In 2022, playwright and author Beth Kander won the fourth annual Hey Alma Hanukkah movie pitch challenge. “I Made It Out of Clay,” her winning pitch, focuses on 40-year-old, perpetually single Eve. Desiring not to spend Hanukkah and her cousin’s wedding alone, she does something drastic. Eve builds herself a golem. What starts out as a light rom-com fantasy quickly mudslides into something much darker. Now, Beth has adapted her pitch into a novel of the same name, which is out tomorrow.
The following is an excerpt from “I Made It Out of Clay” by Beth Kander.
“Rockin’ around the Christmas tree
At the Christmas party hop!
Mistletoe hung where you can see
Every couple tries to stop!”
I slam my fist on the clock radio. Usually I aim for the two-minute snooze button to make sure I don’t drift back to sleep, but I don’t know what the hell I hit this time. Maybe it’s snoozed, maybe I turned it all the way off. I don’t care.
I feel like death.
How much did I have to drink last night?
As I put my hand to my forehead, a small sound escapes me—something between a grumble and a moan. The pain slicing its way through my head is like a dull butter knife attacking stale bread, grinding slowly.
Shuddering, I pull the covers over my head. I lie there for a few minutes, just breathing, trying to make my head stop screaming at me. For the love of all things holy…what all even happened yesterday? It’s coming back in bits and pieces, crumbs of memories sawed off bit by bit by the serrated edge of my hangover headache.
Bryan getting fired. Sasha and me going to the bar at the Heron Hotel, drinking way more than we should have. Me, taking the train home, stumbling into my apartment—no, oh shit, no. I remember now. I didn’t stumble directly into my apartment.
I went to Hot Josh’s first.
Oh no, oh no no no…
I invited him to the wedding, babbling like an idiot and…and did I call myself a figurehead? Can that be right? Understandably, he turned me down, which is when I finally stumbled my drunk ass into my own apartment.
Holy hell! How did I do so many stupid things in just one night? And for Christ’s sake, did I really polish off that ancient bottle of disgusting Mogen David?
Feeling like I might throw up, I put my hand to my mouth. My fingernails feel strange against my lips. Holding my hand in front of my face and squinting at my nails, I can see that they’re filthy, encrusted with pale dry dust.
What in the hell…?
Still feeling slightly sick, I hear my stomach rumbling hungrily.
Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm.
I think it was my stomach.
Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm.
It had to be my stomach.
Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm.
I throw the comforter off my head and roll over onto my side, eyes still squeezed shut to ward off this awful morning. Finally, exhaling sharply, I open my eyes, and see two dark liquid eyes inches away from my own.
I blink once, slowly, not able to process what I’m seeing.
And then I start to scream.
The man beside me catapults from the bed.
He’s fully naked, which makes my scream get even louder, my shriek rising in both pitch and volume.
The naked man is broad-shouldered and muscular, with skin the color of golden sand. His hair and brows are sandy too, but darker, like wet sand after the tide rolls in. He’s facing me head-on, standing at the edge of my bed while I clutch at my covers in terror. But even though he’s a stranger, and naked, and in my bedroom, he doesn’t look threatening. There’s something weirdly familiar about him.
When I take a breath and stop shrieking, I can’t help but notice that although he’s not, well, standing at attention—he’s big.
And circumcised.
“Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrm,” he says, and I know now that the low grumbling sound is coming from him. It’s all he says, but it somehow conveys more. His eyes are fixed on mine, his hands up, palms toward me.
“Mrrrrrrrrrrrrm, mrrrrm.” I would never hurt you. Please, don’t be scared.
I nod, slowly. I should be absolutely terrified. But I’m not. The fact that I can understand his gravelly growls, which do not in any way resemble actual words, must mean we have some sort of connection. Or that I’m just straight up hallucinating. Either way, I was startled when I first saw this naked man. Obviously. But for some reason, when he indicates that he means me no harm…I believe him.
Until he takes a step toward the bed, and then panic seizes me by the throat. I don’t scream this time, but the logical part of my mind kicks into survival mode. I have to get out of here. I have to call for help. I fumble around automatically for my phone—yes, that’s what I need, I need my phone—scrambling my fingers around my sheets, my bedside table, searching for the damn phone. Is it on, or off? Did I plug it in last night? It should be right by my radio alarm—
“…will get a sentimental feeling when you hear
Voices singing, ‘let’s be jolly,
Deck the halls with—’”
The sound blaring out of nowhere makes me nearly jump out of my skin. Before I even know what’s happening, the naked man is leaping toward me, then past me, to the radio alarm, which he slams with his open palm. The room goes completely silent.
The naked man turns to look at me, hand still pressing the alarm clock flat.
“Mrrmmmmmmmm,” he says. I stopped the threat. Are you all right?
I stare as he slowly lifts his hand from my bedside table. The radio alarm is shattered into a thousand pieces, sharp shards of which are embedded in the naked man’s hand. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem to feel any pain. He wipes his hands together, sending bits of plastic and wire falling to the floor, along with something else. Something smaller. Finer. Grainier.
Dust.
Clay?
No.
It can’t be.
Something in me snaps into action. I roll away from him, practically falling off the other side of the bed. Flailing my way to my feet, I grab my robe from the open door of my closet and throw it at him.
“Put it on,” I say.
Obediently, the man wraps himself in my robe. The arms of the silky purple garment barely come to his elbows, but at least he’s no longer nude. He’s looking at me expectantly. Like he’s awaiting a next command.
Oh, shit.
Is he awaiting a next command?
From me?
The thought is terrifying.
And thrilling.
But mostly terrifying.
“Hold still,” I say, practically squeaking.
He instantly goes rigid. I stare for a long, long moment, and the mysterious man doesn’t move a muscle.
Shaking so hard I’m afraid I might chip a tooth, I walk the long way around the bed, slowly making my way toward him. I don’t know what I’m about to do until I’m standing right in front of him, but when only inches separate us, I reach up. I brush the shock of brown hair from his forehead, and gasp.
Three Hebrew letters, engraved on his brow.
Alef. Mem. Tav.
“No way,” I whisper. “No…way…”
I must be hallucinating.
This can’t be real.
He can’t be real.
I absolutely cannot have made a damn golem.
It’s impossible.
Besides, a golem wouldn’t look this human—weren’t they clumpy, muddy monsters? Aside from the distinctive lettering on his brow, this thing—guy, golem, whatever he is—looks like a man. A well-formed, attractive man. Tall and towering, but not unnaturally large—other than his well-endowed southern region. The edges of his hands and fingernails are dusty, but the rest of him isn’t. He doesn’t look like the lumpy mud-monster of golem lore.
Oh my God, Eve, get it together.
What does it matter what they hypothetically look like? There’s no such thing as golems, and certainly no way in hell that I could have made one. Even if they did exist, wasn’t creating them the purview of, like, old bearded rabbis?
But then I remember my Bubbe’s words.
I would have. I should have. But before I could…
A pounding on my door interrupts my thoughts.
The golem—holy shit, I’m really thinking of this guy as a golem—swivels his head toward the sound. With a low growl, he takes a step toward the front of my apartment. I put my hands on his chest, stopping him. Beneath the silky robe, his pecs feel like chiseled rock. If I’m hallucinating, someone must’ve slipped me one hell of a drug.
“Wait here,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look pleased.
But he stands still.
I run from my bedroom to my living room, practically flinging myself against the door. My eye is so close to the peephole I have to blink a minute and let my vision adjust before I can see through it. There, on the other side of my door, is Hot Josh.
Exhaling shakily, I turn the dead bolt and open the door.
“Eve,” says Josh, looking concerned. He’s wearing a creamy cable-knit sweater and dark brown corduroys. He looks much preppier than usual, like he’s about to teach a sociology class or something, and somehow this, too, is hot. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual but probably sounding manic. “I’m fine, why?”
“Thought I heard screaming,” he says. “Were you—”
“TV,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the small and utterly silent flat screen in my living room. “You know how like sometimes the whispery parts are so quiet, then you turn it up and then out of nowhere there’s an action scene and BAM, suddenly it’s like way too loud and ha, God, I’m babbling. Anyway, I’m sorry about the noise.”
“Oh…okay,” Josh says, not looking entirely convinced. “So you’re…you’re all right, then?”
“Yep, never better,” I say, which is a lie for more reasons than I can count.
“Right,” Josh says. “Good, then. Hey, uh, Eve. About last night—”
“Now’s not actually a great time,” I say, face practically bursting into flames. Even the presence of a handmade man/possible hallucination is not enough to overpower my humiliation at the memory of Josh turning me down last night. “I have a big meeting this morning, really, really big. So I’ve really got to get to work.”
“Mrmmmmm.”
The rumble from my bedroom makes both Josh and I start.
“The hell was that?” Josh asks, dark brows knitting into one thick worried caterpillar on his forehead.
“Radiator,” I say, thinking fast. “It’s been making the weirdest noises.”
My heart is thudding so hard I’m afraid it’s going to punch its way out of my chest.
Josh heard the golem.
Which means this isn’t just a hallucination.
Holy shit.
“You should…probably get that looked at,” Josh says. Then he looks at me, his big brown eyes earnest and searching. “Eve, I just wanted to say—”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, nodding my head up and down like a maniacal bobblehead doll. “Yes, I will definitely get my radiator looked at. And I’ll keep my TV volume down. Bye!”
I shut the door on Josh and whatever he was about to say. Then I lean against the door, breathing hard. Was Josh about to bring up my drunken appearance at his door last night? Honestly, even if I didn’t have a golem in my bedroom, no way in hell did I want to talk to Josh about that conversation. Now. Or ever. Also, I wasn’t lying when I said I have to get to work.
Especially if I’m taking tomorrow off—or “working remotely,” whatever—to help Rosie, I really have to get my ass to the office today. On time. Which means I need to get moving. But what the hell am I going to do with the mythical monster standing guard at my bedside, wearing my purple robe? I can’t leave him here. Out of options, I suppress a groan.
I’m going to have to take the golem to the office with me.
Excerpted from I MADE IT OUT OF CLAY by Beth Kander. Copyright © 2024 by Beth Kander. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HTP/HarperCollins.
