The Matchmaker's Medium

by Laurel King

  “Careful, Jamal, you’re dating yourself.”

  “Someone needs to. Can’t seem to find any foxy ladies to boogie down with me on this side of things.”

  “I meant—just, never mind. I need a new dress. Wanna go shopping?”

  “Like you need to ask.”

  Chapter Six

  “Come on in!” I yelled down the stairs.

  “You sure?” Esteban yelled back.

  “Yes! I’m almost ready, just finishing my hair!”

  “Okay!” I heard the screen door open and slam closed. I made the ten-thousandth mental note to myself to get the spring fixed on that stupid door, so it wouldn’t slam anymore.

  “Why so much makeup?” Jamal asked, looking at me in the mirror. It was creepy, the way I could see him, but the mirror didn’t reflect him. Like something out of an old B-movie vampire flick from the late 50s.

  “Because I don’t want him to see my bad skin,” I said, scowling at him.

  “I can dig it. No need to get all those wrinkles pushed together.”

  I swung my hand to smack his arm, and got nothing but air.

  “You’re lucky I can’t hit you. Pig.”

  He laughed at my insult, and proceeded to look me up and down, like one of his ‘girls’ back in the day.

  “Do I pass inspection, sergeant?”

  He snapped to attention, saluted me, and said, “Sir, no sir!”

  “That’s ma’am to you, private.” I stuck my tongue out at him, for good measure.

  “You look like a million dollars, baby.” He winked and walked away.

  “Where are you going?”

  He stuck his head back in, “To check out your new man. Where else would I be going?”

  “Hey! You leave him alone. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, okay, white girl. Let me handle The Man, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yo’self into. Can you dig it?” He wiggled his butt, shuffled his feet, and did a little move with his hands.

  “Just go. I’ll be down in a few.”

  He disappeared through the wall, even though the open doorway was six inches to the left.

  “Show off,” I whispered.

  Jealous, he answered in my head.

  I smiled, accidentally burning myself in the process. “Ouch!” I stuck my burned finger in my mouth, trying to ease the sting.

  * * * *

  “Would you like a wine list, sir?”

  “Not me. Do you want any wine?” Esteban asked.

  “No, thanks. It just makes me dizzy and sleepy.”

  “Very well,” the waiter said, sliding the wine list back into his apron-pocket. “Would you like any appetizers?”

  “Uh, maybe you could just let us look at the menu,” I said, looking at Esteban for backup.

  “Yeah, we need a few more minutes to decide,” he said, winking at me. The waiter looked at us like we were naked wedding crashers and stormed off in a huff.

  “Moody much?” I asked, pointing a finger at the waiter.

  “I already know what I want, but I think it’s kind of fun screwing around with the waiters,” he said, leaning toward me like we had a really big secret.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” I teased.

  “So, now that we’re alone—well, sort of alone—can you tell me about your mark?”

  “Oh, that?” I waved my hand like it was the silliest thing I ever heard. “You don’t wanna hear about that, it’s boring.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “For starters, when did you know you had it? Was it, like, a special birthmark or something?”

  “Uh, no. There was no physical mark. Actually, the first time I knew I had it was the first time I saw a ghost.”

  “Well, that’s one way to get going. How old were you? Fifteen, sixteen?”

  “Ha! I wish. Try five.”

  “Five? You were only five years old the first time you saw a ghost?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I thought you said your culture didn’t see it as crazy.”

  “Well, being able to speak to the spirits isn’t crazy, but having to do such an adult thing at the age of five? That’s a little crazy.”

  I scanned the menu one more time, running my finger down the laminated page. “Okay, I know what I want. Where’s that annoying waiter?” Of course, because I wanted to find him, the waiter was nowhere to be found.

  “You know how it goes, they disappear right when you want them around, then get right in your face when you don’t. Like dogs.”

  “I guess so. I don’t have any dogs. Do you have any dogs?”

  “Yep—a Rottweiler and a beagle/dachshund mix. Both females.”

  “That’s a strange combination.”

  “My friend gave me the Rotty before he deployed to Afghanistan. My kids picked the little one.”

  Kids?

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “What? Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just didn’t realize you had any—dogs.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. You’re not surprised by the dogs, you’re surprised by the kids, and you know it.” He was mock-angry with me, pushing his eyebrows down into a frightening Jack Nicholson-in-The-Shining type of look.

  “Wow. Don’t make that face too often. Unless you want to scare off every woman within a five mile radius.”

  He laughed a rich, hearty, belly laugh, just as the mysteriously-reappeared waiter spoke.

  “Are we ready now?” he asked, whipping out his fancy pen and the standard order notepad.

  “Yes—we are ready now,” Esteban said, winking at me again.

  This guy isn’t just a smartass, he’s a smartass with an evil sense of humor. I totally love it, I thought, studying him as he ordered. He cleaned up pretty well, his mocha skin shining in the warm restaurant lighting, bald head gleaming. And he smelled so good I wanted to order him for dinner.

  “And for the lady?” the waiter asked, turning to me.

  “Oh, um, I’ll have the…” I snapped the menu back open, my mind suddenly blank, “the prime rib.”

  “Excellent choice,” he said. He finished scribbling in his notepad and slid the menus out of our hands. “Your appetizers and salads will be out shortly.” He sauntered away, waved and smiled at someone across the room, and disappeared into the kitchen with a flair.

  “Some people like their jobs way too much,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  “So, where was I?”

  “You were telling me about the first time you saw a ghost.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I saw a little girl in the bathroom at school.”

  He sat there, waiting for more. Finally, he asked, “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She was murdered.” I started messing with the rolls in the basket, squishing my finger into one and pulling it apart.

  “Oh, that’s all.”

  “Well, she disappeared a few days before I saw her. At the time, we thought she was just lost or something.”

  “Obviously. Because little girls usually wander off, lost, for days at a time.”

  “Look, I was just a little kid, myself. I didn’t know any better.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, reaching for my hand, which I dodged by shoving a piece of bread in my mouth. He pulled his hand back and let it rest in his lap. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  I shook my head, exasperated. “It’s okay. I just hate talking about it. Isabella was really sweet; she didn’t deserve what happened.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “When I saw her in the bathroom, I told my teacher. She looked for her, but Isabella had disappeared. Besides, Miss Melody wouldn’t have been able to see her, anyway. She didn’t have the mark.”

  “What happened when she couldn’t find Isabella?”<
br />
  “She dragged me to the principal, who called the police and my mother. I could handle the other grownups not believing me, but my mother? She ripped into me something fierce, when she found out I was ‘lying’ about seeing Isabella.”

  “Did you tell her the truth?”

  “No way. One thing you couldn’t tell my mother was the truth. Why waste the energy?”

  “Sounds like a great lady.”

  A server brought our salads and appetizers to the table. We busied ourselves with reorganizing the table so we had enough room for everything, then got down to serious eating. I watched his strong hands moving the fork from plate to mouth, and wished to Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy that I could be a fork. Just for one night.

  “—in the end?” he finished. Crap, what did he just say?

  “Sorry, I was thinking about something else. What did you say?”

  He stopped eating, tilted his head to one side, and peered closely at my face.

  “Are you always this distracted?”

  “Who, me? Distracted?” I asked in my best mock-insulted voice. He laughed.

  “Fair enough,” he said, laughing. “What I asked was ‘did you find out what happened to her in the end?’”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s a sad story. Somebody took her and killed her. A stranger. They still don’t know why he did it. I don’t think he knows why he did it.”

  “He’s still in prison?”

  “Prison for the mentally insane. The guy was a patient at the county mental hospital; got dumped out on the streets a few days before he took Isabella.”

  “Don’t tell me. Lack of funding?”

  “Well, if you don’t want me to tell you...”

  “You didn’t, you know, um….see it, did you?”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way for me. I just see the ghosts, they talk to me and tell me their story, that kind of thing. Sometimes, they can’t talk, so we have to play the ‘guess what I’m trying to tell you’ game.”

  “So, he was wandering around, homeless, insane. Then he saw a little girl and took her?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah. It was that random and simple.”

  “That pisses me off and scares the hell out of me, all at the same time. My daughter is seven right now, and all I can think about is her playing in the yard and some creepy crazy guy snatching her and hurting her.” He put his fork down, pushed his plate away. “I guess I’m done with this.”

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize, Esteban. I didn’t mean to freak you out and ruin your dinner. This always happens to me. I don’t know why I don’t just keep my big mouth shut.”

  “It’s not your fault, Amber. I’m the one who kept pushing you to talk about it. You don’t have to apologize.” He looked so sweet and vulnerable; I wanted to walk over to him and give him a ‘big ol’ squash-hug’ (as my grandma used to call it). I wish grandma was here, I thought for the millionth time. She always knew how to smooth over an awkward situation. This definitely qualified.

  “So—what do you do now?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted to hug him even more.

  “Well, now I help find ‘matches’ for those who are unlucky in love.”

  He stared at me, his mouth open a little.

  “What?” I asked, in my fake-confused voice.

  “You’re a matchmaker?” the look on his face was wavering between surprised and bemused.

  “Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Just that my best friend’s mom was a gypsy fortune teller slash matchmaker back when I was a kid, in the Bronx. And she was crazy, let me tell ya.”

  “We’re not all crazy, you know.”

  “What made you choose matchmaking as a career?”

  “Could you stop saying it like it’s some kind of Disneyland job?”

  He chuckled, reaching for the bread. Evidently, making fun of my career does wonders for restoring the appetite.

  “Only if you promise to not try and make a ‘match’ for me.”

  “Oh, I can guaran-tee that’s not gonna happen. You can take that to the bank.”

  He looked up, finally aware that he had ticked me off.

  “My bad,” he said, reaching out to me, so I could slip my hands in his. Jerk.

  “I’m hungry. Where’s our food?” I said, pretending to be overly-busy looking for the world’s greatest disappearing waiter. He got the hint and pulled his hands back. Again.

  Several minutes passed, while I picked at my salad and he fiddled with his napkin.

  Awkward much? I thought, wishing I had just stayed home.

  “Truce?” he asked, ducking his head just under my chin so I had to look down just to see him.

  I giggled, in spite of myself.

  “Whew!” he said, wiping his napkin across his forehead. “I almost blew it!”

  “Yeah, well, don’t be too sure you’re out of the woods just yet, Mister Mouthy.” I tried to make an angry face, but it came off pretty lame and funny.

  The waiter finally brought our main courses, steaming plates of delicious gourmet food easily solving our problems.

  “Let’s eat!” he said, digging into a massive steak.

  Chapter Seven

  We pulled up to his place in separate cars, thanks to my ‘progressive feminine independence’ (his words). It might seem dumb to him, but I had found myself in more than one uncomfortable situation where a guy refused to take me home because he was mad that I wouldn’t ‘put out’. Talk about the opposite of progressive.

  I turned off my noisy engine, which was immediately replaced by the sound of barking dogs. Enter Dog 1 and Dog 2, stage left.

  Grabbing my purse and cell phone, I killed the headlights and looked at his cute little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was just like his shop: older and well-kept. The grass was neatly trimmed, along with the bushes and plants at the edge of the yard. The paint wasn’t new, but it was recent; probably touched up within the last few months. He even had a couple of potted plants hanging from hooks above the porch, and a little rubber mat in front of the door that said ‘Welcome’ facing one direction and ‘Farewell’ facing the other. If I smell freshly-baked cookies when we walk in, I’m outta here.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he called from the other room, as I walked inside, “I need to let the dogs out.” I heard a door slide open and shut, the barking moving from inside the house to the back yard.

  I looked at the comfortable but worn furniture and minimal decorations on the wall, finally realizing this was a long-term bachelor’s house. Although he’s a clean bachelor, which is a big plus. Walking around the tiny room, I picked up a framed photograph of a very young, sweet-looking girl and slightly older, football-holding boy. They were beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around a huge black-and-brown dog, whose face nearly took up the whole picture. The Rotty.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.

  “No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.

  Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.

  “I see you found a place to sit?”

  I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.

  “Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?

  “Cute kids,” I said.

  “Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”

  “You’re a pretty funny guy.”

  “I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.

  “Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do th
at?

  “Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.

  “Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”

  I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.

  “I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”

  * * * *

  When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.

  “Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.

  “You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.

  “I’m telling mo-om!”

  “Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure, you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.

  “I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.

  I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in one motion. Sure, it took a bunch of tries (and a lot of falls) but I could finally get on my bike just like Chris and his friends. Once I got my bike going, I turned around to stick my tongue out at Chris, but he was too busy pawing through all the candy in the bag—my candy, in my bag—to pay attention. Refusing to waste the energy, I turned back around and almost crashed into a kid who was straddling his bike right in front of me.