B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523)

by Yolen, Jane; Stemple, Adam

  “That’ll help both of us.”

  She took it to mean Sammy and herself. Or maybe Sammy and Skink.

  He meant it would help him—and the golem.

  Standing, his mother ran her hands down her front as if dusting herself off. “Well, I’ll call the school and tell them you’re sick so we can get your homework for the next few days.”

  “Joy.”

  That brought a weak smile and she stepped to his door. As she left, she said, “I smell clay. Your father must be working up a storm.” Then she smiled a little bigger and left, closing Sammy’s door behind her.

  That first day it was all about the golem’s legs. Only the knees gave Sammy a bit of trouble—he hoped the golem would walk all right on the knobby things it ended up with.

  The thighs were easy, if possibly a bit large. Well, actually, way too large at first. They looked like giant hot dogs. He spent most of his time cutting them down, before building them up again. And shaping them. He’d tried looking at his own legs in the mirror. Very quickly he realized they were no help, being short and skinny and frankly underdeveloped.

  The men on the poster had legs like tree trunks. Slim tree trunks.

  “I’m not making a basketball player,” Sammy reminded himself. “More like a boxer. Or a wrestler.” He hauled his computer out of his backpack and googled wrestlers, settling on the young Arnold Schwarzenegger’s legs.

  When it came to shaping the spot where the legs joined, Sammy copped out and added on a clay pair of shorts. After all, the golem was not going to eat or drink, so why did he need . . . he didn’t let his mind wander any further than that.

  He was actually relieved when his mother knocked on the door to deliver his homework.

  The next day, the midsection went quickly. Sammy had gotten not one but two bricks, after oiling the kitchen door when his parents had gone off grocery shopping together.

  He scraped out a set of abs a prizewinning boxer would have been jealous of. Then he made a chest that was both broad and muscled but strangely nippleless. He just couldn’t face any more embarrassment.

  The rest of the day, he catnapped and did some of his homework and twice spoke to Skink, who was already home from the hospital.

  “My body,” Skink said the second time, “is healing, like, inhumanly fast. Or so the doctor says. And I can go back to school in like two days.”

  “Joy!” Sammy said, and then had to explain that he had stayed out of school until Skink was going back. He didn’t mention the golem.

  But, Sammy knew any further work on the creature would have to be done at night, and he couldn’t very well work the entire night through again. Luckily, Sammy’s parents decided to go to see an X-Men movie, both of them surprised when he refused to accompany them.

  “I’ve got a big school project due Monday.”

  “I don’t remember getting any big project assignment for you,” his mother said.

  Thinking quickly, Sammy said, “It’s a long term thing. Just getting a head start.” Then he had a brilliant idea. “I’m going to need some clay for it.”

  His father grinned. “Sure. How much do you need?”

  “Maybe three bricks?”

  “What are you making—a colossus?”

  “Something like that,” he said, determined to look up the word as soon as they were gone.

  Suddenly things had become dead easy. Sammy was relieved and—somehow—upset. Sneaking was one thing. All teenagers did a bit of that. But straight-out lying to his parents felt awful. Necessary—but awful.

  However, as soon as they were gone, and after he looked up colossus—any statue of gigantic size; huge and powerful—he got back to work, no longer worrying about sneaking or lying or anything else but the golem. The colossus. The clay man of the hour.

  While they were gone, the phone rang three times. Sammy let the machine pick up the first two times but then, on the third time, he happened to be going back for another brick of clay and automatically picked up the phone.

  “Greenburg’s residence, Sammy speaking,” he said. It was something he’d been taught early on since this was his father’s business phone as well as the house phone.

  “Samson, it’s Reb Chaim.”

  He nearly hung up. As it was, he dropped the phone with one hand and caught it—barely—with the other.

  “Um, hello, Rabbi,” he said. “I’ve . . . I’ve been home sick this week.”

  “Yes, your mother called to tell me. But it’s something else I want to talk about.”

  He knows . . . Sammy thought. He knows . . .

  “Is there something you want to tell me, Samson?”

  He almost wanted to confess everything. Then thinking about the three-quarters of a golem in his closet, he thought better of anything like a confession. It was way too late for that. “Tell you what, Rabbi?”

  I am so going to hell, Sammy thought, for lying to a rabbi. Even though Jews don’t actually believe in hell. At least I don’t think we do.

  “I meant about whether you were going to be able to study, while being so sick. And how your friend Skink is doing. Your mother told me about that, too.”

  “Anything else, Rabbi?”

  “Hmmmmm.” It was a sound like the noise a plague of locusts might make. “Study hard. I will see you when you get better.”

  It felt more like a threat than a promise. Sammy hung up carefully. He checked the caller IDs for the two missed calls. Both of them were business stuff. Not the rabbi. He didn’t know what to make of the rabbi’s questions.

  Are they really so innocent? Or is he just feeling out the situation. Sammy shook his head. He had no way of knowing without asking. And asking was the last thing he could do.

  Instead, he went into the studio to get the last brick of clay for the evening, feeling—for the first time—that he really was beginning to get sick. His stomach gurgled and his heart . . . he could feel it beating so fast, it would have made the perfect drum for the band.

  Back in the closet once again, he set to work on the golem. Its arms turned out to be a technical challenge. Everything to this point had been built up. Only the arms hung down. Sammy worried about gravity and so he brought his desk chair and a stool into the closet to let the arms rest on until they dried. That helped him while he worked on the elbows.

  “Though why God thought elbows necessary . . .” he said aloud. After all, James Lee couldn’t elbow him in the gut if he didn’t have any. Elbows, that is, not guts. “Well, actually, I don’t have any guts,” he told himself, “or I’d stick up for myself.” Though somehow he could—occasionally—stick up for someone else.

  “Ergo, the golem!” He loved the word ergo, meaning something like behold! Or therefore! Or look at this!

  Sammy made sure the wet clay was good and sticky as he worked, and afterward—with the help of the chair—there was no gravitationally induced stretching or dismemberments or things that were dropping off the golem, all in all a good thing.

  In the middle of the day, when his father was in the studio working on a big order for an upscale catalog company, and his mother was out in the garden weeding the vegetables, he made a copy of the English part of the rabbi’s book on their office’s small copying machine. He was ready in case his parents asked him what it was he was doing. A school assignment, of course. But no one saw him and so no one asked.

  The colossus kept growing. Monday it was time for Sammy to make the head.

  But first, it was time to drive to Carston for another Hebrew lesson, which might be a bit scary, if the rabbi asked him anything about the missing book. But maybe, Sammy thought, he could get more pointers about the golem as long as he was careful. Learn some important Hebrew words in case the golem only spoke Hebrew. Whale, dog, slug, alefbet were not going to cut it.

  And if pushed, he could always return the boo
k now that he had the important parts copied.

  It was a quiet ride to the temple without Skink in the car. Sammy’s dad drummed his fingers on the wheel most of the way.

  Suddenly Sammy began to worry about the golem book. Was that really why Rabbi Chaim had called? Or might the rabbi—maybe—applaud Sammy’s inventiveness. He had the book in his backpack just in case.

  Sammy looked out the window and fretted, watching cornfields zipping by, seeing the occasional farmstead breaking the green blur with a flash of white house and outbuildings.

  Sammy thought about the clay colossus stuffed in the back of his closet, wondering if he could really turn it into a walking protector, a bully against bullying. It had been an interesting project, sure. But real? He shook his head. This is the US of A, not Neverland, idiot!

  “Shalom aleichem, Samson,” Rabbi Chaim said as Sammy and his dad came in.

  “Aleichem shalom, Rabbi Chaim,” Sammy replied.

  “Reb Chaim will do. Think of it as a kind of rabbinical nickname,” Chaim said with a wink.

  Sammy’s dad nodded absently.

  “Mr. Greenburg,” Reb Chaim said, “why don’t you leave Samson and me on our own today. We have a lot to talk about. And if you’ll pardon the cliché, there’s a coffee shop at the end of the block . . .” He waved vaguely in that direction. “. . . and it has some lovely bagels. I don’t know whether they always carried them, or only started when the temple went up, but they’re almost as good as a New York deli. Go get yourself one and a cup of coffee, if you partake. Come back in an hour.” He looked at his watch. “Five fifteen to be precise.”

  His dad nodded again. Like one of those bobblehead dolls, Sammy thought. He wasn’t used to his dad being so compliant, but figured he was just thinking about a design in clay. Then his dad left, giving Sammy a pat on the back before going out the door, leaving Sammy alone with the rabbi.

  Once again, Sammy was struck by Chaim’s ceaseless energy. The thin man paced as he spoke, his hands, arms—even his eyebrows danced with every word.

  Still pacing, Reb Chaim motioned for Sammy to take a chair. Sammy almost missed it in the flurry of Chaim’s other random motions. Then Chaim took a chair himself, tapping his foot till Sammy sat. Then he was suddenly still as stone, one finger placed by the side of his nose.

  “Looks as if your father has a lot on his mind, Samson.” He raised one eyebrow at Sammy. “I imagine you do, as well?”

  He knows! Sammy tried to show nothing on his face, but he guessed it was turning bright red. Forcing himself to nod, he said, “Tough week at school.”

  Chaim stared at Sammy for ten tics and then stood and began pacing again.

  “Samson,” he said, “when young men come to me, it is not my job to teach them Hebrew, or their Torah portion, or perform any of the duties required at their bar mitzvah.”

  Sammy frowned. “But—”

  Reb Chaim shook his head, and went on. “I do all of those things, of course, but that is not my real job. They are just the means to an end. And they are not why your father, or any father, leaves his son in my care, or in the care of any rabbi, not for thousands of years.”

  “Rabbi . . . er, Reb Chaim,” Sammy said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he did. He’s talking about the book, and he’s going to kick me out of Hebrew class. Then he’ll call the police and I’ll go to jail and my father will disown me and . . . and then they’ll find the mess in my closet and I’ll be committed and . . .

  Reb Chaim laughed and sat back down. “Of course not, Samson. They teach us to be opaque in rabbi school.”

  Despite his near panic, Sammy thought, A new word! and leaned forward. “What’s opaque?”

  “Opaque can mean something that is not transparent, but more often it means someone who is hard to understand or who speaks in riddles or stories that have more than one meaning. Because it is important that people think about the stories or riddles, and wrestle with their meanings.”

  “Could you spell it?”

  Reb Chaim laughed. “A word guy! I knew I liked you. It’s O-P-A-Q-U-E.”

  Sammy repeated the word and the spelling. It wasn’t just that he was a word guy, though. If the rabbi was being opaque, Sammy knew he was being diverting. Keeping the rabbi off dangerous ground. And it seemed to be working.

  And the more Reb Chaim talked, the more Sammy calmed down. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I’m simply obsessing. Maybe I’m in the clear. And besides, I’ve just learned a new word.

  “So, Samson,” Reb Chaim said, leaning forward and slapping the desk in front of him lightly. “Why are you here?”

  “To learn Hebrew?” Sammy asked.

  “Is that an answer or a question?”

  “Maybe both?” He wondered if he, not the rabbi, was being opaque.

  Reb Chaim shook his head. “I already told you that’s not why you’ve come to me.”

  Frowning, Sammy said, “Then I suppose it’s not to learn my Torah portion either.”

  Reb Chaim grinned. “What is your bar mitzvah for? What happens on that day?”

  “It’s the day I become a man.”

  “Do you honestly believe you will become a man on that day?”

  Samson hadn’t thought about that before. “Um . . . yes?”

  Reb Chaim said nothing for a moment, just raised an eyebrow at Sammy and tapped the side of his nose idly. “If that actually happened, Samson, you would be the first boy ever to do so.” He placed both his hands palms down on his desk and stared hard into Sammy’s eyes. “There is no mystical moment, no instant in time that you can point to and say, ‘There! That is when I became a man.’ We pick a time because we must. It helps us make a transition. But it’s a transition, not an immediate change. And my job—my real job—is to help you start to make that transition from boy to man.”

  Sammy was almost sure that if Reb Chaim had noticed that the book was gone he would have mentioned it by now. His breathing slowed and it felt like his face was a normal color now. “And how do you do that?”

  Reb Chaim laughed and was back on his feet and moving again. “By doing what we Jews do best.” He grinned at Sammy. “Talking. So, what’s on your mind, Samson? What’s got your father so preoccupied? And what do you need to know to become a man in your family?”

  He doesn’t even suspect the book is gone. Sammy sat silently for a moment more, now only thinking about becoming a man. What do I need to know? I need to know how to fight James Lee. I need to know how to fire two hundred pounds of human-shaped clay that’s stuck in my closet. And I need to know . . .

  He looked up at Reb Chaim. “I need to know how to write the Hebrew word for God.”

  12.

  The Word for God

  On the road home, both Sammy and his father were quiet. Soft rock was playing on the car radio, but neither of them leaned forward to turn the music off.

  Sammy had no idea what his father was thinking about. Could be about some new pot he was making or about Skink, or about the bullying at school. Maybe it was only about the weather or the condition of the road they were on, still full of potholes from last year’s tough winter.

  But Sammy knew what was running through his own brain. The strange Hebrew letters that made up the word Adonai. God. Reb Chaim had shown them to him and made a first copy for him to trace without even asking why he wanted to know. Sammy had that first copy and all his own attempts on slips of paper in his pocket. He sat with his hand over his pocket to keep them safe. Those slips were all precious. Though he hadn’t told Reb Chaim why he wanted to learn to write the name of God, he knew from the stolen book that one of the two ways to make the golem live—animate was the word the book’s author used—was to place the Hebrew name of God on a slip of paper under the monster’s tongue.

  Animate. It had nothing to do with cartoons. Sammy had looked it up when h
e’d read the book the first time. It meant “to bring to life.” Funny word though, he’d thought then. Like animal. But without a mate.

  The other way was to write the name of God on the golem’s forehead. A sort of early Jewish tattoo, he thought with a smile. But his Hebrew was too wobbly yet for that. And what if I make a slip? A slip of the letters. Not a slip of paper. And then he realized that anyone at school would be able to see letters on the golem’s forehead: a dead giveaway. Or a live one. He giggled out loud. The slip of paper under the tongue would have to do.

  “Sammy—you okay?”

  He patted his pocket. “Fine, Dad, fine.” He turned to look out the side window, his mind already back on the golem and the golem’s tongue.

  Of course, he had to make the head first.

  And the tongue.

  He stuck out his own tongue out, tried to look down and see it, but it didn’t stick far enough out. So he pulled open the small mirror in the sun visor and stuck out his tongue again.

  “Sammy, what are you doing? Feeling sick?”

  What could he say—Dad I wanted to see how a tongue is constructed? That would lead to a conversation he definitely did not want to have.

  “Maybe,” he said, and smiled to himself. This opaque stuff is really useful.

  “Then I’ll get you home as soon as possible, and let your mother take your temperature.” His father’s foot slammed down on the gas pedal and Sammy lay back, eyes closed, as if this time he really was sick. Or tired.

  He promptly fell asleep.

  Sammy was awake for barely enough time to get from the car to the house and then went to his room and slept some more. Visions of the strange glyphs that made up Adonai danced through his dreams, turning into monstrous beasts with James Lee’s face, and then morphing into dancing mermaid tattoos that all looked like Julia Nathanson. When the dream changed again, he was Dr. Frankenstein leaning over the monster, shouting, “He’s alive! Alive!” Only when the monster sat up, he looked like Sammy’s twin.