Unspoken Page 8

  She was still sleeping when I pulled my stool over to the counter, but I heard her stir when I clicked on a desk lamp. I held my breath and waited, but no other sound came from her room.

  I bent over my daily journal and scribbled the date at the top of a clean page, but my vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. How could I tell Sema she would have to leave the only home she could remember? Though I had resisted the coming change with all my might, I couldn’t let her glimpse my anger or fear. Sema always picked up on my moods, and if I were edgy, she’d be upset, too.

  An upset gorilla was not easy to handle. Even the most amiable animal could be dangerous if provoked into a temper. Long ago I had covered the trailer’s windows with chain link fencing and replaced the doors with gates. Sema packed a wallop of a punch even in play.

  I lifted my gaze to the ceiling and blinked until my vision cleared, then scrawled my thoughts across the top of the page: I will have to convince Sema that this transition will be a Good Thing, I have to prepare her and tell her she’ll love living at the zoo.

  As a performing monkey?

  I swallowed hard, tamping my anger. In that moment I could have choked Ken Matthews with pleasure.

  I heard more sounds from Sema’s room, followed by the chink of the latch on her gate. Ethan wouldn’t have locked it, knowing I’d be returning soon.

  I felt her enter the room, but kept writing until I heard the sound of her panting breaths.

  “Hey, sweet Sema.” I turned and gave her a broad smile. “How are you feeling?”

  She tilted her head, considering, then touched the thumb of her spread hand to her chest in the sign for fine .

  “That’s good. Did you play with your dolls today?”

  Play Bear. Play man stinky nut.

  “You should be careful, sweetie. You might hurt Ethan’s feelings if you call him a stinky nut.”

  Shame stinky gorilla.

  Sema shook her head, then knuckle-walked toward me. I smiled as I watched her come, then felt my heart melt when she sat on the floor by my stool and signed Kiss please kiss.

  “Aw, did you miss me?” I slipped off my stool and knelt, then wrapped my arms around her neck and gave her a kiss. She returned my embrace, kissing me on my lips and both cheeks, then she released me. Sema thirsty.

  “Are you? Okay—do you want apple juice or orange juice?”

  Sema grinned. Apple drink .

  I opened the fridge and pulled out the appropriate juice box, then inserted the straw. When I turned, Sema had climbed onto the revolving stool by the counter.

  Sema spin.

  “Oh, you want to play, do you? I thought you wanted a drink.”

  Hurry hurry spin.

  “Oh, all right.” Laughing, I set the juice box on the counter, then placed my arms around Sema’s shoulders and gave her a whirl. She spun on the stool, her eyes wide, her mouth slack in openmouthed delight. When the stool slowed to a stop, Sema didn’t hesitate: Sema spin more!

  I turned my girl until my arms ached, then I told her no more. “Too much spinning will make you sick. Time for your drink, okay?”

  Sema gave me her hand as she slid to the floor.

  I laughed. “Are you dizzy? How do you feel?”

  Fine happy.

  “Good. Here’s your drink.”

  She took her juice and drained the container in one long pull. When the box was empty, she shook it, then tossed it toward the trash can in the corner. This time, it went in.

  “Good for you!” I pointed to the computer, humming faintly in the corner. “Would you like to see something special? I have some big news, Sema.”

  New toy?

  “New . . . friends. Gorilla friends. I think you’ll want to meet them.”

  Sema didn’t always want to work, but that day I didn’t have to bribe her to sit at the computer. She hurried to her special low stool that enabled her to reach the computer keyboard on our low table. With the wireless mouse in my hand, I opened Internet Explorer, then navigated to the Thousand Oaks site. From the list of exhibits on the left side of the screen, I chose the gorilla pavilion. Instantly, the computer monitor filled with the photos of the resident group—five healthy animals of differing ages.

  As always when presented with images of her own species, Sema was transfixed.

  I left my keyboard and moved to her side. “See this handsome guy?” I pointed to the photo of the imposing silverback. “That’s Dakarai. He’s a good gorilla, very nice. Strong, too.”

  Sema tapped the screen. What name?

  “Dakarai,” I said, thinking aloud. “We need a sign for him, don’t we? Okay—how about this?” I made the sign for D, reached up to touch the brim of an imaginary baseball cap, then thumped my chest with alternating fists. I’d combined the signs for D, man, and gorilla , but after a little practice the grouping would mean only one thing to Sema: Dakarai .

  I repeated the sign. “Can you sign his name?”

  Sema’s gestures were a little less emphatic, but she studied the silverback’s picture as she signed, so I knew she made the connection.

  “Dakarai,” I signed his name again, “is thirty-two years old—older than Glee! He is the strong leader of the gorillas at the zoo. He has lived in many zoos, but now he lives . . . well, he lives somewhere special.”

  Enchanted by the silverback’s photo, Sema leaned forward and kissed the image on the screen, then signed his name. Dakarai .

  “You are one smart girl.”

  I used the arrow key to scroll down to the next photo. If Dakarai had been Sema’s father, I might have stood a good chance of keeping her, because zookeepers are reluctant to breed fathers and daughters. Incestuous breeding does not take place in the wild, and inbreeding is not good for zoo populations. But though Sema was born at Thousand Oaks, both her mother and her father had passed away.

  The next photo featured Aisha, a twelve-year-old female, and her son, Rafiki, a two-year-old male who would soon be weaned.

  “Look, Sema.” I pointed to their images. “This gorilla has a baby! Would you like to know their names?”

  Name gorilla baby?

  “The mother gorilla is Aisha”—in keeping with our previous pattern, I made the sign for A , followed by signs for woman and gorilla — “and the baby is Rafiki. Let me help you with those signs.”

  We had to improvise on the R —Sema’s short thumb couldn’t quite reach her bent fingertips—but with a few attempts she managed to make signs I could interpret.

  Rafiki baby? Sema have baby?

  “Rafiki is Aisha’s baby. One day you may have a baby of your own.”

  I scrolled down to the next picture—a blackback, an immature male whose pelage had not yet begun to turn silver. “That is Mosi,” I explained, creating a sign for the handsome youngster. “And this”—I pointed to another photo—“is Kamili, another female. These words tell us she will soon have a baby—would you like to see it?”

  Sema see baby? Give baby drink?

  I laughed. “We’ll see, sweetie. Maybe you can see all these gorillas. Would you like that?”

  Sema like gorillas. Sema visit gorillas? Sema ride in car?

  “Not today, but maybe soon.” I reached out and tenderly traced the dark outline of her cheek. “In a few days, maybe we can visit the gorillas. Until then, I’m going to print out their pictures so you can look at them every day and practice their names. We’ll hang them on the wall in your room, okay? Would you like that?”

  Sema like big gorillas. Sema like Dakarai and Rafiki. Sema like car visit.

  She looked away as the wind rattled the window, then, distracted, she ambled toward her toy box. I smiled, content to let her go, but her enthusiasm left me feeling a little disappointed. If Brad Fielding or his boss had observed Sema’s excitement, they’d tell me my concerns about a difficult transition were completely unrealistic.

  Yet I’d done exactly what a mother sending her child off to kindergarten would do—prepare her youngster for a new and possibly frightening experience by painting it in the most attractive light possible.

  But I wasn’t sending Sema to an innocent place like kindergarten— what Matthews and Fielding required of me felt more like sending her to prison.

  8

  On Saturday night, after putting Sema to bed and making sure the trailer was locked tight, I climbed into my Honda and headed over to Nana’s. Saturday night dinner at my grandmother’s apartment had been a tradition since Rob and I left home, though our grown-up responsibilities sometimes kept us from regular attendance. Rob’s wife, Cheri, never complained about going to Nana’s in my presence, but I think even Mr. Mugs could tell she wasn’t thrilled about spending a weekend night in an aging cinder-block motel when she could have been ensconced in her box at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. Over the last year, Rob and Cheri’s attendance had dropped from four times a month to once or twice . . . if we were lucky.

  As for me, I went whenever possible, for what working woman would pass up a home-cooked meal? When Sema was younger, I often took her with me. Though my girl loved visiting and Nana loved Sema, my grandmother’s furniture could only withstand so much gorilla enthusiasm. Once Sema and Mr. Mugs played chase through the apartment— while the pug hid under the bed, Sema leaped up and dangled from Nana’s picture molding until it gave way and splintered on Sema’s head.

  As she picked up the shattered pieces of wood, Nana had tactfully suggested that all future visits between Mugsy and Sema be held in the gorilla trailer. I had to agree.

  The weekend following our pretrial settlement, I drove toward the beach and grimly wondered if Rob would show up. We’d spoken on the phone earlier when he called to tell me to expect a copy of the final agreement, and our conversation had been pleasant enoug
h. But when we were around Nana, we had a tendency to slip back into our contentious sibling roles. I didn’t want to spend the evening reliving my teenage years.

  I pulled off Gulf Boulevard and parked in the grass, then pocketed my keys and strode toward the apartment. Herman let out a whistle at my approach. “Hey, cutie!”

  “Hey, Hermie. What’s for supper?”

  “Hey, cutie!”

  “That’s nice.” I opened the office door, then slipped behind the reception desk and tiptoed through the doorway that led to the kitchen. I found Nana at the stove, about to pour a bowl of cubed potatoes into boiling water.

  “Hey.” I gave her shoulder a squeeze and filched a potato from the bowl. “Can I help?”

  She made a face as I bit into the white cube. “You’re eating that raw ?”

  I shrugged. “Sema does.”

  Nana poured the potatoes into a pot, then set the empty bowl on the counter. “I was sure you’d outgrown that habit by now.”

  I swallowed the last bite and leaned against the counter. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing, hon. There’s a ham in the oven, rolls in the breadbasket, and a cherry pie somewhere around here. Except for the potatoes, we’re all set.”

  I glanced at the table, set for four. “Are Rob and Cheri coming?”

  “As far as I know.” A faint line appeared between her brows as she stirred the boiling pot. “How are things between you and your brother?”

  So she’d heard. “What did he tell you?”

  “About the settlement? Not much.”

  “Well, I don’t hate him or anything, if that’s what you mean.” I slid down the counter, where something lay beneath a crisp cotton dish towel. I lifted the edge and found the cherry pie.

  I was about to pinch off a bite of the crust when Nana threw a pot holder at me. “Don’t nibble at my dessert!”

  “Sorry.” When Mr. Mugs barked an alarm, I looked up to see Rob enter the kitchen.

  “Hey, ladies.” He paused to kiss Nana’s cheek, then grinned at me. “Still speaking to me, kiddo?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I guess you don’t—unless you want to have a really quiet supper.”

  I glanced behind him. “Where’s Cheri?”

  “She had a women’s shindig in Tampa. It’s just me tonight.”

  Nana squeezed his arm. “I’m glad you came. Now, move out of my way so I can get the ham out of the oven.”

  The corner of my mouth twisted as I looked at my brother. Despite everything that had happened, I was glad to see him.

  After dinner, we pushed our empty plates in one direction and our chairs in the other, giving our bellies room to expand. Nana sat at the head of the table, tempting us with more pie, but Rob and I both insisted we’d had enough.

  “Then why don’t you two go on out to the porch?” Nana suggested. “I’ll bring mugs and the coffeepot.”

  “Don’t you want us to help you clean up?”

  “The dishes will wait. The magic of the moment might not.”

  Grinning, I followed Rob onto the wooden plank porch that opened to the gulf. Night had settled like a velvet blanket over the beach, and somewhere behind us, a nearly full moon had streaked the sand with silver. I wrapped one of Nana’s soft lap blankets around my shoulders and settled into one of the oak rocking chairs. The only sounds were the creak of my brother’s rocker, the gentle sound of breakers, and the occasional murmur of human voices from passersby.

  “I’m glad,” Rob called from the next chair, “you’re still speaking to me.”

  I smiled up at the silver pepper of the stars. “I’ll always speak to you, Rob. I might also yell at you on occasion, but I guess you know that.”

  “Yeah . . . the silent treatment’s more Cheri’s style than yours.”

  That comment piqued my curiosity. I shifted to study his face, which had grown pensive. “Having trouble at home?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing major. It’s just . . . sometimes she’s so needy . She expects me to read her mind and know what she wants even before she wants it. She’s not like you. You don’t seem to need anybody, but Cheri . . .” He released a hollow laugh. “She’s not like you. She’s definitely high maintenance.”

  And I wasn’t? I made a face, not sure if I’d been complimented or insulted.

  Rob jumped up as Nana bumped the screen door with her hip and stepped out with a tray of mugs and a steaming pot. A few minutes later we were all three sipping coffee and rocking to the rhythm of the waves, our faces turned toward the moonlit sea.

  It should have been a perfect moment, but my thoughts kept returning to Rob’s comment. Not need anybody? Where did Rob get that idea about me? I needed people; I had all kinds of needs. If I didn’t need family and friends, why on earth did I drive out here every Saturday night?

  “Praise him, sun and moon, praise him, all you twinkling stars.” From her chair, Nana quoted words I’d heard a hundred times before.

  Let every created thing give praise to the LORD,

  for he issued his command, and they came into being.

  He established them forever and forever.

  His orders will never be revoked.

  From my rocker, I looked over and caught Rob’s eye. We were used to Nana’s SPOs—spontaneous poetic outbursts. She’d been erupting in psalms and various verses for as long as I’d known her. Sometimes she’d be overcome by rhythm and rhyme in the middle of her housework; sometimes a quiet moment like this would pull the poetry out of her.

  In any case, we knew it was useless to interrupt. If we tried to carry on a conversation beneath her recitation, she’d only raise her voice in an effort to hear herself above our muttering. Clearly, she didn’t care if we listened . . . during her poetic praises, she’d told us, she spoke to God.

  I let my head fall to the back of the rocker, content to sit and listen to Nana’s poem. She had a lovely speaking voice, expressive and clear— developed, I assumed, during the years she taught high school English.

  “Praise the LORD from the earth,

  you creatures of the ocean depths,

  fire and hail, snow and storm,

  wind and weather that obey him,

  mountains and all hills,

  fruit trees and all cedars . . .”

  Her voice wrapped around me like a comforting arm, at once powerful and gentle. Nana and I had reached a truce about God—I didn’t complain about her spontaneous psalms and she no longer nagged me about going to church. But on nights like this, I loved hearing her mellifluous voice. It flowed like a stream, connecting me to events in my childhood, to my parents, to nights when my entire family had gathered on this porch to grill hot dogs and hamburgers after a day of sand and salt and fun. Like tired windup toys, we would sink onto railings and chairs and watch the stars come out as Nana’s words ran together in a velvet flow.

  “ . . . wild animals and all livestock,

  reptiles and birds,

  kings of the earth and all people,

  rulers and judges of the earth,

  young men and maidens,

  old men and children.

  Let them all praise the name of the LORD.”

  I waited until I was sure she had finished, then lazily lifted my hand to flag Rob’s attention. “Did you ever think about that?”

  “About what?”

  “About reptiles and birds . . . you know, talking. Whoever wrote that bit realized animals communicate with each other. Imagine finding interspecies communication in the Bible.”

  Nana chuckled. “Animals communicate with God, too. And Scripture contains at least two stories where they spoke directly to humans.”

  I knew she wanted me to ask for details, but I decided to let the opportunity pass. No sense in getting into an argument after the sweetness of cherry pie.

  I was driving home from Nana’s when an answer hit me like a slug in the chest—Ken Matthews obviously wanted a performing gorilla, but he’d won his case because he kept insisting that gorillas needed to bond with a social group. So Sema would have to be accepted by the gorilla group at Thousand Oaks or . . . Matthews would have to return her to me.

  What if her habituation failed?