The Magical Imperfect

by Chris Baron

  You should tell the rabbi about all of this.

  Then I notice something strange.

  Something out of place.

  The old wooden treasure box

  is right next to him

  on the floor, the lid slightly open.

  Part

  3

  Clay

  My grandfather wipes the board one last time,

  sets the cloth down.

  Go lock the door. Let me show you something.

  He reaches into the box, pulls out the two

  small jars the size of softballs,

  with Hebrew letters I still can’t read.

  He lifts the jar that held

  the clay for the golem,

  looks at it, and sets it aside.

  He says a prayer,

  lights a short candle

  melted into an old plate,

  then reaches for the other jar.

  What is that? I ask.

  Shhhh, he whispers.

  Watch.

  He slowly unlatches

  the old metal lock

  but starts coughing and his hands shake.

  I walk toward him, but he stops me,

  then with all his might, he dips two fingers inside.

  He stops coughing, looks at me.

  Come here.

  The flame of the candle

  is bright, burning brighter,

  flickering wild

  in wind that isn’t there.

  He reaches out for my arm,

  clutches me near the scratch

  and a little blood oozes out.

  Grandpa, I say, because

  his grip is so strong and his face looks different,

  younger, like a man from a different time.

  Etan, there are many things

  from the old world

  from your ancestors

  that we carry with us always.

  It’s our fire. Our light.

  He squeezes my arm each time

  like he’s pressing the words into my blood.

  But there are some things from those times that are still with us.

  He pulls his fingers from the jar.

  They are smeared with a dark, pasty clay

  impossibly wet, dripping back into the jar.

  Changes

  He pulls me close,

  presses down his two clay fingers

  on the cut on my arm.

  It’s cold,

  like standing in the snow

  with no shoes.

  My whole body shivers.

  He slides the clay over my cut,

  pushes it into the shallow wound,

  and with his other hand

  he presses on my heart,

  singing something low in Hebrew.

  The candle goes out

  in a wisp of smoke.

  The shop is dark and silent.

  Etan? I feel warmth return to my body.

  He loosens his grip and carefully scrapes

  any leftover clay back into the jar.

  How do you feel?

  I rub my hands together and then feel my arm

  where his fingers pressed down.

  The  cut  is  gone.

  I search with my fingers,

  trace my skin

  up and down,

  back and forth.

  I see a small line,

  like the memory of a scratch.

  Then it feels like the world

  starts to spin cold and warm all at once.

  My legs bend and twist.

  My grandfather catches me,

  sits me in a chair, gets me some water.

  What’s happening? I ask.

  Your body, Etan,

  it’s experienced something

  from another time,

  an ancient thing giving its power

  to something new right now.

  He says this like I should understand what he means.

  The world stops spinning.

  I feel my feet again,

  and I notice something else.

  I feel good, strong,

  like I could easily hit a home run

   swinging with just one arm.

  Energy

  I stand up because I have to move.

  My legs want to run, but most of all

  I feel my insides swirling,

  full of words,

  maybe all the words

  I’ve kept inside for the past few months

  suddenly desperate to get out.

  I want to talk about Malia,

  about missing Jordan,

  Mom.

  I pace around the shop, my words spilling out,

  and my grandfather laughs trying to keep up

  with everything I’m saying.

  Etan! He stands up.

  You feel good? Yes?

  I nod. He grabs my shoulders, looks me in the eyes.

  Grandpa, what did you do?

  Confession

  The clay from this jar

  is from an even more ancient place,

  given to me by my father,

  your great-grandfather.

  It’s been in our family for generations.

  It’s clay, Etan, from the Holy Land,

  from generations ago

  before our family even came to Prague.

  This is the last of it,

  and this, too. He points to the other jar.

  This is all that remains.

  It came with us in this box,

  one of the few things we could carry when we had to flee.

  I’ve heard the stories before, but now they are coming to life.

  The Clay That Heals

  My grandfather sits down heavily in his chair.

  I am getting older, Etan.

  All of us who came

  on that voyage are getting older.

  He rests his heavy hand on his chest

  like he usually does when the coughing is bad.

  I want to be here with you

  through this hard time.

  I notice that he isn’t coughing

  right now. His voice smooth,   clear.

  This ancient clay

  is from the Dead Sea,

  Etan,   it can heal.

  In the silence I feel my arm where the cut was.

  Yes, a few drops of clay

  may bring wholeness into your body.

  I have to ask him:

  So you mean you won’t have to cough anymore?

  Etan, he says,

  until today, I resisted using it.

  He looks down,

  and I see tears, his face red.

  I tried it before on someone else,

  and for a little while it was a miracle.

  I look at him. Grandma? I say softly.

  Yes, but   it lasted    only a short time,

  and when it didn’t last,

  I think it was the hardest

  on your father.

  Since then, he’s had

  a hard time trusting

  his faith. I don’t like it,

  but I understand.

  The change is real—

  we transform one way or another—

  but it is not always permanent, Etan.

  Her pain returned.

  She seemed at peace, but I was not.

  I swore from then on to try to be thankful for what I had,

  to remember the words of the Talmud.

  The one to whom the miracle is happening does not recognize the miracle.

  I hoped too much in the clay.

  I forgot the greater power,

  the true miracle

  is in the way we are made to be who we are.

  But it’s getting worse for me,

  my coughing, so here I am again

  and just maybe this might heal my cough,

  to make me strong for a little while longer.

  He looks tired

 
; holding the jar in his hands.

  I put my arms

  around his

  broad shoulders

  and whisper,

  Todah, Grandpa. Thank you.

  NL West (Sunday, Oct. 1)

  They did it!

  My father bursts in the shop,

  his hands black with dried roofing tar.

  The Giants lost to the Padres, but they’re still in first!

  He grabs me tightly,

  lifts me up, and spins me around.

  He smells like he’s worked all day.

  We’re going to the National League Championships

  Wednesday night against the Cubs.

  I think we got this.

  He sets me down,

  takes a breath, looks around.

  Hey, he says. What’s all this?

  His eyes lock with my grandfather’s,

  his hands slowly ball into fists.

  He walks to where

  the jars

  sit side by side,

  and for a while

  no one says anything,

  the dim light of the jewelry shop

  sitting heavily on the three of us.

  I feel the words in my body,

  still strong, working their way

  out of me like they haven’t for such a long time.

  Dad, it’s okay,

  Grandpa was showing me

  all of this stuff …

  My father’s eyes grow large

  and he puts his hand to his mouth,

  like he can’t believe it.

  I haven’t seen that jar

  since I …

  since Ma …

  But he stops there.

  I see a tear in the corner of his eye.

  He shakes it off.

  You know, I tried to use some of that clay once.

  When I was a kid, younger than you,

  some of the other kids in my school

  told me that my dad was a “dirty immigrant,”

  called me names for being Jewish.

  Your grandfather talked to the school,

  the school talked to their parents,

  but nothing helped.

  So I took the clay from the box.

  My eyes get wide.

  I actually tried to make a golem.

  I wanted it to protect us from those bullies

  the way it did in your grandfather’s stories.

  I used almost all the clay,

  tried to make the golem

  on the front stoop of our building.

  You know what happened?

  My grandfather walks closer to him.

  My father takes a step back.

  It rained,

  and the clay washed away down the street.

  Services

  My grandfather finally speaks.

  Remember we have services tomorrow.

  Rabbi Rosenthal expects us.

  My father looks down.

  Pop, I have to work, and you know how I feel.

  None of this, he waves his arm at the box, and the jars,

  is for me anymore.

  My grandfather looks at him, and then at me.

  Hasn’t it been long enough?

  You don’t just stop your life.

  She would want you to go.

  I think he’s talking about my mom,

  or maybe my grandmother.

  I need the money, Pop.

  Besides, all the games are on.

  Oy gevalt! my grandfather groans,

  and turns away.

  Everyone’s Talking

  At school everyone talks about baseball.

  Since what happened with Jordan,

  I’ve spent most recesses drawing,

  but I feel a little different today.

  So I sit at the usual table with Jordan and some of the other kids.

  Martin is telling everyone about the A’s.

  Rickey Henderson will kill the Giants if we play them.

  They are way too slow.

  The A’s will totally win.

  They argue,  get loud,  too loud.

  I remember quiet days

  sorting our baseball cards into team lineups.

  Then Martin turns to me.

  What do you think, Etan?

  I feel my stomach drop.

  Everything that’s in my head washes away like water

  down a toilet bowl.

  I try …

  I want to run away

  but that would be worse.

  I find my bareket in my pocket, take it out,

  wrap my fingers around it,

  squeeze.

  Martin looks at me. What’s that? he says.

  Then, with fastball speed

  he reaches into my hand and pulls the stone right out of it.

  Is this your pet rock? He laughs and shows it to the others.

  Jordan looks over.

  C’mon, Martin, cut it out.

  I reach for it. He pulls it away.

  Then from somewhere deep,

  somewhere even ancient,

  I grab his wrist as tight as I can and growl,

  GIVE IT BACK!

  At first he tries to pull away,

  but when he hears me,

  his fist loosens,

  he drops

  the stone into my hand.

  C’mon, let’s go play ball, he says.

  They get up to spend the rest of lunch playing baseball.

  Jordan looks over. You want to play, Etan?

  Martin cuts in, Of course he doesn’t.

  He can’t hit anyway.

  An Unexpected Companion

  I promised Malia a pumpkin.

  So right after school

  I rush toward Main Street to get one from Mrs. Li.

  But on the way, I remember Buddy.

  Mrs. Hershkowitz is there, hanging out her third-story window.

  Etan! she yells. Etan, ETAN!

  I look up, think about telling her I can’t do it today.

  ETAN! Buddy needs you. My back is killing me, Etan.

  She says my name in every sentence.

  Buddy gets inside the basket, his tail wagging

  as he’s lowered to me. He jumps up, and I grab the leash.

  I get an idea.

  Mrs. Hershkowitz? But it’s not loud enough.

  WHAT?

  I try again. CAN I TAKE BUDDY with me?

  She nods, waves, ducks inside.

  I can’t wait for Malia to meet Buddy!

  Buddy in the Shop

  I stop at the bakery, get the everything bagel

  loaded with cream cheese for my grandfather.

  He sits at his workbench with the giant loupe over his eye

  looking deeply into a watch.

  He’s coughing again, trying to stay steady.

  When he hears the dog, he looks up. Buddy!

  Buddy spins around, all tail and tongue

  and feet scratching on the wood floor.

  How are you doing?

  I hold up the pumpkin. Buddy is coming with me.

  Well you better get going,

  the days are getting shorter.

  I see the treasure box on the shelf.

  I think about the clay, my arm gets cold,

  I smell wet earth in my nostrils like a sudden breeze.

  Grandpa, there’s clay in the stream behind Malia’s house.

  Do you think that clay might be magic, too?

  He looks at me, pets the dog,

  lowers his cup of tea,

  lets Buddy take a drink,

  which makes him sneeze.

  Who am I to say?

  Sometimes the old world and the new world

  are just the same place at different times.

  Maybe, Etan.

  I empty my backpack except for the notebook

  and make room for a pumpkin.

  Dogs

  At the dragon mailbox

  I try to keep Bud
dy from marking his territory.

  No cars in the driveway this time.

  When we reach the door, Malia opens it wide,

  sings, I will be waiting…,

  Blankie wrapped around her face like a scarf.

  When Buddy sees her he leaps with all four paws right into her arms.

  Who’s this little one?

  She lifts him high, and Buddy licks her face.

  I tell her about Buddy and Mrs. Hershkowitz.

  He’s so adorable!

  She shuts the door behind her.

  Here, let’s take him down to our secret place?

  Okay, I say, but I also …

  I unzip my backpack.

  Ohhhh, you remembered!

  She stops at a garden shed

  on the side of the house

  and pulls out two small

  folding knives. Holds them up.  For carving!

  Down the Path

  The afternoon light is darker than last time;

  the trees reach higher, cast more shadows on the path.

  Malia carries Buddy, but then we hear something

  move through the bushes below.

  He leaps out of her arms, charges down the path, dirt flying behind him,

  until he disappears into the green.

  Pumpkin Carving

  Buddy! Buddy!

  We hear him barking, feet shuffling through brush,

  and eventually he blunders into the clearing

  next to the water.

  I set the backpack down near the Sitting Stones.