Unspoken Read online

  “I wasn’t concerned that you’re missing movies—I’m concerned that you’re missing friends . Aren’t you even a little tired of planning your schedule around a gorilla?”

  I sighed heavily and kicked off my shoes, then pulled my legs beneath me. I knew I could safely ignore Nana’s question—this was one of those occasions when she felt she had to say certain things because she was the Responsible Adult.

  But I was an adult now, too. And if I wanted to stir things up, I could ask her why she wasted her energy running this rundown motel when she could be living the life of a glamorous widow in a swanky retirement village . . .

  I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. I’d come to her apartment because something in these jumbled rooms made me feel better.

  From the radio on the bookcase, strains of soft music poured into the living room. Some soulful singer sang, “Lord, what a variety of things you have made! The earth is full of your creatures . . .”

  I looked toward the window as the song continued: “Here is the ocean, vast and wide, teeming with life of every kind, animals both great and small.”

  Mr. Mugs, Nana’s elderly Chinese pug, chose that moment to prop his two front feet on the sofa and smile at me.

  “Hey, Mugs.” I scratched him between the ears. “Where’s your pal Charlie?”

  “Those two.” Nana rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mugsy has found a way to lock Charlie in the closet. The other day I heard screaming and found the poor cat shut up in a bathroom cabinet. Apparently Mugsy opened the door and bumped it shut after Charlie climbed in.”

  An instant later, Charlie, the tabby cat who adopted Nana two years ago, bounded into the room and leaped onto the back of the sofa. Too heavy to lift more than his forepaws off the floor, Mr. Mugs growled softly as his nemesis draped himself over the top of the cushions and dangled a paw over Nana’s shoulder.

  Mr. Mugs’s frustration erupted in an abrupt bark, to which Charlie responded by blinking. Once.

  I couldn’t help laughing. These two castoffs (Mr. Mugs had come to Nana from the Pinellas County Pug Rescue) pretended to despise each other, but more than once Nana and I had come back from shopping to find dog and cat side by side at the window, their eyes intently searching the sidewalk for their best human friend.

  Nana was a rescuer. This hand-me-down motel had sheltered many guests (and their pets) over the years, and this cozy apartment had protected me and Rob after our parents died. They perished, in fact, on this beach—on a hot July afternoon of my fifteenth summer, they went for a swim by the fishing pier. They’d been swimming there dozens of times before, but on that day a treacherous riptide caught their tired bodies and carried them out to sea.

  Rob had been eighteen that year; he buried his grief in frenzied preparation for college. I had no outlet for my grief, so I shared it with Nana. I moved into this apartment and as we mourned together, I discovered how much we had in common. Nana and I were both independent, we thrived on hard work, and we loved animals. I had always been a little intimidated by my grandmother’s striking good looks, but one day as I watched her don leather gloves to rescue a trapped pelican from a cast-off fishing net, I realized that truly beautiful women did not sit on a shelf like gilded china. Truly beautiful women—useful women—were more like the simple glazed stoneware that serviced Nana’s kitchen table.

  After she had freed the bird, Nana smiled at me with sand sprinkled over her arms and blood streaming from a nip above her brow. In that defining moment, I decided the popular girls at school were flakes; the girls who mimicked movie stars and television celebrities were fools.

  I wanted Nana’s kind of hands-on beauty more than anything in the world.

  The memory brought a lump to my throat, so I tickled Mr. Mugs’s chin. “You can’t chide me too harshly about my love for Sema,” I said, my voice thick. “Look at you. I know how much these guys mean to you.”

  Nana smiled a silent touché .

  I pulled Mr. Mugs into my lap and leaned back into the sofa cushions. “I guess we both have the animal lover’s gene. Maybe it skips a generation.”

  “Your mother loved animals, too.” Nana’s voice went soft with memory. “But your father’s hardware store kept her busy. Between you, Rob, your dad, and the store, she had her plate full.”

  I chucked Mr. Mugs under the chin, then wrapped my hands around my cup. “Did she have pets as a kid?”

  Nana’s smile deepened into laughter. “Oh, lots. Once she brought home two chicks that had hatched in the incubator at her elementary school. In the eighth grade she wrote some scientist and told him she was interested in gerbils; before I knew it, we had received a box of twelve in the mail. Six males, six females—you can imagine the result. I think our family personally populated Pinellas County with the wee beasties.”

  I smiled as a memory—a safe one—brushed my face like a breeze. I must have been about ten when I found a baby bird on the ground, probably a nestling that had fallen out of a tree. Crying because I didn’t know what to do, I carried the baby to Mom, who put it in a shoe box. The bird sanctuary had already closed for the day, but she helped me situate the box under a lamp so the mostly featherless creature could stay warm until morning. We took the helpless little thing to the sanctuary on the way to school the next day, and I remembered feeling cheated because we couldn’t care for it ourselves.

  Nana was right . . . Mom had loved her animals and her children the best she could. Dad’s hardware store never quite reached a level of prosperity, so when she wasn’t with us, Mom was at the store working on Dad’s books, counting boxes, or weighing nails.

  But she had always taken the time to help with the stray animals I brought home.

  “A righteous man regards the life of his beast,” Nana whispered, idly stroking Charlie.

  I looked up, half-convinced she had been reading my mind, but she was gazing into Charlie’s eyes and running her nails through the glossy fur at the back of his neck. A new song played on the radio, something surprisingly funky for a religious station.

  Piety was another constant with Nana—a trait I had definitely not inherited. Mom and Dad raised us to be churchgoers, but I lost interest in God about the time I entered middle school. My parents forced me and Rob to attend Sunday services, but we sat in the back pew with our arms crossed, our minds steeled to resistance, our faces fixed in matching pouts.

  After the funeral, my feelings about God shifted from bored indifference to hot resentment. Nana tried to persuade me to go to church, but I railed against her, screaming that it wasn’t fair for Rob to be allowed to skip church at college while I had to go.

  As much as I loved my grandmother, I couldn’t accept her devotion to a God she proclaimed as loving, kind, and all-powerful. If God had been all-powerful, why hadn’t he turned the tide that carried my parents away? If he was kind, why hadn’t he blessed my father instead of forcing him to sweat for every dollar he earned? If he was such a master designer, why’d he create an ocean of equal parts beauty and treachery?

  Nana tried to explain—I remember her defining the word sovereignty , the conviction that everything happens according to God’s will—but in the end she quietly retreated, though she opened my bedroom door every Sunday morning while she cooked the best breakfast of the week. Hoping the scents of sizzling bacon, buttery eggs, and cinnamon coffee cake would lure me from bed, she sang as she worked in the kitchen, old hymns about trusting and obeying and following . . .

  Not once did I rise to the bait. When she left for church each Sunday morning, the food was cold, the invitation unanswered. By the time I graduated from college, Nana’s entreaties, along with memories of a few awkward first dates and the embarrassments of adjusting to a menstrual cycle, had become part of a history I did not want to recall.

  I looked up, my face burning with the memory of how much grief I’d caused her. “Know what, Nana?”

  “What, dear?”

  “I love you.”

/>   She met my gaze, her eyes bright with speculation, her smile half-sly. “Feeling a little sentimental today, are you?”

  “I suppose I am.” I rose from my chair and walked to her side, then bent to press a kiss to her cheek. “Gotta run—Sema will be awake soon. Thanks for the cookies.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Come anytime . . . because I can always use an excuse to bake a few goodies.”

  5

  On Monday morning I gave Sema her breakfast, dressed in a white blouse and black skirt, and called my vet to see if they could spare an animal tech for gorilla-sitting. They promised to send Ethan, a burly young man Sema knew and liked. By the time he arrived, I was as tightly wound as a fiddler’s string.

  “Read her some books; let her play with her toys; take her out in the yard if I’m gone more than an hour.” I tapped his arm as I sidled past him on the porch. “Make sure she wears her sweater and collar if you go outside. I should be back in an hour, maybe two—if it’s going to be later, you’ll have to give Sema her lunch tray; it’s on the shelf in the fridge.”

  Ethan gripped the doorknob and grinned. “No problem. Sema and I always have fun together.”

  “Okay, then, see you later—I’ve gotta run!”

  I gave him a quick wave and hurried toward my car. Rob had called the night before to tell me about a hastily called meeting in the judge’s chambers—an unusual move, he said, but one that might be promising.

  “I’ve been talking to their lawyer,” he told me. “And I think we’ve found a way to settle this situation. Meet me on the courthouse steps at 9:30 tomorrow morning.”

  He didn’t answer when I pressed for details, but told me to be prompt. So at 9:29 I roared into the downtown parking lot, fumbled with change for the meter, then ran for the courthouse in a pair of leather pumps, the dressiest shoes I owned.

  Rob came striding down the steps, the sun gleaming off his light-brown hair. He wore a tailored shirt beneath a tan suit that emphasized his athletic build. Looking at him—the image of a successful lawyer— I felt unspeakably grateful he had chosen to study law instead of veterinary science.

  “Hi.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “Was it hard to get away?”

  I struggled to catch my breath. “It’s always hard, and nearly impossible with only a few hours’ notice.”

  He glanced at his watch. “You’re right on time. Come on, this way to the judge’s chambers.”

  He charged up the steps, leaving me to scamper behind him. “Are we going to trial?” I called, lengthening my stride to match his pace. “What is this, a preliminary meeting?”

  “You’ll see.” Though he smiled, something in his voice set my teeth on edge.

  We passed through a security checkpoint where I suffered the humiliation of having a stranger paw through my purse. I tried not to watch as a man in latex gloves pulled a packet of baby wipes, a banana, and a container of peeled carrots from my bag.

  Rob’s eyes widened as the guard pulled out Sema’s plastic sippy cup. “Good grief, Glee, do you always carry the contents of a small kitchen in your purse?”

  “I do when I’m in a rush.”

  I followed him through the metal detector, wondering why he seemed ill at ease. He hadn’t told me much about this meeting . . . did all lawyers keep their clients in suspense?

  “Don’t play games with me, Rob.”

  My brother turned and gave me a look of wide-eyed innocence. “What do you mean?”

  “If I were a regular client, you’d tell me everything. So lay it out for me now.”

  He reclaimed his briefcase from a guard and held it with both hands as I waited for my purse. “We’ll be meeting with Judge Oliphant, Ken Matthews, and Tom Kremkau, counsel for Thousand Oaks.”

  I took my bag from a uniformed woman who slid it toward me. “And the purpose of this meeting?”

  “I told you—they want to avoid a trial. We want to avoid a trial. This pretrial settlement conference is good news for everyone, so relax.”

  I hooked my purse on my shoulder, then followed Rob down a tiled hall, up a flight of scuffed steps, and down another corridor. We paused before an oak door labeled “Chambers of the Honorable Geoffrey Oliphant.”

  Rob met my gaze and smiled, then opened the door and took charge with quiet assurance. Leading the way, he approached a young man at a small desk—a law clerk, I presumed. “Robert Granger, counsel for Ms. Glee Granger,” he said, producing his card. “And this is my client. We have a meeting with Judge Oliphant.”

  The clerk accepted his card, glanced at it, then smiled at me. “His Honor is still on the bench,” he said, rising. “Mr. Kremkau and his clients have already arrived, so you’re welcome to go on in.”

  Rob nudged the small of my back, propelling me into a book-lined office dominated by a massive desk and high windows. Incoming shafts of morning light blinded me for a moment, but after adjusting my position I saw my adversaries seated in front of the desk—a slender man with dark hair and a briefcase on his lap, almost certainly the lawyer, and Ken Matthews, the director of Thousand Oaks Zoo. Brad Fielding sat next to Matthews. He nodded when our eyes met.

  I looked away. Rob hadn’t mentioned that Fielding would be present, though his presence made sense. After all, I doubted that Matthews knew the first thing about gorillas, and Fielding was the exhibit curator.

  All three men stood as I approached. Ever polite, Rob walked over and shook each man’s hand; I nodded to acknowledge them and sank into a leather chair opposite Ken Matthews. Rob was welcome to charm the opposition—that was his job, not mine.

  My brother sat beside me as Mr. Kremkau made an offhand remark about the chilly weather. I ignored him, leaving Rob to handle the chitchat. I was wishing I’d brought a book to read when Fielding lifted his hand and waved to catch my attention. “How’s Sema this morning?”

  Aware that the others were listening, I smoothed my hands on my skirt. “She’s fine.”

  “This cold snap bothering her at all?”

  “Not really—she keeps her sweater on when we go outside, and her trailer is heated.” Then, not to put too fine a point on my protective care, I added: “You’ve seen that she’s in excellent health.”

  Matthews, whom I knew more by reputation than acquaintance, folded his hands. By the look of his white hair and lined face, I’d place him in his mid-sixties, but I could see no evidence of weakness in either his face or form. He was as meticulously groomed and self-possessed as a TV talk show host, and his dark suit looked more expensive than Rob’s.

  He inclined his head toward me, the barest token of respect. “Ms. Granger, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard many wonderful things about your work.”

  So . . . he was going to be charming, too. I was sure his pleasant approach meant something: we were playing some game, but I didn’t know the rules and didn’t care to learn them.

  “Thanks.” I gave him a tight smile, noticing that he didn’t mention my quarterly reports I’d filed on Sema’s progress ever since taking her from the zoo; I had never shirked a single custodial responsibility. Fielding had read my papers, but apparently Matthews hadn’t taken the time.

  He’s probably been too busy raising money for more souvenir stands.

  I looked up as a cleverly disguised paneled door opened and yet another man entered the room. The Honorable Geoffrey Oliphant, I assumed, walked to the massive chair behind the desk, his unzipped black robe flowing over gray slacks and a white dress shirt.

  “Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he turned his back to us as he slipped out of his robe, “but I had to handle a motion, and you know how lawyers can talk.”

  Polite laughter fluttered around the room and the men rose as if they were being controlled by an invisible puppeteer. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed their example.

  With only the barest smile at the corner of his mouth, the judge turned and clasped the back of his leather chair. “Good morning. Have a seat, plea
se; this is not a formal hearing.”

  After introductions had been made, Oliphant took his seat. “All right,” he crossed his legs—which, I noticed, were as hefty as a silver-back’s—“ we’re here to talk settlement. We all want to avoid a trial, of course, especially since a public hearing would give our community a black eye.”

  Rob leaned forward. “Your Honor, I fail to see how my client’s work could possibly affect the community—”

  Oliphant’s brows lowered in a rush. “Thousand Oaks is largely supported by state and county tax dollars, so yes, I think it’s fair to say our citizens might be a little disturbed to hear their zoo was forced to pay thousands in legal costs to reclaim property from an overzealous former employee intent upon domesticating a wild animal.”

  My brother stiffened. “That’s a prejudicial comment, Your Honor, and completely untrue. The gorilla under dispute is not a pet. My client is a scientist, a pioneer in the field of psycholinguistics. And for the last eight years she has pursued her work at entirely her own expense.”

  Oliphant folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “How, exactly, is your client a pioneer? I had my clerk look into the matter, and he has yet to find a single paper or article published by Ms. Granger.”

  “The project is complicated and highly involved,” Rob countered. “My client is waiting until she has finished gathering the required data. She does plan to publish a groundbreaking study within the next twelve months.”

  My brother spoke with more confidence than I felt, but I kept my expression under control. I would agree to almost anything to keep Sema. Since I had to publish my dissertation in twelve months, I’d compile the data on Sema’s reading progress and extrapolate credible conclusions. At best, the report would be a tease for gorilla experts the world over—I wouldn’t reveal everything I intended to undertake, but I could make a respectable effort.