The Zebra Wall (7 page)

Once, a few summers earlier, Mr. Vorlob asked Adine to go with him when he left the basement to check the sky out the back-door window. “It's okay,” he assured her. “The radio says the storm's passed.” Adine clutched his arm with both hands, like a wrench. The sky was the color of dirty bathwater, the densely packed clouds still rolling swift and slick as dolphins, the backyard trees still struggling against the wind. Leaves were scattered like confetti. Before everything became still and sunny again, a single leaf caught Adine's eye as it leaped across the yard. She imagined herself as the leaf—tiny, tossing and turning, powerless against the wind.

When the threatening weather would pass, the girls would run out of the basement and compare their stories of how they spent their time in exile with their neighbors' versions. It always took Adine longer to adjust. Sometimes it seemed as if she moved in slow motion.

“Before the storm's over, why don't we try to come up with a name for Baby?” Aunt Irene suggested, swatting at a cobweb. “It'll help pass the time,” she sniffed.

“We can try,” Mrs. Vorlob replied, bouncing Baby on her hip.

“It can't hurt,” Mr. Vorlob said. He lowered the volume on the radio. Adine moved closer to it, so as not to miss anything. She really wanted to concentrate on names—take her mind off the storm—but she wouldn't risk not being able to hear the radio if something important was announced.

They took turns calling out names while the wind and rain battered the house.

“T. J.!” Carla shouted.

“No,” said Mrs. Vorlob.

“Campbell?” said Adine.

Mrs. Vorlob shook her head no.

“How about Felix or Sylvester?” Aunt Irene offered.

Baby spit up.

“I like the sound of Roland, Jr.,” Mr. Vorlob said, smiling.

No.

“Duncan?” said Adine.

No.

“Mickey?”

No.

“Donald?”

No.

“Winnie, as in Pooh?” “Oscar?” “Grover?” “Bert?” “Ernie?” “Wilbur?”

No. No. No. No. No. No.

“George Washington Vorlob!”

No!

“Why don't we keep his name Baby?” Mr. Vorlob asked everyone, raising and lowering his eyebrows.

“
No!
” they all shouted, drowning out the sounds of the storm.

By the time the wind had died down and the sky was clear, they were no closer to finding a name for Baby. Nothing sounded exactly right to Mrs. Vorlob. And, except for her own suggestions, everything sounded completely wrong to Adine.

June had become July. July had turned into August. August was nearly September.

In the mornings, the dew was thick now—the lawn a silver, beaded carpet. At night, Adine often needed more than a sheet to keep her warm. The county fair came and went, as did the circus. School started. Uncle Gilly got married in Iowa and sent a picture of his new bride; she looked much thinner than Aunt Irene and three times younger. Her name was Charlene. Aunt Irene remained with the Vorlobs, moving in more and more of her possessions. Consequently, Adine tugged on her ear so frequently now, that she worried about pulling it off. And Baby was still called Baby.

The Indian-summer moon was huge and yellow. Adine admired it through the filmy, half-opened window of the bus. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Mr. Vorlob had taken Adine and her sisters to the Dairy Queen and for a ride on the wealthy side of town to gape at the big houses. Aunt Irene and Deedee had come with them. Mrs. Vorlob had stayed home with Baby.

Periodically, Mr. Vorlob would beep the horn and wave wildly at strangers walking by, to see how they'd respond. Carla joined him—waving, and screaming, “Hello, happy Friday night!”—until she dropped her ice-cream cone out the window. Adine shrank down into the seat—greeting strangers like this embarrassed her. She couldn't bear to watch the passersby tilt their heads in confusion as a clunky, lime-green school bus offered noisy salutations.

Adine stared at the moon again as they snaked their way around a curve into Adine's favorite neighborhood. Adine had just learned in science class that the moon shone by reflecting the sun's light, that it revolved around the earth, and that it was spherical. But that night it appeared to be flat, like a tiddly wink suspended in midair.

Adine's favorite house in Mason was a mansion near the lake. At night, it looked like a wedding cake under spotlights—three stories tall, all white, with carvings above the windows like frosting and a columned, wraparound porch with pink steps that spread out in three directions. The house seemed to be laughing, the shadows of the nearby trees bouncing across it and playing on the uneven turrets that crowned it.

To draw it all in, Adine usually begged her father to park by the overgrown field near the mansion. There was always too much to see whizzing by. But that night they just drove on, Adine keeping silent.

If Mrs. Vorlob had been along, they'd have played a game they called Who Lives Here? Adine loved the game. For every house fancy enough to warrant attention, Mrs. Vorlob would call out, “Who lives here?” The children would take turns making up a history for the people who lived in the houses. Names, jobs, number of children, pets. The bigger the house, the more unbelievable and imaginative the stories. Even if they'd pick the same houses time after time, the stories would always change.

It was much too hot for October in Mason, Wisconsin. Adine fidgeted in her seat, her bare legs sticking to the black vinyl. As much as she enjoyed viewing the houses and picturing herself living in them, Adine was ready to go home. The night was almost muggy, and Aunt Irene had been smoking the entire time, causing Adine's head to pound. When they passed street lamps, the smoke could be seen hanging in the feeble light of the bus like fog.

Deedee (thank goodness) was asleep on Aunt Irene's lap. Effie was asleep, too, her chocolate-mustached face leaning on Adine's slumped shoulder.

It was odd to see Aunt Irene directly behind Adine's father, in the seat where Mrs. Vorlob always sat. Mr. Vorlob still had his work clothes on. He was a pattern maker, and when he came home at four o'clock every day, you could tell he had worked hard—he looked as if he had been hosed down from top to bottom with sweat and dirt. Adine wasn't exactly sure what a pattern maker did, but she knew it didn't have anything to do with dress patterns. She used to think that when she was Dot's age.

They passed the Pixie Cleaners on East Street. A neon pixie fluttered above the building, flashing like a pulse. The pixie reminded Adine of the fairy on the
F
wall. Adine wished the fairy would come to life, wave her wand, and make Aunt Irene go back home to her own apartment (along with everything she had stuffed into Adine's room). Better yet, make her disappear. Forever. Baby had been home for months, and except for not having a real name, he was perfectly fine—small, but fine. In Adine's opinion, Aunt Irene wasn't needed. She wasn't needed at all. And it didn't seem to Adine that Aunt Irene needed the Vorlobs (although that's what Adine's mother kept saying). If you really needed someone, you wouldn't be cranky and bossy and demanding. You'd be grateful to the people who were supposedly helping you. Adine didn't understand Aunt Irene, and she had a hard time liking things she didn't understand. In that respect, Adine put math and Aunt Irene in the same category.

As they sped down the street, Adine turned her head to catch a last glimpse of the pixie. When it was out of her vision, Adine closed her eyes and the pixie blinked in her mind.

The faint odor of paint met them as they walked into the house. Baby, in his crib, had been wheeled into the living room. The windows were all open and the portable fan was turning its head, whirring, ventilating the air for Baby.

Adine followed Mr. Vorlob upstairs and down the hall, the paint smell growing stronger. They entered the nursery. Mrs. Vorlob was facing the
F
wall, splashing white paint across it with a large brush. Everything was disappearing—the fairy, the falling star, the frogs, the farm. Without turning, Mrs. Vorlob continued—dipping her brush in the paint can, raising it with a slight flourish, and hiding the mural beneath a slick coat of white.

“He's going to be a
Z
!” Mrs. Vorlob said excitedly, laying her brush down on the lid of the paint can. “Baby's name is going to begin with the letter
Z
!”

Before anyone could ask a question, Mrs. Vorlob continued, her paint-flecked hands a frenzy of gestures. “It just hit me like a ton of cinder blocks. While you were all out looking at the fancy houses, Baby woke up. I lulled him back to sleep by reading to him—that old alphabet book we've had for years. Of course, I always substitute you girls' names for
A
,
B
,
C
,
D
, and
E
. Well, I was going through, page after page, naming all the pictures like always, and when I got to
Z
, I thought, Wouldn't it be perfect if Baby's name began with a
Z?
Then there'd be Vorlobs from
A
to
Z
. Don't you see? Everything would be complete. Absolutely perfect.”

Mrs. Vorlob lit a cigarette and blew smoke out in rings that wavered and grew wider as they rose. “I'm surprised I didn't think of it sooner,” she said. “I must read that alphabet book to Baby a million times a day.”

Everyone liked the idea.

Adine started thinking immediately. Zachary, she said to herself. Zachary. It sounded wonderful.

“So now we have to do a
Z
wall, right?” asked Bernice.

“Well, not exactly,” said Mrs. Vorlob. “Even though I loved the
F
wall and all the other murals we've done, I thought it might be fun to try something different this time, seeing as it's our last. That's why I'm painting the
F
wall white.” Mrs. Vorlob paused and reached for the alphabet book from on top of Baby's dresser. She turned to the last page in the book and held it up. There was a bold black letter
Z
in the upper left-hand corner, and a magnificent zebra filling up the rest of the page, its stripes running off the edges of the paper as if the book couldn't quite contain it.

Adine recognized the picture instantly; she'd seen it time and time again.

“See,” Mrs. Vorlob explained, pointing to the illustration, then blocking off the zebra's head with her arm. “I thought we could paint gigantic zebra stripes—from ceiling to floor—across the entire wall that used to be the
F
wall. Just one big design.”

Mrs. Vorlob twinkled about the nursery, wielding her cigarette as if it were a magic wand, indicating where she wanted the stripes to be painted. The fairy from the
F
wall was gone forever, but there was a new one present. And she was as robust and real as the old one had been dainty and inanimate.

“I love this idea!” Mrs. Vorlob said with exuberance. She smiled so broadly that the skin around her eyes wrinkled.

Mrs. Vorlob wanted to repaint all the furniture in the nursery, too—metallic silver. “And if we can find one for a reasonable price,” she added, “I'd like to buy a chrome crib.”

The proposed decor of the room struck Adine as being a bit different, but that wasn't her main concern at the moment. “I'll get some paper,” Adine offered eagerly, halfway out the door. “To make a list of
Z
names to hang on the refrigerator.” Adine planned on writing
ZACHARY
right on top of the list, using neat, capital letters. She could picture it already—
ZACHARY
—in black on white.

“Wait, honey,” Mrs. Vorlob called, motioning for Adine to come back. “That's the other thing I'd like to do differently. Because Baby's my last child and because Aunt Irene's my only sister—and doesn't have any children of her own—I'd like
her
to name Baby. I'd like Aunt Irene to give Baby a nice
Z
name.” A pause. “If that's okay with everyone.”

Mr. Vorlob nodded solemnly. And smiled.

Aunt Irene's face turned flush with happiness. She galumphed over to Mrs. Vorlob, banging into furniture, and hugged her. Mrs. Vorlob returned the embrace, their arms entwined like pretzels.

Adine felt something like jealousy well up inside her, and she nearly choked on it. But what could she say?

Bernice groaned.

Carla said exactly what Adine was thinking: “What if we hate it? What if it's a lousy name? What if she wants to call him
Zorro
?”

“Don't worry,” said Aunt Irene. “I've got good taste.”

Compared to what? thought Adine. In her mind, the sheet of paper with
ZACHARY
written on it was torn into tiny pieces and blown away. Bits scattering in the wind. Gone forever.

“To bed with all of you,” Mr. Vorlob ordered, glancing at his watch. “It's late. Get a good rest so we can all get up bright and early and paint.”

After more hugging with Aunt Irene, Mrs. Vorlob lit another cigarette. “Tomorrow we're going to stripe this room!” she said. She did a little twist and softly bumped her behind to Adine's.

Adine barely noticed. She was listening to Dot, who was toddling to the bathroom. “Zorro, Zorro, Zorro,” she sang. “My brother's name is Zorro. . . .”

The next morning they painted. Enormous, jagged zebra stripes (from ceiling to floor) on the wall in the nursery. It wasn't nearly as much fun as doing the
F
wall had been. Instead of having many colors to choose from, this time there was only black. A black as glossy and dense as oil.

Adine worked diligently; this was serious business. Bernice and Carla gave each other thick black mustaches. Then they dribbled paint on Deedee as she scurried to the window in pursuit of a squirrel dillydallying on a utility wire outside. Dot was pretending, using her paintbrush as a microphone. “Pretty black stripes,” she chirped, taking tiny sidesteps, facing everyone. “Pretty, pretty stripes. . . .”