The Magical Imperfect

by Chris Baron

in the middle of the night

  helping me find my way.

  The world is like our shop.

  So many beautiful things.

  He waves his hands at

  stacks of silver platters

  and long gold chains,

  cases of intricately carved earrings

  and rings set with green jewels.

  But the shop, Main Street,

  the town? It’s a gift.

  We are lucky to be here. All of us.

  But it is not the whole world!

  It’s only a part of it.

  He looks over at his box,

  then raises his finger

  straight to the sky.

  One of the best parts,

  besides being with you,

  is that I get to talk to people,

  to hear about their lives.

  Even Ruth Hershkowitz

  though she drives me mad!

  When he says this, I remember that

  I need to get her the roast beef from the deli.

  Hey, got anything new in your notebook?

  I go to my backpack,

  take out a notebook,

  my mom’s notebook,

  the edges frayed, the pages stuffed

  with notes and magazine clippings,

  grocery lists, and even receipts.

  But everywhere, on all the pages,

  are her tiny doodles of flowers

  and trees, windy roads, and sunsets.

  And now, here and there

  are doodles of my own,

  lists, mazes, baseball stats,

  and things I need to remember.

  I fold the cover back

  and open to a little doodle

  sketched in pencil.

  Oh, he says, it’s a parrot? I love it.

  Puffin, I think. It’s a puffin.

  We stare at my unfinished drawing,

  waiting for the other to speak.

  Ecosystem

  I take a deep breath

  and look toward the door.

  My grandfather nods.

  An errand for Mrs. Hershkowitz?

  He looks at me for a long time,

  then he nods.

  You hoping she’ll let you walk the dog?

  I smile.

  I hold the tightly wrapped

  package of roast beef under my arm

  and walk back toward her apartment.

  I like the cracks in the old sidewalk,

  how they fill with water when it rains.

  Inside are tiny ecosystems,

  snails and other animals living their own

  tiny lives. I wonder if they see me.

  I feel like sometimes I live

  in my own ecosystem

  that nobody else understands.

  Maybe, like the snails,

  it’s okay to just be quiet sometimes.

  Mrs. Hershkowitz

  ETAN! she calls down,

  You’re back!

  and she lowers a small wicker basket

  tied to an old clothesline.

  When it reaches me, the basket

  has a few coins inside.

  I trade the roast beef for the coins,

  and she hoists it back up.

  I look for her dog in the window,

  and as I turn to leave, she calls,

  HEY, can you walk Buddy for me, Etan?

  I nod, but I am so happy

  that I also jump up and down a little.

  With some yelping and whining

  the dog gets into the basket,

  and she slowly lowers him down to me

  along with a leash and a small plastic bag.

  The dog spins around in the basket,

  his bushy tail everywhere,

  and at the last moment

  lets out a bark and leaps into my arms,

  licking my face, his white-and-brown fur

  soft on my cheeks, his paws squarely

  on my shoulders. Hey, Buddy, I say,

  Hey, good Buddy, and I hug him back.

  Dogs are so easy to talk to.

  I set him down, and we head toward the park.

  Good Buddy

  Buddy loves the park,

  a long, green field

  at the top of a hill.

  He doesn’t like to go

  into the redwoods. He’s a smart dog;

  he must know that the grove is a national park

  full of animals who already live there.

  Instead he runs in giant circles

  end to end, pulling me along

  until we’re tired enough

  to lie in the grass.

  He licks my face,

  then sits with his whole body

  over my legs.

  Shake-up

  I need to get back to the shop

  and get Buddy back home.

  Walking near the playground

  I see Jordan and Martin and two other boys

  throwing a baseball around.

  I try to ignore them, but it’s too late.

  Jordan is always with Martin now.

  Etan! Wanna play ball with us?

  I walk faster.

  He won’t answer. He doesn’t talk anymore.

  They laugh at something else, or at me,

  but just before I reach the sidewalk

  Buddy starts to spin around,

  barking and whining.

  Martin looks over.

  What’s wrong with your dog?

  I’m trying to calm him down,

  and that’s when it happens.

  The air gets still, the birds go quiet,

  the tops of the trees begin to sway

  even though there’s no wind.

  Then the ground shakes

  like some giant just stomped down.

  We hear car horns, and parents

  calling to their kids.

  I hold on to Buddy.

  Then it ends.

  Just a tremor, Martin says.

  Probably like, I don’t know, 2.4 on the scale.

  I start to cross the street,

  my legs a little wobbly,

  and then, near my right foot,

  I see a crack in the pavement,

  then I see they are everywhere,

  like spiderwebs

  crisscrossing the sidewalk.

  I bring Buddy back

  and stand beneath the window.

  Mrs. Hershkowitz is looking out already.

  ETAN! Are you okay?

  I smile, and she lowers the basket,

  speaking in Yiddish the whole time.

  I can’t understand a word,

  but I accept that she may be

  saying something like a prayer or a complaint.

  Buddy doesn’t want to get in the basket;

  he licks my face and whimpers into my hands.

  Next time, I whisper. I’ll see you soon.

  Just Another Earthquake

  I run fast to get back to my grandfather.

  Sirens blare, and lots of people are on the street.

  When there’s an earthquake, we’re supposed

  to stand in a doorway, wait for the shaking to stop.

  Then we go outside and stand in the open,

  see if others need help.

  It seems like everyone’s okay,

  it was short, and people are used

  to earthquakes around here.

  Most of Main Street seems fine, too.

  When I get to the shop,

  my grandfather is helping Mrs. Li

  because one of her tables

  toppled over, and the fruit

  rolls like marbles in the street.

  We get everything arranged,

  apples with apples,

  persimmons and squash,

  and even a few pumpkins

  like fat guardians at the edge of her table.

  Mrs. Li laughs, and she hugs my grandfather.

  It seems like they make
each other happy.

  He’s always there when she needs something.

  She makes him soup every single day.

  They’ve been friends since they got here.

  Even on the ship,

  when things weren’t so nice

  and they didn’t know if

  they would even be allowed to stay,

  Mrs. Li and my grandmother

  tended the kids who were sick

  and made sure that everyone had enough food.

  It helps, he says, to go through life together,

  especially since my grandmother is gone.

  Mrs. Li asks me if I will do a fast delivery for her.

  I look at my grandfather and he nods.

  She fills a paper sack with leafy greens,

  and then, in another, she puts giant

  purple yams! They’re heavy,

  so I put the bags inside my backpack.

  Go to 1401 Forest Road, she says.

  If nobody’s home, leave it on the steps.

  They work in the city, and sometimes they don’t answer.

  Forest Road is far. Past the park.

  So I go as fast as I can.

  The Delivery

  Ship’s Haven is small-town;

  we only have a few tall buildings,

  three stories high,

  not like in the city.

  I follow the winding sidewalks,

  look at every crack,

  wonder if they came

  from the earthquake.

  Pretty soon the sidewalks end,

  and turn into dirt roads

  that wind past the redwood park

  and into a forest.

  The houses are big and old,

  with long winding driveways.

  My grandfather says that

  some of these fancy houses were built

  when people got rich in the gold rush.

  They were here long before

  my grandfather and Mrs. Li

  and most of the others on Main Street got here.

  But some are just people who work in the city

  and need a place to get away.

  I walk along the tree-lined paths,

  oak, spruce, and fir,

  the houses decorated for Halloween

  with jack-o’-lanterns in the windows.

  1401

  I take off my backpack

  because I feel like I might break in half.

  I didn’t know yams could be so heavy.

  The house is hidden by trees

  down a long driveway,

  with a mailbox built like a castle,

  a stone tower with a flag on top.

  A dragon has its tail wrapped all around it.

  I look up and down;

  nobody’s on the road,

  so I lower the red mail flag

  and it becomes the dragon’s tongue.

  It’s the greatest mailbox

  I’ve ever seen.

  The Door Opens

  The house is big and white,

  and tangled in vines.

  The front door is green,

  with a pineapple doorknob,

  and outside the door

  are rows of shoes in all different sizes.

  I am about to place the yams on the doorstep,

  when I hear someone singing

  Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,”

  but there’s no music, just a voice

  from somewhere deep inside.

  I take out the paper bags,

  balance them in my arms,

  and knock.

  wait. wait. wait.

  I knock one more time.

  Then, just when I think

  I might be able to walk away,

  a creak, the knob turns, and the door opens slowly.

  It doesn’t open far,

  only a crack

  about the size of my hand.

  It’s dark inside.

  I wait for someone to say hello,

  but no one does.

  I smell something,

  like the oil in the frying pan

  when my mother made latkes for Hanukkah.

  I wait with the greens and purple yams.

  I’m not sure why, but my heart is pounding.

  I hear a girl’s voice from inside:

  You can just leave it.

  Usually, after a delivery, I get a tip,

  sometimes a dollar, sometimes candy,

  so I wait for a second.

  Anything else? she says

  through the crack in the door. Silence.

  Okay, I think.

  I close my backpack and turn

  to look at the mailbox one more time.

  But then I hear her say something else:

  Thanks for bringing the ube.

  I turn around.

  They’re called ube. Purple yams?

  The door starts to shut,

  and I glimpse eyes through

  the doorway.

  See you later, she says.

  Remembrance

  My grandfather is standing over the old box.

  There are books laid out

  on his worktable,

  and smaller boxes

  also made of wood,

  folded fabric, an old knife,

  some tools,

  small sculpted figures,

  and a square music box

  with a tiny gold crank.

  When he looks up at me,

  he has tears in his eyes.

  Etan. He smiles.

  It’s been almost fifty years

  since we came to Angel Island in 1940.

  Fifty years, can you believe it?

  He holds up a faded photograph

  in black and white.

  It’s him and a woman

  standing on a huge bridge,

  with buildings like castles

  rising up behind it.

  I walk to the table

  and pick up the old knife,

  turn it around in my hands.

  It’s my father and mother in Prague.

  He looks just like his father, I think.

  He picks things up

  and puts them down,

  each item a key

  unlocking something,

  but he doesn’t enter,

  he stays with me

  even though I can see in his eyes

  he’s in a far-off place,

  the stories he always tells

  coming alive in a new way.

  The Knife

  I hold up the knife.

  Etan, can you get me some tea?

  I go and fill the small kettle

  in the back, get the mug ready.

  You remember what I told you

  about Prague,

  about leaving to come here?

  I do, I remember.

  Well, he continues.

  Prague was our home.

  Our family had lived there

  for a very long time,

  fighting for our country,

  but this time, when the Nazis came …

  He pauses and takes deep breaths.

  I pour water and drop in

  a bag of black tea

  along with two sugar cubes.

  I know this part of the story,

  about my great-grandfather,

  the great rabbi, and how he had to escape.

  I bring my grandpa the tea.

  When they came,

  we didn’t have much time.

  Friends helped us.

  People looked out for us,

  and when it was time

  for us to escape,

  your great-grandfather stayed behind

  so that your grandmother and I

  could make our way to Greece

  and find the Calypso.

  I hold the knife up,

  pull it out from its sheath.

  Ah, he says, I almost forgot.

  The knife. My father ga
ve it to me

  in case anything happened on the way.

  He stays silent, looks at the knife,

  then back at me. Then he reaches over

  and puts it back into its sheath.

  This was everything we had, he says.

  We lost two other boxes,

  but this one was the most important.

  He pats the top of the box

  and looks at the spread of objects.

  Then he points to one

  of two jars in the center of the table.

  This one has clay from the Holy Land

  and the Vltava River inside it!

  He pulls out an old dusty book,

  big like the giant Tanakh at our synagogue

  or the old Webster’s dictionary at school.

  On the cover are words in Hebrew

  and some other language I’ve never seen.

  There’s a picture etched into the leather cover

  of a mountain or a hill with eyes and arms

  holding the sun in its stumpy hands.

  The Golem

  That’s the golem, Etan.

  And some of that,

  just the tiniest bit,

  is in here.

  I remember the stories

  about the golem

  from Hebrew school,

  but I never thought it might be real.

  This is the last of the clay

  taken from the Vltava River

  by your ancestor,

  the Maharal himself.

  I want to ask him what the Maharal is,

  but I can’t find the words.

  He holds the jar out to me.

  It’s much heavier than I thought,

  and my hands almost fail beneath its weight.

  It’s the clay of the golem;

  it once made a terrible monster

  that defended the Jewish people

  in their time of greatest need.

  I look up, centering the jar in my hands.