and her words roll from English
to Spanish and back again.
For dessert,
his mother holds a plate
with two hands,
sets it on the center of the table.
Brazo de reina,
she mouths out loud,
a rolled-up cake
filled with cream
surrounded by fruit
that look like hand grenades.
Cherimoya, Jorge says.
Ice cream fruit.
And it is,
like ice cream on my tongue.
I take a bite of the cake,
one flaky, delicious bite,
taste the sugar and vanilla cream.
For a moment, I want to eat it all,
but then Jorge’s mother
tells a joke about Jorge
being the tallest boy since first grade,
and Lisa can’t stop laughing,
and then I can’t stop laughing,
and I put down my fork.
I feel good.
One bite
is just
enough.
Saint George
After dinner
the grown-ups drink
thick-smelling coffee,
and we linger near the door,
eager to go out
under the stars.
Wait, wait, wait,
his mother calls,
pulls us in
to the couches
to tell us the story
of how Jorge
is actually
Saint George.
Jorge covers his eyes
with long, dark-brown fingers.
He doesn’t want to hear the story.
At his church,
when he was nine,
at a prayer meeting
in the glow of the stained glass
Jorge placed his hand
on the purple shoulder
of a man bent over in pain,
a heart attack, or
a broken heart.
He offered a prayer,
spoke in a voice,
they say,
that was not his own,
and when it was over,
the man stood up
in perfect health,
his knees soaked
in tears and sweat.
They say that
Jorge’s was the voice
of the Holy Ghost.
They say that the room,
from the altar to the door,
grew wild with
yellow and green
light, and flecks of gold dust
filled the air.
Lisa looks at me.
Real gold? I ask.
Jorge smiles shyly,
shrugs like he can’t believe
it happened either.
Shhh, my mother
tells us to quiet down,
sips her coffee.
They say
that day that Jorge’s
legs grew longer.
That’s why he’s so tall.
Jorge presses his legs close
together like he’s
trying to hide them.
When word got out,
the church fathers
met over seven Sundays,
and finally they
made him a local saint.
We look at my mother.
She shifts in her seat.
Beautiful story, she says,
her face warm,
her body relaxed.
Like the midrash
your grandpa tells.
I love it.
When the story ends,
we walk outside and look toward
the forests on the hills,
make plans to hike Bolinas Ridge
before the summer ends.
10 Pounds
By the end of June
I’ve lost 10 pounds.
A bag of rice,
a bowling ball,
a cat,
three big bottles
of soda.
My shorts are looser,
and I can fit two whole fingers
between the waistline
and my body.
At lunch,
my mother hands me a bag
of veggie “pork” rinds,
sour cream and onion.
I eat them all.
Lisa and I
sit in our part of the gallery
sculpting trolls.
We try to teach Jorge
how to do it,
our hands coated in clay.
By now they have
driftwood bases,
shells and dried sticks,
rocks and bark.
Even when I sit,
my shirt feels loose.
Loose.
Something, for once, fits.
Mitzvot
My mother puts her hand on my shoulder,
reminds me
that pretty soon
I will need to
think about meeting
with the rabbi again.
My bar mitzvah is in the fall;
I’m already so late.
I need to prepare:
a. Ask Questions
b. Study Hebrew
c. Do Mitzvot
I remember, just before we moved,
my grandma’s Brooklyn
apartment, the smell
of oily latkes and candle wax.
It’s late, and I am sitting on
my father’s knee,
stacking four quarters,
knocking them down,
stacking them again.
They talked like grown-ups,
the low hum of my grandfather’s
voice, each word half-full
of breath and accent.
They started to argue about
my bar mitzvah,
where it will be,
when it will happen,
and I felt my father
shift in his chair until
I finally slid down
and sat on the floor
beneath the table.
Grandma reached beneath,
took my hand,
and led me to the kitchen.
Why don’t you sit down?
I’ll make you some oatmeal.
I ate it, played with tiny
sword letter openers.
I could hear
the voices
rise and fall
and mix together,
angry or frustrated,
a pot boiling over
and simmering again.
I ate the oatmeal.
Ari, she said, smiling with hope,
how will you keep the mitzvot?
When I didn’t know what she meant,
she told me that the mitzvot
are our commandments,
the good deeds we do
and how we behave,
honoring our parents,
helping others,
observing the Sabbath.
I remember a time
when we walked
to the grocery store
and a man with a torn
jacket, his beard long
and gray, asked my grandma
for some food. I hid
behind her while
she handed him
a five-dollar bill,
and the loaf of challah
we had just bought.
The man said nothing
and walked away.
She stood, watching him go,
then turned to me and whispered,
You see, mitzvot. We do because we do.
My Father Comes
When we get back from the beach,
my father is there.
Finally, he says,
sits up, his black hair
curled in different directions.
Come ’ere, kid.
I feel small next to him.
He listens as I tell him about 10 pounds.
He smiles, makes it the biggest
news in the world.
I’m proud of you, he says.
You look great.
I ask him if he’s staying over.
Just tonight, he says.
At bedtime,
I read and listen to
the familiar beat of their voices,
arguments in undulating rhythms
of light and dark,
his deep voice
rolling out
in a wave of
reason, smooth
and weighted.
When they get quiet,
I walk to get some water.
He’s holding some papers,
a stack of letters or something.
Across the table,
her eyes look out the window.
It’s a silence I don’t understand.
I pour a glass of water,
but they don’t notice.
On the top of the fridge
is a red bag, shiny and full
like a Mylar balloon.
I saw it when I first came in.
Doritos.
Of course, he must have brought them,
and why would he think about
my diet?
I wait silently in the kitchen
until their voices start again.
I reach for the bag.
I feel a rush in my body,
and in a moment
I’m back in my room.
I sit on the edge of my mat.
The dim light of my reading lamp
illuminates the red foil,
the wedged chip,
a perfect triangle
of texture and salt.
The bag sits between
my legs, and I notice
how the fat on my legs doesn’t seep
out of my shorts as much,
that my stomach feels small
in my pajamas.
For a moment, I imagine
that the chips in this bag
will bring it all back.
I imagine that maybe
I deserve it all back.
I look into the bag.
I think of Pick
asking me who I am,
look over at Lisa sleeping.
I think of my before picture
and how far I’ve come.
I feel the sand in my toes,
and the warm sun
and ocean air.
I’m desperate.
I want to hold my diet book
like holy scripture,
to pray a spell of protection
over my soul,
but I don’t.
Instead,
I open the bag,
feel the salt of the first chip
settle on my tongue.
The taste blocks the noise.
I don’t stop
until the sides
have all been licked clean.
July
Promises
The Diet Book promises that Four Beautiful Things will happen:
1. I will be free from hunger.
I still want ice cream all the time.
2. I will notice an increase in well-being.
I do feel better.
3. I will notice the pounds dropping off.
Let them drop into the abyss. Let them scream as they fall.
4. I will experience a decrease in measurements that the tape measure can tell me about in detail.
Will I still need to go to the big and tall shop?
Then He Left
When I get out of the shower,
I hear the sliding metal
of my father’s keys.
I dry off,
get dressed,
and walk out to see him.
Ari, he says.
Sit down.
His words
are thick paste.
He says he has to go away,
get some money for the business.
Things are tough.
I’ll be back soon, Ari,
but I have to go away for a while.
Don’t worry, he says. I have a plan.
I smile. Look at his eyes. Take a deep breath.
I believe him. He lifts his duffel bag by the door,
the keys to the Sunbird
already in his
hand.
He leans over,
kisses me on the forehead.
I love you, you mensch,
and he goes.
July Fourth
I
Pick’s mom drops him off in the morning.
We spend the day at the beach,
and by sunset we sit on the roof.
Me, Pick, Lisa
position ourselves
for the fireworks.
The roof feels safe
and far away from everything.
We watch the cars
in a radiant line
from the mountain road
shining into every beach lot.
Families shift street to street,
streamers, flags, sparklers,
the occasional POP.
We eat sunflower seeds,
spit the shells into the dirt
far below us.
Pick spits a seed into the distance,
looks straight ahead.
I have to go to Australia, he says.
What! I say. Why?
It’s a family reunion, mate.
He fakes an accent.
I feel the summer suddenly shrink.
How come you didn’t tell me? I ask.
We have plans.
He holds out his hands,
folds them into fists.
Because I didn’t want you to get mad.
I don’t like change.
II
The fireworks
bloom above the cobalt sea.
Pick and Lisa talk about Australia.
Later, at the nursery,
we look over the game,
our pencils scratch paper.
We draw a new class of robots
that can shift their shapes,
adapt to their environment.
Lisa is taking pictures
when Pick mumbles,
I’m sorry I’m so mean to you.
He looks away.
That day, when we were packing,
when you said you didn’t
tell your parents about the bike path?
I got mad because I thought
we would have to hide it forever,
or that you just didn’t trust me enough
because I ran away.
I wanted you to change
so you could stop being so bad to yourself,
but I’m the one who was afraid.
Pick doesn’t look up when he says this.
His eyes focus on a quadrant
of the paper where he draws
a giant metallic foot.
I am quiet too.
I just hated it. I hated them.
Pick’s voice trails back
into the past.
He’s remembering,
but the experience
is lightning
striking now.
He doesn’t wipe his tears,
lets each one spill into his mouth
until they swirl with his words.
With his pencil,
he scratches a crude line
along the center of the boxed page.
We were riding. Just riding.
What happened? Lisa asks.
I forget that she doesn’t know.
He traces the pencil along the line
on the paper. He draws a circle
around Dolan Avenue and an arrow
to the Mill Valley/Sausalito bike path.
His mind overflowing onto
the paper,
he talks in pencil
scratches and shaded images.
I concentrate on his drawings,
see it all in my mind.
He draws an X halfway
to Sycamore Avenue and stops.
I should have done more,
but I just kept riding.
I let you down.
I look at him over the table.
I think of jokes
but don’t say them.
His body shakes,
like he might break in half.
It’s okay, I say.
He shifts in his chair, grabs his pencil tight.
He draws stick figures near the X.
It’s not, he says through gritted teeth.
It’s
not okay.
You … Suddenly fierce,
he points the pencil at me, eraser first.
He gets up, one hand in a fist.
I stand up too.
You
should
have
done
more …
You
just SAT THERE,
while they did those things to you.
HOW COULD YOU LET THEM?
how could I let them??
I get up, walk over to him.
In my mind is the rhythm of some speech
I will never give.
I stare straight at him
with sudden courage.
I don’t know why, I say.
I don’t know why I didn’t fight back.
Maybe I should have. But I couldn’t.
I don’t want to fight that way.
Face flushed,
Pick looks at me,
red with anger and tears.
Suddenly he grabs my shoulders
with both hands,
vibrates an inhuman growl,
Why didn’t
I
do anything?
His breath lingers at I.
He’s desperate for an answer
I can’t give him.
I’m a coward! he shouts,
lets go of my shoulders,
his face steaming with guilt and rage.
He rips the graph paper,
tries to break the pencil,
but it’s too small. He throws it instead.
I want to think of a joke,
or something wise
about how we are all afraid,
or some obscure fact about a chupacabra,
about the game or the beach.
I look at Lisa, but she’s quietly drawing.
He walks around the room,
then finally just sits,
his arms folded over his knees.
He mutters,