A Taxonomy of Barnacles Read online

  As in all families with more than one daughter, fighting was a certain by-product of family gatherings, sometimes reaching such hysteria and volume as to cause concerned neighbors to call the police. But usually the girls restrained themselves to hair-pulling and scratching, only hitting and punching in extreme situations, such as when coveted clothes were stolen or important calls were poorly notated. Six girls in such close proximity were liable to sense each other’s angst and were painfully susceptible to the same mood cycles, a casualty of science that caused the apartment to experience monthly fluctuations from homicidal rage to harmony. But for the most part, the girls got along, preferring each other’s company to others, insulated by their family’s size and singularity. In peacetime, the girls were even prone to sympathy pains, whereby one would sense when another was down and rally around the dejected party like a shepherd herding a lost sheep.

  Instinctively, the Barnacle girls knew to keep boys from their family. They were wary of two possibilities: that the family would scare off the prospective suitor or that their wealth would entice him. The Barnacles’ money and eccentricity made them more and less attractive respectively, causing visitors to experience the odd and improbable sensation of simultaneous repulsion and attraction. Trot’s first visit three years ago was not an exception to this rule except for the fact that it was exceptionally bad. Of course, he had not done himself any favors by beating Benita at Ping-Pong. He felt he had no choice but play to win after he dropped the first game and the little brat laughed in his face when he attributed his poor play to a glare. The low point of the visit occurred at dinner when Bridget was caught in a series of lies about her so-called childhood friend and neighbor Billy Finch. As punishment, every time Billy’s name was uttered, Trot reduced his contribution to conversation by one syllable. By the time dessert arrived, he had stopped speaking altogether.

  At the moment, Trot stood alone in the living room, floundering more than fidgeting. He regretted, as he had suspected he would, his choice to pair a pale blue shirt with a brown corduroy jacket. The chaos of the Barnacle apartment made him wish he had worn white. The great room was literally breathtaking, its size augmented by the color of the walls. The walls were capped with George Washington molding painted a rich navy blue, a color that gave the room an underwater quality, a depth and certain resonating vibration that was reinforced by the odd acoustics of the space. A faint pulsing note filtered in through the walls as though someone were playing a piano nearby and repeatedly hitting middle C. Trot wondered idly if any of the room’s bookshelves could be made to spin by pressing a button, perhaps revealing a secret room or an alternate exit.

  Both the room’s grandeur and its disrepair betrayed family history.

  If the style of the room could be classified, it would be called Baroque Eclectic. It contained a hodgepodge of old opulence tempered with Bella’s personal flourishes. Its decorator’s determination to achieve elegance and individuality required flouting the rules of decor. For the walls, she avoided the forest green striae favored by so many Upper East Side ladies because, she claimed, green evoked the outdoors and made her feel itchy, as though she were at a garden party at twilight being attacked by mosquitoes. Whereas most women might have relegated bold patterns to one or two areas of the room, Bella rebelled against this mandate. She opted for patterns in all areas, coupling a wild swirling Persian rug with an equally dynamic floral chintz for the sofa, even though the two palates did not so much complement each other as challenge the other to a duel.

  Paint, fabric, and artifacts in the room had weathered decidedly since their installation, betraying that the room had been assembled in one concerted flourish. The decorator’s recent apathy was obvious even to the most amateur detective. A thick layer of dust added height to books already nudging at overhead shelves. Blue paint on the walls peeled sporadically like rivulets on a hiker’s map. Patches of pink in the sofa’s classic floral chintz put the original fabric to shame as misplaced cushions revealed the discrepancy between this pastel shade and the fabric’s original deep red. The style of the room seemed outdated even for the staid Upper East Side, betraying a lack of awareness of trends toward minimalism.

  And the books, the endless array of books. In most Upper East Side apartments books functioned as props, tucked neatly on shelves or atop coffee tables as a cumulative emblem of the erudition of the residents. But, in the Barnacles’ apartment, books were used for their intended purpose and then several more still. Once familiarity made a book obsolete, it was reincarnated in a second life, finding a new home and raison d’être somewhere in the apartment. In all cases, a book’s placement revealed its utility. A stack of Shakespeare’s tragedies towered next to the living room sofa, usurping the place of a standing lamp. A pile of textbooks next to the television indicated a favored homework spot. An anthology of poetry tucked under the right foot of the dining room table served to level a slight imbalance in the furniture. In all cases, these books had accrued conveniently over years, taking on, like most things at the Barnacles’, odd and unpredictable identities.

  The room’s topography was a study in time; each layer unveiling a different civilization, a new pile of books, a different stray shoe, another abandoned board game. A glass coffee table occupied an inordinate amount of space in the center of the room, its surface entirely obscured by a pastiche of objects. Clutter is, of course, common enough in a New York City apartment, a place where the needs of family exceed the resources of the metropolis. However, these objects were entirely uncommon. These were not coffee mugs, coasters, and stacked magazines, but rather dirty test tubes and stray conch shells. Though the apartment appeared normal enough at first glance, upon closer study it betrayed a certain peculiarity. The sheer quantity of things and their incongruous nature combined collectively to accost Trot with a tangible weight. This excess and its seeming lack of organizing principle produced a tangible physical effect, a spinning sensation not unlike being trapped on a broken carousel.

  Dizziness turned quickly to disorientation when Trot approach the mantel. A framed photograph peeked out from behind two frames as though it had been intentionally hidden. The picture displayed Bridget, just five years younger, smiling gaily and holding hands with an equally light-hearted boy. The boy was blessed with the very features one pictured when one heard the word “fop.” Dressed in a blue blazer and a red and white polka-dotted bow tie and smiling as though he had just been tapped for coronation, he seemed to be suspended an inch above the ground, floating, Trot could only imagine, on a cloud of divine entitlement. This was a boy, Trot decided, who had been reared on a diet of buttercream cake. This was a boy, Trot knew for sure, who had never worked a day in his life. Furious, Trot snatched the picture frame and held it up to his face. He knew the boy’s identity without another clue. The boy was Bridget’s neighbor and alleged childhood friend, the insidious Billy Finch.

  The second and prettiest of the Barnacle sisters, Bridget was accustomed to using her eyes, which is to say, batting, rolling, and lowering them in order to manipulate men. She had the kind of looks that made gawkers of pedestrians, encouraging passersby to stop and stare. Blessed with the Barnacles’ uniform traits—limousine legs, 20/20 vision, and hearing more sensitive than some wolves’—Bridget was privileged with the knowledge that she could detect trouble long before it arrived and that, once accosted, she could run, kick, or dance her way out of it. The most extroverted of the six, Bridget aspired to be an actress. She saw New York as the stage of her own slightly cliché melodrama in which she was the heroine and everyone else served either to thwart or aid her happiness. Sometimes Bridget failed to see her two-dimensionality and erred on the side of self-absorbed.

  Despite her flaws, Bridget felt, she was far less flawed than her older sister Bell. As the firstborn, Bell was plagued with all the pitfalls of birth order. As the second child, Bridget was appealingly, if reactively, patient. Roommates since birth, the girls’ differences were literally mapped in space. While Bell snuck out, Bridget stayed in. While Bell plundered, Bridget perfected. When Bell messed up, Bridget fixed her older sister’s mistakes. If the first two Barnacle girls were any proof, siblings, not parents, shape character. Bell and Bridget’s differences were reactions to each other, equal, opposite, and therefore alike. As a result, at least until recently, they considered themselves a pair of very dissimilar twins, a sentiment that allowed Bridget to excuse her flaws by claiming she had learned them from Bell.

  Now, as Bridget returned to the living room, she prayed her sisters would help her cause. God forbid they betray the occasional lies she told Trot about Billy, such as that she had spent the day with her family when she had actually been with Billy, or that the phone number that appeared the most on her phone bill was not her grandmother’s, as she claimed. To this end, Bridget had gone so far as to call ahead to request that her sisters corroborate her claims and hide any photographic evidence that could damage her case.

  Trot waited until Bridget returned to his side to smile sarcastically, betraying, as intended, the exact opposite sentiment. Bridget countered with an overly theatrical sigh that Trot, in turn, amplified. Estranged, the two stood in awkward silence but for the sound of Trot’s shuffling feet.

  “Feet,” said Bridget. She eyed Trot instructively.

  “Mouth,” said Trot.

  Bridget inhaled slowly.

  “Maybe if I looked more like Billy,” Trot said, “you would be happier with me.” Trot produced the framed picture and thrust it into Bridget’s palm. “You look so happy with him,” he said, shuffling his feet more audibly.

  Bridget masked her horror with a trivializing shrug and, deciding silence was the best deflection, replaced the photograph on its shelf and tried to change the subject.
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  “Do you like this skirt? It’s new,” she said, spinning flirtatiously. The motion, combined with the color of her clothes, a fishtail skirt in a floral print that flared just below the knee and a delicate pale pink blouse caused her to look like a top and Trot told her so.

  “That’s not very nice.” Bridget pouted.

  “You never put on a skirt when we go out,” Trot said.

  “I’m dressed up for Passover,” Bridget barked and, giving up on Trot for the moment, emitted a soft, rueful sigh and deposited herself on the sofa.

  Trot continued to stand in his place and scan the room nervously. “Does it look really bad that I didn’t bring a gift?”

  “No, it’s fine.” Bridget forced a smile.

  “We’re the only ones here,” Trot pressed. “I told you we had time to buy flowers.”

  Bridget sighed wearily and closed her eyes as though to conjure the patience of a saint. “I asked you last night to bring a cake from the bakery.”

  “By the time you told me there were none left.”

  Bridget fixed her eyes to a spot on the wall just above Trot’s head. “You work in a bakery, Trot,” she said. “How hard can it be to get a cake?”

  “Besides,” Trot said, ignoring the dig, “a cake would have been inappropriate. Isn’t the whole point of this thing about unleavened bread?”

  Bridget said nothing, refusing to concede. She would not succumb to nastiness. At least, not until they got home.

  “Are they going to call me Billy this time?” Trot asked, succumbing.

  “Benita’s known Billy since she was born. It doesn’t mean she won’t love you, too.”

  “I’ll just keep quiet and let you two reminisce.”

  “We were teenagers,” Bridget snapped.

  “First love,” Trot teased, “is such a magical time.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t do this,” Bridget scolded.

  “You’re right,” said Trot. “Tell you what. I’ll just sit and be quiet. When you need me to say something, nudge.”

  “You better be nice.”

  “He better be fat.”

  Bridget winced and composed her next retort, but before she could respond Benita invaded the living room.

  “Bridgie!” Benita shouted.

  “Benita!” Bridget cried. She braced herself as Benita jumped into her arms. But it was too late; Benita’s weight surprised her. And so did the clumps of batter, sliced apples, and walnuts that were attached to Benita’s dress before attaching themselves to Bridget’s new blouse. Still, somehow, the little beast managed to look pretty. She wore the traditional party attire for girls under thirteen, a floral liberty-print dress with capped sleeves and intricate smocking, white tights, and shiny, black Mary Janes, as though camouflaging herself for warfare in the hopes that she might be underestimated by her enemy and mistaken for a sweet little girl.

  The youngest of the Barnacle girls, Benita was the summary of her older sisters’ best qualities. Benita, her father liked to brag, floated in a superior gene pool. Encouraged by Barry to excel at all things except for modesty, Benita, even more than most ten-year-olds, was a fire-breathing brat. Built for a roller derby and yet still graceful at ballet, she had an imposing presence. Mercifully, she was still too short to pass the height requirement at most amusement parks. Like her father, she was a disciple of Darwin, a fervent believer in competition who would, as her second-grade teacher had written on her report card, “chew glass to win.” Of the six girls, she was both the most talented and the most driven and, as a result, the subject of constant teasing. Her sisters felt this hazing was necessary to counteract Benita’s swelled head. A natural athlete and her father’s favorite, she functioned as both daughter and a son. Accordingly, she felt it was only honest to abbreviate Benita to “Ben.”

  “Thank God you’re here,” Benita gushed. “The caterers canceled at the last minute so Bunny had to cook the entire meal.” She stopped in order to simulate the gesture and sound effect of being gagged with a spoon. “Belinda dyed her hair green but we’re not to mention it; Dad’s been walking around naked again—he claims it helps his insomnia; still no word from Bell; Beryl’s been missing for two days and—” Benita stopped speaking abruptly, turning to scrutinize Trot. “Wait a second,” she said, “you’re not Billy.”

  Bridget gasped.

  Trot’s eyes bulged.

  Benita smiled demonically.

  “You monster,” Bridget said. “Apologize right now.”

  Benita batted her eyes demurely. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Bridget’s had so many boyfriends. Sometimes, I get them mixed up.”

  “No problem,” Trot said cordially. He smiled and turned to Bridget. “I thought you said the youngest one was smart.”

  Bridget replaced her sister on the ground. Trot tapped the floor with his foot. His socked foot produced a slightly muffled tap not unlike a low drumroll. Though the sound was softer than the tap of his shoe, it was equally annoying to Bridget. Benita stared at Trot intently like a scientist at a specimen.

  “I remember you,” Benita announced. “I killed you in Ping-Pong.”

  “Actually,” said Trot, “I believe I beat you.”

  “Impossible,” said Benita.

  Trot held his ground. “Three out of five. Twenty-one to ten, twenty-one to twelve, seventeen to twenty-one, nineteen to twenty-one, and twenty-one to eighteen.”

  “I doubt it,” said Benita, squinting. “How do I know you didn’t make those up?”

  “Why should I trust your memory?” Trot countered. “You can’t even remember my name.”

  Benita regarded Trot for another second, dispensed with her most outraged look, then turned on her heels, and disappeared down a long hallway.

  “Benita, come back,” Bridget bellowed but only heard angry footsteps in response. Defeated, she followed after her sister but not before swiveling to glare at Trot.

  Every time Trot proposed, Bridget delayed on a new technicality. Once, it was on the grounds that he did it wrong. He asked, or rather shouted it, when he was drunk. Once, she disqualified the proposal based on the absence of a ring. Another time, on the grounds that she deserved a better ring. To be fair, Trot had found it in a Cracker Jack box. But in general, when Trot proposed, Bridget referred to a distant deadline that moved at pace with time itself, like an eastbound car with the sun. When it came to proposals, Bridget was behaving a lot like a boy. And why not, she felt? Things had changed since Jane Austen’s day. A girl need not rush into a loveless marriage in order to pay the rent. Nowadays, a girl could afford to be picky. Nowadays, Bridget firmly believed, a girl could take her sweet time.

  Of course, there were other more emotional issues that underscored Bridget’s views on the institution. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in Trot’s writing. She loved every weird word he wrote. And she adored the way he looked, still found him devastatingly handsome, his lanky walk impossibly sexy, his green eyes endearingly melancholy, his unkempt brown hair irresistibly rebellious, his bookish glasses the perfect foil to his cutting wit. She still noticed how his lips made the most adorable pucker whenever he formed the letter “o.” But Bridget couldn’t help yearning for certain minor luxuries, like a boyfriend who came home from work before two in the morning, or one who didn’t need quite as much encouragement, or one who took her out to dinner more than once in a while, or, God forbid, acted slightly poised around her family. She loved the fact that he held the door for her, but did he have to hold it for everyone else? She didn’t mind that he worked in a bakery but was it too much to ask, for God’s sake, that he produce a cake on request?

  Trot took advantage of his solitude and wandered toward the front door. Finding Trot missing on her return, Bridget guessed his hiding place and rushed to retrieve him, calling his name sharply as though he were a stray puppy. As expected, Trot had not wandered far. He stood in the foyer, organizing the umbrellas in the stand by color and height.

  “Expecting rain?” Bridget asked snidely.

  “One never knows,” said Trot.

  “Are you going somewhere?”