by Larry Center
I moved closer to the glass, eager to observe as Tommy hurried after him and stood over Obo. The chimp shrieked. Tommy patted Obo on the head, edged closer, and then, amazingly enough, started to slowly pick through the chimp’s hair. Obo seemed to relax, even to enjoy the attention. He was doing this just like the chimps picked through each other’s hair. I was stunned. His knowledge of their behavior patterns seemed effortlessly intuitive. Tommy held the chimpanzee’s head and grunted, chimp-like; this time his grunt was softer, friendlier.
“Wow,” Cheryl said. “He’s acting like Obo’s caretaker.”
“He has such a gentle way with them,” Marcy said, marveling.
Tommy yelled at Obo and shook his head. Obo covered his eyes. When Obo tried to run from Tommy again, Tommy put his hands on the chimp’s shoulders and said, “No.” Then he let out a cry, “Eeee . . . Eeeiiii . . . Ahhhhh . . . Uuuu . . . Oooooo!”
Obo stayed.
As Dr. Simmons continued hovering over Tommy and Obo, another assistant, a young woman wearing jeans and a Weller T-shirt, brought out cereal, apples, and chunks of watermelon for the three chimps. She brought the chimps out of the barrier and stationed them around the base of one of the trees. Mikey made a few gestures, putting one hand in the other and then forming a fist as he moved it up and down.
“He’s saying ‘drink fruit,’” Marcy said, referring to the watermelon. “And SeeSaw’s signing, ‘candy fruit.’ You see, they actually make up words around the qualities of a food or object when they sign.”
“So, they can have meaningful gestures,” I said. “Amazing. Don’t you think so, Cheryl?”
“It really is.” She spoke with her eyes open wide.
“The thing is,” I said, “if Tommy has the chance to be with these chimps, I’m thinking it might open him up and allow him to express himself with human words as well. You see how alive and happy he is? Even his speech inflection changes when he’s around them.”
“He just seems to come out of his shell,” Cheryl said. “This is like a breath of fresh air to him.”
We both gazed out into the play yard again as Obo scurried away from Tommy and scampered to another corner of the enclosure. But Tommy let him go this time and, before Dr. Simmons could stop him, Tom-Tom was sitting among the other chimpanzees while they ate, just pulling up a seat.
Dr. Simmons, a broad smile etched on her face, stood over Tommy as he clapped one chimp-friend on the back and squawked at another one, shrieked and shook his head back and forth.
Tommy turned toward Obo, who remained alone in his corner.
“Come,” Tommy yelled. “Come!”
Obo shook his head. He rocked and began gnawing on a finger.
“For the past two months now, Obo’s hardly eaten anything,” Marcy said. “We’re worried about him. If he keeps on like this, we’ll have to intubate him.”
Almost as if he’d heard what Marcy had said, Tommy marched over to Obo and waved his arms in the air. Obo hid his face with his hands. When the chimp wouldn’t respond, Tommy turned his back on him and pounded a foot on the ground. When he faced the chimp again, he let out another jungle wail. “Eeeeeee . . . uuuuu . . . ”
A minute later, chills ran up my spine when Obo stood as if unfolding himself from a long nap, shyly took Tommy’s hand, and then shambled toward the group, allowing Tommy to lead him.
“I'm not believing this,” Marcy said. She put a hand up to her mouth, her lips shaped like an O, and gasped.
Tommy led the small, disabled chimp forward, step by step, as I watched in disbelief.
“What the hell?” Cheryl said. “He’s really taking control, isn’t he?” She laughed.
I’d never seen my son so drawn away from his interior self, so happily relating to the world, even if it was the chimp world. Teacher-Tommy retrieved cereal from the food table and offered it to Obo.
“Eat,” Tommy commanded. “Ouuuu . . . Eat.”
Tommy made the sign for eat, tapping the tips of his fingers to his mouth. Obo scratched his chin. He shrieked one time, shook his head back and forth, and then shyly took a few of the cereal pieces from Tommy’s hand and put them in his mouth.
“Eat!” Tommy screeched. “Chimpie! Eat!”
“Oh, my God,” Marcy said, her eyes wide. “Look at that!”
Obo’s jaw moved slowly as he ate crunching the food. After a moment, he sat down with the other chimps and grabbed some watermelon. He shrieked at Mikey and Mikey shrieked back.
“Good job, Tommy,” Dr. Simmons said as she stroked Obo’s back. She turned to us and shrugged as her eyes opened wide, as if to say, I have no idea what’s going on. “You don’t know how much this means to us. We’ve been trying to get Obo to eat for months.”
“Obo and chimpie and good,” Tommy said to Dr. Simmons, giving her direct eye contact. “He hurt. But he love it now. He love it.”
Tommy signed the word for “love.”
* * *
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself,” Dr. Simmons said after the chimps had been put back into the mini-barrier. Tommy stood at her side, signing the word for chimps over and over as he looked around the play yard, a rosy complexion on his face.
“Perhaps we could perform a statistical analysis,” Marcy said. “Do a study and compare language patterns and behavioral processes between the chimps and Tommy.”
“Can we bring him back again then?” I asked, hoping this could turn into a kind of long-term therapy program, seeing in my mind Tommy flowing with normal language, happy and well-adjusted, a boy who had come out of his shell at last. I felt a lightness in my chest at the thought.
“I’d like to say yes right away,” Dr. Simmons said, studying Tommy. “But unfortunately, there are regulations we’d have to work through, plus, if he were to return on a regular basis, we’d have to propose a legitimate study. This is a research facility, so everything we do here is based on grant proposals.” Dr. Simmons looked at Marcy and then back at me. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll discuss this with the other staff members and write up a systematic schedule and a proposal. How’s that sound?”
“Fine. I think that would be great,” I said. “Cheryl?” I asked, turning to her.
“Sure,” she said. “I don’t see why not. I’d love to see him come back, if it’s possible.”
“I'm afraid our one hour is up at this point,” Dr. Simmons. “I’ll need to take Tommy out of the play yard.”
But when Dr. Simmons took Tommy’s hand and tried to lead him away from the chimps, he said, “No go! No go! Stay and play. Want here.” Tommy backpedaled away.
Dr. Simmons gave Cheryl and me an unsure look.
“The chimpies are tired now, Tommy,” Dr. Simmons said. “It’s time for you to leave, okay? Maybe you can come back again. Soon.”
“Come on, Tommy. It’s time to go,” I said. “Come on, son.”
“No!” Tommy said. He gazed around the play yard.
“Let’s go, Tom-Tom,” I called again. “We can come back another time. Let’s go home and tell Max all about what happened.”
“Tommy. Let’s go. The chimpies need to rest,” Cheryl called. “We’ll come back another day.”
Hearing our commands, Tommy stomped the ground as if he’d been cheated out of extra play time, then finally allowed Dr. Simmons to lead him out, her hand gently placed on his shoulder. He didn’t move away from her, just strode through the door and marched up to us, feet continuing to stomp the ground and anger lighting up his eyes. Here he was at least showing emotion about something! Wasn’t that remarkable in itself?
“Want stay,” he said, standing in front of us, Dr. Simmons at his side. A line of sweat beaded his brow and his face was red. His eyes were alive with light. I’d never seen him so awake. Finally, here was something that was pulling him out of his shell and making him want to hold on and embrace it. “Want . . . stay.” He shook his head. “Want stay.” My heart beat with joy.
“I’m sorry, b
ut it’s time to go home, Tommy,” Cheryl said softly, kneeling down to his level. “We can come back another day, all right?”
“Wanna stay now.”
“Tommy, really, it’s time to—”
“Want . . . ” His voice grew louder. “Stay!”
“The chimps are like babies and they need their naps,” I said.
“No naps.” Tommy signed “no” with an extreme gesture. “Want play.” Then he signed, “Want play,” his arms flailing in anger.
The chimps bobbed their heads up and down and shrieked and chattered, as if they too were discussing Tommy’s dilemma. Marcy let the chimps out of the mini-barrier and after a minute, their chattering subsided and they returned to their own world, swinging and grooming each other, shoving and playfully pushing, as if they belonged to one big and gregarious family.
I reached into my pocket for the tokens, but realized I’d forgotten them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Obo scamper away from the other chimps, return to his corner, and start biting himself again. There was something about that little guy that just got to me and my heart beat for him in sympathy. He was so locked up inside, just like Tommy. Surely, the two had something in common.
Cheryl, Dr. Simmons, Marcy, and I walked out of the play yard area, pretending we were leaving and hoping Tommy would follow us, but my stubborn son remained glued to the ground. He wouldn’t budge. He started gnawing on his hands. Then he pointed at the chimps.
Cheryl and I looked at each other. We knew what could possibly be on the horizon.
“Chris. You’re going to have to pick him up,” Cheryl said.
I glanced at Marcy and Dr. Simmons who stood silently next to each other. Cheryl and I returned to Tommy’s side and I grabbed him around his waist while pinning both of his arms. The negotiating stage was over. With Cheryl next to me, whispering soothing words to Tommy, and Marcy and Dr. Simmons following, I carried him out of the play yard building and through the barn structure like a struggling sack of potatoes. I had no other choice. He kicked and screamed, swinging his arms at me, at one point, nearly landing a hefty punch on my chin. I finally let him down when we got to the courtyard, where Marcy left us, saying goodbye.
“No. Nooooo.” He kicked a foot out and sliced a hand through the air.
Dr. Simmons followed us out to the car. Tommy reluctantly walked with us like an angry prisoner. He rubbed his eyes and moaned.
When we got to the car, a full-blown tantrum ensued. Tommy batted himself across the head. He clapped his hands over his ears. He arched his back, stretching every noncompliant moment to its fullest.
“Oooouuu! Euuuu . . .”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Simmons observing this, looking embarrassed and not sure what to do or say, her arms folded across her chest.
The sad thing was that we were so used to this routine, the crying, the flailing of his arms and feet, holding his body rigid and then falling on the ground and kicking his legs in the air. Cheryl and I finally managed to gather him up, this work-in-progress son of ours, and place him in the backseat and strap him in.
“No! Want chimpies!” Tommy cried. “Chimmmmmpppppies!”
We knew to stay calm during a meltdown, and we worked as a practiced team. Cheryl produced a bottle of lavender oil from her purse, and held the bottle up to Tommy’s nostrils, forcing him to take some whiffs.
“That’s my good boy,” she said in her best Mommy voice. “That’s my good, good boy. Everything’s fine now. We’ll be home soon and have some ice cream.”
I entered the car from the other side, slinging Mister Backpack inside.
“You’re doing great, Tom-Tom.” I whispered in his other ear. “You’re such a good boy.”
“He certainly knows what he wants, doesn’t he?” Dr. Simmons said when we’d finally pacified the storm. I was breathing heavily, my heart thundered, and my back hurt. A nice application of Ben Gay was in order when I got home.
“That he does,” I said grimly.
“Thank you for letting us come here, Dr. Simmons,” Cheryl said. “Let’s stay in touch.”
“Absolutely. Goodbye. Drive safely. Talk to you soon.”
Chapter 4
After my interview with Ed Ryerson, I met Sam Axelrod for lunch at a place called Duff’s. A casual-artsy restaurant on Fifth Avenue not far from the water, Duff’s was famous for their infinite varieties of martinis, grapefruit gin, pomegranate lemonade, you name it. Jazz music played softly in the background. It was crowded and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves—everyone except me.
“Well?” Sam asked as soon as we were seated at a corner booth. Sam was dressed in a grey suit with a red tie. His full head of black hair was slicked back. Tall and wiry, built like a tennis player, Sam was one of those high metabolism people who could eat whatever he wanted and never gain a pound. He flashed me a hundred-watt smile, bright as Times Square neon.
I paused before answering, then finally said it. “It’s a no.” I shook my head. The words fell out of my mouth like Tommy’s brick words.
Sam jerked back in surprise. He blinked. “What? What do you mean? I thought sure he was going to hire you.”
“They have work for me all right, but it’s in Atlanta.” I laughed. I had to. It was either laugh or cry. Hopes and dreams take you high, but real-world gravity drops you down fast. Newton wasn’t just describing a physical phenomenon. “Ryerson called it a ‘slot’.” It sounded like a parking space reserved for something about the size of a clown car.”
“Atlanta? Are you serious?” Sam’s brown eyes went wide as he leaned forward.
“Serious as rain.” I looked past Sam and noticed a well-dressed man and woman staring longingly into each other’s eyes, sitting next to each other in a booth. Cheryl and I used to stare into each other’s eyes just like that and I had to look away. I bit my lower lip as longing for our own romantic days rained down on me, thinking of what we had and what we lost.
A tall waitress with red hair and bright red lipstick took our orders. I knew the Reuben sandwiches were amazing, but I had no appetite. Still, I ordered one. Sam went for the shrimp salad. Fresh caught. A minute later, the waitress brought us glasses filled with water, accompanied by slices of lemon.
“Food’ll be here shortly,” she said, shooting us a smile.
“Hey, maybe you should take the job anyway,” Sam said, taking a drink of water when the waitress had moved away.
I leaned back in my seat. “I was thinking about it, for sure.” I downed my entire glass of water, but my throat still felt dry. I stared at the lonely lemon.
“Why not?” Sam said. “Let Cheryl take over so you can move and get a better job. That woman put you through hell. Remember what she did during your divorce? Put all your clothes in storage and refused to give you the key? You have to think of yourself sometimes.”
Sam had a point. To be honest, there had been days when I did feel like running, hitting the road for another place, another life entirely. When Tommy was four years old and not yet toilet trained, when he’d defecate on the carpet and then smear his feces on the wall, who wouldn’t have wanted to run? That torn, conflicted feeling lived inside me. I was only human after all.
But I also knew a deeper truth, and that truth would not allow me to run.
“I helped bring Tommy into this world, Sam,” I said slowly, my hands tightening into fists. “I can’t let him down. Leaving him with Cheryl and moving away, even if I had a good-paying job? I just can’t do it. It would be easier to stop breathing. Tommy needs me. And dammit, I need him.” I touched my chest as if to remind myself that I still knew how to breathe.
“Ain’t no river wide enough, right?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow. He laid his hands palm down on the table as if they were cards in a game of poker. We both used to wear wedding bands. It was a sad sight to see, that still-visible line of white flesh around his ring finger; one more reminder of my own situation—single and alone.
“Something like th
at.” I nodded and gave him a small smile.
“Well, I think you’re nuts.” Sam clucked his tongue.
“It’s the only way for me. When the going gets tough, dads like me stay put—we don’t get goin’ at all.” I laughed. “Maybe I’m in the minority these days, but that’s how I roll.”
“Yeah, I see your point. It’s called the higher road, dumbass. But you better watch out, ‘cause it runs by some dangerous cliffs.”
“I know. Trust me.”
Sam sighed and moved the salt shaker around mindlessly. “My problem was I gave my whole life to my career and was hardly ever home for the family.” He finished his water. “And now I’m dealing with a sixteen-year-old who’s on probation, and I can hardly make ends meet either. I mean, the biz just isn’t what it used to be no matter where you are. It’s scary nowadays. It’s tough even with a job.”
“Ronny’s on probation?” I asked.
“Yeah. Marijuana. Isn’t it great?”
The food came and Sam dove in, downing his shrimp salad, but the Reuben before me looked too large to fit into my stomach. My appetite was on vacation. I munched on the pickle instead.
When I got home, after Sam saying he’d keep looking around for me, I took off my expensive grey suit and undressed the high hopes I’d fluffed and buffed and primped in my dreams. Nothing. That’s what had happened at the interview, though it was good seeing Ryerson again and for a while, talking about old times. His career was a rocket ship. He was Vice President of Focus Media now. My career felt like a sinking battleship.
I threw on some patchy jeans and a frayed dark blue T-shirt, then put on Thelonious Monk’s “Higher Ground.” I flopped on the couch in the den. I tried to close out the world one mental inch at a time. I was running out of road.
Max limped over and crawled onto my lap, huffing all over me. I’d given him a bath two days ago, and he still smelled clean, his coat silky. He licked my ears, my nose, wetness on my face, plugged my ear with his sloppy tongue.