Love in Infant Monkeys by Lydia Millet (best feel good books .txt) 📕

Then the boxes where Bill had dosed the subjects with reserpine. These monkeys, too, huddled unmoving. Serotonin had been suppressed; this seemed to equate almost uniformly with complete listlessness, complete passivity. Might be other factors, but still: very interesting.

Back past the so-called pits of despair, where the young female—what had they named her? Minestrone?—was still trying to climb the walls and falling repeatedly. She squeaked at him. Well, not at him, technically. She did not know he was there; she could not see him. She could see no one. She was alone.

Harlow got in the car. Drove. Wasn’t far. Hated faculty parties, hardly ever went to them: frivolous. Took him away from his work.

He said this to a new female grad student who met him on the walkway, exclaiming at his presence. She had long curly hair and wore no brassiere.

“Dr. Harlow! I can’t believe you actually made it!”

“Work allatime,” he said, nodding and shrugging at once. Not as easy as he’d thought it would be. Pulled it together, though. “Lucky. Always have smart wives to help me with it.”

She shot him a look of pity: Everyone knew the second smart wife was on her cancer deathbed.

“Some of the faculty,” he went on, “these guys don’t even work on Sundays. Not serious.”

She was looking at him like he was a baby bird fallen from its nest. The free-love ones were maternal. Always acting like everyone’s little mommy.

Save it up for the kiddies, he thought. Wasted on me.

These days, Peggy dying like this, maybe he should take a break more often—the depression, for one thing. Felt like the top of his head was weighing him down. Headaches constantly. Chest squashed and nervous stomach. Nothing compared to the chemo, but still. Hair and skin greasy. Plus he was tired, face ached with it. Didn’t know if he could have kept his head up if he’d stayed at his desk. Fell asleep with a cigarette in his mouth last night, woke up with a stack of papers smoldering. Something smelled wrong. Burned his eyebrow half off, it turned out.

He patted his pocket for his cigarettes. Full pack. His students were going to be here. Chance to talk to Steve again about the chambers. Steve had said not to call them dungeons. Bad for public opinion.

Bullshit, but Steve was good at that side of it. Spade a spade, goddammit.

Saw a garden hose sticking out of a spigot against the side of the house. Turned it on, with some difficulty. Wrestled with the hose till cool water sputtered into his mouth. Cleared his head. Tongue felt less mealy. He wiggled the tongue around in his mouth. Testing it.

“Harry!—I can’t believe this—Harry!”

Fat woman from the department, what did she do? Personnel? Payroll? Lumbering.

“Ha, ha,” he said, dropping the hose, stepping up onto the stoop and lurching into the doorjamb.

“So you’re finally out of your cave! Look who’s here! It’s Harry! Can you guys believe this? Come on in!”

There was the good-looking girl from East Germany who was interested in the nuclear-family experiments, smoking in the corner with Jim. Poor Jim, that plagiarism thing with Peggy. Unfair. But nothing he could do about it. Couldn’t get in the middle. He shrugged, itchy.

The jacket: How long had he been wearing it? Felt oily. Maybe it was the shirt. Was it supposed to be white? He could not remember. Gray, beige or white? What color was the shirt to begin with?

“Get you a highball, Harry?”

It was a hard-to-breathe night. Humid, filmy. He squinted. Barely see the kids in the corner, but all of them seemed to be looking at him.

The fat payroll said something about gin. He nodded. Headache getting worse. Bands of light spanning his field of vision.

“Harry,” said a guy from the right. “Harry Harlow, right? Hey, I read ‘Love in Infant Monkeys.’ Great paper.”

“Huh,” grunted Harry. “Seen Suomi?”

“Steve’s not here yet,” said the guy, either frowning or leering. No idea who it was. Might be the chancellor, for all he knew. Wished he would disappear.

“Huh,” Harry muttered. Guy was already veering toward something out the side door, where a fountain was playing. A twinkle of water? Mermaids?

“Lie down a little,” he told the payroll woman, hovering with a heavy tumbler. He accepted it gratefully, drank it down and gave it right back. Good to be prompt. Aftertaste was hinky. “Spare daybed, maybe? Dark room? Cot thing?”

“Certainly,” said the woman. “There, there. You poor dear.” She leaned close and whispered with obscene intimacy: “How’s she doing?”

Wasn’t a baby bird, for Chrissake. No broken wing. Piece of his mind; tell her straight she resembled a water buffalo. Should be roaming the Serengeti with her quadruped friends. “Holding up, holding up,” he mumbled. “Brave girl, Peggy.” Hadn’t seen her for more than five minutes since what, Tuesday? Busy. She knew; she understood perfectly.

He persevered to the room at the back. Secluded. The water buffalo showed him in. Closed the door in her face. “No buffalos,” he said, quietly but firmly.

He fell down on the bed and felt a brief satisfaction.

When he woke, the party was over. Brimming ash-trays everywhere. Skinny kid fast asleep on the couch, legs straight, sneakers splayed on the sofa arm. He stood over the kitchen sink, full of squeezed-out lemon halves and olives. He splashed water on his face and gargled out of a used glass. Didn’t see a clean one. Who cared. His mouth was pure alcohol, would neutralize the germs. Made his way out of the bungalow, thirsty as hell. Needed something real to drink.

White light; he blinked on the stoop. It was early morning. Sunday? Legs felt heavy, but he would go to the lab. Still had a faint headache, but bearable now.

Lab was empty. Students must be sitting on their asses this weekend. Pure mediocrity.

Walking the gauntlet of the pits of despair he glanced into Minestrone’s setup. Saw the top of her head. She was just sitting there. He kept watching;