The Zebra Wall (9 page)

Adine tried her best to accommodate, but her smile was more a forced grin than a genuine smile.

“I'm not going to ask you why you did what you did,” Aunt Irene said, gently shoving Deedee off the table, “because I have more than an idea.” She hesitated, rubbing her hands together, her eyes misting over. “Your mother told me you were embarrassed yesterday—and I apologize. We were in such a hurry, I just forgot what I had on. How stupid . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Why don't you go take a quick, hot shower and change,” she suggested, obviously trying to sound cheerful. She tipped her head away. “I'll fix the tea. It'll be all ready by the time you're back.”

The teapot was piping hot; steam rose from its spout like chimney smoke. Adine inhaled deeply as Aunt Irene filled both cups. The tea smelled wonderful. Adine pulled herself closer to the table. She shivered, just thinking about being out alone in the rain. It was only drizzling now, a fine mist hanging in the air like a cold veil over the house. The kitchen was warm, though. Adine settled back into her chair.

Adine watched Aunt Irene spoon sugar and pour two dollops of cream into her teacup. The cups were thin as paper and dainty. Pastel flowers decorated them, inside and out. The rims were tipped in gold.

“Want some?” asked Aunt Irene, gesturing toward the sugar and cream.

Adine nodded.

Aunt Irene passed the sugar bowl and tiny cream pitcher to Adine. “You can make a storm in your teacup,” said Aunt Irene.

“What?” replied Adine.

Aunt Irene explained. The tea was the dark sky. The cream formed the clouds. And the sugar—shaken into the cup—was the rain falling.

Adine made a storm in her teacup and swirled it around. She stared at it. The cream churned and exploded. Just like a real storm. Only very small. Finally, Adine stirred it well, the storm disappearing.

Funny, thought Adine, how a storm in a teacup isn't scary at all. So tiny you can fit it into your hand. She giggled at that.

Adine took a big gulp and her throat felt like it was on fire.

“Take sips,” Aunt Irene told her.

“I'm afraid of storms,” Adine said after a while, into her cup. “Real ones.”

“Everyone's afraid of something,” said Aunt Irene.

Adine couldn't picture her parents being afraid of anything. Carla or Bernice, either. Maybe, thought Adine, I've got enough fear in me to make up for everyone else in my family. “Are
you
afraid of anything?” Adine asked quietly.

Aunt Irene laughed and shook her head yes. “And I wish it were only storms.” She sighed; her face seemed to inflate, then relax.

Adine didn't press for a more specific answer.

For a long time they sat in silence. Between sips, Adine folded her hands on the table before her and wiggled her fingers, weaving them. She felt an urgency rise inside her, knotting her stomach. There was something else Adine wanted to tell Aunt Irene about. The pictures. The pictures that she and Carla and Bernice had drawn. Adine was certain that Aunt Irene had found them. She wanted to apologize. She wasn't sure where to start.

“There were these pictures,” Adine began abruptly, curling her toes around the rung of the chair. “In the closet . . . and . . .”

“Hushhh,” Aunt Irene murmured, bringing her finger to her lips. She rose from the table and started clearing it off. “It seems to me I did find some crazy scribblings of something or another in the closet one day. I thought it was scrap paper. I tossed it all into the garbage without really looking.” Aunt Irene was talking so fast, her words almost ran together. “That's that,” she said with finality, clapping her hands once.

Adine guessed that what Aunt Irene had just said wasn't exactly true. But it was exactly what Adine needed to hear.

After putting the cream pitcher in the refrigerator, Aunt Irene changed the subject. “How about we go check on your brother? I haven't heard a peep out of him all morning.”

Aunt Irene picked Baby up and patted the top of his head. Then she carefully handed him to Adine. Adine kissed him on each cheek.

Baby opened his squinty eyes completely and stared at Adine fiercely. His head bobbed like the float on a fishing line, but his eyes remained fixed on his oldest sister.

“I'm thinking of announcing his name tonight,” Aunt Irene said, her hand moving like an insect across Baby's crib rail. “After dinner.”

Baby blew a bubble. And smiled when it popped.

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Aunt Irene.

Adine nodded.

“Baby's name is going to be Zeke,” Aunt Irene said in a hushed voice. “But don't tell anyone. No one knows. What do you think of it? Zeke. Nice, huh?”

Adine frowned.
Zeke?

“You don't like it, do you?” Aunt Irene asked.

Adine shrugged. She remembered a garbage collector they used to have named Zeke. He had brown and yellow teeth, and he always screamed at the neighborhood children when they watched him work in the alley. But, at least Zeke was a better name than Baby. Adine imagined her brother in the fourth grade, carrying a backpack with
BABY VORLOB
labeled on the strap. She winced. Someone like Gary Wilker would have a field day with a situation like that.

“What name would you choose?” asked Aunt Irene. “If it were up to you.”

“I like Zachary. Not Zack for short. Zachary.”

“Hmmmm,” said Aunt Irene, twisting her mouth. She looked at Adine through her thick glasses, leaning her chin into her hand thoughtfully. “I have a feeling your mother would say a name like that sounds a bit self-important. She's so particular about names. Me—I don't think they matter that much.”

Adine did. She thought they mattered a lot.

Aunt Irene continued, as if she had read Adine's mind. “I mean, a name can't make someone nice or pretty or funny. People just are the way they are. Period.”

Zeke, thought Adine. It would be hard to get used to.

After gently laying Zeke back in his crib, Adine stood over him until he appeared motionless. Still as a statue. Adine leaned on the rail and listened for a heartbeat. It was there—tiny but constant. Almost strong, when she lightly pressed her ear to his chest and concentrated on listening with all her might.

Adine wondered if Zeke would grow up to hate his name. If he'd grow up to be a garbage collector. She wondered if he would grow up differently if his name were Zachary. If she would be someone else if she had been named Angelique. Or maybe Aunt Irene was right. Maybe it didn't matter.

From downstairs came the sounds of people returning—doors opening and closing, footsteps on stairs. Mrs. Vorlob was home. Adine blew a kiss to Zeke, and she and Aunt Irene tiptoed out of the nursery. “Remember, don't tell,” whispered Aunt Irene.

“I won't.”

“You know,” Aunt Irene said as they entered the hallway, “I just thought of something. Speaking of names: Adine, Irene—they almost rhyme.”

The entire family was in the nursery, circling the crib. Aunt Irene stood at the foot of the crib with her hands behind her back. She cleared her throat. “Before I tell you Baby's new name, I want to hang this.” She pulled a mobile out from behind her. “I made it,” she told them brightly.

It looked handmade. There were six Styrofoam balls, each painted with black zebra stripes. The stripes coiled around the balls like the whorled lines of a fingerprint. The balls were attached by cord to a wire support. Aunt Irene hung the mobile, and the balls bobbed and spun.

“There's one ball for each of you,” Aunt Irene explained. “Adine, Bernice, Carla, Dot, Effie, and . . . Zachary.”

Zachary? What about Zeke?

Adine could barely believe it. But she kept hearing the name over and over. Zachary, Zachary, Zachary.

“Now, remember,” Aunt Irene said, “none of this Zack-for-short business. His name is Zachary. It's very important to me.”

Everyone seemed happy about the name. Even Mrs. Vorlob.

Aunt Irene lit one of her brown cigarettes and blew smoke rings. She leaned against the zebra wall while everyone else greeted her nephew by his new name. Her eyes caught Adine's and sparkled. Aunt Irene winked.

No one seemed to notice as Adine came up to Aunt Irene. Inconspicuously, Adine grabbed her aunt's hand and squeezed it. “Adine, Irene—they
do
almost rhyme,” she said smiling.

Adine lingered in the nursery after everyone else had left. With the lamp off, the room was washed in light from the moon. From the window, where Adine stood, the zebra wall was softened. It appeared to be bluish gray and silver, rather than black and white. But it didn't take much imagination to picture it the way it really was.

It occurred to Adine that the zebra wall was a lot like Aunt Irene. Big and bold. From a distance, the edges of the stripes looked sharp, but close up they were uneven and fuzzy in places. Feathery. Each one was different; the stripes seemed to have minds of their own—first curving this way, then tilting that way.

Adine walked to the wall and ran her fingers over some of the stripes. Then she went to the crib. She studied Zachary. He twitched and grimaced in his sleep, as if he were trying to grow right before Adine's eyes.

It was only ten years ago, but Adine couldn't remember what it was like to be so little. Adine wondered what Zachary would be like when
he
was ten. Adine would be twenty then. She could hardly wait. The possibilities were endless.

“Good night, Zachary,” Adine whispered. She accidently knocked the mobile as she rose from kissing him. It twirled and turned. Around and around. As if in a dream, the mobile seemed to take off and fall into place against the night sky. Like a small solar system, alive among the stars. Each Styrofoam ball a shiny world all its own.

It was the first day of second grade and Billy Miller was worried. He was worried that he wouldn't be smart enough for school this year.

There was a reason he was worried. Two weeks earlier on their drive home from visiting Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills of South Dakota, Billy Miller and his family stopped in Blue Earth, Minnesota, to see the statue of the Jolly Green Giant. Billy instantly recognized the Giant from the labels of canned and frozen vegetables. The statue was spectacular—so tall, and the greenest green Billy had ever seen.

Billy was wearing his new baseball cap that said
BLACK HILLS
in glossy silver embroidery. It was a blustery day. The flag on the nearby pole snapped in the wind. Billy raced ahead of his family—up the steps to the lookout platform. As he stood between the Giant's enormous feet, a sudden gust lifted his cap from his head. His cap sailed away. Without thinking, Billy stepped onto the middle rung of the guardrail, leaned over, and reached as far as he could. He fell to the pavement below.

The next thing Billy remembered was waking up in a hospital. His parents, whom he called Mama and Papa, were with him, as was his three-year-old sister, Sally, whom everyone called Sal.

After tests were done, the doctor proclaimed Billy miraculously unharmed, except for a lump on his head. “You fell exactly the right way to protect yourself,” the doctor told him. “You're a lucky young man.”

“And Papa got your hat back!” said Sal.

When they returned home, Billy proudly showed his lump—and his cap—to his best friend, Ned. He called his grandmother on the phone and told her about the incident, too. Everything seemed all right until a few nights later when Billy overheard his parents talking in the kitchen.

“I'm worried about him,” said Mama.

“He's fine,” said Papa. “Everyone said he's fine. And he seems fine. He
is
fine.”

“You're probably right,” said Mama. “But I worry that down the line something will show up. He'll start forgetting things.”

“He already forgets things,” said Papa. “He's a seven-year-old boy.”