by Sara Gruen
It was a mob, and had the dangerous feeling of being nearly out of control. As John suspected, most of the groups jostling for camera time seemed to have only the most tangential connection with the apes. The eco-feminists and the green-haired boy had co-opted an NBC news crew and were expounding on how the apes represented oppressed women everywhere. A member of the Eastborough Baptist Church, a woman with an angular face and mousy hair, was earnestly explaining to Fox News why the dead soldiers coming home from the war was God's way of punishing America for enabling "fags" and would stop only when America enacted a death penalty against them and their soul-damning, nation-destroying filth. When the anchor asked why they were picketing Ape House, the woman explained that bonobos had bisexual and homosexual sex, and therefore were fags. She smiled broadly; from her tone she might have been offering a glass of lemonade. Behind her, children with twig-thin arms thrust signs into the air that read YOU'RE GOING TO HELL and GOD HATES YOU.
With the atmosphere so charged, it was the quiet people who caught John's attention. Three people were scoping out the building and taking notes. John's first thought was that they might be connected to the ELL, but when they turned so he could see their faces he recognized two of them instantly: Francesca De Rossi and Eleanor Mansfield were famous primatologists, right up there with Jane Goodall. They had been featured in a number of documentaries, many of which he had viewed while researching his ape series at the Inky.
He approached them. "Dr. De Rossi? Dr. Mansfield? My name is John Thigpen. I'm a reporter. I was wondering if I could talk with you for a few minutes?"
"Certainly," said Francesca De Rossi. "I'm sorry--who did you say you're with?"
"I'm out of Los Angeles. With the Times," he said.
Liar! Liar! screamed a voice inside his head.
"Oh, the Times. Of course," said Dr. De Rossi. She introduced the third person, a lawyer who was preparing a legal petition to get the apes removed from Faulks.
"Thank you," said John. "Can you tell me a little about the petition? By the way, is it okay if I record this?"
"Yes, by all means," said Dr. De Rossi.
John aimed his voice recorder and made encouraging noises. He got the sense that Francesca De Rossi was not a person who raised her voice; in fact, she was leaning quite close in order to be heard above the crowd. The bridge of her nose was smattered with freckles the way Amanda's had been before the Fraxel. He had liked Amanda's freckles. They were evenly spaced and sweet, not at all as Amanda had described them ("like someone tossed dirty dishwater in my face").
" ... their behavior is virtually identical to that of humans in this respect. They order all the wrong types of food and in vast amounts immediately after viewing commercials that ..."
He realized with a jolt that he had not absorbed a single word Francesca De Rossi had said until she began talking about food, and even then it was because the only thing he'd eaten all day was a leathery hot dog. Thank God for his voice recorder.
"Think Super Size Me, but with a species even worse equipped to process junk than we are," she continued.
Of equal concern were the unsanitary conditions within Ape House. The timed and forceful sprayings of the concrete floors were incapable of handling the leftover food and accumulating trash. And, because the bonobos had ordered upholstered furniture, these automated hosedowns left the base of the furniture wet, which invited mold and left the bonobos in danger of all kinds of respiratory and immune-system disorders. These issues were at the crux of PAEGA's legal petition to have the bonobos removed. The hearing was seven days away, having been filed on an emergency basis.
"Obviously we're extremely concerned about these particular great apes and the current situation," continued Dr. De Rossi, "but in a more general sense, we need to educate the public about the exploitation of all great apes."
John nodded and smiled. He gratefully accepted business cards and scribbled his own name and number on the back of a gas station receipt. Since the good doctors were laboring under the belief that he was with the L.A. Times, perhaps it was for the best that he didn't have business cards. He wondered if there would ever be a good moment to inform them of his real affiliation, and decided that no, there probably wasn't.
25
Mbongo sat on the floor between an upended couch and the strange balloon human that Bonzi kept covering with a blanket. He glanced mournfully at his favorite spot to lounge, the beanbag chair, but found it still occupied by Sam, who was watching TV and sucking an orange. Mbongo crossed his arms, resting them on his belly, and stared at his pile of cheeseburgers.
Eventually he picked one up and turned it over. The edges of the yellow waxed paper were sealed with a sticker, which he peeled off. He moved it from finger to finger, contemplating its tackiness, and then affixed it to the top of his belly. He adjusted its position, pressed it a few times to make sure it was secure, and turned his attention back to the burger. He unwrapped it and set it upside down on its square paper wrapper. He removed the bottom bun--flat, and dusted with flour--and tossed it over his shoulder. He gently pried the patty from the top bun and fished out the pickle, which he threw at the wall. This one stuck, joining the pickles that had stuck on previous days. His forehead creased in thought. He aimed his forefinger near the burger's center, and pushed through it. Pleased with the result, he poked it three more times, leaving it pierced like a button. He glanced around hopefully, seeking approval, but the females were all in the courtyard, Sam was absorbed in the television show, and he didn't see Jelani. Mbongo sucked the condiments off his finger. As he worked the minced onions between his tongue and palate, he removed the stickers from the rest of the burgers and placed them on his belly too, arranging them into a pleasing design. He turned once again to look at Sam's orange, then grabbed the human balloon by the arm and dragged it to him. He folded a burger and stuffed it into its round red mouth, poking it in with his finger. It disappeared completely, so he fed it another. He folded a third burger in half and tried again, but this time it wouldn't go in. Mbongo poked it repeatedly with his fingers, even putting some weight behind it, but whenever a bit of burger got inside the mouth another bit came out. He went to get the screwdriver.
Bonzi wandered in from the courtyard. Lola stood on her shoulders, grasping her mother's ears. Bonzi walked up to Sam and casually extended her hand. He gave her the orange without ever taking his eyes off the television screen. Bonzi handed the orange to Lola and returned to the courtyard.
Mbongo, sitting beside the now-deflated human balloon, brought a fist to his mouth and made squeezing motions, signing, ORANGE, ORANGE, to no one in particular. He stared out at the courtyard for a while, then deconstructed the rest of his burgers and began finger-painting with mustard.
Makena lay on her back in the sun, her face turned to the side. She had been washing a doll in a bucket until she grew tired, and both bucket and doll remained beside her.
A tiny brown bird swooped down over her, low enough that it startled her, and she tipped her head to follow its progress. It came to a smashing halt against the Plexiglass door of the courtyard, leaving a tiny smudge of down at the point of impact. Makena sat up and scootched around. The bird sat in a crumpled heap, unmoving.
Makena approached slowly and crouched in front of it, arms resting on thighs. After several minutes, when the bird had still not moved, she reached out and nudged it. It made a ruffling motion, squeaked, and toppled sideways.
Makena scooped it up in both hands and walked upright to the play structure. She cupped the bird to her chest with one hand as she climbed to the highest point. There she held the bird, gently spread its wings to their fullest span, and tossed it into the air. It disappeared over the wall.
26
Isabel sat cross-legged on her bed picking at the remains of her room-service salad. After the altercation with Cat, she didn't dare go downstairs. She felt bad about leaving the tab, but she'd been down there often enough that the bartender knew her room number.
"Hello?"
"Don't hang up--" It was Peter.
"Oh my God." She glanced again at the number. "Where are you calling from?"
"I'm using a pay phone."
Isabel went light-headed. She pushed the tray aside and pulled her knees to her chest. "What is it? What do you want?"
"You have to make them stop."
"What are you talking about?"
"The peat moss! The pizzas! The dog shit! And now they've hacked into my email account and changed my password."
Isabel held a thumb and forefinger to her temples and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, Peter, but I'm not responsible for what they do."
"It's illegal," he said quickly. "Harassment. Probably even a felony. I'll have them arrested."
A chill of fear flashed through Isabel's core. "Peter, they're just kids."
"I don't care. I can't even access my own account."
Isabel hugged her knees tighter and began to rock. "I'll talk to them," she said. "Good-bye."
"Wait," he said quickly.
Isabel did not answer, but she didn't hang up. She fell back onto her pillows.
"How are you?" he said. When she said nothing, he continued. "I saw Francesca De Rossi on the news last night. Just the tail end. Something about court proceedings and that you were involved. What's going on?"
"That's none of your business."
"You don't have to do any of that. The bonobos are going to be just fine."
Isabel sat bolt upright and whacked the bedspread with her fist. "They are not fine. They are living in filth and clogging their arteries and doing God knows what else to their health, and Makena is going to give birth any second and apparently you don't even give a damn." Isabel stopped. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes again, and said, "Peter, I just can't talk to you. I really can't."
"Isabel," he said. "For God's sake. I know what I did with Celia was unforgivable, but I'm human. It was a stupid, idiotic mistake but it was a mistake, and I swear it will never happen again." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Izzy, please. Can we discuss this? I'm going to be out there in a few days."
"What? Why?"
"I'm coming out to make sure they're taking good care of the bonobos."
Isabel shook her head in confusion. "I'm already here, and they won't even ..." She clapped a hand across her mouth. "Oh my God. Are you working for them?"
"Only to make sure the apes are okay," he said quickly. "Look, Faulks's people approached me, and what was I supposed to do? I've been watching the show too--I couldn't just let things go on the way they are, especially given the opportunity to do something. Besides, with one of us in there, we have a better chance of dismantling the whole thing, of getting the apes back and picking up where we left off."
Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the pictures of the studies he'd participated in at PSI, never mind his cheating on her. But what could she say? At this point, he was her only possible conduit to the bonobos. If Faulks had offered her a job that allowed her to have contact with the apes, she'd have taken it too.
"When did they ask you?"
"Late last night."
Isabel said nothing, her mind a fevered tangle.
"So can I please see you?" Peter said. His voice was soft, gentle.
She sat up straight and took a deep breath before answering. "I will talk with the kids. Please don't get them in trouble. And please, please, take good care of the apes."
"And ...?"
"And I need some time to think about the other."
"Fair enough," he said. "But just so you know, I still love you."
----
Isabel waited a few minutes before calling Celia, hoping that the shaking would subside.
Celia didn't bother saying hello. She answered with, "Yeah, I know, I'm supposed to be there already."
"Peter just called," said Isabel. "He says you hacked into his email. Please tell me you didn't."
"That was Jawad, actually," said Celia. "And if he really didn't want anyone looking at it then he shouldn't have been so stupid about his passwords and security questions. It's supremely easy to Google the first street somebody lived on and figure out their first elementary school. Anyway, Jawad was going through some of his folders and--"
"Celia! This is serious. He's going to have you arrested."
Celia snorted. "I will bet all the money I will ever make for the rest of my life that he won't call the police."
"Why?"
"Because of what Jawad found."
"Stop it. I don't want to know."
"Isabel, quit being an ostrich. You need to know."
"No, I don't."
"Okay, fine."
There was silence at the end of the line, but Isabel could feel it swelling. Three, two, one--
"But you really do want to know this."
Isabel paused, considering how deeply she had buried her head in the past. She had never questioned what he was doing to the chimpanzee that took his finger. She had allowed those very hands to touch her. And since she was wavering about seeing him again, she didn't think she could stand to know more.
"Fine," Celia eventually said. "Be that way. I'll see you when I get there."
"Fine. Celia?"
"What?"
"Please be good in the meantime."
"Okay. And Isabel?" The next part came as rapidly as machine-gun fire: "Peter-sold-the-language-software-to-Faulks-for-his-goddamned-show-buh-bye." And then she hung up.
Isabel stared into the drowned remnants of her spinach salad. It took her a while to get around to closing her phone. When she did, she set it gently on the bedspread beside her. She set her knife and fork neatly across her plate, folded her napkin, and arranged the salt and pepper shakers so that their edges were perfectly aligned with the edge of the tray.
Of course. Where else would Faulks have gotten the language software? As for Peter's claim that Faulks had approached him only the day before--
Isabel threw the metal dome that had covered her dinner against the wall beside the TV.
She was going to break her silence. She was going to expose him for what he was--anonymously, of course. Leave him thinking he still had a chance with her, that someone at PSI had been digging around their archives and stumbled upon these papers, that someone in Faulks's camp had leaked his involvement in the sale of the software. There were eight million reporters crawling around beneath her at this very moment, and any one of them would give a limb to interview her. The problem was that she hated them all.
She thought of Cat snapping a picture of her when her face was broken and she didn't even look human, and how that picture had ended up on The Philadelphia Inquirer's Web site. She thought of how her voice mail and email had filled up with requests that bordered on stalking. They were vultures, every one of them--it would be a matter of choosing the least terrible, and, after Peter, Isabel had no faith in her own judgment.
She picked up the neatly folded napkin and began twisting. She twisted and twisted until it curled like a croissant and could twist no more. She twisted until the ends of her fingers turned deep red. Suddenly, she released it. She'd had a flash of memory.
Mbongo, on New Year's Day, sulking in a corner and refusing earnest and repeated pleas for forgiveness. Bonzi, spinning on her rump in the kitchen, signing, BONZI LOVE VISITOR, KISS KISS.
Bonzi's approval was good enough. Isabel would call John Thigpen--even if he did work for The Philadelphia Inquirer.
27
John had only four hours left to write and submit his first dispatch, but the only thing he'd eaten all day was the leathery gas-station hot dog. He didn't feel like eating Cheetos from the vending machine, and he didn't have time to go back to the Mohegan Moon.
He went to the window and pried the slats apart. The pizza/bento box
place's blinds were closed, but there was a scattering of cars in the parking lot, so John decided to give it a try.
The sidewalk in front of the building was crumbling and littered with cigarette butts. Jimmy's didn't look particularly open--the signs were unlit--but it also didn't look abandoned, so John tried the door. He found it unlocked and walked in.
There was a shuffle and screech as several men sitting at a small table leapt to their feet. A chair clattered to the floor, arms scooped something off the counter, and John heard the cocking of guns. A pit bull the color of red velvet cake fixed John in its gaze and lunged. Its mouth was alarmingly wet, its teeth alarmingly pointed. A squat, muscular man gave its leash a full-arm yank, dropping the dog to the floor. It continued to growl and eye John, who had flattened himself against the door.
John scanned the room, moving nothing but his eyes. There were five men, all staring at him. Three of them kept their hands hidden, making John wonder exactly how many weapons were pointed at him. A series of old bedsheets were nailed to the ceiling behind the counter, obscuring the back of the building. One had faded pink stripes, another a delicate pattern of blue flowers. A smell similar to Amanda's nail polish remover hung in the air. There was no menu, no cash register, no telephone, and certainly no sign of pizza.
"Are you ... open?" John finally said.
After a silence that seemed interminable, a dark-haired man behind the counter spoke. He wore jeans, an undershirt, and a black trucker's hat that obscured his eyes. The part of his face that was visible was etched with deep lines. "Open for what?"
"Dinner?"
Another pause as the men exchanged glances. The dog growled, leapt forward, and got dropped again.
"Dinner?"
"Yeah." John gestured feebly toward the window and the sign, being careful not to move too quickly. "I thought ... Never mind." He didn't want to turn his back to the men, so instead he put his hands down beside his rear end and backed up, pushing the door. It opened a crack. A rush of air swirled in.