Theory of Bastards

by Audrey Schulman

  Can you turn that off, she asked, We need to save the batteries.

  He looked around at their faces, then switched off his light.

  After that, they moved around mostly without the light. Even once their eyes adjusted, there was still a certain amount of bumping around in the dark. All of them becoming physically familiar with one another, like siblings in a family.

  At one point she bumped into Stotts. Since he was crouched over cleaning something up, she assumed it was Goliath and patted him on the butt.

  He said, Hey!

  Her first reaction—before she realized she’d touched jeans instead of fur—was to think, of course they can talk.

  STORM: DAY 3

  Thirty Three

  First thing in the morning, she started prepping the bonobos’ breakfast—sandwiches of plain Fluff. She’d cleaned herself up again with just a hurried scrubbing of a washcloth. Stotts emerged from the office area a few minutes later, clean and shivering. When he spotted her, it took him some effort to drag his eyes away from whatever her hair was doing in the back of her head.

  By this point, their discussions were shorter. Tired and hungry, their dialogue was winnowed down to a few words or a gesture. No need to say more. They knew what had to be accomplished and that there was no one else to do it.

  Stotts said, It should end tomorrow.

  She understood he meant the storm, Then help arrives?

  Probably two days from now.

  Will they have food the bonobos can eat?

  Maybe.

  Milk?

  Maybe.

  After they’d handed out the food, Frankie searched the pantry yet again for something other than potato chips to eat. On one of the top shelves, stacked in the back, she found a single sterno container, an item she’d ignored before. She picked it up, considering it. Then her eyes darted to the cans of espresso.

  Briskly she searched for matches and a structure she could place over the sterno on which she could balance a pot of water. She could already feel how the coffee would taste, that jolt of caffeine, that warmth in her gut. She thought if she could have just one cup, even black and without sugar, she could deal with the day ahead.

  In the kitchen she filled up a pot with water and then experimented with several setups. In the end, she settled on a metal colander placed upside-down over the lit sterno, the pot on top. Because the base of the colander was smaller than the bottom of the pot, as well as a trifle convex, the pot wobbled. She stood patiently in front of it, holding its handle while the water heated up. For coffee, she would have stood here for most of the morning without complaint. Her other hand, she scrubbed through her hair. In the back, she found something crunchy and matted. She worked at removing the object, trying not to guess what it might be.

  Stotts made no comment. He stood nearby, watching, clearly not a coffee person.

  The water was beginning to boil. Frankie continued to hold onto the pot’s handle while, with her other hand, she tried to pry the metal lid off the coffee tin. She couldn’t do this with one hand, so she let go of the handle. She popped the top off and was reaching for the handle, when Mama squealed with joy in the hall—at the smell of the coffee or the sound of the tin opening. At her squeal, Frankie turned slightly and her hand touched the handle.

  The pot toppled, simple as that.

  Boiling water spilling across her stomach.

  So many Americans, raised in safety, don’t have fast reactions. They turn to stare at the oncoming car, mouth open. Disbelief can kill.

  Stotts—having been in Syria—punched his hand out, through the water and against the burning metal, to knock the pot away and into the sink.

  Most of the water however had already poured out, running down her legs, the sensation not of heat or pain, but of sudden clarity, a skip out of normal time.

  He jerked his hand away from the metal, clamping his hurt fingers into his armpit. Oww, he said, Yow.

  She, on the other hand, made no noise. She looked at her wet clothing, her flesh cooking. In one smooth motion, she shoved her pants and underwear down, then yanked her shirt off over her head.

  He froze. She stood there, naked except her grimy jog bra, her pants and undies around her ankles like a child about to sit on the potty. The path the water had taken appearing on her skin.

  Glancing at her calm expression, his reaction was fury. He slapped on the faucet, yanked the hand sprayer out to the end of its hose and shot cool water at her belly and legs.

  He yelled, nothing soldierly or polite in his voice, just an enraged bellow, Why don’t you care about yourself?

  She stared, trying to parse the extent of this emotion.

  And something bolted down the hall toward them.

  Goliath. Barreling toward Stotts, fangs glittering, attacking anyone who dared to yell at Frankie.

  Protecting Stotts, she stepped in the way. When Goliath hit her, she ricocheted into Stotts.

  Goliath, his eyes shut, sank his canines into her shoulder.

  She screamed, No!

  He jerked open his eyes and, horrified, let go, backing up, whining.

  However by now Marge and Adele and Mama were in the doorway, waa-barking. For the first time Frankie saw them truly enraged—a male yelling at a female! Standing up, their fur erect, a wall of fury, they began to hurl whatever objects were nearby—poop, a pan, the coffee tin—their aim bad enough that they hit Frankie as often as Stotts, their strength immense.

  Knowing she was his best protection, she shrieked as loudly as she could and kept her body between them and Stotts. She grabbed a pan and slammed it against the oven, the metal clang loud as a bell.

  Startled, Adele backed up a step. Mama paused uncertain.

  Frankie banged the pot around more, bellowing out the most unnerving sounds she could think of—an Arabic ululation, a Tarzan call.

  All of them stood there quietly, heads cocked, listening to Frankie’s full-throated rendition of a Swiss yodel. Then, seeming to feel that summarized the matter, they backed away and disappeared down the hall.

  She exhaled a ragged breath.

  Silence.

  Stotts was backed up against the fridge, as far as he could get from them. From her.

  She stood there, splattered with poop, bleeding from Goliath’s bite, her pants around her ankles, her belly and legs parboiled. Standing alone in the doorway, in the space between the bonobos and the human.

  Thirty Four

  After the fight in the kitchen so much changed between the triangle of them—Goliath, Stotts and Frankie.

  Frankie worried constantly now that the bonobos might attack Stotts. She didn’t like leaving him in a room alone with any of them, so she followed after him like some scrawny guard dog. The only time she relaxed was when he was outside getting more food from the Snack Shack.

  For his part, Goliath needed reassurance that she wasn’t angry with him for biting her. Every hour or so, he would start to follow her, whining. It didn’t matter what she said—if she told him it was alright, her shoulder was fine, that she still loved him—he would look more and more upset until she reached down to give him a hug and a kiss. Then he’d grin, forgiven and head off toward whatever looked interesting.

  The whole routine made Stotts uneasy, the unease conveyed in an eloquent silence. And he tended to witness the routine, because he preferred also to be near her now, ready to step in if she held anything sharper than a pencil or went near the kitchen, as though she were a child unable to understand basic dangers. When she did something that worried him, he’d move within an arm’s length, pretending to be busy with some other task, but wearing the slightly unfocused gaze that said he was ready to move quickly.

  The change that really bothered her was the way he looked at her now, or rather, didn’t. His expression would be normal, until his eyes got close to her. The
y’d jump over her, skip past, as though looking at her pained him. Probably he was embarrassed she’d protected him from the bonobos or every time he looked at her, he remembered seeing her naked. Probably, worried about his wife and child, he wished he was with them instead of her.

  By this point, all of them looked different than they had before. Stotts had a large bruise on his cheek (from one of the pans Mama had thrown). Because of her scalded belly and legs, Frankie moved around with a stiff-hipped gait. The bonobos all wore soiled ripped clothing on the top half of their bodies. Several of them had developed persistent coughs from the dust, which seemed to sneak in no matter how many layers of plastic Stotts taped over the vents.

  The physical contact at least helped. Through much of her adulthood, she’d gone without touch—not just sexual touch, but touch in any form at all, a hand on the shoulder, a hug, leaning in against a friend. Her gut in pain, she’d picked her way through life, trying not to get jostled. Around the bonobos, post-operation, that had changed. She was touched now all the time. Id investigating her clothing, Goliath wrapping his arm around her, Mama playing with her hair. She touched them back almost as much as they touched her. She tucked Id into her clothes to keep them both warm, held Mama’s hand to her cheek, or leaned against Goliath’s shoulder, exhausted.

  *

  A little bit before lunch, she was in the bathroom, getting water for more baptisms—the faucet all the way on, the water pouring into the bucket—when the faucet made a small rasping sound deep in its throat and ran dry. No more warning than that. She stared, trying to comprehend this betrayal.

  She only had to say Stotts’ name once before he was in the doorway, watching her twist the faucet on and off and on again. No water came out.

  They walked fast to the kitchen sink. She put a pot beneath the faucet to capture the slightest dribble and turned it on. The faucet sputtered out a cup or two, then hissed and stopped. All that remained was a regular click-click from somewhere in the wall.

  The water pressure in the system had run out.

  The room got very quiet.

  Id was sitting on the counter watching. Frankie was struck with how truly small a bonobo baby was, almost birdlike, those spindly legs and arms, the oversized skull and dark eyes. That little belly was the only cushion.

  Stotts was furious with himself. He thwapped his head with the flat of his hand as he marched to the pantry, saying, Fuck fuck fuck.

  He stepped to the shelf with the drinks and counted them, his hand tapping each one. Thirteen gallon bottles and four half gallons: soda, apple juice and water.

  His hand on the last one, he inhaled and said, The sodas for the vending machines are in the Snack Shack.

  She said, The other apes and humans are going to need some of that too.

  He said, It’s enough. Rescue the day after tomorrow. It won’t be long.

  She was silent.

  We’ll go easy on the liquids, he said, Just in case.

  He tried to sound confident, but a few minutes later he left to check on the others. When he came back he brought back four six-packs of Sprite from the Snack Shack.

  From this point on, Frankie noticed he drank only a single measuring cup of liquid at each meal. He closed his eyes while he drank, throat moving. Frankie restricted herself to the same amount. She found herself becoming more conscious of drinking—the taste, her thirst, the cool drink running down her throat.

  Still, Frankie had to baptize the apes because the air crackled with electricity; touching metal or flesh was dangerous. However she baptized them less often and used much less liquid, wiping tiny libations of Sprite across each bonobo, running her hands over their fur and fingers, a cleansing of sin and static.

  Mama quickly figured out the sticky soda could be used as a hair mousse. She followed along after Frankie as a stylist. The curls dried hard. The bonobos knuckled around, the hair on their heads in bouffants, pomades and marcel curls.

  With so few baptisms, the bonobos began to get shocked more often. From the pain they learned, not that they shouldn’t touch, but that they should never let go. They hugged, clinging to one another. Locked inside, the food different and so little of it, the humans tense, the air stale and dusty, the bonobos became so loath to let go that if one of them wanted to move down the hall or into another room, they all followed, holding on—a long conga line of apes.

  Twice, all of them climbed into each other’s arms, a warm pile of bonobos, one big cuddle. There, their heads bowed on each other’s shoulders, they sighed and closed their eyes. They looked small and tired.

  Watching them, Frankie understood this as a way of saying, We are one. I care for you. It will be fine. Watching, she wanted to climb into that pile.

  *

  For several weeks now, Frankie had spent a majority of every day staring at the bonobos, their faces and movements and expressions.

  Occasionally now, when Stotts stepped into her field of vision, she felt surprise. He loomed over the rest of them, weighing close to twice as much, his upright stance and startling eyes.

  She’d turn to watch him, tracking him.

  *

  That afternoon, Frankie sat down on the ground, exhausted, leaning back against the wall, feeling the endless pull of gravity.

  Goliath sat down next to her, gently grooming her hair. He made soft noises, concerned.

  After a minute of this, he got an erection.

  As he would with another bonobo, he stood up on two feet, his legs parted for her to appreciate his condition. His penis, bright pink, was skinny as a wobbly pencil.

  He waggled his hips from side to side. He squealed and gyrated, spearing the air in front of her. It was clear he wanted her to touch it. He seemed determined.

  She rested her head against the wall and ignored it. Goliath, in response, just wiggled his crotch closer to her face.

  Stotts, nearby, was trying to clean up a poop with a shovel. Straightening up, he saw what Goliath was doing and went still.

  Focusing past the bouncing metronome of Goliath’s penis, she looked at Stotts and asked, Any advice?

  Pay no attention. It’ll go away.

  You speaking from experience?

  He took this the wrong way, looking shocked.

  I didn’t mean your . . . She trailed off.

  Goliath continued to pump his penis in front of her, like an enthusiastic cheerleader with a very skinny pom-pom.

  Criminy, she said and in an attempt to get Goliath out of the way, she patted his penis like she’d pat a dog. Two taps with the flat of her hand. It bounced, slightly rubbery.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected to happen, but Goliath stopped spearing the air. He grinned and sat back down. He did not orgasm and, except for the fact that an erect penis was involved, the touch seemed hardly sexual.

  (She remembered a conference she’d attended years ago outside of Mumbai. One afternoon, tired of the workshops, she’d snuck out of the hotel for some fresh air, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Each of the men she passed on the street reacted as though her clothing was pasties and a sequined G-string, when actually it was only a signal that the weather was over 90 and humid.)

  She turned to Stotts, Did you see that?

  His eyes were wide. He looked as shocked as if she’d bit the toe off a newborn.

  (Perhaps Goliath had been trying to greet her, waving a bonobo version of a hand at her, wanting only some acknowledgement of his existence.)

  She said to Stotts, I think that was him just saying hi.

  Stotts didn’t answer, but jerked his eyes away.

  Abruptly she’d had enough: being tense, physically exhausted, thirsty, dirty and hungry. She said with her voice sharp, Stop it.

  He nodded, impassive, a soldier’s nod.

  I mean it, she said truly angry, You’ve been acting weird all day. You’r
e not talking much. You won’t look at me.

  Yes ma’am.

  She got to her feet and stepped in close. He, the much bigger person, took half a step back, still not looking at her. She rose onto her toes to say into the side of his face, Look at me now or I will chant the word erection.

  He made no response.

  Erection, she said, Erection, erection.

  He forced his eyes toward her, his gaze as impersonal as a cubicle.

  No. She said, Look at me.

  His expression changed not at all.

  She hit each consonant as sharply as a BBC announcer, Ejaculate. Prick. Woodie. Hard-on.

  He said, Ma’am, could you please stop?

  She called up toward his face, singing the words with all the built-up tension of the last few days, A boner. A chubby. Throbbing gristle.

  His face suddenly alive, he stared into her eyes and said, Cut it out.

  Thank God, she said.

  She added, I missed you.

  His anger wiped away in a second.

  She was the one now to break the look. All around her, the bonobos sat, uneasy, watching the interaction.

  Thirty Five

  Late that afternoon, exhausted, Stotts left the interaction area so he could take a nap on the couch in his office without one of the bonobos clambering over him. He asked Frankie to wake him up in an hour. At this point, the concept of an hour had a loose definition. Although they had searched hard, they had found only one clock, in the back of a closet, dusty, no AAA batteries anywhere. Through the storm, the light from the day was faint at best and disappeared early. She sat with the bonobos watching that light disappear entirely until she felt an hour must have passed, then opened the door to the offices and walked down the hall to wake him up.

  This, the human area, had reached a state that was, if anything, worse than the interaction area. Furniture piled up with garbage bags tossed on top, full of broken items they’d removed from the interaction area. In order to weave her way through it all, without stepping by mistake on a bag of feces, she turned on her headlamp. In the unforgiving beam of light, everything looked so tired and broken, like the scene of a long-ago crime. She picked her cautious way through it all to his office.