by Chris Baron
after a hard rain.
I want to look inside the heavy lid.
My grandfather
walks me toward the door
where my father is already standing.
Etan, he coughs through his words,
Jordan’s mother came by today
to pick up a necklace
I fixed for her.
She said you should call him,
invite him to Shabbos? All right?
I see my father’s eyes
go from me to my grandfather
and back again.
Then he puts his hands
on my shoulder.
See you tomorrow, Pop.
Jordan
Jordan can steal bases
better than any other kid in our school.
My father used to leave work early
to take us to the park,
teach us how to steal bases,
catch a fly ball without flinching,
how to hit grounders.
You can try different stances,
but the neutral stance is my favorite.
He looked out across the field.
No one can guess where you might hit.
But you can try different ones
until you find what’s comfortable.
I don’t love playing baseball,
but with Jordan it was always fun.
He’s so fast, if he can get on base,
he can steal the next one.
It’s all in the hips
that’s where the power is.
Jordan learned it right away,
his stable front foot,
the slight lift, the swing;
it’s like the baseball
just gets huge in his eyes.
One day, when I struck out
three times in a row,
found myself crying
in the dugout,
Jordan was there,
telling me:
Don’t quit. Try again.
Like a real friend should.
The best part was always after.
We went to Farrel’s for triple scoops
and talked about Rickey Henderson
stealing bases like no one else.
Spring afternoons,
baseball and ice cream,
the sun cutting through the fog
was enough for my father
to leave work early.
I think in some ways
it was harder for my dad
when Jordan’s parents
decided we should stop
spending time together
because they thought my
mom wasn’t safe anymore.
Our dads yelled at each other,
and we didn’t really know
what to do, so we just
stopped talking.
Asking the Question
My father turns the Giants game on the car radio.
The announcer is talking about
the Giants’ chances of beating the Cubs,
winning the National League,
Making it all the way.
My father looks at me.
So, how was your day?
You sure were late.
I feel all the words about Malia
rush from my stomach
to my throat,
but instead I push them down
because I also think about
my mom, and Jordan,
and it’s too hard,
so I say nothing.
Can you at least talk to me about it?
He raises his voice a little, his hands thump
against the steering wheel slightly.
I can tell he’s frustrated.
My father turns onto our little street.
The fog is lighter now,
and the moon is slicing
through the sky.
Look, Etan, I know it’s hard.
It’s hard for me, too.
Your grandpa thinks
we should talk to the rabbi.
There’s no way I’m going to,
but maybe … maybe you should?
I quietly breathe deep breaths,
imagine Jordan’s room
filled with Rickey Henderson posters
and baseball trophies,
comics spread out
across his floor.
Maybe I could just call him,
but today everything feels like too much.
My mom tells me
that some days are like that.
I am all out of words,
so instead I reach for my father’s hand
and he puts it around me,
and we watch the moon
shining through the fog.
Try to Speak
I miss school in the morning
because I need to go to my appointment.
Sometimes on Fridays
I see a doctor about how
to deal with my mom being gone.
The doctor asks me
if I’ve been trying to speak at school.
I am able to tell him: Sometimes.
He says, try raising your hand once per day,
answer a question,
say hello to a teacher,
play with your friends.
Take a step of some kind.
When we first came to see him
I thought he might have answers
to why my words disappeared,
but all he talks about
is finding them
again.
Where Did My Words Go?
I draw a blue river,
willow trees
bent over
rushing water
flowing down
around giant boulders,
where some of the words
float:
baseball, Jordan,
mother, Malia,
words that find their way
to a waterfall flowing
into the sea.
Words that
drop, one by one,
into the salt and blue.
Talent Show
After school, where I did not raise my hand
and managed to avoid
baseball at recess,
I run to Main Street because
even though it’s Shabbat,
there might be another delivery.
When I reach our street,
I look up to the third-story window
but Buddy isn’t there,
the window is shut.
Two blocks down,
near Grace Covenant Community Center,
I see four ladies in bright feathered hats.
My grandfather calls them
the Covenanteers.
We like them because
they bring cupcakes to school,
run the book fairs, help with our after-school program,
but they also love to have long conversations with kids,
so I try to avoid them.
Etan, one of them calls.
She hands me a red paper.
Etan, please come to our youth group’s
Harvest Festival Talent Show!
I don’t say anything,
so she just smiles,
hands me the flyer.
Yes, well, singing, dancing, you name it.
It’s going to be wonderful!
On the paper
is a picture of a giant
jack-o’-lantern,
musical notes,
and the words
HARVEST FESTIVAL
TALENT SHOW
AND SPAGHETTI SUPPER
GRACE COVENANT YOUTH GROUP
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 17TH
4:00
SINGERS, DANCERS, ACTORS,
ALL ARE WELCOME
I take the paper,
fold and fit it into my pocket,
then take off down the street as fast I can.
Paper Bag
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My grandfather is cleaning up his shop,
fitting screws and nails into the right containers,
a long row of old jars and soup cans,
each with a different size screw
for every watch or necklace ever made.
I drop my bag near the workbench.
He’s coughing, but he reaches out his hand and smiles.
He spills the screws into my hand.
I’m good at finding the tiny slots for the smallest screws.
Make sure all the lids are closed tight,
we don’t want these falling everywhere.
I start to press the lids down on the long row,
but then the door opens.
Mrs. Li walks in.
Good afternoon, gentlemen.
A paper bag the size of a football in her hands.
Smiling, she walks straight up to me,
opens the bag, pulls out a huge, red fruit,
and holds it up in front of my eyes.
Do you know what this is?
I look at my grandfather,
who is polishing a metal cup.
I shake my head.
She hands it to me.
It’s as big as my hand,
and the outside is hard like a beetle shell,
or a baseball.
Inside, she says, are deep red seeds that pop into the sweetest juice.
It’s a pomegranate. It can soothe the skin on the inside.
Can you bring it to the Agbayanis?
She looks at my grandfather.
Tomorrow morning he can.
He smiles. Will you be joining us,
Mrs. Li? For Shabbos?
She puts the pomegranate
back into the bag and rolls it tightly.
Not tonight, she says,
and walks out of the store.
A Different Shabbat
It used to be different.
All of us together around the table,
my grandparents, Mrs. Li, Mr. Cohen,
Jordan’s family, people from temple
and the shops on Main Street,
my parent’s friends.
I helped my mom bake challah,
and on warm days we would
set it out to rise in the sun.
The past few months
have been just the three of us,
and sometimes Mrs. Hershkowitz and Buddy.
We usually have pizza now,
and sometimes my grandfather
will bring challah from the bakery
if he can get there on time.
Tonight, he gets the best kind,
long loaves with
toasted poppy seeds.
We light the candles,
and he blesses us,
puts some dollar bills
into the tzedakah box,
saving money for those in need.
We sing out the prayers,
and I see my father moving his lips
but no sound coming out.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard his voice
say any kind of prayer,
and here, without a thought,
my body and mind remember
the words to bless and welcome in the Sabbath.
I say them out loud, my regular voice, alive.
They look at me, and my stomach rumbles, and then I tear the biggest
piece of challah I can, dip it into a pool of honey,
and shove it into my mouth.
My father lifts the challah,
breaks it in half like he’s the Incredible Hulk,
and throws the other half to my grandfather,
and we see who can shove the most challah
into their mouth at once.
After Shabbat
We sit back in our chairs,
while the wax slowly melts
as the candles burn down.
In the notebook, I add words in black lettering
against the blue water of my river drawing.
Shabbat,
candles,
challah,
family.
My father and grandfather talk about the Giants.
The sounds of their voices flow like the water
in my drawing around marsh reeds and giant boulders.
It’s when I press the tip of the pencil
to the edge of the letter b
to write baseball
that the table
suddenly
jerks
back and forth,
snaps the tip of my pencil,
and then we hear the shaking
of the dishes in the cabinets,
like they might all break at once.
Then for a moment it’s still,
and we breathe, but the ground
is still moving in a low rumble.
First, far away, and then closer
and closer like ocean waves
crashing beneath the earth.
All of our earthquake drills have taught us what to do,
so I get under the table as quick as I can.
The overhead light swings.
My father gets under with me,
and we see the candles in their silver holders
tilting back and forth.
My grandfather reaches them just before they fall,
then climbs underneath the table, too.
By the time he gets there, everything is still,
and we hear the sounds of people outside,
loud voices calling out for each other.
Wait.
My grandfather
holds both of our hands.
Close your eyes.
I put a hand on the floor
as if I might feel the earth move.
He says a prayer,
and my father looks straight at him.
The two candles roll beneath the table,
turn us amber in their dull glow.
My father quickly snuffs them out.
The Alarm
My father puts on his tool belt
and starts to inspect the apartment.
Then we go into the hall to see if we can help.
The doors to other apartments are wide open.
Neighbors wander in the hallway,
TVs and radios blare. Then, at the far end
I see a brown-and-white streak
bounding down the stairs.
Buddy runs through the legs of the people
in the hall and jumps right up onto me,
licks my face.
Hey, boy, are you okay?
I feel his soft fur.
He whines a little,
then he jumps down,
turns and pads down the hall and looks back at me,
tail wagging.
My grandfather comes behind me,
whispers, Let’s not wait when our four-legged friend
comes to tell us something.
I don’t know if Buddy meant it
or if we would have checked anyway,
but when we get upstairs
we find Mrs. Hershkowitz
sitting in the dark.
Ruth! My grandfather runs in.
The lights are broken,
and here I am on the floor
with no way to stand, she says.
My grandfather shuffles into the kitchen.
It must be a breaker, he says.
He flips switches until the lights come on.
She looks like a little girl sitting there,
in her gray braids and her nightgown,
stacks of books all over the floor.
She was a librarian in the city for so many years,
and books are everywhere,
usually piled high into towers,
but now most of the books
have toppled onto the floor.
We help her up to the table,
put her walker near her.
We pick up the books, stack
them on the ground.
My grandfather gets her a glass of water,
and I make sure Buddy has food.
We check around the apartment
to make sure nothing else is broken.
My grandfather tests her China cabinet.
We should nail this down, Ruth.
I’ll come do it soon.
She makes us eat cookies.
You know my aunt lived through the
San Francisco earthquake in 1906.
It wasn’t the shaking, she said.
It was the fire. It burned four days and four nights.
Everything burning because of ham and eggs.
We look at each other.
I expect my grandfather to know everything.
Sometimes I forget that he came here in 1940.
Some woman on Hayes Street,
cooking ham and eggs for breakfast,
the gas stove, it started everything.
She laughs. You think I’m silly?
It’s the everyday things
we need to be careful of.
We think we know so much,
that science and TV have all the answers.
Her voice grows louder.
But we should learn from what happens to us!
She looks straight at me.
I want to say something, but I don’t have any words.
She puts her hand softly on my head.
Thank you.
Bareket
Before my father takes him home,
my grandfather sits on my bed
to tell me good night.
Exciting Shabbos, wouldn’t you say?
I nod, my body feels awake,
but my mind is tired.
Etan, I have not heard your voice enough today.
Can you tell me good night?
Usually I don’t have too much trouble
speaking to him,
but when someone asks me to speak,
everything around me grows bigger and bigger
