by Chris Baron
and we’re supposed to go to synagogue all the time.
What’s Shabbat?
In my mind I picture
the brisket my mom used to make
and challah twisted into hearts,
with honey dripping from wood spoons,
roasted chicken with dried fruit,
brownies or halva for dessert.
I tell her about all of it,
my mouth watering.
Wow, she says.
But since my mom left,
we usually eat my grandpa’s chili
or something simple.
Is that why you don’t like to talk, Etan?
I look at her.
I mean maybe you let your mom
take all your words with her?
I mean maybe she’s the one you talked
to the most, and now that she’s …
well, maybe you just don’t want to give them to anyone else?
I mean besides your grandpa or even your dad sometimes.
I look at her.
She wraps Blankie around her head a bit
but then smiles big.
I mean, until now, of course?
What?
Me, dummy! Now you have me.
Maybe you just needed a friend who wants to hear
what you have to say.
She scratches her neck, walks to the pool.
You should come sometime, I say. To Shabbat, I mean.
Okay, she says,
wading into the water.
For now, I’m gonna find that darn green rock.
Agreements
After the Shabbat candles are lit,
Mrs. Hershkowitz feeds Buddy bits of challah
beneath the table.
She winks at me to do it, too.
Across from us my grandfather is shaking
his head at my father.
Listen, son, I love baseball as much as anyone,
but it’s the High Holidays and this is not right.
Pop, once in a lifetime,
don’t you see?
The series is tied 1–1 …
And on like this,
until my grandfather
puts a giant hand
over the hand of my father.
Fine, we’ll go,
but promise me,
promise me
you won’t miss Yom Kippur service on Sunday.
He smiles at Mrs. Hershkowitz,
but she’s dipping challah into honey,
letting Buddy lick it off.
Fine, Pop, yes, of course I will.
Baseball Game
Even from our seats at the top of Candlestick Park,
we feel the energy from sixty thousand people
shouting and cheering with every single play.
My father is alive,
standing more than sitting
every time Clark comes to the plate.
The game is so close.
Runs in the first inning,
the crowd singing
or shouting bad words
when the score is tied.
For me, it’s loud,
thousands of untuned musical instruments
trying to play together.
My grandfather puts his arm around me.
Wonderful game. Do you miss playing?
I don’t know how to answer this.
I’m sure there’s a reason.
I want to say,
I just don’t.
But that’s never the right answer for grown-ups.
Soft Pretzels
I feel for the stone in my pocket.
Grandpa?
He leans in to listen.
I lost the green stone.
The Cubs get a run in the top of the seventh,
so the crowd suddenly tightens in a deep breath.
My grandfather puts his arm around my shoulders.
Etan, I want a soft pretzel.
You want one?
Words Come Out
Extra salt,
crispy and soft all at the same time.
We go to get mustard,
and that’s when we see him,
holding his own pretzel—
Jordan, wearing a blue kippah,
his father standing just behind.
My grandfather hugs Jordan.
Shana Tovah! A good year!
And they talk about how important
the game is, and that they had to come
even though it’s Saturday.
Hey, Etan, Jordan says.
I try to say hi.
I can’t.
I got my Ken Holtzman card finally.
Did you know he’s Jewish, too?
This is such a good game.
If the A’s beat the Blue Jays tomorrow, they go to the Series!
I smile.
You should play baseball again at school.
Martin’s got a big mouth but he’s all talk.
The grown-ups say their goodbyes,
then my grandfather looks at me with pleading eyes.
J-or-dan? I say.
It feels like a whole galaxy of time
before the words come out.
You guys should come over
for Shabbat sometime.
He smiles.
That’s a great idea, I can bring my cards!
By the time we get back, Candlestick is vibrating
because the Giants scored two runs to pull ahead
all the way
until the end of the game.
And then later, for two more games
after that
all the way
into the 1989 World Series.
Part
4
Sunday Morning
I ride my bike down to Main Street.
Mr. Cohen’s bakery is full of Sunday people
wearing Sunday clothes
but with Giants hats,
and kids carrying pennants and baseball gloves.
I get in line to buy my grandfather
his coffee and bagel,
a last meal
before he starts his Yom Kippur fast,
leading up to the day of atonement.
It’s a time, he explains, to say sorry
for things we’ve done
and mean it.
A time for forgiveness
and fate.
It’s also twenty-five hours of not eating anything!
But when Mr. Cohen sees me,
his head bobbing from behind the counter,
he waves at me. Etan, Etan!
I push through the crowd,
ducking under,
slipping through.
and he pulls me around.
Etan, I am so swamped. Can you PLEASE take these
donuts to Grace Covenant Community Center?
I will never get them there in time.
He hands me two pink boxes.
There’s a jelly for you and bagels for your grandpa when you get back.
Sign-up Sheet
There are people going to church,
the community center,
kids carrying kites, walking dogs.
I think about how long it’s been since we went to temple.
We should be going later today, but I wonder if my father actually will.
Outside, I see the Covenanteers passing out programs for the day,
and in the doorway a long red banner:
HARVEST FESTIVAL
TALENT SHOW
AND SPAGHETTI SUPPER
Etan! They call me over.
I hold up the donut box, and they bring me inside.
So, Etan, will you be joining us for the talent show?
The Covenanteer holds up a clipboard full of names and acts:
singers, piano players,
Hula-Hoopers, ventriloquists, at least ten magicians.
I hold the pencil, think about Malia
singing beneath the
trees.
Then I sign her name, unsure of the spelling.
Clay
I get back to the shop
with the bagels and coffee.
Grandpa’s there with the loupe over his eye,
holding a watch.
Etan, I am so behind.
Thank you for the coffee.
I sit at the workbench.
Grandpa, Malia is singing in the talent show.
I slide the red paper over to him.
Next Tuesday at 4!
He examines it.
She agreed to this?
Kind of?
But there might be a baseball game.
He stops what he is doing,
sets everything down.
Etan, I noticed
when you talk about your friend,
your words come out just fine.
I nod.
It’s just that her skin is getting worse,
and she is always scratching until it bleeds.
He puts down the loupe, sips coffee.
Tell me more.
An Idea
I tell him everything.
Mrs. Li even gave her herbs
and some kind of goji berry tea,
but her skin
just stays
the same.
Grandpa, is there a stone we can give her?
Or something else?
He thinks for a while, looks at the treasure box.
The old and the new sometimes struggle
to work together.
Everything is always changing,
but maybe I do have something.
He gets up and carries the treasure box over.
As he opens the box, I smell earth, and wood;
it’s spicy in my nose.
He pulls out the jars of clay, reaches in deeper,
opens a small leather pouch, and pours smooth stones into his hand.
He lays them all on the table.
Grandpa, maybe,
I mean, what about the clay?
My heart races.
You said the golem comes to protect us in our greatest need?
He looks at me.
This is not the same, and besides, you know,
there is not enough clay for the golem to come alive.
I guess it makes sense.
We don’t need a guardian; what we need is a miracle.
And even with the clay from the Dead Sea,
there is just not enough.
I think about the pool in our secret place.
Grandpa, wait.
What if we took some of OUR clay,
the healing clay from the Dead Sea,
and mixed it with some of the clay from the stream?
He pulls the jars close to him.
I can tell he’s thinking.
He raises his hands,
his eyes wide now.
We shouldn’t risk it.
We just don’t know if her pain will come back even worse.
He puts a fist on the table. His voice grows louder.
No, it’s one thing, for OUR family,
but to bring others into it
is very dangerous. No.
I feel my stomach tighten.
I’m mad.
Mad at him,
the words boiling up.
But what’s it for, then?
Is it supposed to stay in that jar forever?
My grandfather leans back,
his eyes at first like fire.
But then, cool, and soft again.
Well, that’s the boy I know.
But I still think the clay is not the answer.
He digs into the leather pouch,
pulls out a small blue stone.
Ah, this is what I was looking for.
Sapphire. Take this,
it may help her feel peace.
He smiles at me, puts the jars back in the box.
You should go, he says.
I’m sure she feels better
when you are there.
But be back for services!
I look again at the box,
imagine the weight of the jars in my hands.
What if I just put them in my backpack?
Mixed the ancient clay with the newer clay?
What if we tried?
Mrs. Li
… waits for me outside the shop.
She walks over, hands me a brown bag.
Good morning, Etan. Take this.
It’s more tea with different herbs.
Thank you, I say. I hope it works.
Etan, she says, it’s nice to hear your voice again.
I take the bag, and as much as I try, I can’t resist.
When I open it, my insides get tight.
The smell is so strong.
Mrs. Li nods.
It’s okay, Etan.
This tea recipe is my mother’s.
It helped soothe so many of us
on long, cold days at sea.
It may smell funny to you, but it’s strong, I promise you.
I try not to use my nose,
but now the smell is trapped there.
Etan, never forget this.
Mrs. Li folds the bag closed. Your friendship for this girl is the oldest
and strongest form of medicine you can ever give her.
Remind her that she is not alone.
Tremor
I ride up the hill.
Already the fog is coming in along Forest Road.
Near the first redwoods, crows caw together in high branches,
then suddenly fall silent,
spread their dark wings
against the gray-and-white sky,
take off fast.
BOOOOM.
The noise is like a cannon shot
or a jet flying low.
But the crows are the only things in the sky.
The bike jumps like I ran into a hole.
BOOOOM.
The trees sway, then jerk in one direction
like the whole earth sneezed.
She Gets Worse
Outside on the porch
Malia is folded over, quietly crying
in her mother’s lap.
I wonder if the earthquake scared her again?
Mrs. Agbayani looks at me, tears in her own eyes.
She puts her arm out to me.
I walk toward her until her hand
on my shoulder pulls me tightly in.
Blankie is spread evenly over Malia’s body,
but I can see her legs, red, swollen,
hives like scales.
Without moving even an inch
I hear her voice like it’s right in my ear.
It got worse.
Her voice is stuffed into her nose
and it sounds funny,
so I can’t help but laugh just a little.
And that’s when she looks up,
her face more red than I’ve ever seen,
her one eye swollen, but with the other
she glares at me.
I shrink
inside the orb of her eye.
She gives me an angry smile
her head in her heads.
Mrs. Agbayani exhales.
It’s a new outbreak, Etan, worse than we’ve seen before.
The eczema is spreading.
I hold up the tea. I have this from Mrs. Li.
Malia’s body constricts.
Ahhhh, I can smell it from here!
Mrs. Agbayani takes the bag,
holds it arm’s-length away.
I’ll take it inside.
Malia leans forward, her head resting sideways.
It’s on my back, and it hurts to sit up.
I don’t know what to say, and this time
it has nothing to do with finding my words.
Whatever you do DON’T say anything.
Can we just go down to the forest?
She slowly stands,
/>
her shoulders hunched.
What the Trees Say
She stops at each tree,
rests her forehead on the rough trunks,
whispers words in Tagalog.
So what are the trees saying? I ask.
She leans against one of them.
They say something big is coming.
That seems obvious.
Of course it is, I say. I mean the World Series, and …
Malia turns to me. No, dummy, trees don’t care about baseball.
It’s something else. These earthquakes …
it’s like the earth calling out, speaking a new language.
The trees are trying to understand it.
We slowly wind our way to where the Sitting Stones
sleep in the mist by the pool.
My words spill out.
I signed you up today for the talent show. Next Tuesday!
She sighs. Etan, look at me.
You think I am ready to get up in front of people?
I never go anywhere, not even school.
What was I thinking?
She walks to the pool and looks in,
her face shining in the wavy water.
Look at me.
I mean, I AM a creature.
She scratches her neck, and then her legs.
They start to bleed.