Three days after the funeral the only things left were her ukulele, her monkey, and me. 

I understood why no one wanted me or the monkey, but I’d expected the ukulele to go quickly. Kristin’s friends and family had cleaned out her belongings with shopping bags and suitcases, broad-shouldered boyfriends and puffy spouses along for the heavy lifting. They stripped the apartment like world-class thieves, Buddy and I watching from the corner while most of our world disappeared. 

“Well, it’s just the two of us now,” I told him, plucking the ukulele. Dismal words. He didn’t know what “hit and run” or “D.O.A.” meant but suffered her absence anyway. Most mornings he paced the apartment with an empty stare. Sometimes I joined him. I’d stopped calling my crappy job and felt certain my “bereavement leave” had morphed into “you’re fired.”  

Buddy stood by the window watching a woodpecker in the giant oak outside. He was an illegal, a capuchin monkey rescued from a university lab where he’d been isolated and tortured for science. Kristin hadn’t participated in the raid that had freed him but had agreed to shelter him until a permanent home was found. Everyone assumed he was her “pet,” further proof of her vegan strangeness. Had anyone examined his mouth, he or she would have seen the serial number tattooed on his gums, his lab ID a permanent mark. 

We were a family of three until a Mercedes blew through a stop sign and hit Kristin as she walked home from the supermarket. 

She and I had met in the park a month after my discharge from the V.A. I was eating a cheeseburger in the rain, an unemployed Army vet missing half his left foot wondering how to avoid the rest of his life. 

“Excuse me,” Kristin said, approaching. “But would you eat your own baby?” 

I’d done some bad things overseas, but nothing like that. 

“Then why are you eating someone else’s?” 

I put down the burger and noticed her blue eyes. 

“We’re all God’s children,” she said.

With Kristin gone, the landlord promised eviction by week’s end. The lease prohibited all animals except cats; Kristin had charmed him to turn a blind eye, but I’d struck out when I tried the same. 

“He’s smaller than the Siamese in 3-B,” I protested. Capuchins were tiny; Buddy weighed less than five pounds. 

“He’s a monkey!” 

“He has PTSD.” 

“Give him a banana, and then get the hell out.” 

The lab reports said Buddy was four; since infancy he had lived in captivity, chained in a cage where he could barely turn, his scalp cut open, electrodes attached to his brain. Like all primates, capuchins were social, but Buddy had been denied the companionship of other monkeys, denied toys, mental stimulation, or even a caring touch. Sores covered his legs and arms; a patchwork of scars marred his scalp. I’d seen videos of lab attendants mocking him as he sat in his own shit. 

Anyone connected to his liberation was subject to federal terrorism charges and extended imprisonment. 

With the mattress gone, we slept on the couch, Buddy perched on a cushion, whimpering into his hands. I slept rough, struck by nightmares about Jimmy and Rasheed, neither of whom had made it home. I woke up screaming, and poor Buddy spun in circles on the carpet, screaming too. 

On our seventh night without her, I woke up shaking and found Buddy asleep on my chest, his face inches from my own. 

I wasn’t sure what to do, but thought we’d try the mountains. I hoped Buddy could tolerate long stints on the road. To fool any curious onlookers, I’d purchased a car seat and a diaper bag from Goodwill. I even bought pajamas and baby sunglasses for him, just in case. 

At the V.A. hospital, a medic once told me if I’d been five seconds faster or five seconds slower, I would have kept my foot. Timing was everything. We were set to leave when the landlord knocked on the door, a huge cop standing behind him. 

“I’m here for the monkey,” the cop said. “For you, too.” 

I thought he might cuff me or rip Buddy away and throw him in a cage, but he let me carry him out to the cruiser before shoving us in back. 

I expected a short ride to the local station, where they’d confiscate Buddy and ship him back to the shithole lab, but at the intersection the cop turned left instead of right and we hit the highway. Buddy sat on my lap, his tiny hands clutching my fingers, his eyes heavy with fear. The cop talked the whole way. He’d seen my record and knew I’d served in some brutal places. So had he. He’d been a rifleman in Second Infantry with two tours in Afghanistan. 

I closed my eyes and wished Kristin were with us, though not really—I was headed for prison and would have been sick about her serving hard time. Imagining Buddy back in the lab was depressing enough. 

As the sun began to set, I wondered what was taking so long. Was he delivering us to the F.B.I. field office? I stroked Buddy’s back and whispered Kristin’s name, which seemed to soothe him. His head rested against my chest as he listened to my heartbeat. 

Finally the cop pulled over and told us to get out. 

I looked around. We stood in a clearing in the middle of nowhere. Specks of light moved across the sky. 

“Don’t worry, we’ve got your back,” the cop said. “Ronnie’s on his way to drive you to the safe house.” 

In his palm were a fistful of pistachios. Buddy leaned over and started eating. My body relaxed; I was missing half a foot and the woman I loved, but I still had Buddy. 

“Thank you.” 

“Hey, it’s why we’re here,” the cop said. “We’re all God’s children, right?” 

+++

Chuck Augello is the author of A Better Heart (Black Rose Writing),  praised by PETA founder Ingrid Newkirk as “spot on when it comes to nailing what’s wrong with animal abuse but in a realistic, not preachy way. A great read.” His work has appeared in One Story, Literary Hub, Smokelong Quarterly, and other fine journals. His novel The Revolving Heart (Black Rose Writing) was a Best Books of 2020 selection by Kirkus Reviews. His book Talking Vonnegut: Centennial Interviews and Essays (McFarland) will be published in 2023.