When they hung up, John hugged his knees and rocked.
Over the next few days they rallied, or at least John thought they did. Amanda seemed more cheerful on the phone, although it finally dawned on him that it was an act. She relayed funny stories from the studio (ha! ha! ha!) that he later realized weren’t funny at all. Apparently the actors were now required to walk around carrying Vitaminwater bottles at all times, label out, because studies had shown that the new trend was for audiences to record shows to watch later, allowing them to skip past commercials, and so the studios had to find new ways of integrating commercial endorsements into the shows themselves. When John finally picked up on Amanda’s level of horror over this, he wanted to shrink into the earth. They had been apart only a few weeks and already he was having trouble reading her.
While packing boxes, John found the edited manuscript of Recipe for Disaster in the guest room closet. Fran had collated it, stacked all the rejections on top, and secured the lot with two rubber bands going in opposite directions. The rejection with the enormous red NO scrawled across it was uppermost; this was what she had chosen her daughter to see the next time she opened the guest room closet.
John sat cross-legged on the floor, peeled off the rubber bands, and began reading.
An hour later he had not moved, and it was more than two hours before he turned the final page. It was good, really good—and by good he meant that she’d blown things up, or at least set them on fire. She had incorporated a number of aspects of her real life—such as her passion for cooking and poor old Magnificat. Somehow she hadn’t felt the need to exact revenge on certain family members by way of cameo performances. John was not at all sure he himself could have risen above temptation, given the richness and abundance of available material, but he was grateful nonetheless. Perhaps she had been tempted, as she’d gone to some effort to kill off the mother before the story began, and then killed the father within a couple of pages.
John picked up the stack of rejections and flipped through them, marveling at the many ways people found to say no. No, they couldn’t be bothered to have a look, not even at the first few pages. No, they weren’t interested. No, they weren’t accepting new clients except by referral.
No, no, no, no, no.
John set the rejections on the floor. He didn’t count them, but he had no reason to disbelieve Amanda’s claim that there were 129. The stack was nearly half as thick as the manuscript itself. No wonder she had taken to her bed.
15
Isabel stood on a residential street in Alamogordo, New Mexico, behind a panel van with a woman who called herself Rose. Rose had a job as a technician inside the Corston Foundation, a primate research facility, but she was actually working undercover for an animal advocacy group. They were just beyond its dimly lit parking lot.
The Corston Foundation had acquired six new chimpanzees. Many people, including research scientists, had trouble distinguishing bonobos from chimpanzees. This gave Isabel hope and despair in equal parts, since the Corston Foundation was notorious for flouting USDA and NIH requirements for primate care. They had been cited eight times in the past year alone for violations in cage size and basic care, and two years before that had been fined for leaving three elderly chimpanzees outside in unventilated crates in the summer sun with the predictable result that they died of heatstroke. Because these were cast-off Air Force chimps, their deaths had caused a small blip of media interest and public outrage. Buddy, Ivan, and Donald had been celebrities in their day, media darlings whose enormous grins—as they were plucked free from their space capsules after crashing into the sea—were splashed across magazine covers nationwide. What the American public didn’t know was that the grins were actually grimaces of fear. They also didn’t know that Buddy, Ivan, and Donald had been acquired in the way of all “wild-caught” chimps, which is to say yanked from the bodies of their murdered mothers, or that they had spent their first five years in captivity in enormous centrifuges and decompression chambers designed to test the rigors of space travel on the human body. Nor did they know that the chimps were used as crash-test dummies and slammed repeatedly into walls at high speeds to develop seat belts that would effectively restrain human astronauts during reentry into the atmosphere. Indeed, until they were left to expire in the sun, the public didn’t know that while the human astronauts were greeted with ticker tape, confetti, and hero parades, the Air Force decided that Buddy, Ivan, and Donald were no longer useful and leased them to the Corston Foundation, where they were renamed 17489, 17490, and 17491 respectively, infected with hepatitis, caged individually, and subjected to regular liver biopsies. Ferdinand Corston surely breathed a sigh of relief when the surge of gossip about a major celebrity’s marital infidelities swept his own bilge out of the media’s eye. The Corston Foundation was the very last place Isabel would want the bonobos to end up. On the other hand, knowing where they were was the first step in rescuing them.
Isabel stood beside Rose at the van’s tailgate. The looming concrete building was surrounded by gravel, chain link, and razor wire. Isabel tried to imagine the more than four hundred chimpanzees imprisoned inside.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said.
“I have to,” said Rose, tossing a pair of rubber boots at Isabel’s feet and then laying a jumpsuit, rubber gloves, and surgeon’s mask with full face shield on the tailgate. “If we don’t have someone on the inside, we’ll never know what’s going on. They’re not exactly forthcoming about what they do in there.”
“I know,” said Isabel, recalling her recent attempts at gathering information. She glanced at the hazmat outfit. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes. They spit and throw shit. Many of them have been infected with diseases that are transmissible to humans. Malaria, hepatitis, HIV. So put these on.”
Isabel stared at the squat building with a renewed sense of horror. The behavior Rose was describing was typical of apes who had suffered severe psychological trauma.
Rose watched her, as though assessing. Finally she spoke. “Last week they infected three baby chimps with leukemia by poisoning the formula in their bottles. Others are subjected to lawn treatments, cleaning chemicals, cosmetics—you name it. Some are addicted to drugs, some are locked in unventilated rooms filled with secondhand smoke. One chimp had his teeth smashed out so someone could practice dental implant techniques on him.”
Isabel’s hand flew to her still-tender jaw.
If Rose noticed, she didn’t say anything. She was busy pulling on her hazmat gear. Isabel did the same, in shame-filled silence.
Isabel and Rose both held flashlights as they entered. A long concrete corridor stretched before them, a windowless expanse of cages that hung from the ceiling. The cages were the size of small elevators, and each held a single chimpanzee, who crouched or slept on the chain-link floor. There were no blankets, no toys—nothing except stainless-steel water bowls that refilled automatically. The cages were suspended a couple of feet from the floor, which sloped toward a trough against the wall. Isabel supposed this was for cleaning purposes—a high-powered hose would do it, although now, several hours after the last human had left, feces and urine lay in lumps beneath the cages. The stench was nearly unbearable.
The chimpanzees were mostly quiet, huddled in the corners of their barren cages. A few rushed to the front and displayed, shaking the chain link with hands and feet and splattering Isabel and Rose with water, urine, spit, and worse. Their angry screeches echoed down the hall, amplifying the silence of the others. Most of the quiet ones had their heads turned to the wall, but the ones who faced forward looked through Isabel and Rose with deadened eyes. Their bodies were present, but their spirits gone. A couple had metal bolts coming from the tops of their skulls. Several were missing fingers and toes.
Rose followed Isabel’s gaze. “They chew them off from stress.”
When they finally turned a corner, Isabel leaned up against the wall to catch her breath.
She would not cry.
She would not. Crying would help no one.
Rose waited, but offered no comfort. Did she think Isabel condoned this? Surely not. If she did, she wouldn’t have tried to help find the bonobos, would she?
When Isabel finally composed herself, they began walking again. As irrational as it seemed, Isabel thought they were going through the laundry facility, but after passing a few extra-large front-load dryers, she realized that behind the thick round portholes were baby chimpanzees.
“Oh no, oh no,” she cried. She sank to her knees in front of one and rested her forehead against the glass, grasping the edges of the porthole with her gloved hands. The infant inside, who should have been with his mother for at least four more years, did not respond. He already had the glassy-eyed stare of the lost. Isabel sobbed openly. She turned to Rose. “Why?” she demanded. “Why?”
Rose responded with a look that spared nothing and said, “They’re not much further.”
Isabel followed. Because of her surgeon’s mask she could not even wipe her nose or eyes, although her gloves were so filthy with feces and spit she couldn’t have anyway. She walked past one isolette after another, each containing a lone, infected baby.
At the end of the hall, Rose punched a combination into a keypad beside the door. She went through first and held it open for Isabel.
“This is where they quarantine the new ones. These six are the recent additions.”
Isabel stepped inside, heart pounding, blood rushing through her ears. She stopped in the center and turned by degree until she had viewed the occupants of all the cages. As she shone her flashlight on them, they raised their arms to shield their weary faces. They shifted on their haunches, perching uncomfortably on their wire floors. A female clutched her baby against her and turned her back to them.
“No,” Isabel said, nauseated with disappointment. “No, these are Pan troglodytes. Common chimpanzees. Bonobos are slimmer, with flatter features and black faces.”
“Okay.” Rose turned to leave.
“Wait—” said Isabel. “If they just arrived, where did they come from?”
Rose shrugged. “Could be from a breeding facility, but we don’t know. Not even sure they all came from the same place, so some of them could have been pets. Or used in entertainment. Although they still have their teeth and the males aren’t castrated, so probably not.”
Isabel looked from chimp to chimp. Had they been raised as people only to be discarded when it became clear they were not simply amusing, furry stand-ins for human babies? Had they worn pink tutus or ridden tiny bicycles to make people laugh? Or had they been kept as breeders, to suffer the serial devastation of having infant after infant taken away immediately after birth?
“Isn’t there anything we can do for them? I mean … They’re still here. I mean, here,” she said, knocking her gloved head against her temple. “You can see it in their eyes.”
“No. Not tonight,” said Rose. “Someday, I hope, but not tonight.”
Back in the parking lot, they peeled off their protective clothing and dropped it into a bin in the back of the van. Rose handed Isabel a container of antibacterial wipes, and although she had been wearing gloves, it was only after using several of these that she dared dry her eyes.
Rose snapped the lid onto the bin and slammed the van’s back doors. “I’ll drop you back at your car,” she said.
“Rose?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t know.”
Rose shot her a scathing look. “Really.”
“I had a general idea, but no. I never imagined …”
“Your scientific director—or should I say boyfriend? You should ask him about his time in Rockwell.”
Isabel’s eyebrows shot up as Rose disappeared around the side of the van. When she climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, Isabel scrambled around to the other side. She slouched against the interior door and neither said another word until they reached the rental car that would take Isabel back to the airport.
“Thanks,” said Isabel, leaning to gather her scant belongings from the floor.
“Uh-huh,” said Rose, without turning her gaze from the windshield.
——
When Isabel got home, a Norfolk pine sat outside her door along with an oxalis and a purple passion. All were adorned with velvet ribbons. She recognized the handwriting on the envelope, so she didn’t bother opening the card.
Isabel tucked the plants under her arms, took the elevator up a few floors, and left them in front of a neighbor’s door.
The African violets had died a terrible death—Isabel didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to water them from the top, so their leaves and stems had turned to mush. She thought maybe this was from lack of water, so she had done it again and now the plants were slimy and brown. Isabel realized her mistake only when she pulled the plastic tab from the soil and read the care instructions. Isabel—who had rescued crushed snails in her childhood and kept them in shoebox hospitals filled with leaves and twigs, who had captured and released spiders while her mother shrieked for their deaths, who had rescued discarded poinsettias from the curb the week after Christmas—took the violets to the tiny room beside the elevator that housed the garbage chute and dropped them down one at a time. She waited for each thud before releasing the next. Once she heard them hit the dumpster, she exhaled in relief. She returned to her apartment, locked herself in, and put the chip clips back on the curtains.
The phone rang periodically, but she didn’t answer it. Celia came but Isabel pretended she wasn’t there.
“Isabel?” said Celia, rapping on the door. “Are you in there?”
Isabel sat absolutely still, clutching a couch cushion to her chest.
“I know you’re in there.”
Isabel still didn’t say anything.
“Are you okay?”
Silence.
“Can you please open the door? I’m worried about you.”
Isabel pressed the cushion against her mouth and rocked back and forth.
“Okay. Fine. But I’m coming back,” said Celia. “I bet you don’t even have any food in there.”
After Celia left, Isabel paced, trying to calm down. She threw herself on the bed, but ended up punching her pillows. She swept all the books from her dresser onto the floor, and then smashed a mug against the wall. Its handle snapped off, which was no good, no good at all, and so she screamed and pushed the television off the edge of her dresser. It landed on its side with a thunk, but nothing imploded, nothing smashed, so she picked up her laptop and raised it high. She stood like this for several seconds, her chest heaving. Then she lowered the laptop and hugged it to her chest.
She set it on the corner of the bed, opened it, and sat cross-legged on the floor while it chirped happy booting noises. Her lip twitched involuntarily. Her desktop shortcuts loaded against her desktop wallpaper, which was an image of Bonzi driving a golf cart in the woods—Bonzi never had quite gotten the hang of steering, and reliably drove better in reverse. Isabel caught her breath and held both hands to her face as though in prayer. She surfed to the folder that contained video files, selected one, and double-clicked.
She was looking at her former self, the one she still somehow expected to see in the mirror each morning. The one with the slightly hooked nose and nostrils that flared at the bottom (“as much nose as you can handle, but no more” was the verdict of one long-ago boyfriend, who seemed surprised—and even a little hurt—that Isabel didn’t consider this a compliment). Her long, pale hair, straight as boiled fettuccine, was parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears. She’d given up bangs, and then layers, when she finally accepted that haircuts, at least for her, were a semiannual event at best. When they first met, Celia had compared her to Janice of Electric Mayhem. Isabel had managed a weak smile, because of course Celia had no idea that any mention of the Muppets dredged up memories of time spent in the basement waiting for various “uncles” to leave.
In the video, Isab
el and Bonzi were in the kitchen. Celia had recorded them surreptitiously on her cell phone.
GOOD DRINK. ISABEL GIMME.
“You want a drink?” said Isabel. “How about some juice?”
Bonzi opened and closed her fist in front of her chest, and then brushed her chin with her index and middle fingers: MILK, SUGAR.
“No, Bonzi. I can’t give you milk and sugar. You know that.” Bonzi had recently been declared overweight by Peter and put on a diet.
GIMME MILK, SUGAR.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’d get in trouble.”
WANT MILK, SUGAR.
“I can’t, Bonzi. You know I can’t. Here, have some milk.”
ISABEL GIVE MILK, SUGAR. SECRET.
Isabel threw her head back and laughed before slipping a little sugar into Bonzi’s milk. She looked at the camera and held a finger to her lips, making Celia complicit. The clip ended abruptly.
Isabel opened another file.
In this one she was laughing, leading a team from Primetime Live to the observation room. She walked down a corridor, turning occasionally to walk a few steps backward, smiling at the camera.
As her onscreen self swung around, Isabel caught sight of her profile and thought, It was a good nose. Not perfect, but good. And her teeth too. She’d never had the luxury of braces, but in a land of perfect occlusion her teeth had personality. Her hair, which hung well beyond her shoulder blades, had taken years to grow.
Cut.
She sat cross-legged on the cement floor now, facing Sam. The cameraman was behind Plexiglass, but from the footage you’d never know it. The glass was invisible. The camera panned in, first to Sam’s face, and then to hers.
“Sam, I want you to open the window now. Can you do that for me?” she said sweetly, signing simultaneously.
Sam’s hands moved: SAM WANT ISABEL GIVE GOOD EGG.
“But Isabel wants Sam to open the window. Please? Now?”
NO. SAM WANT ISABEL GIVE GOOD EGG.
“Please open the window.”
Sara Gruen Page 14
