Playing With Matches

by Suri Rosen

  “Hi, Jeremy,” I said. “It’s me, Rain.”

  There was a moment of silence, then he exhaled loudly on the other end.

  “Rain, I like Tamara. I mean I really, really like her. I don’t even know how to thank you.”

  Yes!

  “Jeremy, I have a problem,” I blurted out. “I didn’t realize that Leah actually wanted to go out with you. And she’s already mad at me.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “No worries. We don’t have to tell anyone that you introduced us. It’ll be our secret.”

  I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Aunt Mira can’t find out either. I think she was almost as upset as Leah.”

  “That’s sort of news to me. But either way it’s not a problem. By the way, is this your cell phone number? How do I reach you if I need to or should I call you at the Bernsteins? You are the matchmaker, after all,” he said with a laugh.

  Of course he might need to reach me. I had made one initial phone call to him with Tamara’s number but now that I was playing the role of traditional matchmaker, I had to be available to mediate problems and situations. “I don’t think you should call me on my cell phone,” I said. “Aunt Mira shares a cell with Uncle Eli so she borrows mine sometimes. I wouldn’t want her to recognize your number.”

  Which was a more dignified way of saying that I lived under the grip of Mira’s electronic surveillance.

  “Well, I love your aunt and uncle too and don’t want them to be upset with me either,” he said. “What about email?”

  My mind started racing. The IMAX-sized computer monitor in the kitchen was not exactly conducive to secret matchmaking.

  “She can access my email on my phone!” I thought out loud. If I put a password on my cell phone, Aunt Mira would become immediately suspicious.

  “Set up an anonymous email account.” Jeremy laughed. “Call it Matchmaven.”

  I considered that. “I guess that could work.”

  I jumped when a soft tap on my shoulder interrupted the call. I spun around to find Tamara smiling next to me.

  “It’s Jeremy,” I whispered, pointing at the phone.

  “Oh,” she said, blushing. “Can I say hello?”

  I handed Tamara the phone and studied her. She leaned into the receiver, her face, shoulders, and arms charged by an invisible current that ran out of that phone. Even though she was six inches away from me, she might as well have been in another country. A country with a citizenry of two, I might add, and since I wasn’t one of them, I decided to give her some space.

  My heart sailed — Tamara and Jeremy were falling in love! Even though I wasn’t a member of their private universe, I was practically intoxicated from the effects of secondhand bliss. I skipped over the worn carpet to a display shelf and glanced at the books. I picked up a vegetarian cookbook and absently flipped through the pages.

  Five eggplant casseroles later, Tamara was still deep in animated conversation. It looked like she couldn’t be wrenched from that phone. Joy warmed me like a sunny Sunday at Fenway Park. I immediately found myself wandering over to the non-fiction section to search for my favourite number in the whole world.

  796.35764.

  It’s true.

  To me the number 796.35764 smells like freshly grilled hot dogs, cheesy nachos, and popcorn. It’s the sound of David Ortiz cracking bat against ball, and the entire population of Fenway Park thundering to its feet and roaring with excitement. It’s a humid summer breeze on the bleachers, wrapping me like a soft worn sweater.

  796.35764 is Dewey for Red Sox, and in any library of any city we’ve ever lived in, that number always led me directly to the books about my beloved ball team.

  I leafed through a pictorial volume about the American League Eastern Division until I finished the Red Sox chapter. Tamara was still on the phone so I wandered over to the computer terminals where, taking Jeremy’s suggestion, I set up my new email account and sent her my first email.

  To: Tamara Green

  From: Matchmaven

  I can see you from this computer and I can tell that you’re having another awesome conversation with Jeremy. It looks like it’s going really well. ☺ Kind of cool! Just one thing: I don’t want my aunt or sister to know that I set you two up, so let’s use this anonymous account.

  xoxo,

  Rain

  I finally approached Tamara as she whispered a goodbye into the phone. She and Jeremy were so happening that I could have ordered up the stuffed chicken squab with roasted baby carrots for the wedding meal right then and there.

  Tamara shrugged. “I’m so sorry —”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I just made a match!”

  “An amazing one,” she said, her face stretched in a grin. “I just feel bad that I kept you waiting.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Well, let’s grab a coffee — my treat,” she said.

  Matchmaven. I really liked it. Maybe Jeremy wasn’t so bad after all. Which just goes to show: you can never really judge a man by his ball club.

  chapter 7

  Hanging with the Old Guy

  After a sleepless night, plotting different strategies for getting back into Leah’s good graces, I traipsed into the kitchen where Aunt Mira, Leah, and Bubby Bayla were chatting.

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Mira,” Leah said as she snatched her phone from her purse. “Let me see if I can switch my shift at the hospice tonight.”

  “Absolutely not, honey,” Mira said, pushing down Leah’s phone. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “What about her?” Bubby Bayla grunted, pointing at me.

  “What about me?” I said with a yawn as I opened the fridge.

  “I really don’t think that’s going to work,” Leah muttered.

  “I don’t see why not,” Mira said. “That would solve the problem. You could take the dinner out of the fridge and just drive it over.”

  I pulled out the Greek salad I was packing for my lunch. “Can I do it when I get home from school? I don’t mind.” Not that I wouldn’t have minded crashing after school, after worrying about Leah all night.

  “Aunt Mira, I’d be happy to do it,” Leah said.

  “I think I can do something as basic as delivering a meal,” I said as I shoved my salad into my knapsack.

  Of course I wouldn’t mind delivering a meal for Mira. But since Leah obviously had zero faith in me, this little display of responsibility might convince her to like me a bit more. Or, more accurately, dislike me a bit less.

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem for Raina.” Mira glanced at her watch and grabbed her briefcase. “We have to leave now. I’ll just leave instructions for when you get home. It’ll be a huge help.”

  I plucked a green apple from the counter and followed Mira out the front door as Leah shook her head.

  Something had to change because I hated being hated.

  I looked forward to taking over that meal all day so that I could earn some Leah-points. A direct apology wasn’t going to work, even though I didn’t really think I owed her one. I still would have done it, though, if it would have put an end to the Deep Freeze. Reconciliation between Leah and Ben was out of the question, so I was down to delivering dinner. Like a brisket was going to salvage my relationship with my sister. But I still wasn’t about to give up hope.

  By the time I got to Ancient History class I’d been fretting about Leah for something like thirteen straight hours. I stumbled to my seat yawning, barely noticing when Dahlia got up to deliver a presentation on the Mesopotamian road to civilization. I don’t really remember what happened before I lay my head on the desk.

  A loud boom rang in my ears like a gunshot. I bolted upright in shock and gaped at the heavy textbook that Miss Gardner had slammed on my desk.

  She loomed over me with her arms crossed.
“Sorry to disturb you.”

  I looked up at her, still groggy. “Don’t worry about it.” Shira and Natalie were laughing uproariously, clutching each other’s hands. Dahlia stood at the front of the class glowering at me.

  “Do you think you can give Dahlia your attention now, Miss Resnick?”

  I nodded and tried to ignore the tittering two rows over.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Gardner. I’ve just been working really hard,” I said, which was not a lie. Worrying was a lot of work, after all.

  When I got home I found the note on the island countertop in the kitchen.

  Hi Raina,

  I need you to deliver a shiva meal to 141 Gladiola Drive when you get home from school. There are three foil pans in the fridge that you can take over in Uncle Eli’s car. Call me at work when you get home. Thank you for helping out!

  Love,

  Aunt Mira

  Oh. My. God.

  A shiva house? I thought it was just an ordinary dinner! Please, no. I mean, does it get more awkward than visiting a person who’s mourning for a lost family member for seven days? Someone I never even met?

  I called up Mira.

  “You’ve got the address,” she said. “And you saw the pans?”

  “Right.”

  “You’ll be careful?” she said. “Take the food into the kitchen, maybe. Help out a bit.”

  I gulped. “Of course.”

  “And you know the shiva rules, right?” she said. “Don’t ring the bell. Just take the food in the house. Let the mourner talk to you first.”

  “Of course.”

  Not.

  I mean, sure I’ve heard of the rules, but let’s face it — going to a shiva house is something your grandparents do. Or your parents. I found three foil pans in the fridge, stacked them in a pile, and carefully carried them out to the black passenger seat of Uncle Eli’s Volvo. I pulled out of the driveway, the scent of cold lasagna combining with leather interior, through the chilly November night.

  As I drove down Bathurst Street I glanced at the passenger seat and grimaced. I had forgotten Mira’s note with the name and address on it. Luckily, I was good with directions, and I remembered the address anyway.

  I arrived at the aging bungalow a few minutes later, where a rusting Crown Victoria sat in the driveway. Balancing the pans, I approached the front door. It opened easily and I stepped inside the front hall.

  The house was so dim that I could barely make my way inside. I didn’t realize that shiva houses were supposed to be so dark. As I approached the kitchen I peered into the living room on the right. Floor to ceiling bookcases plastered the walls. Stacks of books covered the coffee table and crowded the computer on the corner desk. What little air existed in that tiny house was permeated by the smell of book.

  I found an elderly gentleman in his seventies in the musty kitchen. He sat alone at a table covered with oilcloth, sipping a cup of tea. He had a full head of white hair and watery brown eyes that shimmered behind gold spectacles.

  Those big eyes blinked at me like I’d appeared out of thin air. “Can I help you, dear?”

  “Oh … hi,” I stammered. “I have … ah … dinner for you.”

  “You do.” He blinked some more as he placed his teacup in the saucer. “And who are you?”

  “Raina Resnick.” I looked around to see if there was anybody else around who could rescue me.

  “To what do I owe this honour?” he said.

  “My aunt … Mira Bernstein … she sent this to you,” I said, flustered. “Should I unpack everything? Sorry, I’m not really used to this.”

  “Neither am I, dear,” he said with a sigh. His head dropped and he gazed at the floor.

  I stood, unsure of what to do next.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” he finally said.

  I dropped into a vinyl chair with a lightning bolt of stuffing bursting out the back. Now what? We sat in silence for twenty-three hours.

  Well, that’s what those five minutes felt like, anyway. My eyes wandered to an old coloured photograph on the fridge of a woman in a boxy suit with big hair and big glasses.

  “Um, who have you lost?” I blurted out. “Your … wife?” Bad, bad, bad. Don’t ask the mourners questions. Could I leave already?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. In a panic I tried to think of something comforting.

  “She must have been a … wonderful woman,” I said.

  His head tilted to the side and his gaze clouded. “She really was a remarkable woman,” he said, his voice breaking. “When you lose someone that you love so dearly, it’s a reminder of how much of a blessing it is to share such kinship.”

  “I’m so sorry.” There was more silence. Was I supposed to ask him things? He obviously wanted me there, because he had invited me in. “Did she, um, also like to read a lot of books?”

  “Yes. Our lives were filled with them.” He stared off into the distance. My finger tapped the cold metal leg of the chair.

  He finally came back to life. “Would you like to see more pictures of her?” he said, rising from his seat.

  “Sure,” I said, charging out of my chair so quickly I almost knocked him over.

  At full height he was a lean man with a waistband that seemed to hover somewhere in the upper atmosphere. He led me to the dining room where a lace runner covering the mahogany credenza was crowded with photos of his children and grandchildren. I squinted at a portrait of three couples, probably taken at a wedding. This was clearly a man with fantastic vision because anyone who could possibly see anything in this darkness would have to be in the possession of super powers.

  “Do your kids live in Toronto?” I said.

  “No. I have two in Lakewood, New Jersey, and one in Israel.”

  I wandered over to a bookshelf and looked at the titles: The Complete Annotated Yeats and Understanding Walt Whitman. Another bookcase was lined with volumes about Shakespeare, and another one had titles like Studies in Applied Biochemistry.

  Speaking of chemistry, I really needed to check my emails. To be honest, I was addicted to Tamara and Jeremy’s relationship.

  “I think I need to get going,” I said.

  He looked so heartbroken that I felt compelled to offer an excuse. “It’s just that I have to check my email.”

  He pointed to the computer desk in the corner of the living room. “You’re more than welcome to use my computer here,” he said. “I’ll just go and have some of that delicious-looking dinner while you do that.”

  It wasn’t a bad offer at all. I liked the privacy here as well as the points I could score with Aunt Mira and Leah for hanging with the old guy. This house reeked of sadness. Kind of like my social life right now. What was even more depressing was the fact that he actually found Mira’s food appetizing. I mean what was he living on? Fish entrails and boiled chicken?

  Wait a minute. Isn’t that what I was getting at Mira’s house? There — more reasons to be bitter. In any case, I decided to take him up on his offer to use his computer. “Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  “Wonderful. Any time you’d like to visit you’re more than welcome.”

  “Oh, sure. Okay.” I groped my way toward the computer desk.

  “Even if you just want to use my computer, you’re more than welcome. Here’s my card.” It said: Moses Kellman, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of English. It was subtle, but I think what he was trying to hint at was that he really would like another visit.

  I settled into a swivel chair wrapped in hockey tape and glanced at the spindly ficus tree next to the window. The microwave beeped in the kitchen while I waited for my email account to open.

  I stared at the inbox of my new anonymous email address.

  Something was wrong.

  There were three messages from Tamara and one from Jeremy. That wasn’t unusua
l. But there were another eleven letters from people I’d never heard of.

  I scanned the names. Daniel? Rebecca? Deb? Who were these people? Only Tamara and Jeremy knew this brand new address and the reason for it. This didn’t seem right. My spam filter must have stopped working.

  I opened a message and read it. My hands gripped the armrests and I let out a gasp. I looked at another message. And then another. I felt my eyes growing like inflating balloons. I read every one of those letters.

  This wasn’t spam. These emails all had one thing in common.

  Every one of these people was asking me to set them up.

  chapter 8

  Bubby, I Got Problems

  It had to be a mistake. How had these people found me? Did they know who I was? Had Tamara and Jeremy told all their friends about me? Tamara had asked if I knew anyone for her friend Rebecca, but I figured it was just a compliment. Or a joke.

  Dear Matchmaven,

  I’m hoping that you can help me. I’ve had such an awful time getting dates. I’m twenty-nine years old, attended the University of Toronto and now work as an occupational therapist. I’d love to find an observant guy who volunteers and values contributing to others’ lives. I volunteer for ­Jewish Helping Hands. I’m five-foot-five, with brown hair and brown eyes. I got your email address from Tamara (what can I say — that girl doesn’t know how to say no) and I understand that you work anonymously. I’m incredibly frustrated and down from my dating situation. (Or lack of therewith.) Will you please, please, help me?

  Deb Cohen

  Thanks a lot, Tamara! Everyone must have believed Matchmaven was capable of performing dating miracles, because each letter was soaked in sadness.

  Dear Matchmaven,