Sara Gruen - Ape House

NOT ME. THE APES.

Her efforts were truncated and awkward. She fumbled through the spelling of words that usually took two hands to sign, and improvised others.

“Ah,” he said.

PETER?

“They’re… kay.” The corners of his lips twitched upward in an attempt to smile, but his eyes gave him away.

A cry escaped Isabel’s wired mouth.

INJURED?

“No. I don’t think so. But we’re not sure. They’re still in the trees. In the parking lot. They won’t come down.”

ALL OF THEM?

“Yes.” He stroked her hand and spoke calmly. “Everyone is working on it. The fire department is there. The Humane Society and Animal Control are there. I’ve been going back and forth.”

Isabel let her gaze drift to the ceiling, and then to the window. Sleet drummed the pane, fat droplets of near-hail that coated the black glass. Her eyes welled with tears.

“It will be okay. I promise you,” he said. He took a jagged breath and let his forehead rest on the bed rail. “Thank God you’re awake. I was terrified…”

TAKE ME THERE. PLEASE. IT’S TOO COLD. THEY’LL DIE.

The beeping of her heart monitor sped up.

“Isabel, I can’t.”

MAKENA IS PREGNANT.

“I know, and I promise I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

WHO DID THIS? WHY?

“Extremists. The bastards claim they ‘liberated’ the apes. Wait till you see the video statement. Very Al Qaeda. It’s all over the Internet.” He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the wall. He suddenly seemed to realize she was watching and softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just…” He looked down and was silent. A moment later, she realized his shoulders were heaving. He was crying.

After a while he collected himself, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “When you’re up to it, the police want to talk to you.”

She blinked deliberately to indicate assent.

“There’s something else you should know. Celia has been taken in for questioning.”

Isabel’s eyes snapped open. OUR CELIA? ARRESTED?

“No. Not exactly. But she’s being held as a ‘person of interest.’ Apparently she has a background in animal activism. I wish I could say I’m surprised.”

Isabel’s mind raced back over Celia’s time at the lab. Although Isabel had shared several of Peter’s concerns over language, she had never doubted Celia’s devotion to the bonobos.

NO. THEY’RE WRONG. I DON’T BELIEVE IT.

Peter looked on sadly. Isabel closed her eyes, sending tears down her cheeks.

A silence stretched between them, broken by the patter of hail and all it implied for the tree-bound apes. When she opened her eyes again, Peter was staring at her. He exhaled, and raked a hand through his hair.

SHOW ME.

He nodded reluctantly. “Are you sure?”

YES.

He looked around the room, in the bathroom, and then went into the hall. After a few minutes, he came back with a hand mirror. He stood by the bed, pressing the reflective side against his sweater.

“This is all very fresh-you know that, right? You have the best plastic surgeons in the city. You’re going to look fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Isabel stared, waiting.

Peter cleared his throat and positioned the mirror above her. He tilted its flashing surface until a face came into view.

Isabel found herself looking at a complete stranger. The scalp and cheeks were swathed in gauze. The nose was broad and smashed, with an absurd nose diaper taped loosely beneath the oxygen piping to catch the bloody runoff. Its flesh was swollen and blue, with specks of reddish purple. The eyes were slits between swollen pads of flesh and the white of one was scarlet. Trembling fingers appeared beside the face, and these were indisputably hers. The mirror disappeared.

Isabel took a moment to absorb what she’d seen. She looked to Peter for comfort but he was still clenching and unclenching his jaw.

MY HAIR? GONE?

“For now. You have fifty-some stitches in your scalp.”

TEETH?

“You lost five, I think. You can get implants. And the stitches, all under the hairline. When it grows back no one will know. Really, it could have been so much worse. You could have been burned.”

The clock ticked, the sleet pelted.

DID YOU CALL MY MOTHER?

“I did.”

AND?

Peter paused and reached for her hand. He brought her fingertips to his lips. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I really am.”

The police came by that afternoon, two plainclothes detectives in dripping shell jackets. They stood some distance from the bed as they waited for the ASL interpreter, and were clearly uncomfortable. Isabel remembered the vision in the mirror and understood their reticence.

When the interpreter finally arrived, Isabel shook off her oxy-pulse finger clip and let loose with a flurry of double-handed signs.

The interpreter watched her hands and then spoke. “Are the apes still up in the trees? Have they had any water or food? It’s too cold for them. They’re delicate. Prone to pneumonia. Flu. One of them is pregnant. Who is with them?”

The detectives exchanged glances. The older of the two asked the interpreter, “Can you please tell her we need her to answer some questions?”

“Speak to her,” he replied, cocking his head toward Isabel.

“All right,” said the detective. He shifted his reluctant gaze to Isabel, who blinked expectantly. He cleared his throat and practically shouted, leaving a space between words and phrases. “How many… eople… ntered… he lab… fter… he explosion?”

I AM NOT DEAF, she replied. As an afterthought she added, FOUR, MAYBE FIVE.

“Did you recognize any of them?” The cop’s brow glistened and his eyes swung between Isabel and the interpreter, clearly unsure about whether to look at the hands that created the words or the mouth that uttered them.

NO. THEY WERE WEARING FACE MASKS.

The other cop spoke: “Is it true that Celia Honeycutt exited the lab immediately before the explosion?”

YES.

“Was she acting strange in any way?”

NO.

“Nervous? On edge?”

NO. NOTHING.

“The people who entered after the explosion-did any of them say anything?”

COULD NOT HEAR. EXPLOSION.

“You didn’t hear or see anything-”

COULD NOT BREATHE. COULD NOT HEAR.

“Dr. Benton said an animal rights group usually has a presence right outside the lab. Were any of them in the lab that night?”

DON’T KNOW. FACE MASKS. I ALREADY SAID.

“What do you know about them?”

ALMOST NOTHING. THERE’S A GUY NAMED HARRY, LARRY, OR GARY. MIDDLE-AGED. TALL. WELL-DRESSED. AND A GREEN-HAIRED KID. THERE’S ONE TATTOOED KID AND A FEW WITH DREADLOCKS AND SMELLY PONCHOS. A COUPLE OF PREPPY TYPES. MOSTLY THEY JUST LOOK LIKE STUDENTS.

“Have they ever threatened you?”

NO. THEY WAVE SIGNS WHEN WE DRIVE PAST.

“Have they identified themselves as part of an organization?”

I DON’T KNOW. HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO THEM.

“You’ve never heard them say anything about the Earth Liberation League?”

NO.

“Did you notice anything strange last night?”

YOU MEAN OTHER THAN BEING BLOWN UP?

The detective scratched his forehead with stubby fingers. “Before that. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

NO. BUT THE BONOBOS DID. THEY KNEW SOMEONE WAS OUT THERE. THEY SMELLED SMOKE. ASK THEM WHEN THEY COME DOWN.

“What?” The detective froze with his pen pressed to his pad. “No, never mind,” he said. He sighed, put his pad and pen in his shirt pocket, and massaged his temples. “Okay, well, thank you for your time,” he said, addressing a portion of wall between Isabel and the balding interpreter. “I hope you feel better soon.”