The Study of Animal Languages

by Lindsay Stern

  “We can rehash behaviorism another day,” I say. “But translating birdsong into English? That’s insane.”

  She says nothing. The only sound is the shuffle of junk.

  “Even if we agree to call their vocalizations ‘language’ someday,” I continue, “there’s no compelling evidence that animals are doing anything beyond protecting territory, jousting for mates, courting them, and so on. Claiming that they have ideas—I mean, my god, that’s the height of anthropomorphism. Narcissism, as you put it. That’s exactly the kind of assumption you were criticizing.”

  When she does not reply I add, although the fact is self-evident, “They’re not epistemic subjects, P.”

  “Epistemic subjects.” She wheels around, comb in hand. “Can you speak like a normal person for once?”

  “It’s shorthand,” I say, swallowing the insult. “They don’t reason. They don’t feel shame. I mean, Jesus, I can’t believe I have to say these things aloud.”

  “You know what I love?” she says. “I love that your criterion of what constitutes a thinking being is a phrase almost none of them has heard.”

  “It’s just shorthand,” I repeat, when she turns back to the mirror. “You know what I mean.”

  “Of course.” She yanks a knot out of her hair. “Sorry, I forgot. You’re a fucking logical positivist. Language is failed mathematics. Pardon me.”

  “I admire the positivists,” I say, surprised. “I don’t affiliate with any movement.”

  She breaks out in ugly laughter. I draw my knees up to my chest, my heart racing.

  “Okay, I’m done.” She drops the comb back in the dresser, closing the drawer so forcefully that the mirror rattles. “I’m wrong. You’re right. You win.”

  She flings open the linen closet and eases a duvet from the upper shelf. With a bolt of desperation, I realize she is planning to sleep elsewhere—in the living room, presumably—which she has never done before.

  “I’m just confused,” I say. “You caught me so off guard, today. You’re not a philosopher. You’re not a critical theorist. You’re a very distinguished scientist, and your work has nothing to do with—”

  “Oh, don’t pretend you give a shit about my work.”

  I swallow, steadying myself.

  “It’s wonky,” she continues, “simplistic, naïve . . . Animal language”—her voice plummets, mimicking mine—“my, how contradictory.”

  “Well, guilty as charged, Prue.” I open my arms, relieved to finally say it. “This stuff is kind of batty. It’s not serious. It’s not you.”

  “So testing for intelligence is serious, and testing for language is pseudoscience?” She clutches the blanket to her chest. “I don’t get it, Ivan. I don’t see the difference.”

  “There’s a world of difference,” I say, incredulous. She must be delusional. “A world of difference—literally—between puzzle solving and language. This”—I gesture between us—“they don’t do this.”

  “I would hope not.”

  She flings the blanket on the bed. Tugging out the wrinkles, she adds, “I’ll stick to puzzle solving, then. Would that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t think you should stick to anything, I just . . . ,” I trail off, talked into a corner.

  With a savage laugh, she says, “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind your disapproval. Sometimes it even excites me. She’ll pay a price, you were probably thinking all night. That bad girl.”

  I am silent. We have tumbled ahead, into new territory. A murderous freedom is in the air.

  “What?” She straightens, flushed. “Too much for you?”

  She is breathing with an almost comic intensity. I have a sudden, terrible urge to laugh.

  “No, it’s just . . .” I bite my lip. “Don’t make this about sex, P.”

  “Funny you should say that, because I think sex is just about the only thing we have going for us anymore.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I say quietly. “Don’t say things you don’t—”

  “Why are you still sitting here?” she interrupts. “Go”—she gestures at the corridor—“read some more of my email, why don’t you, or better yet, gorge yourself on my food.”

  This is a fresh blow, unprecedented. Heat rushes into my face.

  “Now that I think about it,” she says, “I bet you wanted my dad to hurt Rex.”

  “What?” My ears ring. She is talking nonsense now.

  “That’s why you stood back and let him mortify me in front of everyone.”

  “Listen to yourself. You sound crazier than your father.”

  “You wanted something bad to happen,” she says, nodding. “You wanted me to pay. And all for taking one fucking risk.”

  She stares at me, astonished. There are tears in her eyes, yet she seems about to laugh.

  “How could I not have seen it?” Her voice breaks. “Your passive aggression is the bravest thing about you.”

  “Are you finished?” I roar.

  A sob leaves her.

  In silence I stride into the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I return she has curled up under the two duvets, her face obscured.

  “I don’t get it,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer. I suddenly wish I were alone with my anger, and will her to storm out of the bedroom after all.

  “You’re up for tenure,” I say. “We have a life here.”

  Her breath catches.

  “And you’re willing to throw it all away?”

  “Please stop talking,” she whispers.

  I crawl under the quilt, keeping close to the edge. She is still crying, but softly. After a while her breathing levels out, and then she flops onto her side, abruptly, with the wild candor of sleep.

  My heart is still pounding. To temper it I synchronize my breaths to hers. A smoke alarm goes off in the distance, and then subsides. Whether an hour has passed, or less, I cannot tell.

  “P?” I say, into the darkness.

  The sound hangs in the air. Then it fades, until I might as well have said nothing.

  Ten

  I have always envied Prue’s ability to sleep through anything. I don’t know how she does it. Not even thunder wakes her, whereas almost any sound, no matter how innocent, will pitch me back into the world.

  So it is only natural that the cough of our Subaru should rouse me, despite the indecent hour—1:52, the clock declares, in mean red numerals—and the insulated wall that separates our room from the driveway.

  I scramble out of bed. Reaching the kitchen and stuffing my feet into my boots, I wonder dimly whether I dreamed the sound. But when I burst out into the cold the car is idling there, its taillights burning. Snow falls through the cones of orange light. As I jog forward it starts again with a ragged aspiration, jolting toward the darkened road.

  “Stop!” I call out.

  It accelerates. I stoop to gather something, anything, to throw at the rear windshield, and instead jam my fingers into ice. Knuckles throbbing, I stamp the ground with my heel and dislodge a wedge of snow, hurling it at the retreating fender. There is a gentle thump. The car slows. I throw another wedge and miss, just as the front wheels clear the driveway and begin to turn. In the illuminated cabin I catch a glimpse of two wrinkled hands on the steering wheel. Desperate, I break into a run, cursing myself for failing to hide the keys.

  He is driving faster now. Still running, I bend—hopping twice—and fling my boot. It hits the side mirror, and the car lurches to a stop.

  “God damn it, Frank,” I pant, when he opens the side window. “Where are you going?”

  “Noboru’s.” He gestures ahead, his breath coming in clouds.

  “Noboru Hayashi’s?”

  He nods. “Fourteen Willoughby Lane. Right around the corner.”

  Melting snow burns through my sock. I say, �
�Get out of the car.”

  “I’m already—”

  “Out.”

  He casts a supplicating look in my direction, and then relents, stepping out into the cold. As I retrieve my boot and park the car he waits by the side of the road, brooding. Not until we have entered the kitchen does he speak again.

  “If you’d have let me, I could have straightened things out.”

  He is wearing the suit he wore yesterday, his checkered tie clipped, the cuffs of his shirt neatly folded. His suede loafers are damp. The outsoles are blotched, probably ruined, rimmed with spurs of translucent snow.

  “I fucked up earlier,” he adds. He must have showered, because his wet hair is brushed back. The scratch on his jaw has faded to a dark pink line.

  “What . . .” I shake my head, at a loss. “What does Noboru Hayashi have to do with anything?”

  Frank frowns. “Thought he was the chair of Biology.”

  “And?”

  “Please don’t mention this to Prue.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking fiercely. “Look, I know I went overboard today. I . . .”—he closes his eyes—“I tried to do it by phone, but he wouldn’t hear me out.”

  I snatch up our landline and scroll through the dialed calls. Three appear, placed ten minutes ago to the same local number.

  “Jesus, Frank.”

  “I get it.” He nods. “I moved too quickly for those folks. I’m no rhetorician, like she is.”

  “How on earth did you get his information?”

  “Nothing’s private these days.” He gestures toward Prue’s laptop, still sleeping on the counter. “Now if you’d let me at the car, I—”

  “So you can get yourself arrested?”

  “So I can apologize, all right? Convince him that what happened had nothing to do with Prue, with . . .” He rubs his neck. “I’m not an idiot. I know the guy has a lot of say in her tenure case.”

  I peel off my wet sock and drape it over the radiator. “It doesn’t work like that, Frank. Tenure happens by vote. The ‘chair’ title isn’t even an honorific. It just saddles you with more committee work.”

  “But—”

  “Besides,” I interrupt, putting a length of countertop between us. “You can’t impact your daughter’s tenure prospects, Frank. Sorry to break it to you, but you don’t have that power.”

  “But you said he wouldn’t want anything more to do with Prue. Him and the rest of them, after what I—”

  “No, Frank. After what she did.” When he narrows his eyes I add, swamped by the memory, “After that lecture she gave.”

  “You don’t look good, kid,” he says.

  “Well, it’s two o’clock in the morning, Frank, and you just hijacked our car.”

  Pipes shudder in the wall. I can’t help muttering, into his silence, “You do realize what Prue did.”

  He waits, studying me.

  “Using her platform to moralize like that? Insult her colleagues . . .” The words ring hollow, somehow. I comb my fingers through my hair, trying to drum up the indignation I felt yesterday. “She blew it, Frank. You had nothing to do with it.”

  He says softly, “You understood.”

  There is a familiar gleam in his eye. As he speaks again I remember our fiasco in the diner, and then his provocation: Entitled to some privacy, aren’t I?

  “You get it,” he says, as though to himself. “You know it’s true, deep down—what she said. That’s why it’s killing you.”

  He looks so pathetic standing there, spouting nonsense in his cheap, stained suit, that I almost pity him.

  “Have you taken your meds today?” I say quietly.

  “That’s why you blew up at her.”

  My stomach drops. When he does not elaborate I say, carefully, “When?”

  “When.” He guffaws. “A few hours ago is when. Shouting at her, after all she’d accomplished.”

  The injustice of the comment seethes through me like a cramp. I cannot listen to this—not now, not ever again.

  “You’re lucky you’re not in jail right now, Frank,” I say. “If I hadn’t woken up—”

  “It was nice to hear you let loose, honestly.” His eyes sparkle. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Without another word I storm down the hall and into the guest room, flicking the light on and sifting through his duffel bag. No pill bottle. I am about to check the bathroom for it when my eyes snag on an orange glow. The vial is perched on the shelf, between a dictionary and one of May’s stuffed bears.

  When I return to the kitchen Frank has lowered himself onto a stool, regarding me pensively. His gaze does not waver as I approach him, holding out the vial.

  “You’ve been lying about these, haven’t you?” I say.

  He chuckles wryly. As I press down the thick white cap and twist, a look of weariness crosses his face.

  “Would you like some food with it?”

  He glances from me to the vial and back. A starchy smell issues from the rim, then fades.

  “Do it for your daughter, Frank,” I say.

  He opens his palm. Hastily, I shake out one pale green pill, about to offer him some water when he knocks it back.

  “Thank you,” I say, as he swallows.

  He nods, and then stands up.

  “You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

  “I’m good. Sorry for waking you.”

  In silence he limps down the corridor. Then he disappears into his room.

  I lean against the wall, drawing four deep breaths. The house is quiet. Behind the drone of the refrigerator comes a whirring sound, punctuated by irregular clicks: the heater, or some other domestic artery.

  I should feel relieved. But without Frank to distract me, the dam I have erected against the memory of last night’s savagery—my accusations, Prue’s retorts—begins to weaken. To reinforce it I return to the kitchen and burn through a bag of tortilla chips, thinking of Noboru. No point in calling him back now, or perhaps tomorrow, either. He may not have even recognized Frank’s voice. And if he has, the damage is done.

  On my way back to bed I lean into the study to check on May. Prue left the door wide open, partly for her sake and partly so that Rex can fly back when he pleases. May is curled up near the edge of the mattress, the moonlight blanching her hair.

  She lifts her head. “Grandpa?”

  “It’s me, honey.”

  She rolls over, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I heard Grandpa.”

  “He couldn’t sleep. But he’s back in bed now.”

  I lower myself onto the mattress, inadvertently crushing her hand, which slithers free.

  She whispers, “I had a bad dream.”

  Frank prides himself on scaring off May’s nightmares. When they multiplied during Walt’s divorce, he instructed Walt to tape his number to the wall beside her bed so she could call him whenever she woke up. From his attic room up north—nearly every night, we later learned—he would take her call and lull her back to sleep.

  “What happened?” I say, but she only shakes her head.

  When I squeeze her hand to comfort her, she says, “Can you tell me a story?”

  “A story?” I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees. “I don’t know if I’ve got one, May.”

  “Like one of Grandpa’s.”

  “Let’s see . . .”

  As I wrack my brain, she snuggles up to her favorite stuffed animal—a penguin she has christened Maurice.

  “Once upon a time there was a spy,” I say at last. “She knew everything about everyone, except—”

  “Is it true, what he said about boiled bones?” she interrupts.

  “What who said?”

  “Grandpa.” She fingers Maurice’s cotton beak. “About boiled bones and hearts and skin? In all our stuff?
”

  “No, it wasn’t true,” I say, surprised to feel a flicker of guilt at lying, or half-lying, to her.

  “So why did he say it?”

  “He was confused.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, my guilt yielding to indignation. If Frank really cares about animal products—and he had probably exaggerated their pervasiveness—he should join PETA.

  I say, “He’s sick, sweetheart.”

  “Does he have a temperature?”

  “It’s his thoughts.” I tap my forehead. “He gets scary thoughts, sometimes, that tell him to do scary things.”

  “When’s he going to get better?”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  She closes her eyes. I wait until she has fallen asleep, then tuck the quilt around her. Gradually I stand up, wincing as the springs creak.

  She doesn’t stir. But when I reach the door she says, “Uncle Ivan?”

  “Yes?”

  The mound of blankets shifts.

  “What about his real thoughts?”

  “Whose?”

  “Grandpa’s.”

  “They’re there,” I say. “They’ll be there.”

  The aviary looms over her body, in partial shadow. A complicated darkness on the upper perch confirms that Rex has returned to the cage.

  Eleven

  When I wake up it is after eleven, and I’m alone. Light gushes across the duvet. Damn, Walt has texted me. Thought we’d seen the worst of him. Prue must have filled him in on yesterday’s ordeal. One of them, at least. Without replying I swing my feet out of bed, my gut flaming from last night’s chips.

  As I leave the bedroom, freshly showered, the Looney Tunes opening glissando filters from the living room. The house smells different—heavier, somehow—and as I move down the corridor the scent intensifies. When I reach the living room, where May and Frank are perched before Prue’s laptop, I discover its source: an ocean of flowers—asphodel, gladioli, hydrangeas, and more, spilling from ceramic pots that cover every free surface. There are easily two dozen, each one bearing a tiny paper card.