Unsaid

by Neil Abramson

  He smiles at this woman who has plagued my memory. Ha! We are coming for you, Renee, you twisted little bitch.

  Vartag nods back at my husband, but it isn’t a greeting; it is permission, the kind royalty might give to a servant to allow approach.

  “You’ve been involved in animal research for thirty-five years?” David begins.

  “Thirty-seven, actually,” Vartag answers.

  “So, how many animals have you euthanized over that time period?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track of that—any more than I keep a tally on the number of human lives my research has saved.”

  “Hundreds of animals?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Thousands?”

  “Certainly,” Vartag repeats without any hesitation.

  “Tens of thousands?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So many that you can’t even keep count?”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just not a relevant figure.”

  “And why is that?”

  Vartag shrugs. “Ten or ten thousand animals—it has absolutely no human pathological significance.”

  “Meaning,” David says, picking up the thread, “if you must euthanize ten thousand animals to save a human life, then that is an acceptable result?”

  “No, not only acceptable, Mr. Colden,” Vartag says. “It would be a crime of science to decide otherwise.”

  “Even if those ten thousand animals are chimpanzees just like Cindy?”

  “Oh, yes. Even if they’ve been trained to recite the entire Declaration of Independence. My job is to save human life. Chimpanzees will never be human. They weren’t yesterday, they aren’t today, and they won’t be tomorrow. Nothing else matters.”

  David lets that answer sit for a full minute. “Thank you for your candor, Doctor,” he says. “Good luck to you. No further questions.”

  Vartag walks out of the witness box and past the filled but silent benches.

  Max was right. Vartag isn’t evil or disturbed, or even, I must admit now, entirely unsympathetic. She is just convinced of the correctness of her own worldview.

  My Grendel has become human, and through that transformation, much more powerful. She is so powerful that I can no longer delude myself.

  There is no greater hidden meaning, no golden envelope with a mysterious life-affirming message, no silver key that unlocks a private passage. Angels do not flutter down with secret scrolls or sacred songs. There is only the continuous creation of endings. Nothing ever really gets saved. Not ever. Not Charlie, not Cindy, not David, and not me. My dream is my truth.

  I suddenly feel so tired—like I’ve been treading water for days. I’ve nothing left and I’m out of time. My own pages have turned blank. All I can do now is bear mute witness to events that no longer have consequence, if ever they did.

  A young man in a business suit, sweaty and out of breath, bursts into the courtroom. He scans the crowd, finds Mace, and whispers into Mace’s ear. Mace’s face turns ashen. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  The young man nods.

  “Anything else before closing arguments?” Allerton asks.

  “Yes,” David answers. “In light of the testimony presented, we renew our request that Cindy be produced for examination by the jury. The jury should see her.”

  Half the jurors nod in agreement, but the jury foreman looks at his watch and rolls his eyes.

  Mace rises. “May we approach, Your Honor?”

  Allerton sighs and nods. Mace and David join him.

  “So.” Allerton turns to Mace. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Your Honor,” Mace whispers, “you had asked us… well me, actually… to make certain representations regarding the status of the property in question and to provide notice prior to any change in condition. I’ve just learned that there’s been a change. The item in question… well, the chimpanzee…”

  David drops all pretense of decorum. “What happened to her?”

  Mace ignores him. “She attacked Dr. Jannick as he was preparing her for testing and she was—”

  “She’s dead?” David’s question rings loud throughout the courtroom, followed immediately by a wave of confused commotion across the jurors and the benches.

  “Please calm down, Mr. Colden.” All of Mace’s bravado is gone.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down! What happened to her?” David makes no attempt to lower his voice and Allerton doesn’t admonish him. Everyone can hear them now.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Mace,” Allerton says in a steely tone.

  “She was shot and killed during the attack.”

  Judge Allerton’s heretofore calm and deliberative demeanor gave no clue that he had within him the volcanic eruption of rage that comes next. “WHAT?” It is one word, but it reverberates throughout the courtroom. “YOU MADE REPRESENTATIONS TO THIS COURT, SIR. YOU MADE REPRESENTATIONS TO ME! I ALLOWED YOU TO AVOID AN ADVERSE ORDER BASED ON THOSE REPRESENTATIONS!”

  There is loud sobbing somewhere behind me. It is Jaycee. I want to weep with her, but I’ve no tears left. Chris moves to comfort her.

  Over the sound of Jaycee’s grief, Mace tries to stop the flow of Allerton’s words. “This was an accident. I made those representations in good faith.”

  “GOOD FAITH? HOW DARE YOU USE THOSE WORDS!” Allerton lowers his voice, but only by a fraction. “You had us sitting here going through this facade while your client was acting in violation of the representation you made.”

  “Not at all. It was all in good faith. I was told—”

  “Be quiet!” Allerton barks.

  “I understand that you’re angry, Your Honor, but—”

  “You have not even begun to see me angry.”

  “But—”

  “Step back!”

  The noise level in the courtroom is now a dull roar. Allerton bangs his gavel against the top of his desk, but it has no effect. He smacks the gavel again, this time so hard that the head snaps off and careens somewhere behind him. “Quiet now, or I will have the room cleared!”

  Allerton bellows to the court reporter: “On the record now! I still have pending before me the defendant’s motion to require the prosecution to physically produce the allegedly stolen property in this courtroom for inspection. Having now heard the accumulation of the testimony, I’ve decided upon further reflection to grant that motion. Accordingly, I am directing the prosecution to produce in this court forthwith the property—a chimpanzee known as Cindy—to be examined by the jury.”

  Mace rises in response. “Your Honor, you know we can’t comply with that order. As I’ve already indicated, the specimen is no longer alive.”

  “According to you, Mr. Mace, she’s property. Why should it matter if she is living or dead? Produce her dead body, and I also want Dr. Vartag here to authenticate the body. She can explain to the jury how the chimpanzee became a dead chimpanzee. And tell her to wear a nice suit, because I’m also granting CNN’s request for a live courtroom feed for this part of the trial.”

  Mace struggles to find his words. “A moment, Your Honor, please,” he whines and then begins heated discussion with his colleagues at his desk.

  “You have sixty seconds, Mr. Mace.”

  In half that time, Mace turns to Allerton and says somberly, “In light of your ruling and recent events, the United States government is withdrawing all charges against the defendant.”

  Some spectators in the courtroom cheer, but the sound is ridiculous following so closely the news of Cindy’s death.

  Above the noise, Allerton says, “That’s the best decision you’ve made in this whole case, Mr. Mace.” He turns to the jury. “You are discharged from further service. Thank you for your cooperation and your attention.”

  Then the clerk calls “All rise,” and the entire courtroom—except my husband—is on its feet. There is a moment of silence while Allerton departs, and then David and his crew are surrounded by well-wishers and reporters. David ig
nores everything and everyone except my notebook. He slowly turns the pages as if he’s looking for some clue to a solution he might have missed.

  It isn’t there, David. It never was.

  David finally tries to stand, leaning heavily against the table. He takes several deep breaths and then straightens. “Maybe if I hadn’t waited…”

  “That’s nonsense,” Max says. “They just would’ve done it sooner.”

  “But we’ll never know that now.”

  “No,” Max agrees. “We never will.”

  “So much we’ll never know,” David says to no one.

  Chris and Dan try to console Jaycee. It is all too much for her. Jaycee shakes them off and rushes out of the courtroom. The grief she will suffer for Cindy will be in private. David watches her go and doesn’t try to stop her. Their reconciliation, if it ever takes place, will need to be another day; David, like me, no longer has the capacity to offer comfort.

  One reporter calls to David. “Mr. Colden, the animal rights groups are already calling Cindy a martyr. They say that she’ll do more for the cause dead than any decision in the case could’ve done. Can you comment?”

  “Yeah, I’ll comment,” David says. “That’s a very stupid thing to say. I came here to try to save a life, not lead a cause. I failed. We all did.”

  “Easy now,” Max whispers to David.

  Another reporter muscles his way through. “Are you going to pursue any claim for damages against NIS?”

  Max steps in front of David to answer. “You bet your ass. Defamation, false arrest, deprivation of civil rights. I assure you that this is just the beginning. We are today creating a foundation to continue Dr. Cassidy’s research, and I promise you that whoever is responsible for Cindy’s death will be writing the first donation check—one way or another.”

  “Will you ask for an autopsy?” a reporter asks.

  “I need some air,” David tells Max and heads for the exit.

  There is nothing left for me in the courtroom. I follow David outside and onto the courthouse steps. He uses his cell phone to call Sally.

  “David?” Sally’s voice carries the weight of tears.

  As soon as he hears her, what is left of David’s resolve begins to crumble. “We couldn’t save her,” David says, his lips trembling and his voice starting to crack.

  “I know. I saw it on television. I’m sorry. I know you did the best you could. But you need to come home now.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes. Skippy’s waiting for you. It’s his time.”

  It takes him a moment, but then David grasps what I already know. “It’s not supposed to be like this, Sally. What else am I supposed to learn? Hasn’t it been enough?”

  “You did all you could today. But you’re needed here now. We need you. And as soon as possible. You understand?”

  David gets home impossibly fast.

  I see him as the front door bangs open—eyes red, tie pulled open, hair windblown, and clothes as wrinkled as if he had slept in them. For one last time, David looks to me like a little boy coming home after prep school, his uniform dirtied from a fight or a game of football.

  The first thing David sees when he runs into the house is Skippy’s little pointed black face as Clifford holds him over his shoulder. Skippy’s eyes are narrowed in pain. A catheter runs from his foreleg. Clifford paces, his eyes open but distant. Sally matches her son stride for stride, trying to be in his world. Joshua sits nearby, his head down and his hands folded in his lap. I wonder if this, finally, is what Joshua looks like in prayer.

  “He just went down fast today,” Sally tells David. “We were watching coverage of the trial on Court TV and then he just started struggling to breathe.”

  “I gave him something to ease his breathing for now,” Joshua adds, “but…” He just shakes his head. “He’s finally giving up. I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” David says. “Can I hold him, Cliff?”

  Clifford finally acknowledges David. Their eyes meet, and Clifford holds David’s pleading gaze for a few moments. Tears slowly roll down the boy’s face as he nods. “He wanted to wait for you, for you to say good-bye this time.”

  David gently takes Skippy from Clifford and buries his face in the deep black fur at Skippy’s neck, the place where he smells like autumn. “We won’t let him suffer,” he says and then lifts Skippy so they are now eye-to-eye. “You’re almost home.” Turning to Joshua, David says, “Okay, what do I do?”

  “It’s just an injection into the IV catheter,” Joshua replies as he gets the materials ready. “Then it’ll only be a few seconds. No pain.”

  “Can I hold him while you do it?” David asks Joshua.

  “Of course.”

  David takes Clifford’s hand in his and turns to Sally. “I want you both to sit with me.” Sally nods because she doesn’t trust herself to speak.

  David slowly lowers himself on the couch with Skippy on his lap. Sally and Clifford join him. When I look into Clifford’s eyes again, I’m startled to see love and peace and hope and trust and a thousand other emotions that I thought had abandoned me forever in the courtroom.

  Bernie and Chip quietly approach the couch with their tails lowered. Chip nuzzles Skippy, who strains to lift his head. Bernie lies down on the floor next to David’s legs and whines.

  “After you left,” Sally says about the two big dogs, “they spent the whole day near him. They know.”

  “So they won’t just wonder where he went, like with…?” David can’t finish.

  Clifford gently puts his head on Skippy’s chest and closes his eyes. “They’ll know,” Clifford says. “They always did.” Words come out of Clifford’s mouth, but I’m no longer certain they’re his. “I’m ready now,” he says.

  David gently rubs Skippy’s ears and then leans over to one of them and whispers, “And on cool summer evenings we will sit among the trees and flowers and look for fairies in the moonlight.” I know he is speaking to me. I know he is speaking to Skippy.

  “I loved every moment,” Clifford says for both of us.

  Joshua, holding two syringes, gets on his knees next to Clifford. Joshua inserts a sedative into the catheter and presses the plunger. Skippy almost instantly relaxes in David’s arms. “Are you ready? It’ll only take a few seconds.” Joshua is crying, too, and his hand shakes.

  David kisses Skippy on the head. “When you see Helena, you tell her I said good-bye. And you tell her… tell her that she was right; I can hear them.”

  “It all mattered, you know? Each one,” Clifford says finally and then becomes still.

  Joshua inserts the second needle in the catheter and takes a deep breath. Just before Joshua depresses the plunger, David gently moves his hand away from the syringe. “This is for me to do,” David tells him and pushes the plunger until nothing is left. By the time the syringe is emptied, Skippy is limp in David’s lap.

  Thank you, my love. Thank you.

  Joshua feels Skippy’s chest. His heart is still. “He’s gone.”

  Sally throws her arms around David and her son. David at last gives in—to me, to Skippy, to Cindy, to the trial, to love, and to memory—and the sobs rack him and make his teeth chatter. “Oh, damn,” he weeps.

  Clifford rises and leaves the room. When he returns a moment later, he is carrying my Remembrance Album and a photograph. The photo is that one of me carrying Skippy through the New Hampshire woods.

  Clifford takes a seat on the floor next to David and his mother. He finds an empty page at the back of the album and inserts the photo. As he does this, he repeats my words: “On the pages within are those who came before; those who shared their lives with us all too briefly. These are the lives we honor. These are our beloved angels who have returned to God.”

  When the boy finishes, I no longer see David, Clifford, Sally, and Joshua as distinct entities. Instead, they appear to be one integrated whole. They’ve connected to form something entirely new—better than what they were before—in som
e ways that are measurable and in some ways that are not.

  The death of one little black dog has brought them all together. And before that, a chimpanzee named Cindy brought David and Jaycee together; and before that a horse named Arthur brought David and Sally together; and before that a kitten named Tiny Pete brought Sally and Joshua together; and before that a cat named Smokey brought me and Martha, and then Martha and David together; and before that a chimpanzee named Charlie brought Jaycee and me together.

  And a lifetime ago, in the middle of a dark and nearly deserted road, a deer pleading for a quick and painless death brought David and me together.

  Jaycee had said that communication is merely the transfer of information in a way that has meaning to the recipient. It doesn’t need to be spoken in words or even said out loud; it just needs to mean something. That deer in its last moments spoke to me and David just as clearly and just as deeply as Cindy spoke to me. The language was different, but not the strength of the voice.

  They all spoke to me. And they all spoke in a way that mattered—a way that actually moved and changed me.

  Watching Sally, David, Clifford, and Joshua so willingly share their grief and love, the pieces finally do make sense. I’ve been so foolish, running through the forest searching for some profound and eclipsing life meaning when it is the trees themselves that were bejeweled the whole time: Skippy, Brutus, Arthur, Alice, Chip, Bernie, Smokey, Prince, Collette, Charlie, Cindy, hundreds of cats, dogs, and other creatures whom I treated, made better, eased into death, or simply had the privilege to know. Each was worthy in his or her own right of being valued, each was instrumental in connecting us and then moving us onward in our own lives, and each gave much more than he or she got in return.

  Clifford was right: Each one mattered. I was better for knowing any of them and blessed to have known all of them. I think I helped, but I know with absolute certainty that I cared.

  I’m not empty-handed. I cared.

  That is meaning enough.

  26

  It’s been seven years since I last saw David. I want to look upon his face again one final time.