The Magical Imperfect

by Chris Baron

  It’s all our family has left.

  The rest is hidden

  somewhere far across the sea.

  It’s almost too much.

  I’ve always believed my grandfather’s stories,

  but ancient magic?

  My grandfather laughs. There’s not much left.

  Your father, he …

  Well. That’s a story for a different time.

  The spirit of the golem

  is somewhere else,

  but this clay comes

  from ancient earth

  and ancient waters.

  From a world

  that no longer fits

  with this one.

  I look at the other jar;

  he lifts it up, staring at it

  for a long time.

  This is a different kind of clay

  from the Dead Sea.

  But before he can say more,

  my father comes through the door,

  blue flannel shirt tied around his waist,

  his car keys in one hand,

  his face covered in grime.

  You ready? he says. What’s all this?

  I watch his eyes move from photo to jar to trinket

  and his eyes get bigger.

  He’s seen this before.

  I hold up the knife,

  but my father grabs it.

  No way, Pop.

  Maybe when he’s thirteen.

  There’s silence, and then

  a breath.

  All right, then. My grandfather smiles.

  See you tomorrow, Etan.

  Giants

  We hurry home because the game

  is at Candlestick Park tonight,

  Giants against Cubs.

  We order pizza and turn up the TV.

  I get the notebook,

  my father gets his mitt

  and hands me mine.

  I didn’t play in Little League this year.

  Next year, right? my father says.

  Man, he says, the Giants

  might really do it this year.

  Check this out, if they make the Series,

  my boss is taking us all to a game.

  He smiles and shoves pizza into his mouth.

  Did you feel the earthquake? He looks at me.

  I’m working on a roof over in Pacifica, he says.

  I felt the building sway a little.

  When he says this, my stomach hurts.

  I look down at the notebook,

  find a green button

  stuffed into the pocket.

  I think of my mom’s scratchy green sweater

  and suddenly I feel like

  I need to get her the button as fast I can,

  but I just hold it up,

  try to see through the tiny holes.

  I feel his big hand on my shoulder.

  It was fine, just a little shake.

  Nothing to worry about.

  I breathe a little, and we watch the game.

  Breakfast

  I get Cheerios out

  and pour them into bowls,

  make coffee for Dad

  and hot chocolate for me.

  He takes a mouthful of cereal.

  I have to work late again, okay?

  He leans closer.

  Try to talk today at school.

  To your friends, to anyone.

  I don’t answer, and I

  drink milk from the bowl.

  School Days

  Mr. Potts is a good teacher.

  He talks to me, but he doesn’t

  try to make me talk back.

  When you’re ready,

  he always says.

  Today I watch the clock.

  While I finish my math worksheets and spelling work

  I think about ube,

  and dragons, and about Buddy,

  and the girl behind the door

  singing “Like a Prayer”

  somewhere in that big house.

  Contagious

  At lunch everyone goes

  to the field to play baseball,

  and as usual, they ask me,

  but I just want to sit and draw.

  I sketch the red flag dragon tongue

  on the mailbox, finish shading the stone.

  Hey, Jordan says, walking by

  and pointing at my picture.

  I know that mailbox.

  That’s the creature’s house!

  When I hear him say it,

  I feel my stomach squeeze;

  I think about her eyes in the doorway

  and I wonder what he means.

  You see her yet? Martin asks.

  She’s like some kind of creature,

  she’s got bumps all over her body.

  Jordan looks over. More like scales.

  Don’t you remember? I think second grade?

  When all of that happened.

  But I don’t remember.

  I heard she gets homeschooled

  because she might be contagious and she never leaves the house.

  Jordan looks at me and shrugs

  almost like he’s sorry.

  The Library

  I think about how terrible it must

  feel to be called “the creature.”

  A creature, I think,

  is the golem.

  So for the rest of lunch

  I go to the library.

  If there really is magic clay

  in that jar, maybe

  I could scrape enough out

  to bring a golem to life.

  Then it could

  go to the hospital

  and rescue my mom.

  I try to imagine

  the golem, its strong, gloopy arms

  ripping off the hospital doors,

  scooping her up,

  and carrying her home.

  Would it have a human face?

  The fountain near the library door

  spits water out of a lion’s mouth.

  “The Lion of Wisdom,”

  Mrs. McClellan calls it.

  The library’s one big room,

  shelves stacked

  ceiling to floor;

  the smell of old books

  fills the air all around.

  Mrs. McClellan is at her big round desk.

  She smiles at me.

  Behind her are black-and-white photos

  of gold rush camps, old San Francisco,

  the Angel Island Immigration Station before it burned down,

  with a plaque beneath it,

  ELLIS ISLAND OF THE WEST.

  Under the photos are books on all the places.

  When I brought one home once

  to show my grandfather,

  he didn’t want to see it—

  didn’t want to talk about it.

  No one from the Calypso likes to talk about Angel Island.

  I point to the stack of World Book Encyclopedias.

  Yes? She runs her finger along the bindings,

  stops at G when I nod,

  hands me the book. At the table,

  I pull out the notebook from my bag,

  a pencil, a squishy pink eraser,

  then I flip through the pages.

  Goalie, gold, golem.

  Slowly I take in the pictures.

  Dark, lidless eyes set deep into a long skull,

  bald, long-necked with painted clay feet.

  In one picture, the golem is rising

  through a manhole in a city street,

  its mouth wide open in the yellow light.

  I turn the page, and the next is better, like a short man

  made of clay, large eyes and legs,

  holding a scroll in its thick arms.

  I try to sketch it in my book,

  but it looks silly every time,

  like a snowman,

  or a weird gorilla.

  I go back to Mrs. McClellan

  and check out the book.


  She sees my notebook,

  raises her eyebrows.

  Anything else today?

  I smile and shake my head.

  Say hello to your grandfather.

  Pennants

  After school I go right to the shop.

  Main Street is busy already.

  Everyone has baseball pennants

  in their windows or hanging on doors.

  Mr. Katsaros’s hardware store is green with A’s posters,

  pictures of all the players and Stomper the elephant.

  But in Mr. Osaka’s stationery store,

  everything is Giants.

  I give him a thumbs-up, and he smiles at me.

  I like the way the colors look

  in the street, like someone painted

  it new again,

  everyone separate,

  everyone together.

  Mrs. Li grabs me.

  Etan, I need you to take this

  medicine to 1401 Forest Road. Okay?

  She hands me a plastic bag with a long tube

  inside that looks like it might be toothpaste,

  then she fills a paper bag with tea leaves

  and folds it all together.

  Can you give this to Mrs. Agbayani?

  She hands me an apple and two dollar bills.

  Before I take the delivery,

  I check in with my grandfather to let him know.

  He’s got some customers inside,

  so I wave and hold up the packages,

  and he nods.

  The Creature

  This time I know exactly where to go.

  The air is October cool,

  with some fog rolling in.

  I stop before the house

  and try to finish my sketch, to get it just right.

  No cars again, just the wide windows

  looking over the tall trees.

  Then I remember what Martin said,

  how she never leaves the house,

  and I stop for a moment,

  try to look inside the shuttered windows.

  All this talk about monsters

  and creatures, and now the fog

  is coming in thick …

  it makes me a little scared.

  I don’t even want to go to the door.

  But then, through the windows

  from somewhere inside,

  I can hear her voice, high and clear;

  she sings “Crazy for You.”

  I stop and listen

  but the fog is creepy,

  so I ring the doorbell.

  She comes right away,

  cracks the door open

  but stays behind it.

  You again? she says.

  I want to tell her I like her singing,

  but it only comes out as Your song is … um …

  What? she cries. You heard me?

  I nod my head slowly.

  It’s quiet, but then she laughs,

  and it’s like the air gets warmer

  and the fog lifts just a bit.

  I see her eyes

  through the doorway

  bright and brown

  in the foggy afternoon.

  So are you just here

  to spy on me singing?

  Oh, I say, and I pull out the bags.

  You don’t talk much do you? she says.

  What’s your name?

  Mine? Of course mine, I think, who else—

  Etan, I say.

  Etan, she repeats.

  I like the way she says my name

  like the tan matters.

  For everyone else

  the E is the main thing.

  I’m Malia, she says.

  Do you really think

  my singing is good?

  I nod, and I realize that I’m still holding

  the packages. I hand them over to her,

  and that’s when I see it.

  Her hand looks like a glove,

  her wrist and arm

  like someone scratched her,

  layered scales of skin stacking

  one on top of the other.

  If I could have stopped time,

  I would have kept

  my hand from jerking back

  when her fingers touched mine.

  But she pulls the package in fast.

  Thanks, goodbye, she says,

  and closes the door.

  For Malia

  Sorry, I say to the door.

  No response.

  When I turn toward the road,

  I see the fog is thickening.

  Then I have an idea.

  I take out the notebook

  and carefully remove

  the picture of the mailbox.

  At the very top, I write, “For Malia.”

  I stand the paper up between two shoes

  that I think might be hers,

  then I slip away.

  I get to the road,

  and hear the door open slowly.

  Did you draw this?

  I turn around and nod.

  It’s good! My mom and dad built

  that mailbox for me

  when I was little.

  They say I’m like a princess in a castle.

  I walk back toward the door,

  and she’s still behind it.

  What else do you have in that little book?

  She peeks her head out just a bit more,

  and I can see her long black hair.

  The skin around her eyes is scaly, too.

  Do you want to sit down? She points to the porch.

  I nod, and then

  she sits on the floor,

  still behind the door,

  a barrier between us,

  her body hidden

  in the dark house.

  I show her the notebook through the crack in the door,

  the doodles inside

  spinning on the pages.

  Sketches of trees

  and buildings in San Francisco,

  a map of where

  my mom’s hospital is,

  baseball stats,

  drawings of every

  character in Star Wars.

  I point to a big drawing

  of Chewbacca and smile.

  Oh, I love Chewie.

  She lets out a Rawwwr,

  and we laugh.

  I feel my voice

  in my throat,

  the hum of the words

  as they come together.

  Silence made me forget

  what I sounded like.

  Voice

  She hums into the afternoon air. I like Malia’s voice.

  Her words feel bright and clear in the air,

  and she can make her voice high like a chipmunk

  and low like Darth Vader.

  Tic-tac-toe

  After a little while, two full pages in the notebook

  are filled with tic-tac-toe games

  that neither of us has won.

  I lean my head against the doorway

  so I can see a little more,

  but the more I lean,

  the more she retreats to her side.

  I know I should get going.

  The road is filled with fog.

  I remember my flashlight

  in my backpack for the walk home.

  I look over to the road.

  Fine, she says. But you BETTER

  come back tomorrow. I nod.

  I wonder if Mrs. Li will need me

  for another delivery?

  I feel the words wanting to jump from my mouth.

  I want to ask her if I can bring her something,

  but I can’t find the words, so I just smile.

  She gets up, and so do I.

  And almost like

  she’s read my mind,

  she says,

  Goodbye, Etan the artist.

  Please bring me a pumpkin

  if you can.

  And for a momentr />
  I see half of her face smiling,

  as she closes the door.

  Part

  2

  Shyness

  Shyness

  is the swirly

  part of a glass marble,

  all those colors,

  a tiny universe

  trapped inside

  the smallest space.

  I’ve never tried to crack

  a marble, but if I did,

  I bet the inside

  would explode into stars.

  Getting Back

  It’s dark when I finally get back to the shop.

  I can see my father through the front window.

  He’s leaning against the worktable,

  smiling with my grandfather;

  the steam from their cups

  rises between them.

  They look happy.

  It’s been harder

  since my mom’s gone away.

  My grandfather wants

  us to spend more time at synagogue,

  but my father won’t.

  I almost don’t want to interrupt them.

  I wonder if he had to wait long?

  What if he’s mad?

  Well, says my grandfather,

  looks who’s returned.

  My father stiffens for a moment,

  but when I walk to the table,

  my grandfather puts his arms around me,

  his heavy hands around my shoulders.

  If you keep doing all these deliveries,

  you better start taking your bike.

  I feel his body relax, and mine does, too.

  I get my backpack,

  see the dark greenish box

  on the low shelf in the back room,

  and notice something strange.

  There is a smell:

  wet dirt,

  pond water,

  the ground