Jennie

by Douglas Preston

  Try it some time, in an airport or restaurant. Close your eyes and listen, and think of the ape house at the zoo. And then open them to watch the people ingesting their food, their lips moving, their joints rotating, their digits manipulating small objects, their appendages gesticulating, their faces contorting into various expressions, and then listen to the glottal eruptions that signify their laughter. . . .

  [FROM the journals of the Rev. Hendricks Palliser.]

  June 2, 1968

  R. was having tests this morning in the hospital. There has been much uncertainty and agony. My heart goes out to her. There is the possibility, although remote, of cancer. We must begin praying together again, as we used to at the beginning of our marriage. God have mercy on us both. She is afraid of death.

  After we came home, I was sitting in the window of my study, looking out into the garden. I saw the sod move, and a gopher emerged into the sunlight and looked about. And then it withdrew into its earthly dwelling. I went out and stamped on the ground and shouted, trying to drive it away. I feared for its safety. If R. sees traces of it she will set the lawn men on it. It is probably raising a little family there, underground.

  I have not been diligent with my journal. Yesterday was Jennie’s day, and I endured yet another trying afternoon. Jennie, who is so sweet and loving, can also be quite as selfish as the rest of us. All her thoughts revolve around herself, her requirements, her toys and her food. To be sure, children her age are considerably self-centered.

  I purchased for her a coloring book of scenes from the Bible. I was trying to teach her of Our Savior’s goodness and gentleness to little children. Jennie is much enamored of coloring, although her approach tends to the abstract. She scribbled in a most energetic manner without regard to the picture on the page. I gave her some blank paper and she decorated it with high enthusiasm. And if the truth be told, her efforts are quite as respectable as those of the so-called modern “artists” who splash some paint on canvas and sell it for thousands of dollars! I believe I will organize an art show of Jennie’s oeuvre at the church. She possesses a creative “urge.” When Jennie has crayons in her hand, however, one has to watch her like a hawk, or she will mark the table and walls.

  July 12, 1968

  Jennie and I made a major accomplishment today. Now that my signing is improved, we have devised a kind of catechism, to teach her religious concepts. When Jennie gets a right answer I give her a cookie. She has launched into the game with the utmost enthusiasm. I have started writing down our conversations. It strikes me that, where else in the universe is an animal learning about God? I have decided to preserve this for posterity.

  Our conversation today went like this:

  Myself: Jennie, what God?

  Jennie: Up.

  Myself: Up where?

  Jennie: Up up.

  Myself: Who God?

  Jennie: God God God.

  Myself: Who God?

  Jennie: Up.

  Myself: No, who God?

  Jennie: Love.

  Myself: Correct! (Then I gave her a cookie.)

  Jennie: God love God love God love.

  Myself: Who Jesus?

  Jennie: Jesus Jesus.

  Myself: No, Jennie, who Jesus?

  Jennie: Jennie cookie.

  Myself: Who Jesus?

  Jennie: Tickle Jennie.

  Myself: Who Jesus?

  Jennie: Jesus tickle Jennie.

  Myself: Jesus God’s son.

  Jennie: Jesus.

  Myself: Who son of God?

  Jennie: Jesus cookie tickle.

  Myself: Who Jesus?

  Jennie: God’s son God’s son.

  When she signed God’s son I was overwhelmed. The power of God is so overwhelming that I could feel His presence like a great light surrounding our little workroom. Is it possible that I have brought God to the mind of a chimpanzee? There it was, God’s son. Jesus, the only begotten Son of God. It was her answer to the question Who is Jesus? What more could I ask for?

  It was a transcendent moment.

  September 1, 1968

  I have now resolved to ask for a Christian commitment from Jennie. I will ask her to take Jesus into her heart as her savior. The question is, how may I guide Jennie to this next step? It may very well be impossible. But who would have thought we would progress so far? Who would have thought that Jeannie would comprehend that Jesus is the Son of God?

  I have determined to accomplish this with a series of questions covering the steps to a Christian commitment: to acknowledge one’s sinful nature, to acknowledge Jesus as the Son of God who has the power to forgive our sins, and to take Jesus into our hearts and ask His forgiveness. So, I will proceed as follows:

  Jennie you love Jesus? Jennie know Jennie bad? Jesus love Jennie? Jesus take away Jennie’s bad? I shall require her to repeat these things, or at the minimum to sign Yes. Understanding begins with repetition. Then there is the question of baptism. I can only imagine what the bishop might make of that. One bridge at a time. I am not one of those who slavishly hold to the necessity of baptism as a prerequisite to salvation. I shall study up on the signs.

  R.’s chemotherapy is going better than expected. Total loss of hair, though. We are praying together for the first time since the early part of our marriage, and I am more filled with love for her than ever. She seems so broken and helpless; but God’s love will give her and both of us strength.

  [FROM an interview with Lea Archibald.]

  Let’s see . . . Sometime in 1968 I got a call from the Ed Sullivan show. I don’t know how they got our name, probably slipped to them by Dr. Prentiss. She was a careerist. Always trying to advance herself. Anyway, there was a lady on the telephone. I’ve forgotten her name.

  She asked, oh so sweetly, if I was Mrs. Archibald. The lady with the darling chimpanzee?

  Some darling! I said yes.

  She wanted to know, Would Jennie and I like to be on television? She said this as if being on television was the apotheosis of a person’s life.

  I told her no thank you.

  There was a shocked silence on the other end. Well! She said, this was the Ed Sullivan show.

  But, I said, I’m not interested in being on the Ed Sullivan show.

  Her tone changed. That hard-bitten New York voice finally showed itself. Honestly, television people are such horrors. She was prepared to offer a generous honorarium. She wanted to come up from New York to meet the “precious” chimpanzee.

  Well why not? She came over one evening. She wanted Hugo and me and the chimpanzee’s “trainer” on the show. Oh how I wish Dr. Prentiss had been there to hear herself described as a “trainer”! We talked for a while. It was a rather unexceptionable idea and they were offering a tidy sum. Hugo—who you know had inherited gobs of money from his father—bargained and wrangled over the fee and got it way up, and then told the woman to donate it directly to the ASPCA. The look on her face! There would be no “trainer”—poor Dr. Prentiss—just the two of us and Jennie.

  We took the train to New York. They wouldn’t let Jennie fly, but we found we could just take her on a train without even asking. They put us up in the Americana Hotel. It was brand new then, a big ugly New York glass box. That day we went shopping for a new outfit for Jennie. Everywhere we went, crowds of people gathered and ooohed and aaaahed. Jennie was the center of attention and she loved every minute of it. She actually stopped traffic on Fifth Avenue! Hugo was having a marvelous time observing everyone’s reactions. Always the anthropologist. But most people merely glanced at her and kept right on going. It was New York, after all.

  Jennie was being so well-behaved that we decided to take a chance and go to Bloomingdale’s. A woman screamed when we tried to get on the elevator so we took the escalator. We went to the children’s clothing section, and I ran down a salesperson. She was terrified Jennie was going to soil herself in the dressing room or infect the clothes with a disease.

  I held up an outfit for Jennie and signed Jenni
e like this?

  Well! Don’t ask a chimp a question like that. She wanted everything! Give, give, give! was all she ever signed back.

  The salesgirl watched this for a while and then asked Hugo what we were doing.

  Hugo replied that we were discussing which outfit would be most appropriate for Jennie’s appearance on the Sullivan show. He had a twinkle in his eye, of course.

  Well! What excitement then. Oh my. The Ed Sullivan show! She ran to get the other salesgirls and they came rushing over. Pretty soon we were surrounded by people. It was like that everywhere we went: Jennie was an instant celebrity.

  The outfit we bought was so cute. A red-and-white checkered blouse with a big blue bow, a pair of blue pants, and brown-and-white saddle shoes. Big shoes. She needed them big to fit those long feet that were really hands. She strutted around in front of the admiring crowd, hooting and grunting, with a big smile plastered across her face. She could be such a show-off.

  That evening we were brought over to the studio in a car, and given a room all to ourselves. They called it the Green Room. We had brought some toys and Jennie played with them while we sat there, feeling more and more nervous. Neither one of us said anything, but I knew we were both imagining all kinds of horror scenes. Anything could have happened. The Ed Sullivan show was live, you know,

  Then we were brought on to the set. Ed Sullivan was just as hunched and cadaverous-looking in person as he was on television. I don’t remember much of what we said. I do wish I’d gotten a tape of the show. Perhaps I should write to NBC, or was it ABC?

  Ed Sullivan started off with something like, “We have a chimpanzee named Jennie who speaks sign language. Jennie, say hello to our viewers.”

  I signed Say Hello and Jennie signed Hello hello hello! Hugo told the story of finding Jennie, how he delivered her right there in the jungle. I talked about raising a chimpanzee as a daughter. He wanted to know what our other children thought and I told them about Sandy signing with Jennie. And then Ed Sullivan asked Jennie some more questions and made some silly jokes and that was it.

  Well, not quite. Jennie gave us quite a scare. In the middle of the session Jennie signed Dirty several times. Ed Sullivan asked, “What’s she saying now?” and we had to make up something. I think we said she was asking for a banana. I’m sure there were some ASL viewers who were rolling on the floor over that one! We really didn’t know whether she was going to make it, or whether she was just looking for a reaction. But all turned out well. She may have been lying. You know, she often signed Dirty when she wanted to cause a ruckus or get out of doing something. She knew how fearful we human beings were of her bodily functions!

  The Ed Sullivan show was the beginning of Jennie’s social career. Just like the Beatles. I’m exaggerating, of course, but after that everyone wanted to meet Jennie. The phone was ringing off the hook. The Boston Globe ran an article about Jennie. Did you see it? After that, Jennie was famous. We rode in on her coattails. Hugo was invited to join the Somerset Club, which you know is one of Boston’s oldest clubs, stuffed to the gills with Saltonstalls and Cabots. A famous New York publisher telegrammed Hugo wanting a book. Invitations arrived on Shreve Crump and Lowe stationery, all from people and organizations we had never even heard of. We were invited to the annual Botolphstown Society Ball, an invitation which I, frankly, was offended to receive. It was a very anti-Semitic organization. Not to mention racist. They wanted us to bring Jennie. What a horrid organization. Can you imagine the mindset of these people? Keeping out blacks and Jews but dying to have a chimpanzee? I should have thanked her for the invitation and mentioned that Jennie was so looking forward to it, coming as it did right after her bat mitzvah, and would it be all right if Jennie brought her uncle Jazzbo? I never replied, even after a follow-up note arrived, and I heard later that some Cambridge biddy was dreadfully offended. We were blackballed forever! [Laughs.]

  The crowning moment of Jennie’s social career was the Museum of Fine Arts dinner at the Ritz-Carleton. Oh my goodness! It was the hundredth or whatever anniversary of the museum, and they planned a black-tie dinner-dance. It was the most sought-after invitation of the social season. Boston is terribly provincial, you know. Hugo and I would have been the last people invited had it not been for Jennie. Not only did they send an invitation, but this starchy woman called to make sure we understood that the invitation included Jennie. Well! I got the distinct impression that if we didn’t bring Jennie, we should probably stay home ourselves.

  This was the one invitation we decided to accept. It sounded like so much fun. We bought Jennie a lovely red satin gown, bordered with crinoline, with puff sleeves and a draped neck. It looked so elegant. We also put her in a diaper. We weren’t going to take any chances after the Ed Sullivan scare, not on your life.

  The night of the dinner-dance, Hugo wore the silk brocade tuxedo he got in Hong Kong, while I wore a pale blue dress. I didn’t want to upstage Jennie.

  As we drove up the Ritz was ablaze with light, and a string orchestra was sawing away. There was a great line of limousines when we arrived. The footmen, or whatever you call them, were opening the doors and all these terribly fashionable people were stepping out and walking up a red carpet. It was too much. A big snapping crowd of photographers were there, behind velvet ropes.

  When we arrived in our ’56 Chrysler station wagon, the photographers didn’t even look in our direction. Who could possibly be worth photographing in that old car? When we got out, for a moment nothing happened. But then—then, when they realized the petite figure in the lovely red gown was a chimpanzee, they went absolutely wild. They surged forward and the velvet ropes toppled and we were simply surrounded by these grunting, sweating people shoving cameras in our faces. The flashbulbs were popping away and I couldn’t see a thing. It was like being bombed. I could hear Hugo shouting and the security guards yelling and shoving.

  Jennie became frightened, and she started to scream. I tried to lift her into my arms but the crush was so impossible that it was all I could do to hold on to her hand. Naturally in her fright she bit one or two photographers. Maybe three. And I don’t blame her. I would have done the same thing. There was more shouting and pushing. The bitten photographers were crying “Help!” and trying to get away while others were trying to push in. It was . . . I simply can’t describe it. Bedlam, absolute bedlam.

  Finally the security guards cleared a path for us and we escaped. I could hear the most appalling language from some photographer behind me, threats to sue or some such rot. Served him right, the pushy jerk.

  Once inside, Jennie was an angel. Everyone was there—Governor Volpe, Bobby and Teddy Kennedy, Senator Brooks. And the artists’. I’ve always liked modern art; I don’t care what they say about it. There was Jackson Pollock, Andy Warhol, Kenneth Noland, Rothko, Lichtenstein, Jasper Johns—quite a gathering.

  Jennie was absolutely the hit of the party. People shoved the governor aside or elbowed a Kennedy just to shake hands with her. [Laughs.] I remember Bobby Kennedy picking her up, saying “Hello, beautiful,” and I said “Keep your hands off my daughter.” He laughed till I thought his sides would split.

  Andy Warhol was walking around with a big sign on his shirt that said “Famous Artist.” I suppose he thought he was being funny. Well! Jennie hated pompous people. She walked right up to him and ripped the sign off. Everyone roared with laughter. I never cared for his work. He had only one idea his whole life.

  What? Oh yes, the party. I have to say, Jennie was a model of polite behavior. She ate a little bit from each course, although the food was rich and not at all to her liking. She did not throw any food. She even carried on a conversation. We had to translate, of course. The gentleman on our left was the president of some company, and he turned to Jennie and asked her if she liked her dinner.

  Hugo had to translate, so he signed Jennie like food? Jennie signed right back Food phooey!

  You want me to demonstrate again? Oh dear. Well, I’ll try. Anyway, she was a s
ensation. Let me see if I can remember. . . .

  Someone else asked if she liked the company. So Hugo translated again: Jennie like people? He had a rather elegant style of signing, Hugo did. Slow and precise but with a flourish. Like a symphony conductor. He looked so distinguished in that dinner jacket. I’ll never forget that evening. . . . Oh dear.

  Anyway, Jennie signed back Jennie like Jennie. That got another laugh. Honestly, I can hardly believe it now, looking back. She was just so clever, that chimp. I don’t know how she knew what to say.

  She loved the attention. And of course she started signing Hug Jennie, hug Jennie. Hugo translated again and gave her a big hug. Everyone was captivated.

  Jennie then wanted a banana. She kept signing for one, and someone asked what she was saying. Hugo translated, and then immediately everyone was up and waving about for a waiter, calling for a banana. She could have been a princess. No one could find a banana and there was a terrible fuss and a waiter was thoroughly dressed down. Finally a banana arrived. I do believe they had to send someone out to the grocery store to get it.

  Jennie was in rare form. Jackson Pollock was at our table—you know, the man who did those dribbly paintings—and he’d had a little too much to drink I think, poor man. And he asked Jennie, “Do you like me?” Jennie replied You stupid. Oh my goodness, you never asked Jennie a question like that! Our end of the table was rollicking with laughter. Everyone was looking over and you knew they all wished they’d been seated at our table. Hugo was having the most marvelous time.