Precedent

By: Nancy McKinley

Colleen pulls in front of my house, blasting the horn as I grab my parka, charge outside, and yank open the passenger door. “Get in, MK. We don’t have much time.” Her voice smacks of urgency, same as when she phoned, frantic about escaped animals and how her sister near Danville needs our help. Colleen hung up before I asked if the crisis involved her sister’s cats. Fran collects strays. She claims to place them with people needing companionship from COVID isolation, yet I wager felines shelter in her abandoned barn. The structure is so ramshackle, it lists to one side, a hazard, for sure.

I hoist into the Jimmy, and before my seat belt is buckled, Colleen powers down Coal Street. She wears a pith helmet like Teddy Roosevelt on a tropical safari, hardly suited to our January cold snap in Wilkes Barre. Weird hats are typical for Colleen. She’s worn them for decades. Even weirder is how the SUV reeks of bananas, making me wonder if a bottle of sunscreen rolled under a seat last summer and exploded after freezing, but I don’t ask, certain she’ll spin a yarn that will distract her from driving.

We barrel south to the I-80 interchange where PENNDOT pushed yesterday’s snow into a hard-pack wall against the shoulder. Sideswipes could prove deadly. “Best check your speed. Arrive alive.”

“No worries. I brought flashlights.”

My stomach tenses at her non-sequitur.

Colleen continues, “Fran’s searching by the creek. It gets dark early, so we’ll have to move fast. Temps could drop to single digits.”

Fran lives on a bluff, not far from the interstate turnoff. The descent to the creek is a challenge during the best of conditions. At her July 4^th Splash Fest, she enlists neighbors to wrestle down kegs of Yuengling, and they assist preggers and more mature guests, like Colleen and me. Today’s icy turf could plunge us below like a mine shaft. Maybe turn an ankle? No way could I get Colleen topside. Or her, me.

“Are you grinding your teeth?” snaps Colleen. “Have you read those articles in the Riverside Gazette? Pandemic stress causes jaw clenching and cracked enamel. Root canals, too.”

“What exactly does Fran need us to do?”

“Rescue them.” Derision curdles her response.

Crossing arms over my chest, I stare out the window. Vacant fields, pummeled by snow, resemble arctic tundra rather than formerly active family farms. Pig and dairy lands have faded away unlike eastern Pennsylvania where agriculture has morphed into gated communities, supported by income I can’t conceive. A billboard displays the nearby Geisinger Medical Center, the word CARING, all capital letters, superimposed over the sprawling campus. The facility is touted as a boom for the area, and while some people reap the benefit, Fran is not one of them.

Colleen squints against the windshield’s glare, undoubtedly thinking how eons ago, Fran headed West on a motorcycle, driven by a guy with a ponytail and a rucksack of acid tabs. Near Sedona, Fran hopped off, joined a commune, and embraced herbal life until returning years later with her no-daddy third grader and a carryall of buds and leaves. Colleen helped her get a job at Happy Scoops, where Fran pocketed big tips from Anthracite College kids, abuzz on special request ice cream toppings. Whether or not that’s true remains unclear, but after getting laid off, Fran did housecleaning and maintained steady work. Then came the quarantines. No cleaning, no cash.

“Think positive. Everything will work out,” I say. Not my usual spiel, yet I want to buffer the mood.

“Spare me.”

Things with us haven’t been the same with Colleen and me since Tad and I moved in together. We keep to ourselves due to the variants, so maybe she’s peeved I rarely see her. But more than that, she’s short tempered like most people wondering if the virus will ever end.

Onward we drive. Cankers of snow plaster tree limbs and smother the underbrush. Grey clouds thicken. Colleen clears her throat but doesn’t speak.

Finally, we turn off the interstate and pass a yellow diamond-shaped sign, a black cross in its center. “At least there’s not much traffic,” I say.

“Duh, the road’s down to one lane.” Lights flash yellow and blue from SUVs parked along the berm. Colleen eases off the gas. “Unmarked vehicles. Got to be state cops.”

A traffic deputy, his orange vest bright in the late afternoon, holds up a stop sign. We’re going less than 5 mph, but Colleen jams the brakes, making me rock forward. “Didn’t you see that guy?”

“Way worse than what Fran described.”

About thirty feet off road, a dump truck dips toward the woods, precariously close to the blue pickup toppled beside it. The pickup must have been towing the trailer angled downward, but still upright, its rear door bashed open. Wooden crates have spilled out. Lots of them, maybe thirty are strewn across snowy ground. Some are broken apart. They’re as big as picnic coolers and have odd-shaped tops, covered by plastic screens. “What are those toppers?”

“Isosceles trapezoid,” crows Colleen and laughs. “Can you believe I remember our high school geometry?”

I grin, despite the mayhem and wonder if the trucks collided while merging lanes? The traffic deputy flips his sign from STOP to SLOW. “I hope the drivers are okay.”

“Fran must be freaking out about the monkeys.”

“Huh?”

“The ones that got loose. I didn’t know there were so many crates.”

My brain tries to process what’s what as we pass a firetruck. Men stand aside the rig, wearing black boots, long orange coats, and helmets similarly shaped to Colleen’s hat. Beyond them is a green Bronco, the driver’s door marked PA Game Commission. A wildlife officer hooks thumbs under his gun belt and shifts from foot to foot. Near the woods, three state patrol shoulder their rifles.

“Not good,” groans Colleen. She turns onto Fran’s driveway, fishtails briefly, then resumes traction toward the house.

Soon as she parks, we get out and stomp the ground to ward off the cold. “I thought Fran needed help with cats. But monkeys? They can bite. Maybe carry rabies.”

“They’re not like raccoons,” snorts Colleen. She raises the back hatch, and from it, slips into an oversize stadium coat with STEELERS emblazoned across the shoulders. Then she grabs a grocery sack stuffed with bananas and hands me a bunch. “Bait, put ’em in your pockets.” She leans inside, pulls out a field hockey stick and pokes me in the chest.

“For you.”

I grasp it, never asking why I need this wooden stick with a mesh basket at its end. Again, she reaches in and retrieves a crab net, its handle the length of a lawn rake that I recognize from our vacations at Ocean City.

“Monkeys here? This is crazy.”

“Come on,” orders Colleen, scuffing moon boots across the yard.

Following, I call, “Why do the cops have rifles?”

She turns, “To shoot them.”

I inhale so sharply, my lungs sting. “With tranquilizers, right?”

“Not their precedent.” Colleen reminds me how a few years ago, a heifer escaped transport and ran to the middle school parking lot as buses pulled in for the student pick-up. The cops arrived with claims the cow posed a danger, so they shot it, setting precedent.

Overhead, a helicopter buzzes. Rotor blades spin with eggbeater frenzy.

“God help us,” snorts Colleen. She descends the trail, wielding the crab net like a baton. Twice she stops to catch her breath.

I’m winded, too. “Maybe the monkeys ran to the barn? We didn’t even look.”

“Fran saw them go toward the creek.”

We traipse along, mute with anticipation. Rarely have I seen a monkey, but as a girl, my grandmother was driving us past Noxen when I had to go to the bathroom. We stopped at a gas station, and after I finished, the mechanic, one leg shorter than the other, insisted, “You got to meet George.” He ushered us to a repair bay outfitted with a cage, and inside, a monkey. Brown with a tan chest, it crouched in a corner and stared curiously. When the mechanic lit a cigarette, the monkey screeched, hopped onto cage bars, and reached out fingers until given the Lucky Strike. The monkey puffed, long tail twitching, then shoved the burning cigarette into its mouth. The mechanic laughed as I screamed.

Loud bangs, hopefully ice heaving against the creekbank, jar my senses. “Shouldn’t we be wearing orange vests or something?”

“Private property. Law enforcement can’t enter without a warrant.” Colleen removes her glove and texts Fran. “Damn. No service.”

We march all the way to the box elder bordering the creek. The icy perimeter looks walkable, but gurgles at midsection issue warning. My nostrils quiver, sniffing moss, musky with cold. I wish I’d remembered a muffler, and Colleen probably wants a warmer hat. Ever proud of her red hair, doctored of course, the strands are frosted white.

She stops. “Fran’s waving.” Twenty yards downstream, Fran, lacking Colleen’s girth, is engulfed in a camouflage snowsuit, the type worn by hunters. She points to the treetops. We scrutinize naked branches and shrug shoulders. What don’t we see? Fran puts a gloved finger to her lips, mandating silence. Step by step we proceed until Colleen crunches a fallen branch. Rustling stirs from above. Snow plops down. Colleen extends her arms like a crossing guard, and we halt, tilting up chins. My mouth purses in surprise. Clinging to oak limbs are five creatures, no bigger than cats. Tawny colored, they stare at us, halos of fur framing old man faces.

“Kinda’ human looking,” I whisper.

“Primates. We’re all related,” says Colleen. “Get your bait.”

I prop the lacrosse stick on the crook of my elbow, reach into my pocket, and grasp a banana, hard as a popsicle. “It’s frozen”

“Stop making excuses. We’ve got to try.” She proffers her crab net, heavy with bananas, and uses both hands to hold the pole as high as she can. It doesn’t come close to the towering branches, yet monkeys lean over and chitter loudly. “See, they’re interested.”

More like terrified, I think, extending the lacrosse stick. My gloved fingers, brittle with cold, slide against the shaft, causing the banana to flop out at the tree base. Monkeys screech and shake heads.

“Get another,” hisses Colleen.

The helicopter returns.

I scrunch fingers into fists, hoping to thaw them and glance skyward, uncertain if the helicopter holds newscasters or law enforcement. Can they see us? The monkeys? Rotor blades pick up speed, whipping with sounds of TV war coverage. Monkeys shake tails, yowling, screeching, full-on cacophony. Then the biggest monkey skitters down, twisting its head back and forth. The others scramble down too, and within seconds, three dart toward the trail behind us, but the one with a grey face scoots in the opposite direction and slides onto the icy creek. The smallest monkey, more chihuahua than kitten size, rushes toward Fran and grabs onto her leg. The little body trembles as it pivots to stare at her. She bends over, scoops it up, and while cooing, presses the tiny creature to her chest. With slow circular motions, Fran rubs the tan fur on its back. “Where are the others?”

Grey face bares teeth, probably rethinking its choice, and claws onto the land, spine arched high. Fran’s little monkey whimpers. Grey face, a different kind of monkey than the little one, approaches them. 

“Careful,” warns Colleen.

“Go find the others,” begs Fran.  

My toes are numb, worse than my fingers, yet Frans sounds so desperate, I turn, and with an uncoordinated gait, press flat-footed on the trail.

“Move it,” orders Colleen, poking my backside with her net.

“Have to go slow. Don’t want to fall.”

She chuffs disapproval. We trudge along, stopping midway at a copse of evergreen trees. “Maybe a place to hide,” muses Colleen.

We eye branches for signs of snow brushed from limbs, clues of a monkey. White and still, the grove offers no trace.

Colleen sighs, “They’re probably too scared to move.” She tosses out a couple of bananas. We wait, scanning trees that yield nothing.

Yearning for the warmth of Fran’s house, I ponder how long monkeys can survive the elements. “Better keep looking,” I mumble. We slog up the trail, and I ponder what we’ll do when we find the monkeys. Use nets for capture? Carry them to Fran’s barn? Then what? Serve bananas and cat chow?  I frown, lips blistered by cold, wrangling with what seems a hopeless situation. But maybe not? Surely Colleen could tell me otherwise.

Next thing, my thoughts are interrupted by bursts of gunfire. Colleen pats her heart. We avoid the woods during deer season, and even though hunting has passed, the sounds cry RUN.

At the outskirts of Fran’s yard, we pause to evaluate the open space. Make a mad dash for the house? Reverse and bivouac by the creek? While debating strategy, Fran joins our huddle. Her voice is scratchy. “This little one’s weak. I need to get inside. Hopefully the other one will follow.” Grey face hovers off trail.

The ground is so slick, Fran skates wide-legged until reaching her yellow sided house. She pushes open the door and disappears as grey face steals onto the porch, rubbing its chin with what seems a thoughtful gesture. I yell for Fran to open the door open. A loud bang reverberates closer than the prior pops. Another pop makes me blink, looking for I don’t know what. Then a thunderous clap. My throat constricts: Three shots? Three monkeys?

“Don’t stand there. GO!” cries Colleen.

#

After two cups of tea, I start to warm up. I expected Fran’s house to smell like cat, but cinnamon and apple waft over me. From time to time, cats paw out from behind drapes or the overstuffed chair, darting off when they see the monkeys. They sit upright on a yoga mat, plaid blankets over their shoulders.

“Are you sure I can’t give you hot toddies? asks Fran. “You should spend the night.”

Colleen shakes her head and shifts forward on the couch. “Could be more snow coming.”

“Let’s check the weather.” Fran grasps the remote and clicks on TV28. The screen fills with reporters at the scene of the trucking accident. The camera pans over the broken crates as the announcer reports on the earlier mishap, saying monkeys imported from Africa were being transported from a New York airport to a medical research lab in Florida.

“Why drive through Pennsylvania?” I ask.

“Avoiding tolls,” says Fran. “Lots of truckers do that.”

The announcer continues, “None of the monkeys were tested after they entered the country, and concerns were raised about tropical disease.”

Grey face tilts its head as if listening.

“But no worries,” says the announcer. “The situation is under control. Law enforcement reported only three monkeys escaped. Those three monkeys were found and euthanized humanely.”

“Humanely!?!” gasps Fran.

“Precedent,” reminds Colleen.

“The public is asked to stop searching for monkeys. All have been found.”

For a moment, no one says a word. Then an echo fills the room: All have been found.

“Let’s have that toddy,” says Colleen.

#

In the morning, we sit at the kitchen table, facing the living room where Fran created blanket beds for the monkeys. The little one hops up and down. Grey face stares warily at Colleen. Squished onto her head is a tan, nubby hat, shaped like a basketball that’s been cut in-half. Is this her attempt at a monkey theme?

“Where’d you get the hat?”

“Me,” says Fran. “Faux fur.” 

“Vintage,” adds Colleen. “Warm, too.”

Last night, temps dropped to record lows. It’s a good thing the monkeys weren’t outside. They could have frozen to death. Yet the situation is complicated: wild animals destined for research now given refuge by a woman of questionable stability with help from her well-meaning, yet ill-informed sister and friend.

Fran squats beside the monkeys. She doles out banana chunks and croons, “Here comes the sun.” Her solicitous manner suggests all will be okay, but my inner voice issues warning.

“Best get going,” blurts Colleen.  

My chin dips. Doesn’t she realize we have a responsibility here? What’s the rush? It’s not like we have work, and Ted doesn’t expect me until the afternoon. When I texted him last night, avoiding mention of the monkeys until I get home with a better sense of things, he responded: Love you. Then he added: Be careful. The add-on gave me pause.

Colleen thrusts arms into her stadium coat. I’m not used to her let’s-get-out-of-here mode. Often, she’s the first to volunteer for community service, badgering me to join her. Surely Fran and monkeys qualify for assistance. Isn’t that why Colleen brought me here?

She lumbers out the door, but I don’t yell stop, fearful of scaring the monkeys. I pull on my parka and hustle after her.

Colleen sits in the Jimmy and idles the engine. I ease open the passenger door, planning to coax her to stay, but soon as I get in, she jerks out of park, and off we go, driving past the accident site. The trucks are gone, probably towed away, and the crates are gone, too.

“Like it never happened,” says Colleen.

“Except Fran harbors two monkeys in her house.”

“See no evil, hear no evil—.”

“You saw the news. What if they’re infected?”

“What if they’re not?”

I start to say we should contact the Center for Disease Control, but something balks within. Monkeys destined for research don’t have much future despite their importance for medical breakthroughs. Reporting them could bring certain death, not easy to reconcile after we enabled their path to freedom. And last night, when they rested on flexed haunches, looking so vulnerable, they tugged at my heart. Yet I can’t shake off the newscaster’s comments about no testing. If the monkeys are carriers of something bad, it could spread. “We were exposed. We can’t go home.”

“Prone to hysteria ever since childhood,” mocks Colleen.

Before I challenge her hurtful remark, she eases off the gas, and pulls a U-turn. I clasp the arm rest, but we keep steady. Colleen beams and utters unfamiliar words: “You’re right.”

What’s she scheming?

“We’ll go back to Fran’s and call that good looking veterinarian. You know, the vet in a van. He comes to the house.”

“What will you tell him? How will we pay?"

“Mention Fran, and he’ll come. He comps her freebies, owing to her cats-as-companions crusade. He says it’s good for the community, his business, too.”

“And when he sees the monkeys?”

“Why do you worry before something happens?”

“Public safety,” I remind. “Familiar with the term?”

We motor onto Fran’s driveway where an old sedan, bumper secured by wire, blocks the way. “Aunt Gert’s Impala. Still going,” exclaims Colleen.

Aunt Gert or the car? I bite my tongue lest I sound insensitive. Aunt Gert is not Colleen’s real aunt. Everyone calls her Aunt Gert. The Riverside Gazette captioned the name for a feature on her ninetieth birthday, celebrating how she still volunteered at the medical center information desk. Then came the Covid Kibosh.

Colleen parks in the frozen yard, and we plod up the driveway. My breath forms icy crystals. “Do you think her driving is a good idea?”

“What?”

“Aunt Gert. At her age.”

“You never give up, do you?”

#

Inside, Fran has cranked the heat to sweltering climes, probably for the monkeys. Aunt Gert, wearing pink sweats and men’s black galoshes, stands next to the couch. A blue plastic cat carrier is on the floor beside her. She points up at the curtain rod where the little one and grey face are perched. “Will you look at them? Strangest cats I’ve ever seen.”

Fran puts a finger to her lips, then speaks, “Aunt Gert came to get a tabby for a friend.”

“A shut in,” says Aunt Gert. “That’s why I’m wearing my mask. I’m vaccinated, yet don’t want to bring back more than the cat.”

“We’re vaxed, too,” I say. “But we’ll put on masks.” From my parka, I retrieve one made by Colleen. The gold fabric, double-thick per public health department recommendations, is emblazoned with red, kissy lips.

Aunt Gert laughs.

“You want one?” asks Colleen. “Your friend can have one too. I made lots.”

We secure matching masks as Fran explains how Aunt Gert will have to wait until next week for the cat. “I need to keep an eye in case problems develop.”

Does Fran think what I think? The problem being monkeys need tests before cats leave the premises.

“When I called last week, you said the cat was getting shots,” reminds Aunt Gert.

Colleen, eyes dancing, catches on to the stall tactics. “Don’t you hate how snowstorms delay everything?”

Aunt Gert nods. “I suppose.”

“I’ll bring the cat when it’s ready,” offers Fran.

A knock at the door makes me stiffen. Colleen, too.

“Must be Dr. Tom.” says Fran. “You know. Vet in a van.”

“But I didn’t call him,” says Colleen.

“Why would you call him?” Fran opens the door.

“Whew, steamy in here,” he says, sunglasses fogging. He puts them in his vet bag, places it on the floor, and unbuttons his sheepskin jacket. His dark eyes roam over us. “Oh, masks. Right.” He bends toward the vet bag.

“I have extras,” says Colleen. She sidles over to him, all flirty even though she’s old enough to be his mother. Maybe his grandmother. She hands him a mask. He adjusts the ear straps and covers his mouth as kissy lips protrude. Laughing, he looks up, spies the monkeys, and stops.

Aunt Gert breaks the silence. “Fran won’t let me take the tabby for my friend. But you can give the okay, right?”

Fran interrupts, “I explained we need to watch for problems. Her friend isn’t mobile, and if problems arise—”

Dr. Tom squints at Fran, up at the monkeys, then Aunt Gert, and back to monkeys. “No way should your friend accept a cat with unknowns we don’t know yet.”

Aunt Gert turns to Colleen, “Doesn’t make sense.” 

“Vet talk,” says Colleen. “I’ll walk you to your car. It’s slick out there.”

As they leave, Dr. Tom moves his medical case to the coffee table. “Fran, what have you gotten into?”

“We must save them,” she says.

“We spent the night,” I interject. “We’ve been exposed.”

“Could be okay,” says Dr. Tom. He pulls on blue latex gloves. “Testing will reveal their status. I’ll need blood and saliva samples. Fecal, too.”

Fran says, “You won’t believe this. They used a litter box.”

Dr. Tom shakes his head. “Not viable if mixed with cat waste.”

“After I saw the news, I put the cats upstairs with their own box. No more contact. And then I put a fresh liner in this box.”

I’m amazed Fran had the sense to take precautions.

Colleen returns, removes her mask, and we do, too. The monkeys crawl back and forth across the curtain rod. “Looks like they’re making themselves at home,” she says.

“I have to lure them down,” says Fran. “Dr. Tom needs samples.” She stretches her arm above her head, shaking a cluster of grapes like a tambourine. Grapes drop onto the yoga mat. The monkeys stare. Fran bends and deposits the remaining cluster with the others. Next, she peels a banana and circles it lariat style. The monkeys stay put. She places it on the mat, goes to the kitchen and returns with a bag of Grandma Utz potato chips. “When all else fails…” She scatters chips. In a flash, the monkeys lope down the drapes, hop onto the mat, and munch feverishly.

“Picture of happy,” says Colleen.

“What if they’re infected?” I ask.

“What if they’re not?”

“Whoa,” intones Dr. Tom. He exhales, eyes kind yet serious. “If diseased, I’ll make the necessary calls. And then you must get evaluated.”

“But if they’re okay?” nasals Fran.

“Until we know more, I recommend you quarantine together.”

His grave tone prompts us to step backwards.

“If they’re healthy, you’ve got to help,” pleads Fran.

“You can’t keep them here,” says Colleen. “They’re not cats.”

“I know. I’m not stupid.” 

“There must be someplace safe,” I sputter, noting everyone’s surprised expressions. Veins in my neck tighten. My thoughts churn just as they did when my mother got cancer. If there’d been more medical research, she might have survived. I was only in seventh grade.

Eyes lowered, I continue, “We can’t argue the need for medical research, or the issue of using primates, but if there’s a chance for a kid’s mom to live, then monkeys should—"

“Stop. I know what you’re going to say,” fires Fran.

Dr. Tom puts up his hand. “I care deeply about animals and that’s been the case since I worked in a research lab during vet school. Believe me, the primates received way better care than they would have anywhere else.”

Fran grimaces, “Then explain why chimps are no longer used for research.”

“Correct, now only small primates get used,” he says ruefully. “But developments are underway to eliminate primate testing.”

“And until then?”

“I wish I could say what you want to hear,” says Dr. Tom. “Truth is, after small primates receive vaccines or pharmaceuticals, they’re typically euthanized so tissue can be examined. Those in other tests, not so much.” 

“What happens to them?” asks Fran.

“Sometimes they get sold for further research. A few get adopted by sanctuaries. Of course, the sanctuaries are licensed, and they keep a low profile.”

Colleen rolls back her shoulders. “How do we find those places?”

“Legitimate connections. Otherwise, they’re hounded by reality TV types.”

“Like the tiger grifters?” rasps Colleen.

Dr. Tom nods.

“Could you find a sanctuary?”

“If needed,” he says and retrieves test tubes from his vet bag. “But first, let’s make things easier and give me some help. Hold each monkey in its blanket, so they don’t stress or try to dart off during procedures.”

“I’ll take Tiny,” says Fran.

“MK and I can handle the other one,” offers Colleen.

We hunker down, using the blanket like a bunting. I anticipate resistance, but instead of wriggling, grey face eases into a supine position and blinks rheumy eyes.

“Doing good,” says Dr. John.

Never in my life did I expect to swaddle a monkey, yet I kneel as if in prayer, hands pressed to the trembling form. Colleen cups lower extremities and whispers so softly, I’m not sure anyone hears her but me. “Remember, we’re all primates.”