Jennie

by Douglas Preston

  I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Jennie. If I get off the subject you just interrupt me and set me back on track. Don’t you let me wander about.

  Our house had once been the old farmhouse of the area, before the suburbs sprang up. In the woods behind the house you could still see the farm’s old stone walls. It was never good land. The glaciers dumped too many boulders on it. When the Midwest opened up, all the farmers left and the woods grew back. Now, of course, they’re cutting them all down again to build more houses.

  There is a great deal of history in this town, only most of the people here are ignorant. The only thing they know is real estate values. They could tell you to the dollar what any one of these houses is worth. Half of the women here are real estate brokers. Real estate is what you do if you have no talent or education. Is that tape recorder still going? Perhaps you should edit my comments; I’m just a crabby old lady, you know. I can scarcely believe what has happened to the price of real estate in this town. I don’t know where people are getting the money.

  They tore down the town hall, a lovely example of Romanesque Revival architecture, and put up that concrete cube. Appalling. The things they’ve done to this town. Why, only ten years ago they tried to blast out that big rock down by the brook. They thought it was an eyesore. So I went down there and I sat on that beautiful rock. For three days. And I said, “If you touch me, I’ll call my lawyer!” I outlasted them. It made them hopping mad, but then the papers took it up and—

  Now you’ve let me get off the subject again.

  The name of the town? Now that has a curious history. It originated with an Indian ruler named Kibenquot. He held court right here at this bend of the Charles River. But when the white men came he was corrupted by whiskey and money and sold the land out from under the tribe. They all died out. The only thing left were those arrowheads they’d find along the brook.

  It was a lovely place back then. The woods and fields were endless, not like it is today. It was a wonderful place to raise children. Or a chimpanzee, for that matter. [Laughs.]

  Our house was number sixteen Hawthorne Lane. It was angled to the street, not facing it like the other houses. It was a rickety old thing. The roof sagged, the porch was rotten, and it had been painted so many times that once in a while a piece of paint the size of a dinner plate would fall off. Long after the farm was gone, the farmer’s widow lived in it until they hauled her off to the nursing home. Hugo and I bought it in 1957, for $22,000. Now I expect it’s worth half a million. I wish them luck, whoever lives in it now. Probably some stockbroker. I wonder if they know a chimpanzee grew up there?

  We were not popular in the neighborhood. We didn’t join the country club, we didn’t have barbecues in the backyard, and we had friends from Cambridge who looked Jewish. They say Massachusetts is a liberal state, but the only people we ever met in Kibbencook were Republicans. It was a very narrow-minded town.

  When Jennie arrived, we became famous. Or perhaps I should say infamous! It was all great fun, in the beginning anyway.

  Yes, indeed, I remember when Hugo returned from Africa with Jennie. He was supposed to come home on a Thursday and he arrived on Tuesday. I heard the cab in the driveway, gunning his engine, and there was Hugo, standing there with those two great ugly suitcases of his and a canvas sack slung around his neck. Sandy shot out the door with the two dogs on his heels. Such a commotion. I had the baby in my arms. She was squirming around like a coiled spring, trying to see what all the excitement was. She was only two months old when Hugo left, and this was six months later, mind you.

  Hugo gave me a big kiss and he stepped back with a silly grin on his face. And he said he had a surprise for me.

  He looked just like a mischievous boy when he reached into that bag. I thought he was going to pull out a snake. Instead out came this tiny thing, dangling by its arms. For the life of me I didn’t know what it was. The little thing blinked, looked around, hooted, and swung up into the crook of his arm. I was never so surprised in my life. It was Sandy who figured it out first.

  He started screaming, “A monkey! Daddy brought us a monkey!”

  Hugo explained that she was not a monkey, but an ape, and her name was Jennie. Sandy was just wild to hold her.

  I remember Hugo looking at me with this nervous, boyish look, and he asked me what would I think of having a chimp as a pet. He was afraid I might disapprove.

  I didn’t know what to think. The little thing was peering around with tremendous interest. Her little black eyes were so round. She always looked astonished.

  Well, the dogs were barking, Sandy was hollering, the baby was crying. Those dogs were in an absolute frenzy. I was frightened. I remember that all I could say was, “Won’t the dogs bite her?”

  Hugo just smiled a wicked smile. And then he put this helpless little chimp—why, she was no bigger than a baby!—on the grass in front of the two snarling terriers. Frick and Frack were their names. Well! You know how fierce terriers can be. Oh, my goodness I will never forget what happened next. She bristled up her hair, which made her look twice as big, and she rushed at the dogs with a great screech. Straight at them, running on her knuckles! The dogs turned to run, but she grabbed Frick’s tail with both hands and pulled back hard. The poor dog scrabbled on the lawn, desperately trying to get away. Then she released it and the dog fell all in a heap, collected itself, and ran through a hole in the hedge. Jennie was so proud of herself! She whirled about on the lawn like a dervish, hooting and screeching, her pink mouth open. You’ve never seen such a large mouth on such a small creature.

  What a homecoming!

  Hugo had spent nearly eight hundred dollars in bribes and permits to get Jennie out of Africa. At the time, I thought of it as one more of Hugo’s impulsive actions. He was always doing something outrageous. In his quiet way, of course.

  I was worried about Jennie getting along with Sarah, our baby girl. I was also worried about germs. Who knew what horrible diseases she might have brought back from the jungles of Africa. Hugo wanted to introduce Jennie to Sarah right away, but I said not on your life, not until that ape is clean!

  The next thing I knew, Sandy had his bathing suit on and Hugo was sitting on the front stoop, smoking that terrible pipe of his. Ugh! How I hated that dirty old thing. He dropped ashes everywhere and all his shirts had burn holes in them—

  What was that? Oh yes, Hugo was sitting on the stoop, spraying the hose across the lawn. When Jennie saw the water she screamed and hid in the hedge, but Sandy dragged her out, and soon the two of them were running and jumping through the spray of water. Sandy was in front, while Jennie scooted along behind, screaming with delight. With her hair plastered down by the water she looked so small, just an itty-bitty black thing with big ears and that enormous mouth. When she ran along on her knuckles she looked like a bowling ball with ears. And the noise that came out of that mouth! Heaven help us, no human could have made that noise. It sounded like something out of a Tarzan movie.

  While this was going on, I could see old Mrs. Wardell staring out her kitchen window. She was the dentist’s wife. What was going through her mind heaven only knows. And then I realized that all up and down the street, there were faces in the windows. Only Reverend Palliser across the street had the nerve to come out to see what unholy creature was making such a row. It’s odd how clearly I remember him now: standing there in his shirtsleeves, with the funniest expression of bewilderment on his round face. He looked just like a big Charlie Brown. The poor man, he was gassed at Ypres, you know. I don’t think he ever quite got over it. And then he went senile, wandering all about the neighborhood, and—

  Oh yes. The story. Well! Hugo finally brought Jennie in to meet Sarah. I sat on the sofa with Sarah in my lap, while Jennie squatted on the floor, watching. She was terribly interested in the baby. Sarah had grown so in the six months Hugo had been gone. She had a potbelly and big fat cheeks. Cute as a button.

  Jennie hopped up on the sofa and stared at Sar
ah. The baby looked back at the chimp and stretched out both hands. The chimpanzee didn’t scare her in the slightest. Nothing scares her, even today. She was always a fearless little firebrand.

  Hugo introduced them. Jennie looked right into Sarah’s face and laid a hairy hand on her head. They stared at each other, fascinated. Neither one had seen anything like the other! And then Jennie said “Oooo” and stuck Sarah’s hand into her mouth.

  Oh my goodness. You can imagine my reaction. I shrieked and snatched Sarah away. You see, I thought Jennie had tried to bite Sarah. Hugo explained everything. This was just Jennie’s way of greeting, he said. She took your finger and put it in her mouth.

  That was fine and good in Africa, but not in America! Later I put an end to that unsanitary habit.

  Poor Jennie was terrified at my reaction. She crouched on the sofa, covering her head with her hands and rocking back and forth. You would have thought I had just beaten her. She looked so pitiful. I comforted Jennie and gave her my hand. She guided my pinky into her mouth and I gritted my teeth while she sucked on it.

  And then Sarah, dear Sarah, held out her arms to the chimp. She wanted a hug!

  Hugo told Jennie she could hug the baby. And I was so surprised, she shuffled over and gave Sarah the sweetest hug. I could hardly believe it when I saw this hairy animal cradling my baby Sarah. She rocked her just like a mother. The baby looked at me and began flapping her arms, her little bald head bumping against the hairy chest of the chimpanzee. Isn’t it odd how clearly I remember that first meeting? Oh dear . . .

  Even at that age, Jennie understood some English. Now some of these primate researchers will tell you that chimpanzees cannot really understand spoken English. That’s ridiculous. That chimp understood almost anything you would say to her. You had to live with her to see what I mean. When she learned ASL—that’s American Sign Language—you could ask her a question in English and she’d answer in ASL. Honestly, I’d never met a more awful group of people in my life than those primate researchers. That horrible Dr. Prentiss—

  Yes, I know, one thing at a time. I’ll save that for later. Thank you.

  Hugo built a house for Jennie in the old crab apple tree in the side yard, and he gave her a pile of old army blankets. Hugo was a terrible pack rat, and he saved everything. The attic was full of his papers, fifth grade report cards, college essays, you name it. They were a dreadful fire hazard in that wooden attic. We had terrible fights. I thought we were going to have a divorce over those papers. And now that he’s gone, I don’t have the heart to throw them out. There you go. [Long pause.]

  Where was I? Hugo built Jennie a little tree house in back. Every evening Jennie gathered up her blankets and climbed into her tree and arranged them in her treehouse. In the morning, at first light, her head poked out, and then she dropped each blanket, one by one, to the ground.

  Jennie had her own tin cup, plate, and spoon given to her by the captain of the ship that brought them back from Africa. The captain insisted that she and Hugo eat at his table every night. It made the other guests hopping mad to have this ape in a diaper sitting in the seat of honor! But that’s another story.

  When she finished dropping her blankets she threw down the cup, plate, and spoon. Then climbed down, collected her tableware, and banged on the back door, giving her “hungry hoot” at the top of her lungs. That was her “food” sound. I think the primate researchers call it a “pant-hoot.” It was sometimes a grunt and sometimes a howl, depending on how hungry she was! Mind you, this was five, six o’clock in the morning. The dogs would start barking hysterically, even though they knew perfectly well who it was, and I would have to get to the door as fast as possible to keep Jennie from waking up the neighborhood.

  When Jennie came in, the dogs hid under the sofa. They were afraid to death of her. Jennie sat at the kitchen table and carefully arranged all her tableware. And then she would sit there for an hour or more, waiting to be fed, fretting and hooting and chattering away. When she got older she got more impatient. She screamed and hooted as if we were starving her to death. Jennie just loved her food.

  At first we fed her baby food. But it wasn’t long before she insisted on eating what we ate. She wanted to do everything we did. The food on her plate was never good enough; she had to eat ours. Most every morning, she ate a slice of buttered toast, a banana, and a bowl of oatmeal and honey. Once in a while she would eat a piece of bacon, but she didn’t like meat that much. Chicken and pork she would eat, but nothing else.

  She looked so funny when she ate! You should have seen her, with her little black eyes peeping above the tabletop. Oh my goodness. And her wispy hair stuck up from the dome of her head in the funniest way, and she made these little crunching noises as she ate her toast. And those jug ears! They stuck out and looked like big pink Christmas lights when the sun was behind them. [Laughs.]

  She was always suspicious about her food. Once in a while, you see, she would bite into something she hated. She sniffed at her food constantly. I suppose she was never sure when that piece of toast might turn into, say, a hamburger with ketchup. She loathed hamburger with ketchup! And pickles. If there was pickle in there somewhere, watch out! When she got something she didn’t like, she picked it up and threw it as hard as she could into the dining room. Tomatoes, baked beans, lobster, steak—all got thrown into the dining room at one time or another. I think she got that idea from watching the Three Stooges on television. They were always throwing food on that horrid program. Jennie could be so trying at times. There was a streak of ketchup on the kitchen ceiling from one of Jennie’s hamburgers. It stayed there for years, long after Jennie was gone. It used to make me feel so sad, but I could never bring myself to get a ladder and scrub it off. It was like a memory; you hate to see them go. Memories, I mean.

  Jennie looked so solemn when she was eating that you couldn’t help laughing. When she chewed, the little hairs on her chin moved up and down and her eyebrows contracted as if she were thinking great thoughts. Well perhaps she was! After us, food was the most important thing in her life.

  When she finished eating, there was no separating Jennie from her plate, cup, and spoon for washing. Heavens no. She guarded those with her life. She thought she would starve to death if those disappeared. She had a fit when I tried to wash them. They got so dirty, so absolutely filthy, that I was positive Jennie was going to get salmonella poisoning and spread it to the whole family. Finally Hugo waited under the tree one morning and stole them when Jennie dropped them. You should have heard her screaming. After that she let us have them, but she always kept her beady eyes fixed on them while I rinsed and loaded them in the dishwasher. Then she would wait right next to the dishwasher until they were done. The minute it was opened she would be reaching in there, rummaging about and rattling things around to get her precious tableware.

  After three years she began rinsing the dishes herself. She wasn’t exactly the most thorough dishwasher, but she had her style. First she licked the plates clean, and then she washed them. I can’t begin to tell you how many dishes she broke. But when we had guests, the highlight of the evening was when Jennie cleared the table and rinsed the dishes. People could not get over the fact that an animal could do such a thing. They would always say, Will you look at that! We have to get one of our own! And then Jennie would drop a stack of dishes. Or take a bite out of a bar of soap. And that would be the end of that kind of talk! Hugo took a marvelous picture of her washing the dishes. Now let’s see, where are those pictures? Do you want to see any?

  Those first few years with Jennie were blissful. It was a happy period in our lives. Jennie made it a great adventure. Not that it was easy; toilet training Jennie was the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done. Oh my goodness! That ape was not going to be toilet trained, if it was the last thing she did. She tried, but it wasn’t in her nature. When you live in the trees all day, I don’t suppose it really matters where you go. I developed a system where I’d give her candy when she did it “
right.” She would do anything for a piece of candy. She tried so hard. It was so dear. She’d be playing in the kitchen, and I’d see this expression on her face. And she’d run for the bathroom! And on the way there she’d stop and stick her hand in the candy jar. That was fatal. Sometimes her reward was a little premature, and—oh dear—her diaper would be all soggy. And then do you know what she did? She’d put the candy back. All by herself. Jennie was so human, so utterly human. You had to see it to believe it.

  [FROM Recollecting a Life by Hugo Archibald.]

  Jennie settled into suburban American life as if she had been born to it. She quickly developed a taste for television. We owned one of the latest models, a Vision-Aire De Luxe, molded in space-age brown plastic, with a bulbous screen and silver-painted dials. It cost $99.95, a large sum in those days. Jennie became an addict, and as long as the television was on she was content for hours at a time. In retrospect, I often wonder what effect the violence and aggression of television might have had on Jennie. In the mid-sixties, however, television was more benign than it is today, and it was even thought to be educational. Children were considered deprived if there was no television in the house.

  Jennie’s consumption of television was on the vocal side. While she watched, a stream of grunts, hoots, and squeaks issued from the den, punctuated by stamping or pounding during particularly exciting scenes, such as car chases and gunfights. She also favored programming that involved canned laughter. Human laughter fascinated her.