Playing With Matches

by Suri Rosen

  Dogs are so easy to solve.

  chapter 20

  A Match Made in Fenway

  Professor K. beckoned me into the kitchen, where the bok choy and cauliflower sat defiantly on the counter next to the juicer. When the juicer finished grinding the vegetables, he handed me my glass. I smiled and raised it to him.

  “Why don’t you check your mail,” he said as he uncovered the aluminum pan. It was filled with Mira’s pickled carp and rice.

  I swear I’m not making that up.

  A really unfortunate cocktail of oxygen, nitrogen, and carp followed me past the ficus tree as I trekked toward the computer.

  “I think my plant likes your company,” he yelled from the kitchen. “Ever since you started visiting it’s become so robust!”

  Which proves my point. Those hideous drinks that he was serving me weren’t beverage, they were fertilizer. I inched over to the plant and tipped over my glass. “You’re welcome,” I whispered to it.

  I sank into the chair and contemplated the matchmaking. It was eating up my time, affecting my grades, and putting Mrs. Levine on my tail more than ever. She kept calling my aunt and uncle because I was underperforming. The worst part was that I still hadn’t found someone good enough for Leah.

  My mind churned and I blankly twisted a lock of hair around my finger as I stared at the ficus. The whole purpose of my secret life was to find Leah a husband, but it had exploded into a full-time effort to help an entire network of individuals who had placed their trust in me and depended on me helping them. They were people with hopes and dreams and lots of pain and they deserved happiness. But still, I was in over my head with this business. If I could only find a fabulous — and willing — matchmaker who could take over my caseload, I’d finally be able to focus on passing my courses.

  But I knew that was unrealistic. Because if someone else had been willing to do it, my clients would never have come to me in the first place.

  How could I ever have known how complicated and time-consuming matchmaking was? That would partially explain why Mrs. Marmor was so mad at me.

  I gazed at the ficus tree, bursting with green foliage thanks to all the vegetable waste I’d been dumping into its soil. And then it occurred to me. That fragile plant was Deb, Daniel, Ilana, and all the others. Even Leah.

  And me?

  I was the revolting liquid they depended on.

  I had no choice. I had to carry on.

  I returned to Matchmaven to learn that Ilana and Aaron’s date was a disaster. When he came to get her, he started playing a video game with her little brother and wouldn’t leave until they finished an hour and a half later. Needless to say, Ilana deserved another date.

  Aaron deserved a smack.

  And I deserved a break for once.

  Aaron: It was a fantastic date. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since my broken relationship with Susan.

  Matchmaven: I hate to break it to you but it wasn’t really a date. You spent most of it playing video games with Ilana’s brother.

  Aaron: Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.

  There were no new emails so I signed out just as Professor K. emerged from the kitchen. I watched in horror as he carried Mira’s dinner spooned out … on two plates.

  He set them up on the dining room table, complete with cutlery and napkins.

  “Oh, look at that,” he said, noting my emptied glass. “You finished it already. Delicious, isn’t it?”

  “Um … for sure.”

  “Then let me make you another one.” He grabbed the glass and bounded back to the kitchen.

  I was defeated. I dropped into the dining room chair and waited for the gag-fest to begin. When he returned with my refill I nibbled on the rice, trying not to choke.

  Five parts ketchup, one part Mira-“food.”

  He dabbed his face with a napkin. “Rain, you look more tired every time I see you.”

  “It’s the schoolwork,” I said, rising from my chair to leave, even though I sensed an opportunity to gripe. But I had an English assignment that I was going to have to finally force myself to confront.

  “Well instead of going home right away, maybe I could help you.”

  “I’m good.” Time to make my getaway. “I’ve got a short story to analyze for school.”

  “Well, hang on,” he said, even though it was obvious that he was the one hanging on. “Maybe I can help you.”

  I pursed my lips and pretended to consider it for a few seconds. “It’s okay,” I said as I picked up my plate. “I have to go home.”

  “Please,” he said. “How else can I thank you?”

  The front door was so tantalizingly close.

  He gazed at me with his watery eyes. “I insist.”

  I hesitated. “Sure,” I said, dropping back into the chair.

  “Which story do you have to analyze?”

  “We can choose any short story.”

  He smacked a fist on the table. “I have the perfect story for you! It’s called ‘The Lottery.’” He jumped out of his chair, and strode to the living room bookshelf where he retrieved an ancient-looking book. A musty odour rose from its pages when he opened them to the correct spot. “Do you want to read, or should I?” he said.

  I waved my hand. “It’s okay, I don’t need to read.”

  I clutched my purse and pulled my cell phone out. I was tired and just wanted to go home. At this point, I could do nothing but wait it out.

  “The flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green . . .” he read. I glanced at the cell phone sitting discreetly on my knee. No messages or texts. Matchmaven was quiet tonight.

  “… Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones …”

  I leaned back on the chair and closed my eyes and listened to his reedy voice fill the air around us.

  “ … there was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open …”

  Apparently the village people were preparing for a ritual. It was a lottery but there was something disturbing about it.

  “The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, ‘I hope it’s not Nancy,’ and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.”

  There was something menacing about the story. I opened my eyes and watched Professor K. read from the book.

  “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones.”

  Suddenly it seemed that Professor K. wasn’t reading quickly enough. Tessie Hutchinson had now picked the slip of paper from the black box with the black spot on it and the entire village was ready with their stones.

  Was this really how it was going to end?

  Professor K. continued reading and finally reached the last horrible, tragic, and cruel line of the story.

  “‘It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,’ Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.”

  I let out a gasp.

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” he said in a quiet voice.

  It was a horror movie.

  “What does it mean?” I stuttered. “They just choose someone to be stoned to death every year?”

  He smiled. “Ahh. Let’s figure that out.” It was like Professor K. was enjoying a horror movie.

  But he was so old.

  We spoke about religion. We spoke about rituals. We spoke about ritual without meaning. About conformity. About the depravity of human nature. We were so immersed in Shirley Jackson’s world that I didn’t notice how much time had passed until ten, when I bid him goodbye, slid into the car, and motored home.

  As I headed toward the stairs, Leah popped out of her bedroom, wearing wine-coloured hospital scrubs. I felt my shoulders tense, as they always did when we bumped into each other. Leah glanced at her watch and shot me a suspici
ous look.

  “I was hanging out with Professor K.,” I said.

  “Until ten?”

  “We were reading a short story together. It was so interesting.”

  “Really?” She skipped down the stairs until we stood side by side. “The whole evening?”

  I nodded. “We discussed it for hours.”

  She cocked her head to the side and studied me.

  “He’s nice,” I said with a shrug.

  She began to turn away. Then she stopped, reached out, and gently squeezed my arm. “I’m proud of you.”

  I bounced up the stairs, closed my door, and I leapt onto my bed.

  Things only got better when I opened the computer and saw I had a new email.

  From Leah’s future husband.

  Dear Matchmaven,

  I heard you do good work as a matchmaker. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old civil engineer. I was engaged, but my fiancée broke it off a year ago and to be honest it’s taken a long time to get over her. I like to run, play basketball, and baseball. I’m originally from Boston but moved to Toronto after graduating from McGill University.

  I’m pretty chilled with a good sense of humour. I’m looking for someone beautiful, smart, kind, and open. Can you help me?

  Best regards,

  Jake Marks

  Can I help you? He was from Boston and played baseball. I tried not to get too blinded by his glorious Red Soxiness. He was successful. He was physically fit, like Leah. He was the right age.

  I emailed him right away.

  It was a match made in Fenway!

  chapter 21

  No Earthy Dog-Guy

  Over the next week and a half, Leah and Jake had four really good, long phone conversations. She stopped averting her eyes when she saw me and even smiled a few times.

  On Sunday night I sat at the computer scrolling through Matchmaven while Bubby dozed on the couch in front of a DVD playing an episode of the Flip Wilson Show, circa 1971. An hour and a half before their date, a message popped up from Jake. It was a great opportunity to pry him for his preferences as well as promote Leah as the incredible catch that she was.

  Jake: I’m really excited to meet Leah.

  Matchmaven: Have you thought about where you’re going to take her?

  Jake: Sheraton Parkway in Richmond Hill. It’s pretty and I think they might have an excellent goldfish pond.

  Matchmaven: I love an excellent goldfish pond.

  Jake: Exactly.

  Matchmaven: What’s the dress code?

  Jake: Sophisticated. I’ll be honest; I don’t understand when women don’t take care of themselves.

  Matchmaven: I know.

  Matchmaven: What do you mean?

  Jake: I just mean putting a bit of effort into how they dress. Especially on a date.

  Matchmaven: I agree.

  Which meant that I had to convince Leah to do a 180. This time she’d have to dress exactly opposite from her last date. Jake was no earthy dog-guy. He sounded like a sophisticated man.

  With ninety minutes until Jake arrived, I found myself on high alert. It was particularly significant because it was the first anniversary of the day she started dating Ben. This time though, Mira and Eli wouldn’t be able to greet Jake and invite him in for the five-minute interrogation. Mira had a meeting and Eli was working late at his office.

  I sat at the computer desk in the den, combing through MazelTovNation when a notice caught my eye.

  Jonathan Sandler and Dena Shore were engaged!

  That was my match! I hooted out loud.

  “Do you know them?”

  I spun around in my chair. Leah stood behind me, wearing a bathrobe. Why was she always there whenever someone got engaged?

  She pointed at the huge picture of Jonathan and Dena standing in front of a huge Mylar balloon that said mazel tov on the monitor. “How would you know them?” she said.

  “I think … she was a division head in camp,” I said. Three decades ago, maybe. Certainly not in my lifetime.

  “Anyway,” she said. “I’m … going out tonight. Can I borrow some clothes?”

  “No problem!” I rolled back the chair and sprang up the stairs to my bedroom. I threw open my closet door. “Is this like a date or something?”

  “Rain, please,” she said as she peered inside. Stung, I just nodded. We gazed at the inside of the cupboard where my clothes hung neatly in categories — skirts, blouses, dresses, and sweaters. We studied the contents carefully, moving hangers as we appraised the possibilities.

  “Michael Kors, von Fürstenberg, Kenneth Cole,” I said, pointing to three skirts.

  “Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Zac Posen,” she said, as she gestured to three blouses.

  “Kors,” I said.

  “Lauren?”

  “Posen.”

  It was settled. When it came down to it, Leah and I spoke the same language.

  “Thanks, Rain,” she said as she pulled a beige shell over her head.

  “You should wear heels too,” I said. Thankfully, a mini-thaw in the weather had melted the snow enough to wear shoes on the sidewalks.

  She stopped with her arms mid-air and looked at me strangely. “Didn’t you tell me to wear flats last time?”

  “I’m just going by this outfit,” I said as I pointed to her. “I think you need something a bit more formal on your feet.”

  “Well, okay. I guess I’ll trust your fashion sense.” She tugged down the waist of the shell, and then slipped on a floaty emerald blouse. “Thanks, Rain,” she said. “I appreciate this.”

  “No problem. Do you want me to answer the door, when he comes?”

  She sighed. “Okay, fine. But just say hello to him and then get me right away. Okay?”

  “You can trust me,” I said.

  Because that’s all I really wanted.

  Jake was a looker, alright. Bubby obviously thought so too, because when I opened the door, she somehow was standing right behind me, gasping in my ear. With sandy-coloured hair, chiseled cheekbones, and clear jade eyes, it was hard to turn away from him. But true to my word I just said hello.

  “I’m waiting for Mrs. Feldman,” Bubby claimed as she stubbornly stood her ground at the front door while I flew up the stairs to retrieve Leah.

  As they left, I tiptoed to the catwalk at the front of the hall and peeked out the window just as Jake opened the car door for Leah. Good sign. Once they drove off, I paced the hall upstairs. Leah didn’t seem quite as terrified this time. The date with Daniel had definitely given her some practice and loosened her up a bit.

  I finally went down to the kitchen to drown my anxiety in ketchup chips. Bubby and Mrs. Feldman were both settled on the family room couch watching an episode of the Mod Squad (circa 1969) on the DVD player in the den. I sat at the kitchen table and pretended to focus on quadratic equations. Did I mention that I hate quadratic equations and that they’re ugly and stupid and that I don’t even agree with them?

  Bubby and Mrs. Feldman were now engaged in an animated discussion about somebody named Linc. I whipped out my phone and dialled Dahlia. “I need you. Will you come over? I’ve got some great ketchup chips here.”

  The voices in the den grew louder now as the two women obviously could not see eye to eye about a forty-five-year-old cop show about hippies.

  “Now?” Dahlia said. “It’s kind of late.”

  I decided to sweeten the pot, “And I really need help with my quadratic equations.”

  “Ooh, such temptation,” she said. “But what’s that noise?”

  “Noise?” I covered the phone and fled from the kitchen where Mrs. Feldman’s voice wouldn’t carry. “What noise?”

  “Wait a minute,” Dahlia said. “Mrs. Feldman is there, isn’t she?”

  “Help me.”

 
“Nice try,” Dahlia said. “Those ladies are legitimately scary.”

  I sighed and pretended to work on my homework. Every minute passed like an hour. At 9 p.m. Bubby announced that she was going to sleep and Mrs. Feldman clipped her way out to her car. At 10:30 the front door finally opened. Four and a half hours was a promising first date. It was soon clear though that the footsteps approaching the kitchen were not high heels on the marble floor. I sank back in my seat.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Mira said as she dropped her briefcase onto a kitchen chair. “I’ve got loads of groceries still sitting in the car. Will you bring them in?”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper and looked around her. “Is Leah home?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” She removed her down coat and threw it over a chair.

  The front door immediately opened again and Leah swished into the kitchen.

  Mira turned to her with outstretched arms. “How was it, honey?”

  Leah nodded slowly with a cryptic smile on her face. “I’m a bit afraid to talk about it, Aunt Mira.”

  “I understand,” Mira said. “I’m sure you’ll have a good discussion with that lovely matchmaker. What’s her name? Matchster?”

  “Matchmaven.” Leah giggled.

  “I’ve never heard of an anonymous matchmaker,” Mira said, shaking her head. “But people are saying that she really knows what she’s doing.”

  My heart palpitated.

  “She’s pretty awesome,” Leah said. “Aunt Mira, do you mind if I go message Matchmaven from my laptop upstairs?” Mira nodded with a smile. Leah slipped off her heels and padded toward the stairs. I jumped out of the seat to race up to my room. “The groceries, Rain,” Mira said.

  I stumbled mid-stride. “Aunt Mira, I have to finish my math. Can’t it wait?”

  She leaned her head to the side and pulled out her earring. “It’ll take five minutes. And I need you to put them away too.”

  I threw on my ski jacket, dashed out to Mira’s Camry, and was aghast to find it brimming with bright yellow supermarket bags. Like she was catering a wedding, or something. It actually took me twenty minutes to haul in the bags and fit everything into the fridge and pantry.