It's a Wonderful Knife

by Elise Sax

  “I know. I’ll call for help this time. Nine-one-one works, now.” But in my hurry to get a milkshake, I had forgotten my cellphone on the kitchen table. “One of you call for help,” I told them.

  “My mom took my phone, dude. She said I was wasting my life.”

  “I lost mine at the pool.”

  “I took mine into the pool. Dude, phones should work in the pool.”

  “Dude.”

  “Yeah, dude.”

  The owl screeched and flapped its wings, as if it was panicked. If it wasn’t helped soon, it would break its leg or worse.

  “I cannot believe this is happening,” I said and put my purse down on the sidewalk. “How is it possible to do this twice in one lifetime?” I grabbed the metal handles and pulled myself up. “Who has a life like this? Nobody, that’s who.” The owl screeched, again, and it sounded weaker. I stopped climbing for a second and looked up at it. Its foot had gotten tangled in some kind of wire on a metal rung. If it didn’t calm down, it would snap its foot in half. “See? I’m a hero. An animal lover. Only an animal lover would do this twice in a lifetime.” I had had a run-in with an animal rights organization because of an incident with a snake, and I still got poisoned pen letters from Betty White because of it.

  “I’m almost there,” I called to the owl. I was huffing and puffing pretty bad, and I wondered if I should ask Bird for a diet before my wedding. She was the owner of the local beauty salon, and she was always on one diet or another. She probably had something that would work in a week. “If you’re plastic, I will not finish killing you.”

  But it wasn’t plastic. As I got to the rung underneath it, I could see that it was real. “I’m here to help you, so just keep calm,” I told the bird. It screeched in reply and flapped its wings. “I’m being a hero,” I reminded it.

  I stretched out my arm, and as gently as I could, I tried to extricate the owl’s foot from the wire.

  There are times in a person’s life where they realize they’re doing something stupid the moment they do it. The guy who fell off a cliff while taking a selfie probably was one of them. Ditto the guy who used a match to see if he had gas in his truck’s gas tank.

  And then there was me, trying to save an owl on a telephone pole.

  Surprisingly, the owl’s foot came untangled easily, but instead of flying away, it went right for me, hell-bent on revenge. “I’m a hero,” I managed right before the owl screeched and attacked me. All I saw was beak and feathers before it was on me. I waved my hands at it, trying to protect myself, clenching my thighs tight around the pole.

  I stayed up for about three seconds, which felt like hours, as I battled against the bird, who obviously blamed me for getting stuck on the pole.

  Life is so unfair.

  I was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens coming closer, but I was focused on survival. I was looking at either death by owl or death by sidewalk. It was a tossup which was better, but my body decided for me. I grabbed the pole, wrapped my arms around it and sat my thighs on the metal rungs. Even though I had stopped swatting at the owl, it continued to fight me, dive-bombing right down my top.

  “Sonofabitch!” I screamed with the owl down my shirt. It scraped and clawed at my bra, and I let go of the pole long enough to rip my shirt off and swat the owl away. Gravity took over and I fell backward until I was hanging upside down, watching the owl fly away in victory and my shirt float down to the ground.

  Below me, there were a fire truck, two police cars, and one familiar-looking unmarked police car. Spencer got out of the car, holding a megaphone in his hand. He turned it on and put it in front of his mouth.

  “Are you kidding me?” he shouted up at me.

  CHAPTER 2

  The more things change, the more they stay the same. Someone wise said that. I think it was my Uncle Morty, but it could have been Aunt Tilly. Anyway, what I’m saying is that sometimes matches seem different to you. You know what I mean? You’ll think they’re unsolvable, unique problems. But you’ll be wrong, bubbeleh. Wrong! At times like those, think back to other matches and find the similarities. This one likes girls who giggle. That one likes girls who giggle. This one doesn’t like his face touched. That one doesn’t like his face touched. Start with what’s the same and work out to what’s different. That will give you clues about who to match them with. The same will start you on the right track.

  Lesson 99, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  The firefighters got me down in one piece, but my Walley’s purple bra had seen better days. My flip-flops had fallen somewhere, and I was now barefoot.

  “I don’t understand how this is possible,” Spencer said when I got to the ground. He ran his fingers through his thick, wavy brown hair. “I mean, owls. Who climbs a telephone pole twice in a lifetime to catch an owl? Who? Who?”

  “It’s more common than you think. I heard that Queen Elizabeth did it once.”

  He took off his blazer and wrapped it around my shoulders. “I’m not calling you Purple, if that’s what you had in mind. I’m sticking with Pinky.”

  “Fine with me. I probably should get a rabies shot. One of us frothing at the mouth is enough.”

  “I’m not frothing at the mouth,” Spencer insisted, but he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, anyway.

  “I had to go up. It was in trouble, and I didn’t have a phone to call for help.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Burger Boy for help?”

  “It’s broken,” I said, waving at the Burger Boy drive through head.

  Spencer sighed. “No, I mean why didn’t you walk into Burger Boy and ask them to call?”

  “Oh.” It was a good idea. Why hadn’t I thought to do that? I stomped my foot. “That’s a dumb idea. The owl needed me.” I spoke fast so he wouldn’t pick up the fact that I was an idiot. “I think I need a rabies shot.”

  “Owls don’t have rabies.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know things, Pinky. I’m reasonably certain owls don’t get rabies.”

  I pointed at his mouth. “What did you just do? You downgraded to ‘reasonably certain.’ That doesn’t sound convincing.”

  Spencer put his arm around me and pulled me in close. “Listen, Pinky. You don’t have rabies. You’re not going to get rabies. You might want to take a shower to get all of the feathers out of your bra, but you don’t need a shot.”

  “Fine, but if I go crazy in the middle of the night and bite your face off, don’t come running to me.”

  “You can count on it, Pinky.”

  The firefighters found my flip-flops, but my shirt had disappeared, just like the owl. I had a few scrapes and bruises, but I had come out more or less unscathed, except for my ego, which I hadn’t thought could get any smaller. But there you go. There’s always room to fall further.

  Spencer found me a Cannes Police Department t-shirt, and he bought me lunch inside Burger Boy. He got me large fries along with my regular order because he felt sorry for me.

  “One week, Pinky,” he said, softly. He put his hand on mine on the table and caressed it. Spencer had a good touch. Not too hard. Not too soft. He had the Goldilocks touch. Just right.

  I put a French fry in my mouth. “One week,” I repeated and tried to smile.

  The truth was that I was excited to start my life with Spencer. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world to have him with me forever.

  But I didn’t like to be the center of attention, and I didn’t want to have to sign something and promise something and stand still while the street sweeper sang Ave Maria.

  I scratched my arm. “You’ve got hives,” Spencer pointed.

  “Rabies,” I breathed. “I told you.”

  “I’m reasonably certain rabies doesn’t cause hives.”

  “What do you mean by ‘reasonably certain?’”

  “So, my parents are coming to town in a couple days. You excited?” Spencer asked, changing the subject from terrifying, deadly dis
eases to terrifying, deadly in-laws. Actually, I had never met Spencer’s parents or even spoken to them on the phone. I was sure that they were going to meet me and tell Spencer he was crazy for choosing me.

  “They’re going to love you,” Spencer told me, reading my mind. “As long you don’t go near an owl when you’re with them.”

  Hank Frazier, the old man who ran the fruit stand in the historic district and who was Ruth’s on-again, off-again companion, walked by and hit Spencer on the back of his head with his cane. Spencer grabbed at his head in pain. He was about to let his aggressor have it, but he stopped when he saw that it was old man Hank.

  “Here! You pay this!” Hank shouted at him and threw a ticket at him, which floated down until it covered my milkshake.

  “Did you get a parking ticket, Hank?” Spencer asked. “You have to get a disabled placard if you want to park in the blue spots.”

  Hank hit Spencer with his cane again. “It’s not a parking ticket, you dolt. It’s a summons to the Fussia Court for violating a sovereign nation without the proper visa.”

  Spencer turned to me. “It’s never what you think. Never. This town is in an alternate universe.” He grabbed Hank’s cane before he could hit him, again. “What’re you talking about, Hank? You left the country?”

  “Yes!” he sputtered. “I mean, no! There’s a crazy man on Main Street who’s set up his own country in the old market by the pharmacy. You can’t walk on the sidewalk in front of his shop without having a visa and paying a fee. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  I once saw a donkey flying over our town, so I didn’t comment about the man who had created his own country on Main Street. We lived in a crazy town. It was sort of expected that crazy things would happen. Spencer tossed me a why me? look.

  He kissed me goodbye and headed out to overthrow the Main Street dictator. I didn’t bother to tell him that the mayor had been fighting with him a moment before I was attacked by an owl.

  “I think I’ll go home and take a bath,” I told him. He turned around.

  “On Friday, we can take a bath in our Jacuzzi tub.” He hopped on his heels and smiled big.

  “Our Jacuzzi tub,” I breathed. I couldn’t believe I was living this life. I had a house with a Jacuzzi tub and a soon-to-be husband with a six-pack, a job, and limitless energy in bed. It was like I had won the life lottery. I went on my tiptoes and whispered in his ear. “Maybe we could do a trial run in our regular tub tonight.”

  Spencer’s pupils dilated, and he arched an eyebrow. He smirked his normal little smirk. “A dry run in the bathtub. I’ll try to get home early.”

  Spencer arrived home at the same time as my grandmother’s Uber and the Chik’n Lik’n delivery man. We sat down to dinner together, and Grandma regaled us with the wonders of the world that she was re-discovering.

  “Have you heard of carpool lanes?” she asked, holding a fried chicken leg. “We drove on one. It was wonderful, bubbeleh. You should try it.”

  Tired, Grandma went to bed early, and Spencer and I went upstairs to fool around. Three hours later, I was asleep in Spencer’s arms in our bed. I was enjoying a deep sleep without dreaming when my grandmother shook me awake. It took me a moment to realize where I was and that it was the middle of the night.

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?” I yawned. “Do you have heartburn again?”

  “Get out of bed, dolly. I have to talk to you.”

  Her voice was strained and full of fear. I rolled out of bed and slipped into Spencer’s sweatpants and a t-shirt. I followed Grandma out of the room, and she took my hand, pulling me into her bedroom.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said, pacing the floor. “This has never happened to me before. It’s the end. It’s terrible. It’s a Krakatoa, Ten Plagues, Herbert Hoover kind of disaster.” She turned around and gripped my hands, like she was holding on for dear life. “I need your help, dolly. I need you to fix this.”

  She was hyperventilating, and I was afraid about her health. She had suffered a heart episode recently. “Grandma, come and sit on your bed and take some deep breaths. Your face is red. Do you want water?”

  She shook her head and sat down. I sat next to her and took her hand in mine. “There’s no time for water. No time to breathe.”

  “What is it? Did someone die?” Since I had moved to Cannes, I had stumbled over one dead body after another, but my grandmother always told me that her third eye was only for love, not death.

  “I made a terrible mistake. Terrible. I made a bad match, and you have to unmatch her before it’s too late. Oh, what am I talking about? It’s already too late. She’s married to him. Married! Poor Matilda. Dolly, you have to help her.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I have a lot of one-on-one matches, but I like to teach group classes, too, bubbeleh. There’s always something to learn from another person. Never underestimate the positive energy that a stranger can offer. Even negative energy can stir emotions and spark brain juice to flow. A stranger is outside your normal circle, with different experiences, perspectives, and points of view. They may be hard to understand, but there’s always something to learn from them, something to change you, even slightly, to get you on the right path, to show you what’s around the corner in a neighborhood you’ve never visited. So, classes are important, dolly. Strangers are vital. It’s like eating a short ribs dinner when all you’ve ever eaten is chicken and rice. Tell your matches that chicken and rice is fine, but there’s nothing wrong with adding short ribs to your diet once in a while. In other words, bubbeleh, talk to a stranger.

  Lesson 107, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  Matilda Dare lived just outside of Cannes in a modest apartment complex. It turned out that my grandmother had matched her a couple months before I had moved into town. It had been a whirlwind romance, and only two days after they met, Matilda married Rockwell Dare, a salesman with a lot of charm and more than his share of teeth.

  “He smiled all the time. That’s what threw me off my game,” Grandma told me a few hours before, downstairs in the kitchen. The sudden realization that she had made a bad match had woken her, and no amount of hot chocolate and Fig Newtons could get her back to sleep. “He had real white choppers. Just like John Gilbert.”

  “The guy who sharpens knives on Apple Street?”

  “No, that’s John Hilbert. John Gilbert was a silent movie star. He was all kinds of hubba hubba. And he had great teeth.” She pointed to her teeth, which were pretty good, considering her age. Spencer had great teeth, so I knew what she was talking about. When he smiled at me—even his little smirk—my knees buckled, and it was all I could do not to drop my pants and say yes to everything he asked.

  “Bad marriages happen all the time, Grandma. If you made a bad match, wouldn’t they just get a divorce?”

  “It’s fuzzy, dolly. Fuzzy. I’m seeing the match, and with it something dark.”

  She locked eyes with me, as if she was searching for an answer from me. I understood the question. She had the gift for love, and there was a good chance that I had the gift for dark. I had stumbled over one dead person after another since I had moved into town, and somehow had figured out who had murdered them. My grandmother was asking me to use whatever gift I had to figure out what the dark was and to fix it.

  “I don’t have the gift,” I whispered. “I’m just…me.”

  Grandma leaned forward and took my hands. “Dolly, you have the gift. I’m sure of it. You have the gift for love and for death. You know the light and the dark.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. That sounds like the opposite of good. Like I’m a monster or something.”

  “No, it means that you’re stronger than I am and my mother and her mother, combined. You see all of life, not just one part. Embrace your gift, Gladie.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t have the gift, but she needed to sleep, so I nodded and promised that I would help Matilda Dare. Grandma kissed
me on the forehead and went back to bed. But I couldn’t go back to bed. My head was filled with thoughts about gifts and bad matches, and they were keeping me up. I needed a solid nine hours to be my best and a solid seven to function. I was working on five.

  “Folgers isn’t going to cut it,” I announced to the empty kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, I was dressed and in my car, on my way to Tea Time. The owner of the shop, Ruth Fletcher made the best coffee in town, and we had struck a deal for her to give me free lattes for a year. Even though it was before opening time, I knew that Ruth was a morning person and would already be in her shop.

  I parked in front and got out. Across the street, the country of Fussia, which used to be the two stores next to the pharmacy, was cordoned off and signs warning people that they needed visas to enter the country were plastered on the side of the building. I guessed that Spencer had had little luck trying to stymie the man’s desire to be a dictator. Policing in Cannes was a lot different than Los Angeles, where Spencer had been a detective for many years. I bet he longed for normal gang activity instead of flying donkeys and dictators.

  The store next to Tea Time was under construction. It had been the home of a short-lived coffee place, but it had gone under pretty fast. I peeked through the window to see what was moving in, now. There were shelves of bottles and jars. The store was decorated in purple and white. It was peaceful. Airy fairy. Artsy fartsy. On one wall was written, Be Blessed.

  “What’re you doing?” I heard behind me. Ruth had walked out of her shop with a dish rag in her hand. She was wearing men’s gray trousers with a blue button-down shirt. Her hair was cut short. Even though she was older than dirt, she stood straight and tall, and I knew from experience that she was in better shape than I was.

  “What’s the new store going to be?” I asked.

  “You mean the all-natural beauty product store or the dictatorship across the street?”

  I hooked my thumb at the Be Blessed store. “I guess the all-natural beauty product store. It looks nice. Relaxing.”