Sara Gruen Page 2

  John clicked off his voice recorder and closed the lid of his laptop. He’d have loved to follow up on the family thing, but since she’d backtracked immediately he left it alone. It was also interesting that she’d later called the bonobos her family. Maybe he could coax her into opening up in a follow-up interview. They’d definitely made a connection—a connection that he worried might have crossed over into flirtation at one point, although with each passing mile he felt better about that. She was unquestionably attractive, slim-hipped and athletic with straight blond hair that fell almost to her waist, but her charm was frank and earnest: she wore no makeup or jewelry of any kind, and John doubted she recognized her own appeal. Friendly is what they’d been; maybe she’d eventually trust him with her messy family history. It was the sort of detail readers loved, although this piece already promised to have plenty of those. She’d made another interesting comment when she put on the gorilla mask and gave a proper demonstration of Monster Chase. After she “caught” Mbongo, they’d rolled around on the floor tickling each other and laughing (hers was full and high-pitched, his a nearly silent wheezing, but the expression on his face left no question that it was laughter). John was shocked at the level of roughhousing going on, having been given to believe that working with great apes was extremely dangerous. Even though he’d read that bonobos were different, he hadn’t expected her to be so physical with them. His surprise must have been evident, because when she stopped she said, “Over the years, they’ve become more human, and I’ve become more bonobo,” and in that moment he’d felt a flash of understanding, like he’d been allowed to peek briefly through the crack.

  2

  Isabel leaned through the doorway, her eyes scanning the dinner carts. Only two-year-old Lola reacted to her presence, glancing briefly in her direction. She was tiny, as bonobo babies are, and clung to Bonzi’s chest and neck, alternately mouthing her mother’s nipple and letting it slide from her lips.

  The bonobos lolled on the floor in nests of carefully arranged blankets, watching Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes.

  Bonzi was more precise about her nest than the others—she always used exactly six blankets, swirling them over each other and folding the edges under so there was a soft rim all the way around. Isabel, who was prone to a certain precision herself, loved watching Bonzi poke and fiddle with her nest, which had to be just so before she’d invite Lola in, slapping her hands to her chest and signing, BABY COME.

  Jelani and Makena lay head to head on their blankets, reaching up with lazy and long-fingered hands to examine each other’s faces and chests and rid each other of imaginary bugs. When John Clayton, Seventh Earl of Greystoke, slid Miss Jane Porter’s filmy nightdress off her shoulders, they tipped up their chins and exchanged a languorous kiss.

  Sam sprawled on his back with an arm behind his head and one leg crossed over the other. His foot bobbed, and he worked a watermelon rind, scraping the last of the sweet flesh off with his teeth. Mbongo had set up his nest across the room and wrapped a blanket firmly around his new backpack to keep Sam from noticing its suspicious girth. Mbongo had punctured his own bouncy ball almost immediately, and so had “borrowed” Sam’s. Mbongo flashed impressive canines, his gaze flitting nervously between Sam and his precious blanketed lump. He lifted a corner of the fleece and peered beneath, then hurriedly tucked the blanket back around it. He was enjoying his secret too visibly. It wouldn’t be long before Sam noticed.

  Not wishing to disturb movie time, Isabel said nothing as she retrieved the empty carts. She rolled them out one by one and passed them off to Celia, a nineteen-year-old magenta-haired intern. When all the carts were in the kitchen, the two of them began to clear the remains of dinner. Celia stacked the plastic soup bowls while Isabel scooped up peels and stems, dumping the fruit and vegetable detritus into the disposal and running water over her hands.

  Celia finally broke the silence. “So how did the big visit go today?”

  “It was good,” said Isabel. “Lots of conversations. Lots of great pictures—the photographer’s camera was digital so I’ve already seen a bunch.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “They’re from The Philadelphia Inquirer. Cat Douglas and John Thigpen. They’re finishing a series on great apes.”

  Celia snorted. “Catwoman and Pigpen! Love it. So what did the apes think?”

  “I only let John in. She had a virus, so I sent her over to Linguistics instead.”

  “David and Eric were here? On New Year’s Day?”

  “They have a fancy new spectrum analyzer. There’s no keeping them away from it.”

  “And how did that go?”

  Isabel smiled at the plate she was holding. “Let’s just say I owe them one. That woman is a real piece of work.”

  “Ha! Did Pigpen know ASL?”

  “His name is John. And no. I translated their responses.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Mostly.”

  One of Celia’s pierced eyebrows rose.

  “Mbongo called him a ‘dirty bad toilet’ at one point,” Isabel explained. “I may have paraphrased that one a little.”

  Celia laughed. “And what did he do to deserve that?”

  “A game of Monster Chase gone hideously wrong.”

  Celia picked up a plastic dish and held it at various angles, trying to determine whether it had been washed or licked clean. “In Pigpen’s defense, Monster Chase is hard to do through glass.”

  “It was much worse than that. But we showed him how it’s done,” said Isabel. “Monster Chase, Monster Tickle, Apple Chase, we did it all. Much to the delight of the photographer.”

  “Did Peter come in today?”

  Well, that was a hard left turn, thought Isabel, stealing a quick look at Celia. The girl stared into the sink, the corner of her lip lifted into a smirk. Apparently Dr. Benton had become “Peter” to the intern at some point over the last twenty-four hours.

  “No. I haven’t seen him,” Isabel said carefully.

  At the previous night’s New Year’s Eve party, Isabel had been uncharacteristically thrown for a loop by a sorry excuse for dinner (four tiny cubes of cheese) and three strong cocktails (“It’s a Glenda Bendah!” the host, and husband of Glenda, had exclaimed as he thrust a glass of the iced blue concoction into her hands). Isabel didn’t normally drink—had in fact just purchased her first bottle of vodka so she’d have something on hand to offer guests—but this was the first social gathering of the people involved with the Great Ape Language Lab since Richard Hughes’s death, and everyone was working hard at the appearance of being merry. It was exhausting. Isabel tried to keep up, but when she staggered into the powder room and encountered her own flushed, intoxicated face in the mirror, she saw something even more frightening than the gorilla mask in Monster Chase was supposed to be: she saw an earlier version of her mother, weaving and pale. Isabel was unused to wearing makeup and had somehow managed to smear lipstick up one cheek. Sections of hair stuck like twigs from her updo. She ditched the remains of her third Glenda Bendah in the sink, dissolved the blue-tinged ice cubes in running water, and tried to creep out before she could embarrass herself further. Peter, who was not only Dr. Hughes’s successor but also Isabel’s fiancé, found her in the lobby in stockinged feet, slumped against the wall with her high-heeled shoes dangling from a thumb. When she looked up and saw him, she burst into tears.

  He crouched next to her. He held a hand to her forehead. His eyes filled with concern. He went back upstairs and returned with a moist, cool cloth, which he pressed to her cheeks.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he said moments later, helping her into a taxi. “Let me come with you.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and promptly leaned out of the car to be sick. The cabdriver observed this with alarm through the rearview mirror. Peter lifted the hems of his pants to inspect his shoes and leaned forward to examine Isabel more thoroughly. His eyebrows formed a lopsided V beneath a series of wavy lines. He paused, and
then decided.

  “I’m coming with you,” he declared. “Wait while I get my coat.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.” She groped through her purse for a tissue, beyond mortified. She couldn’t stand for him to see her like this. “Stay,” she insisted, waving a hand in the general direction of the party. “Really. I’ll be fine. Stay and ring in the New Year.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely.” She sniffed, nodded, and straightened her shoulders.

  He watched a moment longer and said, “Drink lots of water. And take Tylenol.”

  She nodded. Even in her inebriated state, she could tell that he was considering whether to kiss her. She took mercy on him, pulled the door shut on her taffeta dress, and waved the driver onward.

  Isabel had no idea what happened after she left. The party hadn’t quite reached the lampshade stage, but that was certainly the trajectory—veiled grief, an endless supply of alcohol, and resentment on the part of a select few over Peter’s appointment made for a strange and unpredictable atmosphere. Peter had been at the lab for only a year, and there were some who felt the position should have gone to a person with a longer investment in the project.

  Nearly twenty hours later, Isabel still felt wretched. She leaned her belly against the edge of the counter and snuck another fleeting glance at Celia, whose shoulder-to-wrist tattoos were displayed in full glory because she was wearing an orange “Peace” tank over a bright purple bra—in January. It wouldn’t surprise Isabel at all if Celia had attempted a bit of political maneuvering at the party. A little dancing, a little flirting, maybe even sidling up to Peter when the ball dropped, angling for a midnight kiss.

  Isabel sighed. It wasn’t as if she could take it personally: her relationship with Peter was not yet public. He had proposed only a few days earlier, after an accelerated and passionate courtship—Isabel had never fallen so fast and so hard—but for various reasons, including an ongoing and rancorous custody battle with his ex-wife and concern over how it would be perceived by the department, he felt it best to keep things quiet until they moved in together. Besides which, although Celia apparently had no idea, Peter disliked her.

  “What?” Celia stopped digging vegetable peelings out of the bottom of the sink and glanced down the length of her arm.

  Isabel realized she’d been staring at the tattoos. She turned her eyes back to the dishes. “Nothing. I just have a headache.”

  Bonzi rounded the corner and ambled up to them. Lola rode on her back, jockey-style, tiny fingers laced over her mother’s shoulders.

  Celia looked over her shoulder and called out, “Bonzi, did you try to kiss the visitor?”

  Bonzi grinned gleefully and spun on her behind, propelling herself with her feet. She touched her fingers to her lips and then her cheek, twice, before crossing both hands over her chest, signing, KISS KISS BONZI LOVE.

  Celia laughed. “And what about Mbongo? Did he also love the visitor?”

  Bonzi considered for a moment and then wiggled her fingers beneath her chin and swept her hand downward, signing, DIRTY BAD! DIRTY BAD!

  “Did Mbongo think the visitor was a dumbass?” continued Celia, stacking clean plates.

  “Celia!” Isabel barked. “Language!”

  This was precisely why Peter had been unhappy when Richard Hughes had bestowed the coveted internship on Celia over a half-dozen other deserving candidates. He was worried about her colorful language. If one of the bonobos picked up an offensive phrase and used it the requisite number of times in proper context, it would have to be included in the official lexicon. It was one thing when a bonobo came up with an insult like “dirty bad toilet” on his own, and quite another to acquire “dumbass” from a human.

  Although Bonzi had been conversing with Celia, she was now looking intently at Isabel. Her expression shifted to worry. SMILE HUG, she signed. BONZI LOVE VISITOR, KISS KISS.

  “Don’t worry, Bonzi. I’m not mad at you,” Isabel said, speaking and signing simultaneously. She threw an accusatory glare in Celia’s direction to drive her point home. “Don’t you want to watch the rest of the movie?”

  WANT COFFEE.

  “Sure, I can make coffee.”

  WANT CANDY COFFEE. ISABEL GO. HURRY GIMME.

  Isabel laughed and assumed a posture of mock offense. “You don’t like my coffee?”

  Bonzi sat on her haunches, looking sheepish. Lola climbed over her shoulder and blinked at Isabel.

  “Touché. Neither do I,” Isabel conceded. “You want a caramel macchiato?”

  Bonzi yipped excitedly. GOOD DRINK. GO HURRY, said her hands.

  “Okay. You want marshmallow on that?” said Isabel, using Bonzi’s term for the sweet froth on the top.

  SMILE SMILE, HUG HUG.

  Isabel threw the damp dish towel over her shoulder and wiped her still-clammy hands on her thighs.

  “You want me to go?” Celia said.

  “Sure. Thanks.” Isabel was surprised by the offer, and also grateful, on account of her lingering headache. Celia’s shift had technically ended almost a quarter of an hour earlier. “I’ll finish up here.”

  Celia waited as Isabel lined the carts up against the wall. “Ahem,” she said finally.

  Isabel looked up. “What?”

  “Can I take your car? Mine’s in the shop.”

  Mystery solved. Isabel nearly laughed out loud. Celia wanted a ride home at the end of the night.

  Isabel patted her pockets until a lump jingled.

  GRAB PICTURE, said Bonzi.

  “Take the video camera,” Isabel said, tossing the keys in a perfect arc. “And make sure you ask for decaf. And skim milk.”

  Celia nodded and snatched the keys from the air.

  All the bonobos—but especially Bonzi—loved watching videos of humans carrying out their requests. The bonobos used to ride along on limited errands, but all that stopped two years ago on the day Bonzi decided to steer the car and nearly wrapped it around a telephone pole. She’d simply reached across and grabbed the steering wheel. Isabel managed to brake before impact, but not before running off the road. This happened less than a week after Dr. Hughes’s car was swarmed at a McDonald’s drive-through when the driver of a passenger van in front of them glanced in his rearview mirror and spied Mbongo—who had successfully talked his way into a rare and cherished cheeseburger—riding shotgun. Moments later adults and children alike mobbed the car screaming, “Monkey! Monkey!” while trying to thrust their arms through the windows. Mbongo’s response was to dive beneath the backseat as Dr. Hughes closed the windows, but that, followed by the Bonzi-steering episode, sounded the death knell for public outings.

  The bonobos missed their contact with the outside world (although, when asked, they were absolutely firm in their belief that the double electric fence and moat around their outside play yard was there to keep people and cats out rather than bonobos in), so now Isabel and the others brought the outside world to them by video. At this point, the local shopkeepers thought nothing of being filmed for the viewing pleasure of the neighborhood apes.

  “Try to run over some protesters while you’re at it,” said Isabel.

  “There’s nobody out there,” said Celia.

  “Really?” said Isabel. There had been a gaggle of protesters outside the gates every day for almost a year, silently holding placards that showed great apes undergoing terrible procedures. Since the protesters obviously had no clue as to the nature of the work being done at the language lab, Isabel always ignored them.

  Celia opened the viewfinder of the video camera and then flicked the switch to check its battery. “Larry-Harry-Gary and Green-Haired Freaky Dude were there before dinner but they were gone when I went out for a smoke.”

  “‘Green-Haired Freaky Dude’? This from the girl with hot pink hair?”

  “It is not hot pink,” Celia said, fingering a pixie curl in front of her ear. “It’s fuchsia. And I have nothing against his hair color. I just think he, himself, is an assh
at.”

  “Celia! Language!” Isabel whipped her head around and noted with relief that Bonzi had wandered back into the TV room, thereby missing this opportunity to enrich her vocabulary. “You have got to be more careful. I’m serious.”

  Celia shrugged. “What? They didn’t hear me.”

  Isabel felt her eyes wander over to Celia again. The intern’s body art fascinated and repulsed Isabel almost equally. A labyrinthine swirl of nudes and mermaids tumbled down her shoulders and frolicked along her forearms, their hair and breasts entwined with the scaly limbs and tails of creatures borne from hell. A smattering of horseshoes and daisy-eyed skulls rained down on the whole, which was sharply rendered in reddish pinks, yellows, purples, and ghostly bluish greens. Isabel was only eight years older than Celia, but her own brand of rebellion had been to bury her nose in books and ride the scholarship train away from home as far and fast as possible.

  “Okay. I’m off,” Celia declared, tucking the video camera under her arm. Isabel went back to the dishes, listening as Celia’s footsteps receded down the hallway.

  A moment later, the door creaked open. Isabel spun on her heels. “Wait! You do have a valid driver’s—”

  The door slammed shut. Isabel stared at it for a moment, then tucked a bottle of Lubriderm under her arm and went in to watch the end of the movie.

  Sam had reasserted ownership of the ball, and Mbongo was sulking in his nest, the picture of desolation. He wore his new backpack, whose concave shape betrayed the ball’s absence. His shoulders slumped forward, and he hugged his arms across his chest. Isabel knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Did Sam take his ball back?” she asked, signing and speaking at the same time.

  Mbongo stared forlornly ahead.

  “Do you need a hug?” asked Isabel.

  At first he didn’t respond. Then he signed with a flurry: KISS HUG, KISS HUG.

  Isabel leaned in and took his head in both hands. She kissed his creased forehead and straightened his long black hair. “Poor Mbongo,” she said, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow I’ll get you another ball. But don’t carry this one in your teeth. Okay?”