The Zebra Wall (4 page)

The room was empty, the bed made. Adine pulled the spread and the blankets back and climbed under them, sinking into the bed like syrup. She loved the spread on her parents' bed. It was the color of tea with milk, patterned with bursting, deep gold chrysanthemums. The chrysanthemums reminded Adine of the way she used to paint pictures of the sun when she was younger—large, curvy watercolor shapes that frayed out at the edges in lacy filaments. Yellow fireworks.

Adine sniffed the sheets and pillows. She could detect traces of both her parents. Her mother's was the light soapy scent (because she hadn't been smoking); her father's was the earthy one, like newly mown grass. Adine buried her face beneath the mound of pillows and fell asleep.

Earlier that evening, when Mr. Vorlob briefly stopped by the house, he appeared worried to Adine. But he repeatedly exclaimed, “Can you believe it?! A boy!” And he smoked (and chewed on) two fat, self-congratulatory cigars. One right after the other. Aunt Irene smoked one, too.

Adine and her sisters asked a legion of questions about their new brother and about their mother. Mr. Vorlob assured them that both mother and son were doing fine. The girls surrounded him on the sofa like petals on a flower, drawing close when he described their brother. “I can tell he's going to be plucky, despite his size,” Mr. Vorlob said, holding out his hands to indicate the baby's length. “Like I told you, he's tiny, but the fierce way he points his little red toes and cocks his shriveled fists makes him look like he's ready for a fight.” Mr. Vorlob toyed with his cigar butt and chuckled. “Your brother's a character, all right. You know, I keep picturing him wearing boxing gloves, his delicate body jumping up and down in the hospital crib as if it were a boxing ring. Shoot.” Mr. Vorlob threw a playful jab at each of his daughters.

“Is he littler than I was?” Dot asked.

“And me?” Carla added.

“Dot and Carla, you two were horses in comparison. That little guy is the tiniest baby I've ever seen. The nurses even put a blue knitted cap on his head, to keep his body heat in. Your mama says he reminds her of a robin's egg—like he could break if you looked at him too long. He reminds
me
of one of those miniature glass animals that your Grandma Edith used to set on her coffee table. Thin and clear and bony. The legs on those things snapped easier than matchsticks.”

“He won't break, will he?” Dot asked, concerned.

“No baby of mine's going to break, sweetie,” Mr. Vorlob guaranteed.

“We made a card for Mom,” Adine said, pulling the card out from behind her back and handing it to her father. “Everyone helped.”

“Aunt Irene wrote Effie's name for her,” Dot told her father.

“Your mother will love this,” Mr. Vorlob said, reading the card. “And it looks good enough to eat.”

The card had been Adine's idea. They'd used uncooked macaroni and spaghetti, gluing the pasta onto a piece of folded construction paper in the shape of a stork. The spaghetti formed the stork's long, thin legs and his beak. The macaroni became the stork's massive body. Adine had written
THIS IS A STORK
under the mosaic, just to make sure that everyone knew what it was.

“I should really get back to the hospital, girls,” Mr. Vorlob said. “I'm going to bring the Polaroid with me, so you'll all know what the baby looks like when I come home.”

As he walked to the door, Mr. Vorlob was pelted with another barrage of questions: “What about the baby's name?” “When are they coming home?” “When are
you
coming home?”

“I'll be back soon . . . ,” was all he said as he hurried out, the door swallowing his words when it slammed shut.

Adine thought she had a dream about a bear that night. The bear was friendly, and big as an overstuffed chair. He climbed into bed next to her, whispered something into her ear, and then settled down, his back facing hers like a bulky wall.

When Adine woke the next morning, her father was snoring beside her. Adine hadn't dreamed at all. The bear had been her father.

They finally came home.

Adine had been waiting at the living-room window, clinging to the drape as if she were part of it. She whooped when the bus pulled up in front of the house. “They're here!” she hollered. Mr. Vorlob got out of the bus first, moving backward, guiding his wife. He took her elbow and helped her up the walk to the porch. With both arms, Mrs. Vorlob held a small bundle close to her chest. The bundle was no larger than half a loaf of bread.

Aunt Irene and the girls ran out to the porch to greet them. “Careful with the door,” cautioned Aunt Irene. “Close it quickly. Don't let Deedee out.” The girls carried balloons and threw confetti. Inside, Deedee leaned on the front window, trying to attack the confetti as it twirled to the ground.

After hugs and kisses and peeks at the baby (and a look at the
F
wall), and more hugs and kisses and peeks, Mrs. Vorlob laid the baby down in the nursery and everyone went to the kitchen to eat. “We can look at the baby later,” Mrs. Vorlob said. “Right now, I just want to sit and reacquaint myself with your old familiar faces. You know, if I had anything to say about it, I'd change the hospital visiting rules in a minute. I think children under twelve should be able to visit just like anyone else. One more day without seeing you guys and I don't know what I'd have done.”

Adine didn't know what she would have done, either. All the phone calls with her mother and progress reports from her father and photos of her brother had little effect on the loneliness she had felt being separated. Adine had always missed her mother when she went to the hospital to have babies, but it had been worse this time. Worse because Aunt Irene had been there, rather than one of the neighborhood women, like usual. Worse because Mrs. Vorlob had gone in early, unexpectedly. Worse because she had stayed longer. Worse because Adine kept thinking that those things meant that something bad was happening, despite her parents' promises that everything was fine.

“I'm so glad you're home,” Adine whispered to her mother.

“Me, too,” Mrs. Vorlob whispered back.

The homecoming-celebration-breakfast was ready. Adine and Aunt Irene made M&M pancakes (plain and peanut), blueberry coffeecake, bacon, and scrambled eggs. There was milk, orange juice, and English muffins with strawberry jam, too. Aunt Irene mixed a few drops of blue food coloring in with the eggs because the baby was a boy, but the eggs ended up the color of pea soup. Marbled, chunky pea soup.

Everyone teased and commented about the eggs. Aunt Irene defended herself, saying, “They're unique and they're festive and they taste perfectly normal.” But when the big serving bowl was passed around the table, most of the eggs remained where they were. “Well, it looks like Deedee is going to have a feast, too,” Aunt Irene said, placing the bowl on the floor beside Deedee's personalized food and water dishes. Laughter filled the kitchen as Deedee, purring like a lawn mower, planted herself firmly in the bowl and began to eat.

Adine watched her mother closely throughout breakfast. Mrs. Vorlob's face was pale and puffy, so that when she smiled it seemed her mouth had to work harder to turn up at the corners. But she smiled a lot. Everyone did. Adine would remember that morning as a morning filled with smiles. “If I could,” said Mrs. Vorlob, “I'd pickle this moment. Keep it forever.”

Adine had curled her hair early that morning; she didn't care that no one had noticed. She didn't mind when Effie slapped her English muffin and a glob of jam landed on Adine's shirt. Or when Dot accidentally knocked over her milk and Adine ended up with a soaked lap. Mrs. Vorlob was home. Having her back made Adine feel warm and light. Almost bubbly. As if part of her had been missing and now it was replaced. And to have a new brother made the circle of her life larger. Adine could have sat at the round world of a table all day, the sunlight spilling across them like a waterfall. Now, if only Aunt Irene would leave, she thought. Then everything would be perfect.

“I almost forgot,” Mr. Vorlob said, rising. “We should have a toast.” He poured more juice into everyone's glass. “To our new addition—” he said, after clearing his throat. “May he be as healthy, special, and lovable as each of his sisters.”

Glasses clinked like bells.

Effie cooed and banged her squat plastic cup on the tray of her high chair. Orange juice splashed.

“When is the new addition going to be named?” Aunt Irene asked, reaching for the last strip of bacon on the platter.

“Yeah, when?” Carla said, excited.

“Yeah,” everyone else echoed.

“Well,” Mr. Vorlob said, making a tepee out of his napkin, “Mom and I talked about it and we're still not sure if the baby's name should begin with an
F
or not. It's just nice to have him home where he belongs. That's the main thing. So until we decide what to do, we thought we'd just call him Baby.”

Mrs. Vorlob nodded.

“
Baby?!
” Adine said, giving a vomity look.

“Yuck,” said Bernice. “That makes him sound like a doll or something.”

“I can add him to my collection,” Carla joked. “I bet he wets just like my doll Wanda. Maybe better.”

“And he doesn't even need batteries,” Bernice said, giggling.

Mrs. Vorlob reached into the pocket of her peppermint-striped jumper and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Adine frowned. She had hoped that her mother wouldn't take up smoking again. Pretend-smoking vegetables may have looked silly, but at least they didn't stink and they were good for you. TV commecials about cancer frightened Adine. Mrs. Vorlob lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Smoke streamed upward as she spoke. “Some of the other babies at the hospital
did
need batteries, so to speak. They were so tiny they couldn't live on their own. Baby's lucky—or I should say
we're
lucky that Baby's as healthy as he is. A few of the other preemies had enough wires and tubey things attached to them that they looked like miniature astronauts.”

Adine imagined a whole crew of Cabbage Patch Preemies floating through outer space in suits of metallic silver, her tiny brother leading the way.

“Is Baby
retarded
?” Bernice asked, curling her upper lip.

“No, sweetie,” Mrs. Vorlob said. “He's just little because he was born early. And he's special and bright and beautiful—like all of you.”

The refrigerator was humming-buzzing in the corner, as if it were gossiping with the stove.

Mrs. Vorlob leaned back, tilting her chair. “When I was in the hospital,” she said, “Dr. Hunter told me I couldn't have any more children. Baby's our last.”

“Why?” asked Carla.

“Well, I guess you could say my body just won't take it anymore.”

“Like how your body won't take riding the roller coaster at Great America?” Bernice asked.

A grin cracked across Mrs. Vorlob's face. She eased her chair forward again, the front legs clipping the floor twice, like hooves. “Kind of, honey. But I can take pills so I can ride the roller coaster. I can't take pills to let me have more babies.”

“But I thought we were going to have a baby for every letter in the alphabet!” said Dot. “
A, B, C, D, E, F, G
. . . ,” she sang.

Mr. Vorlob hooted until he coughed.

“Since Baby's our last,” Mrs. Vorlob said, “we have to come up with something really special for his name. It's got to be perfect. I want to do something different with the nursery, too.”

“You mean, we have to redo the
F
wall?” asked Adine.

“Well, maybe,” answered Mrs. Vorlob. “You girls did such a nice job, though. Let's just wait and see.”

“It's because Aunt Irene ruined it by putting that cat on it,” Carla whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

Aunt Irene shot Carla a toxic look.

Mrs. Vorlob crushed out her cigarette and got up. “Let's all go to the nursery and see how that new brother of yours is doing.”

“Can I hold him?” Adine asked.

“Sure.”

“Me, too?” asked Dot.

“Me! Me!” yelled Effie.

“You're not strong enough, silly,” Carla said to Effie.

“
Every
one can hold him,” said Mrs. Vorlob, as she pulled the old list of names off the refrigerator door and tossed it into the garbage pail by the sink. “Baby's as light as dandelion fuzz.”

One by one, Adine, Bernice, Carla, Dot, Aunt Irene, and Mr. Vorlob, who was carrying Effie, filed into the nursery behind Mrs. Vorlob and crowded around the crib.

“Remember, he's very fragile,” Mrs. Vorlob cautioned, hovering over the crib. “Be gentle.”

Baby was curled up under a fluffy white blanket, a sparrow hidden in a cloud. He was sleeping, his tiny breaths moving the blanket up and down ever so slightly. Mrs. Vorlob pulled the blanket back, giving everyone a full view. Something about him—his size, shape, posture—suddenly reminded Adine of the chickens that hung in the old butcher shop downtown.

“He's
ugly!
” Carla piped up, poking at Baby through the rails, over the bumper pad. “He's so—pink! And purpley! And he looks worse than in the pictures you took, Daddy.”

“His head looks like a tomato,” Bernice whispered.

“He's really, really, really little,” Dot sang, tugging on her mother's striped jumper. “He could fit in the back of T. J. Deroucher's toy dump truck. The yellow one. The one he never shares.”

Mrs. Vorlob nodded. “He's beautiful,” she said, rubbing her finger around the edge of Baby's ear. “Beautiful.”

“Can I do that?” Carla asked. She accidentally fell against the crib, her finger striking the side of Baby's head. Hard.

Baby wiggled. And moaned. The moans were barely audible. As if he wanted to cry, but couldn't quite manage it.