A Grape in Hand

Gallaudet raised two calloused hands to his chest and shook them, palms up and fingers splayed, as if in prayer. Then he held up two fingers by his head, flicking his wrist forward to draw attention to the gesture.

Want. See.

Nervously, Sawyer studied the deft forms. Then he raised his own hands to sign as he mouthed the words.

I don’t understand. What do you want to see?

Apparently favoring emphasis over clarity, Gallaudet repeated the gesture several more times with mounting intensity.

Want! See! Want! See!

Sawyer knew from experience that Gallaudet would not suffer the indignity of being misunderstood lightly, but what could he do? Sawyer only understood the sixty-odd signs depicted by grayscale disembodied hands in the binder that he picked up from his desk each day before meeting Gallaudet in the yard. He rifled through the pages, hoping he would stumble upon a pictogram he had somehow missed. His search came up empty of course, having already read through those same pages a thousand times this week, trying to decipher what Gallaudet needed to say.

Shhh, Gallaudet. I want to help.

Unimpressed by talk, Gallaudet chose action. He rocketed from his seat, windmilling his arms, ready to swipe away any peace offering. His dark brown eyes narrowed under their heavy brows and he pursed his lips in a mocking coo as he paced in agitation. Occasionally, he paused to slam a heavy palm against the window, lest his displeasure go unnoticed. Sawyer crossed his arms and watched the outburst from behind the glass, perhaps having grown used to the histrionics, or simply accepting that while the bonobo had made great progress in communicating his thoughts, politeness might be a bridge too far.

What do you want to see? Bonobos? Outside? The sky? I want to help.

Gallaudet stomped across the yard in answer, kicking at the dirt and pulling scraggly tufts of yellow grass from the earth. He circled past the rarely used jungle gym, vocalizing his grievances in rough shrieks under the skylight. The small enclosure, which constituted little more than a patch of grass and a few scattered trees, ringed by high concrete walls crudely decorated with paintings of jungle foliage and a downright patronizing smiling cartoon sun, put a practical limit on the extent of his tantrum. Eventually, Gallaudet resigned himself to returning. He sat with his back against the high stone wall, staring at Sawyer through the observation window. A furry but dexterous hand lifted and gently stroked the corners of his mouth, then drifted in a lazy circle over his stomach as if scrubbing a stubborn stain.

Food. Please.

Gallaudet rapped at the hatch where he received his rewards, but Sawyer shook his head, reaching for the sympathetic but firm expression best known to the parents of young children. He pointed at the bonobo and himself several times, in deliberate swooping gestures. Then he held up a finger and ran his opposite fist over it in a grinding motion, before swirling both index fingers rapidly.

Let’s practice signs.

The ape snorted in grudging acceptance. He turned over a wrinkled hand, palm facing towards the sky. Not sign language, something more instinctual, a primal impulse to be seen and understood.

Roughly, I’ll be good now.

Sawyer signed back a quick thank you and dropped a grape down the chute as a show of goodwill. He wasn’t sure yet if he was getting what he needed from teaching a mercurial bonobo sign language, but every time Gallaudet made that inverted peace sign by his temple, Sawyer grew more certain that Gallaudet needed him. Someone had to take that ape to see whatever it was that was so important. His therapist had been telling him for a while now that he needed to find a way to give back, that some real-life connections were all he needed to stop feeling so adrift. After the accident, she told him that again. So here he was at the Primate Bank, a kind of ersatz halfway home for research animals existing somewhere between a traditional zoo and a doggie daycare, trying to make the world a better place or something. It’s like they always say, you can’t undo the past, but you can teach a bonobo ASL.

And after a couple of years of finding out all the things you can’t do with a minor criminal record, it was bracing to find something he could do with a neglected veterinary degree and a renewed commitment to actually showing up for his shifts. There was certainly something gratifying about successfully navigating an exchange with Gallaudet, as if in reaching across the evolutionary divide he had landed on some primordial truth, or if they didn’t quite get to that promised land of mutual understanding, at least reassurance that there was such a thing as a primordial truth.

Other parts of the job were deeply frustrating, like the yard that was much too small or the impenetrable protocols Sawyer was supposed to be following. Watching Gallaudet passing time under the tree, proud and wild, yet saddled with a fancy French name. He had only ever met the head scientist once, at his interview. He treated Sawyer like a grunt because he was a grunt, only capable of regurgitating what he was given in overstuffed briefings. Read your binder, learn your signs, trust the process, read your binder, report any medical change, read your binder, reward desired behaviors, read your binder. Well, whatever Gallaudet needed to see was not in the binder.

Sometime over the last several days, sometime while Gallaudet was in one of his rampages, inflicting his frustrations on the scrubby vegetation, an idea had taken root in Sawyer. Like all ideas, as soon as he noticed it, he tried to uproot it and rid himself of the wretched thing. But this thought was as persistent as it was insidious, and because it was so compact, it could slot neatly into all his usual thoughts as well. The formulation was tantalizingly obvious: everything would be better if he could just show Gallaudet what he wanted to see. If Gallaudet had a chance to see, to really see, Sawyer would be different. He would be able to sleep at night again knowing that the bonobo had found whatever kind of happiness it is that bonobos look for.

After living with this conviction for a few days, Sawyer was resolved. He scanned Gallaudet back into his living quarters and packed away his binder for the day. Gallaudet never paid much attention to goodbyes, but Sawyer still signed his intentions as the bonobo clambered away.

See you tonight.

* * *

It was one in the morning and not only was Dr. Kanzi still trapped at the Primate Bank, but just about every animal in the building was howling after being woken up by some hare-brained scheme from one of his techs. Dr. Kanzi pressed two fingers against his aching eyes, blotting out the sorry figure sitting across from him in his office.

“Honestly, why would you even try this? That bonobo is just as likely to pull your arm from its socket as guide you on a spirit quest.”

Some thirty minutes ago, Dr. Kanzi had been on his way home, to what was sure to be a chilly reception given the hour, when he heard shouting in the living quarters. He knew the racket wasn’t just his imagination, but he still wrestled with the idea of slipping out without investigating anyways. There are worse vices than a little willful ignorance every now and then. Maybe some misplaced paternal impulse had got the better of him. One way or another, he made the mistake of checking in on the animals one last time and now he had to deal with this mess.

The scene would have been funny if it didn’t threaten to get the Primate Bank shut down entirely. Usually, Dr. Kanzi audited the keycard logs to coerce the techs into actually completing full sessions with the bonobos, but for some godforsaken reason, this one had decided to sneak back in after hours. The doors to Gallaudet’s room and the yard were flung open, with the hapless Sawyer trying to coax the ape down the hall with a combination of whisper-shouts and some incomprehensibly muddled signs. In a shocking example of misunderstanding relative risk factors, Sawyer was wearing all the appropriate PPE, despite flagrantly disobeying all the other usual safety measures. At least that would be one fewer flavor of incident report to document.

Now, waiting for the terms of his punishment, Sawyer mumbled something inscrutable about following signs and finding himself, then stared at his sneakers, shellshocked and looking certain he was about to be fired.

Their conversation was short and unpleasant.

Later, after a brief stint in bed and a shower that made a mockery of the institution of showering, Dr. Kanzi swiped his card at the gate and stared at the maddeningly blank screen for a few seconds before flipping his card over to the correct side. He winced at the entry alarm. Assuming responsibility for the primates until the technician position could be filled wasn’t the worst part of the ordeal, but it was close.

He opened the animal run leading to the yard and took his place behind the reinforced window. Somewhere deeper in the facility, another buzzer sounded. Gallaudet’s footsteps echoed in the concrete hallway as he ambled into view. He looked surprised to see someone other than Sawyer, insofar as a bonobo can express surprise. Gallaudet ambled around the yard, hollering and wild, as if realizing the extra freedoms afforded by a substitute teacher.

“Oh, it’s like that, now, is it?”

Dr. Kanzi dropped a grape down the chute. It had scarcely hit the bottom of the track before Gallaudet bolted over to the window, suddenly attentive and polite. Dr. Kanzi smiled thinly and showed the bonobo his hands.

Practice signs please.

A hint of smile crept across Gallaudet’s face, perhaps realizing for the first time that the signs he knew might be understood by creatures other than Sawyer. He pointed at himself, then rotated his hands, palms turned heavenward.

I want…

Gallaudet raised two fingers, just parallel with his eyes, and shook them softly.

Dr. Kanzi laughed. “You wily ape! That bleeding heart’s spoiled you. Fine, you can have two, but you have to practice.”

He dropped another grape down the chute.