Chapter Thirty-Six
THIRTY-SIX
“Uncle Greg!”
Greg had barely stepped out of the cab and made his way up the driveway to his brother’s house on Long Island, when he was attacked. His eight-year-old twin nieces sprinted from the house where they had been awaiting his arrival, and threw their tiny arms around him. Greg dropped the bag of presents he was carrying in order to pick them up.
“Oh,” Greg teased, holding one beneath each shoulder, “you two have gotten bigger.”
“Uncle Greg!” Lisa, the redheaded one of the fraternal duo, wriggled inside his arms. “I grew two inches.”
“Two inches, you say?” He put both girls on the ground, bending down on one knee. “You know what that means, right?” Greg reached into his bag and pulled out a gift for each of them. “Presents!”
His nieces wasted no time. Grabbing the items, they began screaming, racing into the house. Greg watched them depart, past their mother, Maggie, who was still waiting on the front porch. “Mags,” Greg said, giving her a hug before entering the house.
“Good to see you,” she said, warmly, before letting go of him.
He nodded. It had been far too long. Moments later, his older brother, Tom, emerged from the house. “Well, look who finally made it to Thanksgiving.” His brother held out his hand before pulling him in for a warm embrace.
An awkward pause in the conversation drifted between them, before his niece Lisa reemerged from inside the house. “Dad!” she shouted, waving Greg’s now unwrapped present in her father’s face. “Look what Uncle Greg got us. It’s a set to make our own pottery.”
“I thought they would like it,” Greg explained. “It’s designed for kids.”
“Oh,” Tom said, “great. That’ll certainly keep the girls entertained while we’re working on dinner. I hope you brought your appetite.”
“Always.”
“Good,” Tom said, leaning in to whisper, “’cause I’m deep-frying the turkey this year.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “God help us all.”
Inside the house, Greg wasn’t surprised to find a Thanksgiving party already going in full swing. Friends gathered together on couches, eating hors d’oeuvres, drinking beers, while watching a football game. Maggie drank wine in the kitchen with her sisters. They periodically put their glasses down to check on the food or kids. Greg took a seat beside his nieces, Lisa and Jules, now each pulling out clay and tools to begin making pottery from their new arts and crafts sets. And yet, sitting among his family—seeing all the friends and loved ones gathered for Thanksgiving—he couldn’t help but feel like a stranger.
The prodigal brother returned home.
“Uncle Greg.” Lisa dug her fingers into the clay excitedly. “This is so cool.”
“Isn’t it?” he said, leaning over to make sure that the two girls had all the required items. “What are you going to make?”
Lisa pressed her lips towards one side. “I don’t know... What do you think I should make?”
“Well,” Greg said, taking the clay in his hands, rolling it around a little as he had seen Faye do ten thousand times. “You can make anything you want. You can make a bowl. You can make a puppy dog figure. You can make a dish to hold things, like rings and earrings. You can even make a doll.”
Lisa’s eyes went wide. “A doll?”
“Yep,” Greg said, handing the clay back to her. “That’s the beauty of clay. You can shape it to become anything you want.”
“Whoa.”
Lisa delved back into her task. Greg watched the two girls playing, and seeing the way they so passionately and diligently dove into their arts and crafts project, he couldn’t help but smile. His mind drifted to Faye and Magic Mud Pottery...until his brother appeared from the basement, an extra-large deep fryer between his hands.
“Here she is,” Tom announced. “Here is the machine that is finally going to deep-fry our Thanksgiving turkey into perfection.”
Most of the men, nursing beers around the football game, broke into shouts of joy and applause. Maggie and her sisters, however, were less than thrilled.
“Outside,” Maggie said, pointing towards the backyard. “That was the deal.”
“I love you, Mags,” Tom said, dragging his deep fryer out the back door.
“If you burn down the house, we’re getting a divorce,” she shouted back.
Tom was still smiling when he nodded towards Greg. “Come and help me, will you?”
Leaving the girls, Greg followed his brother outside. They spent the next half an hour reading instructions, gathering up items—grabbing their jackets and two beers, too—before finally getting to work on the turkey. When the thing was safely bubbling away in the deep fryer, Greg knew that it was time to talk.
He had a lot on his mind.
After Greg had remembered who he was and returned home to New York, he had called his brother back. He had filled in Tom and Maggie on the basics of what had happened, including the amnesia. And though, as an investigative journalist, he had been in all sorts of dangerous and difficult situations, something about his experience with Faye was still weighing on him.
“So, you’re back?” Tom said, lifting the beer to his mouth.
“I’m back.”
“For how long this time?”
“I don’t know, honestly.” Greg shifted the weight on the balls of his feet. “I gotta finish this story first...”
“And then,” Tom said, finishing for him, “on to the next?”
Greg shrugged.
“I’m wondering if maybe—” Greg wasn’t even sure how to phrase it “—maybe it’s time to put down roots somewhere. Figure out a way to settle down more.”
He could see by the way Tom’s eyebrows rose all the way to his hairline that his brother didn’t believe him. “You, who haven’t stayed in one place for more than three weeks? You, who always needs to go off on the next adventure, the next challenge?”
Greg dug one toe into the soil beneath his feet. His brother wasn’t wrong.
“Look,” Tom said, pulling back a little on the accusation, “I don’t mean to be a jerk about it. It’s just... When I think about you, and us, you’ve always been more like Mom. You’ve always been needing something to chase. You’ve always just done your own thing.”
His brother wasn’t wrong. They were both raised by a single JAG officer in the military, which meant their lives, like all Greg’s relationships, were uprooted every three years. Unlike Tom, who craved consistency, Greg was the opposite. He built a career around his passion for justice, never allowing himself to get too close to anybody. And yet something about his relationship with Faye had changed him. He had lived another life while in absentia...and now he was struggling to reconcile his experience with Faye beside the person he had been.
“It’s why—” Tom choked on the admission. “It’s why when I didn’t hear from you for almost three months, I didn’t think much about it. I just figured you were fine...off on another adventure. If there was a problem, your editor would call me. But I mean—”
Tom stopped himself. Greg wanted him to continue. “It’s fine,” Greg said, waving him forward. “Say it.”
“You often go months without calling, Greg. You go months without visiting, too. I love you, ’cause you’re my brother...”
“But I’m like Mom?”
Tom shrugged. “Yeah.”
Another round of uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. “I met this woman while I was in Woodstock,” Greg said finally. “Faye.”
“The woman you were staying with?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We had a bit of a romance, and... I don’t know. I don’t think it can ever work out between us—” He left out the part about her thinking he was a golem, doing everything possible to push him away. “But I guess what I learned from that experience is that settling down, building a life for yourself, making efforts to be part of a family and a community...maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world?”
Greg’s eyes drifted towards the house, where Maggie was peering through the window, clearly making sure they weren’t getting into trouble. Tom noticed and raised his beer at her. She made a dramatic huff, throwing her hands up in the air—he was clearly teasing her.
“You want the truth about settling down, Greg?” Tom asked. “About spending the rest of your life with one woman, raising a family...about giving up the adventure sometimes, just for quiet boredom?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s awesome,” Tom said.
Greg laughed.
“I’m serious,” Tom said, his whole face turning red as he spoke. “Every single day, I wake up and go to bed with my best friend in the world. When I’m having a hard day—shit, when I needed neck surgery—she’s there for me. When I’m having a good day, when I want to watch a game or a movie on Netflix with the kids, there’s no one I would rather spend time with more than her. It’s not just that she busts my chops, or has fun with me, or makes me better...it’s that I can’t imagine how there was ever a me without her.”
Greg swallowed. I can’t imagine how there was ever a me without her. It felt accurate.
“Well, whatever you need,” Tom said, finally, “we’re here for you. If you need to stay with us for a while, you know Mags is always happy to have extra help with the girls.”
Greg laughed. “I bet.”
“But really,” Tom continued, “we’re on your side, okay? We want the best for you. And do me a favor in the meantime. While you’re trying to figure out how you can live your adventures, while simultaneously settling down in some form...call us more than once every three months.”
Greg offered his hand. “Deal.”
Tom’s eyes drifted down to the red string still knotted around Greg’s wrist.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Oh,” Greg said, “it’s Jewitch magic.”
“Jewitch magic?”
“It’s supposed to keep the evil eye away,” Greg explained. “Faye gave it to me.”
“Interesting,” Tom said, before adding, “Clearly, there are some aspects of your time with this Faye woman that you’re not telling me.”
“That would be correct.”
Tom laughed again, before getting serious. “And you’re still wearing it? You haven’t taken it off yet?”
“Oh,” Greg said. “You’re not supposed to. You wear it until it falls off.”
“Ah.” Tom finished his beer. “No other reason then?”
Greg stared down at his wrist, and a pang of longing reappeared in his chest. He had thought about taking off the red bracelet a dozen times since returning to New York. He stared at in the shower, and even once found his scissors. But every time he went to cut it off, he couldn’t do it.
“Truth be told,” Greg said, shifting in his spot, “I miss her.”
“So why not just go back to Woodstock and tell her that?”
“Because.” Greg thought back on their time together. “I’m not sure she’s the relationship or settling down type.”
She was too mired in her past to ever reenvision her future. Still, when night settled over Manhattan, and his dreams wandered back to Woodstock, he couldn’t help but set a focused intention for some sort of reconciliation. Greg was just about to explain these things when the scent of something burning caused him to sniff the air.
“Do you smell that?” Greg asked, confused.
“The turkey!” Tom took off the lid, waving away billows of smoke in the process.
Maggie did not hesitate. Opening the door, she shouted from her vantage point on the porch. “I told you,” she said, yelling in both their directions. “I told you that deep-frying the turkey this year was a terrible idea.”
“It’s fine, Mags,” Tom shouted back. “The turkey is fine.”
“You’re sleeping in the bathtub tonight.”
She slammed the door behind her. “Like I said.” Tom beamed in his direction, his voice dripping with love. “Marriage is awesome.”
It had taken him longer than usual, but Greg finally had a rough draft of his article. For the last two weeks, he had been working on a larger exposé—not only on what had occurred in Woodstock, but on the dangerous interplay between problematic personal ideologies and those in power.
It was an important article. As it turned out, Chief Eric Myers was not the only person in law enforcement to have ties to a virulent hate group. Before heading to Woodstock, he had done the research—uncovering dozens of names, including political officials, judges, and more. His hope was that by exposing these people, bringing light to the dangers posed by racism and anti-Semitism, he would make the world a safer place.
The printer came to a pause at his feet. Greg decided to take a break before doing one final read-through. Picking up his phone, he called his brother.
“Greg,” Tom said. “Let me get the girls.”
Seconds later, he was being regaled with all the adventures of fourth grade. Greg took a seat on his couch and listened to the girls jabbering on sweetly. He was making changes. Unlike in the past, head down at the exclusion of everything else in his life, he was trying to heal relationships, make new friends, build connections. He was trying to find his community, too.
Between writing spurts, he would head to the gym. Normally a weights guy, he joined a pickleball league. He prioritized time for interests, and hobbies, joining three different book clubs at the library, including one for romance lovers. And at night, he set his intention—making magic cakes, infused with honey for sweetness and whole wheat for grounding.
As for Faye, he missed her. Every time he looked down at his wrist and saw that red bracelet, his heart ached, and he had an urge to contact her. To go back to Woodstock. To try one more time to make it work, especially now that he knew who he was and had full return of his memory. But Faye had been clear. In both words and actions, he knew the truth. She wasn’t ready. Maybe she would never be ready.
Greg had no choice but to move on.
“Will you come and visit us, Uncle Greg?” Lisa asked.
“I’ll be there this weekend.”
The girls responded with simultaneous whoops and cheers, and after taking a few moments to speak with their parents, Greg hung up the phone. The quiet of his New York apartment once again irked him. His eyes trailed down to his feet, where he was half expecting some hairless creature to be waiting... And then, he considered getting a dog.
In the meantime, he went back to his article. Picking up those pages and a pen again, he began to read it through—noting where the flow was wrong, making changes, highlighting things to add or any mistakes. He was three pages in when the sound of an email arriving on his computer brought his attention up.
It had come in to his work email. Greg stared at the name of the sender. StunningForFunzies.
Strange. He had no idea who that could be. He opened the email, and a whoop of delight escaped his lips. It was a message from Nelly.
Baby Bird,
How the hell you been? We’ve missed you here in Woodstock. Chief Eric Myers is gonna spend a looong time in jail. But I got a damn parade! Wish you had been there. Anyway, thought you might be interested in this article. Hope to see you soon, Baby Bird. Goddess knows, whether you’re a golem or not, you have earned a spot in our coven.
Nelly
He laughed reading her words. And then, with shaking hands, he clicked on the link, opening it up.
The Art of Imperfection:
What a Jewitch Learned about Craft from a Golem
By Faiga Kaplan
Emotion bubbled up in him as he read the article, coming to the end:
For six weeks, in the wake of an anti-Semitic attack, I—a Jewish potter in Woodstock, New York—believed I had summoned a golem. I thought I had crafted this perfect man out of clay, breathed life into him with words and magic...never realizing that I was the one who had been created.
All of us start out as clay. We begin soft and unformed, bendy and malleable. We look for gentle hands to guide us, shape us into form. More often than not, we are stretched taut, spun around on a wheel, pounded and battered, placed in a kiln where a fire is raging. From there, we harden. The stress to take shape bears its marks in bubbles, scratches, and tears. As a ceramicist, the instinct is always to patch the cracks, fill the lines in with gold and metal...but what is broken is not ruined.
This is the art of imperfection. The ability to look at your life and see the beauty in the blemishes. To make a mistake, sometimes many mistakes, but see your worth anyway.
I thought the only way to be loved was to be like modular pottery, two perfect pieces, snapping together and unhinging apart, but I am learning to shift my perspective. To tell my own story. To shape my own narrative. Because as a man—not a golem—once told me outside the entrance to a cave, there’s no real difference between a monster and a goddess.
It was beautiful. She was beautiful. He could feel her heart reaching through the page, and it touched him. Greg took a few seconds to bite back his own wellspring of emotion. He chewed on the bottom of his lip, debating next steps, if he should reach out to her, contact her...when his eyes wandered back to that email, and the word REPLY .
Quickly he began typing out an email. When it came to getting things done correctly, knowing the inside scoop, setting up a plan of attack—there was only one octogenarian in the world that Greg would ever trust.