Half Brother

  The smell of the cheese fondue suddenly seemed sour. “Why’s Helson getting letters from them?” I asked.

  “Helson’s sold a couple of his chimps there in the past,” said Peter. “A long time ago. He keeps it quiet.”

  “I think we’re all getting excited about nothing,” Mom said. “Helson got a letter from the Thurston Foundation—so what? It could be about anything.”

  Peter was silent. Mom looked at him. I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Did you see the letter?” I demanded.

  “I have the letter,” said Peter. “This morning I arrived at Helson’s the same time as the mail van. I was just closing the gate behind me and the guy handed me a stack of mail, and I said I’d take it up to the office. The letter was right on top.”

  He stood up and went to his bookcase and pulled an envelope from between the books. He let it dangle between two fingers, like it was contaminated. “I haven’t opened it,” he said.

  “That’s good,” said Mom. “That’s illegal, opening someone else’s mail.”

  “A federal offence, they call it down here,” said Peter.

  He put it down on the table. We all stared at it.

  “Have you got a kettle?” Mom asked.

  “Right over here,” said Peter. “Have you done this before?”

  She shook her head. “How hard can it be?”

  We boiled water in the kettle and carefully swished the letter through the steam. Then, with a butter knife, Mom tried to prise the envelope open along the seal. It took a surprisingly long time. She did a great job, leaving only one little tear.

  She pulled out the letter. It was a single piece of paper, thick and creamy. Across the top was the green logo of the Thurston Foundation, which looked very space age—a brain with atoms swirling around it, like they were going to single-handedly perfect the human race.

  Dear Dr. Helson

  RE: CH-54, CH-37, CH-72

  With reference to our recent correspondence, please find enclosed our offer of purchase for the above-cited chimpanzees.

  We can offer the price of $30,000, half upon signature of this agreement, half on the receipt of said healthy chimps at our facility.

  As discussed earlier, you will bear the cost of their transportation.

  There was some more stuff, and then a signature. “So he’s selling three chimps,” I said dully. “Trying, anyway,” said Mom. “Do you know which ones, Peter?”

  Peter looked back at the top of the letter. I felt a terrible dread building in me.

  “CH-54 is Igor. CH-37, that’s Caliban. And CH-72. That’s Zan.”

  We talked and talked.

  Mom said, “He promised Zan would never be used in biomedical experiments.”

  “Did Richard get it in writing?” Peter asked.

  Mom took a breath. “I don’t know.”

  “If it’s not in writing, it’s no good, is it? I mean, in a court of law?”

  “What if we offer to buy Zan?” I blurted out. “He’d be suspicious,” said Peter. “He’d think we knew something.”

  Mom said, “Would he? He knows Ben’s heartbroken and wants Zan back. Could be as simple as that.”

  Peter thought for a moment. “Helson’s been working chimps for twenty years. He can read people just like they can. He can practically smell your thoughts. The guy’s uncanny. Scares the hell out of me. Anyway, he wouldn’t sell Zan to you.”

  “Why not?” Mom asked.

  Peter said, “He needs Zan to sell the others.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Zan’s the youngest. He’s the most valuable. He’s fresh, young, untainted. They can use him the longest. The other two are older. Zan’s the prize. Helson won’t sell him alone. I can almost promise you.”

  We talked into the early hours of morning before we decided what to do.

  We would steal Zan.

  TWENTY-THREE

  STEALING ZAN

  “This is crazy,” Mom murmured.

  We killed the headlights as we pulled onto the long driveway, crept slowly along the gravel in the moonlight for a few minutes, then pulled over, way before we could even see the farmhouse or other buildings. Through the open car windows the air was perfect body temperature. Cricket chatter rose from the fields. It was 3:22 in the morning. We’d spent a whole day preparing for this.

  Mom and I got out of the car, and closed the doors silently, then started down the drive, walking on the grassy verge so our footsteps were soundless. Our cold hands touched and she gave me a quick encouraging squeeze. Thank goodness the Helsons didn’t keep any dogs at the front of the property, or they’d have been all over us by now.

  Peter had wanted to come with us, but Mom had said no. If Helson figured out he was mixed up in this in any way, he’d probably get booted out of university—or worse.

  Ahead I could make out the low outline of the chimp house. In the farmhouse all the lights were out. Good. The chimp house would be locked, as would all the cages. The keys were kept in the shed just behind the chimp house, and the rusted padlock didn’t close properly.

  Getting to the shed was scary because it meant sneaking right past the farmhouse. I hoped the Helsons were deep sleepers. I thought of Sue-Ellen in her bed. She wouldn’t want Zan to be sent to a lab—or Caliban and Igor either, but I couldn’t do anything about them right now.

  We reached the shed and I was grateful for the big moon. I slid the broken padlock from its clasp and eased the door open. Peter had oiled the hinges yesterday, because normally they gave a terrible shriek, but right now they made barely a sound. From the darkness wafted the smell of oil and straw and rust. I pulled a small penlight from my pocket (bought at the gas station near our motel) and carefully turned it on. Near the door, high on the wall, was a big metal cabinet. Mom opened it up and, while I held the light steady, went through the rows and rows of keys on hooks. Luckily, Helson was an orderly man, and they were all labelled.

  Chimp house. Got it.

  Cage #8. Got it.

  We closed the shed door behind us and moved towards the chimp house. The moonlight let us guide the key into the lock. Slowly, so slowly, we swung open the door, just enough so I could slip inside.

  We’d agreed that only one of us would enter. Less noise, less smell, less chance of rousing the sleeping chimps. It was pitch black, but I dared not use the penlight. Cage eight was nearest the door, and Peter, before his afternoon shift ended, had made sure Zan was in it, alone. He’d made up some excuse about Rachel being crotchety and it being best to split the two of them up. I’d felt a bit bad, because I’d seen how attached they were to each other.

  My outstretched hand touched the bars of the cage. I felt for the door, and the lock. Every second I took was a second longer the chimps might sense me. And then there’d be a godawful racket to wake the entire ranch. I slid in the key and turned.

  I swung open the oiled door, and for a horrible moment wondered: What if someone switched the chimps, and I’ve just opened Zeus’s cage?

  My last memory would be of something grabbing my arm and pulling. Teeth in my face.

  I crouched and stared, willing my eyes to be chimp’s eyes, to bring light to the darkness.

  Zan was sleeping not four feet from the door. I could have gone in and picked him up, but I didn’t want to startle him. He might give a hoot. I waited for a moment, hoping he’d sense me. Wake up. I took a deep breath and silently blew against his head. He murmured and turned. His eyes opened, then widened. He stared.

  I made the sign, Quiet. It was one he understood, though he’d never used it himself.

  Then I made his name. I crossed my chest with the Z and then pointed at him.

  You Zan! Come now.

  For a moment he just sat motionless, and I worried he was too bewildered and scared to move. From some of the other cages I heard movement. Shadows shifted in my peripheral vision.

  If Zan panted or shrieked we were sunk. We’d be caught. Then Zan came.
br />   He ran to me and leapt into my arms so fast I nearly toppled right over. I stood and walked towards the pillar of moonlight at the main door. Then I was outside.

  “All right?” whispered Mom.

  I nodded.

  We walked back toward the car as quickly as we could. I held Zan tight. He kept pulling away and looking around in the dark and giving soft surprised pants, then kissing me on the cheek.

  We reached the car and got in. I sat in the back with Zan. I tried to get the seat belt on him but he kept jumping around.

  “Just try to keep him back there,” said Mom, starting the engine.

  After a few minutes I got him sitting on my lap and talked to him softly as he looked out the window. His body was still small but I could feel the new strength in him; he was heavier too.

  I was shaking.

  “Mom,” I said, “what’s going to happen?” “I don’t know, Ben.”

  I wondered if she was shaking too. I heard a police siren in the distance and wondered if it was coming for us. But it faded away soon enough. We were way out in the middle of nowhere, heading northwest. Darkness towered solid on either side of the road. We were like a spaceship, hurtling across the universe. We were like those astronauts in the Planet of the Apes.

  Before long, we’d crossed the state line into California, which was good. In movies it was always good when you crossed the state line—if you were a criminal, anyway. That way it would take longer for the law to find you. It was still pretty early, and Helson’s staff usually didn’t open up the chimp house until seven o’clock.

  We saw a gas station, and Mom went in and bought some diapers, some cheap shorts, and a T-shirt with a picture of a slot machine on it.

  I tried to get the diaper on Zan, but after going without them for months, there was no way he was putting one back on. He seemed pleased, though, to have shorts and a T-shirt again.

  Pants, he signed. Shirt!

  “Should we call Dad?” I asked, looking at the glowing phone booth outside the gas station.

  “No,” Mom said. “We’ll be home soon enough.”

  We drove. After a while Zan fell asleep against me, and I didn’t move in case I woke him. Before long I was asleep too. When I woke, it was six-thirty and beautiful, the sun rising up over rocky hills.

  “Are you tired?” I asked Mom.

  “Getting there,” she said. “I’m good for another few hours. Then we’ll stop somewhere for breakfast.”

  We didn’t go into a restaurant. We bought stuff at a gas station and ate in the car. We didn’t want anyone seeing Zan, if possible. Now that he was awake, I was a little worried about how he’d behave. Mostly he was pretty good. He could stare out the window for a long time, the wind in his face, just hooting and signing at all the things he saw. He’d never spent much time in a car, so this was all new, and I think he loved it. We’d filled the back with all the blankets and favourite toys from his suitcase—his own moving playroom.

  Once, he crawled into the front seat and put his hand on the wheel. He didn’t turn it or anything, but Mom slowed right down and pulled over. We were both very strict with him and told him he had to stay in the back.

  Sorry, he signed, and felt bad enough that he actually let me buckle him in for a while. Fifteen minutes later, when he wanted out, it took him about two seconds to figure out how to undo the buckle.

  Registering at the motel wasn’t too tricky. Mom just left me and Zan in the car while she checked in at the office, and then we carried Zan in, all wrapped up in a blanket like a big baby—and double-locked the door.

  We bathed him. Mom said it was like the scene in the Bible where Moses parts the Red Sea. Huge waves and water everywhere, people getting doused and drowned. Mom and I both ended up soaked. But afterwards Zan smelled a lot better, though he still didn’t let us put a diaper on him.

  When Mom went out to buy us some food for dinner she got a bunch of new clothing for Zan, since he was going through it so fast and we had no way of cleaning it. Mom was fantastic. I knew she didn’t want Zan ending up in a lab either, but I got the feeling she was doing this mainly for me.

  We didn’t talk about what would happen when we got home.

  We just talked about getting there.

  The next day we drove through Oregon and Washington and reached Port Angeles. We took the last ferry over to Victoria.

  It was very late when we pulled up in the driveway, and Zan was so excited I thought he was going to knock himself out trying to get out of the car. He obviously hadn’t forgotten our house.

  Mom took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel for dear life.

  Lights were on inside, so I knew Dad was home, and awake. I watched the front door, waiting for it to open. For a second, I hoped …

  I hoped it would be like the first time Zan came to us, and Dad would rush out and be happy to see him. And then we’d all eat pizza on the living room floor while Zan slept.

  The front door didn’t open.

  We all got out of the car and went inside. Dad was sitting with a drink in his hand. He looked at all three of us. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

  “Jack Helson called,” he said wearily. “He wondered if I knew anything about the robbery.”

  “Robbery?” I said, horrified by the word. It had been ricocheting in my head the whole drive home, but Mom and I had never said it aloud.

  Dad nodded. “You stole his property.”

  The idea of Zan being owned, being property—I hated it.

  “God, Sarah,” Dad said, slamming his glass down so hard I thought it’d shatter. “What the hell have you done?”

  “He was going to sell Zan to a lab!” I said.

  “The Thurston Foundation,” Mom said. “We saw the letter.”

  “He showed you this letter?” Dad said. “We opened it.”

  “You opened his confidential mail?” Mom nodded. “We did. Because Peter had a hunch he was planning on selling Zan. And he was right.” “Peter’s involved in this too, is he?” Mom said nothing.

  “What Jack Helson does with Zan is not our concern,” Dad said.

  “It is too!” I shouted.

  “It is our concern,” Mom echoed. “We have obligations to Zan. The understanding with Helson was that Zan would not be used for biomedical experiments.”

  As all this was going on, Zan was charging around the house, skidding on cushions, and swiping books out of the shelves and then climbing higher to get at the next row. I think he may have pooped somewhere. He scampered into the kitchen, and I heard the fridge door opening and things hitting the floor.

  With disconcerting calm, Dad said, “Ben, get him under control, and put him in … his room.”

  I left Mom and Dad to fight this out and went to Zan. He was sitting contentedly on the floor amid a pile of food, scooping yogourt out of the tub with his fingers.

  Hide, I signed. Play.

  That caught his attention.

  Come, I signed, leading him into his suite.

  Inside, he looked at his bed for a few seconds, like he couldn’t quite remember what it was for. He was used to sleeping on concrete now. Then he leapt up onto it gleefully. From the shelf he took down his old toys and arranged them around himself in a circle. It seemed such a simple, easy thing. Just a few little scraps of material and bits of plastic in a ring, and he felt safe. But I knew he wasn’t, not yet. Maybe not ever.

  All the way home, I’d let myself fantasize.

  It would be like this:

  Zan would live with us, and be my younger brother. We’d play in the backyard. We’d climb trees together. We’d watch the birds eat seed from their feeders. We’d throw leaves at each other and chase and tickle each other.

  I never thought: Who will take care of him when I’m at school and Mom and Dad are at work?

  I never thought: How will we keep him safe? Keep him from hurting other people and himself?

  Brush teeth, I signed.

  Where toothbru
sh? he signed back.

  He remembered toothbrush, even though he hadn’t used one in months. I went to the little bathroom to check, and found one. We kept plenty because Zan liked brushing his teeth a lot, and tended to chew off the bristles after a couple of weeks.

  I gave him the new toothbrush and watched him go at it. He hadn’t forgotten.

  Through the dark window he looked outside at the backyard.

  Out. Play.

  I shook my head, and he let me pick him up and put him back on his bed, encircled by his toys.

  He didn’t smell very good; he needed another bath.

  I lay down beside him. Putting my arm around him, I could feel his heart beating against my hand.

  I fell asleep on his bed, curled against him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ZAN AT HOME

  Zan and I slept late, even though I’d forgotten to close the curtains. I think it was the breakfast smells coming from the kitchen that finally woke us: bacon and toast and coffee. Zan still looked a little confused by the room and his blankets and toys, and he was bewildered enough to let me get a diaper on him, and then a clean set of clothes, which were really too small for him now. We had a good game of hide-and-seek and tickle-hug and then went into the kitchen to get something to eat.

  Dad and Mom were already there, and Dad was saying, “Helson’s being reasonable. He won’t call the police if we return Zan right away.”

  I guess they hadn’t really settled anything last night. Through the doorway to the living room I saw someone had slept on the sofa. I didn’t think it was Mom. Dad rubbed wearily at his temples when he saw Zan.

  “There’s got to be another option,” Mom said.

  Zan let me slip him into his high chair (also too small for him now), and I started putting all his old favourite foods in front of him. No chimp-loaf for him, not today—not ever again if I could help it.

  “Helson’s perfectly within his rights,” Dad said, “even if he wants to sell Zan.”

  I had an idea. “What if we told the university here that Helson was going to sell Zan to the Thurston Foundation?”