B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) (14 page)

Reb Chaim held up his hand, and Sammy stopped babbling. “Samson, any Jew can make a golem, but not all know how. And most of us who do know how choose not to abuse that kind of power. Anymore.” He smiled briefly, sadly, more like an emoticon than an actual smile. “And also, most of us are lousy potters. If you made this thing without help, at least you have that much talent, if not sense.”

“No one helped me,” Sammy admitted.

“Good,” the rabbi said.

“But there must be more to it than that,” Sammy said. “I
have
to know more!”

Reb Chaim's smile disappeared. “You only need to know this, Samson: Remove the name of God from this creature's forehead, from its mouth.”

Head down, Sammy whispered, “Mouth.” He wasn't sure Reb Chaim even heard him for the rabbi was in full cry.

“Rid yourself of him now. This very moment. This very day. Or I promise you that along with destroying your enemies, that creature will destroy all you hold dear.”

“But . . .”

“No buts! Finish him off, Samson. As soon as possible. You're the only one who can. Do not return here for lessons or even enter this sanctuary again until you do.” Reb Chaim folded his arms across his chest and stared at Sammy for three long seconds before very pointedly turning away. “And send me back my book.” His voice was soft, sad, almost defeated.

Sammy stood and walked out of the room. Rabbi Chaim didn't try to follow him.

Gully was standing just where Sammy had left him, but his dad was nowhere in sight.

“
Shalom aleichem
,” Gully said.

“There's nothing shalom or peaceful about today at all,” Sammy told him. “You've been grounded and maybe worse. And me—I've been royally reamed out by the rabbi and kicked out of Hebrew school.”

He opened the front door of the synagogue and saw his dad leaning against the car, making some drawings.
Probably of new pots.
Expecting Gully to say something, he looked back. But Gully—his gray hands once again balled into enormous gray fists—had already started purposefully toward the sanctuary where Rabbi Chaim sat alone and unprotected.

“No, Gully” Sammy shouted. “No! Come back. We're going home.”

“Rabbi is on the left?”

“The rabbi is on the right,” Sammy said. “He
is
right, I guess. But it's not his head being dunked in the toilet.”

Gully hesitated, slowly unballed his fists, even more slowly turned. “Going home,” he said. “
Aleichem shalom
. Peace be with you, rabbi on the right.” He followed Sammy out the door.

It was a quiet ride home after Sammy told his father that Reb Chaim had canceled class for today and answered the inevitable “Why?” with a shrug.

“I wish he'd called,” Sammy's dad said. “This was a long ride for nothing.” His right hand slapped on the steering wheel.

Staring out the window, Sammy ignored his father's pique, and instead thought hard about what Reb Chaim had said.
Were there really golem units? Did they look like Gully? How else would Rabbi Chaim have known immediately what Gully is? And what was the bad thing that the rabbi had to think and pray about it every Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement.

Ignored, Gully began tapping on the back of the front seat. The sounds were first like Mr. Greenburg's angry rhythms, then they morphed into some strange vicious syncopation.

The drumming pushed into Sammy's thoughts, and he looked over his shoulder at Gully who was staring intently at his own fingers as they tapped and tattooed through another measure.
Yeesh,
Sammy thought,
that might be in 11/16. I bet he'll make a
really
good drummer, especially for a klez jazz fusion band.
And then he bit his lower lip.
Which makes it
really
too bad that I have to get rid of him.

Suddenly Sammy realized he'd decided. The stuff Reb Chaim had said was just too scary. He couldn't have a golem running amok and killing people.
I'll do it after dinner tonight, before I go to Skink's. Take him up to my room and . . .

Sammy shivered.
After dinner
. He didn't want to think any more about it. So, leaning his head against the window, he let the outside world blur into meaninglessness as it sped by.

16.

Murder, Roast Fowl

They pulled into the driveway and Sammy's father was out the door almost before the car stopped moving. Waving his hand, he called, “Got to get into the studio with these new drawings! I think I've got something good here.”

Sammy trudged around the car to let Gully out because the golem hadn't gotten the hang of the door handle yet. He hesitated for a moment and looked down at Gully. From this angle, Gully seemed almost childlike, his large features a little soft and unformed, his expression guileless.

This isn't going to be easy
. Before Sammy could open the door, he heard a chuckle from the end of the driveway. Looking up, he took an involuntary step back. James Lee stood there with three of his Boyz, all holding on to their bicycles.

“Hey, Green-bug,” James Lee said, smiling. “How long is your Big Bug cousin in town for? 'Cause as soon as he leaves, you're getting what your pal Stink got.” The smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Only worse.”

Sammy gulped. His face lost color. Clearly the fact that no one had arrested the crew for beating up Skink had only made them bolder.

Seeing the frightened look on Sammy's face, Gully began scrabbling at the door handle to get out of the car. Sammy leaned against the door.

Not that I can hold it shut against him if he figures out the handle,
he thought.
But I don't want anyone getting killed.
He glanced up at James Lee and the Boyz.
Especially me.

“Um . . . James? Can we talk about this?” Sammy knew the answer to this already, and felt like an idiot for saying it. An idiot and a wimp. If he was going to rid himself of the golem, he needed to take charge of this situation. And now. So he took a deep breath and added, “That is if your peanut brain isn't mashed too hard with the jelly minds of your friends.” He took a deep breath. “That's what the kids will call you tomorrow in school: PB&J Brains.”

James Lee got a strange, angry look on his face. Clearly he was the designated name caller and Sammy should have known better. But Sammy's threat—if it could be called that—had had an unexpected consequence.

“See ya around the school yard, Little Bug,” James Lee said, before vaulting on to his bike, turning a hard left, pulling a high wheelie, with his three leather-clad minions pedaling in his wake. It was meant to look spectacular and frightening but to Sammy it just looked pathetic.

I did it!
Sammy thought before a second thought hit him.
But for how long?

“The bad one!” Gully snarled, suddenly materializing by Sammy's side.

That was when Sammy realized that Gully had figured out the door on the other side and gotten out of the car.
I was too caught up in mouthing off at James Lee to hear him.
He sighed.
James Lee must have seen Gully, though. That's why he ran off.

Beside him, Gully sniffed the air like a bloodhound getting the scent. “The bad one on the left!”

“No, Gully. Let him go. Let them all go. For now.” Even though he would have loved to set Gully on the trail, Sammy couldn't allow the golem to maul anyone on his parents' doorstep.

Maul. As in bang, bash, batter, beat, knock around.

They'd just started toward the house when Sammy had another thought:
If I get rid of Gully now, I'm going to die. But if I keep him around, someone else is going to die.
He shook his head.
Maybe this is what Reb Chaim was worrying about.

He corralled Gully into the house. All the while the golem kept looking back angrily at the last place James Lee and company had been before disappearing down the road. His fists curled and uncurled, but he made no move to follow the gang.

“Maybe Reb Chaim is wrong,” Sammy whispered as he walked Gully up to the front door.

“Reb Chaim is wrong,” Gully said, turning his head so far around to look over his shoulder at Sammy, it looked as if it might snap off. But of course it didn't.

“No, no . . .” Sammy assured him. “Reb Chaim is a good guy.”

“On the right.” The golem nodded.

“And probably
in
the right, too,” Sammy murmured, thinking:
Things should be okay if I keep a
really
close eye on Gully. Or distract him. Sort of like Aunt Betsy and Uncle Ad distract their two-year-old who . . .
here Sammy chuckled . . .
pound for pound is as destructive as a golem.

Now Gully was stopped at the door and began banging his fingers rhythmically against it. But it was drumming, not anger
.

I
can
control him.
Sammy nodded to himself.
I'm
sure
I can.
He
turned the knob and Gully watched with interest. Then they went in.

Skink was looking much better. Not back to his old self, but much better.

“Hey,” Sammy said. They were up in Skink's room, Skink reclining on the bed. Gully plopped down cross-legged on the floor, and Sammy sat in front of a couple of Skink's textbooks at his desk. They were there to do homework, after all. “You don't look nearly as . . .”

“Gray?” Skink said, looking at Gully. “Like your cousin? I don't mean to be, like, impolite,” he said to Gully, “but you don't look good, dude.”

“Alopecia,” Gully said, “and lack of sun, dude.”

Well,
Sammy thought.
At least I don't have to lie about Gully anymore. He's doing just fine on his own.
“Let's get back to algebra, Skink.”

“Nah,” Skink said. “Let's get back to the band!”

“Well, Dad says we can practice in my basement. And Gully, here, is going to be our drummer.”

“Here is the drummer,” Gully said predictably. He gave Skinner his biggest gray smile. His fingers pounded a wobbly beat on the floor.

“All right! What kind of kit do you have?”

“What kind of kit?”

Sammy cut in. “He doesn't have a drum kit yet. Not here. It's . . .” he thought quickly, “back where he used to live. His parents sold it. Too bulky to bring across the ocean. They're from the Czech Republic.”
Here I go lying again,
he thought.
And to my best friend, this time.
“He'll need to get a new one. We'll probably go to Mr. Grambling's music store tomorrow. The one on Market Street? Do you know it?” He wondered dismally how he could pull that off. He had about six dollars in his old piggy bank and maybe a hundred in his bank account. He guessed a drum kit cost a whole lot more than that.

Gully nodded. “Need to get a new one.”

“Awesome! And of course I know Grambling's. It's the best! First thing we looked for when we got here—a good music store. And practicing in your basement is awesome. It's already, like, set up for music. Long as Gully's drum kit isn't a big one, we should have room for the three of us.” He took a deep breath as if the galloping words themselves had exhausted him.

“The
four
of us,” Sammy said carefully. “I told Julia . . . Julia Nathanson she could join.” He said it all in a rush so he wouldn't stumble on her name. “If that's okay?”

“It's, like,
more
than okay.” Skink no longer seemed exhausted. He held his fist out for Gully to bump, but the golem just stared at it, considering.

Or, perhaps, judging whether it's a threat,
Sammy thought.

Having noticed nothing strange in Gully's expression, Skink continued. “We've got a real band now!”

In case the golem was getting the wrong idea about that fist, Sammy gave Skink a quick fist bump.

Just as if he were a cartoon character, Gully looked like a lightbulb had suddenly gone off above him. “Oh,” he said, “awesome!” and gave Skink a fist bump, too, one hard enough to rock Skink back against his pillow.

“Not so rough, Gully,” Sammy cautioned quietly. “He's one of the good guys.”

“On the right,” Gully said, nodding.

Skink grinned broadly. “We're all the good guys here.”

“And a real band,” Gully added.

Well,
Sammy thought,
at least
most
of us are real.

“She plays violin, right?” Skink said, less a question than an afterthought.

“Fiddle,” Gully repeated. “She fiddles around. That's a joke.”

“The first time it's funny,” Sammy told him. “The second time passable. The third time it's . . . ”

“Awesome!” Gully roared.

Sammy was going to say “stupid,” but left it unsaid.

Skink furrowed his brow. “Fiddles can be jazz or country or classical. But can a fiddle be klezmer?”

Sammy smiled. “It's
very
klez.”

“Sweet.” Skink held out his fist to Gully and this time there was no hesitation.

*
Bump*

“A real band,” Gully said again, adding as if it was some kind of blessing, “Real sweet.” He grinned his gray grin. “Awesome!”

“And now . . .” Sammy nodded at Skink. “Now for some
real
algebra.”

Skink reached for a piece of paper on his bedside table. “Not so fast, Mr. Bug.”

“Mr. Bug,” repeated Gully, and for no apparent reason started to laugh. It was a creaky kind of laugh, as if he hadn't practiced it enough.

“I had a lot of time to think at the hospital,” Skink said. “You wouldn't believe how awful TV is during the morning. And I came up with the lyrics to a new song for us to play. Of course there's no music yet. My hands weren't quite ready for that. But I thought—if you liked it—you could write the tune.” He looked at the paper and began to read out loud:

 

Soul Power, Klez Style

 

I've been up and I've been down,

I've been beaten all around.

I've been kicked upon the ground.

Power!

 

Stopping a minute, he looked up. “It's supposed to start like an old black spiritual. My dad's really, like, into that. And of course, I really
was
kicked around.”

“Got it,” Sammy said.

“Power,” Gully added, nodding his head.

“Read the rest.”

Sammy sat down at the bottom of Skink's bed and read outloud:

 

I've been hit and I've been named.

I've been dissed and shook and shamed,

And it's all a power game.

“Power!” Again, Gully's voice was a rumbling roar.

Skink grinned broadly and went on. “Here's the chorus. Didn't have time to write it all down yet.”

 

You don't have it,

So you want it.

Once you get it,

Then you flaunt it.

If you use it,

Don't abuse it,

You will lose it . . .

 

At that point, all three of them shouted: “POWER!”

Sammy's arm shot up in a fist salute. Skink's followed. And last of all, and on the right beat, so did Gully's.

There was a knock on the door. Mrs. Williams's voice called out tentatively, “Everything all right in there?”

“All right,” Gully shouted.

And suddenly Sammy knew it really
was
all right
.
Gully wouldn't have to be dis-animated.
The Boyz would be controlled. And Sammy and his friend—
friends!
—would have a band. He grinned nonstop.

For a long minute the three boys were silent, just as if they were all having the same thoughts.

Then Skink said, “There's, like, another two verses.”

“Let's have them,” Sammy said.

“Power!” Gully's fist went up in the air again.

Reciting from memory, his eyes closed, Skink began:

 

Take the power in your hands.

It's
your
turn to make demands.

Rule the kingdom and its lands.

Power!

 

Come on, brothers, side by side,

In an army long and wide.

Let nothing you and me divide.

Power!

“Power,” Gully shouted again.

“Not so loud,” Sammy told him. “We don't want Skink's mom to shut us down.”

“Brothers side by side,” the golem said, holding out his fist. He waited until the others bumped his fist with theirs. Then he smiled grayly.

“I'm not so sure about that last line.” Skink looked at Sammy, “And, Dude, your cousin really doesn't look healthy. Like maybe he should be in the bed, not me.”

“In the bed,” Gully said, and sat down on the end with Sammy. The bed creaked ominously with his weight. “I'm all right, Dude.”

“All right, all right,” Skink said, moving a pen and the algebra paper to his lap. “Let's get this done so we can concentrate on music tomorrow night.”