“Was she trying to protect you?”
Anger flared in her eyes. “What difference does it make? She’s a monster, Toby! She’s a golem!”
The word seemed to surprise her, even as she said it. She shut her mouth tightly, glared at him.
A golem? He knew what they were, of course, though mostly from insults. Sammy’s dumb as a golem. Don’t just stand there like a golem. He’d always pictured them as huge, lumbering things. His mother had never told him folktales about golems—but then, she’d never told him any tales at all.
“She can’t be just a monster,” he said. “She saved my life. And yours, too.”
“And she could kill us both, as easy as breathing.”
He shook his head. “You told me once that if I was ever in trouble, I should go to Missus Chava. So I did. Were you wrong?”
“No—but I wasn’t smart, either. Protection comes with a cost, Toby, and this, right here, is the cost. It’s you riding all over creation, poking your nose into the sort of trouble that’ll get you killed.”
“No, it’s going to get them killed,” he said, growing angry. “They’re trying to keep me out of it!”
“So maybe you should listen to them!”
He crossed his arms. “Yell at me all you want—but I thought Missus Chava was your friend.”
He braced for an outburst, and for a moment he thought she’d oblige him. But then she merely shook her head. “They aren’t the sort of people you can be friends with, boychik.”
“Fine,” he muttered, turning away. “You tell yourself that. I’m going to help them.”
“Don’t you dare!” she shouted after him. “You think I’m saying all this for my health? This isn’t some fairy-tale! It’s all real!”
He turned back, peered at her in confusion. “I know that, Ma. Every night I go to sleep, and the old man’s there, waiting for me. I’ve known my whole life that it’s real.”
A pause—and then she looked away, her face stricken. “Toby. Oh, how I wish I’d never set foot in that bakery.”
They stood together, tense and uncomfortable. Then he said, “So how’d you get away from him?”
She was silent a moment, and then said grudgingly, “It was Chava. She came for me—no, they both did. I don’t remember it very well. But the old man wanted her, not me. So he took her, and let me go.”
“You mean, she traded places with you?”
His mother nodded—and then, seeing his expression, “But it was her fault I was there in the first place! If she hadn’t . . .” Her voice trailed away; she sighed. “Oh, I don’t know anymore. I was young, I got tangled up in their lives. Nothing was the same after that.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I just wanted something better for you, sweetheart.”
“I know, Ma,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s a part of me now. I can’t just ignore it.”
Silence. Then Anna wiped her face and said, “Now you tell me something, as long as we’re having it all out. What’s that gold coin doing beneath our sofa, with your hidden money?”
She’d known, this whole time? His face burned in embarrassment. “I got it from—well, Mister Ahmad, actually. It was just a tip for a cable!” he said as her eyes went wide. “That’s how all of this started! I delivered him a cable, and he tipped me the coin. He didn’t even know who I was. And I don’t think he knew what he was giving me, either.”
She snorted. “That sounds like him.” And then, at his pleading look: “Yes, all right, boychik. So where is Chava?”
Relief flooded him; he wanted to grin, to kiss her. “She’s teaching cooking lessons at an orphanage, up in Hamilton Heights. But she calls herself Charlotte now.”
She made a face at that. “What was wrong with Chava? Well, never mind. And Ahmad—he’s still in Little Syria?”
He nodded. “He’s got a whole building he lives in. The Amherst. You wouldn’t believe what he’s done to it.”
“I just might.” She paused, eyed him. “When you were with Chava—did you think about anything that you didn’t want her to know?”
He felt himself go pale. “You mean—she can . . .” He tapped his forehead with a finger.
“Yes, and it takes some getting used to.” She sighed, thinking. “You can get uptown faster than I can. Find her, and tell her what’s happened. But for God’s sake, be careful. I’ll go to Little Syria and make sure Ahmad’s still alive, and you can meet me there. Walk me to a taxicab—I’ll tell you the rest on the way.”
* * *
Come to the roof. Bring fire. The door’s open.—A.
It would be too risky for Maryam to be seen entering the Amherst alone, in broad daylight—and so Sayeed went instead, carrying a stack of seltzer-bottle crates as though returning them to the grocer’s. He reached the Amherst, ducked quickly inside—and then, once he’d recovered from the sight before him, carried the crates up the staircase to the man who sat on the roof, in the sun’s last fading rays.
The Jinni watched as Sayeed set down the crates. Inside one of them was a large stoneware bowl from Maryam’s kitchen. Wordlessly Sayeed placed this upon the tar-paper, then broke one of the crates into kindling. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket—it was, the Jinni saw, his telegram blank—and crumpled it, placed it inside the bowl, arranged the kindling around it, and set a match to the paper. A whiff of carbon, and the tinder began to burn.
The Jinni put his hands to the flames, and felt better at once. “Thank you,” he said.
Sayeed nodded, and the Jinni thought he would leave—but he only sat back, staring into the fire. Suddenly the Jinni realized he’d never been alone with the man before. Had they ever so much as traded words?
A few minutes passed in silence—and then Sayeed said, “I’ve been trying to convince Maryam that we should move to Brooklyn.”
The Jinni looked up, surprised. “Why?”
“Because of you,” Sayeed said.
The Jinni took
