At last he felt calm enough to go home again. The building was quiet, for a Sunday morning. He carried the bicycle through a hallway that smelled of coffee and frying onions, past neighbors sunk in their own dismal thoughts.
His mother was still on the sofa.
“Mama,” he called. She never slept this late, not even on Sundays. He went to her and shook her shoulder—and the heat of her skin made him pull back his hand. He switched on the light and saw that she was drenched with sweat, her breaths shallow and quick. He pulled the blanket from her—and only then saw the rent in her stocking, and the swollen, livid wound beneath it.
“Mama!” He shook her, urgently, but she only moaned. He had to find a neighbor, get her to a hospital—they couldn’t afford it, but what if she was dying—
An old memory swam up through his fright. His mother, her face in shadow, her voice urgent: Find Missus Chava.
He grabbed his bicycle and ran down the stairs.
* * *
The boardinghouse was silent when the Jinni arrived, the windows drawn and black.
“Chava!” the Jinni shouted up at her window. She’d be furious at him for making a scene in front of the entire neighborhood, but he hardly cared, only let her be there—
The door opened.
It was the Golem, whole and uninjured. He nearly sagged with relief. But she didn’t rush down to shush and berate him, or march coldly past him in annoyance. She didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at him. She seemed dazed, drained of life—
And it was his fault, he realized. He’d left her alone all night, with the grief of an entire neighborhood.
She sat down on the steps and put her face in her hands. For a terrible moment he thought she was about to start sobbing. He tried to think of something to say—but what excuse could he make? He’d lost track of time; he hadn’t heard the news. Both were true. Neither was enough.
He decided to try anyway. “Chava . . .”
But her head came up then, as though hearing something in the distance. She stood, peering down the street. A boy on a bicycle was pedaling furiously toward them, tears streaking his face.
“Toby?” she said—and then she was rushing down the steps and past the Jinni as the boy skidded to a stop on the sidewalk. “Toby, what’s wrong?”
“Mama’s hurt her leg,” the boy said, voice quavering. “She’s got a fever, she won’t wake up—”
“Toby, listen carefully. You must go back home, and keep her as cool as you can. I’ll telephone Mount Sinai and have them send an ambulance to your address.”
His eyes had gone round at the name. “But we don’t have—we can’t—”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be taken care of. Now go. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” And the boy pedaled off—though not without darting a glance at the Jinni first, as though, even in the midst of this crisis, he couldn’t help his curiosity.
The Jinni stood lost, defeated.
“I must go,” she muttered, not looking at him. “Anna needs me.”
He nodded. “May I see you tonight?”
“No,” she said, walking past him up the steps. “Come tomorrow, if you can remember.”
He went to Pennsylvania Station after that. Even the Sunday travelers seemed quieter than usual, hurrying to and fro with their heads lowered. He found his favorite bench in the Concourse, unoccupied save for a newspaper whose headlines seemed to shout at him, telling of the girls dead and burned. He picked up the paper and tossed it beneath the bench. Callous, he could hear her say; selfish. And perhaps he was callous, and selfish, and every other failing she might list. But what did that mean, in the end? That he valued himself above others—that he valued her above others? Was that truly such a fault?
He knew he had no hope of undoing the damage he’d caused. She couldn’t feel his remorse, so she would never quite forgive him. She couldn’t sense the truth of his words, which meant she’d never truly believe him. Some part of her would always think him unfeeling, uncaring—and he’d begun to wonder whether it was worth convincing her otherwise.
He sat there for a while, looking up at the glass-set arches that divided the Concourse from the heavens. I wish I could fly again, he thought, to his own mild surprise.
He walked back to the Amherst, where Arbeely had banked the forge and left a note for him at the workbench, awkward with concern. Off to church. Come by later if you need anything. He considered going to Arbeely’s apartment, possibly with a bottle of araq, to unburden himself—but what good would it do? The man was in no position to give him advice. He’d been a bachelor his whole life—and the Jinni hardly wanted to remind him of that fact, not when he himself was the cause of it.
He went to the forge and dug out the coals, adjusted the fan, watched the flames spread themselves the length of the bed. For a moment he stood with his hand inches from the fire, remembering that rush of warmth and strength, before he turned away and threw himself into his work.
* * *
“Toby,” said Missus Chava that evening, “do you know where your mother keeps the pepper-mill?”
It wasn’t Toby’s fault, what had happened to his mother. Everyone had said so: Missus Chava, the nurses, the doctor, the neighbors he’d begged the ice from, everybody. Yet he couldn’t tear himself free of the guilt. The pepper-mill was in the cabinet above the stove, it had been there all his life—but how could he say such a mundane, everyday thing while his mother lay in a bed at Mount Sinai? He could still smell the hospital on his clothes, still see her writhing in pain from the dressing they’d placed on her leg while the doctor marveled at the infection, saying, I’ve never seen a case of septicemia progress so rapidly. Do you ever
