Lunchtime.
With Julia Nathanson
But apparently that was the thing he worried about the most. Including the fact that he could quite possibly have a heart attack by sitting too close to her.
Or embarrass himself by letting out a fart during a lull in the conversation. If there was any conversation.
Or spilling lunch down his front. Or even worse—spilling lunch down hers.
Still, the one thing he knew he wasn’t going to do any more damage to were his fingernails. He no longer had any.
Lucky I play clarinet and not guitar.
Sitting up straight in his chair, Sammy tried to listen to what Mr. Lippincott, the science teacher, was talking about. Neurons. Or protons. Or some such ons.
I have to look relaxed. He must have said it aloud, because Gully repeated in his flat voice, “Look relaxed.”
The boy next to him, a pencil-thin geeky kid who knew all about science and not much else, broke out into giggles the way some kids break out in acne.
Sammy gave him a disgusted look and said, “Yeah, Gully—though in America we say: ‘Look cool. Calm. Collected.’”
And then the bell rang for lunch.
Sammy stood, his knees suddenly shaking.
Gully stood and put a comforting hand on Sammy’s shoulder. They walked that way down the hall and to the lunchroom looking like two blind guys helping one another.
Julia Nathanson was already sitting at Sammy’s table, looking—Sammy thought—cool, calm, collected. He could have pointed that out to Gully, a live vocabulary lesson, but it would have meant opening his mouth and letting real words, rather than a deep sigh, come out. Sammy simply didn’t think he could manage it.
Instead, he gulped, and went right to the lunch line, though ordinarily he’d have taken off his backpack and left it at the table first. Anything, he thought, to delay sitting down. Which was decidedly odd since what he wanted to do—more than anything else in the world—was to sit down next to Julia.
He showed Gully how to take a tray and choose between mystery meat or “snap” sandwiches, which was what everyone called the toasted cheese sandwiches that were so hard, they could be snapped in two. And how to choose between green beans cooked until they were as gray as Gully or a small salad, somehow equally gray. And then there were the containers of different kinds of milk: whole, one percent, chocolate.
Gully took it all, slopping it onto his plate as if he could really eat the stuff, then carried both trays over to the table with one hand, an amazing feat.
Then finally—with nothing more to throw between himself and Julia—Sammy had to sit down next to her. He had to. His knees had suddenly become so weak, it was sit-or-fall-over time. He thought he might actually be having a heart attack.
There was a long, difficult silence, and then Sammy said to Julia, “This is my . . . um . . . cousin.”
“Not much of a family resemblance,” Julia replied.
Gully said to Julia. “I am Gully. The cousin. From Check.”
“Check?” Julia sounded puzzled.
“Czech Republic,” Sammy said. “He’s gray from lack of sun and a condition called alopecia. He doesn’t speak a lot of English, and he is the drummer in the band.” And having divested himself of all of his conversation openers at once, Sammy fell silent again.
“Hi, Gully,” Julia said. “Again.”
“Again,” Gully said, and nodded his head.
Only then did Sammy remember the conversation they’d had in the hall about Gully’s name. This is worse, he thought, than farting or spilling food, or . . . Maybe the heart attack was a good idea. He wondered if a person could just will his heart to give out.
“The drummer?” Julia said. “That’s great. Like I said, I want to be in the band, too. Can I try out?”
“Try out . . .” Sammy repeated, now sounding quite a bit like Gully, his voice flat and much too loud.
“You try out,” Gully said. “Look cool.” He grinned his gray grin. “We say that in America.”
Julia laughed. It sounded like tinkling bells.
Sammy resisted slapping his forehead with his hand, but only just. I can’t believe I just thought “Tinkling bells!”
“So can I try out?” Julia asked again.
Sammy nodded. He nodded so vigorously, he hoped his neck muscles were strongly attached. If his head fell off, he didn’t know what he would do then.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Julia because she’d gotten what she wanted. Sammy because he had nothing sensible or amusing or interesting left to say. And Gully because without something to echo, he couldn’t talk. And of course, though he ran his fork around and around the things on his plate, and even once held a forkful up to his mouth, Gully didn’t actually eat any of it.
If Julia had asked why, Sammy was ready with an answer. He was going to say, “He’s religious. Food’s not kosher. That’s Jewish for not holy.” But she never said a word.
Nobody—not any of their classmates or the James Lee crew—disturbed the silence until the bell rang. The three of them stood.
“At last,” Sammy said.
“At last,” Gully parroted.
“Can I try out after school?” Julia asked.
“I . . . I have He . . . Hebrew lessons. For my b . . . bar mitzvah,” Sammy stuttered.
“Cool. I was bat mitzvahed this past summer,” Julia said. “We’ll do it tomorrow then.” Tray in hand, she walked away.
Julia’s Jewish? Sammy was stunned. He guessed they must be the only two in the school. What are the odds . . .?
“I have Hebrew lessons?” asked Gully when Julia had disappeared through the door.
“Sure,” Sammy said. “Why not.”
“What are Hebrew lessons?”
This time Sammy didn’t answer, though he was thinking that English lessons would probably make more sense for Gully.
Though nothing . . . nothing makes any sense at all any more.
15.
Gully and the Rabbi
The rest of the school day ran smoothly, if you didn’t count Gully pushing a seventh-grade girl who came over to shake Sammy’s hand in the hall, or intercepting a dodgeball heading for Sammy’s middle, growling at Mr. Nolan for slamming his hand down on Sammy’s desk when he was admonishing the class. (Though admonishing, Sammy admitted, was a pretty cool word.)
Yeah, if you didn’t count those, Sammy thought, things went pretty smoothly. Of course, Sammy spent a lot of time apologizing for his Czech cousin who was—or so Sammy said—brought up under a dictator and so thought anyone trying to touch his cousin or get too close or even looking crosswise at Sammy was sort of trying to hurt him. And best of all, it was all true, except for the Czech part. And the dictator part. And leaving out the golem part, which no one would have believed anyway.
Still, it ended up being a good thing because the word got around the school fast enough, and for the last period, everything really did sail along.
When the last bell sounded, Sammy retrieved his homework books from his locker and was just turning around to look for Gully, who he’d told to stand in the corner of the hall by the window and count birds. Gully was obeying orders, a big gray presence staring out at a couple of crows, when a lovely lilting voice called Sammy’s name.
Turning, Sammy saw Skinner’s mother coming down the hall toward him, her arms filled with books.
“Mrs. Williams!” he cried. “How’s Skink?”
“Desirous of getting back to school. And your band,” she said. “Though it may be a day or two more.”
Desirous. What a great word! Sammy thought. Aloud he said, “Well, tell him I’m desirous of visiting him.”
“Come this evening after dinner,” Mrs. Williams said. “He could use the help with his homework.” She reached into her pocketbook, which meant
first putting the books on the floor. “Here’s a card with our address on it. Your mother can call me to make certain of the invitation.”
“I will! I will!” And then a gray blur caught his eye as Gully raced over to investigate this latest threat.
“Gully,” Sammy said quickly, “this is a good friend’s mother.” He hoped the emphasis on good would get through, and it must have because Gully slowed down. Sammy sighed, then said, “Um, Mrs. Williams, this is my cousin Gully from Czech Republic. He’s going to be the drummer in our band. Can he come, too?”
“I come, too?” Gully said, stooping and picking up the books and handing them to her, at the same time giving her a gray smile.
“Of course. Of course,” she said, a bit startled at his sudden appearance.
Or maybe, Sammy thought, just startled by his appearance. But either way, she was too polite to say anything. Which is nice, because I’d like to stop lying to people for at least a minute or two today. And sighing audibly, Sammy stuffed his books into his backpack and headed for the door.
“Your Amish friend going to come to Hebrew lessons with you, Sammy?” his father asked as soon as they hopped in the car.
“Yes, please,” Sammy said, and as usual Gully echoed, “Yes, please.”
I’m almost getting used to it.
“And we’ve been invited to Skink’s after dinner. Gully’s going to be the drummer in our band. And Julia Nathanson’s going to fiddle around.”
“Julia? So I know her?”
“She’s . . . um . . . a friend.” He hoped his father didn’t look in the rearview and notice him blushing.
“Friend. She fiddles around,” said the golem. “A good one. On the right. That’s a joke.”
Sammy’s father glanced at Gully in the mirror. “Sounds like you’ve got a whole band now. When’s the first rehearsal?”
Rehearsal? I guess it’s more than just an idea now that Gully and Julia are on board. Sammy’s mind was suddenly full of all the little things he’d ignored up to this point. Where will we practice? Can Julia play klezmer? Or jazz? If she can’t, will I let her in the band anyway? He blushed at how dumb that sounded. Of course he was going to let Julia in the band. And—oh, God—how are we going to get Gully a drum kit?
He didn’t say any of this out loud, of course. “As soon as Skink’s ready, I guess.”
“There should be room in the basement if you clean it up some.”
Well, that’s at least one question answered. Though maybe not the biggest. “Thanks, Dad.”
After that, which went about as well as it could, Sammy thought, his dad, asked how school was today, and they settled into small talk about classes and grades with Gully echoing the occasional word or phrase. Then Sammy asked about how the pots were coming along, and his dad broke into a long explanation about form following function or some such, which Sammy half listened to and Gully repeated a bit of.
Soon enough, though, they quieted down and stared out their respective windows. Sammy knew his father would be thinking about pot design.
He’d no idea what Gully was thinking, or even if golems could think.
Which leaves me to worry about the golem.
The three of them remained that way, gazing out their own windows, deep in whatever passed for thinking, until twenty-five minutes later when they pulled into the synagogue parking lot.
“Shalom aleichem,” Reb Chaim said as they walked in. “Peace be with you.”
Sammy, his father, and Gully all answered, “Aleichem shalom.”
All of them.
Sammy’s father glanced curiously at Gully who was grinning grayly, but Sammy was used to the golem repeating things. So he just switched the words around this time, he thought. So what?
Reb Chaim, however, sure seemed surprised. His eyes went wide, taking in Gully’s height, his bald head, his gray grin. The rabbi breathed, “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam.”
Gully nodded gravely and answered, “Oseh ma’asei v’reishit.”
“Gully knows Hebrew?” Sammy’s father asked. “I thought he was Amish.”
“Um . . .” Sammy said.
Reb Chaim shook himself and stood. “Mr. Greenburg, I need to speak with Samson immediately.”
Sammy stepped forward, and Gully stepped with him, like a shadow.
“Alone,” Reb Chaim said.
Gully looked at Sammy, his big gray fists clenched tight. “It’s okay, Gully,” he said, softly. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back.” Then he followed Reb Chaim into the sanctuary.
As soon as the door shut, Reb Chaim sat down on one of the benches and patted the seat next to him.
Sammy sat down tentatively, wondering what this was all about, though he was sure he knew. He didn’t have to wait long.
Reb Chaim leaned toward him and nearly spat out his words. “What have you done, boy?”
“I . . . um . . .” Sammy decided that he was getting real sick of the word um. “Um . . .” Doesn’t seem to stop me from using it all the time.
“Did you think that making a golem by a learned rabbi was an idle tradition?” Reb Chaim’s normally pleasant face was almost purple with anger. “It was to avoid that very kind of abomination!” He pointed to the door they’d just come through. “That louring gray presence in the shul’s hallway. That brutal clay animation. That . . .” He stood, started to walk about, his nervous energy seeming to spark out of his fingertips.
Sammy’s hands—all on their own—began to wrangle together. He even ignored the word “louring” which he didn’t know, and looked down at his hands, his mind blank. Then he looked up into Reb Chaim’s angry face. “Well, I didn’t think it would actually work. I mean—that’s fairy-tale stuff, right?”
“Does that creature look like a fairy tale to you? Gray as clay, cold eyes, colder heart, with only one thing on its mind.”
Actually two things, Sammy thought. The other being drumming. He knew better than to say that out loud. Looking down again at his hands, he willed them to be still. “I used the thing you wrote. You know—on that slip of paper. I couldn’t write it well enough myself.”
That stopped Reb Chaim’s tirade. “I’m an idiot for not realizing what you wanted it for,” he said, then glanced over at his bookcase. “I suppose you stole my book, as well.”
“I was going to bring it back,” Sammy said softly. “Next week. Definitely.” He didn’t mention having copied it. “Listen, Rabbi. I’ve been teased, called names, been beaten up, had my head shoved into the toilet. And I know we Jews are supposed to suffer in silence, but I’m sick of it. For the first time in like, ever, I had a good day at school today. A good day!” What was the really cool word Reb Chaim had used? Oh, yeah—abomination. “Abomination or not, that made it worth the agony of making the golem. And it wasn’t real easy, you know? I had to do it in my closet.”
Reb Chaim’s eyes softened. “You said that last time. That your head had been shoved in a toilet.”
“More times than I want to remember. Well, maybe like seven. All right, actually seven. I counted.” He stood. Trying to talk to the pacing rabbi was hard enough, but at least they could be eye to eye.
As if to balance their positions, Reb Chaim sat down again. Put his head in his hands. He was silent for a long moment, and Sammy knew better than to say anything more.
“Sit down, Samson.” This time Sammy didn’t and Reb Chaim didn’t press the issue. He looked up. “I know the temptation power holds out to the powerless. And I know to what ends they’ll go to get it.” Now Chaim was staring off into space. “I worked for the Mosaad, Sammy.”
“What’s that?”
“A secret government organization in Israel that sometimes does bad things for a good cause.”
“You mean like the CIA here?”
Reb Chaim nodded and looked back at Sammy, h
is eyes clouded, as if recalling something awful. “I’ve seen things no one ever should. Then very softly, he added, “Done some, as well.”
“Like what?” Sammy asked.
“Like working with a unit of golems we were developing as our first line of defense against our many enemies.” Reb Chaim’s face got misty with the memory. He closed his eyes.
“And . . .” Sammy leaned forward.
“And they turned on us when they thought we were the enemy. As golems always do. Though we thought we’d discovered the secret to stop that from happening.” He shuddered, as if with cold. “I will say no more. The rest is between me and . . .” his eyes opened, looked up as if he could see through the ceiling. “But know this: on every Yom Kippur, I remember what I saw and did there in Rehovot, and I try to forgive myself. And every single year I fail.”
It must have been something pretty bad. And then Sammy thought: But Gully’s not like that. I won’t ever let him get like that. He listens to me.
Reb Chaim stood, all nervous energy again. “Trust me, Samson, this will not end well. Your ‘one good day’ will turn into a thousand bad ones. Ask the prophet Jeremiah. Ask Rabbi Loew. Ask me! A golem knows no right or wrong; it knows only enemy or friend. That is a duality that leads to only one thing—the grave. Right now you think you know who is enemy, who is friend; which is good, which is bad. But for how long will such a thing be true?”
“I don’t know,” Sammy said. It seemed to be the answer the rabbi wanted to hear.
“That’s right!” Chaim snarled. “Because you know nothing about golems.”
“Then tell me about them!” Sammy said. “How does it work? Why was I able to make one? Is there more to it than just Adonai? Does the golem have special powers? Do you?”
Reb Chaim held up his hand, and Sammy stopped babbling. “Samson, any Jew can make a golem, but not all know how. And most of us who do know how choose not to abuse that kind of power. Anymore.” He smiled briefly, sadly, more like an emoticon than an actual smile. “And also, most of us are lousy potters. If you made this thing without help, at least you have that much talent, if not sense.”
B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) Page 12
