Douglas signed to Annie, she came to him for a hug, and turned a winsome face to the camera. “Our administrator, Dr. Morris, and I both read it. I commented that I thought it was as good as any kid’s story, so Dr. Morris said, ‘Send it in.’ The editor liked it.” Annie made a “pee” sign to Douglas.
Then, a shot of Dr. Morris in her office, a chimp on her lap, clapping her brown hands.
“Dr. Morris, your school was established five years ago by grants and government funding. What is your purpose here?”
“Well, in the last few decades, apes—mostly chimpanzees like Rose here—have been taught sign language experimentally. Mainly to prove that apes could indeed use language.” Rosie put the tip of her finger through the gold hoop in Dr. Morris’s ear. Dr. Morris took her hand away gently. “We were established with the idea of
“Your school has two orangutans and six chimpanzees. Are there differences in their learning?” the reporter asked.
Dr. Morris nodded emphatically. “Chimpanzees are very clever, but the orang has a different brain structure, which allows for more abstract reasoning. Chimps learn many things quickly, orangs are slower. But the orangutan has the ability to learn in greater depth.”
Shot of Vernon swinging in the ropes in front of the school.
Assuming that Vernon is Annie, the reporter said, “Her teacher felt from the start that Annie was an especially promising student. The basic sentences that she types out on her typewriter are simple but original entertainment.”
Another shot of Annie at the typewriter.
“If you think this is just monkey business, you’d better think again. Tolstoy, watch out!”
Depressed by the lightness, brevity, and the stupid “monkey-business” remark, Douglas turned off the television.
He sat for a long time. Whenever Therese had gone to bed, she had left him silently. After a half hour of staring at the blank screen, he rewound his video recorder and ran it soundlessly until Annie’s face appeared.
And then froze it. He could almost feel again the softness of her halo of red hair against his chin.
He couldn’t sleep.
Therese had rumpled her way out of the sheet and lay on her side, her back to him. He looked at the shape of her shoulder and back, downward to the dip of the waist, up the curve of her hip. Her buttocks were round ovals, one atop the other. Her skin was sleek and shiny in the filtered streetlight coming through the window. She smelled slightly of shampoo and even more slightly of female.
What he felt for her anyone would call “love,” when he thought of her generally. And yet, he found himself helplessly angry with her most of the time. When he thought he could amuse her, it would end with her feelings being hurt for some obscure reason. He heard cruel words come barging out of an otherwise gentle mouth. She took everything seriously; mishaps and misunderstandings occurred beyond his control, beyond his repair.
Under this satiny skin, she was troubled and tense. A lot of sensitivity and fear. He had stopped trying to gain access to what had been the happier parts of her person, not understanding where they had gone. He had stopped wanting to love her, but he didn’t
Sometimes, he thought, it would be easier to have someone like Annie for a wife.
Annie.
He loved her furry face. He loved the unconditional joy in her face when she saw him. It was always there. She was bright and warm and unafraid. She didn’t read things into what he said, but listened and talked with him. They were so natural together. Annie was so filled with vitality.
Douglas withdrew his hand from Therese, whose skin seemed a bare blister of dissatisfaction.
He lay on the floor of the apes’ playroom with the fan blowing across his chest. He held Annie’s report on Lawrence’s
Annie lazily swung from bars criss-crossing the ceiling.
“Paul wasn’t happy at work because the boss looked over his shoulder at his handwriting,” she had written. “But he was happy again later. His brother died and his mother was sad. Paul got sick. He was better and visited his friends again. His mother died and his friends didn’t tickle him anymore.”
Douglas looked over the top of the paper at Annie. True, it was the first time she’d read an “adult” novel, but he’d expected something better than this. He considered asking her if Vernon had written the report for her, but thought better of it.
“Annie,” he said, sitting up. “What do you think this book is really about?”
She swung down and landed on the sofa. “About man,” she said.
Douglas waited. There was no more. “But what about it? Why this man instead of another? What was special about him?”
Annie rubbed her hands together, answerless.
“What about his mother?”
