Jennie (36 page)

He turned to face her. You never run away from a chimpanzee. Jennie came straight on and veered past him at the last moment, whacking him across the shins with the branch. The branch cut one of his legs and gave him a nasty set of bruises.

She raced on to a eucalyptus tree and climbed it, still carrying the branch. When she was safely beyond our reach she sat on a limb and barked and screamed at us. I signed
Jennie come down!
But she continued to make a fuss, and threw the branch down at me.

I signed
Bad Jennie come down now!

Jennie finally calmed down enough to respond. She signed
Phooey
, then she signed
Bad bad angry phooey
and every other bad word and obscene gesture she knew. It was quite a remarkable
string of utterances, I daresay one of the most complex of her entire life.
Bad phooey fuck you bad angry bite dirty dirty fuck you
. Excuse my French. Sandy taught her how to give people the finger.

Dr. Gabriel was understandably angry. It had been an unprovoked attack. He stood underneath and shouted at Jennie, until I told him that maybe his presence was not going to encourage her to come down. I suggested he go back to his office, which he did.

At a certain point Jennie began mocking me by repeating every sign I made to her. She would sign back
Bad Jennie! Jennie come down!
imitating me. It made me really angry, until I realized, yet again, just how sophisticated Jennie's understanding of human psychology was. How she could get under your skin!

So we spent a terrible two days trying to get Jennie out of the tree. She endured thirst and hunger rather than descend. We finally—and I hated having to do this—we finally had to tranquilize her with a dart. We lured her to a lower branch with food and we piled some mattresses around the base of the tree. Then Dr. Gabriel shot her, and she fell. She was of course unhurt.

We could only conclude that until Jennie was ready to be released on the island—that is, until she could learn to get along with other chimpanzees—she would have to stay in the cage. In her space.

When Jennie woke up from the tranquilizer, she was furious. She was angrier than ever. She worked herself into such a rage that she choked and spluttered for hours, unable even to scream. She had diarrhea all over herself and we had to spray the hose through the bars while she screamed and thrashed around. I felt so sorry for her.

[F
ROM
an interview with Lea Archibald.]

What makes me so angry about this whole thing was that nobody told us what was going on down there! Dr. Prentiss never called to
say that Jennie was having trouble adjusting or anything. And we called! We called almost every day. “Oh, everything's as expected,” she sang out. “There are a few problems but nothing we can't solve.” That kind of thing. All very vague and evasive.

Nothing about how she was screaming day and night. Nothing about having to shoot her out of a tree. Oh no. Everything was just hunky-dory. Those—I won't even dignify them with a word—they were treating Jennie like a common criminal. I don't know what scientific theory they were operating under that kept Jennie in a cage, but you don't have to be a Harvard scientist to realize that that was going to upset her. And Prentiss kept telling us not to visit, because that would disrupt Jennie's adjustment.

When Hugo and I returned to Kibbencook from Florida, Sandy was gone. He hadn't gone with us to Florida, and as you know he was awfully against the whole idea. He was the only one who remained loyal. He has a heart of gold, that boy. It turned out he was at his girlfriend's house, Sammie—you know, the one with the alcoholic mother. Apparently it was just fine with this woman to have her sixteen-year-old daughter sleeping with a boy right there under her roof. Poor Sandy, he was so hurt and confused.

The house was so
empty
when we returned. There was Sarah—lovely, comforting Sarah, of course—but everything seemed so quiet. In the morning it was as quiet as the grave. No more yells from a hungry chimpanzee, no more banging on the door. Gone were the squeals and hoots from a happy Jennie. No more endless requests for an apple or a tickle. When we lit a fire, there was no Jennie to roast the apples for us. There was no Jennie hammering away on the piano. The silence was eerie. It was like . . . like an unwelcome presence in the house. I complained to Hugo, but he had his office and his work, and I had to bear the empty house alone. Once again, the burden fell on me. Hugo just buried himself in his work after that. He was . . . changed.

After a week Sandy came home. He gave us the silent treatment. He was very upset, the poor boy. I wanted to enfold him in my arms
and just hold him, but of course at his age that was impossible. For a long time he wouldn't even talk about it. Finally one night he and I had a talk.

He kept saying “Why? Why did you have to do it?”

I tried to explain as best I could that it was the only option left. I talked about how beautiful the island was and so forth, but he interrupted. He asked me if she was in a cage.

I had to admit she was. At the time, I believed all the claptrap from Dr. Prentiss and that George Gabriel. I was defending them! To my own son!

All Sandy wanted to know was how long she was going to be in the cage.

I explained again that she would be released on the island as soon as she got used to being with other chimpanzees, and that Dr. Prentiss had said it would take about two weeks.

“And what if she doesn't adjust to other chimpanzees?” Sandy wanted to know.

I explained to him that Dr. Prentiss had told us that never in the history of chimpanzee research had such a thing happened. She told us that chimpanzees recognized their kind, even if they were homeraised and hadn't seen another chimp since they were infants.

Sandy didn't believe a word of it. He said that maybe seeing a chimp as an infant makes all the difference. When in the history of chimpanzee research has there been a chimp that really and truly thought it was human? Who had never seen one of its own kind ever? What about that? This is what he said.

I had no answer for that. Just hope. All I had was hope. That was my answer.

[F
ROM
an interview with Alexander (“Sandy”) Archibald.]

Jennie hit puberty with a bang. If there's one really big difference between chimps and humans, it's in the sexual response. Forgive me
for saying this, but when she was in estrus she was the horniest thing that ever prowled the streets of Kibbencook. When she went into heat, the whole area around her sex organs would swell up and become pink. And she became impossible. Her whole sexual response was directed at human men. When a man came to the house—it didn't matter who it was—she would jump him. Really. Jump into his arms and—well, I know this is going to sound a little disgusting—rub her sex organs on the person while kissing him on the lips. I'm telling you, there could be no mistaking her intentions. The mailman got it, the salesmen got it, random visitors, colleagues of my father—everyone got nailed by Jennie. Even men that Jennie had shown a marked dislike for. Everyone except me and my father.

Now this is very interesting. When she was in estrus, she became downright unfriendly to us. Worse than that, she wanted nothing to do with us. If we tried to hug her or touch her, she screamed bloody murder, like she was about to be molested. She went out of her way to avoid us. If ever there was proof of a biological basis for the incest taboo, Jennie was it. No kidding.

Listen to this. One day, as a joke, I bought a
Playgirl
magazine for Sammie. Jennie was hanging around, in heat, in a very bad mood. When we came into the living room, she got up and went into the dining room and sat in a corner. Signing
Phooey
to herself. Really pissed off. She was always in a bad mood during her “time.”

We were looking through the magazine and laughing. Jennie just couldn't resist laughter. Pretty soon she was standing in the door, still looking pissed off, but her curiosity was getting the better of her.

Finally she swaggered in, pretending to ignore us, and circled around behind so she could see what was so funny. We heard this little grunt and a hairy hand reached out and swiped the magazine. She scooted over to a corner and started looking at it. When I went over she stood up, gave that vicious little bark of hers with her hair all standing up. No way was she going to give back that magazine.

So we watched her. She turned the pages and came to a photograph
of a naked man. She stared at it, her eyes popping. She reached out, and with a hairy finger started stroking and scratching at the man's penis. She rubbed and scratched until her finger had rubbed right through the paper.

She eventually turned to the centerfold, and laid it out on the ground. Staring with this—well, hungry—look. She scratched the penis a little, and then she—I'm sorry, this may sound a little gross—squatted over the centerfold and began rubbing her vagina on the man's penis. Rubbing away with this dreamy look on her face. Then she got up, walked around in a little circle, squatted down over the picture again, and peed! Just a little pee. All the time ignoring us completely. Finally she got up and left, leaving this disgusting, wet magazine lying on the floor. We were both totally grossed out.

Her behavior drove my mother up a wall. It mortified her to have this ape attacking every man who appeared in our house. And she started to masturbate. My mother couldn't get her to quit it. She would sit on the sofa playing with herself! It was worse than having one of those dogs that hump your leg all the time. So my mother started keeping Jennie locked up when she went into estrus. Jennie screamed nonstop when that happened. Jesus, our house was like the C ward at Fernald, where they keep all the guys in straightjackets. I was so wrapped up in Sammie and the fucking revolution that I didn't care or do anything to help. So I got what I so richly deserved in the end, a little memento to last me the rest of my life. I thought Jennie had betrayed me, but it was really me who betrayed Jennie.

What memento? I mean my finger. This. [Editor's note: At this point Sandy held up his hand, which was missing the little finger from the second joint.] My pinky. In case you haven't noticed, it's gone. What, you mean no one told you about this? Jesus, what kind of a journalist are you anyway? Jennie bit my little finger off one day. That's why she was sent away, for chrissakes. I mean, you don't think she was dumped in a prison just because she'd become
a little difficult, do you? My father and mother loved that chimpanzee. For my father to get rid of Jennie—it was like getting rid of his own child. Really. I didn't quite realize it at the time, but my dad was totally hung up on that chimp. But my mom was just terrified that Jennie might hurt Sarah. Because Sarah was a bold little kid. I mean, she didn't let Jennie get away with shit.

Look at you, suddenly on the edge of your seat. Here's a real scoop. Jesus, don't make me think you're like that asshole from
Esquire
. Look, I want you to stick around here for a while before you go running off and writing some bullshit about this whole thing, how I was so psychologically damaged by losing my finger to my chimp sister that I became a hermit or some such shit like that. I'm not kidding. I'm out here for other reasons, reasons I've tried to share with you. Call me a prophet crying in the wilderness, or call me a spoiled rich white suburban kid playing Indian. Okay? But don't go writing any pseudopsychological Freudian Jungian claptrap bullshit about my missing finger. It was no big deal, and you know what? You don't need a left pinky anyway.

First of all, it was my fault that I lost my finger. Entirely my fault. But everyone blamed it on Jennie.

You see, Sammie and I were very tight. It was first love for each of us. Jennie just couldn't accept that. Sammie had a mother who was a spectacular hypochondriac. God, what a piece of work that woman was. Her father had died ten years ago. Her mom stayed upstairs all day in bed and complained about her head. Nursing a bottle of Cutty Sark. For medicinal purposes. Sammie had moved into the basement to get away from her mother, fixed up a room there, and painted the floor red and the walls black. M. C. Escher posters everywhere. Big waterbed. Black light. Collection of glass bongs on the shelf. It was such a perfect sixties crash pad, it could have made an exhibit in the Smithsonian.

Anyway, we went driving with Jennie one day. Early 1974, I think. Jennie didn't like being around Sammie, but by this time she pretty much ignored her. We drove around, with Jennie as usual
hanging out the window and scaring passing motorists and screaming at pedestrians. It was always pretty funny. Then we went by Sammie's house. Jennie had never been to Sammie's house before, and she was always nervous in a new house. I mean really nervous. I think Sammie wanted to pick up her pot or something. She was a real pothead, the poor kid.

We came in the house and there was Sammie's mother upstairs moaning about something, yelling downstairs at Sammie. Jennie got even more nervous. She liked dealing with people face-to-face. And she was hypersensitive to people's moods. So the mother was yelling downstairs, and Sammie said something like “Fuck you, bitch” under her breath, but a little too loudly. So her mom started yelling “What was that? What did you say, you little whore? Come up here and repeat what you just said, you little whore.”

Jennie maybe didn't understand the words, but she got the gist. Her hair stuck out just about as far as it would go and she had this grin of fear on her face. Sammie ignored her mom and we went down to the basement. The problem was, although Jennie picked up on everything that went on around her, she often didn't understand what exactly was going on. All she knew was that hostility was in the air. So she got really nervous and hostile herself. Am I making any sense to you? When people argued around her she often got aggressive. It was dangerous to start yelling at somebody in front of Jennie.