Playing With Matches (14 page)

“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.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Dom DiMaggio play again,” Mrs. Feldman said.

Wait a minute.

DiMaggio was born in 1917. In fact, I was absolutely certain that he retired in 1953.

“What is this?” Mrs. Feldman said, gesturing to the television. “Who are these people?”

“These are just the
new
players,” Dolinsky said with disdain. I got it. This game was fifty years too recent for Bubby’s friends. My heart sank as I watched the group rapidly lose interest. Within seconds it became almost impossible to hear the TV as Bubby’s friends chattered above the play-by-play.

I picked up a plate and carried it to Dorothy. She was intently following an argument between Bubby and Mrs. Feldman.

“Sylvia, I’m telling you. Ida had
phlebitis
,” Bubby was saying.

“Bayla?” Mrs. Feldman said in a rising voice. She was squeezing Dahlia’s hand like she could empty out the air in Bubby’s argument. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times.
It was a goiter
.”

The conversation was getting too controversial so I scooped up the remote and raised the volume, but they just yelled even louder.

I rose to my feet, but no one noticed that I was completely blocking the television. Dahlia’s eye followed my movement; she clearly smelled escape. “I’ll be right back,” she murmured to Mrs. Feldman.

Dahlia followed me to the kitchen, where my buffet adorned the island.
“What was that?”

“That was a party,” I said. “These … are … my Toronto friends.”

She frowned.

“I mean except for Irving,” I said about the no-show.

“Bursitis is such a drag,” she said.

“And Lillian.”

“Don’t.” Dahlia shook her head but she was smiling. “You can’t discuss Lillian Shimmel … in the kitchen.”

“Hey,” I said. “You want a snack?”

She surveyed the buffet set out on the island and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t take this personally. But no thanks.”

“Yeah, it’s gross. How about some real food?” I said as I pulled back the pantry door and pawed the junk shelf. “How about you and I break blondies.”

“Underbaked?”

“Hmm … good point. Uh … how about red licorice?”

“Now you’re talking.” Dahlia snatched the giant bag from my hands and tried to pull open the plastic. She caught me watching her, and looked back, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Just … well … you said something earlier about a spreadsheet?”

She smiled. We left the party behind and climbed the stairs armed with a cell phone, a laptop, and a big bag of licorice.

And that’s how I became friends with the girl who tested positive for Nerd.

chapter 16

A Tube of Heart Failure

Dahlia and I plopped onto my bed. She pulled her laptop from her knapsack and plugged in a pink flash drive.

I glanced at my phone, relieved to see that Leah hadn’t contacted me. I ripped open the licorice and grabbed a string, then passed the bag to her.

“Here, check on my computer,” Dahlia said, handing it over to me.

There were three emails from new clients, and two of them were from guys. I was going to have to be much more careful about fixing up Ilana than I had been the first time. What was with all these quirks? Matchmaven was like a matchmaking superhero to people with eccentric habits and issues. Which I guess was the whole point of Matchmaven.

“This is serious stuff,” she said over my shoulder.

I started reading all of the emails I had received with a much more critical eye.

I couldn’t take any chances with Ilana. I also had to allow for the super-slight possibility that Daniel and Leah wouldn’t click, which would mean finding another guy for her. It truly was a numbers game. The larger the database, the more options I had.

“Okay,” Dahlia said. “I think that one of us should read each email and then the other one inputs the information into the correct categories.”

I bit into the licorice and pulled it. “You realize I have over forty names right now.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Our motto is No Single Left Behind.”

“It’s really not.”

She stopped. “Then what’s the point?”

I swallowed the licorice and sighed. “I’m trying to find a match for my sister but she doesn’t know I’m Matchmaven.”

Dahlia’s eyes popped open. “Get out.”

“It’s a long and crazy story,” I said. “Let’s just say that I need to repair some really stupid stuff I’ve done.”

“Do tell,” she said knotting a piece of licorice and popping it into her mouth. “Is that why you had to move here?”

“Without getting into details, let’s just say that I’m not quite as perfect as I appear.”

She chuckled. I picked up my phone, slid the computer over to Dahlia, and began reading emails to her while she typed information into columns.

Thirty minutes later we were still entering the data, with both of us supplying running commentary on each person’s matchability. The noise from downstairs steadily grew louder.

“I think they’re really having fun,” I said.

“For sure,” Dahlia said. “They still have so many diseases to debate.”

Twenty minutes later we finally finished setting up the spreadsheet.

“See how fantastic this is?” she said. “You have your categories for gender, age, and preferences, and then you can just click on any of the attributes if you’re looking for something specific.”

You had to love her. Dahlia had the soul of techie, trapped inside the body of a … techie. I definitely saw a makeover in her future.

“Okay, help me find someone for Ilana,” I said. We surveyed the list, struggling with every option. Each time I thought I’d chosen someone for Ilana, Dahlia changed my mind with a counterargument.

We finally narrowed the list to three men: Aaron, Mark, and Reuben. Mark seemed like the most mainstream person in the whole database. Aaron, the scary-smart mathematics doctoral student who turned into a blubbering child around women emerged as another possibility. Dahlia liked Reuben, the pediatric surgeon who laughed inappropriately but I ruled him out. What if she thought that he was laughing at
her
? It was unlikely but I was terrified of insulting her after the last date. Was I being too picky about this? I mean, on paper they all appeared like they could have been decent matches.

“How on earth do you do this?” Dahlia said as she flopped back on the bed. “This matchmaking is more complicated than a logarithm!”

“I know. It’s almost a Nobel Prize category waiting to happen.”

“I think I’ll just provide the tech support from now on. And of course, I can lend a helping hand with the junk food.”

“Speaking of which, it’s time to replenish,” I said, glancing at my watch. I noted with surprise that it was 9:30 already. “It’s
really
loud down there,” I said.

“Well, they can’t hear each other,” she said.

“We better check it out.”

Things became clear when we reached the foot of the stairs.

Twenty-five additional seniors were milling around the living room and dining room. Now I understood why Bubby wanted to have the party on a night when Mira and Eli were at a wedding. And bonus points for Leah being out of the house too. Everywhere I looked, Bubby’s elderly friends wielded plates of salted pretzels and chips, like bite-sized grenades. I raced into the kitchen. Unfamiliar snacks covered the kitchen table: salty crackers, packaged cookies, and Pringles potato chips. Two glass salad bowls brimmed with green olives and pickles.

The sodium was flowing like water from a tap. Dahlia and I both gaped at the scene in the kitchen. Cholesterol-raising foods were everywhere. A crystal bowl sat defiantly on the counter holding the remnants of a creamy chocolate mousse that looked like it had been decorated with a tube of heart failure. With shaking hands, I whipped out my cell phone and quickly programmed 911 on speed dial. I couldn’t afford to lose any time when the first heart attack occurred.

Bad
seniors. I anxiously scoured the front hall, fearful that Mira and Eli might walk in any minute. I needed to find Bubby — now.

I charged into the family room where I found her seated on the leather couch holding court over Mrs. Feldman, Dorothy, and four other women I didn’t recognize.

“Um, Bubby? There are a lot of snacks here that might not be so, you know, healthy for your friends?” My voice was cracking. “Do you know where they came from?”

“Raina,” she said, hauling herself off the sofa. “Come with me.”

I trailed behind her as she lumbered to the dining room. She lowered her voice. “While you and your friend were hiding upstairs, Mrs. Feldman drove me to Sobeys to get something edible.” She pointed at the bowl of Grape-Nuts on the counter. “What’s with all the hospital food?”

With Bubby’s appetite for junk food, that credit card of hers was like a lethal weapon. She turned and hobbled back to the den where her friends awaited her return and she could channel her inner Shira Wasser.

I stomped to the kitchen table where Dahlia was busy grabbing a foil pan filled with cold, congealed pigs in blankets and emptying it into the compost bin. Even after we threw out all the offending food, then what? I wasn’t exactly going to start wrestling s’mores out of tiny, bony hands.

I dumped a bowl of cheese curls in the garbage then I turned around and gasped.

Mira and Leah both stood behind me. I reeled back.

“What exactly is going on here?”
Mira bellowed, flames shooting out of her nostrils. Well, it seemed that way, anyway.

Leah’s mouth hung open in shock.

One of Mira’s hands held a beaded clutch while her other one grasped the counter. Her furious eyes bore into mine.

“I didn’t do this …” I faltered.

“This just appeared?” Mira waved at the spread on the counter.

“No, someone brought it when I went upstairs.”

“Upstairs,” Leah said.

“I don’t recall you hosting a party
upstairs
,” Mira said, her eyes two brown bombs of rage. My heart pounded. Dahlia shrunk back away from the kitchen.

“Just for a bit —”

Leah’s hand flew to her chest and she turned to Mira. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight,” she said. “I’m so sorry Aunt Mira. I should have made sure to be here to supervise Rain.” I couldn’t help it. I studied her face for a split second, looking for physical tells. Good date or bad date?

“It’s not your fault, Leah,” Eli said in a soothing voice.

Mira glared at the scene around her and stamped into the den.

“You need to see the spread I put out,” I said to Eli and Leah, pleading. “I bought healthy foods. I didn’t bring any of this into the house.” Eli shrugged with a sympathetic smile.

Mira stomped back to the kitchen, and stood in front of me, her eyes watery now.

“My bonsai trees …” Her hand flew to her forehead and she closed her eyes. “What did you do to my bonsais?” Her voice was shaking. It was actually kind of scary.

“Oh, no,” Leah said, a look of horror spreading across her face.

“What are bonsais?” I said to Eli in a hoarse whisper.

“They’re miniature trees,” Eli said in a gentle voice.

“They take years to cultivate,” Leah said in a whisper. “What were you thinking?”

“Those little plants?” I said, my lips trembling. “I clipped a couple of leaves to decorate my spread.”