Chapter 24
24
When we exit the store, the golem is wearing the red flannel shirt, the dark-wash jeans, and the Cubs hat. He looks like someone’s fantasy of a nice Jewish boy who brings strong cowboy energy to the table. Which, as it turns out, is my new fantasy.
His arms are overloaded with two bulky bags of quality discount clothing, plus my box of work stuff. I should really find a coffee shop or someplace to hole up for a bit and check my emails. Distracting as this whole myth-come-to-life thing is, I can’t forget the all-too-real prospect of unemployment. I’d told everyone I ran into this morning that I was working remotely. I can’t look like a flake when my job is very much on the line.
Kicking myself for not telling everyone I had COVID or something, I finally feel the gnawing teeth of hunger nibbling at my stomach again. Looking around wildly, I spot a little Italian eatery called Amalfi, which I’ve been meaning to try for ages. And it has a friendly We Have WiFi! sticker in the lower right corner of the window. I steer Paul Mudd in through its narrow doors.
“Table for two?”
The hostess, a young brunette with a wide forehead and a gap between her two front teeth, beams at us. Like she’s absolutely delighted, because we’ve so obviously done something right just by showing up as a party of two. No one ever gives you that exuberant a smile when you ask for a table for one.
“Yep,” I say.
“Mrrrrm,” Paul Mudd concurs.
“Follow me!”
As we follow the perky hostess toward our table, I glance at the other diners. Mostly couples, leaned in toward one another, stealing bites from plates and sharing amusing videos on their phones. There are also a few families with small children, mouthing apologies to the cheerful waitstaff, dabbing at spaghetti sauce stains that will never come out. There’s absolutely no one here on their own.
I guess this isn’t the sort of place you come by yourself. Maybe that’s why I haven’t tried it before. I feel a twinge, suddenly certain I’ve been missing out on all sorts of things because I haven’t been part of a real, honest-to-God couple in so damn long. And I haven’t had my Dad surprising me with deli-dates. And I’ve avoided what remaining family I have. My stomach briefly clenches.
“Here you go!” The hostess with the toothy grin plops our red, white, and green laminated menus on a two-top toward the back of the restaurant. “Your server will be right with you. Enjoy your lunch, and happy holidays!”
I slide into the red pleather seat, and Paul Mudd sits across from me, still awkwardly holding the bags full of newly purchased clothes.
“Oh—you can put those under the table,” I say, pointing.
He nods, and carefully places the bags near his massive feet as I pull out my laptop. I get it fired up, but don’t have the guest password for the WiFi. Looking around to see if it’s scrawled on a specials chalkboard or something, I notice that Paul is just sitting stock-still, staring at me. Waiting. That’s when I realize he doesn’t know what the hell to do next.
He’s never been to a restaurant. He’s never been anywhere . But he doesn’t look nervous, or even uncomfortable. He’s just watching me expectantly. Trusting me to know what to do—a truly stupid move on his part. I never know what to do, which is apparently how I wound up molding a man from clay instead of just finding a normal wedding date like a sane human being.
“This is a restaurant,” I say slowly, gesturing around the room and hoping that no one is listening in to our conversation. Maybe they’ll just assume we’re in some sort of language immersion program or something. “People come here to eat.”
“Mmrmm,” he says. Restaurant.
“Yes,” I say. I pick up a menu. “And these are menus. They tell you, uh, what you can eat.”
“Mmrmmm,” he says, picking up his own menu, and regarding it solemnly. These are the rules about what you can eat.
“No, not rules,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re...choices.”
“Mrmm-mrmm,” he says, confused. I don’t understand.
“Menus have lots of choices,” I say. “Like, do you want spaghetti, or eggplant parm, or maybe some fish... What exactly do you eat?”
“Mmmm,” he says. Whatever you want me to eat, I will eat.
“It’s your choice,” I say.
“Mrmm?” What is a choice?
“It’s a...an option. A decision. This, or this,” I say, grabbing the salt and pepper shakers in front of me and using the small glass objects in a bizarre attempt to explain free will to a man made of clay. I lift the salt shaker, then the pepper, each in turn. “You might like this one, or this one. Whichever one you want—that’s your choice. You can have what you want.”
I offer him both of the small glass containers.
“Mrmm?” I should eat this?
“No, don’t eat it!” I say hastily, not wanting him to start crunching through the restaurant’s glass condiment containers. “Just pick one. To hold for a minute. Whichever one you think looks... I don’t know. Prettier.”
He hesitates, then takes the pepper. I nod encouragingly.
“Good,” I say. “So, it’s the same with lunch. You can choose whatever you want.”
“Mrmmm.” How do I know what I want?
“Oh,” I say, dumbstruck. Of course he doesn’t know what he wants—he doesn’t know what anything is: not pasta, not fish, not anything. The only thing he’s ever had is coffee. Not that I can judge; after almost forty years on this planet, I still never know what I want, either. “How about this, then... I’ll get the eggplant parmesan, you get the chicken Florentine pasta, and if you don’t like it, we’ll switch.”
He nods, stone-faced. (Or clay-faced, I guess.) He’s taking this so seriously I can’t help but smile. When I do, he instantly smiles back. I’m not sure if it’s a genuine reaction or if he’s mimicking me, trying to get it right. Before I can dwell on this thought for long, a tall waiter with a forgettable face comes to take our order.
“Eggplant parm and chicken Florentine,” I say quickly. “And can I get the WiFi password?”
I spend the next twenty minutes furiously responding to emails and cranking out a quick headline for a spring sales event. Every time I glance up, Paul Mudd is still gazing at me patiently. I feel guilty that he’s just sitting there, but I can’t help it. He’s fine , I tell myself, and hit Send on another email.
When I’ve put out the hottest email fires, I pull out my phone. Steeling myself, I turn it on, then swear under my breath when I see that I have a dozen missed text messages. Four are from Rosie and three are from our mother, all wedding related; I don’t even bother reading them. The remaining five are from Sasha.
Sasha: Hey, B says you were with a guy this morning. Who’s the guy?
Sasha: And why were you busting through the office so fast?
Sasha: Playing hooky with Mystery Guy or is something up?
Sasha: Hello?
Sasha: Everything ok?
Before I can text her back to say everything’s fine, my screen lights up.
Now Sasha is calling me.
“Ugh,” I say aloud before I can stop myself.
The golem immediately looks concerned.
“Mrmmm?” What’s wrong?
“Oh, nothing, it’s just—Sasha,” I say.
“Mrmm,” he says, like he’s learning the name. Sasha.
“Yeah, she’s just—being a little overbearing. Gimme a sec.” I sigh and slide my finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“So you’ll answer your phone but not a text? This can’t be the real Eve Goodman. Where’s the pod?”
Where’s the pod? has been a running gag for our entire friendship. It’s a reference to an old horror movie called... I don’t even know. Invasion of the Pod Aliens? Or maybe something like The Godawful Body Snatchers ? I’m not sure, because I’ve never actually seen the movie, and neither has Sasha. But it’s about aliens who come down to earth and hatch from pods and look identical to specific humans, and they take over those humans’ lives. Or something like that. Who knows. It’s just good shorthand for “why are you being so weird?” And thus Sasha and I are forever nostalgically referencing this film we’ve never seen, which feels like a deeply millennial thing to do.
“Ha,” I say. “Sorry. Phone was silenced. Now I’m about to get on the train.”
I wince a little, because I hate lying to Sasha. I can’t think of another time that I’ve done it. Not even when I slept with Kirk the Firefighter one more time after promising Sasha I was really, truly done with him. I confessed my weakness, she rolled her eyes and gave me hell, but ultimately hugged me and got me through it. But this feels like a much, much bigger confession. Which is why, instead of confessing, I have to keep lying.
“Bryan said he ran into you with some guy. So who’s the guy?”
I look across the table. There’s clearly no way I can tell Eve the truth about Paul Mudd. There’s no way I can tell anyone the truth about him. If I say that I’m out to lunch with a man I made from leftover basement renovation supplies, Sasha is going to think I’m out to lunch in another way—namely, the gone-completely-batshit-insane way. But if I avoid her question she’s only going to get more suspicious. So the only thing I can do is lie to her a second time.
“He’s, uh, my wedding date,” I say.
“I thought you were going to ask Hot Josh.”
“Yep,” I say, because it’s easier to give a one-word confirmation than concoct some made-up persona for the golem staring straight into my eyes. “That’s him. Hot Josh.”
“Bryan said you told him the guy’s name was Paul.”
Shit!
“Oh, uh, well it’s Josh Paul,” I say, reeling, totally off my game.
“Josh Paul,” Sasha says flatly, one hundred percent onto me.
“Yeah,” I say, squirming under her gaze. “Kind of like the Pope, but...not.”
“Eve. What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s...complicated,” I say, which is the first honest thing I’ve said this whole damn phone call. I should never have answered it. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’ve got to end this conversation right the hell now. “Hey, um, I’m about to get on the train, so—”
“Eve, you gotta tell me what’s up—”
“Sorry, you’re kinda breaking up, the signal’s bad here,” I say, lying yet again.
“Are you serious with this ‘you’re breaking up, I can’t hear you’ routine?”
“I’ll call you later, love you, bye!” I say, and hang up on my best friend.
“Mrmmm?” the golem asks. Are you all right?
“All good,” I say, attempting a smile and turning my phone all the way off once more. “And you’re going to love the chicken Florentine.”
Turns out, Paul Mudd does indeed love the chicken Florentine. He also loves eggplant parmesan—I’m full after only a few bites, and when I offer him my plate, he practically swallows it whole. Then he grins at me, red sauce rimming his lips like bright blood.
I hand him a napkin; when he doesn’t know quite how to use it, I wipe the sauce from his mouth myself. He’s so attractive, I almost want to just lick his lips clean.
Calm down, Eve , I tell myself. He’s not real.
But he sure as hell looks real. And feels real. And by now, he’s interacted with so many people that unless I’m in a hospital bed somewhere dreaming all this up while in a deep-ass coma, there’s no way I can write him off as a figment of my imagination.
So even if he’s not a regular old guy, in the traditional sense, does that have to mean he’s not real ?
“Mrmmmmmmm,” he says when the table is bare between us. Thank you for making good choices.
“Don’t mention it,” I say, a slight discomfort gnawing at me.
Was he thanking me for my choice of entrées, or my choice to bring him to life?
I hastily signal for the check.
After lunch, we get back on the train—mostly so I can convince myself that my lie to Sasha about boarding a train was halfway true. We have the whole train car to ourselves, all the way from the Loop to Lincoln Square, which feels like its own kind of holiday miracle. Paul Mudd keeps his eye on the train doors every time they slide open, constantly on guard. I stare out the window, still somewhat convinced that I’ve lost my mind.
When we get to my apartment, it’s a relief to drop the bags of clothes and box of office stuff we’ve been lugging around. It’s also a relief just to have somehow made it through the morning. I start to pull my laptop out again, then hesitate.
I’m already out of the office. I’m probably about to be laid off, just in time to turn forty. My baby sister’s getting married this weekend. I’ve just lied to my best friend for the first time.
But weirdly... I’ve also had kind of a nice day.
Clothes shopping. Going out to lunch. Introducing Paul Mudd to concepts like free will. Not exactly a conventional first date, but there’s something about being around the golem that makes me feel good. Safe. Seen. Consequences be damned, I just want to enjoy this bizarre day before it all goes up in flames. Instead of opening my laptop, I turn on my phone. Ignoring all the new alerts, I text my boss, Amy.
Me: Not feeling great.
Amy: Oh no! Need to take the day?
Me: Ugh probably
Amy: Ok keep me posted
Me: Thx will do [soup emoji]
“Come on,” I say to Paul Mudd. “I’ll show you the Square.”
Lincoln Square on a Thursday afternoon in December is almost too perfect. Shoppers flit from one artisanal store to the next, wearing long woolen camel coats and bright puffy parkas and slim black ski jackets. The sun sets so early at this time of year that the first lights are already beginning to twinkle in the tree branches. When the holidays have passed and the doldrums have set in, their bare limbs will look sad. But in this moment they look elegant, sharp pencil lines reaching for the sky, holiday lights clinging to them like luminescent dew.
“Mrmmm,” says the golem, looking at me thoughtfully. He seems unimpressed with the charming scenery, studying only me. You like it here.
“Yes,” I say. “This is my neighborhood.”
“Mrmmm?” This is where people like you live?
“This is where...all kinds of people live,” I tell him, taking him by the elbow. “Here, I’ll show you my favorite spot.”
I walk us into The Book Cellar, a bookstore with its own coffee-and-wine café. Literal literary heaven on earth. The smell of unread pages and fresh-ground beans welcomes us into the cozy space, full of possibility. I glance at my phone to see what time it is, but my phone is off. At the thought of getting another call from Sasha or text from a family member, I decide there’s no way I’m turning it back on.
“I’m getting us some wine,” I say.
“Mrmm,” Paul Mudd says, intrigued.
I get a glass of Malbec for each of us, the warm and slightly spicy one I had here just last weekend when I came in for their blind-date-with-a-book event. It’s one of my favorite little treats—every few months, the bookstore staff wrap a bunch of books in plain brown paper and scrawl a few words on the packaging: “sleeper hit,” “surprise romance,” “mystery with a twist.” You buy the book without knowing its actual identity, in hopes of falling in love.
Who would’ve guessed that less than a week later I’d be sipping the same Malbec, but instead of being on a blind date with a book, I’d be on an entirely different kind of pseudo-date, teaching a golem about wine?
“It comes from grapes,” I say, gently swirling my glass and praying I don’t splash any over the rim of the glass. Then it occurs to me that grape is probably just as meaningless a word to the golem as wine . I wonder how he can be so calm, knowing so little. Then again, knowing as much as I know about love, loss, politics, climate change, and on and on and on certainly doesn’t do anything to ease my anxiety. Maybe he’s the one living the ideal existence. Still, he should at least know what wine is, where it comes from, how delicious it can be. “Grapes are a fruit, which you can eat—”
“Mrmm,” chimes in the golem, an eager student. You have the option to eat grapes. It is a choice.
“Yes,” I say. “But you also have the option of letting someone crush them and make wine out of them, and I think that’s an even better choice. Here. Raise your glass.”
I raise mine, demonstrating, and Paul instantly raises his as well, the liquid inside sloshing precariously. He’s even clumsier than I am.
“L’chaim,” I say, shivering a little as I recall the meaning of the toast.
To life.
We clink glasses, my golem and I.
When he sips the wine, his eyes go wide and he holds absolutely still. For a long, long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
My throat seizes with a momentary panic, my own sip of rich Malbec turning to fire in my stomach. What if wine is somehow poison to golems? What if his body can handle caffeine, but not alcohol? What if that little sip just cost me everything?
“Mrmmm,” Paul Mudd says, swallowing and raising his glass again. That’s almost as good as coffee.
I feel weak with relief.
“Depends on your mood,” I manage to say, exhaling shakily. “Sometimes it’s better than coffee.”
He’s still holding his glass aloft, waiting. Does he want permission? Do I need to tell him to go ahead and keep drinking? Then I realize what he’s actually waiting for, and I can’t help but smile.
“We don’t have to toast every time,” I say.
“Mrmm,” he says, disappointed.
“But hey, one more time won’t hurt,” I say quickly, and bring my glass to meet his. “L’chaim.”
“Mrmm!”
We drink.
After we’ve each drained our glass, we head back outside. I stumble a little on a small patch of ice, and the golem effortlessly catches me. His arm is beneath my elbow, just like that, and I’m steadied. Held. I look up at him.
“Thank you,” I say, and he nods dutifully.
It must be close to four o’clock by now. I think about turning on my phone, seeing what the damage is—how many work emails I’ve missed, how many angry calls from Sasha, how many texts about the wedding from my mother and my sister. But I don’t want to know.
I don’t want to let the real world back in. Not when it’s so loud, so crowded, so painful and full of expectations I can never meet. Not when instead, I can keep existing right here in this incredible fantasy world. Drinking wine in the afternoon. Gazing up at the beautiful lights, everything feeling festive and hopeful for the first time in a long damn time. And most of all, having a handsome man catch me, instead of stumbling through everything alone and falling flat on my face as usual.
“Mrmmm?” Are you all right?
“Yes,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m good.”
We stroll through the neighborhood, gazing at the beautiful holiday window displays. When a well-meaning canvasser approaches us with a petition about some worthy cause, the golem growls and the petitioner retreats without saying a word. I suppress a laugh. I’m easily guilted into signing petitions or giving some small donation to the cause, but it’s kind of a relief to have someone else make a different choice for me this time.
Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe I’m just delirious, but I’m feeling really good. I shouldn’t feel this good, not about spending time with some mud man I wrought with my own two hands. I look up and see the first stars winking down at me, like they know my secret. The sky is pink, purple, and silver, the sun already dipping out of sight behind low-hanging clouds that might sprinkle snow over the city while we sleep. The holiday lights are glowing even more warmly now, daring anyone to resist the intoxicating siren call of a sweet holiday mood.
There’s a promising chill in the wind as it whistles through the lit branches above, and I shiver. The golem holds me up against his side, shielding me from the breeze. I lean in to him, buzzing a little from the wine and the heady surrealism of this whole day. It’s been so good already, and I want it to be perfect.
I think about taking my golem downtown, so I can show him his first-ever sunset majestically placed in the middle of the city’s striking lakeside skyline. There’s something achingly romantic about the idea of taking him to the top of a skyscraper and letting his first day on this earth end with a view from the top of the world.
Then again, it’s getting cold, and the man beside me feels so tantalizingly warm. He shouldn’t feel this warm, this cozy, this tempting. He’s not really flesh and blood, is he? If anything, he should feel cold and hard. Shivering at the thought, I realize I’m really only interested in finding out if one very particular part of him is hard.
“Paul,” I whisper. “Let’s go home.”