He said then he’d meet her for lunch next Sunday at noon at that same cafe.

A few feet from the pool, he waved goodbye and left. Junior was in the deep end. Kicking his tail, he rose in the water, standing up to watch the vet walk away.

TWENTY-NINE
Homearium, Week 5

Each day while she read, Junior would swim away from her to the far end to practice human sounds. She sat by the side of the pool with her hearing glasses on. She made sure not to look directly at him so he wouldn’t think she was listening.

He’d float at the surface, gargling vowels out his blowhole, lengthening and changing the sounds, trying to add consonants. Exhaling a long Aaaa, he’d add an almost-Yiddish Hhh at the end of it, like an old man about to spit. Or he’d grunt out an Uuu, shifting the sound into a growling Rrrr. Other times, he’d force a short burst of air out some glottic flap inside him to make a plosive Khh sound. His expression internal, he concentrated, saying Khh . . . khh . . . khh . . . . Frustrated, he’d slap his tail against the water. None of these sounds were easy for him.

Then one morning, his noises began to sound watery and cut off, a little like he was drowning. She looked over alarmed. He was rolling from side to side like a canoe while he practiced, dipping his blowhole in and out of the water. Each time his blowhole dipped in, the sound he was making was cut off. When the blowhole came out, the sound started again.

He played with the water this way, rolling in and out of it, stopping and starting the vocalizations. This way he could make murmurs and smacks and pops. Moving his blowhole in and out of the water, the sounds were thick and indistinct, like someone mumbling during a nightmare, but occasionally he managed to puff out a wet Puh or Bhh noise or sometimes a Mmll. He worked at this, trying to use the water like lips to shape the sounds.

Within two days, using the water, he managed to say Glrrt. She looked up and met his gaze. He shot into the deep end and wouldn’t practice anymore that day.

* * *

Each morning she went down to the lagoon to feed Mother and Kat. While she was there, Tibbet would appear. He still needed her help with his research, testing their ability to communicate. He’d wade into the water with his clipboard. Mother and Kat swam in close, clicking at his slightly distended gut, examining him. Around him, they moved gently.

She set up the collapsible pen on the far side of the lagoon and called one of them into it. Generally Kat was the one who came. Cora rubbed her side to reward her. Mother stayed with Tibbet, the two of them near the end of the dock. Cora could see the different geometric shapes stapled onto the dock, a few feet apart, near the water line. The white square, the black circle, the striped triangle. He blew the whistle to signal the start of what he called a “trial.” At the whistle, she showed Kat the black circle, her back turned so Mother could not see which shape she held.