A Taxonomy of Barnacles, page 9
“On Passover,” Barry began, interrupting Belinda, “the youngest son asks the four questions. Unfortunately, we have no sons to speak of here, so I will read these myself.”
Latrell’s heartbreak was imperceptible to everyone at the table but Beryl felt it as though it were her own. His eyes darkened like an overcast sky and he flinched as though he had been punched. Under the table, Beryl touched his hand. Latrell proudly shooed her away.
“Wait,” Benita interrupted, “there’s a big problem. Trot is sitting in Elijah’s place.”
“Dad,” Bridget snapped, “she’s out of control.”
Trot stood suddenly from his chair, crimson with embarrassment.
“Ignore her,” Bridget said.
“Yes, do,” Beth agreed.
“I’ll move,” Trot insisted.
“Don’t you dare,” said Bridget.
Trot ignored Bridget and stood up anyway. On instinct, Bridget grabbed for Trot’s leg with alarming force.
“I’ll move,” Billy said gaily. He sprang from his seat with a gallant smile before anyone could protest.
“But, wait,” Benita stuttered, her lips trembling. “Now, I can’t sit next to Billy.” This finally put Benita over the edge, spurring a temper tantrum. She wrinkled her nose, held her breath, and waited for the quivering to spread and then she squeezed every muscle in her face until tears commenced. She heralded her sobbing with one quiet yelp before tears the size of raindrops tumbled down her face.
“That’s enough,” Barry said, twitching to attention, rejuvenated by another short nap. “Where are my first wife and my eldest daughter?”
“I’m here,” Bella called merrily. She stood at the other end of the living room, leaning improbably against a bookshelf as though to balance herself.
Oh God, Bridget cringed. Her mother was wearing a floor-length, red brocade dress, its low neckline a caricature of the letter “V.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Bella said. She swayed noticeably as she swooped into the apartment, nearly knocking over a large glass vase. Everything about Bella, her tone of voice, her dress, the scent of her perfume registered at a higher volume than most people. Even her once-striking face demanded attention. Her dark-circled eyes betrayed years of sleeplessness. Her thin lips, despite expertly applied lipstick, revealed frequent disappointment. Once at the table, Bella pulled up a chair directly to the left of Barry so that when she sat, she created a Barry sandwich breaded by his first and second wife. Dear God, Bridget thought again, as her mother settled in. Bella was not wearing a red dress. Bella was wearing a red bathrobe.
Once he’d distinguished between the table’s offerings of grape juice and kosher wine, Trot poured himself a glass of wine. Unfortunately, Passover wine is quite weak, so Trot waited until the uproar resumed and then took an inappropriately large gulp.
“Where’s Latrell?” Barry asked, glancing around the table hastily as though searching for pepper and salt.
“Right here,” said Latrell, his voice high and clear.
“Oh,” Barry said, squinting irritably. “You ought to wear brighter colors, Latrell. As it is, you tend to blend in.”
Bella crossed her fingers behind her back. She prayed Latrell would not take Barry’s comment as his exit cue. Latrell, like many adopted children, yearned to find his biological parents and took any opportunity to resume his quest. The mystery of his origin consumed his every fourth thought. As he aged, the mystery evolved from vague curiosity to burning wanderlust. The urge was like a bad case of the mumps; Latrell was infected even if he could cover it up. In its thrall, Latrell ran away from home at least once a month, his desire to find his real parents tempered only by a nagging loyalty to his adopted sisters and mom.
To this end, every time he disappeared, he left conspicuous clues. Usually, he pilfered objects from the house then left them places he knew his sisters would traverse, such as in the fence of the Chapin School playground or at the stop for the crosstown bus. Sometimes, he hid in obvious places such as the lobby of the building next door, or the shelter in which he’d grown up. Once, he even managed to creep into the periphery of a crime scene, conscious that his sisters’ excellent peripheral vision would enable them to pick him out of the crowd while watching the evening news. But lately, his clues had been less obvious and his sojourns longer. Bella dreaded the day Latrell would find his real father and accordingly conjured up a far-fetched myth in an effort to throw him off the scent. Beryl knew Latrell would find him eventually despite her mother’s bogus tale. She understood destiny was like a teenage boy: The harder one tried to control it, the more it rebelled.
“Who would like to ask the first question?” Barry asked, his eyebrows arching devilishly. As hunger overwhelmed his boredom, Barry began his campaign to accelerate the meal.
“I will. I will,” Benita volunteered.
Beryl and Beth rolled their eyes. Under the table, Bridget took Trot’s hand. Trot, newly confident and slightly tipsy, coolly refused Bridget’s grasp.
“Why is this night different from all other nights?” Benita began.
“Because,” Barry answered, “on this night we pretend we believe in God to lord it over our Protestant friends, whose church is actually a country club and our Catholic friends, who sadly no longer have a religion.”
Bunny stared at her husband in shock.
“Here, here,” Bella said, lifting a piece of matzoh as though it were a silver chalice. Her predinner drinks mixed surprisingly well with the Passover wine. Bella patted Barry’s knee. Bunny dispensed with a pitying look.
“Barry,” Bunny reprimanded. “If you’re going to mock—”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Barry’s eyebrows sank. “Nothing else from me. Beryl, you’re up.”
Beryl was daydreaming and had to be kicked; Beth was happy to oblige. She flipped frantically through her Haggadah to find the correct page, sighed heavily, handed Beryl the book, and pointed to the correct section.
“Why on this night do we recline when on other nights we sit upright at the table?”
“Because,” Barry said, “on this night, we celebrate the fact that Jews have more money than people in other religions thanks to our work ethic and superior intelligence. So we spend a whole night celebrating the fact that we could eat every meal in bed if we so chose.”
“That’s it,” Bunny said, dropping her silverware on her plate. “Why must you make a mockery of everything?”
“Barry,” Bella said, laughing flirtatiously, “be nice to your second wife.”
Bunny shook her head faintly at Bella as though even this meager effort was too much energy to expend on her behalf.
“Sorry,” said Barry, “you won’t hear another word from me.”
“Thank you,” said Bunny.
“Next question,” Barry said, arranging his face into the picture of gravity.
“Why on this night do we eat unleavened bread when on other nights we eat bread that has not risen?”
“Because,” Belinda answered, speed-reading, “the Jews had to hustle to cross the Red Sea and, in their hurry—”
“Good enough,” said Barry. “Look alive, Beth. You’re next.”
“Why on this night do we leave a place empty?” Beth read.
Two hands shot up at either end of the table. Benita ignored protocol and answered, “Because, on this night, we set a place for Elijah. That’s why we leave the door open. So Elijah knows he’s welcome at the table even if one of our guests is rudely sitting in his seat.”
In one graceful movement, Bridget stood up, walked around the table, picked up Benita, swung her over her back, and carried her out of the room. Benita tried every method of weakening Bridget—clawing her back, kicking her stomach, and assaulting her eardrums. But Bridget held fast to her writhing sister until reaching her bedroom, at which point, she dropped Benita with a decisive shove and promptly locked the door. Unfortunately, Benita was also skilled at the art of window escape. Within minutes, the doorbell rang and Bridget, just returning to the living room, opened the front door to welcome Benita back.
The other girls seemed not to notice the entrance.
“I told you Bell wasn’t coming,” Belinda whispered.
“Just wait,” said Beryl, gazing meaningfully at the door.
“I hate to break it to you,” said Belinda, “but you’re not psychic. I wouldn’t trust you with a weather report.”
“I see pain in your future,” Beryl said. Her eyes glazed over like a storefront gypsy, and, while smiling innocently, she stomped on Belinda’s foot.
“Beth!” cried Belinda.
“What?” screamed Beth.
“You kicked me,” said Belinda.
“I did not,” said Beth.
Beryl smiled demurely as fighting escalated on either side of her.
At this point, the seder became a lockdown situation. Every time Barry piped in with a story or joke, Bunny recoiled in outrage. She needed only utter the words, “But my father,” to shame Barry into submission. The girls mouthed along with the Hebrew to the best of their abilities, having learned that repeating the word “watermelon” made it appear as though they were forming Hebrew words. All guests looked on with aching discomfort, fumbling along with the Haggadah’s phonetic spelling while Bunny led the group through an endless series of songs and, for all they knew, nonsensical prayers.
Throughout, Charles presided over the meal from the living room floor. Age had weakened his old bones, preventing him from alighting even the distance from the floor to the living room sofa. When Charles needed food, he hobbled slowly across the floor, his feet making a light skittering sound like a crab on rocks. Now, every time Charles moved, the seder’s insufferable music was underscored by the syncopated rhythm of his walk. This sound served as a sadistic reminder to the hungry guests that they must wait patiently for unknowable hours while this barely mobile dog fed himself at will.
Finally, the girls drew on their secret weapon. One by one, they commenced whistling—at first, imperceptibly, then with gusto—a medley of songs they usually reserved for long car trips. Though Charles clued in within the first few bars, the hungry guests only registered an irksome squeak. It was not until the girls cued each other to explode into a chorus that those still intent on reading from the Torah finally admitted defeat. The girls smiled at each other in mutual congratulation. But their smiles faded as they realized their plan had backfired. Bunny, irate at the interruption, began a prayer she’d nearly completed from the beginning.
At nine o’clock, the assembled guests drew dangerously close to diabetic blood-sugar levels. Responding to Bella’s pinch under the table, Barry regained sensation in his right leg and awoke from a ten-minute nap.
“Bunny,” Barry tried, “here’s an idea. Why don’t you let Latrell sing a song?”
Belinda glared at her father. She removed a piece of gefilte fish from the seder plate and threw it at her father’s head, causing a cross fire of yelling to converge on the table. None of the guests noticed when Trot emptied and refilled his fourth glass, when Bella toasted Trot and winked seductively, or when Latrell excused himself and silently slipped out the front door. Charles, however, saw his chance and slipped out with Latrell.
“I wish Billy was sitting next to me,” Benita whined.
“I wish Beth was sitting next to Billy,” said Belinda.
“I wish Bell were here,” said Beth.
“I wish this service were over,” Trot announced, “but that doesn’t mean I can eat.”
Barry looked up at Trot suddenly and laughed a strange, surprised laugh.
This odd fermata was interrupted by another arrival. Bell stood still at the front door, pale and panic-stricken like a terrified bride. Her clothes, a very worn pair of jeans, ratty sneakers, and an oversized gray sweatshirt, revealed she had forgotten the occasion altogether or else come straight from prison. Two large duffel bags at her feet indicated she planned to stay for a while.
“I told you,” said Beryl.
“I knew it,” said Belinda.
“Sweetie!” Bella shouted.
“Bell,” her other sisters exclaimed in unison.
“Good news,” said Barry. “You’re just in time. Now, you’re still eligible to compete.”
Bridget pulled up a chair for her sister and Bell squeezed in between Bridget and Trot. Immediately attuned to Bell’s fragile state, Bridget tried to preempt further discomfort by subtly—or so she intended—bringing Bell up to speed. “Psst,” she whispered. “Blaine is here.” But instead of alerting Bell to his presence, Bridget only succeeded in embarrassing her.
“Bridget,” Blaine scolded. “Why are you whispering? I’m getting divorced not going deaf.”
Barry cleared his throat while Bell settled in, at once creating suspense and repulsing those who still harbored hopes of eating. The girls knew their father well enough to distinguish between important announcements and things they could tune out. They sensed, at the moment, that they should remain very alert.
“The approach of my sixtieth birthday has brought up some pressing questions. Age, you will find, is an urgent reminder of youth’s tenacity.” He paused enigmatically then scanned the room. Finally, pleased with his effect, he launched into his soliloquy. “Girls, I am glad you were born when you were. In feudal times, girls were not so lucky. Land was valuable and families were large. Laws were passed to consolidate property. According to one, the law of primogeniture, the firstborn son was automatically entitled to the family fortune.” Barry glanced conspicuously at his daughters to gauge their anxiety. “Because of these terrible laws, the daughters were quite shortchanged. Generations of women were condemned to marry their ugly cousins. Isn’t that right?”
The girls nodded at their father.
“Wrong,” Barry shouted. “These laws were not terrible. They were quite ingenious. In their absence, land was divided into valueless specks, and, though I mean no offense to Billy and Blaine, a name without money is just a pretty name…”
Bell and Bridget exchanged a look of sincere alarm. Both sensed the glimmer of madness in their father’s eyes.
“In a matriarchy, one does not have this problem. A queen cannot confer power to her husband nor bestow it upon her younger brother. And yet, while a queen’s power matches a king’s, it is still no rival to that of her baby boy. A prince—I’m sorry, girls, I didn’t write the rules—will always trump a queen.”
Barry’s rambling had its desired effect, essentially hypnotizing his guests. “Competition,” he went on, “is evolution’s greatest force. Rivalry between species is the engine of divergence. But competition is at its most forceful when it occurs within one species. Which is why I’ve designed a contest of sorts…”
“I abstain,” smirked Belinda.
“I’m going to win,” said Benita.
“What is it?” said Beth.
“Now Dad,” said Bridget.
Bell avoided her father’s gaze. She was suddenly convinced that he was staring directly at her.
Barry smiled then stopped himself, as though to experience such delight in the presence of others was just too cruel. “Due to the shortage of a male heir in your generation, the Barnacle name faces extinction. So, I’m issuing a challenge to you, my six daughters, to remedy this fact. I don’t care how you do it, so long as you do. Whoever can figure out a way to immortalize the Barnacle name will be named the sole beneficiary of my estate.”
No one spoke for several moments.
Barry luxuriated in the success of his oration by taking several more bites.
“How dare you,” whispered Bunny.
“How delightful,” cried Bella.
“Sexist bastard,” snarled Belinda. “Why don’t you just come out and say it? You just want to marry us off.”
“Now, Belinda,” Barry said. “You’re smarter than that. Besides”—he turned to the boys at the table—“I would never allow any daughter of mine to marry a man who had designs on her inheritance.”
“I can tell you right now,” Beth said, “I’m never getting married so I guess that means I lose.”
“Beth,” Barry chided, “don’t be narrow-minded. Marriage is only one of many ways to perpetuate a name.”
“Such as?” Beth asked.
“Getting knocked up,” snarled Belinda.
Barry ignored Belinda and answered Beth. “You’ll have to figure those out. If I told you there would be no point in competing.” He paused to allow his daughters the chance to ponder the thought. “The terms of the contest are simple. I’ll accept your proof in any form, any sufficient and credible evidence that you’ve managed to immortalize your great, challenged name. In exactly one week, we will meet at this table and you will present your achievements to me. After everyone has plead her case, I will name the winner.”
Finally, as was custom at the Barnacle seder, the table broke into a brawl.
Bunny stood from the table, flipped her hair violently, and headed for her bedroom.
“You’re a sexist and a misogynist,” Belinda spat. “God gave you girls to punish you.”
“Shut up,” Beth whispered. “Both of those words mean the same thing.”
Billy and Blaine stood up simultaneously.
Benita jumped up and ran after Billy.
Bridget lunged forward and followed Benita.
Trot toasted the table and downed his glass of wine.
Bell stood still and surveyed the chaos. Perhaps, she decided, this was not the best time to tell her family that she was pregnant. Instead, she took advantage of the lull in conversation. “Dad,” she said, “would it be all right if I stayed at home for a while?”
5
Insomnia
Bell did not sleep well her first night at home. While she slept, or rather tried to sleep, she found herself repeating the same urgent mantra: You can never go home, you can never go home, you can never go home. It was official, Bell decided. She had become the stuff of romance novels, an aging spinster, a luckless loser, a bona fide burnout, a botched experiment, a big fat letdown. It was not so much that she had fallen behind, but rather that she had dropped out of the race; that, somewhere along the way, she had fallen and couldn’t get up. Finally, after hours of torture, Bell gave up on sleep. Perhaps it was her vocation, she decided, to bring the family average down.
