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I know I can trust you to help me find Alphus a place to stay other than those horrible cages. It might help if you could come up here and meet him socially. We have tea about four every day. Please do come.

Sincerely yours,

Millicent

I must confess I find myself incredulous at the idea that the animal can “sign” other than, perhaps, a few rudimentary gestures. As everyone knows, the so-called literary output generated under the aegis of Damon Drex turned out to be a hoax of stupendous proportions. I thought about possible places for Alphus to stay as I made my way down the two flights to Phil’s office.

To my relief, he was out, apparently on holidays. I made a note of when he would return and considered taking the rest of the day off. Because, for all my complaints, I have found that living with Diantha has again become a marvel of happiness. It’s as though von Grümh’s murder has lifted an enormous weight from our life together even as my detestation of the man remains a troubling source of possibilities.

Elsie grows more communicative by the day. My own fluency in signing barely keeps pace. Sometimes I think the world would be better off if we all just shut up and used sign language. I know, I know, the beauty of the human voice and all that. Perhaps vocalizations could be limited to singing — by those who know how. Because signing, a dance of the hands, the arms, the whole upper torso, has a grace and eloquence all of its own.

It took me a while to reconcile to Elsie’s condition. When a child is handicapped in some way — yes, I know, that’s not the word, but being mute is a handicap whatever word or phrase you use for it. The reality remains: My child cannot or will not speak. Even as the tests go on and the reassurances grow thinner (at least her giggle is normal, one expert reassured us), a complex reaction begins. At first you think that what you cherish most in life has turned out to be damaged goods. Someone you love is less than whole, less than what they could have been. It’s difficult to resist the inevitable assessment and the kind of inner discounting that ensues. Which in turn provokes a fierce love and pride alloyed with tragedy. And, out of pity and guilt (What did I do wrong?), you find yourself in the grip of a deep, protective love. My dear silent little girl is ever more precious to me.

And then, gradually and without exercising what I would call deliberate virtue, the notion of deficiency abates and the state of being mute becomes just another kind of normality.

Speaking of which, Felix has returned to Seaboard to my great relief. But he can be a strange bird. Rio, he told me, “is tush city, derrière central, butt capital of the world. Talk about neck pain. What I mean, Norman, is don’t ever go there for a honeymoon.”

4

That I had yet to tell my friend and colleague Lieutenant Tracy all that transpired on the night of Heinie’s murder provoked in me an unease that shadowed and sharpened everything I did. In all honesty, I felt like an impostor. Even as I met with Dr. Harvey Deharo and Professor Thad Pilty to discuss the Neanderthal problem, I kept recalling what had happened on that fateful evening. And what I had not told the police.

I managed to be plausibly attentive when I sat down with these two eminent scientists along with Emmanuel Quinn, the representative from Humanation Syntectics, the firm that designed and manufactured the animated mannequins we use in the Diorama of Paleolithic Life.

As I have mentioned, in an attempt to render the models in “postracial” hues, we had tinted them a light grayish brown, a complexion that may be the future of the human race but apparently wasn’t that of our Neanderthal antecedents.

I let Thad, who personifies gravitas with his Amish-like beard and stolid squareness of stature, delineate the problem. He pointed out that the issue had also arisen several years before while planning the diorama. He admitted he felt troubled