Half Brother (20 page)

I
t was the Wednesday before the Labour Day weekend, and CBS television was all over our house, setting up cameras and lights.

Peter and I were out in the backyard with Zan, playing with him until the film crew was ready.

“I hope he doesn’t freak out when he gets in there,” I said.

“Every celebrity’s entitled to a few tantrums,” Peter joked, but I could tell he was nervous too.

The university had been contacted just last week by a show called
60 Minutes,
which was huge apparently, a much bigger deal than
Time
magazine. They’d wanted to send a film crew to Victoria to do a piece on Project Zan. Dad had been hesitant about the whole thing, but the university wanted the publicity, and Greg Jaworksi agreed, saying it would focus the eyes of the world on our research.

Every so often, Mom would come out into the backyard with just one or two members of the film crew, so Zan had a chance to get used to everyone gradually. It seemed to work, because when we finally took him inside, Zan was pretty calm—which was amazing, since our house was totally transformed.

The furniture was all moved around and there were cables taped to the floor and big lights on stands and a boom mike dangling like a giant fishing rod over the living room. It was like they were shooting a movie in our own house and we were all actors.

But Zan was the star.

Nervously I watched him look around at everything and everyone with wide eyes. Our house was hot with all the lights, and crammed with strangers: the lighting guys and sound operators and cameramen and the show producers and the interviewer himself, who was famous and very distinguished-looking.

I would’ve freaked out, but Zan was a complete charmer. Dad and Greg Jaworski had the fun box set up in the middle of the living room and Zan promptly sat down beside it and signed
come play
to Peter and me.

So we sat down on the floor and played and signed as the cameras rolled, and then Dad and Greg took over for a while. Mom and Peter and I stayed close the whole time. I couldn’t believe how well-behaved Zan was. He seemed to forget all about the lights and the camera pointed at him.

The crew stayed for three days, shooting tons of footage of Zan, and interviewing Dad and Greg and Dr. Godwin.

It couldn’t have gone better. Dad said so himself after they’d finally packed up and left.

Two days later, Greg left too. He was going back to California with boxes of logbooks and videotape of Zan to review. He seemed genuinely fond of Zan, and even more excited by the project than when he’d arrived two weeks ago.

I wasn’t surprised. It had been a full year since we’d started teaching Zan ASL. He used about forty-five signs reliably. Sometimes he combined two signs. He signed to his toys when he played with them. I’d even seen him sign to the birds in the backyard. Once I caught him sneaking into the kitchen and heading for the fridge, signing
drink
to himself when he thought no one was watching.

What’s more, he was learning faster than ever. All during August he’d learned two new signs every week.
Mine. Come. Good. There. Hurt. Dirty.
It was almost impossible to believe, watching the new words formed by his swift hands.

It was like they’d always been ready, eagerly waiting for us to give them a voice.

First day of grade nine, and I was
ready.

After Dad dropped me off, I walked across the quad, Led Zeppelin’s “Good Times Bad Times” blaring in my head, my personal dominant male soundtrack.

Project Jennifer had definitely lost ground over the summer. It wasn’t surprising, since she’d been away for most of it. But there was certainly no progress in August. After the beach, we
went out a couple of times in a big group, once to a movie, once just to hang out in Beacon Hill Park. She was perfectly nice to me, but she always seemed kind of distracted. And there’d been no more kissing.

I was ready to get things back on track. I’d been doing research.

Last week I’d taken my logbook down to the local library and checked out the women’s magazines, like
Vogue
and
Cosmopolitan.
I slipped them inside
Popular Mechanics,
so no one would see. They were filled with all sorts of informative articles about how to hook a man and drive him crazy with desire—and what kind of man was the best man to drive crazy.

According to the articles, women liked men who made them feel good about themselves. They liked men who complimented them, and admired them, and made them feel like the centre of the universe. But they didn’t want to be smothered. In fact, they liked confident men who were a bit mysterious, even a bit distant. It seemed men had to do a lot of stuff—but I figured I could handle it.

As I crossed the school quad, I passed Jennifer with her little cult and noticed her hair was different.

“Jennifer Godwin,” I said,
“love
the new hair!” Not stopping to talk, just walking by, playing it cool.
Places to go, people to see.
Jane didn’t even have time to give me a sneer.

The first obstacle came pretty fast, though. It turned out Jennifer and I weren’t in the same homeroom any more. In fact we were in only one class together. History. When I came into the room, she was already there, and waved at me like she wanted me to come sit beside her. I casually lifted a hand,
ambled over, and sat down between her and Selena Grove. I made sure to start talking to Selena, who’d been to Toronto over the summer holidays.
A bit mysterious. A bit distant.

During the day I kept an eye on Hugh, trying to figure out if he liked Jennifer too. And did Jennifer like
him?
It was hard to tell. Mostly Hugh seemed to ignore her. I wondered if Hugh had read the same magazines as me.

I wasn’t intending to ignore her. I’d still talk to her and joke with her, but I just wouldn’t smother her. It would take discipline, but a good scientist didn’t deviate from his methodology.

Friday afternoon, at the end of the second week of school, I was talking with David at my locker, cramming stuff into my knapsack.

“So what are you up to this weekend?” I asked. By “you” I meant him and Jennifer, and I was hoping they had something planned and would invite me along.

He shrugged. “Nothing much.”

“Want to do something?” I said.

“Yeah, maybe.” He didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic. “I’ll call you later.”

A whole bunch of stuff tumbled out of my locker onto the floor.

At the top of the pile was my Project Jennifer logbook.

I had no idea how it got there. I always kept it at home.
Always.
Somehow it must’ve gotten stuck inside one of my schoolbooks.

And there it was, face up on the floor:
Project Jennifer
in big letters.

I looked at David. He was staring down at it. I bent to snatch it up, but he grabbed it first. “David,” I said.

I tried to swipe it out of his hand, but he turned his back on me, laughing, and flipped it open. “Man,” he said, “this thing is
full!”

Again I tried to snatch it back, but he shoulder-checked me and kept looking.

I was terrified he’d find something really embarrassing, and suddenly I felt a flare of my old anger. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the locker. His eyes narrowed.

“Take it easy, Tarzan,” he said, tossing the logbook at me. “As if I care about your stupid diary.”

I glanced around the hallway. Had anyone seen this? Just a couple of upper-years.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just … it’s private, man, all right?”

“Forget it.” He walked off.

I felt like I was going to throw up. David was a good friend to me. I just hoped he was a loyal one too.

“So, after he has lunch,” Peter said, “he usually likes some quiet time for an hour or so. You can read him a book, or play with his dolls, nothing too rambunctious.”

It was the weekend, and I was in Zan’s suite helping Peter
train one of the new research students, Joyce Lenardon.

“Okay,” she said, noting it in her binder. She was very organized. She had the same kind of haircut as Jennifer.

“… right, Ben?” Peter was suddenly saying to me.

“Sorry, what?” I said.

“Zan also likes watching the birds outside if it’s nice.” “Oh, yeah. He loves that.”

I’d been distracted all day, worrying about whether David would tell Jennifer about the logbook. I’d thought about calling him up and asking him—begging him—not to, but I was worried he’d still be too angry with me. I’d really blown it.

Zan was walking around his playroom with us, holding Peter’s hand. I noticed Peter’s grip was good and tight. We’d had a lot of new students start in the past few weeks, and I thought Zan was getting tired of it. Sometimes if he didn’t like them, he’d really act up.

Since we’d gotten rid of the learning chair, mostly his behaviour had been excellent. But he was also getting bigger, and stronger, and—when he felt like it—more aggressive. He’d start tickling someone and then his tickles would get too rough, or he’d grab hold of the student’s leg and refuse to let go, and just squeeze and squeeze. We’d had a couple of people quit after their very first shift with him.

Luckily, Zan seemed to like Joyce. She was very calm, and that seemed to make Zan calm.

“Why don’t you just sit down with us on the floor,” Peter said to Joyce, “and I’ll read him a book and—”

Peter had opened a book to read to Zan, but Zan took it from his hand and carried it over to Joyce.

“Wow,” said Peter. “He must really like you.” Joyce smiled as Zan climbed into her lap.
Book,
Zan signed.

“Oh, that’s the sign for book, right?” said Joyce. “That’s it,” said Peter.

Joyce started reading, pointing out all the pictures. If Zan knew the word, he’d sometimes sign it to himself. Then he suddenly turned to Joyce and signed
drink.
“What’s that one?” Joyce said. “Drink,” I said.

Sweet drink,
Zan signed at Joyce, who looked at me again for explanation.

“No, Zan,” I said, signing back. “No sweet drink. He had enough at lunch,” I told Joyce.

But Zan ignored me and kept signing only to Joyce.

Sweet drink.

Get drink.

Me drink.

And Joyce just kept smiling kindly and looking a bit confused, because she didn’t know much ASL yet. Zan’s signs got faster and sloppier, and I looked over at Peter, worried.

“Do you think he’s getting a bit frustr—” I began, and then I heard Joyce cry out and saw Peter lunge at Zan. Joyce was holding him back with her hands, and Peter grabbed Zan under the arms and wrenched him away.

“No, Zan!” said Peter. “No!”

“What happened?” I asked, bewildered.

“He tried to bite her,” Peter said, and then Zan twisted free of his grip and jumped up onto the table and shrieked at Joyce.

“Joyce,” said Peter, “go to the kitchen while we get him calmed down.”

Pale, Joyce stood up and left the playroom. “Why’d he do that?” I asked Peter.

“Maybe he felt insulted she didn’t sign back—I don’t know,” said Peter.

But we didn’t have any more time to talk because Zan was having a nuclear temper tantrum now. He ripped off his shirt and diaper.

“Zan,” I said, signing. “Stop!”

We chased after him into his bedroom, where he peed and pooed on the floor. Then he hurled himself back into the playroom and jumped up onto the kitchenette counter. He shrieked and hooted, and I wasn’t sure if he was happy or furious.

He grabbed hold of two cupboard handles and pulled. Luckily they were locked, but before we could get to him, he pulled so hard the doors ripped off their flimsy hinges. Zan flung them to the floor and swiped his hands into the cupboards, bringing down a cascade of glassware and dishes.

“Zan!” I shouted, as he threw a glass at the wall.

It was one of the first times I didn’t understand him.

I looked at him, having his temper tantrum, and thought:

Animal.

On the Sunday night that the
60 Minutes
piece was airing, the Godwins invited us to dinner so we could all watch it on their huge wood-panelled colour TV.

I was pretty nervous about going over. It had been two weeks since the logbook incident. At school, David and I would nod and say hello as we passed in the hallways, but we weren’t talking much.

Had he told Jennifer? Maybe he hadn’t even read anything—he hadn’t had it in his hands that long. Maybe all he’d really seen was the cover. But what would Jennifer think if she knew I’d written an entire book about her? Would I be the mysterious man that made her feel admired and complimented? Would she be flattered—or just think I was a psychopath?

There was another problem too. I worried I’d made a mistake with Project Jennifer. I couldn’t help noticing that the more distant I was with her, the more distant she seemed to be with me. I was starting to have doubts about how effective my current methods were. I’d have to reassess the data.

It was David who opened the door when we arrived.

“Hey, Tarzan!” he said.

He gave me a big smile, and I felt such relief. He was still my friend. He wouldn’t have told Jennifer. Mr. and Mrs. Godwin ushered us into the living room, where they uncorked a bottle of champagne.

“Where’s Jennifer?” Mom asked.

Everyone else was there, even Hairy Cal, with almost all his chest hair buttoned up inside a shirt.

“She’s a little under the weather,” said Mrs. Godwin, giving Mom a significant look. Mom nodded sympathetically. “But she said she’d come down for dinner.”

Was Jennifer sick? No one seemed that concerned. Or was
she just hiding in her room because she didn’t want to see me?

But a few minutes later she came downstairs. She looked fine to me, maybe a tiny bit pale, which I thought made her look even sexier, like she’d been up all night, gazing out the window, listening to music—maybe thinking about me.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you excited about seeing yourself on TV?”