Sara Gruen - Ape House

He crouched next to her. He held a hand to her forehead. His eyes filled with concern. He went back upstairs and returned with a moist, cool cloth, which he pressed to her cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said moments later, helping her into a taxi. “Let me come with you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, and promptly leaned out of the car to be sick. The cabdriver observed this with alarm through the rearview mirror. Peter lifted the hems of his pants to inspect his shoes and leaned forward to examine Isabel more thoroughly. His eyebrows formed a lopsided V beneath a series of wavy lines. He paused, and then decided.

“I’m coming with you,” he declared. “Wait while I get my coat.”

“No, really, I’m fine.” She groped through her purse for a tissue, beyond mortified. She couldn’t stand for him to see her like this. “Stay,” she insisted, waving a hand in the general direction of the party. “Really. I’ll be fine. Stay and ring in the New Year.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” She sniffed, nodded, and straightened her shoulders.

He watched a moment longer and said, “Drink lots of water. And take Tylenol.”

She nodded. Even in her inebriated state, she could tell that he was considering whether to kiss her. She took mercy on him, pulled the door shut on her taffeta dress, and waved the driver onward.

Isabel had no idea what happened after she left. The party hadn’t quite reached the lampshade stage, but that was certainly the trajectory-veiled grief, an endless supply of alcohol, and resentment on the part of a select few over Peter’s appointment made for a strange and unpredictable atmosphere. Peter had been at the lab for only a year, and there were some who felt the position should have gone to a person with a longer investment in the project.

Nearly twenty hours later, Isabel still felt wretched. She leaned her belly against the edge of the counter and snuck another fleeting glance at Celia, whose shoulder-to-wrist tattoos were displayed in full glory because she was wearing an orange “Peace” tank over a bright purple bra-in January. It wouldn’t surprise Isabel at all if Celia had attempted a bit of political maneuvering at the party. A little dancing, a little flirting, maybe even sidling up to Peter when the ball dropped, angling for a midnight kiss.

Isabel sighed. It wasn’t as if she could take it personally: her relationship with Peter was not yet public. He had proposed only a few days earlier, after an accelerated and passionate courtship-Isabel had never fallen so fast and so hard-but for various reasons, including an ongoing and rancorous custody battle with his ex-wife and concern over how it would be perceived by the department, he felt it best to keep things quiet until they moved in together. Besides which, although Celia apparently had no idea, Peter disliked her.

“What?” Celia stopped digging vegetable peelings out of the bottom of the sink and glanced down the length of her arm.

Isabel realized she’d been staring at the tattoos. She turned her eyes back to the dishes. “Nothing. I just have a headache.”

Bonzi rounded the corner and ambled up to them. Lola rode on her back, jockey-style, tiny fingers laced over her mother’s shoulders.

Celia looked over her shoulder and called out, “Bonzi, did you try to kiss the visitor?”

Bonzi grinned gleefully and spun on her behind, propelling herself with her feet. She touched her fingers to her lips and then her cheek, twice, before crossing both hands over her chest, signing, KISS KISS BONZI LOVE.

Celia laughed. “And what about Mbongo? Did he also love the visitor?”

Bonzi considered for a moment and then wiggled her fingers beneath her chin and swept her hand downward, signing, DIRTY BAD! DIRTY BAD!

“Did Mbongo think the visitor was a dumbass?” continued Celia, stacking clean plates.

“Celia!” Isabel barked. “Language!”

This was precisely why Peter had been unhappy when Richard Hughes had bestowed the coveted internship on Celia over a half-dozen other deserving candidates. He was worried about her colorful language. If one of the bonobos picked up an offensive phrase and used it the requisite number of times in proper context, it would have to be included in the official lexicon. It was one thing when a bonobo came up with an insult like “dirty bad toilet” on his own, and quite another to acquire “dumbass” from a human.

Although Bonzi had been conversing with Celia, she was now looking intently at Isabel. Her expression shifted to worry. SMILE HUG, she signed. BONZI LOVE VISITOR, KISS KISS.

“Don’t worry, Bonzi. I’m not mad at you,” Isabel said, speaking and signing simultaneously. She threw an accusatory glare in Celia’s direction to drive her point home. “Don’t you want to watch the rest of the movie?”

WANT COFFEE.

“Sure, I can make coffee.”

WANT CANDY COFFEE. ISABEL GO. HURRY GIMME.

Isabel laughed and assumed a posture of mock offense. “You don’t like my coffee?”

Bonzi sat on her haunches, looking sheepish. Lola climbed over her shoulder and blinked at Isabel.

“Touché. Neither do I,” Isabel conceded. “You want a caramel macchiato?”

Bonzi yipped excitedly. GOOD DRINK. GO HURRY, said her hands.

“Okay. You want marshmallow on that?” said Isabel, using Bonzi’s term for the sweet froth on the top.

SMILE SMILE, HUG HUG.

Isabel threw the damp dish towel over her shoulder and wiped her still-clammy hands on her thighs.

“You want me to go?” Celia said.

“Sure. Thanks.” Isabel was surprised by the offer, and also grateful, on account of her lingering headache. Celia’s shift had technically ended almost a quarter of an hour earlier. “I’ll finish up here.”

Celia waited as Isabel lined the carts up against the wall. “Ahem,” she said finally.

Isabel looked up. “What?”

“Can I take your car? Mine’s in the shop.”

Mystery solved. Isabel nearly laughed out loud. Celia wanted a ride home at the end of the night.

Isabel patted her pockets until a lump jingled.

GRAB PICTURE, said Bonzi.

“Take the video camera,” Isabel said, tossing the keys in a perfect arc. “And make sure you ask for decaf. And skim milk.”

Celia nodded and snatched the keys from the air.

All the bonobos-but especially Bonzi-loved watching videos of humans carrying out their requests. The bonobos used to ride along on limited errands, but all that stopped two years ago on the day Bonzi decided to steer the car and nearly wrapped it around a telephone pole. She’d simply reached across and grabbed the steering wheel. Isabel managed to brake before impact, but not before running off the road. This happened less than a week after Dr. Hughes’s car was swarmed at a McDonald’s drive-through when the driver of a passenger van in front of them glanced in his rearview mirror and spied Mbongo-who had successfully talked his way into a rare and cherished cheeseburger-riding shotgun. Moments later adults and children alike mobbed the car screaming, “Monkey! Monkey!” while trying to thrust their arms through the windows. Mbongo’s response was to dive beneath the backseat as Dr. Hughes closed the windows, but that, followed by the Bonzi-steering episode, sounded the death knell for public outings.

The bonobos missed their contact with the outside world (although, when asked, they were absolutely firm in their belief that the double electric fence and moat around their outside play yard was there to keep people and cats out rather than bonobos in), so now Isabel and the others brought the outside world to them by video. At this point, the local shopkeepers thought nothing of being filmed for the viewing pleasure of the neighborhood apes.