by Sara Gruen
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 standins 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, Isabel 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."
NO.
Her eyes flashed to the camera. She was clearly working hard to suppress a grin.
"Yes," she said emphatically. "Sam. Please make the window open."
YOU--
Isabel cut him off. "Sam, please open the window."
YES.
Isabel sighed with visible relief, but Sam did nothing. He sat sullenly, scanning the people around him, worrying his toes with his fingers, and finally averting his gaze.
"Sam, please open the window," she said again.
SAM WANT JUICE.
"No. Isabel wants Sam to open the window."
NO. SAM WANT ISABEL MAKE WINDOW OPEN.
At this, Isabel burst out laughing, and Sam got his juice and egg. The camera crew was thrilled by this exchange, but after they left, Peter turned to Isabel in a rage.
"Every other day he opens the damned window. This time, with a national television crew here, he can't open the window? And you rewarded him?"
Isabel had never seen this side of Peter and was startled. "Of course I rewarded him. He disagreed and argued his own point. If anything, that is an even more valid demonstration of using and understanding language than following orders. Not to mention that it proves definitively that he's not simply trained."
Peter's eyes were hard, his jaw set. "I told them he would perform specific tasks."
"He chose not to. He did nothing wrong. In fact, I think he was brilliant and I think we're extremely lucky this was captured on film."
Peter put his hands on his hips and exhaled so hard his cheeks puffed out. Then he ran a hand through his hair. His face softened. "You're right. I'm sorry. You're right. Look, I'm going to take a little walk, okay? Sort myself out. Back in a bit."
Isabel's memory lingered on this flash of temper. It was the only time she'd seen it, but now, combined with the curious comments from Gary and Rose, it made her wonder exactly what Peter had done during his time in Rockwell. The Primate Studies Institute had a terrible reputation--the owner was an imposing man with a salt-and-pepper beard known to subdue chimps with cattle prods and even a shotgun. But several leading primatologists had put in time at PSI as grad students, largely because there were very few programs in the country that provided access to primates. Most came out vowing that PSI had taught them how not to do things. This had always been Peter's line.
Isabel booted up her laptop and searched the Internet. His dissertation came up immediately: "Why Apes Don't Ape: How Motor Patterns and Working Memory Constrain Chimpanzee Social Learning," as did another article that had gotten him national recognition: "Cooperation or Joint Action: What Is Behind Chimpanzee Hunting and Coalitionary Behavior?" There were no surprises here--Peter's cognitive studies had been the primary reason Richard Hughes had hired him. There was certainly nothing to warrant Rose's comment.
Isabel called Celia.
"Glad to hear you're alive," said Celia. "Have you eaten?"
"I need a favor."
"You didn't answer."
"Celia, please."
"Okay. What?"
"You said at one point that Joel and Jawad can access private networks."
"Yes. And you were pretty horrified, if I remember correctly."
"Yes, well." Isabel cleared her throat. "Can you see what they can dig up about Peter, and what he was doing when he first went to PSI?"
"That's quite a turnaround."
"Please, Celia?"
"Okay." Celia sounded nonplussed. "I'll call you back."
Forty minutes later, she did. "Check your email," she said without salutation.
"Why? What did they find?"
"Please. Just check your email." Celia's voice was shaking.
Isabel's inbox was full: Joel had forwarded dozens of articles, abstracts, and briefs from Peter's days as a research assistant. He had participated in studies on the effects of maternal deprivation in chimpanzees, and, later, stress caused by immobilization. He had removed infants from their mothers at birth and placed them in cages with either a wire or a terry-cloth "mother" and clocked the differences in how long it took each group to die. He had placed chimpanzees in wooden chairs with their heads, hands, feet, and chest restrained, and had kept them there for weeks at a time, all to come to the stunning conclusion that this resulted in increased stress.
Isabel stared at images of chimpanzees strapped upright with a sickening sense of deja vu. She knew these pictures. They were the same ones Gary and company had waved on sticks. The arrival of the protesters the year before suddenly made sense--it coincided with when Peter was hired.
Peter had always glossed over his time in Rockwell, dismissing his studies as noninvasive. She supposed that technically they were noninvasive--as long as all you meant by that was not drilling bolts into apes' brains or removing pieces of their internal organs. He had been sterner with the bonobos than the other researchers at the language lab, but she had always thought it was an alpha-male thing. And then she was hit by a wall of guilt, because it was this very quality she had found attractive.
She had fallen in love with a kidnapper, torturer, and murderer. She had opened herself up to him, made love with him, had been preparing to share her life with him, even to bear his children. He had told her what he wanted her to believe about his work, and naively, she'd believed it.
No wonder some chimp had taken off most of his finger. Isabel wished it had taken off his testicles instead.
----
That night she had vivid dreams: of Bonzi clipping her nails while Lola climbed all over her head. Of Makena wearing an inside-out blouse and gazing at herself in a mirror, alternately applying and nibbling lipstick. Of Jelani picking up branches and displaying in fearsome style, waving them over his head and staggering bipedally, then suddenly growing introspective. He came to Isabel on all fours, picked up her foot, and quietly unlaced her shoe. He removed it, and then her sock. His big hands, with their callused knuckles and hairy fingers, held her foot as he worked deftly, and oh-so-gently, searching between her toes for invisible nits.
In a flash she was in the other building. Men in hazmat suits marched down the concrete hall under glaring fluorescent lights, leaving a trail of screaming primates behind them. One pushed a gurney; another held a gun. When they slowed their pace the screams became even more deafening. They came to a stop in front of a cage, and the female inside realized they had come for her. She flew from side to side, trying to climb the walls, to find some way of escaping, but she had no chance. The man with the gun leveled it at her and shot her in the thigh. The men waited, chatting, while she staggered and fought the loss of consciousness. They continued chatting as they loaded the ape onto the gurney and secured her hands and feet with thick rubber straps. Several of her fingers and toes were chewed to nubs.
Isabel woke screaming. Her sheets were slick and cold with sweat, her heart pounding.
The next morning, she rose and solemnly turned all the framed pictures of the bonobos facedown. From a distance the downturned frames looked like a row of shark fins. She began sleeping on the couch under an afghan her grandmother had made.
She worked her way through the last of the food, eating peaches from the can, lime chutney from the jar. She ripped packages of ramen noodles open, set aside the seasonings, and broke off strips of long, uncooked noodles, which she crunched between her temporary teeth. When she ran out of all other options, she microwaved mugs of water and made broth from the seasoning packets.
She was pondering the tiny bottle of colorful flakes that had been the defunct Stuart's staple when there was a grea
t pounding next door. Isabel jumped--red, yellow, and orange flakes flew everywhere, drifting on the air currents like snow.
"Jerry? Jerry! Open the damned door!" shouted her neighbor's lover. "I know you're in there! Jerry!"
Isabel dropped her head back and let her jaw drop. She then melted against the wall until she reached the floor. Stuart's food was scattered like confetti on the carpet.
Had she really been considering it as soup base?
----
Isabel finally accepted that she had to go buy food. She showered first, because she hadn't been dressed since her excursion to Alamogordo. Just before she stepped into the running water, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and stood back to survey herself.
She was gaunt, her face hollow and shadowed, her hip bones sticking out like the blades of a plow. The lines between her nose and mouth had deepened, and, of course, she still had virtually no hair. She raised a hand tentatively, tenderly, to her new nose and her delicately bristled scalp, and then stepped into the steaming water.
On a whim, Isabel took a right instead of a left on her way back from the supermarket. Her food was in the back, most of it frozen and actively melting, but she suddenly, desperately, needed a new Stuart. She needed something alive in her apartment, something she could feed, something that would look back at her.
She was nearly at the mall when something flashed in her peripheral vision. It was a digital billboard, its picture changing every few seconds.
A portion of a familiar black face (Was that Makena?) blended into a profile (Dear God, was that Bonzi? BONZI! Yes! She was sure!), and then two dark hairy hands clasped together.
The car beside her honked in panic as Isabel swerved into its lane. She yanked the wheel back and rammed the guardrail. Her side panels crunched rhythmically for the length of a few rails before the rear spun out. When she came to a stop, the chassis still bouncing and the engine ticking, she was facing a long line of cars with startled drivers. Several of them were already reaching for their cell phones.
I'm fine, she gestured with her hands. Everything's okay.
She held up her cell phone and pointed to it to indicate that she was calling for help herself.
----
As she waited for the tow truck, she studied the billboard. It was cycling pictures of the bonobos, but otherwise displayed only a date, time, and what appeared to be the address of a Web site: www.apehouse.tv.
