The Matchmaker's Medium

by Laurel King

  “And you’re sure she’s not here? She didn’t, maybe, follow me?”

  I chuckled a little. “No, she’s not here. And, yes, I’m sure.”

  “Well, can you look for her? Can you ask her to come here? I need to know what she’s trying to tell me. She looked so worried! D’you think she’s trying to warn me about something? Oh, lord, what if it’s the dia-beetis? Or the big C? Oh, lord, oh, Jesus!”

  “Calm down, Victoria. If it were that serious, she’d be here right now, trying to get my attention. Since she’s not here, it must not be too important.”

  She sighed loudly, visibly relieved.

  “Maybe you could just go home and rest, and call me if she appears to you again tonight?”

  “I s’pose that would be all right. But first, I have to call the body shop and see if my car’s fixed yet. I can’t have the taxi totin’ me all over the place, and I’m not payin’ for no danged renter car, neither!”

  Jamal stood and walked to Victoria, looking at her with new interest.

  “Which shop?” he asked, pointing from me to Victoria, Ask her.

  Rolling my eyes, I asked, “Which shop is your car at, Victoria?”

  “Oh, it’s over to that Spanish fella’s place, down 49. Y’know, that one where it has the big sign about replacing your window-shield for free? I used ‘em once, when I got a e-normous crack in mine, from a rock spit out by a semi. They just called my in-shurnse and I didn’t have to pay one red cent!”

  Jamal said, “She needs to tell you more.”

  What? Why?

  “Just keep her talking.”

  I’m gonna kill you for this, I thought. Wait. I mean—hell, you know what I mean.

  He just laughed again. Glad I’m keeping you entertained, Jamal.

  He gave me the thumbs-up signal. Jerk.

  “How long did they say it would be?”

  “Hmm? Oh, they said it should be done today, but I already stopped there before I came here, and it wasn’t ready, yet. So rude when folks tell you a time, then don’t stick to it. I tell ya, it’s the times we’re livin’ in, that’s what it is. Ever-body livin’ in sin, and nobody takin’ responsibility, that’s what it is.

  “Who’s your mechanic?”

  “Some fella—Eric, Elmer, Ennis—no, wait! Esteban! That’s it.”

  Jamal froze. “Who did she say?”

  Esteban, I thought, what are you, deaf?

  “No way,” he whispered, his mouth dropping open at the end. What the hell?

  “He’s the same fella did my window-shield. He’s a Yankee, from up New York way.”

  Haha. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing one of us northerners referred to as a ‘Yankee’.

  “All right, well, I’ll be goin’ now,” she said, starting the arduous process of heaving herself over, up, and off the couch. It was kind of like watching a whale un-beach itself; revolting and mesmerizing, all at once. I was tempted to help her, or even offer to help her, but I could easily imagine how that conversation would turn out.

  Instead, I said, “Let me walk you out.”

  “No, no, I can find the door on my own. Just need to call that dern taxi fella, again. He’s reliable, but he’s slow as molasses in the winter.” Finally freed of the couch cushions, she straightened her shirt and pants, smoothed her hair flat, dabbed at her upper lip again. “I’ll call ya if grandmamma comes tonight. You want I should call you right after? Or should I wait till mornin’?”

  If you call me in the middle of the night, I think I just might take a short walk off the nearest cliff.

  “No, you can just wait till tomorrow.”

  “All right, then. Thanks again, Amber,” she said, pushing some buttons on her ‘cellular’. As I shut the door behind her, I could hear her yelling into the phone, “Hello? Hello? Rod-ree-go? I’m ready for ya, now!” God bless poor Rod-ree-go, I thought, trying not to laugh again.

  I walked back into the room, almost plopped onto the couch, then stopped myself when I saw the huge sweat stains where Victoria had been sitting.

  “Gross! It looks like she took a bath and sat here to dry off!” I yelled, pointing at the couch, just in case Jamal hadn’t seen the whole thing.

  “That’s one big lady,” he replied. “How you think she gets herself clean?”

  I shuddered. “Thanks a lot for the visual.”

  “Sorry.”

  I walked over to the coffee pot, saw it was empty, looked at my coffee cup and saw it looked the same.

  “Is the coffee evaporating?”

  “Seriously? Girl, you know you drink it all. Who else do you think it was? Me?” he asked, giggling at his own joke.

  “Ha-ha, very funny, you’re such a comedian,” I said, grabbing the empty coffee decanter and walking to the sink. “What was all that about, anyway? Why did you want to know more about the mechanic?”

  “Esteban. He’s someone who….came up, before.”

  “Really? How did he come up?”

  “Others told me about him.”

  “Why? Is he a killer or something?”

  “You always think someone’s a killer. You know that’s warped, right?”

  “Jamal, the world has changed a bit since your time. We all watch crime shows, cop shows, investigation shows, hell, the average person watching TV knows more about solving crimes than some of the cops did back in your day.”

  “You know, ‘my day’ wasn’t that long ago.”

  I snorted, “Ha! Okay, tell yourself whatever you need to.” I brought the water-filled decanter back to the machine, poured it in, and spilled about half of it all over my papers. “Dang it!”

  I set the pot back in its cradle, grabbed some paper towels, and tried to clean up the mess. Mostly, I just made it worse.

  “You could offer to help, you know.”

  “Why offer? We both know I can’t actually do anything to help you with it.”

  “Because. It’s common courtesy, that’s why.”

  “You ladies are a riot!” He walked away, shaking his head.

  After I finished cleaning up, I sat back at my desk, twirling my pen. “Do I need to talk to Esteban to help Victoria’s grandmother go away?”

  “Maybe.”

  That’s specific.

  “I wasn’t trying to be,” he said.

  “Get out of my head!” I yelled, throwing the pen across the room at him. As usual, it went right through him.

  “You missed,” he said, and winked.

  Chapter Five

  As I walked up to the garage, I could hear the rat-tat-tat of pneumatic tools at work. For some reason, that sound always made me feel like a kid at my Uncle Leonard’s shop. He was the best uncle in the world, in my humble opinion. Always had a piece of candy in his pocket, a warm smile, and a big hug for me. He was a man’s man, always talking about fishing, hunting, and football, and forever teasing me about my hair.

  I only saw him a handful of times—thanks to my military brat upbringing—but I cherished the memory of every single one of those times. Just the smell of this place was making me all teary-eyed.

  “Que paso?” I heard, from right behind me. I turned look at the owner of the voice, and my whole body went numb.

  The man was drop-dead, call the undertaker, pick out a coffin, and start writing the obituary gorgeous. He was tall, but not too tall; just tall enough that I had to look up at his eyes. And his eyes—they were a medium-light brown, almost glowing with reflected sunlight. He was wiping his big, greasy hands on one of those blue shop towels, his Giants ball cap pushed way back on a shiny-bald head.

  Dark, expressive eyebrows seemed to move on their own as he turned his head a little this way, a little that way, trying to figure me out. With his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, I could see his massive biceps pop and twitch with every movement, covered in warm-brown skin the color of my morning coffee-and-cream. I was so stunned by his beauty—yeah, that’s right, that’s the word, beauty—that I almost forgot my own na
me.

  “Uh, I, um, it’s—”

  “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to grab me by my elbow. He steadied me with his powerful grip, which practically made me faint, it was so stimulating. What the hell is wrong with me? I managed to think, just before Jamal stepped into view.

  Oops.

  He looked like a disapproving father, arms crossed on his chest, eyebrow lifted, mouth scrunched into a smirk-frown.

  What? I managed to think, trying to play innocent. He wasn’t buying it. Just kept standing there, shaking his head.

  “Ma’am?”

  Huh? What? Who, me?

  I cleared my throat, trying to hide my nervousness. “Yes?”

  “Are you all right? You looked like you were about to fall over.”

  “I’m fine, I think I’m just dehydrated from this heat.”

  “Come inside, let me get you some cold water. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll work.”

  I just stood there like a moron, staring at the name sewn on his shirt over the breast pocket: Esteban.

  He gave me a little bump, trying to get me moving. I complied, letting him steer me toward the shop door, still holding my elbow. Then he put his other hand on the small of my back. Oh, God, I really might fall over, I thought. What is happening to me?

  Jamal finally gave up the ‘disapproving daddy’ role, and walked through the wall, to the shop on the other side.

  Show off, I thought, automatically.

  “Jealous,” I heard him say, faintly, from inside the building.

  We walked into a shop that was old—but more well-kept than most brand new office buildings. The tools and equipment weren’t the newest things off the assembly line, but they were taken care of. I was instantly impressed. From experience, I had learned it isn’t having the most money that counts—it’s taking care of what you have. Anyone can just go out and buy new stuff. It takes a special kind of person to care for things long enough for them to have a history.

  “Have a seat, miss.”

  He directed me to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his office, past the shop area. I sat, trying to look like a believable ‘damsel in distress.’

  “I’ll be right back with the water, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I said, as he walked out. And, boy, how he walked out, too. I almost fell out of the chair, trying to watch his tight butt in those Dickies pants—

  “Hello,” Jamal said, directly in front of my face.

  I jumped back in shock, my hand to my neck, like a really distressed damsel. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What the hell is your problem, Jamal?”

  “My problem? I’m not the one just got busted staring at someone’s ass. A stranger’s ass.”

  Now he was acting more like a jealous brother, instead of disapproving daddy. Not really an improvement.

  “Go away.”

  He frowned at me. I looked away, pretending to check out the wall calendar. When I looked back, he was gone. Good riddance.

  “Here you go,” said Esteban, handing me a little paper cup of water. “It’s not much, but it’s cold, and it’s clean. We have it delivered by those guys who wear uniforms like ours. Pretty funny, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said, suddenly very interested in my cup of water. I guzzled it and handed the empty cup back to him.

  “Wow,” he said. “Were you thirsty?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Evidently, that’s all I knew how to say, now.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah.” Oh, for crying out loud.

  “Good. Can’t have beautiful ladies falling in my parking lot. Bad for business.” He winked at me, and my heart slammed into my stomach.

  “Haha,” I managed to squeak out. Ugh.

  “So—what brings you here, on this beautiful 200-degree day?”

  “Oh. Well, I’m here to talk to you about Victoria.”

  “Victoria. Oh, the big—I mean, the nice lady who was in the accident?”

  I giggled, in spite of myself. “Yeah, her.”

  “She already picked up her car, a little while ago.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know it was done.”

  “Yep. We try not to take longer than we have to. Especially with, uh, certain types of people.”

  “You mean, people who make you crazy if you don’t finish at the exact minute you said you would? Those types of people?”

  He chuckled, “Yeah. That’s the type.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to talk to you about her car. Not just her car, anyway.”

  “All right. What did you want to talk to me about? Besides the car, I mean.”

  “Well. I’m not sure how to ask this…”

  “Let me give you a hint: think of the question, then say it out loud. Does that help?”

  “Ah, a fellow smartass. I love it.”

  He smiled, his goatee framing his pinkish-brown lips that were so soft looking I wanted to reach out and—

  “Is there something on my face?” he asked, touching his mouth and cheeks with his dirty fingers.

  “No, oh, crap, now you have grease all over yourself.” I reached around him, grabbed one of the clean shop towels on a shelf next to his desk, and started wiping his face. I was doing a pretty good job, too, until I noticed his expression: uncomfortable shock.

  Well, that’s just great; now he knows I’m a total nut-job.

  “Sorry about that,” I muttered, instantly dropping my hands to my sides. I looked at the ground, kicking my foot a little, twisting the shop towel and seriously contemplating making a break for it. Instead, being the chicken I really am, I just stood there wishing I could evaporate into the air.

  “It’s okay.” He walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall, “Mind if I use that?”

  I looked at the towel in my hands like it was a snake that somehow slithered in when I wasn’t looking. I tossed it to him fast, like it was on fire. He caught it easily, in his big, strong hand with those long fingers –

  There I go again.

  “Whatta you think?” he asked, turning from the mirror and motioning toward his now-clean face. “Better?”

  “Yeah.” Jeez. I hope there won’t be permanent brain damage from whatever this is.

  “So, now that you’ve had plenty of time to think of your question, are you ready to ask it?” he teased.

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Fire away.”

  “All right, so, she came to me and told me her grandmother’s spirit—“

  “Oh, is that all? You want to ask me about her abuela’s spirit appearing every night since her accident?”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  “Sure, that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

  “In my family, they say things like that are ‘messages from the next life’. Nothing to be scared of, just—a news story, delivered by a reporter from the other side.”

  Nicely put.

  “So your family has it?”

  “Has what?”

  “It. The Spirit Mark.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, sorry. That’s what I call it. It’s kind of like a gift—or a curse, depending on your perspective—where you can talk to spirits. You know, ghosts.”

  “My mother had it. And her mother, before her, my abuela. It’s pretty common in our culture, talking to spirits. We don’t see it as shameful or ‘crazy’, like most of you do.”

  “That’s refreshing.”

  “Do you have it? The—what did you call it?—Spirit Marker.”

  “Spirit Mark. And yes, I have it.”

  “You don’t seem very happy about it.”

  “Well, it’s been more of a curse than a blessing for me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Kind of a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “How long is long?”

  “Um, it’s been with me my whole life, as far back as I can remember. More than 30 years’ worth, anyway.”

 
“You don’t look old enough to say that.”

  I blushed. Which I never do. “I’m old enough.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  We looked at each other for a moment too long.

  “Hey, boss?”

  Esteban’s head twitched, like someone who abruptly woke from a daydream.

  “What?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but we need some help on the Ford out here. The pickup?”

  “Sure, sure, okay, I’ll be right there.” He waved the guy out of the room, looking distracted.

  “I can just come back another time, if you’re busy.”

  “I have a better idea: Go to dinner with me.”

  I actually felt my mouth drop open.

  “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, I just thought maybe we could talk about that mark thing—“

  “Sure, I’d love to.”

  He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny office. “Great! What time should I pick you up? And where do you live?”

  “I guess, maybe, seven-ish? Or eight, if that’s too early.”

  “No, seven-ish is perfect. Not seven, because that’s too early. But seven-ish is exactly the time I had in mind when I asked.”

  Yep. A fellow smartass. This should be amusing, if nothing else.

  “Okay. Well, let me give you my address.”

  “Just text it to me. Here, give me your cell phone,” he said, reaching for it. I handed it over, a little too willingly, and it slipped out of my hand.

  “Whoops,” he said, expertly saving it from certain destruction on the floor.

  “You have good hands,” I said, then froze. Wow, that was a Freudian slip if there ever was one, I thought, terrified he might catch it.

  “That’s what they tell me,” he answered, winking at me. Yep, he caught it. Damn.

  “Okay, so, seven-ish o’clock? I’ll text you the address.”

  “Sounds great.” He walked me to the door and waved as I drove away.

  “I guess it went better than you thought it would,” Jamal said from the back seat.

  “No thanks to you,” I snapped.

  “Hey! Don’t blame that mess on me!” he said, “If I was running the show, it would’ve gone a lot smoother than that, foxy lady.”

  “Well, I got a date out of it.”

  “I know. And in the words of Jimmie Walker, that’s dy-no-MITE!”