Дуглас Престон - Jennie

After a week Sandy came home. He gave us the silent treatment. He was very upset, the poor boy. I wanted to enfold him in my arms and just hold him, but of course at his age that was impossible. For a long time he wouldn’t even talk about it. Finally one night he and I had a talk.

He kept saying “Why? Why did you have to do it?”

I tried to explain as best I could that it was the only option left. I talked about how beautiful the island was and so forth, but he interrupted. He asked me if she was in a cage.

I had to admit she was. At the time, I believed all the claptrap from Dr. Prentiss and that George Gabriel. I was defending them! To my own son!

All Sandy wanted to know was how long she was going to be in the cage.

I explained again that she would be released on the island as soon as she got used to being with other chimpanzees, and that Dr. Prentiss had said it would take about two weeks.

“And what if she doesn’t adjust to other chimpanzees?” Sandy wanted to know.

I explained to him that Dr. Prentiss had told us that never in the history of chimpanzee research had such a thing happened. She told us that chimpanzees recognized their kind, even if they were home-raised and hadn’t seen another chimp since they were infants.

Sandy didn’t believe a word of it. He said that maybe seeing a chimp as an infant makes all the difference. When in the history of chimpanzee research has there been a chimp that really and truly thought it was human? Who had never seen one of its own kind ever? What about that? This is what he said.

I had no answer for that. Just hope. All I had was hope. That was my answer.

Jennie hit puberty with a bang. If there’s one really big difference between chimps and humans, it’s in the sexual response. Forgive me for saying this, but when she was in estrus she was the horniest thing that ever prowled the streets of Kibbencook. When she went into heat, the whole area around her sex organs would swell up and become pink. And she became impossible. Her whole sexual response was directed at human men. When a man came to the house — it didn’t matter who it was — she would jump him. Really. Jump into his arms and — well, I know this is going to sound a little disgusting — rub her sex organs on the person while kissing him on the lips. I’m telling you, there could be no mistaking her intentions. The mailman got it, the salesmen got it, random visitors, colleagues of my father — everyone got nailed by Jennie. Even men that Jennie had shown a marked dislike for. Everyone except me and my father.

Now this is very interesting. When she was in estrus, she became downright unfriendly to us. Worse than that, she wanted nothing to do with us. If we tried to hug her or touch her, she screamed bloody murder, like she was about to be molested. She went out of her way to avoid us. If ever there was proof of a biological basis for the incest taboo, Jennie was it. No kidding.

Listen to this. One day, as a joke, I bought a Playgirl magazine for Sammie. Jennie was hanging around, in heat, in a very bad mood. When we came into the living room, she got up and went into the dining room and sat in a corner. Signing Phooey to herself. Really pissed off. She was always in a bad mood during her “time.”

We were looking through the magazine and laughing. Jennie just couldn’t resist laughter. Pretty soon she was standing in the door, still looking pissed off, but her curiosity was getting the better of her.

Finally she swaggered in, pretending to ignore us, and circled around behind so she could see what was so funny. We heard this little grunt and a hairy hand reached out and swiped the magazine. She scooted over to a corner and started looking at it. When I went over she stood up, gave that vicious little bark of hers with her hair all standing up. No way was she going to give back that magazine.

So we watched her. She turned the pages and came to a photograph of a naked man. She stared at it, her eyes popping. She reached out, and with a hairy finger started stroking and scratching at the man’s penis. She rubbed and scratched until her finger had rubbed right through the paper.

She eventually turned to the centerfold, and laid it out on the ground. Staring with this — well, hungry — look. She scratched the penis a little, and then she — I’m sorry, this may sound a little gross — squatted over the centerfold and began rubbing her vagina on the man’s penis. Rubbing away with this dreamy look on her face. Then she got up, walked around in a little circle, squatted down over the picture again, and peed! Just a little pee. All the time ignoring us completely. Finally she got up and left, leaving this disgusting, wet magazine lying on the floor. We were both totally grossed out.

Her behavior drove my mother up a wall. It mortified her to have this ape attacking every man who appeared in our house. And she started to masturbate. My mother couldn’t get her to quit it. She would sit on the sofa playing with herself! It was worse than having one of those dogs that hump your leg all the time. So my mother started keeping Jennie locked up when she went into estrus. Jennie screamed nonstop when that happened. Jesus, our house was like the C ward at Fernald, where they keep all the guys in straightjackets. I was so wrapped up in Sammie and the fucking revolution that I didn’t care or do anything to help. So I got what I so richly deserved in the end, a little memento to last me the rest of my life. I thought Jennie had betrayed me, but it was really me who betrayed Jennie.

What memento? I mean my finger. This. [Editor’s note: At this point Sandy held up his hand, which was missing the little finger from the second joint.] My pinky. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s gone. What, you mean no one told you about this? Jesus, what kind of a journalist are you anyway? Jennie bit my little finger off one day. That’s why she was sent away, for chrissakes. I mean, you don’t think she was dumped in a prison just because she’d become a little difficult, do you? My father and mother loved that chimpanzee. For my father to get rid of Jennie — it was like getting rid of his own child. Really. I didn’t quite realize it at the time, but my dad was totally hung up on that chimp. But my mom was just terrified that Jennie might hurt Sarah. Because Sarah was a bold little kid. I mean, she didn’t let Jennie get away with shit.

Look at you, suddenly on the edge of your seat. Here’s a real scoop. Jesus, don’t make me think you’re like that asshole from Esquire . Look, I want you to stick around here for a while before you go running off and writing some bullshit about this whole thing, how I was so psychologically damaged by losing my finger to my chimp sister that I became a hermit or some such shit like that. I’m not kidding. I’m out here for other reasons, reasons I’ve tried to share with you. Call me a prophet crying in the wilderness, or call me a spoiled rich white suburban kid playing Indian. Okay? But don’t go writing any pseudopsychological Freudian Jungian claptrap bullshit about my missing finger. It was no big deal, and you know what? You don’t need a left pinky anyway.

First of all, it was my fault that I lost my finger. Entirely my fault. But everyone blamed it on Jennie.

You see, Sammie and I were very tight. It was first love for each of us. Jennie just couldn’t accept that. Sammie had a mother who was a spectacular hypochondriac. God, what a piece of work that woman was. Her father had died ten years ago. Her mom stayed upstairs all day in bed and complained about her head. Nursing a bottle of Cutty Sark. For medicinal purposes. Sammie had moved into the basement to get away from her mother, fixed up a room there, and painted the floor red and the walls black. M. C. Escher posters everywhere. Big waterbed. Black light. Collection of glass bongs on the shelf. It was such a perfect sixties crash pad, it could have made an exhibit in the Smithsonian.