by Chris Baron
Buddy’s face and paws are covered in dirt
like he’s discovered it for the very first time.
Let’s carve!
Malia unfolds the knives, hands one to me.
I’ve never carved a pumpkin on my own.
We set it between the stones,
and Malia slices into the orange flesh.
Ewwwww, she laughs. Dig in.
We take turns scooping seeds and pumpkin guts into an orange pile.
Buddy licks at the guts, gnaws a little on the seeds, spits them out.
I notice her arms are more red than usual,
even some red scratch marks scabbed over.
So are you going to sing at the talent show?
I quietly ask.
Mayybeee. I want to, but I don’t think
my mom and dad will let me.
We wash our hands off in the water.
It’s going to be dark soon.
I didn’t think I would stay today.
She can’t stop scratching,
her fingers running on her arm.
Stop staring, she yells.
We finish the pumpkin,
hold it up against the light filtering through the trees.
Yay! She smiles. We set it down, and I notice a dark smudge on Blankie,
her arm bare, open, it’s bleeding where her scratching rubbed it raw.
Smoothing It Over
Are you okay Malia? I ask.
Fine. I’m fine.
She walks to the pool,
splashes water on her arm.
I kneel down at the edge of the pool.
Buddy lies down between us;
his brown-and-white head nestles into his paws.
I wanted to tell you about something that happened, I say.
I tell her about my grandfather,
about clay and ancient things,
how the scratch on my arm almost completely disappeared.
Maybe, I say, scooping the clay from the bottom of the pool,
lifting its reddish-brown gooeyness out of the water,
Maybe this can help you?
Maybe here,
where trees can talk,
the clay is magic, too.
She stares into the water,
and I notice that her blanket is lowered now, around her shoulders,
her face still swollen on the side.
I don’t know, Etan.
If there’s magic clay in the water,
how come I don’t know about it?
There have been ancient magical items
in my grandfather’s shop all these years, and I didn’t know.
What do I do? she asks.
Ummm, just something like this.
I take the clay in my hand,
and I splash it down on her arm,
but I miss and some of the clay splatters onto Buddy,
who yelps, repositions himself.
I try again, slowly this time.
I spread the clay in circles,
and I put one hand
over her heart and close my eyes.
I don’t know what to say,
so I recite the prayer for bread at Shabbat.
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.
Nothing happens at first, but then,
Etan, she cries, it feels …
itchy ITCHY!
She grits her teeth, pushes her hair behind her ears.
I don’t know Etan, it’s reaalllly itchy.
Then, all at once, she plunges her arm into the pool
and circles it in the cloudy water.
By the time she takes it out,
Buddy gets up, starts to lick her arm,
and she giggles until anything that
was supposed to happen fades into the evening.
Allergies
It’s getting dark.
We set the pumpkin on the porch.
I’ll get a candle! She runs inside.
Just then, her mom pulls into the driveway;
I wave, but I see she has a strange look.
Etan, she says, closing the car door.
What is that dog doing here?
I look at her, and suddenly every word that bubbled up
immediately pops.
Malia’s allergic to dogs, this will make her skin flare up even more.
Her voice
like cymbals clashing
over my ear.
Malia comes out
with Lola behind her.
Malia, you know better than to play with a dog!
I’m sorry Momma, Malia whispers.
It’s my fault, I think.
Change your clothes right now.
Keep this dog outside.
Let’s call your dad.
I find a word,
Sorry.
Mrs. Agbayani looks at me,
her eyes turned down, shakes her head, walks inside.
That’s when I let myself cry.
Waiting
Lola gives us each a slice of toast
with coconut jam spread across the top.
Malia sits with me on the porch,
waiting for my dad to come,
but Buddy has to stay by the mailbox.
I’m sorry Malia, I say.
It’s okay. You didn’t know.
There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.
I look at our pumpkin;
the small candle burns brighter.
She reaches over, punches me in the shoulder.
So if I do the talent show,
will you help me?
Can you maybe come over tomorrow?
I need an audience.
I think so, I say.
Do you think your mom will let me?
From far away I see the high headlights of the truck,
its engine loud on the quiet road.
Malia walks me to the mailbox,
sneaks in one more face lick from Buddy.
Who knows, she says, looking at her arm. Maybe the clay IS magic.
Trouble
I get in the truck,
Buddy jumps up into my lap.
Do I need to tell you how worried we were?
You’re supposed to be at the shop.
Not to mention that Mrs. Hershkowitz
is worried about her dog.
Somehow, without thinking too much,
I feel the words passing through my lips. I’m sorry,
we were carving pumpkins,
and I forgot.
I start crying again even though I try not to.
My father looks over.
Oh, don’t cry.
You’re getting older, Etan,
crying isn’t always the way.
My father puts his hand in my hand.
The moon is out,
and the trees bend terrible
shadows along Forest Road,
and just before we turn,
he looks at me.
They call her the creature?
Why? She doesn’t look bad at all.
Tuesday
I crunch cereal, try to finish my math homework.
I don’t mind doing homework, but lately,
it’s been hard.
My mom was usually the one to sit with me
in case I had any questions.
But now I do it on my own.
Tonight’s the night.
Dad sounds like a game show announcer.
Game 1, Giants at Cubs!
Wrigley Field is far away,
but don’t worry, it’s available right here.
He waves his arm around the room, fluffs a pillow.
Dad, I say, I promised Malia
I would help her practice for the talent show.
He looks at me. Listen, that’s fine.
He puts his rough hands on both my shoulders.
I’ll tell your gr
andfather,
but you need to be home on time.
Ride your bike from now on,
and …
He looks at me, reaches into his back pocket.
Don’t tell your grandfather yet,
it’s on the Sabbath, and I don’t want an argument,
but my boss gave us tickets to Game 4!
Saturday at Candlestick!
I drop my book, stand up,
hug my dad.
He sings, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,”
shoves breakfast bowls into the sink.
And then I remember something.
I pull the river picture from the notebook,
take an envelope from the drawer,
fold the picture
and put it inside.
Slowly I write out
the address on the refrigerator,
and I draw a heart in the corner.
Mail this to Mom?
Singing Practice
It’s colder today.
Fall is setting in, and the fog, thicker now.
More and more pumpkin faces fill the dark windows.
On my bike, I get to Malia’s faster than ever
and she’s waiting for me at the door.
I don’t have a lot of time,
I have to—
Great! she says.
Hands me her boom box and a backpack.
She wraps Blankie around her face like a hood,
and we head down the forest path.
We put the silver boom box on a Sitting Stone.
When I say so press play, okay?
She bows to the trees,
spins once
all the way around.
I’m sure today
of all days
they are listening.
Now.
She points at me.
I press play, and the drumbeats
and keyboard pops fill the space near the pool,
the water rippling.
She sings.
If you’re lost you can look
and you will find me …
To the tree, the pool, the afternoon sky.
I feel the music go through me,
her voice floating across the water in the pool,
filtering through the knotty branches,
humming in the Sitting Stones.
At the end,
she bows and Blankie falls over her head.
She stands up,
blows the hair out of her face.
Her face seems redder, too, swollen.
Scratch marks across her neck
that I didn’t see before.
Well? she says,
wrapping Blankie back around.
For some reason,
even now when I want to talk,
the words won’t come out,
so I hesitate,
not on purpose,
but by now
I know
that silence
can wound,
and by the time
I muster the words
it was good,
it’s too late.
I see her face change,
eyes turned down,
tears already on the way.
The Argument
Why didn’t you like it?
She stomps in the dirt, presses stop on the boom box.
I …
Oh what, you can’t talk today?
No … I …
This is a stupid idea anyway.
She wraps Blankie tighter and walks off toward the trees.
I see her hands at her neck
scratching,
her fingers wild on her skin.
I squeeze the stone in my pocket,
it doesn’t help. For a second
I think of the clay in the pool;
if I smeared it on my face
said just the right word,
would that work?
Malia, it was so good.
You are so good.
Silence.
I think the trees liked it, too.
She spins,
her dark hair
opens like wings.
Oh, suddenly you have words?
You can’t talk to the trees;
how do you know they liked it?
I don’t know why, Malia …
Yes, you do, she says. I think you can always talk!
Her voice grows louder.
You just don’t want to!
I squeeze the stone in my pocket.
She scratches the skin on her neck.
I feel it in my belly,
words swirl.
Well, you should STOP SCRATCHING!
She looks at me, her teeth clenched.
Oh, did you squeeze your little green stone hard enough to yell?
I take the bareket out of my pocket,
run a finger over its smooth green edges, hold it up to her face.
This? I feel anger in deep wells
boiling up from my toes.
I don’t even need this stupid thing.
And then,
without thinking,
I throw it far into the stream,
watch it bounce
rock to rock
down
into
the water.
Etan!
We both go after it,
slipping on moss-covered stones,
searching in the shallows,
but we can’t find it.
Can’t find it anywhere.
Losing Control
Sometimes losing something
helps you find what you are really looking for.
Sorry, Etan, Malia says.
No, I’m sorry, I reply.
We walk with wet feet and tired hearts.
I carry the boom box.
You do sound really good.
She smiles.
I can tell she’s trying not to scratch.
It’s hard, okay?
My dad says it comes from worry.
It doesn’t matter. It’s just how I am.
It comes and goes;
I can’t control it.
If I could never scratch,
I wouldn’t.
If you could speak
the way you wanted to …
She stops,
looks up the hill at the fog rolling in.
Maybe, she says,
you should
shove some of that clay
in your mouth,
you know, to heal it?
We laugh.
Maybe YOU should
cover your whole body
so you look like a golem.
She walks to the pool,
scoops some clay into her hands.
Can you imagine me at school?
I really would be “the creature.”
She curls her fingers to a claw,
pretends to scratch her face.
It might mess up class,
everyone making fun of me.
I don’t know.
We reach the top of the hill.
Lots of kids do weird stuff,
maybe they can’t control it either.
Until
She stops at the edge of the clearing.
You know why they call me that?
The creature?
A long time ago,
my parents finally let me go to the school.
But so many kids made fun of me,
pointing at my eye and the way my hands
never stopped scratching.
They called me “the creature,”
told everyone to stay away or they might get it, too.
I told my parents I wanted to be homeschooled again,
but my mom had just started back to work,
and they didn’t think it could be so bad.
Until.
She looks at her arms,
touches he
r fingers to her face.
You probably don’t remember.
We sang at the assembly.
I loved singing,
but my dress was so itchy.
She rubs her arms
like she can feel it now.
So I did what any little kid would do.
I scratched, scratched,
scratched, right there on stage,
my arms and hands everywhere.
My parents believed me after that,
and I haven’t been to school ever since.
It Gets Worse
In the afternoons
we go to the Sitting Stones,
and while her singing gets better every day,
her skin gets worse—
red bumps, hives on her legs,
her face swollen until her eye almost shuts.
But she sings,
and I doodle,
draw maps of the trees,
and fog sits in the forest.
I can’t come this weekend, I say.
It’s Shabbat and the High Holidays,
