by Chris Baron
and it seems like a whole world is here, something
I have been missing.
Something that is coming back.
The Jar
When we reach the stones, I blurt it out.
My mom might come home soon!
That’s great, Etan.
She spins around.
So are you feeling better? I ask
Blankie flies in the crisp air.
A little bit—I mean my skin is red but my eye is smaller today.
But what I want to know is what makes a good, shy boy like you
skip school and come all the way out here?
I open my backpack
and it feels like bolts of gentle lightning
surging through me.
I find the words right away.
I want you to be able to sing.
Malia looks at me for a long time
and for once she’s the one who doesn’t talk.
People need to know you.
And if she can do it,
then maybe I can do it.
I take the jar out of the bag,
set it on the flat surface of a Sitting Stone.
What is that?
She touches the clay jar, smells it.
What is this?
Is this?
Yeah, I breathe out, it’s the real clay,
my grandfather’s clay,
well, his great-great …
you know what I mean.
She tries to lift the jar.
It’s heavy, she says.
Yeah.
It’s really, really old.
from the Dead Sea.
I try to think about what my grandfather
might say or do here.
So this might make your skin feel better
and a bunch of other stuff.
She nods, quietly whispers,
Ooookay …
She breathes for a while.
Okay. A tear falls down her cheek,
lands on Blankie.
I open the jar, try to think holy thoughts,
fill my head with prayers I know,
fill my mind
with the sound
of my grandfather’s stories,
my mother’s voice.
We both peer into the jar.
A small blob of clay sits at the very bottom,
That’s it? she says. Does it smell weird?
We put our noses close;
it smells like a basement, or a forest floor after a long rain.
I put my finger into the jar, press into the clay.
It smushes down at first, but then it feels like a pin prick.
Ow! I pull it out.
What? she says, puts her finger in,
and she feels it, too.
Wow! What is that?
I don’t know, I say. Energy?
But there is hardly anything in there.
My grandfather told me we need to mix it with the native clay.
This is your place, your pool, your friends who are trees,
so take some clay from the pool and mix it with the clay in the jar.
Mixing
Cool, Malia says, and kneels near the pool.
Here goes.
She dips both hands into the water,
scoops clay from the bottom, the water dripping from her hands
as she brings it over.
She scrapes the clay into the mouth of the jar,
and slowly,
something happens.
A light mist rises from inside.
We look at each other.
Probably just a temperature change, she says.
I take a pencil from my backpack, and carefully mix the clay together.
It feels like thick paste.
One clay is pale, milk colored,
the other almost red, like the tree bark.
We watch the colors swirl together,
but they don’t blend.
I put the jar on the stone.
Okay, arms first.
She puts her arms forward,
her left is redder, a little swollen.
I put my fingers into the jar.
It’s warm, probably from the mixing?
I lift them out,
then in one awkward motion,
trying NOT to let it fall to the ground,
I rub the clay onto her arms,
pressed between my palm and her forearm.
Smear it around!
I can’t tell if she’s crying, or laughing, she’s breathing so fast.
It’s hot. It feels hot.
I remember to pray, to think good thoughts,
my father singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,”
ice cream with my mother,
my grandfather’s shop,
Jordan stealing a base,
Buddy bouncing in his basket,
and Malia being my friend,
everything
all at once,
together,
as I smooth the warm clay over her arms.
The Change
I put more clay on two fingers,
dab it onto her face, around her eye.
I pray,
think of the trees,
the pool, my green bareket, somewhere in the water.
I think of Lola and imagine a Shabbat
with pandesal, coco jam, and lumpia.
When most of the clay is off my hands,
Malia starts humming, her voice like light.
Look! she cries.
Her red, swollen arms
are smooth, clear,
like the red was never there.
I am afraid to move, Malia whispers.
She mouths the words, What should I do?
I shrug. I don’t know.
I cover the jar again.
Do you feel different?
I don’t know, yes? No. Yes?
I mean yes—
I feel my skin,
it’s my skin!
She runs her fingers over her arms,
put her hands on her face,
pokes it a little.
Could this be?
A real miracle?
What’s Next
I go to the pool to clean my hands.
I kneel down, and when I do,
something moves in the earth,
like it’s just beneath us.
The water on the pool ripples
like giant raindrops falling,
only there is no rain.
Malia walks over to me.
Is it an earthquake?
But by the end of her question
it stops.
What do we do now?
I look around,
the stones,
the water,
the trees,
all look the same,
but Malia’s face so different,
like she’s suddenly more herself.
Wait! she says.
Do you think I can keep just a little bit of that clay?
I take the jar back out and unlatch it.
Malia takes a Tic Tac box from her pocket,
and we eat the last few orange Tic Tacs.
Then she fills the tiny, clear container
with clay until it’s dark.
Can you stay for a little while? Malia asks.
I need to get back
but I don’t want to be anywhere else.
We sit on the stones together.
She tells me how her dad
comes back from his ship tomorrow.
I tell her about the World Series.
Then there’s even more of a change.
I put my fingers to my face
because the swelling in hers has gone down.
She rubs her hands over her legs, her arms,
breathing deeply,
both us trying to feel
what is real.
Coughing
I get back to the shop,
excited to
tell my grandfather
all that happened,
but when I run inside,
I hear him coughing.
Mrs. Li is holding him over the sink,
steam rising around his face,
hair wet,
face turned down
in the mist.
When he finally stops,
he takes a drink of water,
sits in his overstuffed chair,
breathes for a while,
until he sees me there.
Etan, how did it go?
His words on the edge of a cough.
I take the jar from my backpack.
We mixed it
with the clay in the pool,
it got warm,
we could feel it, Grandpa!
Mrs. Li bends over,
looks my grandfather in the eyes.
Take it slow, Jacob, she says,
then pats me on the head and walks out.
My grandfather smiles.
Friends, Etan. They are the world. He coughs.
Grandpa, it worked, I think.
I mean, her skin isn’t red anymore.
Well, take each day as it comes.
Remember, it’s a mystery.
He coughs a little more.
This town, Etan, is going crazy for baseball,
like there is nothing else
happening in all the world.
I unlatch the wooden box,
place the jar back inside
next to the other, the golem clay.
Grandpa, there was another tremor today.
Did you feel it?
For a moment
I thought maybe it was a golem
rising out of the pool.
Everything Is Made of Baseball
Game 1 isn’t until Saturday,
but Main Street is already a carnival.
Every shop takes sides,
orange banners for the Giants
or green pennants for the A’s,
flags in windows
covering Halloween decorations,
like the holiday doesn’t even exist.
Our world is made of baseball.
Even skeletons wear jerseys
and pumpkins wear batters’ helmets.
At school, the boys
pull mitts from lockers,
play ball at lunch and recess.
Every day Jordan invites me.
Sometimes I want to, but
when I think about stepping
on the field, it feels
like I have already missed
an important catch,
or struck out,
so I don’t go.
I feel like one day
I might.
Tickets
When I get home after school,
my father is on the phone with my mother. He’s smiling,
and it feels normal,
like sunlight through fog.
Grown-ups
say what they mean
by the way they say it.
It’s not the words,
it’s the noises in between
that tell the truth.
He hangs up
before he sees me.
Etan! Look at this.
He goes to the counter
and lifts an uncreased envelope
like it’s made of gold.
This, Etan—my boss came through.
He opens the envelope, and inside
I see the long rectangular tickets,
golden edges, and the words
WORLD SERIES
GAME 3
OCTOBER 17TH, 1989
We are going to the game!
He lifts me up, spins me around.
But my insides are crumpling,
because of all the dates,
why does it have to be this one?
The date,
the same date
as the talent show.
I can’t tell him.
Not yet.
What do I do?
Part
5
Practice
For the rest of the week
I ride my bike to Malia’s house after school.
She sings “Time After Time,”
sometimes to Lola and me
on an afternoon porch,
or under old redwoods
in our secret place.
One of the days, Malia comes out,
huge pink hair spiked in all directions;
giant star earrings dangle below
and pink painted circles around her eyes
match her pink dress, and even a pink microphone
she made from toilet paper rolls.
Etan! What do you think?
I force myself to say something right away.
Wow! Sparkly?
She puts her hands on her hips. Wow?
It’s Jem? I’m Jem—you know, and the Holograms?
I thought about what you said,
and I can’t wear Blankie, so maybe this?
Each day,
Malia’s skin
looks a little better.
Sunlight
On Saturday morning of Game 1,
I ride my bike out to Malia’s house
to practice early,
so I have enough time
to get back before the first pitch.
The town is getting ready,
and most of the shops have signs
CLOSING EARLY—GO GIANTS!
My grandfather says maybe he’ll work instead,
that he’s got many watches to fix.
The sun is out, the air cool,
and I pedal fast.
I feel like someone else,
someone who can talk
whenever he wants.
My heart feels stronger,
and my mind is clear.
I pedal so hard,
the dirt on the road
makes clouds
in the sunlight behind me.
I round the corner, my head turned
to see the dragon mailbox,
but instead, there’s a man there
standing in front,
a steaming cup in his hand.
Her Father
I slow the bike down.
This man,
dark hair,
gray in the front,
he smiles.
So you must be Etan?
His voice is clear, bright.
Malia has told me about you.
I stand over my bike,
try to talk try to talk,
just say something.
I can’t, but I manage a smile.
Then, out of long silence,
Hey, he says, I want you to know
I was so glad
when Malia called me on the ship,
told me that she has a friend.
And the son of the great Jacob Hirsch?
I smile, what does he mean, “the great”?
Oh, and I am so sorry
about the singing.
In my head I say, “Sorry?”
but nothing comes out.
Almost as if he heard
my thought he answers:
Too much stress.
It might cause more reactions.
Anyway, he smiles,
it is very nice to meet you at last.
Go on, she’s inside.
Change
Malia sits on her bed,
Blankie wrapped
around her head.
I sit in her desk chair.
Are you in there? I say.
It’s all so stupid, she says.
All of it.
My father says I can’t sing,
that I need to put all my energy
into getting well
so I can go back to school.
I try to think of what to say.
I don’t care if they make fun of me.
This is what
I want to do most, Etan!
I want to sing. Not be hidden away.
Can’t you talk to him? I ask.
Malia peeks out at me.
You don’t know my father.
He is a navy doctor.
What he says goes.
She rubs her arm.
It’s a little redder than before,
but still clear.
I feel great, Etan.
I think the clay
is in my skin.
It tingles.
I feel like I can float,
but he doesn’t see it.
He only sees
“progress,” but …
She gets up,
tiptoes like a cartoon character
toward her door and closes it.
I am going to do it anyway.
The Plan
Both my parents work Tuesday;
come get me.
I’ll be ready.
What? I mean, we shouldn’t.
My legs feel weak.
I can’t imagine doing this,
but Malia seems so sure.
But won’t Lola be here?
It will be fine, she says. They won’t know.
We can tell Lola we are going to the forest.
For that long?
Etan. It would be so easy for me to not do it,
but I have been stuck at home for so long.
I’m NOT the creature!
I feel different,
I want to try!
I look for words.
I want to tell her I can’t do it.
That I don’t want to scare her parents,
or my grandfather,
but instead, something comes over me
like a strange chance,
an ancient bravery,
so I say, Okay.
Yes! She jumps on her bed,
her hands in fists.
I will be ready at noon!
So we’ll have plenty of time
to get there by 4.
But school?
Etan, you missed school before.
Just this one day, okay?
The Difficult Choice
Malia should sing, go to school,
