Playing With Matches (19 page)

“… 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 suspicious 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?”