Matchmaking for Beginners

by Maddie Dawson

  Then my heart twists. She has written in capital letters, each one etched deep into the paper:

  MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MARNIE

  I’ve only barely managed to stash the book of spells away when Noah clumps up the stairs, bringing his jangly, disruptive vibes into the room.

  Blix didn’t want Noah here. Blix didn’t want Noah here. Blix didn’t want Noah here. That sentence runs through my head on a continuous loop—and now here he is, standing in front of me, eyes crinkled in a smile—and I’m in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like a trapped animal. Who stands in the very middle of the kitchen, for heaven’s sake? And who stands there looking like she just completed the hundred-yard dash to arrive there, cheeks flushed, hair standing on end, looking like she’s just seen a ghost?

  I feel I am seeing the truth of things. Everybody tried to tell me that she didn’t mean to leave the place to Noah, that she didn’t want him here. And somehow I dismissed everything they said.

  But now here it is, in her own words. The day before she died.

  He stops and stares at me, and a grin spreads across his face. “Hey! What are you doing?” he says. “What’s going on?” And for some reason, his eyes drift over to the bookshelf. Maybe I’ve run from there so fast that a trail is still visible.

  MARNIE NOAH HAS TO LEAVE DO NOT LET HIM STAY!!

  “Nothing. Just fixing up a few things. Cleaning a little bit. This place gets so dirty!”

  He laughs, then comes over and puts his arms around me. I feel myself bristle, but he pulls me to him, presses my face against his chest.

  “No, really. What’s with you? Did I scare you when I came in?”

  “No,” I say into his shirt.

  “God, you look sexy today.” He kisses the top of my head. “Soooo . . . whattya say we go downstairs and have sex? I just got done with my paper, it’s the weekend, and I feel like celebrating. Especially when you look so hot! Did you do something to your hair?”

  “Nothing. It’s just uncombed. And actually I was about to go out.”

  “Yeah? Where to?”

  “Um, I was going to see Lola, see how she’s doing.”

  “She just left. I saw her when I was coming in. Leaving with that man again.”

  “Really?” I pull away from him. “The New Jersey guy?”

  “I didn’t exactly talk to him to find out where he’s from.”

  “His car has out-of-state plates. If you looked at them, you’d know.”

  He laughs. “What do I care what the license plates say?”

  “I bet it was him. Which is great. But never mind.”

  “Anyway,” he says. He points to himself and to me, tries to take me in his arms again. “So . . .”

  I don’t want to have sex with him. I do not want to have sex with him. I manage to extricate myself and go over to the sink and turn on the tap. I’ll water the plants; that’s right.

  “Actually, I can’t just now. After I finish up in here, I’m going out.”

  “Mmm. So you said. But Lola’s gone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I told you. She left with the guy, and you said that was great news. What’s up with you anyway? Are you all right?”

  “Tell me something. What was Blix like when you got here?”

  I walk carefully to the window with the water glass. I can feel him looking at me as I drizzle some water over the roses and then the chamomile.

  “She was dying,” he says after a moment. “I got here a week before she died.”

  “And, tell me the truth . . . did she want you here?”

  “Are you kidding? She said I was the one who could help her make the transition to the other side.” He comes over and takes the glass out of my hand, puts it on the table, and holds on to both my arms. “What. Is. Going. On?” He leans closer, starts running his lips down across my jaw.

  I pull back and look at his face. “Nothing. I was just thinking how it must have been very hard for you. To see her that way. Dying.”

  He flushes. “You know what was hard? It was hard that she wouldn’t do anything to help herself get well. God forbid anybody call a doctor. I wanted to help her, but she just wanted me to sit there and watch her die.”

  I pull away from him. “But she had the right to do it her way.”

  “Well, sure. But my point is, why was I the guy who had to watch it happen? That’s what hospitals are for! But whatever. I did it anyway. For her. And then . . . she goes and leaves her place to you.” He gives a short, bitter little laugh.

  “I don’t think her death was about you.”

  “Well, whatever. It’s done. I did what she wanted. Case closed. It’s all good.” He runs his eyes over me and holds out his arms, smiling. “Why are we talking about this anyway? Let’s go make ourselves happy. You and me? Downstairs?” He motions with his head toward the door.

  But I can’t. In fact, looking at him right now, I can’t believe I ever let myself get involved with such a self-absorbed, egotistical child. Who can only see things from his own perspective. I actually feel a little sick.

  “No,” I say. I swallow, trying to locate some moisture in my mouth because it has suddenly gone dry. “Actually, I have to tell you that this isn’t really working for me anymore.”

  “What?”

  “I feel weird about what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be with you like this when I’m getting married to someone else. I feel guilty. This is a terrible thing I’m doing.”

  He looks shocked for a moment and then he smiles and revs up the charm machine.

  “Ah, guilt! It’s a terrible thing when guilt gets in the way of fun, isn’t it? But here’s what I think. We shouldn’t feel guilty because in the grand scheme of things, you and me having sex is not taking anything away from your boyfriend. I’m no threat to your relationship because, one, I’m a known quantity and, two, I’m screwed up and can’t maintain a decent relationship. You’re his, as far as I’m concerned. This is all recreational. Look at it this way: I am strictly for fun.”

  “I don’t work that way, unfortunately,” I say.

  “Yes, you do. That’s exactly what we’ve been doing, having fun. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry I ever started. So please respect my wishes on this.”

  He gives me a sideways look. I know I’m sounding weird—so stiff and formal, but I can’t help it. I’m still shaking. He goes over and opens the refrigerator, stares into it, and finally gets out a beer. I know he’s playing for time, waiting to see if I come to my senses. When I don’t say anything else, he finally lets out a big breath, takes a swig of the beer, and says, “Okay. Have it your way. I’ll respect your wishes, and we’ll chill on the sex, but I have to stay here until the semester’s over.”

  “No. I want you to leave.”

  “Marnie! Fuck! What is this?”

  I stand in the middle of the kitchen, shaking my head, standing my ground. It feels like Blix and everybody who loved her is standing right there alongside me.

  “No. I can’t have you here. You have to leave.”

  He stares at me, and for a moment I think he’ll challenge me, or refuse, or even throw a fit. But then he laughs, takes another big drink of beer, and shakes his head as though this is the most insane request he’s ever heard. He picks up his backpack and goes downstairs. I hear the shower running. Soon after, there’s the sound of drawers banging shut, and his footsteps in the hallway, and then the front door slams. I watch from the window as he heads down the street, talking on his phone.

  That night I take the book of spells down to my room and lie in bed, anxious to get back to Blix’s journal. I love how she filled pages with stars and filigrees and comets. I love the stories of little glimmers she felt as she watched people falling in love around her. She wrote that she sometimes sent out messages and energy through the atmosphere and saw people turn in surprise when they g
ot zapped with love.

  She was a person like no one I ever met.

  Then I smile, remembering the engagement party and how we surrounded a red-haired woman with white light. And for a moment, I feel her there with me in the room.

  I read lists of things she was grateful for: the random heart-shaped leaves on the sidewalk; the pigeons who talked to her from the windowsill; her kantha quilt; Patrick’s sculptures with their grace and power; the way she and Houndy would sit by the fire pit on snowy nights, curled up together under fleece blankets; Sammy’s smile.

  How important it was to add to every spell, “For the good of all and free will of all.”

  And then, in the very back of the book, on the very last page, she’d made a list, called “My Projects.”

  JESSICA AND ANDREW.

  LOLA AND WILLIAM.

  PATRICK AND MARNIE.

  PATRICK AND MARNIE.

  PATRICK AND MARNIE.

  PATRICK AND MARNIE.

  I close the book very carefully and place it on the floor.

  Patrick?

  Patrick is the one she thought was for me?

  It’s so impossible as to almost be laughable. Patrick is so locked up in himself, he’s so unreachable and . . . and . . . what did she think I was supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life writing to him on my phone? We could gradually work up to love notes in our texts! Maybe after twenty years of me texting I love you, he might let me actually touch him.

  Oh, Blix. Maybe you got some things right, but this was so very, very wrong.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MARNIE

  The next day, I’m at Best Buds texting the news to Patrick that I’ve asked Noah to leave, when I look up to see the elderly man coming in the door. The one who wasn’t ready. This time, however, he masterfully strides over and picks out calla lilies, roses, some baby’s breath, some gerbera daisies, and some greens.

  “Gerbera daisies are my very favorite flower,” I tell him when he brings them over to the counter.

  This seems to please him. He has a sweet face, lined and gentle.

  “I am about to do a very brave thing,” he says. His eyes are shining. “Braver than anything I did in the war, that’s for sure. I am going to ask a woman to marry me.”

  “Really!” I say. “That’s wonderful. Is she going to be surprised or does she already know?”

  “It’s a surprise. Actually, do you have paper so I can write a note? It occurs to me that it might be a very good idea to include a little note, convincing her.”

  “Oh, boy. You’re going to propose marriage on paper?”

  He stiffens a little. “I am.”

  “No, that’s cool. I get it. Do you want some help?”

  “I have to do this myself,” he tells me sternly. “This has to be all me. Though it’s been years, you know, since I had to . . . well . . . convince a lady that I’m worth investing in.”

  “Of course. Here, you can sit over here and take your time.” I lead him over to a little white table in the back. “Can I get you some water? Or maybe a thesaurus? Or a romance novel?”

  He laughs at that.

  He sits for a long time, chewing on the end of his pen.

  Patrick texts back:

  Great! Did he go peacefully into that good night? (Did you see what I did there?)

  Ha! He did go peacefully. So far, at least.

  The man turns, clears his throat, and says, “Maybe I could use a little help, if you have some time.”

  I put down my phone. “I love doing this,” I say. “Tell me something about her. And you. I’ll see what comes up.”

  He sighs. “All right, maybe that would work.” He closes his eyes and begins: “So I’ve been seeing . . . this lady. I drive from New Jersey to visit her. Been doing it for about six months now. Every chance I can. Every chance she’ll let me.”

  Little sparkles are dancing around in front of my eyes. Oh my God. This is him!

  “And . . . well, she’s the widow of my best friend. She doesn’t know I want to be more than a friend to her because I haven’t wanted to scare her off. But we only talk about our dead spouses. And current events. Weather. Plays. She doesn’t know I have . . . feelings. She’s very proper with me.”

  I clear my throat. What are the ethics of this situation? Should I say, Hey, you’re William Sullivan, and I know your whole story. Let me tell you what the lady in question has said to me about you!

  Instead I go with, “But is it the kind of proper like ‘keep your distance’ or is it the kind of proper like ‘I don’t want to assume this man loves me’?” I really do want to know which one it is.

  “Now how would I know that?” he says. “That’s why I’m going to propose marriage—to see what she says.” He gets a mock serious look on his face. “I am, as they say, taking the plunge.”

  Ohhhh. Lola is going to break his heart. This is not going to go well.

  “Yes,” I say. “But . . . if . . . I mean, won’t it be too sudden? It might put her on the spot, you know. Why plunge when you could wade? Tiptoe in, test the waters.”

  “No. Absolutely not. When I asked my wife to marry me, that’s what I did, and it worked out just fine. I asked her while we were getting some ice cream—popped the question, and she dropped her ice cream cone on the ground she was so surprised. And then she said yes. I had to buy her another cone. Best money I ever spent.”

  There is something so lovely about his face, the expression in his eyes, all that cluelessness. And even larger, there’s something so sad about men of that generation crashing through life, taking plunges, with no idea of how women are going to receive them. Or maybe it’s adorable, and these are darling men, heroes on the mysterious frontlines of love, and women need to pamper them and save them from their craziest impulses.

  I can’t think of what to do.

  “I think we may need us some proposing music to help us along,” I tell him, to stall for time.

  I go put on some Frank Sinatra love songs, and then we sit side by side in the shower of gold sprinkles and let the fragrance of the flowers wash over us. I close my eyes and say Blix’s mantra, “Whatever happens, love that,” to myself.

  “So I need her to see me as a bold romantic partner,” he is saying.

  “But could she perhaps be . . . shy around you? Have you considered that maybe you want to take it slow?”

  He laughs. “I now realize what’s wrong with your generation. You don’t take chances. You’re always on your smartphones and with your texting and your swiping and your online dating, and you don’t show up in person when it’s needed! I am going to woo her and wow her—”

  “Dude!” I say, and he laughs. “You haven’t even tried to kiss her yet, and yet you think it’s going to work to write her a note asking her to marry you? See? I do not understand males!”

  Oops. I hope he’s not going to wonder how I know he hasn’t kissed her yet. But it doesn’t even cross his mind to wonder.

  “Trust me, it’s going to work out,” he says. “She’ll think it over, and she’ll remember all the good times we used to have years ago, and she’ll think of the future . . . and then by the time I show up there ready to kiss her, she’ll say yes.”

  After that, I can see there’s hardly any argument I have that’s going to hold any appeal for William Sullivan, so I sit down at the table, and he tells me to write that she is beautiful and kind and that when he is out with her in the world, he can’t stop smiling. He wants me to tell her that he lives for the times he drives to see her, and for that moment when she opens the door. And that when she was sick, he was also sick—sick with worry—which is why when he showed up at the hospital, he maybe told too many jokes when he should have listened.

  Then he leans across the table with his eyes dancing. “Say that I’m peanut butter and she’s jelly,” he says. “And that she’ll never have to go to the hospital alone again.”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, now say she’s the bees in my
knees and the cats in my pajamas.”

  I write it down, smiling. “This is starting to sound a little sketchy, but okay.”

  On the speaker by the cash register, Frank Sinatra starts singing “All of Me,” and William Sullivan makes me write, “So I am asking now for your hand in marriage. Please make me the happiest man in the world and marry me. With love and sincerity, William Sullivan.”

  “Both names, really?” I say.

  “Both names. When your name is William, you have to be specific.” He is smiling, ear to ear. “Write William Sullivan if you please.”

  “Okay, dude. Done!” I write it down and hand it to him to look over. He reads it very solemnly, and clears his throat a few times, says it’s fine.

  “I kind of like it when you call me dude,” he says. And then fear seizes him again and he says, “I hope this works. And now if you’d kindly address it to Lola Dunleavy. Here, let me get the exact address out of my pocket.”

  And that’s when I have to tell him the truth—that I know Lola and love her already. “She’s my neighbor,” I say, and his face breaks open in a smile when I tell him I see his car when he comes to pick her up.

  “Do you think I have a shot?” he says.

  “You always have a shot,” I tell him. “Of course! Of course!”

  I tell him that, in fact, Lola is going to be at my house on Thanksgiving for dinner, and we come up with a plan. We decide that the flowers should be delivered on Thanksgiving morning, and if she accepts him, then he’ll come over to my house, too. If it’s no, he’ll go back home, eat his turkey dinner in a diner somewhere.

  We smile at each other, and then I come out from behind the counter and hug him. He’s a bit reserved at first, and I say, “Dude, you can hug me. We wrote a love letter together, and that means I’m on your team,” and then he gets into the hug.

  It’s raining outside, and he leaves Best Buds looking like he’s one umbrella away from performing “Singing in the Rain” right out there on Bedford Avenue.

  THIRTY-SIX

  MARNIE

  So I do a spell for Sammy.