Playing With Matches

by Suri Rosen

  Leah stood at the bay window at the back of the kitchen, her fingers on the glass as she stared out at the park. “I don’t mind staying home, Aunt Mira,” she said in a soft voice. “I can start to cook for Shabbos.”

  Which was five days away. Leah was a plant slowly dying of thirst.

  “I’d love you to get out a bit,” Mira said.

  “I’m fine. Really. I’m excited to try a new apple crisp recipe that I found on the internet.”

  And no, she was not excited to try a new apple crisp recipe that she found on the internet.

  Aunt Mira turned to me with a pleading look, but I was the last person that Leah would listen to right now. Leah was wasting away. More motivated than ever, I returned to my room and opened my Matchmaven email.

  I simply had to find love for Leah.

  Once again I threw schoolwork to the wind and ploughed through the emails again, more determined than ever. At 9 p.m. I finally settled on a date for Leah.

  Daniel Sharfstein.

  It’s true that he was jittery but Leah was kind and would put him at ease. He was thirty — an appropriate age for her. He was a runner — like Leah. He adored kids. Leah would love that.

  Matchmaven had no problem selling Daniel to her. She was eager to date and apparently nobody was fixing her up.

  Daniel requested a Sunday night date, which happened to coincide with Mira and Eli going out to the wedding as well as my fabulous Red Sox party. Everything had to be carefully choreographed after Leah took stock of my party decorations and begged Mira and Eli to make me wait until after Daniel had picked her up before setting up for the Red Sox party. No problem there. I wanted Leah to be as calm and positive as possible for her date with Daniel. And besides, Mira was insistent that I catch up on all of my homework before setting up for the party.

  The date was less than a week away. So while I ran around buying red streamers and special snacks, Leah and Daniel were able to enjoy five full days of dread and self-doubt. I spent the better part of Tuesday night on Professor Kellman’s computer instant messaging Daniel with details about the date. The more Daniel’s composure deteriorated, the greater my sense of unease grew. He agonized over what to wear, where to take Leah, and what to talk about. One thing he knew for sure was that he was going to take more than one set of spare clothes to discreetly change into if the sweating got out of control.

  What was I thinking?

  Even Leah needed to be coaxed.

  Leah: I’m going to be honest, Maven. My confidence is pretty shaky now.

  Matchmaven: You’re a beautiful, smart, and kind woman.

  Leah: I appreciate the compliment, but you don’t really know that.

  I do, Leah, I do.

  Leah: My life was so much simpler six months ago. I still can’t believe that I’m dating again.

  Matchmaven: Everything has a reason. I have no doubt that you’ll have a fabulous new husband and you’ll be relieved that you didn’t marry your ex-fiancé.

  Leah: I guess.

  Matchmaven: I’m sure of it. You’ll even thank your sister!

  Leah: Whoa. I’m not there yet.

  Okay, it might have been too soon. But I could see that Matchmaven had the potential to grow into a dual-purpose enterprise. Marry off Leah and get me back in her good books.

  In the meantime Daniel was starting to freak me out. He absolutely could not go full-out nerd on this date.

  Daniel: I’m just so awful on dates.

  Matchmaven: Clearly.

  Daniel: How am I going to calm myself down?

  Matchmaven: What makes U relaxed?

  Daniel: I don’t know. Kids. My nieces and nephews. My dog.

  Matchmaven: Well you’re obviously not taking kids with you on a date.

  I was ready to throw up.

  Matchmaven: You MUST stay calm. Just do whatever it takes to stay calm. You have to stop acting like you haven’t been on a date for five years.

  Daniel: Actually, it’s only been four and a half years.

  Daniel: Maven?

  Daniel: Maven? Are you there?

  This was so outside of my skill set, I might as well have been repairing air conditioners. How did I come to advise grown men about their personal lives?

  Matchmaven: Just remember that Leah is naturally wonderful and kind. You’ll be fine.

  Daniel: I appreciate it. I like natural! She’s not into that heavy makeup and high heels, right?

  Matchmaven: She’s totally natural.

  At least she was totally natural — once upon a time.

  On Sunday evening, the night of the date, I stared in abject horror as she descended the stairs with makeup caked on so thick that you’d need a salting truck to cut through it.

  I gasped out loud. “I know, Rain,” Aunt Mira said with an admiring smile. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

  No, she did not look beautiful. Leah looked like a freak show clown on three-inch stilts. She was so obviously lacking self-confidence, because she never ever would have packed on so much paint. I mean she’s stunning, she doesn’t need it.

  I shot out of the kitchen into the main floor powder room and whipped out my cell phone to see if I could g-chat her. It was probably too late to intercept her before Daniel arrived but it was worth an attempt any way.

  Hi Leah,

  I just wanted to wish you luck on your date with Daniel. He’s probably going to take you to a coffee shop so nice-casual dress will be awesome, no heels or anything. Daniel’s a real earthy guy so I’m sure you’ll be beautiful.

  Hugs,

  Matchmaven

  What was I thinking? Daniel would be here any minute. I bounded back into the kitchen, where Mira, all dressed up for the wedding, was applying a coat of lipstick. Plan B was formulating in my mind.

  Since Daniel hadn’t arrived I had a tiny window to salvage the situation.

  Aunt Mira and Uncle Eli were still admiring the post-­Expressionist oil painting that was my sister’s face when I re-­entered the kitchen.

  “Leah, you look so pretty,” I said. She nodded while smoothing down the folds of her pleated skirt.

  Since I didn’t exactly have time on my hands, I jumped right in. “Are you sure you need that much blush and eye shadow, though?”

  “Rain!” Mira said as Leah’s hands flew up to her cheeks.

  “It’s just that she’s naturally beautiful,” I said. “She doesn’t need to cover up her skin so much.”

  Mira’s nostrils flared as she threw a warning look at me.

  “Is it my clothes too?” Leah said in horror looking down at her outfit. “I haven’t shopped since I was in New York. I have nothing to wear.”

  “Your outfit is beautiful,” Aunt Mira said to Leah as she glared at me.

  “But this is my only outfit,” Leah moaned.

  “When the two of you go down to New York for the Saunders bar mitzvah in January, you can do a little shopping,” Mira said. “In the meantime you look stunning.”

  “But maybe she doesn’t need to be so formal. Like with those heels,” I said looking at her feet. “I mean if they’re only going to a coffee shop.”

  Leah’s eyes popped open. “How did you know —?”

  I shuffled back a step. Leah didn’t know that Rain knew that Matchmaven had arranged a coffee shop date. “It’s just a usual place for a first date,” I blurted. “Isn’t it?”

  “I have to change,” Leah gasped as she fled the kitchen toward the staircase.

  “Rain!” Mira clamped my arm. “Did you know that this is Leah’s first date since the engagement?”

  I gulped and shook my head.

  “We need to build her up, not tear her down.”

  I nodded obediently with a sorrowful look. But my work was done.

  Leah finally re-emerged
in the kitchen and sure enough she had enough makeup removed that you could actually see the contour of her face. She was also wearing flats now.

  “Leah, you look beautiful,” I said.

  “That’s what you said last time,” she said.

  “I was being nice,” I said. “Now I’m being honest.” See? I can do both.

  She squinted her eyes. “Have you been reading my emails or something?”

  “Wh … what?”

  “The matchmaker told me the same thing.”

  “Please,” I said. “It’s just common sense.”

  Mira shook her head as Uncle Eli chuckled.

  When the doorbell rang, Uncle Eli straightened his tie and headed to the front door. Aunt Mira tucked in her blouse and trailed him to the entrance to welcome Daniel. What can I say — that’s the way it works with us. The five-minute reconnaissance mission with the boy. No last-minute psychopaths on our watch.

  “You can go upstairs,” Leah muttered, which was patently unfair since I had made the match and I at least deserved to see what Daniel looked like. But I wasn’t exactly in a bargaining position.

  I stood on the top of the stairs straining to pick up any snippet of conversation, but I couldn’t see or hear much of anything. Daniel was either super-quiet or super-nervous. Or both.

  Mira and Eli left for the wedding right after Daniel picked up Leah. I was finally free to set up the party so I rushed to the kitchen and pulled the fruit and vegetables out of the fridge and began arranging them on a silver tray from Mira’s china hutch. I poured a mound of Grape-Nuts in a bowl then piled a heap of salt-free chips on a platter. Thanks to my careful planning, Bubby and her friends would be able to savour a safe and healthy menu while enjoying the game.

  Bubby was visiting with her best friend Mrs. Feldman, the one she was always fighting with, and they were scheduled to return by 7:30 to help put the finishing touches on the party.

  With the prune juice and seltzer chilling in the fridge, I unwrapped the evening’s prized delicacy, a rare gift pried from the reluctant butcher at the kosher supermarket: three pounds of authentic kishka, beef intestines that were popular with my grandparents’ generation but hardly anybody ate anymore. This was the real thing, with the real stuffing.

  Apparently it’s illegal for hygiene reasons.

  I zapped the kishka and held my breath as an unusual stench wafted from the microwave. It looked gorgeous in a gleaming ceramic bowl that Aunt Mira used for entertaining. I artfully garnished it with two sprigs of cilantro. It looked like the kind of gourmet intestines you’d find in a trendy cooking magazine. When it was all set up, I admired my spread on the coffee table. It looked attractive but something was missing: greenery.

  I peered out the window of the den at the cedar and pine trees in the park. With only thirty minutes left until the party, there was no time to grab a pair of gardening shears. I’d never really paid any attention to Mira’s plants but I scoured the living room with a new pair of eyes. A large dieffenbachia plant sat in the corner of the living room but its leaves were too gigantic for the party platters.

  Six tiny plants sat on a tapestry runner on Mira’s antique sideboard. Although my mother was an indoor gardener, I wasn’t familiar with these miniature plants. They almost looked like trees. They’d have to do. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen, cut off a pile of the petite branches, and filled a plastic baggie full of leaves. The little trees looked kind of bare when I’d finished but I figured they would grow back their branches in no time.

  I meticulously placed the miniscule branches and foliage around the platters of food on the coffee table. The presentation looked fabulous.

  The doorbell rang and I strode to the entrance to let in Bubby Bayla. But when I pulled back the door, I was surprised to see Dahlia standing on the porch. She waved a flash drive in front of me. “Hi,” she said. “I’ve got the spreadsheet set up.”

  I blinked.

  “Remember I offered? I know the whole thing is a secret so I figured you wouldn’t want to do it at school. Right?”

  “I really appreciate this,” I said. “But I’m kind of in the middle of something now.”

  Her face fell. “I should have checked first.”

  “I’m kind of throwing a party.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to disturb you and your friends,” she said as she dropped the flash drive into her pocket. She turned to leave when a shiny Ford Mustang, as red as a fire engine, screeched into the driveway. The front doors of the car burst open and an elderly woman climbed out from the driver’s side while Bubby Bayla clambered onto the driveway.

  “Raina!” the driver said as she waved her cane at me.

  “Hi,” I said. “Are you Mrs. Feldman?”

  “I am,” she said as she slowly climbed out of the car and hobbled up the driveway. She wore a baggy trench coat that matched the shade of her hair and the colour of her face; she was essentially five feet of grey. Or maybe more like four feet. Mrs. Feldman clutched the railing to haul herself up the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” Dahlia said to her, turning down the stairs.

  Mrs. Feldman fended Dahlia off with her cane. “What? You think I’m some kind of invalid?”

  “Sylvia, she’s just trying to help,” Bubby said as she followed Mrs. Feldman up the concrete stairs. She cast a glance at Dahlia. “You here for the party too? What’s your name?”

  “Dahlia.”

  “We have lots of room,” Mrs. Feldman said, wheezing, as she summited the porch. “Irving Goldblatt’s bursitis flared up.” She clipped her cane on the concrete and limped past Dahlia.

  “Lillian Shimmel isn’t coming either,” Mrs. Feldman added. “She has the runs again, the poor thing.”

  Dahlia froze.

  “What, you need a personal invitation to come in the house?” Bubby said to Dahlia as she lumbered past her. “Don’t be such a prima donna.”

  Dahlia threw me a questioning look and I shrugged in response. You really didn’t want to say no to Bubby. We piled into the front hall and Dahlia stared in wonderment at the riot of red; there were streamers, posters, and balloons festooning the walls. “What is this?” Dahlia said.

  “It’s a Red Sox party.”

  The doorbell rang. “Hang on a second,” I said as an ancient woman with sweeping blue bangs stepped inside the house. I was delighted because my parents used to reminisce about older women dying their hair pale blue when they were kids. I had never been able to picture what it looked like until now. If I had more foresight I would have worn a blue solidarity wig for my new friends.

  “It’s a party for all my friends in Toronto,” I said to Dahlia as I pointed to the two women shuffling toward the den.

  “I’m Dorothy,” the woman said to Dahlia. “What’s your name?”

  “Um, Dahlia.”

  “And you’re Raina,” Dorothy said with a warm smile. The doorbell rang again and an elderly gentleman with a polished scalp hobbled into the foyer, leaning on a lacquered cane.

  “Dolinsky, here,” he said, all business.

  “Hi, Dolinsky,” I said. “Party’s in the back.”

  “I brought some compote,” Dorothy said, raising a beige plastic container. “Dahlia, can you take it to the kitchen?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” she said.

  “Raina, we saved a space for your friend,” Mrs. Feldman shouted from the family room.

  Dahlia shot me a gaze, her brows furrowed with confusion.

  “Why don’t you just hang out for the first inning and then you can make your getaway,” I murmured. Dahlia nodded in response.

  Dorothy handed the container to Dahlia then threaded her hand through Dahlia’s arm and they shuffled to the back of the house.

  With only a tiny interlude available, I stepped into the powder room and fished out my cell phone. It was un
likely that I’d hear from Leah during the date, but I had to be on call just in case there was a problem. Especially after the Ilana/Jonathan fiasco.

  Since there was no news, I dropped the phone into my skirt pocket and wandered to the den. There were now six seniors lounging on the furniture, with Dahlia wedged between Dorothy and Mrs. Feldman on the leather couch. She shot me a pleading look.

  “You didn’t come to take your friend away, did you?” Dorothy said, gently pinching Dahlia’s cheek as her face contorted in misery. “It’s so lovely when young people visit.”

  I shrugged apologetically to Dahlia. “Everybody ready?” I scooped up the remote and clicked the power button on the huge flat screen television.

  “The Sox have always had such wonderful players,” Dorothy said. I gazed at the tiny Red Sox aficionado sitting on the leather couch and felt my heart swelling.

  “Bob Gillespie,” Dolinsky said. “Him, I’m really looking forward to watching.”

  “On the Sox roster?”

  “Of course,” he said with a snort. “The Red Sox.”

  “Oh,” I said, annoyed that I hadn’t been able to keep up with recent trades.

  “And Charlie Maxwell too.” An elderly man wearing a jacket and cravat wheezed.

  Who?

  “Lou Stringer,” Mrs. Feldman said. “Now there’s an infielder.”

  The reality of my exile swallowed me like a carwash. I couldn’t believe that my father hadn’t bothered to mention this amount of trading in the last few weeks. I decided to let it go because the topic of this conversation was fantastic. The tiny men and women in this room spoke my language. They were my people.

  “Well, to me no one will ever come close to Ted Williams,” Bubby said.

  It was Mozart.

  “Please everyone, help yourself to some refreshments,” I announced. I hit the button on the cable remote and flopped on the floor in front of the TV.

  The familiar voices of Don Orsillo, the play-by-play announcer, and Jerry Remy wrapped me like a warm July day in Fenway Park. It felt like my father and grandfather were sitting on either side of me. The phantom scent of hot dogs teased my nostrils and crowded out the kishka and prunes that filled the air.