Unsaid: A Novel (7 page)

As David paces, he reviews the notes and questions he’s written to himself on a yellow legal pad. Chip, Bernie, and Skippy follow David’s movements from their places on the floor—four steps to the right, stop, turn, and then four steps back.

David pauses for a moment and peers down at the dogs. “I need you all to be on your best behavior.” The dogs return David’s look as if they not only understand him, but are prepared to comply. But David doesn’t know them like I do.

Soon enough, the doorbell rings and the dogs obediently follow David to the front door. Behind it, waiting on the porch, is a small,
pencil-thin woman in her early forties. Her steel-gray skirt and starched white blouse are ironed to perfection. Her hair is combed into a tight bun the likes of which I’ve only seen in magazine advertisements from the 1950s for kitchen products.

David opens the door. “Please come in,” he says. The woman extends her bony hand, and David shakes it gingerly.

“I’m Margaret Donnelly, but you may call me Peg.”

“Peg it is.” David waves her into the house.

“What a charming piece of property you—”

As soon as Peg crosses the threshold of the house into the hallway, Bernie can no longer control his excitement. He lets out a joyful “woof” and jumps on her. The unexpected force of Bernie’s two forepaws on her slender shoulders knocks poor Ms. Donnelly square on her ass. Although unharmed, Ms. Donnelly, apparently not a dog lover in the best of circumstances, begins to scream for help. Chip and Skippy now bark wildly at her, joining the game. The more the dogs bark, the more Ms. Donnelly screams.

“Peg—Ms. Donnelly—just please calm down!” David yells at her as he tries to pull Bernie away.

“They’re attacking me!”

“They’re not attacking. They think you’re playing.”

Amid the shrieking, Chip and Skippy can resist no longer and join the fray. Ms. Donnelly and the three dogs form a heap in the middle of the hallway. David tries to separate canine and human, but it’s like trying to remove a fly from a bowl of oatmeal—there’s no way to do it without taking some of the oatmeal, too. In the process of reaching and pulling, David accidentally grabs Ms. Donnelly’s breast. At this perceived violation of her person, Ms. Donnelly lets out a primordial shriek only a Saturday-morning cartoon character could replicate.

I start to laugh. It is such an odd feeling that at first I don’t recognize what’s happening to me. But then I hear myself. I put my hand over my mouth to keep the sound inside. That doesn’t work. I feel the need to turn away even though I’m somehow sure that no one can hear me. I run out the front door almost doubled over in laughter.

Suddenly Ms. Donnelly catapults out of the house. Her hair has been ripped from its neat bun, her blouse is covered with paw prints, and her skirt is so askew it is turned nearly all the way around. She runs down the front steps while pulling dog hair from her mouth.

In her panic, Ms. Donnelly nearly trips over Henry, my huge orange tabby cat, who is cleaning himself on the front steps. Henry pauses only for a moment with annoyed interest to watch Ms. Donnelly race sobbing to her Ford before he returns to his more important business. Ms. Donnelly, once safely entombed in her car, screeches down the driveway.

Inside the house, David, his arms folded sternly across his chest, stares at the three dogs. Chip and Bernie are now quiet and contrite under his gaze. I could swear, however, that Skippy is smirking. “That was your best behavior?”

David grabs the legal pad off the table in the hallway and scratches out Ms. Donnelly’s name so hard his pen gouges the paper.

My definition of a bad day is one spent trying to pound square pegs into round holes. Measuring David’s subsequent five interviews against that yardstick, David has had a very bad day.

When Congressman Wolfe arrives at the lab for Jaycee’s presentation, he is accompanied by a staff aide, a photographer and—to Jaycee’s obvious alarm—Scott Jannick.

After brief introductions by Jannick, Wolfe says, “You’ve got thirty minutes, Dr. Cassidy. Then I need to head back to the city. So, show me what Cindy can do.”

Jaycee clears her throat and then begins her well-rehearsed remarks. “As I explained in my letter to you, we have known for decades that chimpanzees are capable of acquiring and using human language. The problem is that physiologically, they are not capable of producing human speech sounds. So we’ve always had to use a substitute for human speech—principally American Sign Language and lexigraphy. But both those forms of language have their problems. Lexigraphy is far too limiting and rigid. ASL is preferred because it is more flexible and allows for spontaneous conversation except it requires advanced manual dexterity. Unfortunately, the chimpanzee hand was not made for the nuances of ASL. Chimpanzee ASL work before ours was criticized on the grounds that the chimpanzee gestures or attempted gestures allowed too much room for interpretation or manipulation by the tester.

“So, that’s the bad news. The good news is that there have been some extraordinary advances in technology and computer modeling in the last few years. We believe we can now overcome those limitations and literally unlock the language potential of the chimpanzee.”

Wolfe shifts impatiently in his seat as Jaycee continues. “My research assistant, Frank Wallace, was working on his PhD in a relatively new field called computer-assisted linguistics when I co-opted him for my research. Basically, the theory is to develop computer models for those with speech impairments in an effort to augment the speaker’s own capabilities. For example, a stroke victim wants to say ‘give me the apple,’ but may only have the physical capability to say ‘gif ma aal.’ By mapping the individual’s specific
impairment against a normal speech function, we can then plug that into the computer model so that it compensates for the gaps between what the speaker wants to say and what he or she is physiologically capable of saying. This is called interstitial linguistic programming or ILP. And yes, that is a mouthful.”

Jaycee hands the congressman a thick PowerPoint presentation book. “This describes in detail the theory and programming behind ILP and how we applied it here.”

Wolfe passes the book to his aide without looking at it. “My staff will read the documentation later. I suggest you just tell me what you think I need to know so we can get on with the demonstration, Dr. Cassidy.”

“Of course. We began with the idea that we could use ILP for other parts of anatomy besides the vocal apparatus. We modified the ILP for Cindy by treating the differences between her hand and a human hand as an impairment. We created a computer model of a human hand and then superimposed a computer model of Cindy’s hand over it. There were obvious differences. We programmed the ILP to compensate for the differences. Then we had a pair of gloves tailored for Cindy’s hands and wired the gloves with the ILP program.

“You’ll see that she uses the gloves in conjunction with a specially designed lexigraphic keyboard that we taught her to use. The board supplements the signing and can give us the type of information that normally would be provided by the ASL speaker through what we call non-manual markers—like facial expressions, head movement, gaze direction, or mouthing. Once we run the gloves and her keyboard answers back through an ASL translation program, Cindy’s signs are almost instantly converted into English words that appear on a computer screen.”

“And for my little non-scientific mind, what does that all mean?” Wolfe asks.

“We converse. In English,” Jaycee says and then lets her answer sink in for a moment. “And you can read Cindy’s words in real time as she uses them without me trying to tell you what Cindy is saying.”

“Seeing that would be well worth the trip,” Wolfe says. “Why don’t you show me that now.”

Jaycee calls Frank on the office intercom. “We’re going to proceed with the demonstration now. Can you bring Cindy in?”

In less than a minute, Frank enters the lab carrying Cindy. She is already wearing her gloves. Frank places Cindy in the Cube, next to her keyboard, and then joins Jaycee and the others near Jaycee’s desk.

The photographer snaps a few pictures of Cindy. The flash momentarily startles her, and she shakes her head to get rid of the afterimage.

Jaycee waits until Cindy is resettled and then says, “I’m now going to engage Cindy in a conversation. Her answers will appear in English on this computer screen here.” Jaycee points to the screen next to them.

“Do you mind telling us what your first question will be?” Jannick asks.

“I was going to begin by asking Cindy to tell us her name and to say hello to the congressman, but there is no prearranged format. I can ask her any question that would be appropriate for a four-year-old.”

“Four?” Wolfe asks. He makes no effort to hide his skepticism. “You mean to tell me that this chimpanzee has the language skills of a four-year-old?”

“Correct,” Jaycee says proudly. “Cindy has the cognitive age equivalent of a four-year-old human girl. Perhaps the congressman would like to give us a question for Cindy.”

“Indeed, I would,” Wolfe answers. “Let’s ask her to name her favorite food. That seems about right for a four-year-old.”

Jaycee smiles. She’s asked Cindy that question hundreds of times and the answer is always the same—peanut butter. “Of course. First, I will sign the question for Cindy and then you will be able to see her response.”

“Actually,” Jannick interrupts, “if you don’t mind, Jaycee, I’d like to be the one to sign the question to Cindy.”

Jaycee and I both see the trap Jannick has set at precisely the same time—and way too late. This was why he didn’t try to stop Wolfe; Jannick wanted Wolfe at the demonstration so he could make his point about Cindy to the one person who could kill any further discussion of the project.

“That’s not the demonstration protocol, Scott.” Jaycee struggles to keep her voice calm.

Jannick will not be put off. “But surely the person who asks the question shouldn’t matter if the language has been learned. The words are, after all, the same words regardless of who says them. I still sign pretty well, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

Jaycee glares at Jannick. “This is my study. Cindy is familiar with me. You can’t just step in and expect to be able to divorce the act of communication from the underlying relationship.” She turns to Wolfe and says, “Dr. Jannick has never worked with Cindy. It would be most appropriate for me to be the one to lead the interaction.”

Wolfe’s aide whispers into his ear and Wolfe nods. “Perhaps Scott is correct,” Wolfe decides.

Jannick doesn’t wait for further discussion. He takes three steps toward Cindy in the Cube. Cindy watches him closely. “Cindy,” Jannick says at the same time he signs, “what is your favorite food?”

Cindy just stares at him.

“Let me try again,” Jannick tells Wolfe. “What is your favorite food?” Jannick asks as he signs, this time more slowly.

Still no response from Cindy.

“Hmm. Did I get the signing right, Frank?” Jannick asks. “Did I ask her what I intended?”

Frank, who looks like he would prefer to be anywhere but here, simply nods.

“How about another question, then,” Jannick says. “A simple yes or no. Cindy, do you like peanut butter?” Jannick asks and signs.

Cindy is painfully silent.

“Perhaps she just doesn’t like you,” Wolfe tells Jannick half jokingly.

“I guess it wouldn’t be the first time I was rejected,” Jannick says. “But we do know she likes Frank, right? He’s worked with Cindy since the beginning. What do you say, Frank? Give it a try?”

Frank looks to Jaycee for guidance. They both know that Frank will be no more successful than Jannick. “This is very disruptive and unfair, Dr. Jannick,” Jaycee says. “Cindy has no reason to use your language with you.”

“How about because I asked nicely?” Jannick asks. “What’s the magic word? Please? Okay, Cindy.” Jannick turns back to Cindy and says and signs, “Please.”

Jaycee’s face turns bright red. “When you are done hijacking my demonstration, Scott, I would like to show Congressman Wolfe—”

“—that your work cannot be replicated?” Jannick scoffs. “That you’ve spent the last four years of the government’s money creating a technology that no one else can use and, therefore, is proof of nothing? I warned you about this, Jaycee!”

Jaycee spins on Jannick, forgetting Wolfe and the demonstration. “She speaks to me! Why isn’t that enough?”

Jannick pulls out a folder and waves it in front of Jaycee’s face. “Because the grant agreement you signed says it’s not enough. Because the testing protocol
you
designed to ensure the validity of the experiment requires more. You can’t change the rules at the end of the game.”

Wolfe’s aide whispers to him again, and Wolfe examines his watch with exaggerated deliberateness. “I’m going to need to get back to the city, Doctors. It’s been an interesting experience and I assure you, Dr. Cassidy, the committee will give your materials a careful vetting when I return to DC. Why don’t you join me for the drive down, Scott, and we can review budget issues.”

Wolfe’s aide escorts him out of the lab and into his car before Jaycee has the chance to protest.

In his now empty and silent office, Joshua begins the process of closing for the day. He does a last check of the animals in the back cages to make sure that everyone has enough food and water for the night and that all the post-surgical cases are stable. Then, moving to the front of the office, Joshua shuts down the computers and one by one turns off all the lights.

Prince, an enormous tortoise-striped tom tabby, follows him around the office. Prince was the tiniest of strays when Joshua first found him. He was so sick looking and scrawny that no one wanted to adopt him. The fact that he had lost one ear and an eye in some street battle didn’t help his adoption chances, either.

After a while, Joshua stopped trying to place the cat and accepted the fact that Prince was a fixture of the office. Every night before he left, Joshua put out a clean litter pan, a bowl of dry cat food, and a dish of fresh water and gave Prince roaming rights
through the office. This arrangement apparently was agreeable to the cat, as he soon became a feline behemoth able to push open the heaviest of the office doors.