by Jenny Jacobs
“That’s Becky — and her twin toddlers. Aren’t they gorgeous?” She did not point out that Becky was also an ample woman.
“Sure,” Julia said. She was not relaxing any. Clearly she was thinking, There are two men in the universe willing to overlook a woman’s fatness and both of them have been snapped up. Unfortunately, it was entirely possible that this was true. In Rilka’s experience, men were dogs. They could be fat and balding and never notice this about themselves. But try to pair them with a woman who had saggy upper arms and watch ’em run.
Of course the women weren’t any better, but they weren’t as focused on appearance. They wanted money and status. Not all of them, Rilka reminded herself. At least not all of the time.
Rilka sighed and tucked the card and snapshot back inside the envelope. She put it and the photo album away, then sat back down and took another sip of her tea, wishing it was something stronger. Would anyone notice if she started adding Jack Daniels to her morning cuppa?
“The next thing you need to do,” Rilka said, as she had said so many times before, “is release the belief that you’ll be happy if you lose weight. That you’ll find your Prince Charming if only you’d drop twenty pounds.” Or fifty, Rilka didn’t say.
“I was discouraged before I got here,” Julia said with some asperity. “You’re not helping any.”
“Look,” Rilka said. “You need to be happy with who you are first. What Sarah and Becky have in common is that they like themselves just as they are. They’re fun, interesting people with good friends and hobbies they enjoy.”
Julia grunted and took another swallow of water. No one ever believed Rilka when she said that, and why should they? The world was depressingly obsessed with appearance. Yet appearance-challenged people regularly hooked up. So the question was, how did they do it?
If only I knew, Rilka thought. I’d bottle it and sell it.
She fell back on the line Gran had told countless women who had sat at this self-same table over the years. “My first assignment for you is to put some fun and pleasure back in your life.” That way, even if you die alone and a virgin at eighty-two, you’ll have had a good time. “Is there anything you ever wanted to do or be but you decided you were too sensible to pursue?” Julia looked puzzled, so Rilka tried to think up an example. “Like — you wanted to be an artist or a zookeeper.”
A zookeeper. Where had that come from? Did people, small children, actually decide to be zookeepers? She supposed they did. But there would be animals involved, doing animal-related things. Shedding. Pooping. Rilka repressed a shudder and lifted her cup.
“I always wanted to be a ballerina,” Julia said, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
Through an act of sheer will, Rilka did not choke on her tea. “There you go,” she said cheerfully, eyeing the hefty woman. “Ballet lessons.”
“Oh, no,” Julia said. “I could never — ”
“Yes, you can,” Rilka said. “I know a lovely woman who conducts classes for beginners and I know she’ll be happy to have you even though — ” Whoops.
“Even though I’m fat,” Julia said.
“Exactly,” said Rilka and went to find that bottle of Jack Daniels.
• • •
Oh, Gran, Rilka thought as she didn’t add a slug of whiskey to the mug of tea in her hand. However did you do this and not get jaded or discouraged or give up on these people — or yourself? Day after day, week after week, month after month without end, amen. The world was so full of unhappy, lonely people, you’d think some of them were bound to run into each other and hook up, thereby reducing the number of unhappy, lonely people in the world. You would be wrong. Though logical, this did not actually appear to be the way the world operated. The unhappy, lonely people furthered their unhappiness by fixating on happy, unavailable people. Or they never left their houses, as if true love would blossom with the mail carrier or the pizza delivery boy. Which it could, Rilka granted, but was it likely? It was not. Like so much in life, finding one’s match was a numbers game.
Gran, please. How did you do it? How did you believe, all evidence to the contrary aside?
No answer. The old crone couldn’t shut up while she was alive; you’d expect her to be able to carry on a conversation from beyond.
Rilka watched from the front window as Julia got in her Mercedes and drove away. Ballet lessons. Julia wasn’t going to meet too many straight men while taking ballet lessons. But it would keep her busy for a few weeks while Rilka tried to figure out what to do next. She would think of something. Not necessarily a solution. Not necessarily a match. But something. She always did. But it was starting to feel less like an inspiring motto and more like a death sentence.
When Rilka’s real career as an analyst for a brokerage firm had fallen to pieces, this had been her fallback position. Just temporary. Until things turned around. Five years later she was still answering Gran’s phone and admitting that she was a matchmaker. Even the word sent a shiver of revulsion through her.
Because it was only temporary, she ran the business the way her grandmother always had: three-ring binders on a shelf, card file cross-reference. She hadn’t computerized anything because that implied permanence. As they had when Gran was in charge, people paid what they could. If Rilka developed a standard rate card, that implied a commitment to the business. So she didn’t.
Somehow there was always just enough money to keep the roof over her head from caving in. But there was no pension plan, no 401(k), and no paid vacation or sick days. She was part therapist, part cheerleader, part priest, and part dating coach, but she’d never been able to figure out how to transfer those skills to a new job, a real one. I was a well-regarded securities analyst until the SEC investigation, and since then I’ve been a matchmaker. No matter how she tried to spin it, it never resulted in a new career. Or even a better job. She hated to think of herself as a quitter but she hadn’t sent out a resume in a long time.
Gran had left her the house and the business, such as it was, with the blithe assumption that it was exactly what Rilka wanted. On that fateful day five years ago, when she’d gotten the pink slip from her job, the letter from Gran’s executor, and the message from Davis (“I’ve put your things in storage so my new girlfriend can move in”), it had seemed like a fair solution to her most pressing problems. But why me? she often wondered. The answer was obvious: Rilka, like her mother before her, was an only child. Rilka, unlike her mother, had not run off to Bangkok. In other words, who else was there?
In fact, she’d been surprisingly successful in the five years she’d been doing this. It was just that she knew her success was pure luck, and luck was not a business strategy.
The doorbell buzzed. Eleven o’clock already, and this would be — she glanced at the planner by her elbow — Jeremy Ford. She got to her feet and went to the front hall. She pulled open the door, fixing a welcoming smile on her face, and then her gaze dropped to the man in the wheelchair. Expressionless brown eyes met hers. Expressionless brown eyes in an expressionless square face. Short brown hair. Lips a little tight with pain or frustration. An unremarkable man. She wouldn’t have glanced at him a second time.
He hadn’t mentioned the wheelchair when he’d called. Or, rather, his brother hadn’t mentioned the wheelchair when he’d made the referral. Of course, they never did. But she wished they’d just spit it out: I’m OCD or I’ve been convicted of three felonies. Her job would be a lot easier if she just knew all that upfront.
“Jeremy Ford?” she queried.
“The same,” he said.
“I’m Rilka.” She opened the door wider, glad Gran had had the place made accessible after her first stroke had put her in a wheelchair for several months. Gran had assumed there would come a time when she couldn’t get out the wheelchair, and she had been right. A realist, Gran had been, despite her lunatic belief in happily
-ever-after.
“This way,” Rilka said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Your brother didn’t mention you’re — ” She hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn to be tactful.
“A double amputee?” Jeremy finished for her. He shrugged, rolling across the vinyl floor.
Rilka scooted one of the chairs away from the kitchen table to make room and asked, “Tea?” That seemed safe.
“Sure,” he said, rolling up to the table and setting the brakes on his chair.
“Car accident?” Rilka asked, setting a cup in front of him.
“Iraq,” he said.
“Hope they’ve given you a decent pension,” Rilka said, but she knew the government.
“I get by.” He shrugged again, his broad shoulders tugging at the fabric of his plain blue sweatshirt. “I’m a mechanic and my brother’s got a shop. We outfitted it so I can do my job okay.”
“Good,” Rilka said firmly, taking a seat. “I’m glad you have people you can count on.”
“I take care of myself,” he said, not belligerent but just as firm as she was.
“Sure,” said Rilka. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I expect you get a lot of people who want to take care of you.”
“Either they want to baby me or they run screaming from me,” Jeremy said and by they, Rilka assumed he meant women. Rilka was pretty sure there was a third choice that involved neither babying nor screaming but if he’d found it on his own, he wouldn’t be here.
“And what do you want?” she asked. There. A refreshing change from “Tell me what’s going on.”
He tapped a finger on the mug she’d set at his place. “I want to get laid.”
Yeah, no wonder he wasn’t managing the third choice on his own. Still, she gave him credit for knowing what he wanted and for being direct about it. But — “This is not an escort service,” she said. “If you or your brother thought so, I’m afraid you misunderstood.”
“No, no,” Jeremy said. He stopped toying with the mug and looked directly at her. His brown eyes weren’t expressionless now. “I know you’re not an escort service. I’m not looking for a professional. I prefer amateur action. Most guys do.”
“I see,” Rilka said. Maybe it wasn’t too late to learn to be a fry cook. What would Gran have said to this man? She probably would have slept with him herself and solved the problem. If only Rilka were a free spirit. She frowned. “Or rather, I don’t see.”
“What I’m saying is I’m not looking for marriage or commitment or kids or anything long term. I’m looking for someone to have fun with. Uh, not someone saving herself for marriage, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do know what you mean. It’s just that — ”
“I lost my legs,” Jeremy said. “Not my — ”
“Dick,” Rilka finished for him, hoping that saying the crudity herself would prevent her from blushing.
Jeremy looked taken aback. “I was going to say ‘sex drive.’”
Rilka ended up blushing anyway. Someday she’d learn to let people finish their own damned sentences. “Well. I’m assuming everything is — ”
“Fully intact and operational,” Jeremy assured her. “Feel free to take it for a test drive.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rilka said primly, which made him smile. She’d been wrong in her initial assessment of him. He was attractive once he relaxed a little, once he smiled, attractive in that former Army man way, with a strong physique, maybe from pushing the chair around and doing physical labor. It was possible to see he could be charming, if he exerted the effort. Assuming there were women who wouldn’t be put off by a physical disability, and she had just enough faith in her gender to believe this was possible, why was he here? Looking for the third kind of woman, yes, but somehow she suspected it wasn’t that simple. Or maybe it was. What did she know?
“So what do I do?” Jeremy asked and Rilka realized she’d been staring at him for too long. “I’m assuming you don’t have any women in your files with ‘double amputee’ listed under ‘preferences.’”
“You’d be surprised what’s listed under ‘preferences,’” Rilka said darkly. Honest to God, the human race never ceased to amaze her. She tried to have faith. She really did. “But you’re right, I’m fresh out of requests for men missing their legs.” She figured the diplomatic touch was lost on him, which was good because she’d already used up what she had. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”
“Of course not,” Jeremy said. “I was sure you’d be resourceful.”
“My reputation must precede me,” Rilka said, raising an eyebrow. She never asked where people got a referral because she didn’t want to know. Her name was probably written on every bathroom wall from here to Wichita.
“Tom Daniels is a buddy of mine.”
“Tom?” Rilka raised her other eyebrow. “He didn’t meet Elaine here.”
“That’s true. But he gives you credit for hanging in there.”
“He ran through every female I’ve ever met,” Rilka said. “Plus some I got out of the phone book. And then he met Elaine at work and bam.” If Rilka knew Tom, he was damned lucky to walk away with a wife instead of a sexual harassment lawsuit.
“True. But you didn’t give up on him.”
“I don’t give up on anyone,” she said piously, but then the streak of honesty she hadn’t quite drowned yet forced her to add, “Which isn’t to say people don’t give up on me. No one in this business has a one hundred percent success rate. But I’ll keep trying as long as my client wants me to.”
“You do that very well.”
“What?”
“The standard disclaimer and sales pitch. Nicely done. Almost like a regular conversation.”
This one was going to try her patience, that was clear. Of all the qualities a matchmaker needed, patience was the most important and the one quality Rilka had the least amount of. It will be a learning experience, Gran used to say, when Rilka had to do something she didn’t want to do. Rilka hated learning experiences. She sighed and said to the newest one, “So are you sold?”
“Sure. I’ll take the rustproofing and the extended warranty, too, please.”
“Just step into the finance office and we’ll get you set up.” Rilka couldn’t help the smile. Her clients were usually a little more respectful of her. Self centered enough not to want to get off on the wrong foot with her, she supposed. When you were their last hope, people tended to be careful in their dealings with you.
“So what’s next?” he asked.
“When someone has a physical disability or disfigurement, I usually suggest they find a hangout — a place where they can be a regular. That’s how you get people to look past the disability and get to know the real you.”
“Uh huh,” Jeremy said. “But I’m just trying to get laid.”
“Aren’t we all,” Rilka said with feeling. Five years without the whiff of a man. No one since Davis. She didn’t want to die with Davis having been her last lover. She didn’t understand how that worked. Men never went five years without getting any.
But then, Rilka had standards, so perhaps that explained it. Seventy-five percent of male college students would have a one-night stand with an attractive woman. Someone had actually done a study. None of the women in the study had been willing to sleep with an attractive stranger. So either women were more sensible than men or they were all liars.
Rilka didn’t actually want a one-night stand, nor did she really want a relationship. The last five years had put her off men pretty well. Women, too, but that was less problematic as far as sexual relationships went. Sometimes she felt like she’d spent all of her optimism on her clients and hadn’t kept any for herself. She had a hard time believing there could be a happily ever after for her.
Jeremy was waiting for her t
o say something. She wracked her brain trying to remember what they’d been talking about. Then she had it. “Look, you said yourself that you attract two kinds of women. Well, I’m trying to help you figure out how to attract a third kind.”
“Bimbos?” he asked hopefully.
“Jeremy, if you want to hire someone I’m sure we can find — ” She stopped herself before she could say something that would get her arrested for pandering.
“I’m joking,” Jeremy said. “Sort of.”
“Will you trust me on this?” Rilka said and realized that, all things considered, he probably shouldn’t. “Do you have a favorite watering hole?” She sometimes suggested sports leagues or continuing education programs, but she was pretty sure he’d have a smartass remark to either of those suggestions.
“Last Call,” he said.
“That’s a cop hangout.”
“Army, too.”
“How many women frequent that place?” Rilka demanded. Honestly, no wonder people needed her help.
“Uh.” Jeremy thought for a moment. “None. Maybe a cop groupie or two.”
“Okay.” Rilka felt she could rest her case. “Do you go anywhere else?”
“I get to Bennie’s now and then.”
“That’s a biker bar.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Sure, but you’re looking for women. The only women at Bennie’s are the hookers the boys run.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “You know a lot about the local bars,” he said respectfully.
“Not by choice,” Rilka said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
“What, you go there to scope out the goods? So you can match ’em with your desperate clients?”
Rilka closed her eyes. When she opened them he was still there. “No. People go to bars to meet people. It’s a way my clients can work on their interpersonal skills without risking much. But I have to know the clientele before I send someone out for a beer to practice their flirting skills.”