Searching for the One

by Gabriella Murray

  "It's been wonderful talking to you, mom, but I'm getting tired."

  "You're not tired. You can't stand hearing the truth. You think it's better to put an ad in then to come home and speak to God."

  "God works in funny ways, mom," Sara said. "Maybe he doesn't hate the people who read the ads, like you seem to."

  Tova was offended. "Me? I don't hate anybody. I just want you to come to your senses and return to the block."

  A lump rose in Sara's throat.

  "I can't, mom."

  "Why?"

  "There's no room on it for me anymore."

  The two of them grew silent.

  "Don't worry," Sara said after a long moment. "I asked for a reliable man."

  Tova sighed and so did Sara, who carefully neglected to tell her about the ad she also placed for a wild, unruly, unpredictable man on another site.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dear Sunflower 101

  Although I haven't heard from you yet, I feel you are enjoying these letters. You are enjoying them, aren't you? I'm a simple man, but I live a good life. Most days you'll find me in my small office up here on the second floor, looking out over Eighth Avenue, watching people scurrying by, hoping for something. Usually I'm answering mail, making calls and working on behalf of the injured. I'm one of the few left who work alone on consignment - so all kinds of cases come my way. I'm a comfortable man, though not wealthy. Wealth never meant much to me. How about you? What do you care most about? Tell me, I'm dying to hear.

  Your about-to-be-friend,

  Greg

  WOMAN SEEKING MAN

  WANTED; Wild, unruly, unpredictable man. Handsome, daring, unfettered by custom. An absolutely independent thinker. Spontaneous, flexible and ready for love.

  Sara hung up from her mother feeling queasy but determined to shake it. She looked around - there was a lot to do to get ready for the New Year. The kids were all out of the house, probably at their friends. Sara heard the washing machine going and Berta singing old hymns to herself in the laundry room. Piles of college applications Chloe had been working on were scattered on the living room table. Abel had left his saxophone out on a chair and, as usual, Matt had left his shoes in the middle of the floor. Sara put the saxophone back in its case, picked up the shoes, and straightened the pile of applications. She finally stopped, hoping to make it out to the shed to work on her pottery for a little while.

  "Oh Misses!" Berta called, just as she'd reached the door.

  "What is it?"

  "Two things. The last fish in that. . . tank."

  Sara swallowed hard. "Oh no."

  Only one salamander, Angie, was left alive, and he'd been having trouble the past few days."

  "He doesn't look like he'll make it. I don't know how to tell the kids."

  "I'll do it," Sara said, with a sinking feeling. They'd all tried their best to keep the fish alive. Abel was convinced the fish wouldn't make it without Melvin who had picked them out, fed them and used to talk to them every day. Sara had no idea why they were dying, but she suspected it was because Berta felt sorry for them and they were secretly overfed.

  "And the plumber called to say he'll be here in an hour. He couldn't find the leak yesterday."

  Sara's heart sank. "I thought he fixed it."

  "This morning, I went down to get detergent and heard more splashing in the back room - "

  "God."

  "It's winter, Misses. We got to be careful. Another pipe could spring a leak. You remember last year!"

  Sara shivered at the thought. It was a good house, but old, and the pipes seemed to bang and leak all through the winter. Melvin used to run down to the basement with arms full of towels, growling and soaking up the mess. He'd thump his fists on the walls of the basement, cursing the old system. I can't catch a break here, he'd holler. The boiler, too, had a mind of its own, defying his every demand. Usually it would clang a few days to give notice of impending doom before the pipes joined in. Last year there wasn't even notice, just a sudden pool flooding the side room in the basement, where Melvin'd kept his old baseball pictures, soaking them all to the core. He swore under his breath a full day after that.

  "It's a sign," Berta had warned. "Something's not right here, Ma'am."

  "It's that same pipe in the corner?" Sara yelled over the washer.

  "A different one, in the front room. It's not bad yet. If the plumber gets here soon, we won't need the towels."

  Sara dodged, making her way out of the kitchen. Flood or no flood, she desperately needed one quite hour in the shed with her clay.

  "I'll be in the back when he comes, Berta. Call me then."

  Unsettled, Sara flew into the shed. She would pretend for now the pipe wasn't leaking. There was just no way to keep the huge, old house together; she realized she just had to take what came. The minute she stepped into the shed, Sara breathed deeply. It was beautiful and peaceful, the early morning sun shining in, lighting it through the side windows, and the walls - raw, barn wood - adding to her peace of mind.

  A long worktable stood in the center, covered with vats of clay and various stands. Two stools were placed diagonally in the corner, and Sara's new wood-burning kiln stood proudly, waiting to transform the pieces. In full blast, the kiln heated to l,000C - the temperature needed for the spectacular moment to fire the pots. Huge crates, filled with sawdust, sat in the corner, waiting to cool and smoke the work that came out.

  Sara loved the danger and mystery of Raku firing. Some pots lived through it, others did not. She had to learn to let go of the drams she had for them when the time came. Some cracked and had to be discarded; others could be salvaged with colorful glazes. Some were best decorated with bronze, metals or scraps of wood. After hours or weeks of careful nurturing, each finally had to be left to its own destiny.

  Sara went to the table, breathed deeply, and sunk both arms up to her elbows. The soft, moist clay demanded full attention. Thoughts flew from her mind as she focused on the work. Kneading and molding, a refrain echoed through her mind, gripping her and bringing ease; who is the pot and who is the potter?

  Sara jumped to her feet, shocked out of the deep silence, when Berta banged on the door.

  "I'm sorry Misses, the plumber is here!"

  Although he'd been coming for years, Joe-Z, the plumber, wouldn't work in the basement unless someone, preferably Sara, was in the house. He said he felt weird being down there alone. Berta said it was the ghosts making trouble, and begged Sara to put garlic and red ribbon around.

  "Boy," Joe mumbled. "Those pipes are wicked this year."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault," he looked at her and grinned.

  "Look, I'll be working out back in the shed today, if you don't mind."

  "Actually, if you don't mind, stick around while I'm here. Just feel better that way. There's that weird, whining noise down there, like someone crying."

  "Fine."

  "Besides, it's cold out in the garage, isn't it?"

  "Not the garage - in my Raku shed."

  "Yeah. Well, it's cold there, right?"

  "I guess so," Sara said. She plopped down on a chair in the living room as she listened to his work boots clunk down the metal staircase.

  "A light out down here!" Joe called, his voice echoing as if coming from the walls themselves. "I can't see anything."

  Sara sighed. She got up and rummaged through all the drawers for a flashlight.

  "I can't find it, Joe," she yelled back, suddenly on the verge of tears.

  "Never mind," he yelled. "I got it."

  Sara went back to her chair opening a magazine she'd already read a thousand times.

  It was more than two hours when Joe finally emerged from the basement, hands gritty, face smiling, declaring he found the real leak. They could count on a dry New Year. They both breathed deeply at the same time.

  Sara had heard that before, but thanked him profusely anyway, and gave him a bottle of excellent wine for the holidays. Melv
in would never tip workers - he said it made them lazy - and Sara felt good doing it herself. Joe's grin and unexpected hug was a great reward.

  * * * * *

  The kids were planning to spend the final week of the year skiing with Melvin and Alicia in Aspen, as previously agreed. Sara thought that by then she would certainly receive a flood of responses to her ad, and she would be busy meeting the men.

  "What are your plans for New Year?" Chloe asked?

  "I'm not sure," Sara backed down.

  "Not sure? So late! "Oh God, mom! "You've got to call the girls immediately," Chloe said, her face flushing. "See what they're doing. Go along."

  A wave of fear came over Sara.

  "You can't spend New Year's alone!"

  The image of being alone on New Year's rose up and flashed before Sara like a gigantic gargoyle. The whole world would be together, dancing, toasting, kissing. She would be alone.

  "I won't allow it," Chloe insisted. "It's morbid, unhealthy. Call the girls. If you don't, I will."

  Later that day Sara called Cynthia to find out what they had planned for New Year's Eve.

  "I thought you'd never ask," Cynthia said. "We were all wondering what you were doing - if you had a secret lover you were rendezvousing with?"

  "The best kept secret I ever heard," Sara said.

  "Well, we're all going to an incredible single's dinner dance at the Sheraton. Black-tie. The works. You still can come, if you want."

  "I want," Sara said.

  "You don't sound very excited. But you'll get into the swing. I'll call right now and put your name on the list. My God, honey, no matter how queasy you feel, it doesn't make any sense to spend New Year's alone."

  Sara felt good telling the kids her plans for New Years, as she drove them to the airport to spend the week with their dad.

  The kids called a few times from Aspen, wishing Sara a happy New Year and saying Melvin got them up at the crack of dawn each day for a lesson on the steepest slope, but Alicia was allowed to sleep late. She was a rotten skier, anyhow, only worried about her nails. Abel said he missed her, and Chloe sounded strange. Sara felt exhausted after their phone calls, going into her bedroom and laying down on her bed, remembering other vacations they'd shared.

  As New Year's Eve approached, the thought of the dance at the Sheraton made Sara feel ill. This would be the first time she greeted the New Year with strangers. False smiles, nervous laughter, gaiety revved up by too many glasses of wine. Better to make a favorite dinner, she thought, and spend the time alone.

  Greta called the day before to tell Sara about the dress she was wearing, and ask if she could borrow a matching bag. After she came to pick it up, her eyes puffy from crying, her skin overly pale, Sara realized for sure she could not go to the dance with them. She could end up feeling more lonely than before. She called Cynthia immediately to tell her she wasn't coming.

  A dead silence greeted her announcement.

  "I'll pay for my ticket, of course," Sara said.

  "It's not about that," Cynthia retorted.

  "What is it?"

  "You're strange, Sara, different from the others. It's not necessarily a quality you should give in to."

  Echoes of Melvin rang through Sara's mind. He used to speak to her the same way, and she had always defended herself. She was through with that.

  "I am who I am," she replied.

  "I don't know what that means," Cynthia said.

  "Neither do I," said Sara, "but little by little I'm finding out."

  Sara spent New Year's Eve working in her shed. She made herself a dinner of rice pilaf, chicken, vegetables, and home-made biscuits, and ate it quietly, remembering other New Year's Eves when they were all together. She and Melvin usually had a family dinner early, and then went to the home of a couple they were close to. There would be champagne, hor'doerves, coffee and desert. They would listen to music, chat, and greet the New Year hand in hand.

  Melvin always kissed her lightly, and when they got home, said he was glad it was over with. He never kissed her deeply. Sara remembered wondering if he ever would.

  At midnight tonight, Sara took out a bottle of her best wine, poured it into a crystal glass, and lifted it to herself in a toast.

  "To a wonderful New Year, Sara," she said, "and all the good it can bring!"

  * * * * *

  When the kids returned a week later, Sara was in the shed. She was so deeply immersed in her work that she didn't hear Melvin's car in the driveway, everyone unpacking their gear.

  The minute the car pulled away, they all flooded into the shed. "We're here."

  Sara jumped up. "Welcome home."

  Abel flung his arms around her. and Chloe stood right besides him; Matt hung back.

  "Did you have a good time?" Sara asked.

  "It was all right," Matt said.

  "Dad's girlfriend's a jerk," said Chloe. "She's all over dad every minute - and doesn't say two words to us."

  "She's jealous," said Abel.

  "Come on, now," said Sara. "You've got to give dad room to have what he likes."

  "Exactly," said Matt.

  "What about you, mom?" Chloe asked. "Did you have a happy new year?"

  "Very," said Sara, trying her best to sound positive, but wondering what really was in store.

  * * * * *

  She didn't have to wonder long. Less than two weeks later, after she was settled back into her routines, the answers to her ads online began to come in. It was as though her request had flown out into the universe and landed in another world.

  Sara took a gasping breath. It was startling to see so many emails piled up in her box.

  "Okay," she breathed. "Let's sit down and do this carefully."

  There were thirty five emails crammed in, waiting to be read. "A feast," Sara murmured to herself. She couldn't believe her eyes. She stared at the list of potential suitors. Who would have believed a small ad would resound so loudly! Sara hadn't expected so many answers, hadn't realized the throngs of men who were actually waiting. It felt like both a burden and tremendous adventure.

  The first email was short, to the point and without a photo, though she had requested one.

  Your ad struck me as warm and lively. I am tall, attractive, and a man of value. If you write back, you will not be disappointed.

  Sincerely,

  Leo

  "Leo? A man of value?" Sara echoed. The phrase interested her. What could a "man of value" mean? Perhaps there were possibilities.

  Sara decided to make three piles, "for Yes, No and Maybe. The man of value, Sara liked. The next letter was much longer. It included a photograph of a man with dark, curly hair and stalwart expression, standing in front of a huge, stone building.

  Dear Sunflower 101,

  I'm a world traveler - successful and warm, looking for a beautiful, accomplished woman to share my time. I can listen, understand, and give to a woman, if I feel she's trustworthy. You asked for a man you could trust and that struck me deeply. I've been divorced for six years, after discovering my wife was unfaithful. It has taken me time, but now I'm ready to trust again. Could I trust you? Tell me truthfully.

  Potentially yours,

  Andrew

  Beads of perspiration broke on Sara's forehead. Her heart went to him. His wife was unfaithful? Why? Had he been kind? Sara's thoughts immediately raced to Melvin. She wondered what he would do if he saw her now, sitting here with these piles of letters, thinking about starting all over again.

  Despite a brief sadness, Sara felt a great sense of adventure. She was curious about these men and didn't want any letter to go unanswered. But still, it might be too much to handle so many alone. Maybe it was a good idea to call Cynthia over to help.

  This one though was a definite yes. Then she stopped and wondered, what she discriminating? There were nuts out there - frauds, con men - "

  As Sara handed mulled over the email, she spotted Abel in the doorway, watching her.

  "You'd better b
e careful, mom," Abel said, staring at them. "There are all kinds of creeps out there. You know what happened to Florence Whitehead's mother? She met a maniac through her ad. He drove her nuts for two years - she had a nervous breakdown."

  Sara vaguely remembered the rumors.

  "I don't have a destiny like that," she said.

  "You never know," Abel looked skeptical. "I know I said it was a good idea, , but now that the emails are coming, I'm kind of scared. Florence Whitehead's mother had had at least two nervous breakdowns before she ever met this guy. The first one happened as soon as she got divorced. She bleached her hair blonde, and went to clubs in short skirts. She was looking for trouble from the start."

  Sara got up and put her arms around him. "Abel," she hugged him as she used to when he was little, when he'd skinned his knee, took a fall, or raced for the school bus that had left without him." Please don't worry."

  He stiffened.

  "Don't be afraid, honey. I'll be careful."

  "Thanks, mom," he said.

  "And don't think badly of me, please."

  "I don't," he said, looking away.

  "Look me in the face," Sara said.

  Abel finally did and they both smiled.

  "That's better," said Sara. "It's just that I'm getting stir crazy. Dad's not coming back and I want a little fun. Nothing serious. Nothing bad."

  "I want you to have fun, mom," said Abel. "So does Matt."

  "I know you do," he said.

  "Just be careful."

  "I promise," Sara said.

  He shook her off and ran out back.

  Sara decided to read the emails from the stable guys then.

  Well, Sunflower 101,

  You sound like quite a gal! As for me, I'm quite a catch too. I know how to pray - ask my Rabbi. I'm quite handsome - ask my old girlfriends. I am honest - ask my mother - also loving - ask my children. And yes, I'm successful too - ask my banker. I am between 38-53 years old. And last, but not least, I must have a terrific sense of humor, writing this letter to a stranger. I don't usually read the Jewish Week, but my mother donated it to me the other day, urging me to find a good woman and settle down. In fact, she spotted your ad and told me she liked you.