Half Brother (11 page)

“Is that Old Spice?” she said, sniffing.

“Hmm?” I said.

“I didn’t know you were shaving,” David said mockingly.

“Tarzan shave every day,” I said in my Tarzan voice, and when I saw Jennifer’s eyebrows lift skeptically, I said, “Twice a day—me very hairy,” and she laughed.

David spread the albums out on the floor. I knew which ones were his. Pink Floyd, The Who, Led Zeppelin. Jennifer had brought Bay City Rollers, Elton John, ABBA, and a single called “Seasons in the Sun” that they were playing about every twenty minutes on the radio.

“I call first pick,” said Jennifer.

David sighed and handed her the ABBA album. “I’ve only heard this, like, a hundred times.”

We put on the record. David and I sprawled out on the floor, and Jennifer sat on the edge of my bed—which I thought was pretty cool: she was
on
my bed—and mouthed the words of the songs. I watched her eyes travel around my room—the Hitchcock poster, the Truffaut poster—hoping maybe she’d ask me something about them, so I could be all hip and fascinating, but she didn’t say anything, not even when she saw my camera on the desk. We all talked a bit about school and teachers and TV, but we only got through about four or five songs before Mom called us down for dinner.

Mom was pouring the wine and gave me half a glass and asked the Godwins if it was all right if their two had a small glass as well.

Dr. Godwin sort of snuffled and said, “Yes, yes, of course,” but I could tell Mrs. Godwin was a bit shocked.

“Do you like wine?” I asked Jennifer. We were all three of us together at the end of the table.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, taking a sip. She wrinkled her nose, but then took another sip.

I was feeling pretty suave now, the big-city boy with the cool bohemian mom who let me drink wine. I was wearing
Old Spice and there were pictures of me in
Time
magazine.

“Your parents let you drink all the time?” David whispered beside me.

“Oh sure,” I lied. The grown-ups were already yakking away, so I explained to David how Mom’s parents were European and had let her drink when she was a teenager. And how it was better that way, because then she didn’t go crazy and get drunk all the time when she turned nineteen.

“Man,” David said. “Wow.”

The truth was, I still wasn’t that used to wine. Since that first taste on my birthday, I’d had maybe a couple of tiny glasses, and the one Mom had poured me now was bigger than usual. But it didn’t taste so bad to me any more, and with every sip I felt warmer and more relaxed. David and Jennifer and I were talking and eating and drinking our wine, and the conversation was moving so fast it was hard to keep up.

The meal seemed to accelerate. Occasionally I tuned in to Dad and Dr. Godwin’s conversation. Dad had the charm at two hundred watts, and was talking about Project Zan and how the big grant application was coming together. Whenever I checked in with Mom and Mrs. Godwin, it was usually Mrs. Godwin droning about the trouble they’d had with their new electric oven, or how they were getting their patio stone replaced, and Mom trying her best not to look bored. If Mom was talking, she was very dramatic and her hands were going, and she was talking about American foreign policy or the art show at the university gallery, and Mrs. Godwin was just nodding and looking at Mom like she was an alien life-form.

After dessert we went back upstairs and David put on
Led Zeppelin II
and pretended he was playing guitar, while Jennifer and I laughed at him.

“They shout too much,” Jennifer said when the song was finished. “Your pick,” she said to me.

“I must be crazy,” I said, “but I’m ready for more ABBA.” I was still feeling pleasantly hot and speedy. My body wanted to move.

“No!” howled David, then he threw back his head and said, “Oh, all right! Spin those crazy Swedes!”

Jennifer put on “Waterloo” and cranked it. My room throbbed with sound. Jennifer started singing along and sometimes she’d look right at me and swing her hair, and it was the most electrifying thing I’d ever experienced. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were amazing and if she’d dangled a leash I would have bowed my head so she could slip it around my neck. I couldn’t look away. Then I heard David singing out the chorus, and before long I was on my feet and we were all belting out the words so loud we couldn’t even hear Bjorn and Bjork or whatever they were called, any more. When it was over, Jennifer just picked up the needle and dropped it back at the beginning of the song, and we did it again.

After that we burned through “Crocodile Rock” and “Rocket Man” and then, when we needed a breather, Jennifer put on “Seasons in the Sun.”

“This,” she said, “is the saddest song.”

It was a super-sappy tune about this guy dying, and David and I started singing along in these really schmaltzy voices and pretending we were breaking down and weeping and
clutching each other’s arms. At first Jennifer kept shushing us, but by the end she was giggling too. “Goofballs,” she said.

After that, David put on
Dark Side of the Moon,
which was not a sing-along kind of album, so we just listened and talked a bit.

After a while Jennifer said, “Teach me some sign language.”

“Which signs do you want to know?”

“Start with
hi
and
bye.”

Those were easy, and I showed her.

“What are the ones you use with Zan?” David wanted to know.

I felt like I had something special and rare to give them. I taught them
up
and
drink, give
and
more
and
eat.

“Cool,” said David. “Hey, where’s your bathroom?”

When he opened the door to go out, the sounds of our parents laughing downstairs swirled in, along with the slightly skunky smell of the Godwins’ cigarette smoke. It seemed they were having a good time.

Jennifer said, “Did you really teach him his first sign?”

“Yeah, sort of,” I told her, pleased. She must have gotten that from
Time.
It meant she’d read the whole article. Maybe she’d stared a while at the pictures of me.

“So what’s hug?” she asked.

I showed her.

“That’s so cute,” she said, gripping herself with her arms. “Like really hugging someone.”

“Yep,” I said, wishing her arms were around me. “And
tickle’s
pretty close, only you tickle yourself right there.”

I wiggled my fingers to show her.

“Right
here?”
she said, reaching over and tickling me under my arms.

I laughed in total surprise. “Or down here—that’s where Zan likes it,” and I went for her under her ribs.

She squealed and giggled and tried to twist away and I could’ve held her tighter, but I let go. She stepped back, just a little, still breathing hard.

“What other signs do you know?” she asked.

I put my fingers to my lips and then moved them to my cheek.

“What’s that?”

“Kiss,”
I said.

She repeated the sign, smiling at me in a playful kind of way.

I was staring at her glossy lips and I wanted to kiss them for real, but I heard David coming back from the bathroom. Probably I wouldn’t have done it anyway, because I was afraid she wouldn’t like it, and maybe David would see, and Jennifer would be upset and run downstairs in tears and I’d be humiliated.

I totally had the hots for her. She probably didn’t have the hots for me. Not yet. But I wanted her to. I wouldn’t rest until she did. I’d do
anything.

If I could teach a chimp sign language, I could probably teach Jennifer Godwin to fall for me.

Z
an loved washing up. Sunday night after dinner he sat right up on the counter beside the sink, holding a dish in one hand and the scrubber brush in another. Sometimes he just cleaned the same plate over and over again, but it kept him happy, and we all signed to him while we washed. It was a good way of teaching him
water
and
dirty
and
soap,
which he was pretty interested in. We had to make sure to lock the bottle of soap up right after using it, because Zan liked squeezing it into the water and making more and more bubbles.

All weekend I’d been thinking about Jennifer. I kept remembering the feel of her fingers tickling me. I could still feel her waist in my hands as I tickled her back. Project Jennifer had taken a big leap forward, but part of me was worried tomorrow at school everything would go back to normal, and she’d hardly notice me. It made me shrivel up inside just to think about it. I wanted my hands on her again. I wanted her hands on me …

“Mom and I were talking,” Dad was saying, “and it seems
unfair that we pay all the students working with Zan—but not you.”

“I checked the budget,” said Mom, “and we have enough money to pay you too.” “Really?” I was surprised.

“Absolutely,” said Dad. “You’ve put in a lot of shifts.”

I didn’t think of them as shifts at all. That made it sound like work, and mostly I loved spending time with Zan. It was best when Mom and Dad weren’t around, because they were always watching Zan and taking notes, or wanting me to do educational things with him. To me he wasn’t the subject of an experiment, or a famous chimp; he was just my little brother and we were goofing around.

I glanced at Zan, dunking his dish back into the soapy water and seeing how many bubbles he could get on it. He made me happy. I missed him when I was at school all day. Sitting in class I’d sometimes think about the funny things he did, and smile.

I did love the idea of making money, but it seemed weird to get paid just for spending time with one of the family, and I told this to Mom and Dad.

“My parents paid me for babysitting my little sister,” said Mom with a shrug. “I don’t see the difference.”

I nodded. That made me feel a lot better.

“It’s only fair,” said Dad. “And you’re also a really good teacher for him, Ben. You’re a big part of this project.”

“Yeah?” I asked, smiling. Dad sounded proud of me. Maybe my name would end up alongside his and Mom’s in the science textbooks.

“So I’d get to come to the weekly meeting, then, right?” I said.

Dad chuckled. “Haven’t you already?”

He knew I was usually listening in from the top of the stairs, or the kitchen, where I’d take about an hour to pour myself a drink. Every Sunday night, Peter and all the other students came to our house to talk about how Project Zan was going, and discuss the week’s events. Which techniques were working and which weren’t. Good things Zan had done. Bad thing he’d done. What new words they should work on next. Even though it was a meeting, it looked more like a party to me, because there were so many students that people ended up sitting on the floor.

I looked over at Zan and noticed he wasn’t washing his dish quite as enthusiastically as usual. He kept glancing at something. I turned and saw the bottle of dish soap. Somehow we’d forgotten to lock it up. I reached for it, but Zan leaped over the sink at the same time and got it first.

“Zan, give me the soap!” I shouted.

He was off the counter and scooting across the floor, a big golden arc of liquid soap spraying over his shoulder. “Zan, stop!” Mom cried. “Grab him!” Dad bellowed.

Zan was shaking the bottle like crazy and squeezing it at the same time, and soap was jetting everywhere in crazy curves. I made a grab for him, but he was so soapy he just squirted through my fingers.

Dad lunged, slipped on the floor, and went down cursing. Zan darted through the doorway into his suite, and I skidded
after him. He was hooting enthusiastically and squirting soap for all he was worth. He’d probably been dreaming of this moment for a long time, and the look of glee on his face—I couldn’t resist it. I started laughing too, as I chased him into his bedroom. He leaped onto his bed and as I drew closer he squeezed the bottle and got me right in the middle of the chest. I tussled with him on the bed and somehow managed to wrestle the bottle from his slippery grasp. Then I gave him a squirt and he shrieked with delight.

“Enough!” Dad shouted behind me.

When I saw the look on his face, I stopped smiling. He was really pissed off.

“It’s like a goddamn circus!”

“The Tomlin Circus,” Mom said, coming in with dish towels, looking amused. “And a circus of your very own making, Richard. You’re the ringmaster.”

“A ringmaster usually has a bit more control,” Dad said, and some of the grimness in his face disappeared. “What a mess! Zan! That was very naughty!”

Zan looked pretty stricken, and immediately turned to me.

Hug,
he signed.

“Don’t smile at him, Ben,” Dad snapped. “Look strict so he understands.”

I tried to frown and look severe, but it was hard when he kept hugging himself, his brown eyes huge and beseeching.
Give hug!
Zan signed to me. “Did you see that?” I shouted. “What?” Dad said.

“He signed
give hug!”
Mom exclaimed.

“Two signs!” I said. “That’s the first time he’s put two signs together!”

“You saw it?” Dad asked Mom, who nodded, beaming. “You’ll need to document it in your log. I missed it.” Now he sounded annoyed.

“Don’t worry about that now,” Mom said. “Two signs after only six months! He just made his first sentence. Do you realize that?”

During all this Zan was looking around at us—Mom, Dad, and me—like he was wondering what he had to do to get a hug around here.

I reached down and took him into my arms and squeezed him tight.

“Give hug,” I said into his ear. “You’re a genius, Zan.”

The lights went down, the curtains opened, and the movie began.

I was sitting beside Hugh and David, popcorn balanced on our laps. Right in front of us, in the next row, were Jennifer, Shannon, and Jane. It was Saturday and we were at the Coronet for a matinee of
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad.
It was my idea. A few days ago I’d called up David and asked if he wanted to go.

“Ask Hugh too,” I’d said casually. “And, hey, if Jennifer wants to come too, that’s cool.”