Half Brother (7 page)

Later, when Jennifer went down to take a dip, I said to David, “Is your sister going out with anyone?”

“Why, thinking of asking her out?” he asked.

The way his lips curled told me I’d made a mistake.

“No, no, I was just wondering.”

“She’s not allowed to date till she’s sixteen. House rules.” “Oh, sure—that’s a pretty good rule,” I said. I didn’t care. I’d put suntan lotion on her back. We were practically dating.

A couple of days later, I woke up with the feeling something was wrong. I checked my clock radio and saw it was 7:20 a.m. Since Zan had arrived, I’d been waking up whenever he did, because the university had hooked up this radio monitor between Zan’s bedroom and Mom and Dad’s. When Zan woke up in the night, or in the morning, we’d hear him crying out for us, and someone would go down to him.

He was usually awake by seven, but I hadn’t heard a peep from the monitor. It was Saturday and Mom and Dad were sleeping in.

I waited another ten minutes and then went downstairs and let myself into his suite.

He was still asleep, which was unusual. Before I even touched his little body I could feel the heat coming off it. He stirred and made a moaning sound. When I picked him up he was limp, and trembling. Right away I carried him upstairs to Mom and Dad.

“I think Zan’s sick,” I said.

Mom and Dad sat up in bed, and I passed Zan to Mom. “He’s got a fever,” said Mom. “A big one.” Dad was looking really worried, and he almost never looked worried. That made me freak out big time. “Call the vet!” I said.

“No, the university arranged to have a medical doctor for him,” said Dad, hopping out of bed. “I’ve got the number …”

He went to his study, and I heard him talking on the phone.

Mom and I got dressed. We tried to give Zan a bottle but he seemed too dopey to take much of it.

It seemed forever before the doctor arrived, but when I looked at the clock I saw it was only forty-five minutes. He examined Zan in the living room.

“Pneumonia,” he said. “He’ll need antibiotics.”

It seemed strange that he could have pneumonia in the summertime.

“I can give a liquid form,” said Dr. Jakes. “Is he taking his bottle?”

Mom shook her head. “Not properly.”

“We’ll need to set him up with an IV, then. It’s in my car.”

“Is it serious?” I asked him, my voice shaking.

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he’ll be okay.”

He had a hard time getting a needle into Zan’s thick skin;
I winced every time I saw the tip jabbing him. Zan was too sick to do more than whimper. Finally the doctor managed to get the needle into the vein, and he set up the IV stand. Soon a plastic bag of antibiotics was dripping into Zan.

“I’ll come back at the end of the afternoon,” said Dr. Jakes. “Call me if there’s any big change, though.”

I couldn’t eat my breakfast. I felt guilty. Maybe we should’ve been dressing Zan more warmly when we took him outside into the backyard. His body was made for the tropics, not for Victoria, even though it was a nice warm summer.

Dad stayed home all that day, and seemed just as concerned as Mom and me. Zan kept sleeping, which Mom said was good, because he wouldn’t be ripping out the IV, and the drugs could do their work making him better.

Mom held him on the sofa and I held him too. His little body was hot and limp. I was worried he’d die. He seemed so helpless. He didn’t have a real mother or father any more, or brothers or sisters. He really needed us. I looked at him and I didn’t think:
Chimp.
I just thought:
Zan.

The next morning, Zan was more alert when he woke up. By noon he’d ripped out his IV. I got really worried then, because how was he going to get his medicine—every drop counted. But when the doctor came by an hour later, he was delighted, and said Zan was obviously on the mend. He left us with some liquid antibiotics to put in his milk.

Mom went into the kitchen right away to fix him a bottle and a dose. When she came back to the sofa to feed him, Zan took the bottle eagerly in his feet, sucked for a minute, and then reached out for me with his arms.

Mom smiled. “I think he wants you to feed him.” “Really?” I said, smiling.

She passed him into my lap, where he sat, happily sucking away.

And then I did something I’d never done before: I kissed him on the head.

I
n the last week of August, Dad and Mom started interviewing students to work with Zan. The idea was that Zan would have someone with him from eight in the morning till six in the evening, taking care of him and playing with him, but all the while teaching him sign language.

Even though it was Dad’s project, he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Zan. He’d be at the university, teaching courses, and going through the data everyone collected. Day by day it was Mom who’d be running the show, doing a five-hour shift, training and overseeing the students, and working on her doctoral thesis. Mom and Dad figured they’d need at least ten research students.

Mom wanted the interviews to be at our house, so the applicants could meet Zan. And Zan was picky. There were lots of people he didn’t like, especially guys. He wouldn’t come close to them, or he’d be aggressive and pull at them and shriek. A couple, he tried to bite. Maybe he saw them all as trespassers.
Chimps were very territorial, and Zan seemed to think the house was his to rule. He didn’t want any more males in it.

And Dad was almost as picky. He thought most of the students were flakes he wouldn’t trust to fill up the car. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any shortage of people wanting to work with Zan. Dad said the entire university was buzzing about the experiment, and lots of students were eager to play with a baby chimp, and earn some extra money and course credit.

But as September crept closer, they’d hired only six people.

Peter McIvor arrived for his interview on a Tuesday afternoon, fifteen minutes late. I was the one who opened the door. He had long brown hair in a ponytail and a beard, and his clothes were very hippyish. He actually wore a Peace button. He looked rumpled, and smelled musty.

“Hey!” he said with a smile so big and friendly I smiled back right away.

“Hi,” I said.

“I’m Peter McIvor. Sorry I’m late. I sort of … got lost. Had to ask for directions.”

He looked back vaguely at his car, like he was amazed he’d made it here. I was amazed too. His car was the most beat-up thing I’d ever seen. I felt kind of sorry for him. I knew Dad wouldn’t like him.

“Listen,” I whispered, and he leaned in closer. “When he asks you why you want to work for the project, tell him you think Chomsky is dead wrong. Chimps do have the cognitive ability to acquire language. Tell him you want to be part of the world’s first study to communicate with another species.”

I’d eavesdropped on enough of these interviews to know the questions Dad asked, and the kinds of answers he liked. “Uh-huh,” said Peter. “Cool.”

“Come on in,” I said, and showed him into the living room, where Dad was waiting with all these notebooks around him, looking terrifying and stern. I headed upstairs. But just at the top, I stopped and waited so I could hear what happened.

At first, Dad did the talking: his usual spiel about the project and its aims. I heard some papers rustling, and knew he was reading through Peter’s resumé and transcripts.

“So,” said Dad, “you’re going into your third year … majoring in psychology. You’ve got some linguistics courses under your belt, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Your second-year marks are a bit sloppy.”

It was the same kind of thing Dad said to me about my report cards.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “I didn’t have a great year last year, but I’m much more organized this year, more focused, you know?” “Do you know any ASL?” Dad asked. “What’s ASL?”

I winced. This was not going so well. “American Sign Language. That’s what we’ll be using to teach Zan.”

“No, but I’m good with languages. I grew up in Montreal and my French is still pretty good. I could pick ALS up like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“ASL,” corrected my father. “And you’d have to pick it up fast. So why do you want to work with Zan?”

I smiled in relief. I’d given Peter the perfect answer for this one.

“Well, okay, I’m going to be honest about this,” Peter said. “I really liked
Planet of the Apes,
not the movie, but the book, you know, the original French novel? I mean, I didn’t
read
it in French—but it was written in French, originally. The movie was all right—did you see the movie?”

“I didn’t, no,” I heard Dad say tersely.

My mouth was hanging open. I couldn’t believe it. What was Peter doing?

“Anyway,” he went on, “I just … it was really thought-provoking, and it made me think about ape intelligence and human intelligence and, yeah, I’m curious about how smart they are. Because in the book they evolve way beyond us. We like to think we’re the smartest thing going, but maybe we aren’t, you know?”

“Well, in this world we are,” said Dad.

“And I love animals,” Peter hurried on. “I had tons of pets growing up.”

“This isn’t about pets,” said Dad. “This is about finding out how language begins, and whether humans are the only creatures capable of it.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “But you’d want someone who was good with animals, wouldn’t you? If you wanted to teach the chimp.”

I came downstairs and went to the kitchen to get a drink. As I passed the living room I caught Peter’s eye. He looked defeated, slouched in his chair. In the kitchen I opened the fridge and took out the bottle of Coke, listening.

“I don’t know if you’re ready for this, Peter,” I heard Dad
say. “Seems to me you need to be concentrating on pulling up your marks.”

“Well, I’ll definitely be doing that,” Peter replied. “But I’d also love to be part of this project. I mean, Chomsky is just way out of line on this, you know? Humans aren’t the only animals on the planet that can have language. I know Zan could learn.”

I paused, mid-pour, for Dad’s reaction.

“Interesting,” Dad said. “So you’re more a proponent of B.F. Skinner?”

“Absolutely,” said Peter. “I think his ideas about behavioural conditioning are far more persuasive.” “Right on,” I murmured to myself.

I turned as the sliding door to the backyard opened and Mom came in, carrying Zan. During an interview, she would always take Zan outside so Dad could conduct the session in peace, and then she’d bring him in at the end.

“How’s it going?” Mom whispered to me.

“I like him,” I whispered back. “Dad might be coming round.”

Mom nodded and went through to the living room. I hung back in the doorway, watching.

“Hey, there’s the little man,” said Peter when he caught sight of Zan.

Mom put Zan down on the carpet. A lot of the time, Zan would just scamper back to her, but not this time. He looked at Dad, then Peter—and made a happy pant-hoot and scampered straight for him. He grabbed hold of Peter’s leg and stared up at him beseechingly.

“I think he wants a hug,” said Mom.

Without hesitation, Peter reached down and lifted Zan onto his lap. It was the first time I’d seen Zan so eager to meet someone outside our family.

“Hello, Zan,” said Peter, smiling.

Zan pulled on Peter’s beard.

“He likes you,” Mom told Peter.

“And I like him,” said Peter, chuckling as Zan tried to pull off his Peace button. “Wow,” Peter said. “His eyes.” “What about them?” Dad asked.

“It’s just—you look into them and there’s a real person there looking right back at you.”

I liked Peter even more. Zan was now climbing up his chest to his shoulders, and trying to swing on his ponytail.

“Okay, Peter, we’ll let you know by the end of the week,” said Dad. “Thanks for coming.”

“Why bother keeping him in suspense?” said Mom. “He’s hired.”

Dad looked at her in surprise, and I did too. They’d never told any of the other candidates right away. I could see Dad wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to make a scene in front of Peter. Dad hated scenes; he thought they were “inappropriate.”

“Honest?” Peter said, his face alight, looking from Mom to Dad.

I think he was as confused as I was.

Mom walked towards him with her hand extended. “I’m Sarah Tomlin. I’ll be the chief researcher on the project. We’ll be in touch with your schedule next week.”

“Hey, thanks a ton, thanks so much!” said Peter. “Okay, this is great.”

Zan climbed off Peter and into Mom’s arms.

Dad smiled tightly. “See you next week, then, Peter.”

Two weeks later, Dad dropped me off at Windermere University School on his way to work. I’d been at the school once before, last week, to attend an orientation meeting for new students and their families. We’d met some of the teachers, and taken a tour. But this was the first day of school, for real, and the parking lot was crammed and there were uniformed kids everywhere. My breakfast was doing a slow swirl in my stomach.

Windermere was a bit like a British boarding school—the kind you read about in books, anyway. It had its own campus, with three classroom blocks around a large quadrangle, and a huge playing field (rugby was a big deal, apparently) and a dining hall and residences for the boarders. About half the kids were boarders, and the other half were day students like me. When Mom had first seen the school she’d called some of the buildings fake Tudor. It made me smile now, as I got out of the car.

“Hey,” said Dad from the driver’s seat. “You’re going to love it here.”

“Yep,” I said, and slammed the door, shouldering my knapsack.

I knew where I was going at least. I headed across the quad towards the main classroom block, keeping my eyes open for the Godwins, or Hugh or Evan, but I didn’t see them.

The school smelled like my old school. Floor wax and chalk dust and shoes. I thought I looked like a goof in my uniform, even though Mom and Dad had said I looked fine. Handsome, Mom said. I hated how the shirt and tie felt all tight around my neck.

I found my homeroom, and Mr. Davies was already there.