and turned his ear toward the keys as though someone were trapped inside, whispering faintly. The boy’s hair had been teased into a matte globe whose surface area easily exceeded his head. His smooth, dark brown skin somehow caused his ample baby fat to appear taut and muscular. His T-shirt bore an intricate replica of the Milky Way, or so Trot thought until closer inspection, when it revealed that its complex network of stars was, in fact, dried whipped cream. The boy’s gentle demeanor and disheveled state comforted Trot immensely. Trot was equally relieved to comprehend the source of the apartment’s baffling pulsating note. He redoubled his efforts at a positive attitude. Perhaps this world was not unruly, but simply had its own rules.
