The Zebra Wall (8 page)

When they were done, and Adine stood back to get a good look at the finished product, it occurred to her that the wall was a bit like a giant, flattened candy cane. It also occurred to Adine that if you looked at the wall too long, the stripes began to vibrate. She knew she'd hate waking up to the zebra stripes every morning. She'd be dizzy before she even got out of bed. Poor Baby. This room belongs in a punk rocker's house, Adine thought. She had seen photos in magazines near the checkout lines at the grocery store of people dressed in leather, with spiked hair and safety pins through their ears. This nursery should belong to people like that, she concluded.

Mr. Vorlob ran his fingers through his beard, leaning his head to and fro, and squinting. “Looks great,” he said after a few minutes.

“Ooo-la-la,” said Mrs. Vorlob, spreading her arms out like an umbrella opening. “It's the
zebra
wall. Now all we need is a name for Baby.” She turned toward Aunt Irene.

“Still thinking,” Aunt Irene said vaguely, fumbling in her pocket for one of her brown cigarettes. “I've narrowed it down.”

“To what?” asked Adine.

“Not telling.” Aunt Irene was wearing a sleeveless orange shift printed with a pattern of navy blue cat silhouettes in diagonal lines. Over that she had on a long-sleeved paisley blouse in a myriad of colors, as a smock. She's competing with the wall for attention, Adine thought. Aunt Irene seemed fatter and older to Adine that morning. Maybe because Adine was angry that Aunt Irene got to pick Baby's name. Aunt Irene had three chins, rather than two; she seemed to fill the nursery like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. When Aunt Irene stood in front of the window and sunlight shone behind her, her hair was so wispy that you could see the curve of her head. Adine could tell what her aunt would look like bald—not pleasant. “Baby's name'll be perfect. I promise,” Aunt Irene assured. Then, under her breath, barely audible over Bernice and Carla's squabbling and Dot's singing, she added, “I finally want to do
something
right.”

But Adine heard her. And for the first time in her life she felt a kind of sadness for her aunt. A brief, sudden sadness that left Adine homesick in the only home she'd ever lived in, surrounded by her entire family.

The zebra wall had been finished on a Saturday. On Sunday, all the pieces of furniture—dresser, miniature rocking chair, the bookshelf that stored diaper boxes, the old wobbly table used for changing—were painted metallic silver, and a gleaming, new chrome crib was bought at the outlet mall. When the nursery was set up, everything in its proper place, the crib was a silvery cage in the center of a small, square room that pulsed with enough boldness and energy to fill a house. The next day, Monday, all the Vorlobs overslept. Mr. Vorlob was late for work. And the children were late for school.

“Probably because of all the paint fumes,” Aunt Irene joked. “We must have breathed them in.”

Upon hearing that, Carla started gasping and swooning. She asked to stay home from school.

“Nice try, but no dice,” Mrs. Vorlob said, rolling her eyes at Carla. “Don't overdramatize. Your dad moved the alarm clock into the nursery while we painted. He forgot to move it back.”

Because they were running late, there wasn't time for Adine's morning routine. Usually she'd wash and dress quickly and run down to the den to watch Willard Scott's weather segment on the “Today” show before breakfast. Sometimes her sisters would join her. Bernice thought that Willard Scott and Aunt Irene would make a good couple. She even called him Uncle Willy. “They'd look great together,” Bernice would say. “Just about the same size.” After hearing the forecast, Adine would go to the kitchen to eat.

Adine's favorite breakfast was two pieces of white bread (the soft, squishy kind), toasted, with margarine, banana slices, and cinnamon and sugar in between. She'd press the toast together with the heel of her hand. Starting at one corner, she'd nibble all the crusts off first, then take large bites to finish the rest. Mr. Vorlob dubbed them “Queen Adine's Breakfast Dreams.” He'd usually have three of them with a tall glass of milk. One was enough for Adine.

But that morning there wasn't time for Willard Scott and breakfast. While the girls dressed themselves, Mrs. Vorlob wrote excuses for them to give to their teachers, and Aunt Irene packed their lunch boxes and lined them up on the kitchen counter. Then Aunt Irene threw on her robe and slippers and ran out to start her car. She revved the engine and waited. Most mornings Adine, Bernice, and Carla walked, but this morning Aunt Irene had offered to drive them to get them to Tyler Elementary as fast as possible. “Hurry!” she called from the street, as the girls poured down the front steps, their unbuttoned jackets flapping at their sides like wings.

They were only fifteen minutes late. Adine, still a bit flustered from rushing, was seated at her desk trying to find her place in her math book when she realized that she had left her lunch box in Aunt Irene's car. But by that time it was already too late. In a matter of seconds, there was a loud banging on the classroom door, followed by Aunt Irene's grand entrance.

Adine's cheeks burned as Aunt Irene shuffled across the front of the room, her fuzzy, hot pink slippers going
swish-swish, swish-swish
on the linoleum. Aunt Irene held Adine's lunch box out in front of her, and the belt from her bathrobe dragged along the floor behind her. It was her cat robe, of course—hundreds of black cats jumping all over it as if they were being shot out of a popcorn popper. Wispy black feathers trimmed the sleeves and collar. “Adine Vorlob forgot this,” Aunt Irene told the teacher. “I'm her Aunt Irene.”

Giggles. Snickers. Laughter.

Adine wanted to be somewhere else. Preferably home, cocooned under the blankets on her parents' big bed. Or alone in the kitchen carving her initials in the glassy-smooth top of a brand-new jar of peanut butter.

As the door closed slowly behind her aunt like a yawn, Adine flashed her a look that could break dishes. Then Adine placed her head on her arms and cried hot tears, clamping her eyes tightly and drawing her arms closely around her ears to muffle all the laughter.

By the time school was over, Adine still felt miserable. All afternoon, and at dinner, she avoided looking at and talking to Aunt Irene. “I'm never going back,” she told her mother before bed.

“Back where?” Mrs. Vorlob asked.

“School,” said Adine. “I'm never going back to school after what happened today.”

There were tears and hugs and ear tugging as Adine explained her terrible morning to her mother.

“Can I stay home tomorrow? Please?” said Adine, her eyes widening. “Just one day?”

“Oh, honey, it's usually better to just face things right away.”

“
Please?
”

Mrs. Vorlob thought a moment and sighed. “Okay, I guess. Just this once. Just one day.” She brushed Adine's hair aside and placed her hand firmly on Adine's forehead. “Well, you do have a little temperature, you know,” she said winking.

There was a sound like drummers playing. And something shadowy and nameless was chasing Adine. Against her will she remained motionless, rooted to the ground with legs of stone. The thing got closer and closer, and then it rumbled and made a frightening noise.

The noise was so loud that Adine woke up. She had been dreaming. Her room was dark. It was raining. Lightning lit up the room for a second, and Adine held her breath until the following thunderclap shook the windows. Adine ran to the kitchen.

“I hear you've got a fever,” said Aunt Irene. She was sitting at the kitchen table in her cat robe and hot pink slippers. Before her was a plate of frozen waffles, toasted (nearly black), cut into tiny squares, and buried with strawberry jam.

Adine nodded. “Where's Mom? Where's everyone else?” she asked, her eyes directed away from Aunt Irene.

“Your dad's at work. Your mother just left—she drove your sisters to school and then she wanted to go grocery shopping. She took Dot and Effie with her. And Baby's sleeping.” Aunt Irene pushed a piece of waffle around her plate. “I told your mother I'd watch Dot and Effie, but she said she wanted to take them with her. She said she felt funny not having at least a couple of kids along.”

Adine felt betrayed. By everyone. How could her mother leave her with Aunt Irene after what had happened at school? Especially while it was storming?

Mustering all her courage, Adine walked to the back door—tripping on Deedee and nearly falling—and looked out the window. The sky was a horrible choppy sea, lightning separating it like a crooked grin. Deedee was meowing, doing figure eights around Adine's feet, rubbing against Adine's legs.

Adine wanted her mother. Now.

“If you're sick,” Aunt Irene called from the kitchen, “you shouldn't be by that drafty door.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Adine whispered ever so softly. There was no confusion about how Adine felt about her aunt at this moment.

“Adine—” called Aunt Irene again.

“I'm coming,” muttered Adine, her voice trembling with fear (because of the storm) and anger (because of Aunt Irene). But before she did come, she quietly opened the back door and scooted Deedee outside. Deedee scratched on the door, trying to get back in. Thunder crashed, and Deedee, bewildered, sprinted into the neighbors' bushes. Adine watched until Deedee disappeared. Would she come back? She wasn't an outdoor cat. If she ever did go out, it was on a leash, with Aunt Irene holding on tightly. Adine hadn't thought about what she had done. It had just happened. As if some button inside her had been accidently pushed. But she felt a kind of satisfaction. As if she had gotten even.

The minutes dragged like hours. At intervals, Adine called the weather information recording, using the extension phone in her parents' room. She held down on her lower lip with her teeth while she listened. It was supposed to rain most of the day, clearing late in the afternoon. There was no mention of a tornado, thank goodness. Between calls, Adine passed the time by keeping Baby company in the nursery, picking him up out of his crib and holding him during the thunder and lightning. Baby seemed unafraid, but Adine felt better just touching someone. She pretended she was needed. “It's okay,” she told her brother.

Like clockwork, Adine shortly went to her parents' room to call the weather recording again. She picked up the receiver and—instead of a dial tone—heard Aunt Irene talking to one of her friends. Aunt Irene was using the phone in the kitchen. Adine became still as stone.

“I don't know what I'd do without Helen and Roland and the girls. Baby, too,” Aunt Irene said. “Those girls are the kids I never had.”

Adine's heart did anxious things.

Aunt Irene continued, “I'm fifty-two and what do I have to show for it?” (Sniffle.) “No husband. No children. Just Deedee. Just my precious cat. . . .”

As quietly as possible, Adine hung up the phone. And then, without giving it a second thought, her pajamas still on, Adine ran down the steps, through the living room, out the front door, and into the rain.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Aunt Irene, whirling around with a start as Adine tried to sneak into the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been? I thought you were up in our room. And Deedee—where was
she
?”

“I went to get Deedee,” Adine said, choosing her words carefully. “She was outside,” she added, dropping Deedee on the wet floor. Adine was drained and drenched and muddy from running throughout the neighborhood and alleyway behind their house, calling frantically for Deedee—and crying. Her pajamas and hair were dripping, making dirty puddles at her feet. Deedee shook her front paws off—first one then the other, one then the other—until Aunt Irene picked her up and planted noisy kisses all across her face.

When Adine had finally found Deedee, she had been lying by the side of the neighbors' garage, a snug ball huddled in a small shelter formed by some garbage cans. Adine had never liked holding Deedee, so she snatched her up quickly, hoping she wouldn't scratch or bite. It had been Adine's intention to simply get Deedee back into the house and clean herself up without Aunt Irene's noticing a thing.

“You'll catch pneumonia,” said Aunt Irene, handing Adine a towel from the pantry. “If you haven't already. Dry off and I'll put water on for some nice, hot tea.” Aunt Irene turned her back to Adine and set the teakettle on the stove. “Thank you, Adine,” she said.

Deedee was grooming herself now. She stopped for a second and gloated as if she owned the kitchen table (where she sat), not to mention the entire room. When Deedee stretched her legs, her claws popped out of her paws like weapons.

“How did you get out?” Aunt Irene asked Deedee in baby talk. “How did you ever get out?”

Deedee paid no attention. She thrust her leg out like a ballerina and attacked the fur on her flank.

And then, suddenly, as if it had only just sunk in, Aunt Irene said, “My goodness. Thank you again, Adine. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I just couldn't live without Deedee.” She shook her head in disbelief, then sighed in relief.

Adine began to shiver. She tugged on her ear and rocked on her heels, thinking. Without warning, she rushed over to Aunt Irene and threw her arms around her. “I
pushed
her out,” she squeaked. “Deedee, I mean. I pushed her outside. On purpose,” Adine managed to whisper before letting out a sob into Aunt Irene's bathrobe.

After a few minutes of Aunt Irene's saying, “There, there,” Adine calmed down enough to whisper, “I'm sorry.” Adine tightened her hug for a second before letting go.

“You don't have to say that,” Aunt Irene told Adine. “
I'm
sorry.” She pulled a wad of tissues out of her sleeve and handed it to Adine. “I hate tears, you know. How about a smile?”