by Chris Baron
but he just looks at me,
then Malia.
See you at school sometime I guess?
I mean when you come back.
Yep! she says,
and the thought of school
suddenly seems
like the very place we want to be.
The Drive
Mr. Agbayani drives up,
headlights beaming
on one million flecks
of lingering dust
thrown up by the earth.
Your grandfather is with Mrs. Li.
Do you want to come with us?
We need to check on Lola, and the house.
Malia grabs my hand,
pulls me in,
and we speed up Forest Road,
not knowing what we will find.
Return to Forest Road
I gaze through windows
at flickering lights,
and fires dying down
in the twilight sky.
It feels safe, warm
inside the car,
and Malia looks over at me,
whispers, Are you okay, Etan?
I am okay,
like something inside me,
some different strength
I didn’t know I had
is at work.
Yes, I say.
Good, because I am NOT okay.
I mean, I finally sing
and then the earthquake happens?
Silence, and then we smile.
Her parents, though,
are not smiling.
Her mom is crying,
she turns.
Malia. And then so many words in Tagalog.
Yes, Momma.
But she can’t seem to say anything,
her face turned down,
her father looking forward at the road,
until I see his shoulders soften.
Malia, he says, his words tight,
your singing was beautiful.
Mailbox
The lights in the neighborhood
are slowly turning on.
People are outside their homes.
There are trees fallen in the road,
mailboxes turned over. Our headlights shine
on the eyes of the dragon,
still standing with its slippery tongue out,
but as we pull in we see something
we can’t believe.
The front porch is broken,
smashed into the ground.
Shoes sprinkle through
broken boards.
Lola
Mrs. Agbayani races from the car
screaming, LOLA!
And we follow, LOLA!
I look up at Malia’s window
where the glass is broken,
wood sliding off in all directions.
We run to the back door
near the field,
the trees, the path
darkening beneath the clear sky.
Lola is there
sitting in an Adirondack chair
in the backyard,
a small candle burning
on a table next to her,
the phone pulled all the way
out from the living room.
In her lap, an old, gray photo album.
Of course, Mr. Agbayani grunts.
They run to hug Lola,
who quickly stands,
and then disappears inside with them.
But when she sees me,
she waves me over, too.
We roll a small TV out
from the living room
onto the back porch.
We move the antenna around,
find channel 7,
wavy-lined, staticky breaking news,
straight from Candlestick Park.
Peter Wilson, the reporter,
tries to describe what happened.
He holds his earpiece tight.
We’re hearing that the quake
was centered in South Bay
near the Santa Cruz Mountains.
That’s us, Mrs. Agbayani gasps.
We watch for a long time,
baseball fans huddled
behind the reporter.
I look for my dad.
Our eyes follow every scene.
Reporters argue if the game will go on—
if it should go on.
Fires burn in San Francisco.
Fire trucks rolling,
hydrants bursting water,
roads everywhere
cracked and broken,
and then we see it,
the Bay Bridge.
The two layers
intersect,
a piece of the top, split,
broken, falling down
into itself,
cars trapped underneath.
Malia puts her hand on my shoulder.
Your father is okay, Etan,
I know he is.
The reporter tells us
that people have been asked
to leave Candlestick Park
to return home in an “orderly manner.”
Malia walks to the edge of the field,
the path to the Sitting Stones
growing faint in the dying light.
She touches the tree.
I know she is listening.
What’s it saying, I ask her.
She looks at me,
slowly walks back,
whispers in my ear,
Everything.
Getting Back
Mr. Agbayani decides
that the back half of the house
is safe for now,
and when everyone
is settled, he drives me
to the shop.
Before I go,
Malia walks me to the car.
Can you believe this day?
She tries to sound funny.
I laugh because, as always,
something about her makes
me feel like everything is actually okay.
Everything we’ve done,
all the arguments,
the practices,
itchiness,
silence,
worry,
and even the ancient magic clay,
all seems a little silly now
with everything crumbled away,
like suddenly none of it
matters at all.
But it has to matter, doesn’t it?
It has to mean something.
Malia grabs my hand.
Thank you, Etan,
for being part of my plan,
for sharing your secrets with me.
She points to her empty Tic Tac container.
It worked, didn’t it?
I mean, it really, really worked.
I think to myself: I don’t know how it worked,
but it seems like something did.
And then she hugs me
like she’s my family.
Questions on the Drive
Mr. Agbayani can tell I feel nervous,
so he assures me that my father
must be fine.
He asks me lots of questions
about baseball,
kosher food,
earthquakes,
the Calypso,
being Jewish,
about whether the plan
was mine or hers,
and then, at last,
just as we pull through back roads
onto Main Street
he asks me,
his voice suddenly wobbly and quiet:
When this all calms down,
and things, you know,
get put back together,
what do you think?
Will Malia be okay
at school?
I’m so used to saying nothing,
used to searching for words
deep in my belly
or having them get stuck
/> in my throat,
that I’m surprised when they just appear.
She’s gonna be awesome,
Mr. Agbayani.
No one is like Malia.
Part
7
Find Him
My grandpa is at his workbench now.
Mr. Dimitri is there with Mr. Cohen and Mrs. Li,
and they are drinking out of metal cups
that my grandfather keeps
for the most special occasions.
A small TV with its rabbit ears up
plays next to them.
I have seen these people
together like this my whole life,
and it’s a safe and steady thing.
My grandfather waves me over,
puts his arms around me,
my face burying into his chest.
I’m so tired.
I hear the soft vibrations
of their voices
saying my name,
holding me from every side,
and for the first time
all day,
I let go.
Mrs. Li gives me a cup of hot chocolate.
I let the steam warm my face.
They talk and watch the TV;
news reports cut back and forth
with cartoon pictures of the Santa Cruz Mountains
and the San Andreas Fault like a dark river.
People pointing to broken glass,
and streets curved and out of order.
Candlestick Park over and over
and the reporter talking about
“the game that didn’t happen.”
Each time they show it,
my grandfather holds me closer,
whispers in Hebrew
to me, to himself.
I pull away from his chest,
look at him closely,
the clay smeared dry on this throat.
I’m okay, he says. Your father, he’ll be okay, too.
I drink the hot chocolate
and rest there
until their voices,
strong voices I’ve heard
my whole life,
fold over me like a blanket,
and my eyes begin to close,
heavy with steaming chocolate
and thoughts of everything
that happened in a single day.
I feel myself
falling
asleep.
Wake Up
I open my eyes because it feels
like I am falling
or the ground is shaking.
I grab onto the chair,
my grandfather’s big brown chair.
I’m in it. There’s a blanket on me.
The world is not shaking.
Light, sunlight
through the windows of the shop,
the smell of coffee, the low hum
of my grandfather’s voice
and someone else’s.
I rub my eyes.
Did it really happen?
What day is it?
Then my body tightens
and I remember everything.
Plaster and glass and the ballerina
and everything breaking apart
and the image of the Bay Bridge.
And I hide under the torn blue blanket,
pull it tight around my head.
You’re awake!
The muffled voice,
the hand on my shoulder
peeling back the blanket,
and I feel my whole body lift,
swing in the air,
my body wrapped tightly
around his
like I am five years old,
my head buried in his shoulder,
the smell of earth and wood dust,
the smell of my father.
He’s holding me
and I start crying
and I can’t stop.
The Quake
Mr. Cohen smiles at me
while I eat the biggest jelly donut
he’s ever baked, and we listen
to my father tell the story.
It was a wild party,
the game was about to start.
We watched the recap
of Jose Canseco crossing the plate,
the crowd making all the noises
and then the picture just started to crackle,
and there’s Al Michaels,
he cuts in, says,
“You know what … I think we’re having an earth—”
and everything went dark,
and it was like a giant steamroller
came out of right field
and rammed full speed into the ’Stick.
The upper deck shaking,
escalators blowing off their tracks,
everyone screaming, screaming, screaming …
He pauses. Everyone is breathing loudly,
Mr. Cohen and my grandfather
like little kids at story time.
But you know what?
Candlestick stood up to the quake.
The strangest part,
people just walking on the grass
inside the diamond,
through the dugouts,
no more players or fans,
no more A’s or Giants,
the green and the orange
mixing all together,
just everyone looking out for each other.
Me and my buddy carried
a man with a hurt leg
all the way across the field.
My grandfather hugs my father,
looks at me.
Etan, I already told your father
about our adventures here,
but I think you two should talk.
Sorry
We walk outside into the sunlight.
People are everywhere,
cleaning streets,
talking together,
some stores open,
others closed.
What would I be doing
if I were in school right now?
But nobody is at school today.
I tell him about Malia,
and our plan,
and the singing.
He listens like a new man,
his arm around me,
tears coming from his eyes.
Etan, he says, kneeling down,
putting both hands
on my shoulders.
Sorry I wasn’t here with you.
Surprise
When I finally got to the truck,
we didn’t know where we could even drive.
No traffic lights, no anything, just chaos.
We didn’t even know what roads were broken;
if we could drive on them at all.
We’d heard that the upper deck of the Bay Bridge came down,
like the world was ending.
I even thought of driving out to the old mining road,
circling all the way around.
But you know what? I had to get where I was going,
and it took me all night, but I made it.
I look at him. Where? I ask.
He squints at the sun.
To Langley Hospital,
near Golden Gate Park,
to get your mom.
Our Building
The doorway to the apartment building
is hollowed out, the glass cleaned up,
the debris swept away.
Mrs. Hershkowitz leans out her window
as soon as she sees me.
ETAN! CAN YOU TAKE BUDDY TO THE PARK?
HE’S GOTTA GO, BAD!
My father doubles over in laughter.
Right now? I think.
Just when my mom
is so close.
But I have to help.
Okay, I yell.
THANK YOU.
And she lowers Buddy down,
&
nbsp; tongue flapping.
When he’s almost at the bottom,
he leaps out onto me.
I reach into the basket,
take out the plastic bag inside,
hook on his leash.
Go on, my father says,
we’ll be upstairs
when you get back.
Mom
Everywhere
people are fixing things
in window frames,
carrying boxes, sweeping,
and talking on the street,
the air thick with stories and tears.
We run across to the park,
step over the broken sidewalk
where I felt the first shake;
the cement is broken
in deep cracks.
The park is full of people,
blankets spread out
like a large patchwork quilt
across the grass.
Kids play in the bright sunshine.
It feels normal.
I take Buddy to the trees,
where he sniffs with all his might,
and we wander in the tree line
under twisty branches,
my mind wandering into the woods.
Etan?
I hear my name.
It sounds like my own voice
or a word far away
or maybe, I think,
it’s the trees
talking to me at last.
Etan?
It’s behind me.
I look,
then I see
she’s there,
long black hair
and bright sunlight
pouring through
her spirally curls.
Mom?
Buddy looks up,
and in one breath
I am in her arms.
She smells like
our apartment
and green apple shampoo.
Her body shakes.
She’s crying,
and I get nervous
because sometimes crying
like this used to mean
