She attempted a game involving balloons with pink Barbies on them and then gave up and let Brittany open her presents.
“Open Sandy’s first,” Gina said, handing her the book. “No, Caitlin, these are Brittany’s presents.”
Brittany ripped the paper off Toads and Diamonds and looked at it blankly.
“That was my favorite fairy tale when I was little,” I said. “It’s about a girl who meets a good fairy, only she doesn’t, know it because the fairy’s in disguise—” but Brittany had already tossed it aside and was ripping open a Barbie doll in a glittery dress.
“Totally Hair Barbie!” she shrieked.
“Mine,” Peyton said, and made a grab that left Brittany holding nothing but Barbie’s arm.
“She broke Totally Hair Barbie!” Brittany wailed.
Peyton’s mother stood up and said calmly, “Peyton, I think you need a time-out.”
I thought Peyton needed a good swat, or at least to have Totally Hair Barbie taken away from her and given back to Brittany, but instead her mother led her to the door of Gina’s bedroom. “You can come out when you’re in control of your feelings,” she said to Peyton, who looked like she was in control to me.
“I can’t believe you’re still using time-outs,” Chelsea’s mother said. “Everybody’s using holding now.”
“Holding?” I asked.
“You hold the child immobile on your lap until the negative behavior stops. It produces a feeling of interceptive safety.”
“Really,” I said, looking toward the bedroom door. I would have hated trying to hold Peyton against her will.
“Holding’s been totally abandoned,” Lindsay’s mother said. “We use EE.”
“EE?” I said.
“Esteem Enhancement,” Lindsay’s mother said. “EE addresses the positive peripheral behavior no matter how negative the primary behavior is.”
“Positive peripheral behavior?” Gina said dubiously.
“When Peyton took the Barbie away from Brittany just now,” Lindsay’s mother said, obviously delighted to explain, “you would have said, ‘My, Peyton, what an assertive grip you have.’”
Brittany opened Swim ‘n’ Dive Barbie, Stick ‘n’ Peel Barbie, Barbie’s City Nights cycle, and an elaborately coiffed and veiled Barbie in a wedding dress. “Romantic Bride Barbie,” Brittany said, transported.
“Can we have cake now?” Lindsay said, and Peyton must have had her little ear to the door because she opened it, looking not particularly contrite, said, “I feel better about myself now,” and climbed up to the table.
“No cake,” Gina said. “Too much cholesterol. Frozen yogurt and Snapple,” and all the little girls came running as if they’d heard the Pied Piper’s flute.
The mothers and I picked up wrapping paper and ribbon, checking carefully for stray Barbie high heels and microscopic accessories. Danielle’s mother smoothed down Romantic Bride Barbie’s net overskirt. “I wonder if Lisa’d like a dress like this,” she said. “She’s trying to talk Eric into getting married sometime this summer.”
“Are you going to be her matron of honor?” Chelsea’s mother asked. “What colors is she going to have?”
“She hasn’t decided. Black and white is really in, but she already did that the last time she got married.”
“Postmodern pink,” I said. “It’s the new color for spring.”
“I look washed out in pink,” Danielle’s mother said. “And she’s still got to talk him into it. He says, why can’t they just live together?”
Lindsay’s mother picked up Romantic Bride Barbie and began fluffing up her bouffant sleeves. “I always said I’d never get married again, after that jerk Matt,” she said. “But I don’t know, lately I’ve been feeling sort of … I don’t know …”
Itch? I thought.
The phone rang, and Gina went into the bedroom to get it, and everybody else adjourned to the kitchen.
There was a shriek from the kitchen, and everybody went in to enhance esteem. I picked up Romantic Bride Barbie and looked at the pink net rosebuds and white satin flounces, marveling. Barbie’s a fad that should have lasted, at the most, for two seasons. Even the Shirley Temple doll had only been a fad for three.
Instead, Barbie’s well into her thirties and more of a fad than ever, even in these days of feminism and non-gender-biased child-rearing. She’d be the perfect thing to study for what causes fads, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Barbie’s one of those fads whose popularity makes you lose all faith in the human race.
Gina came out of the bedroom. “It’s for you,” she said, looking speculatively at me. “You can take it in the bedroom.”
I put down Romantic Bride Barbie and stood up.
“It’s my birthday!” Brittany shrieked.
“My, Peyton,” Lindsay’s mother said, “what a creative thing to do with your frozen yogurt.”
Gina hurried into the kitchen, and I went into the bedroom.
It was done in violets, with a purple cordless phone. I picked it up.
“Howdy,” Billy Ray said. “Guess where I’m calling from?”
“How did you find out I was here?”
“I called HiTek, and your assistant told me.”
“Flip gave you the number?” I said. “Correctly?”
“I don’t know what her name was. Raspy voice. Coughed a lot.”
Shirl. She must be putting some more of Alicia’s data on my computer.
“Well, so, listen, I’m on my way through the Rockies right now and—hang on. Tunnel coming up. Call you back as soon as I’m through it.” There was a hum, and a dick.
I hung up the phone and sat there on Gina’s violet-covered bed, wondering how Billy Ray ever got any ranching done when he was never at the ranch, and pondering the appeal of Barbie.
Part of it must be that she’s been able to incorporate other fads over the years. In the mid-sixties, Barbie had ironed hair and Carnaby Street clothes, in the seventies granny dresses, in the eighties leotards and leg warmers.
Nowadays there are astronaut Barbies and management Barbies, and even a doctor, though it’s hard to imagine Barbie making it through junior high, let alone medical school.
Billy Ray had apparently forgotten all about me, and so had Peyton’s mother. She opened the door, said, “… and I want you to stay in time-out until you’ve decided to relate to your peers,” and ushered in a frozen yogurt-covered Peyton.
Neither of them saw me, especially not Peyton, who flung herself against the door, red-faced and whimpering, and then, when it was apparent that wasn’t going to work, dropped to her hands and knees next to the bed and pulled out a tablet and crayons.
She sat down cross-legged in the middle of the floor, opened the box of crayons, selected a pink one, and began to draw.
“Hi,” I said, and was happy to see her jump a foot, “What are you doing?”
“You’re not supposed to talk in a time-out,” she said righteously.
You’re not supposed to color either, I thought, wishing Billy Ray would remember he was calling me back.
She selected a green crayon and bent over the tablet, drawing earnestly. I moved the phone around to the other side of the bed so I could see the picture.
“What are you drawing?” I asked. “A butterfly?”
She rolled her eyes. “No-o-o,” she said. “It’s a story.”
“A story?” I said, tilting my head around to see it better. “About what?”
“About Barbie.” She sighed, a dead ringer for Flip, and chose a bright blue crayon.
Why do only the awful things become fads? I thought. Eye-rolling and Barbie and bread pudding. Why never chocolate cheesecake or thinking for yourself?
I looked more closely at the picture. It looked more like a Mandelbrot diagram than a story. It appeared to be some sort of map, or maybe a diagram, with many lines of tiny lavender stars and pink zigzag symbols intersecting across the paper. Peyton had obviously been working on it during a number of
time-outs.
“What’s this?” I said, pointing at a row of purple zigzags.
“See,” she said, bringing the tablet and the crayons up onto my lap, “Barbie went to her Malibu Beach House.” She drew a scalloped blue line above the zigzags. “It’s very far. They had to go in her Jaguar.”
“And that’s this line?” I said, pointing at the blue scallops.
“No-o-o,” she said, irritated at all these interruptions. “That’s to show what she was wearing. See, when she goes to the Malibu Beach House she wears her blue hat. So they all got to the Malibu Beach House,” she said, walking her crayon like a doll across the paper, “and Barbie said, ‘Let’s go swimming,’ and I said, ‘Okay, let’s,’ and …” There was a pause while Peyton found an orange crayon. “And Barbie said, ‘Let’s go!’ and we went swimming.” She began drawing a row of rapid sideways zigzags.
“Is that her swimming suit?” I asked.
“No-o-o,” she said. “That’s Barbie.”
Barbie? I thought, wondering what the symbolism of the zigzags was. Of course. Barbie’s high heels.
“So the next day,” Peyton said, selecting yellow orange and drawing spiky suns, “Barbie said, ‘Let’s go shopping,’ and I said, ‘Okay, let’s,’ and she said, ‘Let’s ride our mopeds,’ and I said—”
Billy Ray came out of his tunnel, and I got the phone switched on almost before it rang. “So you’re on your way to Denver?” I said.
“Nope. Other direction. Durango. Conference on teleconferences. I got to thinking about you and thought I’d call. Do you ever get to hankering for something besides what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” I said fervently, reading the names of the crayons Peyton had discarded. Periwinkle. Screamin’ green. Cerulean blue.
“—so Barbie said, ‘Hi, Ken,’ and Ken said, ‘Hi, Barbie, want to go on a date?’” Peyton said, busily drawing lines.
“Me too,” Billy Ray said. “I’ve been thinking, is this really what I want?”
“Didn’t the sheep work out?”
“The Targhees? No, they’re doing fine. It’s this whole ranching thing. It’s so isolated.”
Except for the fax and the net and the cell phone, I thought.
“… so Barbie said, ‘I don’t want to be in time-out,’” Peyton said, wielding a black crayon. “‘Okay,’ Barbie’s mom said, ‘you don’t have to.’”
“Do you ever get to feeling …,” Billy Ray said, “… kinda … I don’t know what to call it …”
I do, I thought. Itch. And does that mean this unsettled, dissatisfied feeling is some sort of fad, too, like tattoos and violets? And if so, how did it get started?
I sat up straighter on the bed. “When exactly did you start having this feeling?” I asked him, but there was already an ominous hum from the cell phone.
“Another tunnel,” Billy Ray said. “We’ll talk about it some more when I get back. I’ve got something I want to—” and the phone went dead.
Lindsay’s mother had talked about feeling itch, and so had Flip, that day in the coffeehouse, and I had felt so vaguely longing I’d gone out with Billy Ray. Had I spread the feeling on to him, like some kind of virus, and was that how fads spread, by infection?
“Your turn,” Peyton said, holding out a neon-red crayon. Radical red.
“Okay,” I said, taking the crayon. “So Barbie decided to go to …”I drew a line of radical red high heels across the blue scallops. “… the barbershop. T want my hair bobbed,’ she said to the barber.” I started a line of aquamarine scissors. “And the barber said, ‘Why?’ And Barbie said, ‘Because everybody else is doing it.’ So the barber chopped off Barbie’s hair and—”
“No-o,” Peyton said, grabbing the aquamarine away from me and handing me laser lemon. “This is Cut ‘n’ Curl Barbie.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. So the barber said, ‘But somebody had to do it first, and they couldn’t do it because everybody else was doing it, so why did they’—”
There was a sound at the door, and Peyton snatched the laser lemon out of my hand, flipped the tablet shut, stowed them both under the bed with amazing speed, and was sitting on the edge of it with her hands folded in her lap when her mother opened the door.
“Peyton, we’re watching a video now. Do—” she said, and stopped when she saw me. “You didn’t talk to Peyton while she was in her time-out, did you?”
“Not a word,” I said.
She turned back to Peyton. “Do you think you can exhibit positive peer behavior now?”
Peyton nodded wisely and tore out of the room, her mother following. I put the phone back on the nightstand and started after her, and then stopped and recovered the tablet from its hiding place and looked at it again.
It was a map, in spite of what Peyton had said. A combination map and diagram and picture, with an amazing amount of information packed onto one page: location, time elapsed, outfits worn. An amazing amount of data.
And it intersected in interesting ways, the lines crossing and recrossing to form elaborate intersections, radical red changing to lavender and orange in overlay. Barbie only rode her moped in the lower half of the picture, and there was a solid knot of stars in one corner. A statistical anomaly?
I wondered if a diagram-map-story like this would work for my twenties data. I’d tried maps and statistical charts and computational models, but never all three together, color-coded for date and vector and incidence. If I put it all together, what kinds of patterns would emerge?
There was a shriek from the living room. “It’s my birthday!” Brittany wailed.
I tucked the tablet back under the bed.
“My, Peyton,” Lindsay’s mother said. “What a creative way to show your need for attention.”
pyrography (1990—05)—–Craft fad in which designs were burned into wood or leather with a hot iron. Flowers, birds, horses, and knights in armor were branded onto pin cases, pen trays, glove boxes, pipe racks, playing card cases, and other similarly useless items. Died out because its ability threshold was too high. Everyone’s horses looked like cows.
Thursday the weather got worse. It was spitting snow when I got to work, and by lunch it was a full-blown blizzard. Flip had managed to break both copy machines, so I gathered up my flagpole-sitting clippings to be copied at Kinko’s, but as I walked out to my car I decided they could wait, and I scuttled back to the building, my head down against the snow. And practically ran into Shirl.
She was huddled next to a minivan, smoking a cigarette. She had a brown mitten on the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette, her coat collar was turned up, a muffler was wrapped around her chin, and she was shivering.
“Shirl!” I shouted against the wind. “What are you doing out here?”
She clumsily fished a piece of paper out of her coat pocket with her mittened hand and handed it to me. It was a memo declaring the entire building smoke-free.
“Flip,” I said, shaking snow off the already wet memo. “She’s behind this.” I crumpled the memo up and threw it on the ground. “Don’t you have a car?” I said.
She shook her head, shivering. “I get a ride to work.”
“You can sit in my car,” I said, and thought of a better place. “Come on.” I took hold of her arm. “I know someplace you can smoke.”
“The whole building’s been declared off-limits to smoking,” she said, resisting.
“This place isn’t in the building,” I said.
She stubbed out her cigarette. “This is a kind thing to do for an old lady,” she said, and we both scuttled back to the building through the driving snow.
We stopped inside the door to shake the snow off and take off our hats. Her leathery face was bright red with cold.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, unwrapping her muffler.
“When you’ve spent as much time studying fads as I have, you develop a hearty dislike for them,” I said. “Especially aversion fads. They seem to bring out the worst in people. And it
’s the principle of the thing. Next it might be chocolate cheesecake. Or reading. Come on.”
I led her down the hall. “This place won’t be warm, but it’ll be out of the wind, and you won’t get snowed on, at least. And this antismoking fad should be dying out by spring. It’s reaching the extreme stage that inevitably produces a backlash.”
“Prohibition lasted thirteen years.”
“The law did. The fad didn’t McCarthyism only lasted four.” I started down the stairs to Bio.
“Where exactly is this place?” Shirl asked.
“It’s Dr. O’Reilly’s lab,” I said. “It’s got a porch out back with an overhang.”
“And you’re sure he won’t mind?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “He never pays any attention to what other people think.”
“He sounds like an extraordinary young man,” Shirl said, and I thought, He really is.
He didn’t fit any of the usual patterns. He certainly wasn’t a rebel, refusing to go along with fads to assert his individuality. Rebellion can be a fad, too, as witness Hell’s Angels and peace symbols. And yet he wasn’t oblivious either. He was funny and intelligent and observant.
I tried to explain that to Shirl as we went downstairs to Bio. “It isn’t that he doesn’t care what other people think. It’s just that he doesn’t see what it has to do with him.”
“My physics teacher used to say Diogenes shouldn’t have wasted his time looking for an honest man,” Shirl said, “he should have been looking for somebody who thought for himself.”
I started down Bio’s hall, and it suddenly occurred to me that Alicia might be in the lab. “Wait here a sec,” I said to Shirl, and peeked in the door. “Bennett?”
He was hunched over his desk, practically hidden by papers.
“Can Shirl smoke out on the porch?” I said. “Sure,” he said without looking up. I went out and got Shirl.
“You can smoke in here if you want,” Bennett said when we came in.
“No, she can’t. HiTek’s made the whole building nonsmoking,” I said. “I told her she could smoke out on the porch.”
Bellwether Page 10
