Playing With Matches (21 page)

“Are you okay?” Dahlia dropped to the carpet and offered me hearts of palms — straight from the can.

I shook my head. “I just need to finish an email.”

“You sure?” Dahlia watched me as I read Esther’s letter again. In some ways I was a recovering Esther too, after all those school moves with only a sister as my friend. It had created an insatiable social appetite in me by the time I got to high school. In ninth grade I transformed myself from “out” girl to “it” girl. I went from being a decent student to a pretty awful one. Maybe that was the reason I couldn’t stand Mr. Sacks. Every day, he’d radiated the loneliness that I’d been running away from in the years before high school.

Was it worth it to go through life regretting not fixing things like Esther?

Forget matches. Setting up Mr. Sacks was nowhere near my place. There was something far more important that I needed to do.

“Dahlia, I really,
really
hurt my teacher in New York.”

“It’s bothering you now, because … ?”

“He’s old and I think frail.”

“Can you email him?”

“No. No. I can’t.”

“Okay, just wait here a minute.”

“She climbed to her feet and pattered out of the family room, returning a minute later carrying a stationery box. She placed it in front of me and dropped a pen next to it. I opened the box and lifted up a piece of baby blue stationery and started to write.

Dear Mr. Sacks …

Apologies are complicated things.

If you apologize immediately after you’ve hurt someone then you’re probably trying to make them feel better. You feel bad because they feel bad.

But what if you wait and only apologize after weeks of remorse? Or months? Maybe you’re just doing it to unburden yourself of uncomfortable feelings like guilt or embarrassment. In other words, you’re not doing it so much to make your victim feel better. You’re doing it to make yourself feel better.

It had been almost half a year since I sat down in the computer lab and discovered that Mr. Sacks — old, boring, and burnt-out — hadn’t logged off his computer. The principal, Rabbi Singer, might not have reacted so harshly if I’d been a better student. A better person. But the truth was that, after traipsing from city to city, arriving at Maimonides was an all-you-can-eat buffet of cell phone minutes, sleepovers, and shopping outings with friends.

What could I do? New York called to me. I always had a friend to sneak off with to ball games, to shop, or to explore Manhattan. I had essentially become a part-time student. But even that wouldn’t have been enough to warrant an expulsion. It was those dead-on imitations of Mr. Sacks that won me more friends, but appalled the school. Especially when Mr. Sacks caught me doing it.

By the time I got into Mr. Sacks’s email account last June, the school was more than happy to get rid of me.

I was probably like Bubby at the Shalom Gardens — not exactly an asset at that point. Given the amount of time that had passed, this apology was probably a tainted one. The Sacks family already had months for their shock to gel into a solid mould of disgust.

But the image of Esther chafed. What are you supposed to do with your regrets when you’re old and it’s too late to do anything about it? How come I didn’t write him right away? Why hadn’t I begged him for forgiveness immediately?

What was I thinking?

Dahlia rolled over on the carpet and watched me write out a letter in longhand.

“He must be really old, if you’re writing a letter by hand,” she said as she peered over my shoulder.

“He is, but I kind of messed with his email account so I don’t want to apologize that way.” I pointed up at her computer. “Can you look up his address? Mordechai Sacks.”

She sauntered to the computer and typed in U.S. White Pages. When we were done, she drove me to the post office and I mailed off my letter to Mr. Sacks by Priority post. I figured that it would take at least a week until I heard back from him.

If
I heard back.

chapter 23

A Beagle Named Chaucer

The scent of freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookies teased the insides of Leah’s Saturn as we motored through a thick haze of snowflakes toward Professor K.’s house. Between three additional dates with Jake and Matchmaven’s encouragement, things were finally defrosting between us. Happy new Leah had even suggested this visit and baked for the occasion.

I’m still not sure I trusted Jake, but I’d learned my lesson. This time I was going to keep my mouth shut. And maybe
I
was the problem because nobody was good enough for Leah.

“What do you talk to the professor about?” Leah adjusted the rear-view mirror.

“Literature.”

She grinned. “Really?”

“Honestly, he should be teaching at Moriah,” I said. “He’s so interesting.”

She shook her head.

“Leah,” I leaned back on the headrest. “Can I ask how it’s going with that boy you’re dating?”

“It’s good.” She pressed her lips together to hold back a smile.

“That’s great! Did you —?”

“Rain, I need my privacy this time,” she said with a slight edge. “So let’s just allow me to handle my dating life.”

I fell silent. She reached out and squeezed my knee. “Okay?”

I nodded, waiting for the pit in my stomach to disappear.

When we arrived at Professor K.’s, he wasted no time ushering Leah directly to the juicer. I half suspected he was going to puree the cookies too but he stuck with purple cabbage. I slipped into a bathroom that looked suspiciously like a time capsule from Jonathan Sandler’s toddlerhood. The toilet and sink were burgundy and the wall tiles were shiny, pink, and cracked. I turned on my phone to check my email. There was only one short message from Leah, raving about Jake.

When I sauntered back to the living room, I found Leah on the plastic couch sipping her cabbage. She was describing her work at the hospice to Professor K., who really was an excellent listener. I dropped onto the couch next to her.

When she finished, Professor K. rose from his easy chair. “Would you like to see some pictures?” he said.

“I’d love to,” she said, her face crinkling with a smile. Professor K. wandered to a bookshelf and rummaged through the bottom shelf.

“He’s so charming,” she whispered. I nodded in agreement. The guy was definitely a find.

Professor K. soon returned to his easy chair and flipped through pages of black-and-white photos in an ancient album.

“That’s my Rose,” Professor K. said, pointing to a photograph of a short woman with a dog standing on the sidewalk in front of Maple Leaf Gardens. “She also was an avid reader.”

Rose wore large black spectacles, like an accidental 1950s hipster.

“And what a cute dog,” Leah said.

“A sweet little beagle named Chaucer,” he said. Leah leafed through the pages of the album while Professor K. provided running commentary on Chaucer, his late wife, his children, and grandchildren. When it was done, she handed the album back to him.

“You have quite a book collection,” Leah said, pointing to the shelves.

“We loved reading together. Newspapers too,” he said. “We started getting delivery of the
New York Times
from the year we were married. My Rose did the Sunday crossword puzzle in pen in no time.”

The
New York Times?
Esther had mentioned that also.

I surveyed his living room. The room shouted books! Reading! Education! Why had it taken me this long to think of this?

“I don’t believe it,” I muttered. My heart raced with excitement. Professor K. wasn’t that much older than Esther. My priority with Mr. Sacks was the apology.

For Professor K. it was going to be
love
!

I unsuctioned my hand from the plastic couch and edged over to the computer desk. Yes, it was risky with both of them sitting right there, but excitement defeated caution. I grabbed my purse and excavated until I found Professor K.’s business card, complete with email address, sitting under weeks of clutter.

Dear Professor Kellman,

I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I’ve heard wonderful things about you. I’ve made some pretty interesting matches over the last few months. I have a lovely client whom I think you’d really like. She’s an educated, intelligent, and insightful woman. She’s kind and elegant. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to arrange a match.

Yours truly,

Matchmaven

I hit the send button and sat back in the chair. Was it even possible to fall in love in your sixties or seventies? I’d have said no. I mean, think about it. When was the last time you saw that happen in a movie?

When it comes to age, people make no sense. If someone dies in their seventies everyone acts like it’s the most freakish thing in the world. How unnatural! “Oh, but she was so
young
!” they’ll say. But when my mother turned forty she moped about being old for a week. So apparently you’re old in middle age, but when you grow older you become young again.

Please don’t ask me to explain that.

Either way, if this match worked out, it would be magic.

Professor K.’s response came that night.

Dear Matchmaven,

I was surprised to receive your suggestion for a match, but this woman sounds lovely. I’d like to take you up on your offer.

Sincerely,

Mo Kellman

Woohoo! Who knew about the thrill of retirement romance!

chapter 24

Re-finding Leah

Professor K. and Esther were an item! It was a fantastic beginning to the new year.

I huddled in the school bathroom and read Esther’s email.

Dear Matchmaven,

First of all, thanks so much for your advice about the black blazer. I wore it on last night’s date with the grey blouse as you suggested. I also wore something that I haven’t put on in almost thirty years: the gold elephant necklace with the three rubies on it and my name engraved in Hebrew. The gift from Lev was so precious but I’ve felt too guilty to wear it. Mo even commented about the necklace — it is of course, an extremely unusual piece.

Mo has given me a second chance at happiness. The last two weeks with him have been like a dream. No matter how long our conversations are, it never feels like there’s enough time.

How are things going with you? I’m so glad you shared a little bit about yourself in your last email, even if it was only what you called a “rant.” Is that woman you work with still giving you a hard time? All we can do is try to feel compassion and offer a helping hand.

With gratitude,

Esther