Chapter Six
SIX
“I can see why you brought him home.” Miranda smirked.
Faye glanced up from the freezer drawer where she was gathering another round of ice for Greg. Miranda, her best friend, had cornered her by the refrigerator downstairs. Her dark curls cascaded around a black leather jacket, while Shulamit, her wife of thirteen years, entertained Greg on the couch, a trill of sunny conversation emanating from her lips.
She was relieved at the sight. It had taken Faye almost two full hours to lay out her arguments to her friends—at one point, even pulling out the rolling whiteboard she used for teaching class. Thankfully, the court of coven opinion had ruled in her favor. A fair resolution was reached between all parties. While Miranda still wasn’t ready to trust Greg fully...she was at least willing to respect Faye’s autonomy.
Faye finished packing the ice. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, come on!” Miranda scoffed. “The red hair. The arms the size of tree trunks. The fact that he’s totally compliant... Either you have found the world’s most perfect man for you, or just go ahead and admit you’ve created yourself a golem.”
Faye’s breath caught in her throat. “What?”
“You know,” Miranda continued, “a golem? An anthropomorphic creature made of clay, usually created to protect the Jewish community from anti-Semitic attacks.”
In her two hours of explaining, she hadn’t told Miranda or Shulamit about the previous evening, getting drunk beyond belief, crafting a tiny man out of clay, before burying it in her backyard...because reasons .
For one, she could barely recall the events of the previous night. She also didn’t want to worry her friends. Shulamit worked at the shul. Miranda at the local university. They both had enough to worry about in terms of anti-Semitic dangers and being targets. She didn’t need to add her own troubles, and sleepless nights, to their list of concerns.
Beyond all these things, Faye prided herself on being independent. Admitting that she was afraid, that the anti-Semitic flyers had rattled her completely—retraumatized her, triggered all her intergenerational trauma, the stories she had grown up with—felt like giving up her power.
Her mind wandered back to her mother.
Her wrist ached once again.
Faye shook the feeling away and settled on getting a grip. “Honestly, Miranda,” Faye said, moving to check on the tea she had been steeping for all her guests. “Nobody knows who this man is. He has no ID, no wallet. He’s all alone in the world. The least we can do is be sensitive to his needs right now, and not make jokes. Greg is, after all, a human being.”
“You make it sound so—” Miranda squinted up towards the ceiling, searching for the word “—long-term.”
Faye scoffed outright. “It’s not long-term.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” Faye said, pulling the stainless steel tea infusers from each of the four mugs.
Even if Greg’s memory didn’t return with some alacrity, Faye reasoned that shortly—within a day or two, at most—someone would come by to claim Greg. A partner. A wife. The gym where he worked as a personal trainer... Otherwise, she would have never agreed to take him home with her.
Faye went to grab the ice, and two cups of tea. Like always, she struggled to keep the left mug steady. Miranda moved to help her.
“I’m fine,” Faye said, shrugging her shoulder away.
“Let me help you,” Miranda said.
“I’m fine!” Faye snapped back.
In the commotion, Faye’s disabled finger slipped. The cup of tea fell to the floor, shattering, sending hot water all over the place. Shulamit, whose voice had been going steadily since Miranda cornered Faye in the kitchen, fell into silence. Thankfully, no one was hurt. But it felt like yet another attack in what had been a truly rotten twenty-four hours. Faye wanted to cry... Instead, she took a deep breath.
Miranda frowned. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I at least help you clean up?”
Faye snagged a towel and pulled out a trash bin. “Knock yourself out.”
Perhaps, she could have come to terms with a broken wrist and disabled finger if it had been an accident. Instead, it served as a constant reminder of all she had lost.
Her scholarship to the New School in Manhattan, where she had hoped to go and study ceramics. The pottery she was so talented at making as a teenager—that all her art teachers fussed and fawned over, providing her the love and attention she never got from her own mom—which was never quite as good. She lived with nerve damage, and pain, and disability, but it was memory which hurt the most.
Faye returned her attention to Greg.
“This is for your head,” she explained, handing him the ice pack wrapped in a soothing lavender and bamboo case. “And this is ashwagandha, feverfew, and valerian tea. The ashwagandha is for memory, the feverfew is for headaches, and the valerian is for nerves.” She placed the cup on the coffee table, moving over crystals and ring dishes. “Just remember it’s hot, okay? Blow on it before you drink...and take tiny sips.”
Greg gave Faye the most adorable half-hearted smile. Though he couldn’t participate in the conversation fully, Faye knew he was listening. She could tell by the way his eyes followed her around the room, sometimes even catching on her own.
“And how are you two getting along then?” Faye asked, sitting down beside Shully.
“Wonderful,” Shully beamed, all sunshine and rainbows. She was medicine for the soul in that way. Faye hoped that her good energy would rub off on Greg and aid his healing. “In fact,” Shully said, leaning into him like an old friend, “I was just telling Greg here how we all met.”
Greg nodded once in Faye’s direction. She became lost in his gaze, in the glimmer of green there, so intensely beautiful , until a sound outside caused her to jump.
Nelly was kicking her front door.
“I can see you,” Nelly shouted, a large white tote slung over her shoulder, a giant cardboard box in her hands. “I can see you all sitting there!”
Faye sighed and rose from her seat.
Normally, Faye kept the door to the Magic Mud Pottery open during business hours. But today, and even with her store crowded with visitors, she felt safer with it locked. Suddenly, it seemed prudent to know, and have control over, who entered her business. Clearly, the decision had caught Nelly off guard.
Faye unlocked the door, and the old woman breezed past her, placing the cardboard box on the coffee table in front of Greg before turning all her attention to Shulamit.
“Cantor,” Nelly said, shaking her head. Her words came out tinged with sympathy. “How are you doing this morning? I can’t imagine how nervous you all are over at the synagogue. Terrible. Just terrible.”
“I’m hanging in there.” Shulamit shrugged. “I think we’re all just doing our best to make sense of things.”
“Do the police have any idea who’s behind it?” Nelly asked.
“Not yet,” Shulamit admitted. “But we’re meeting Chief Eric Myers later this week to talk about increasing security patrols around the shul.”
“I’m not a huge fan of most police,” Miranda said, rising from where she had been cleaning, “but he’s certainly one of the good ones.”
“It’s a blessing to have him in our lives,” Faye agreed.
Indeed, Eric had sent her a text earlier than morning, letting her know that he was thinking of her and would stop by the first chance he got to check in on her. Though she had long ago decided to forgo relationships with men, the kindness had meant the world to her. Especially because Eric wasn’t Jewish.
Shulamit continued. “And on top of all these things, we’re working on planning a solidarity rally at Woodstock Town Hall with elected officials and representatives of all the various faith-based denominations in town. The plan is to come together and show that as a community, love is always louder than hate.”
“Screw love,” Nelly said, plopping down on the couch beside Greg. “I have a much better idea.”
“Haman’s hat,” Faye said, and rubbed her forehead.
“What?” Shulamit glanced between them, confused.
“Nelly found herself a stun baton.”
“What?” Miranda raced over from where she had been standing. “Nelly!”
“Don’t worry,” the old woman said, before narrowing her focus on Greg. “I only plan to use it on Nazis.”
The color drained from Greg’s face. Faye moved to intervene. “She’s kidding,” Faye said, touching his arm gently to offer comfort. “She’s totally—”
A spark of electricity surged through her body, catching her off guard. She hadn’t meant to touch him. Indeed, since bringing Greg home, she had been extremely careful not to touch him unless it was to serve as his caregiver, helping him up the stairs, getting him another bag of ice, slinking past his hulking form in the narrow hallways of her home and business, trying not to let her shoulders skim the magnificence that was his chest...
Faye lost her train of thought.
“Anyway,” Nelly said, pushing the cardboard box towards Faye with the toe of her orthopedic loafer. “Here you go. All the items you asked for, including some I thought of after the fact. Shirts. Pants. Two jackets. Basically, I went through Second Glance Treasures and pulled everything I could find in a size gargantuan.”
Faye was relieved. “Thank you.”
Nelly was a good friend to Faye. She had grown used to the brittle old octogenarian showing up in her business, nudging her along for her own good, seeking to get her out of her shell. She was kind of like Hillel in that way—brittle, but with purpose.
Unlike Faye’s mother, Nelly had always been there for her. Especially when she first opened her store and was still learning the ropes to operating a small business in Woodstock, Nelly was the neighbor willing to stay late, share her hard-earned knowledge gained through experience, and offer all manner of advice.
“I also brought some toiletries,” Nelly continued. “Antiperspirant, toothpaste, toothbrush.”
Faye grimaced. “Used?”
“Not used,” Nelly snapped back. “They were Morty’s...before he died. He never got a chance to use them.” She sighed at Greg, and then, leaning into him, told him the story. “You know, my Morty...he loved a good deal. If something was on sale, he bought ten of them. Don’t you worry, handsome stranger. I’ve got everything you could possibly need. Razors, creams for every type of itch, catheters out the wazoo...”
Faye doubted that Greg needed catheters.
“What do I owe you?” Faye asked, heading off to find her pocketbook.
Nelly waved the offer away.
“Come on,” Faye said, pulling out a wad of cash. “All of this stuff costs money. I insist.”
“You taking it off my hands is a favor,” Nelly said, just as adamant. “More room at the store and more space in my basement.”
Faye put her cash away. There was no point arguing with Nelly when she made up her mind about something. The old woman was, to be fair, as stubborn as Faye in this regard. Perhaps that was what they both enjoyed about each other. But unlike Faye, Nelly had eighty years of experience in getting her way, and, being closer to death than to fifty at this point, had simply decided she had no more fackacktes to give.
“You finally cleaning out the house?” Miranda asked.
Nelly shook her head. “I need space for a new project.”
“A project?” Shulamit clapped her hands together. “That sounds fun! What kind of project?”
Faye expected Nelly to say something typical. Some hobby one would expect from a cranky old octogenarian. Like scrapbooking or playing mahjong. Instead, Nelly crossed her arms against her chest. “I’m going Nazi hunting.”
She said it flatly. Point-blank. Her words as remarkable as if she was describing making a cup of coffee in the morning. Except they weren’t talking about coffee. They were talking about Nelly setting up some Simon Wiesenthal–style war room in her basement, trying to track down the people responsible for the anti-Semitic attack.
“I can’t deal with this today,” Faye said.
“We should deal with this,” Miranda grumbled under her breath.
“You know what?” Faye decided for everyone that the best course of action was simply to settle on one thing they could always agree on—food. “Who wants dinner?”
Miranda popped up from her seat. “Great idea.”
“On it,” Shully said, following her wife.
“You think I come for the company?” Nelly teased.
The rest was a ritual they had performed many times together. Shulamit raced upstairs, bringing down plates, forks, knives, and a cutting board. Faye reached into her fridge, pushing past coleslaw and potato salad until she found the hard kosher salami she had been working through. Nelly readied the rye bread and salad, while Miranda pulled out condiments, a mixture of mayonnaise, mustard, red chili peppers, red peppers, and red onions.
Despite the fact the kitchen was upstairs, when her friends were over, they always ate downstairs in the main foyer, around the couches and coffee table arranged for visitors. And sometimes, if the room was set up for it, in the back at one of the long tables for classes. There really wasn’t enough room upstairs for all four of them.
“Who’s cutting the salami?” Miranda asked.
“I’ll do it,” Faye said, reaching for the knife, before an even better idea crossed her mind. “Actually,” she said, twisting towards Greg, still sitting on the couch. “Why don’t we let our new guest do it?”
The whole room fell into an awkward and concerned silence.
Normally, the task of cutting the salami for a sandwich took all her arm and back power. Even then, the pieces often came out lopsided. Some thick. Some thin. It also didn’t help that her finger was disabled...
She couldn’t help but feel it was the right choice. First, the man was a beast. Surely he would have no trouble slicing hard kosher salami with a bread knife. And if he did have trouble, if his coordination went all wonky on him, she would be right there to guide him back to safety.
But mainly, there was a certain level of trust that went into handing a knife to a total stranger. It represented something epic, and important, that all of them would witness together. Besides, if he did try to kill them all...it would be four against one.
“Are you sure about that?” Miranda asked quietly.
“I’m sure,” Faye said, before pointing the knife towards Greg. “If you’re up for it, of course...”
Greg nodded. Rising from the couch, he made his way over to the counter, his mass causing all her friends to split like the Red Sea. Faye handed him the knife, and he turned to the meat waiting on the cutting board, pausing for his next instruction.
Faye leaned into him, whispering. “Press down,” she explained, demonstrating with her own hand over his own. “Hard. Cut through...as thin and as equal in size as possible, okay?”
She stepped back from Greg.
And then, magic.
He sliced through the first piece without any problem. Hearing the familiar sound of his favorite snack being prepared downstairs, Hillel emerged from Faye’s bedroom where he had been napping, tapping his way downstairs in order to garner a treat.
Faye clapped her hands together, ecstatic. “Perfect,” she said, and truly meant it. “Would you like to keep trying?”
Greg nodded again. Faye stepped back, and allowed him to continue unaided. Soon, it was raining hard kosher salami. Miranda inched her way over.
“Well, Faye,” Miranda said, leaning into her to whisper, “are you still going to tell me that you didn’t create a golem?”
“Will you stop already.”
“Alright,” Miranda acquiesced, before meeting her eyes directly. “But promise me you’ll call at the first sign of trouble, okay?”
Faye promised, before her eyes wandered back over to Shulamit. She was standing in the living room, her hand inadvertently rubbing her lower belly. “Oh,” Faye said, quickly scooting around to one of the cabinets, “I almost forgot.”
She had been so busy with Greg, she had completely forgotten about the fertility spell she had prepared for Shulamit. Faye pulled the red velvet pouch from a drawer and handed it to Miranda. “Hang this in your bedroom, on the wall directly across from your bed.”
“You know we’re doing IVF, right?”
Faye angled her head sideways. “The point is to set your intention, to make sure that the divine energies of the universe are aligned to your deepest desires.”
Miranda and Shulamit had been trying to get pregnant for months. After three failed rounds of IUI, they were finally ready for IVF. Faye reasoned that in addition to modern medicine, everyone could benefit from a little Jewitch spiritual help.
“Thanks, Faye,” Miranda said, taking the pouch.
Her friends humored her spiritual practice more than they ever took part in it themselves. But as her magic was firmly rooted in her Jewish tradition, and her friends were all on the more liberal side of the Jewish family prism, they saw no opposition between their faith and a little Jewitch magic.
“It’s no easy matter to create life,” Faye said.
Miranda let the comment linger in the air, before her eyes wandered back over to Greg. “I mean, so you claim...”
Faye shook her head. “You are out of control.”
“You love me,” Miranda teased back. “Also, when you’re done with making us babies... I would also like you to make us a golem. I have a ton of yard work I need to get done, and a painting I want hung in my office at the university.”
Faye forced a smile. “I’ll get right on that.”
Miranda took off to check on Shulamit. Faye returned her gaze to Greg. He was still at the counter, almost finished with his task of slicing enough hard kosher salami to feed all five of them for dinner. In the process, his back and arm muscles were seriously testing the strength of his shirt. Goddess give her strength. He really was magnificent.
Her mind began to wander into strange and fantastical territory, and she found herself humored by one thought. If he were a golem, one that she had designed and created...would it really be so bad?