Zebras In London

1997

One

I was looking for a grave.

The problem was, I knew next to nothing about it. I didn’t know where it was and I didn’t even know who was buried in it.

I only had one thing going for me: I knew what it looked like. Someone, some time ago, had stretched a six-foot-long piece of black paper over a brass grave marker. That person had pushed a silver crayon against its contours, producing a brass rubbing of the beautiful marker.

For who-knows-how-many years that rubbing was preserved in a massive frame, mounted on the wall of my grandmother’s bedroom. It hung there, safe, until I—her own granddaughter—burned it, and the house around it, to the ground.

But that was nearly five years ago.

Now I was alone in London, traveling the well-trod road of all the other American students who had preceded me. I was here to experience a new culture, supposedly, but my first few months in London didn’t feel so different from Seattle. My friends, such as they were, were mostly American classmates and we had a tendency to go everywhere in packs.

I longed to meet some real Brits. I was initially receptive to a few guys who were clever enough to get past the pack and make a pass at me, until I realized that we—we, in this case meaning young American college students abroad—were practically on the menu for them. Too many of us were looking to bed anyone with an accent, and these suitors knew it.

After a few weeks I gave up and stopped going out with the group and that was enough to effectively isolate me. Unlike everyone else it seemed, I wasn’t here for the pints and pubs. Even the theater—which I loved so much that if I had my way I would see a play every night—was not the main attraction.

I was here to set a wrong right. Before the fire my dad had told me the rubbing was from England. That was all his mother had told him, and… well, after the fire, I was afraid to ask for any more details.

The silver image of the rubbing was etched in my mind like a film negative, and it was my only lead.

The rubbing depicted a man and a woman together under a set of arches; the man under the left arch, the woman under the right. They were at three-quarters profile, facing both each other and the viewer like actors on a proscenium stage. The man had always looked somewhat like a monk to me, dressed in a robe with long flowing hair to his shoulders, and I had always had a hard time picturing that he was married to the woman across from him.

It didn’t help that she looked a bit like a nun. Their hands were raised, folded together, in prayer, and if it were not for the ornate arches above them, I would have believed them to be exactly what they looked like—a monk and a nun. The arches, amazingly ornate and captured without fault by the silver crayon, framed the man and the woman separately, but simultaneously brought them together under the same piece of architecture. The couple was joined in marriage, and now in death.

I knew nothing else.

Why the rubbing hung in my grandmother’s bedroom was a mystery as well. Grandma Lana had said once she had no idea how it was done, so someone else had made the rubbing. A gift, then. From a previous trip to this small island, no doubt. But who gave it to her? Someone important to her, I knew. She had wept fiercely after that fire.

And why did this anonymous tombstone mean enough to her that she would spend the money to frame it and then hang it in her bedroom?

Grandma Lana took care of me and my younger sister Lea every day after school until I was old enough to watch Lea by myself. She helped with homework, she curled our hair, and she answered any question I asked about the world. With the exception of any question about the rubbing. She always deflected those, which only piqued my curiosity more. She once let slip she had the rubbing more than half her life, which now divided out to at least thirty-five years of ownership.

I had no illusions that I could replace the original rubbing. But if I could find the brass it was taken from and make a new rubbing, perhaps I could get her to forgive me for destroying something so precious.

With only a mental image to go one, I was at a loss on where to begin, and in the first month of my time in London I got nowhere with my search. It was only through my roommate Ellen that I discovered there was a Brass Rubbing Center in the basement of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the church with the beautiful wedding-cake steeple off of Trafalgar Square.

Actually, basement was the wrong word, I realized after descending the steps and pulled on the heavy door in front of me. Basements of churches had another word for them. And what better place to start my search for a grave, but in a crypt?

Two

The stairwell emptied out into a vast stone room that looked nothing like the crypt I had pictured. There were no recessed catacombs illuminated by flickering torchlight. Instead I discovered a café. Thin metal tables were stretched over the stone floor, filled with patrons lunching on hot soup. This was a convenient refuge for tourists who had braved London’s November chill. Scarves and gloves were shed, their thick coats on the back of the chairs, and there was a scent of sweat, like I’d stepped into a ski lodge.

One small corner of the crypt was all that was devoted to the art of brass rubbings. It wasn’t anything more than a couple of tables, some rows of bookshelves, and a very bored-looking woman behind the sales counter.

I aimed for the woman when I passed a small boy at one of the tables rubbing a red crayon over a miniature brass. Scattered next to him was a collection of the reliefs in various sizes. Curious, I picked up a brass from the table and saw it was attached to a stone plaque. The brass was a copy, I realized, mounted for convenience. The original would be somewhere else on the island.

Setting the panel of marble back on the table, I went to ask the woman at the cash register for help.

I’m looking for a particular brass.

She looked up from her register. What’s the name?

I don’t know.

Location? I shook my head and she cocked hers at me. So what do you know about it?

It’s big, like… grave-sized. With a man and a woman under arches.

She nodded. A slab. What else do you know?

Just what it looks like.

Then you’ll have to hunt. She reached below the counter and pulled out a massive book. It’s by no means complete but it’s about the best you’ll find if that’s all you have.

I looked at the price on the cover, which was nearly a hundred pounds. Even if it were priced in dollars I couldn’t have afforded it.

Don’t worry. She smiled. You can just look through it.

Thanks. I was about to turn away when I stopped. I’m Yvonne, by the way.

She looked up again, surprised but—I thought—pleasantly so. Jane.

Thanks again.

Jane looked back at her screen and I took the hint. I found a chair and pulled it up to the only table I could find, the one with the small boy working on a rubbing of a Celtic knot. He looked up, startled, when I hefted the book onto the table with a thud.

Sorry, I apologized. I didn’t mean to scare you. I took off my coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

The boy next to me was staring at the book and had not yet returned to his knot. Do you like coloring? he asked before I could get started. He sounded distinctly American.

I love coloring. And that’s a very nice knot you’ve colored.

I’m Mark and I’m eight, he said after a moment of silence.

Hi, Mark. I’m Yvonne and I’m twenty.

Twenty! he exclaimed, his eyes widening.

I laughed. It’s not that old. I have a sister close to your age, you know.

What’s her name?

Lea. She likes coloring, too.

He looked up from his knot as if expecting her to walk around the corner.

Sorry, she… couldn’t make it today. But I’ll be sure to tell her that I met a cute boy her age today.

Mark blushed. Really?

Really. She’ll be sorry she missed you.

Does she like kissing?

I exhaled with laughter at the suddenness of his remark. Quickly I regained my composure. You’re just a little Romeo, aren’t you?

What’s a Romeo? he asked, suddenly worried I was making fun of him.

A boy who likes to kiss girls.

I don’t know. I think I’d like it, but I haven’t tried.

Well, I don’t think Lea’s tried, either. Actually, that was probably a lie. I still thought of her as eight, but Lea was twelve now. I had a hunch she’d tried her hand at spin the bottle.

Mark was quiet, but apparently lost interest in my sister. He turned his attention to the paper in front of him. Can you help me with my knot? It’s tricky.

I looked back at the massive book and then at Mark. Sure, okay.

Mark handed me a silver crayon. I peeked under the paper he was drawing on and saw the edge of the knot. Pressing down firmly with the crayon, I scraped it over the paper and saw the interlocking lines of the knot force a bumpy pattern on the surface. But my crayon went too far and fell off the lip of the brass, creating a short silver line that shot out from the knot.

You’re right, it is tricky, I said. My appreciation for the skill of making a full-size rubbing had just gone up a notch. There were no accidents on Lana’s rubbing that I could remember. It had been flawlessly done. You’ve done better than I have. It’s very pretty. I bet Lea would love it.

Fifteen minutes later I had gone through the book and hadn’t found my mystery couple anywhere. Most of the rubbings were of individual men and of those that were of couples, only a handful were at three-quarters profile.

I decided to go through it again, lingering on each page. Some of the photographs were cropped and I feared I might have missed a close-up picture in my haste to find an image of the full brass. As I flipped through the pages, I wondered how good my memory really was. How well had I really captured the image of the rubbing in my head? Had my memory of it changed, the way memories of people you haven’t seen in years change? You think, Wow! Zack looks so much like Brian until you see Brian again and you wonder what it possibly was that—

A series of thick lines on one of the brasses caught my eye. The lines were part of a dense bushel of hair on a man at three-quarters profile, his hands praying in front of him. The man was standing alone. There was no woman, and there were no arches, but it certainly looked a lot like the man I remembered.

I found the caption under the photo.

Sir Robert Pecke, Master Clerk of the Spicery to King Henry VI

Cookham, Berkshire, 1510

I pulled out a small notebook and copied down the words before taking the book back to Jane. Any chance you have a copier?

She took the book. Which one?

I pointed at the image and waited for her to bring back the copy. Twenty p, she told me, putting the piece of paper on the table.

While fishing in my purse for the oddly shaped coin I asked, Any chance you know where Cookham in Berkshire is?

Jane shrugged and said, Berkshire’s west of here, but I don’t know about Cookham. I can sell you a tourist map if you’d like.

I shoved the copy of Sir Robert Pecke into my purse to keep it out of the rain as I ascended the stairway out of the crypt. Tourist. That’s all I was ever going to be to anyone here.

Trying to shake the thought, I headed away from Trafalgar Square and after a five-minute walk through the rain I found a small deli to buy a sandwich and tea. Once seated, I pulled out the copy again and studied it intently.

A nagging suspicion began to pick at my brain. There was something wrong with it. It seemed to be the man, and yet it wasn’t. Where was the woman, for starters? The picture which had so recently seemed like a perfect match now seemed barely right.

Not that I had much else to go on, I thought, folding up the copy again. I allowed myself to wonder about the connection to Grandma Lana. Why hang a rubbing of Sir Robert Pecke in your bedroom (assuming it was Pecke we were talking about)?

I decided I could do nothing more for the day. Until I could find my way to Cookham, I was at a loss. Outside the deli, the surface of the road looked slick and shiny with water. I stepped under the storefront awning and reached for the umbrella in my purse.

It was only then that I discovered the problem.

Before I could even take a step in the direction of the closest Tube station, I heard a quiet voice ask from behind me, Was your sandwich good?

Whirling around, I saw young Mark sitting under the awning of the deli. He met my stunned gaze with a hopeful and foolish grin. Oh my God, Mark! What are you doing here?

You said Lea would like my knot and I wanted to show it to her. He held out the black piece of paper as if it were his passport.

No! No no no no no, Mark. We have to get you back to your parents, I nearly shouted, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from the sidewalk. I fought away a sense of panic as I started hauling him back toward the church. The street suddenly looked deserted, as if everyone that could possibly help me had fled. Where’s your mom and dad? I asked him, trying to rush down the sidewalk toward St. Martin-in-the-Fields, only a couple blocks away.

He’s working; we came here for three whole months. He works for the government, he said, pronouncing government as if by rote, unsure of what it actually meant.

The American government?

I think so. It’s the… um… State something. Compartment?

"The State Department, maybe?"

Uh-huh.

I quickened my pace.

Is your mom still in the crypt?

I don’t know. His words had a bounce to them, as if his short legs affected his speech as he hurried to keep up. She was upstairs on a tour.

Mark, you can’t just walk away like that! Your mom’s going to be worried sick about you, I lectured, checking my watch as we rushed through the streets. Forty minutes maybe, since I’d left. I wasn’t sure, but it was enough time for a mother to freak out.

Ow! You’re hurting me! he called.

I’m sorry, I said, slowing so that he could keep up. But we’ve got to hurry if we want to try to find your mom.

I just wanted to talk to you, he moaned, on the verge of tears, and lagging behind even more. Looking back, I saw his face growing red under the drops of rain and the tears rushing to his eyes. I took pity and stopped. I let go of his hand and opened the telescoping umbrella before kneeling down under it so that I could meet him face-to-face.

I took two deep breaths. Mark, I’m sorry if I was pulling on you hard, okay? I was just scared because your mom’s probably scared. She’s going to be worried about you, and will want to know where you are.

I don’t want to get in trouble, Yvonne, he said, small tears rolling down his cheeks. I hugged him and let him wrap his arms around my neck and cry.

Pulling some tissues from my backpack, I put them to his face and dabbed at his tears. Mark, I’ll make you a deal, okay? It’s a good one, so listen up. I know I’m not Lea, but I’m going to let you kiss me on the cheek. But if you do, you have to promise to help me find your mom. She’s going to be really scared, and we have to get you back to her.

He stopped crying and he asked through his runny nose, I can kiss you?

I nodded. I’m a little scared and I’d feel better if you kissed me.

Why are you scared?

Because your mom and the police might think that I took you, and then I’d be in trouble. And I’m scared they won’t believe me. So if you kissed me, I’d feel better.

Really?

But first you have to promise me you’ll help me find your mom.

I promise, he said.

Okay, but blow your nose first. I offered him another tissue so he could wipe the snot off his upper lip. He did and smiled nervously at me. His wide blue eyes were eager but unsure. Turning my face to the side, I showed him my cheek. Mark slowly moved closer and then all at once rushed his face forward and planted a large wet kiss on my cheek. Pulling back quickly he watched for my response. That was very sweet, Mark, I told him, resisting the urge to wipe the excess slobber off my face. You’re going to be a very good kisser someday.

Really?

Really. Now, let’s go back to the church and look for your mom, okay?

He nodded vigorously in response. I put my hand in his as I stood up and we walked back toward the church, Mark clinging close to my leg so he could avoid the raindrops that were coming in around the umbrella on all sides. It was only then, while he wasn’t looking, that I was able to wipe his saliva off my cheek with the shoulder of my coat.

The two of us searched St. Martin-in-the-Fields, but he couldn’t find his mother anywhere. I sat him down at one of the tables in the café and asked him, Mark, did your mom ever tell you what to do if you got lost?

He thought for a moment and then nodded. She told me to stay right where I was and she would come to me.

Okay. That might explain why she isn’t here. She’s probably out looking for you.

I’m getting hungry, Yvonne, he told me, watching a tray full of hot soup pass by his eyes. We were supposed to eat after we left here.

We’ll get you food as soon as we find your mom, I promise. What’s your hotel?

The Hampshire.

Do you remember where it is?

Leslie Square.

My mind brought up a mental picture of London’s streets A-Z, and I realized Leicester—not Leslie—Square wasn’t all that far away. Did you and your mom walk here from your hotel?

He nodded.

Then she might have thought you’d try to go back there. Pulling out my guide to the city, I flipped through the list of hotels and found the Hampshire at Leicester Square as promised.

I put the map back in my bag and led Mark once more into the rainy streets. I let him rest the umbrella on his shoulder because he insisted it was his turn to hold it, while I braved the rain. Moving north on Charing Cross, we spotted a lull in the traffic and jaywalked across the wide road. From there Irving Street put us into Leicester Square.

There it is! Mark pointed out from underneath the large umbrella. I followed the direction of his finger and saw the hotel across the square. With all my heart I wanted to run for it and be done with the whole thing. But I had a feeling that showing up unannounced was going to lead to trouble.

Great. I’m going to call your room and find out if your mom’s in there, okay? I told him. I saw a phone booth to my right and led Mark through the crowds of people in the square. As I made my way to a red phone booth, I felt Leicester Square’s oppressive glitz. Each bulb of its nightclubs, movie theaters, restaurants, and gift shops seemed to drive into me. Tourist! each one flashed.

Opening the door to the phone booth, I stepped in and Mark tried to follow me with the umbrella still open but he got stuck in the doorway. Helping him back away from the folding door, I retracted the umbrella and let Mark inside the phone booth with me. Finding my small change purse I began to dig around for the coins I needed.

I can see that girl’s boobies, Mark said.

I looked up sharply. Mark was looking at the postcards taped to the walls and windows of the booth advertising sex, strip shows, and bondage complete with phone numbers to call. The whole booth was filled with the pornographic postcards, I realized, each with (at least) one half-naked woman on it. Most of the women in the pictures wore nothing to conceal their enormous breasts, but tiny stars that had been printed over their nipples which somehow was supposed to make it okay.

Um… Mark, why don’t you step outside while I make this call.

But it’s raining, he said, grinning fiendishly and trying not to giggle.

Then cover your eyes, I told him. He obediently put his palms in front of his eyes and waited for me to tell him it was okay to remove them. While he stood in the dark I opened the phone book and found the number for the Hampshire. Inserting the coins, I dialed the digits and listened for the ring.

This is the Hampshire, how may I help you? a man’s voice asked when the phone finally picked up.

I’d like to put a call in to the… I paused and looked at Mark, whispering, Mark, what’s your last name?

Claypool, he answered, his hands still clamped over his eyes.

Claypool family, I finished.

One moment please, I’ll connect you.

The phone rang once more and it picked up again. Hello? a woman asked, her voice laced with fear. She sounded like she was trying to hold back tears. Definitely Mark’s mom.

Is this Mrs. Claypool?

Yes, yes it is, she answered. Her voice quaked, prepared for the worst.

Mrs. Claypool, I have your son—

At which point she lost all semblance of control. Mark’s mom started screaming so loudly I was forced to pull the receiver away from my ear. Listen to me, you crazy psychopath, if you touch one hair on his head, I swear I’ll find you and make you wish you had never seen that boy! Do you hear me? We’ll give you whatever you want, just bring back my baby!

Mrs. Claypool— I started.

And God help me if I ever see you, she continued, not hearing me, because I’ll turn you over to the police so fast it’ll make your head spin, do you hear me? Do you hear me? I’ll see that you’re ripped limb from limb! My husband works for the United States government, you know! Do you know what kind of strings he can pull to see that you disappear? She paused to take a breath before yelling again, and I took the