Hall of Small Mammals (22 page)

“This is it for me,” Cecilia said. “This has to be it. It's not healthy to dwell on this for too long.”

Bert nodded and Delia said, “For us too. Absolutely. This is goodbye. That's what I keep telling Bert. We have to move on. Right, Bert?”

“Right,” he said. “Yes.”

The helicopter banked left, and they fell forward into their seat belts. For a moment Bert feared the pilot was trying to toss them, but then the craft evened out, and they were on their way home.

•   •   •

His oldest daughter was visiting from out West the day three large cardboard boxes showed up on the doorstep. They contained some of his brother's belongings, the tapestries and photographs from his apartment, the stone Ganesha. He paraded it into the kitchen, where his wife and daughter were boiling water for tea.

“No,” Delia said. “Absolutely not. Not in this house.”

“Oh, he's not so bad,” his daughter said, holding it under its lowest arms like a toddler. “He'd make a pretty good doorstop, I'll bet.”

“I'm taking him to work,” Bert said to Delia. “You won't have to ever look at him again, I promise.”

“You'll scare off all the customers,” Delia said, pouring water into mugs. “People will lose their appetites. The business will go under.”

It had been almost a year since their helicopter ride, and in that time he'd scrapped plans for a fourth Pop-Yop franchise and sold his third location to its manager, a nice young girl who, he had to admit, deserved most of the credit for its recent success. Bert wasn't ready for retirement, not yet, but he could feel himself losing steam. He had plenty of savings. He and Delia had even talked about traveling more, possibly on a cruise, in the Caribbean or in the Baltic or, eventually, both. He imagined himself standing on the lido deck with a cigar and seeing, in the gray distance, his brother's ship. Wouldn't that be something, brothers on tandem ships.

Rob was out there, somewhere. Mrs. Oliver, who'd been emailing him less and less frequently, sometimes wrote Bert notes that included only GPS coordinates. To keep track of his brother's movements, he bought a small world map that he could fold and keep in his wallet. He recorded Rob's route as a series of dots across the latitudinal and longitudinal lines. His brother traveled south across the Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, and then east across the Indian Ocean, where he was transferred to a military plane and flown to an undisclosed location off the Australian coast. He was there for a full six months before details surfaced that he was on the move again, this time north to a research facility off the coast of Japan.

There, they dipped and froze Rob's body in a mixture of gelatin and water and then cut the entirety of him into wafer-thin sheets. Each slice, only a millimeter thick, was scanned and
digitized. Scanning one layer meant obliterating the previous one, and by the end of the process, Mrs. Oliver explained, there was nothing left of him, as he'd been ground up into a fine and invisible dust, neutralized and vacuumed into nonexistence.

God forbid Rob should ever rise from the dead: Bert wrote this to Mrs. Oliver with a glint in his eye, as a joke, but after pushing Send, he realized it was no joke at all. Some part of him really did wonder if there was something to it, to the idea of a physical resurrection, of the roaming spirit's future need for its body.

Mrs. Oliver never addressed that particular concern, not explicitly, but she did say that she didn't want Bert to worry. In fact, she saw no reason why Bert shouldn't get his own copy of the slides. His brother was computerized now and, as a digital entity stored on a number of servers, he would quite possibly outlast them all.

And so she began transmitting his brother electronically as a tremendous file that contained over two thousand high-resolution images. The software that assembled them did so in real-time, and over the course of an afternoon Bert watched his brother load onto his computer, the layers stacking into a familiar shape—toes, feet, ankles, legs, knees, all of it adding up to . . .

. . . to what, exactly? Entire parts, he realized, were missing: an arm, a section of shoulder, his mouth, an eye. Though Bert could flip through his brother's body like the pages of a book, could click down through the pale skin, could rotate each bone and navigate the world of his organs, Rob remained an incomplete specimen, a redacted document. When he let Mrs. Oliver know this, she was embarrassed to admit that she hadn't yet secured the rights to certain slices, the scans of which were currently on lockdown for reasons she couldn't disclose.

To Bert, this latest—and possibly final—hiccup was so absurd he considered breaking off communication with Mrs. Oliver altogether. He printed out his brother's incomplete naked body on his office printer and called up Mrs. Oliver. “You've done all you can,” he told her. “And I'm grateful for that.”

“We'll get the clearance,” she said. “Eventually. I promise you that.”

The stone Ganesha was on the shelf above Bert's desk, and he stood up from his roller chair so that he was eye-level with it. “And I don't doubt you,” he said to Mrs. Oliver, cradling the hot phone between his ear and shoulder so that he could fold up the printout of his brother and stick it under the statue. It was off-balance now and seemed to lean forward. Bert stepped back and bounced the floor to make sure the statue wouldn't come tumbling off the shelf. It seemed sturdy enough.

Mrs. Oliver was still on the line, reiterating how committed she was to securing the rest of the files and completing the process. She would be there for him, she said, almost pleasantly. She would continue to work on his behalf with the powers-that-be. “More as I have it,” she said, and hung up.

T
he zoo, finally, was going to let the public see its baby Pippin Monkeys.

“I bet we won't be able to get very close,” Val said. Like always, he had on his blue backpack, the one that contained what I understood to be his novel
-
in-progress
,
plus his supply of granola bars, arrowroot cookies, popcorn, and insulin injections. The water bottle clipped to the side of the backpack was metal and shiny in the cloudless afternoon heat. Val was my girlfriend's twelve-year-old son, and I wanted him to like me.

We were at the back of a very long line that began near the Panda Plaza and wound all the way around the Elephant House. Nobody was very interested in the elephants or the pandas at the moment. Everyone was at the zoo for the baby Pippins. If just one of the three Pippin Monkeys survived to maturity, it would apparently be a major feat for the zoo, since no other institution had been able to keep its Pippins alive for very long in captivity. The creatures came from somewhere in South America. They were
endangered and probably would go extinct soon. But before they did, Val wanted to see one up close: the gray fuzzy hair, the pink face, the giant empty black eyes. Val wanted to take a picture to show his friends.

“I can turn off the flash,” he said, messing with his camera phone. We had just passed a sign that banned all photography once we were inside the Hall of Small Mammals, where the Pippins were on display for one weekend only. “No one will notice,” he said.

“Just be covert about it,” I said, though I didn't really approve. Generally I don't condone rule-breaking of any kind. I've always been this way. At the airport, when there's a line roped off for the check-in counter, I will walk the entire maze, back and forth, even if I'm the only one there to see me do it. If my car barely protrudes into a nonparking zone, I will drive for miles in search of another spot.

Val tapped his sneaker on the asphalt, steaming from the earlier spray of the sprinklers. By this point we'd been waiting for almost an hour and had not even passed the Elephant House. I tugged my shirt off my sticky back to let in some air. Directly behind us in line, a man with a comb-over fished around in his neon green fanny pack and produced two Wetnaps, one for himself and one for his wife, a somber-looking woman in a zebra-print dress that I gathered she had picked out specifically for this excursion. I watched them unfold their antibacterial napkins with care and scrub every inch of their hands—palms, fingers, creases, wrinkles, even up past the wrists. Watching them groom was exhausting. All of this was exhausting.

I was ready to give up and go home, but, ever since seeing the
color photo of the Pippins in the magazine insert of the Saturday newspaper, Val had talked about little else. It would make him so happy, his mother had said. Val had studied up on Pippins and knew all there was to know about their tool-making intelligence and diet, about the destruction of their leafy forest home in wherever-it-was, about the mysterious malaise that overcame captive Pippins and made reproduction difficult and rare. Frankly, I didn't want to hear any more about the godforsaken Pippins.

“So,” I said, trying not to sound bored, “tell me about your novel.” Val looked up at me like I'd just asked him to squash the family hamster.

“First of all,” he said, “it's not a novel. It's a screenplay.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I was under the impression it was a novel.” I didn't tell him that his mother had more than once referred to it as
Val's not-so-secret secret novel.
“What's it about?”

The boy sighed. “Okay,” he said. “So what do you know about sensory deprivation?”

I admitted that I knew very little about sensory deprivation.

“Well, you probably won't get it, then,” he said, and writhed loose from his backpack straps. He took out a granola bar and his insulin kit and then handed me the pack like I was his personal valet, which in a way I suppose I was. “I need to go do this now,” he said. “Don't get out of line. I'll be right back.”

I watched him waddle off toward the bathrooms taking big bites of the bar. Maybe it was his flat dry hair or his tube socks or his white hairless legs, but Val already had the look of a middle-age government employee. I saw nothing of his mother in him, so he must have resembled his father, a man who lived in the same city but whom I'd never met and never would. I'd been dating
Val's mother for only a few months. She worked in the same building as me but for a separate company. Her department did something that involved cardboard tubes. The tubes were different sizes and lengths and colors. They leaned against all the walls and desks on her floor. She didn't enjoy discussing her work. “That's not
who
I am,” she'd say. By the time we broke up, not long after my visit to the zoo with Val, I still hadn't figured out if her company shipped the tubes or received them or made them or what.

The couple behind me in line was getting impatient.

“This is ridiculous,” I heard the man say. “They have a responsibility to keep the line moving, don't they? How much time do you need in there? One look and go.”

The woman examined her zoo map, did some calculations on it with a pen from her purse. “We started here and now we're here,” she said. “That's about two hundred feet. Divide by the time, and we're moving at a rate of”—she scribbled—“three feet per minute.”

“And,” the man said, “so what?”

“That means we should be there in”—she scribbled some more—“seventy-two minutes. At this current rate, I mean.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” the man asked.

I had to agree with the man. Seventy-two minutes was a lifetime. I checked my watch as we shuffled forward. The zoo would close its gates in two hours. The sprinklers came back on outside the Elephant House ahead of us and large misty clouds floated over the ferns along the walkway, giant ferns with long, sweeping fronds that knocked against the shoes of the few people on their way to see the elephants. I searched Val's backpack for some hard candy. He had some peppermints and half a bag of peach
lozenges, and I helped myself to a handful of those. I also couldn't resist looking at his screenplay. I suppose that's why, really, I'd opened the bag in the first place. Just to have a quick peek. I didn't have to take out the pages to read them. Somehow that made it feel like less of a violation.

The title page said
Prehistory X by Valentine Creel
,
and it had his home address at the bottom. The story was about time travel, that much I could see right away. Val's hero was the son of a famous scientist, who in the first scene turned up dead in her lab. I gathered that by using a sensory deprivation tank the hero's mother had figured out a way to move through time with her mind. Soon, using his mother's copious notes, the hero was whipped back to the Bronze Age, a scary place populated by gruesome men with painted faces and women with large “cannonball” breasts. Miraculously everyone spoke English. The villain was some sort of tribal chieftain who was holding the mother captive. Yes, she was still alive. I no longer remember how Val explained it scientifically but I think it involved a disembodied mind, forever lost in time.

“Give me some skin,” the villain said at one point, spear raised. The line stuck out because it was something I often said to Val, ironically, palm raised for a high five, though of course in the context of this scene, the line must have had a different, more ominous meaning.
Prehistory X
was not very subtle in its intentions. I had no trouble working out what was going on. The villain was me, clearly, and I was probably going to die before the end of the movie. I should have hated the script, I suppose, but partly I was honored to be included at all.

“I think the pace is picking up,” the woman behind me said, and when I looked up, I saw that she was right. We were really
moving now. I could see the entrance to the Hall of Small Mammals, its brown double doors open wide to receive us. But where was Val? I scanned the crowds. Had I been wrong to let a twelve-year-old go off on his own at a public zoo? I was beginning to suspect that I'd made a poor decision. My experience with children was and is fairly limited. I have two nieces that I rarely see in person, though my fridge is plastered with their childhood photos and printed emails. My older brother, the girls' father, once said that being a parent is the most important thing he's ever done with his life. I've never had the nerve to ask him what that says about my life.

“Here we go,” the woman said. “I can't wait. I'll bet they are so adorable. I wish we could touch one.”

I stepped out of line and gazed back at the man and woman and all the people behind them. I didn't see any sign of Val. He'd been gone for more than twenty minutes.

“Would you mind holding my place?” I asked the couple.

The woman said of course they wouldn't mind, but my request agitated the man. He rotated his fanny pack from right to left hip. “Well,” he added, “we can try.”

I set off for the bathrooms with Val's blue backpack over my shoulder. Children streamed by eating cotton candy and peanuts and hugging plush animal toys—pandas and giraffes and hippos. Before the Elephant House, I turned left up the paved path to the Hall of Great Apes, just in case Val had gotten distracted. Overhead, along cables that connected the Ape Hall to what looked like a cell phone tower, an orangutan bounced up and down on the lines. Long sinewy muscles, pouting mouth, thin orange
hair—the orangutan had the look of an aging body builder, a creature long past his prime but presiding over the crowds from his cables. He tracked my progress toward the door.

With everyone in line for the Pippins at the Hall of Small Mammals, I was alone with the bigger apes. In the first room, behind a wall of glass, five well-mannered chimpanzees played sluggishly in stooped fake trees. They regarded me coolly. In the next room, I discovered the Gibbon Monkeys, white and shiny coats, all of them silent and unblinking. In the final room were the Orangutans. Three sat in some straw on the concrete floor, shoulders hunched, a semicircle. Had one of them thrown down an Ace of Spades and said, “Read 'em and weep,” I wouldn't have been much surprised. From a shaft at the top of the enclosure, a fourth orangutan descended on a network of metal crossbars. He was the one I'd seen outside, and sure enough, he sat apart from the others, chin jutting out, eyes recessed in his wrinkled face, cheek pads gray, cracked, and bulging. He wasn't staring right at me. It was more unsettling than that. He was more like someone you see out at dinner one night whom you almost recognize, the person who keeps sneaking glances at you over the wine menu, a don't-I-know-you-from-somewhere expression on his face. One solitary creature regarding another, I guess you could call it.

I didn't linger. I couldn't. Val was not in the Hall of Great Apes. My detour had been another bad decision. I was beginning to panic. I imagined the boy in the trunk of a kidnapper's car, red brake lights across his helpless, tear-streaked face. I imagined him convulsing on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, the oxygen mask over his mouth. I walked faster. Maybe the zoo was going to
have to make one of those announcements over the loudspeaker that has shamed so many parents over the years, but in the end, Val was the one who found me.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He'd run up behind me, his glasses slightly skewed, hair wet in front.

“I was looking for
you
,” I said. I was relieved but also a little irritated to see him again.

“Just great,” he said. “Wonderful. I leave you alone for ten minutes. Was I not clear enough? Didn't I tell you not to get out of line?”

I admitted that yes, those had been his instructions, but I'd had my reasons for disobeying. He was only twelve after all and as his guardian for the day, my first responsibility was his safety and not holding his place in line. Hearing this sent Val into a rage. He called me useless. He called me hopeless and worse. He spoke with such authority that I almost believed he was right. When he grabbed his backpack from me and started back toward the Hall of Small Mammals, I fell into step behind him.

“Actually,” I called up to him when I remembered it, “someone is holding our place.” If Val heard me, he gave no indication. His blue backpack was flush against his neatly pressed short-sleeve checkered shirt. He stomped ahead, resolute, tight pink corpuscle fists at his side, thumbs jammed through his belt loops. When we got to the Hall, the couple holding our place had already gone inside. Val was two seconds behind me in putting it together. I had no idea what to do next, and Val despaired.

“You do realize this is a limited-time exhibit?” he said.

Not for the first time Val's obsession with these creatures was beginning to bother me. What was so fascinating about them?
Even if they all died out one day, we still had plenty of other monkeys to admire—Spider Monkeys, Squirrel Monkeys, Marmosets, and Howlers. I found it difficult to care much about an animal with so little regard for itself and for the survival of its own species that scientists had been forced to extract semen from unwilling males for insemination in the unwilling females. I wasn't going to miss the Pippins when they disappeared from the earth. But I suggested to Val that we get back in line. Maybe the zoo would stay open late to accommodate all the extra people. He was doubtful but agreed that we should at least try. We turned to walk, and just when I thought I'd finally brought him around to my side again, a zoo official in khaki duds came out of the Hall of Small Mammals. He was a short, plump man with messy dark hair. He counted off twenty people—“One, two, three,” his finger pointing—and then announced that everyone else was out of luck.

“I'm sorry,” he said over the groans and complaints, “but that's the way it is.”