Jennie (8 page)

This may, perhaps, sound eccentric. Let me explain. There can be no doubt: life is a miraculous thing, and even more miraculous is human intelligence. Our world, this earth, is a surpassingly beautiful place, perfectly suited to our needs. It is
as if
the world were created for us, so perfect is it. But this is an illusion; in fact,
we
were created for the world. The world is just right for us because we've been adapting to it for millions of years.

Love, sex, family, the pleasures of food, intellectual delight, friendship, appreciation of beauty, the pleasure of exercise and
good health, the excitement of sport and adventure—all these qualities were given to us, not by God, but by evolution.

There is a catch, however. Evolution extracts a price. What is the price? Sickness, old age, and death; tragedy, hunger, sorrow, pain, and suffering—all these must exist in order for evolution to operate. Without death there can be no evolution. Without sickness, pain, and tragedy there can be no adaptation and natural selection. All living things must pay dearly for the miracle of their existence. We human beings must pay the highest price of all, because evolution has given us a brain capable of understanding death. And death lies across all our lives like some hideous, vulgar joke.

Does this qualify as a religion? I believe so. It gives us rules to live by. It highlights the importance of the family, of protecting and nurturing our children, of passing along our values to future generations. It gives us license to fully enjoy the blessings of evolution—sex, love, food, family closeness, pleasure—without guilt. It encourages us to develop evolution's greatest gift to us: our intellects. It instructs us to appreciate this life as fully as possible, because we will never have another.

This, then, is my religion.

[F
ROM
the unpublished journals of the Reverend Hendricks Palliser, former rector, Kibbencook Episcopal Church. Courtesy of Elspeth Palliser Wallace, New London, Connecticut.]

It was a splendid, blustery autumn day, the clouds racing across the sky, the shadows running through the houses of the street. The birch is now crowned in yellow, and every gust of wind carried its leaves past my study window and into the wood. It was a day of mystery and vigor.

I have not had occasion in here to mention the professor across the street. He has recently returned from Africa with a monkey. This morning, R. asked me to call upon the professor. R. is upset at the noise and possible spread of “jungle diseases,” and she charged me with discovering how long it will be before the professor takes the monkey to his museum or the zoo.

Accordingly, I ventured across the street and rang the bell. During the course of the visit the monkey—it is a chimpanzee named Jennie—relieved me of my hat. Much confusion, hilarity, and high jinks. The monkey, as I understood it, is to stay indefinitely. I returned hatless. R. was much put out. I pray God bring her peace.

I must confess a peculiar thought. I had never had occasion to observe a monkey closely before. It is an extraordinary animal. As I was watching it romping about, I was struck by how
human
it was, how so like a child in its actions and understanding. I wondered if the animal might possess a kind of soul. It is a curious fact that the Bible, despite the asseverations of some, is more or less silent on the question. This Jennie, as they call it, was so absolutely like a human child in every way except speech that it was quite perplexing. I have turned to the Bible—as one seeking guidance—and perused various passages, without enlightenment. I do not know why the idea had not occurred to me before. Man, to be sure, occupies the paramount position in Creation and was given dominion over the beasts of the field. But what position do the beasts occupy? Were they created solely to serve Mankind? Or do they serve God in some other capacity independent of man? Does the animal consciousness, like the human, survive the death of the body? Are there animals in Heaven? And at this juncture I realized that animals surely
would
be in Heaven, otherwise Heaven would not be Heaven. What happens, for example, to the faithful dog whose master loves him? Does the animal rejoin him in Heaven? The idea had never entered my mind before, but the answer appeared
obvious; would God deny a kindly aged pensioner the beloved companion of his last years? Of course not.

Naturally, the next line of logic is the question of whether animals are judged, to be saved or damned. I should think not; a creature which is incapable of understanding the grace of Jesus Christ cannot be damned for it. It would be a cruel God indeed to judge a beast who had not the ability to know the love of Christ. Therefore, the logic seems impeccable: at least the higher animals have souls, and they are inevitably saved. Only man, who has the capacity for good and evil, can be damned. A peculiar line of reasoning, and somewhat unsettling. And yet inescapable.

I do not, as the Baptists and even some of my fellow Episcopalians do, subscribe to the idea of literal creation. It is (to me) as miraculous that God created the Universe and Mankind in five billion years through the process of evolution as it is to believe that He created the world in seven days by divine fiat. Indeed, it is far more miraculous to contemplate the infinite patience, wisdom, and vision of God over such an immensity of time, and to comprehend with rigorous scientific equations the beautiful starry vastness of His mighty works. Was the chimpanzee, thus, a way station on the road to Mankind? Of course. At what point in evolution did man acquire the knowledge of good and evil, and thus the capacity to be damned? In this light, the story of Adam and Eve takes on deeper significance. It is a parable of evolution.

But, as I write, another thought occurs to me. Is Jennie capable of knowing the Lamb of Christ, in a simple way, through feeling rather than intellect, as I have often seen a child do? She appears capable of understanding a great deal.

These are profound questions indeed. Prayer and meditation will bring the answers in due course. And then there is the situation vis à vis R. and the chimp. She has been talking about the leash laws and getting the neighborhood together to “nip this thing in the bud,” etc., etc. To put that dear Jennie on a leash would be criminal. I pray for R. I shall have to talk to the professor.

As I write this, I feel that God, in His unknowable wisdom, has opened a door into a darkened corridor. I do not know why, nor where this corridor will lead. I shall watch, and learn, and pray, and sooner or later this crooked winding hall will lead to a room with light and a view—and then I will know.

Roast beef for dinner.

[F
ROM
an interview with Lea Archibald.]

Well! It didn't take long before Jennie and Sandy were as thick as thieves. Sandy bossed Jennie around, made her wait on him hand and foot. She trotted after him, just worshiping the ground he walked on. Sometimes she rode on his shoulders, gripping his ears. She looked so goofy up there, peering around! When Sandy went off to school, Jennie got upset. She climbed up to her tree house to watch him go off down the brook path with his books. She looked so miserable, rocking back and forth and hugging herself. During the day, she would keep climbing back up there to see if he was coming home. When he did show up, she gave a scream and went racing down the tree and just threw herself at him. When she got bigger she sometimes even knocked him down in her excitement. Her face was wonderfully expressive, and you could read it just like a human face.

Jennie was so affectionate and so loving. Of all her qualities,
this was her most outstanding. She was always underfoot, begging for hugs or kisses—or to be tickled. That chimp lived for a tickle! Goodness! It was more important to her than food—and that's saying a lot. She needed affection more than any human child I've known.

And she just adored Hugo. Hugo was so gentle and kind . . . [long pause]. Excuse me. When he came home from work, she hugged him and kissed him, laughing and squealing the whole time, and making this “hooooo ooooo” sound. She would hear his car in the driveway, and she would pound and stamp on the floor, or whirl around and around! My goodness, the things she knocked over! She broke every vase in the house, my grandmother's Sung porcelain, Uncle Nat's ivories. And she once tried to eat the Olmec jade head and then broke it in a fury when it didn't taste as she hoped. Oh my goodness! She was always whirling! It was exhausting to have her around sometimes. She'd follow me around all day long, whimpering for a tickle or a hug.

Sandy never had a younger sibling to order around. Sarah was too young. And even when she got older,
nobody
was going to tell her what to do! So Sandy thrived when Jennie came. He became much more self-assured and confident. They played every afternoon in the backyard. I could see them out the kitchen window. Oh! I used to watch them for hours! It was endlessly entertaining. Sandy had her playing this game he called “Space Invaders.” Jennie was the alien. Oh my goodness. Of course, Jennie was thoroughly confused, but she always muddled through. I'll never forget watching them play that game. I wished Hugo had that movie camera during those days. Have you seen his movies of Jennie? Well, you must. You simply must.

Space Invaders? It was something Sandy made up. Jennie was the alien invader from Alpha Centauri, and Sandy was the astronaut who saved the earth. Sandy had this “Lost in Space” ray gun that he got from some cereal package. He'd make Jennie stay out of the lawn, while he crept into bushes. She'd be standing there,
looking so confused. Sometimes she'd try to follow him into the bushes. He was so impatient. He'd start lecturing her, “No, no! You stay there! Wait for me to come out!” And Jennie would stand there, a forlorn expression on her face! She hated to be scolded.

Then Sandy would come bursting out of the arborvitae, firing his gun. Yelling, “Die alien!” [Laughs.] Jennie didn't usually die when she was supposed to. She just hopped up and down, squealing and trying to grab his gun. They'd get in a terrific tug-of-war sometimes over that gun. Sometimes it was too much for Sandy. Jennie wasn't playing by the rules! Well, she never played by the rules, in anything she did.

So Sandy had to demonstrate how to die. Oh my goodness. He'd clutch his chest and keel over with a terrible scream and begin writhing on the grass. It always frightened Jennie so! He'd give out this awful, bloodcurdling scream, and he'd twitch and lie still.

Poor Jennie. She'd squat next to him, poking him and backing off. Then she'd make that horrible grimace of fear and creep under the bushes. When she was frightened, she made a horrid face. It was really
quite
grotesque, all her teeth and pink gums exposed in a diabolical grin. I could hear her miserable whimpers from under the bushes. Her little heart was breaking, the poor thing, thinking Sandy had died!

And then Sandy would jump up. He'd cry out, “Ha! fooled you!” and Jennie would hug him, try to kiss him. She was so sweet, so caring. Always so concerned.

Oh my goodness. I hope I'm not giving you the wrong impression about Sandy. I remember thinking at the time, doesn't he know he's talking to an ape? It seemed quite ridiculous. But right from the beginning, Sandy talked to Jennie like she was a little sister—or rather a little brother. In a funny way Jennie seemed to understand.

I was so surprised one afternoon, the afternoon Jennie figured out how to die. Sandy came rushing out of the bushes firing that silly gun . . . Jennie did a somersault, convulsed on the ground for a moment, gave a screech and lay still. Well! She could never lie still
for long, but she could lie dead for a few seconds. And then she'd be up again. She'd leap on his back, while he shouted “Die alien!” or some such thing, spinning around and shooting his gun, while Jennie clung to his back and screamed herself. Or he'd cry out, “Help, men, it's got me! I'm being eaten!”

Oh, I just wish I could have filmed them playing! It was the funniest thing you've ever seen. They raced around, Jennie like a black bullet shooting out of the arborvitae and through the hedge. With Sandy in hot pursuit. Every afternoon they played that game.

Sandy was not the most popular boy in school. He was very smart, you know, but immature for his age. So he didn't have many friends. But when the neighborhood children realized he had a chimpanzee in his backyard! Well! He became the most popular boy overnight.

It happened only three days after Jennie arrived. Sandy came traipsing down the brook path with a big crowd of kids. It must have been half the children in his class! When Jennie saw them coming from her tree house, she could hardly contain her excitement. And nervousness. At that age she was very shy. She squeaked and hid in the bushes when they came through the gap in the back hedge.

Sandy started calling out for her. Calling up to the tree house, calling around. But no Jennie. And those kids started to laugh. One of them said, “Get out of here, there's no
monkey!
”

Now Sandy was very particular about that. Just like Hugo. Jennie was an
ape
, not a monkey. Monkeys were inferior! [Laughs]. So an argument started. I was about to go out there and send those awful children home when I saw Jennie creeping along the bushes next to the house. She was carrying that ratty old hat in her hand. It was quite disgusting. That summer she lost it in the woods, thank goodness.

Well! Sandy started calling for Jennie again, but those awful children started to tease him. “Monkey, monkey! Here monkey!”
they kept saying. Poor Sandy. I could hear the panic creeping into his voice. If Jennie didn't come out soon, he would never hear the end of it. But I could see Jennie getting ready to make her move.

Oh my goodness! Jennie burst out of the bushes with a screech as shrill as a buzz saw! Nobody, not even a circus freak, could make a sound that penetrating. Her hair was all puffed out, and that pink mouth of hers was wide open. And she charged right at them, flailing that horrid hat about.