Zel by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online

reckless today. She works the raisins in. Then she uses all her weight to force a twist to the press on the cheese Mother is making. There: Zel now comforts Mother as much as Mother comforts Zel.
    Zel returns to the table and takes up her drawingagain. She hears Mother enter and set the eggs in a bowl. Her cheeks are taut with anticipation. What will Mother say when she realizes Zel has worked the raisins into the dough? Will she notice that the cheese press is tighter? Zel hears Mother take down the burlap-wrapped package from the shelf and go outside. That’s all right. Mother will notice later.
    Zel draws until the paper is full, well past midday.
    “Mother.” Zel stands respectfully in the kitchen and does not look out the window. She knows Mother sits outside working on a secret. “I’m ready for lunch. Won’t you come in?”
    Mother comes inside and puts the burlap-wrapped bundle on the shelf.
    “Let me help,” Zel is saying before Mother even has a chance to talk about what they will eat. Zel washes two kinds of lettuce—the small-leafed lettuce that is special to her and their own garden lettuce. She separates the leaves into two bowls. “My mouth waters already.”
    Mother laughs. “Your inherited love of that lettuce grows stronger every year.” She slices a carrot.
    Inherited? Zel’s heart speeds up. “You never eat it.”
    “I like what we grow.” Mother now shells peas. “Raw peas make a salad into a meal.”
    Zel moves very close to Mother. She makes the plea she has made many times. “Tell me about my father.”
    “I know nothing of him.”
    Zel is accustomed to Mother’s answer, but this time she can prove her wrong. “He loves this lettuce; that much you know.”
    Mother opens her mouth, then quickly shuts it.
    “Is that why you named me after the lettuce?”
    Mother peels an onion. “You are clever, Zel.” She hands Zel a tomato.
    Zel slices, wishing she were clever enough to find a way to lure Mother into a real conversation about Father. Father. A name without an image. Zel doesn’t even know if she ever saw her own father. “Do you want to see what I drew?”
    “I was hoping you’d offer.”
    Zel wipes her hands on her smock and holds the paper up by the top corners before Mother’s eyes.
    “Who is the child?”
    “No one, really. Do you like the donkeys?”
    Mother sets the two salad bowls before the two chairs. She brings the dark loaf to the table and sits. Her face is quiet. Her voice comes out level and cold. “Do you know that boy?”
    Zel shakes the paper insistently. “Don’t you care about the donkeys? Look at them.”
    Mother looks dutifully at the drawing. “The donkeys don’t act like donkeys.”
    Zel drops the paper on the table and puts her hands on her hips. “We don’t own donkeys, so how do we know?Maybe when donkeys are all alone, they dance and sing.” The idea is so absurd that Zel can’t stay mad at Mother. She laughs.
    The edges of Mother’s mouth twitch. “They aren’t alone.”
    “No, I guess they’re not.” Zel sits and munches salad. The slight bite of the green juice excites her tongue. For supper she can soft-boil two eggs and eat them with this lettuce. She thinks of the folded paper hidden under her bedroll that holds the lettuce seeds. Zel hasn’t told Mother about the spring garden she will have. Her own garden.
    These are her seeds. Her secret.

Chapter 8
Mother
    have no appetite. The child Zel has drawn is more handsome by far than the handyman’s son. Who is he?
    Zel looks at me and speaks slowly. “The child does look a little like a youth I met yesterday.”
    Her words come as if in response to my unspoken question. Did my question enter her head? I didn’t will itto. I would be alarmed at this new possibility, but there is something more tangible to be alarmed at: “You met a youth.” How old is this youth? Is he married? Has he set his eyes on Zel? Time grows swiftly short. Panic teases my skin. My arm hairs stand on