Match Me If You Can, page 17
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Looming in front of me is an old brick mansion that has been converted into a Jewish funeral home. This was where Bubbe, my paternal grandmother volunteered in the seventies and eighties, before her back gave out. For many years, she was a member of the Chevra Kadisha, the Jewish burial society that perform taharas—cleaning and dressing the deceased in plain white shrouds before the bodies are placed inside their caskets.
It’s not your average kid’s playground, but it was like a second home to me.
For years after my father left us, my grandmother helped pick up the slack by babysitting me so my mom could work and take college classes at night. The transition from being a normal, middle-class family to being poor and labeled as ‘broken’ isn’t something that goes away. Those feelings of shame and grief become part of you, as if someone has taken a hot iron and branded them on your soul.
The funeral home was my escape—the place I looked forward to going to when Bubbe did her taharas in the basement along with two other women. The only part I never ventured to was the bottom level where the bodies were kept.
The owners of the funeral home, Lenny and Betty, lived on the third floor, and always made me feel welcome. Lenny was often in and out, depending on how many funerals he had to run that day, but Betty was a homebody. Though they didn’t keep kosher, Betty made sure to keep some snacks certified by the OU—Orthodox Union—for me. She taught me how to play Gin Rummy, Slapjack, and War. When she had friends visit, we’d play Mahjong, and while they sipped on their fruity cocktails, she gave me Manischewitz grape juice in a plastic cup. I always suspected the cocktails tasted better.
A fierce wind snaps me out of my reverie as I climb the front steps. The door is locked, and I ring the doorbell. I remember how Bubbe had once panicked because she couldn’t find the key to the freezer where the bodies were kept, and explained that bad guys like to steal corpses. I chuckle about it now, but it was a bit much for eight-year-old me to take in.
But that was Bubbe for you, eccentric to the core.
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice rings out.
I swivel my head to the camera with the intercom attached. “Hi, I’m an old friend of Mr. Horowitz’s, and I was hoping to chat with him for a few minutes.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but I’m—”
“Name?”
“Ashira Wernick.”
“Hold on. You want elevator music?”
“Uhm.” I blink. “I’m not really a fan, to be honest.”
“What do you like then?”
“Uh . . . I like most pop.”
“Who are your favorite artists?”
I cross my arms and wonder if this is some kind of entrance quiz? “I love Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars. Coldplay. Madonna. The Beatles—”
“What are you, a hundred years old?” the woman says, not sounding all that impressed.
“Twenty-eight, but I’ve got an old soul.” I don’t bother to explain that these were the artists whose music my mom and I listened to together on her sickbed. Some of them were vomited to as well, but I try not to think about that.
“Do you like Aidan Bissett?”
“Sorry, I don’t know who that is,” I say as a gust of wind slams against my face. I tighten the scarf around my neck and wonder where I went wrong. Why am I discussing musicians outside on one of the coldest days of the year? “Could you let me in?” I ask. “It’s freezing out here.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Ashira Wernick,” I say, between jump up and down. Gotta keep the blood flowing.
“Hold on, please. And you said no to elevator music?”
“Correct,” I say through clenched teeth. I swear, this woman is worse than a phone and internet bot.
After a few minutes that feels more like twenty, a young woman opens the door. She can’t be a day over eighteen, sporting pink hair, black lipstick, and too many piercings to count. Her shirt says, Embrace the rage.
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Aidan Bissett is,” she huffs. “He’s the best new musician around.”
She’s embracing the rage, all right.
“Is Mr. Horowitz around?” I ask, not wanting to get sucked into another music debate. I step inside, but I keep my coat on. The heating in this house is as bad as I remember.
“Maybe.” She gazes at me suspiciously. “How do you know him?”
“We go way back. He and his wife used to watch me when my grandmother did taharas.” My eyes land on Betty’s picture hanging in the parlor, and I go closer and run my fingers across the frame, feeling a lump form against my throat. I remember hearing about Betty’s death a while back, but I couldn’t go to the funeral because my mother was too sick to be left alone. I sent flowers and a note, but I wish I had done more.
“I’m her granddaughter,” the woman says, dipping her head toward the picture.
“Ooh.” I turn around and gaze at her in surprise. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah.” She studies the photo of the Betty, with the conservative gray bob and pearl necklace, before turning back to me. “We don’t really look alike.”
A burst of laughter escapes me, and I cover my mouth because, well, dead people.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say, clearing my throat. “I have a lot of great memories of her.”
“I didn’t know her very well,” the woman—girl, really—says. “She had dementia for like, a decade.”
“Oh my gosh. I had no idea.” I was thirteen when Bubbe died, and I hadn’t seen either Betty or Lenny since. “What’s your name?”
“Sadie.”
She doesn’t look like a Sadie. I guess I was expecting her to say something along the lines of ‘Viper’ or ‘Spike’.
“Nice to meet you, Sadie. How is your grandfather these days?”
“Why are you here?” she says, leveling cool eyes at me.
I guess we’re leaning into the rage again.
“I’m a matchmaker,” I say. “I have a neighbor who’s recently widowed and the first man I thought of was Lenny.”
Mostly because of Lenny’s off-brand humor. He never had a shortage of dead people jokes, although he made sure Betty wasn’t within hearing distance beforehand; she thought it her wifely duty to smack his upper arm every so often just to keep him in line.
And also, there aren’t that many eligible older men. There’s a fair amount that I wouldn’t set up with my worst enemy, and some widowers or divorcees that enjoy being single for the first time in decades and have no desire to remarry.
“I doubt he’ll be interested,” she says after a long moment. “He’s got a girlfriend he met online and he’s obsessed with her.”
“Oh, never mind then.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to suggest it if he’s already involved with someone.”
“I think it’s worth a try,” she surprises me by saying. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if his girlfriend turned out to be a man writing from a Nigerian prison.”
I grimace. “Especially if he starts wiring money overseas.”
Her face turns slightly green at the thought. “Wait here,” she says. “I’ll see if he’s interested in coming down.”
Some five minutes later, I turn to the sound of footsteps approaching. Behind Sadie is an older version of the man I remember, thinner and stooped over, but otherwise in seemingly good health. His thick white mustache fans across the breadth of his lips and his smile stretches from ear to ear.
He comes to a stop in front of me, and I think we’re both amused to find that I’m the taller of us two now. “Ashira Wernick, is that really you?”
“It’s me, all right.” I grin. “How are you, Lenny?”
“Can’t complain. Still putting the ‘fun’ in funeral,” he chuckles. “Say, do you know what funeral homes have in common with pet supply stores?”
“No,” I laugh. “What?”
“Cat litter and no cats!”
Sadie rolls her eyes. “That one needs some work, Zayde.” She turns to me and explains, “The cat litter balances out the smell of . . .”
“Rotting corpses!” His raucous laughter is contagious and inappropriate, and I can’t stop myself from joining in.
“I got another one,” he says, slowly sitting down on one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace.
“Oh my gawd,” Sadie says in a flat voice.
“Why can’t you cremate a clown?”
“I don’t know,” I say, sitting down on the couch. “Why?”
“Because they burn funny!”
“Hilarious,” Sadie says, as Lenny and I dissolve into another round of giggles.
“Wait, I got another one. Whaddya call—”
“Zayde,” the girl cuts in. “Did you know that Ashira is a matchmaker?”
“A matchmaker?” He turns to me, looking surprised. “What happened? Did you not get accepted into college?”
I shake my head and laugh. “I didn’t apply to any.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it,” he says, with a wave. “You’re not missing much.”
“How would you know, Zayde? You never went to college.”
“So?” He shrugs. “I’ve never eaten pork, but I’m not missing that either.”
“I’ve eaten pork,” she replies, “and trust me, you’re missing out.”
“That reminds me of a new joke about Hell I heard recently. You ready for this, it’s a good one—”
“Ashira,” Sadie quickly interrupts. “Tell us about your very single, very attractive neighbor.”
“Uh, right, yes.” I sit up straight and smile. “So, I have a lovely next-door neighbor whose husband died earlier this year. She has a great personality,” I say, even if it is a bit of stretch. “She’s seventy-eight and in amazing shape. And sharp as a tack.”
Lenny takes it all in, looking a little uncertain. “I don’t know, Ashira. The last time I went out on a date was around the time of the Civil Rights Act.”
“That is a really long time,” I say, nodding. “I can see why that would be daunting. But if it makes you feel better, Bernice hasn’t been on a date in about that long too.”
“Bernice, did you say?” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.
I nod and wonder if he knows her. “She’s about this tall,” I say, and gesture to my shoulder. “Unless she’s not in her heels, and then she’s about half a foot shorter. She loves sequins and leather. Pretty quirky—”
He barks a laugh. “You’re trying to set me up with Bernice Rubin? Or whatever the hell her last name is now?”
I exchange a glance with the granddaughter as the uneasy feeling doubles in size. “Yes?”
“And you said she has a good personality!” he scoffs. “That’s the lie of the century.”
Hopes deflates out of me like a sad, old balloon. “Sure, she can be a bit much, but she’s a good person. She shows up for people. When my mom was sick, she helped me in a lot of ways.” I cross my arms. “How do you know her?”
“I dated her in high school.”
“No!” My jaw drops. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it, all right. We went from lovers to enemies overnight.”
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend before Bubbe,” the granddaughter says.
“Girlfriends,” Lenny corrects with an arched eyebrow. “But Bernice was my first love.”
“Wow,” I whisper, shaking my head. Goosebumps are on my arms. “You have to admit that this sounds a lot like fate.”
“It sounds like a worse fate than having a colonoscopy without anesthesia,” he replies.
“Ewww, Zayde. The visual,” Sadie groans.
“What happened between you two?” I ask. “How did it end so badly?”
“I’ll tell you how—I caught her shtupping Ernie Schlossinger! On my birthday, no less!” he exclaims.
I watch the emotion play across his face and I’m struck by the intensity and the length of time that he’s held onto his hurt. In my eight years of matchmaking, I’ve reunited old flames before, but never had a case quite like this.
In the early days of my career, I once saw my mother patiently counsel a couple who had come to her for marital guidance. I remember the hours of shouting, accusations, and the periods of tense silence. I don’t recall what the result was, but I remember asking my mother why bother spending all that effort when the couple clearly hated each other’s guts.
“Because’ Ashiraleh,” she had said with a smile, “sometimes love is like a flame. As long as there’s still a spark, you can rekindle the fire.”
Looking at Lenny now, all fired up and red in the face, I wonder if that’s true. Could Lenny, deep down, want a second chance with Bernice? It’s possible, isn’t it?
“And one more thing,” Lenny says, getting up from his seat. “You tell that woman that I’ve got a special casket with her name on it, and I’ll make sure it takes a shortcut to Hell.”
On second thought, maybe my mother had no idea what she was talking about. She did tend to see love through rose-tinted glasses. Sometimes I wonder whether she reasoned away any warning signs of her own marriage.
“It was nice seeing you again, Lenny.” I smile and stand up. “I don’t think I’ve ever properly thanked you for opening your home up to me. This funeral home holds some of my best childhood memories.”
“Said no child ever,” the granddaughter murmurs.
“Eh.” He shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You were a good kid. And unlike your neighbor,” he adds, “you are always welcome to come here and visit.”
They walk me to the door, and as I step outside into the cold, Lenny calls out, “Don’t be strange!”
I laugh, suddenly recalling the familiar dialogue we used to have when my grandmother would come get me. And luckily, I still remember my line. “You mean, don’t be a stranger.”
He winks. “That too.”
I smile. Despite the frigid temperature, a warm glow travels throughout my body. Although the matchmaking expedition didn’t work out, I’m still happy I came.
But do I plan on delivering Lenny’s message to Bernice? Hell no.
Chapter Twenty-One
The following day finds me riding buckled and blindfolded in an unmarked white van on my way to Caleb’s workplace. I was considering having Caleb’s next date take place at work—that being his most natural element—but not if this is the only mode of transport.
“This all seems a bit excessive,” I say to the driver, the legendary Casanova himself. “Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“What exactly is the point of blindfolding me?”
“I tell you how many times already, this compound is secret location.”
“And you think some bad guy will discover I’ve been there and then do what exactly? Torture me to find out where it’s located?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “And honestly, it’s a little hurtful that you don’t trust me not to buckle under pressure.” I would so buckle under pressure. “It must be hard not to trust anyone.”
“Who said anyone?” he replies. “Just you I not trust.”
“Again, hurtful.”
“I trust Caleb.” I hear the tick-tick of the signal and I grab onto the door handle as the car takes a sharp turn. “And Allah.”
“In that order?” I joke.
“You make me want to put mouth gag on you.”
I laugh and roll my eyes, though it’s a wasted effort since he can’t see. The car jerks to a stop and I nearly fly through the dashboard. Casanova’s driving style is in perfect sync with his personality—abrupt and aggressive.
“So, what is it about Caleb that makes you trust him?” I ask, mostly to distract him from his road rage. He’s spent the whole journey shouting how everyone is an idiot, that this guy drives too slow, that idiot too fast, and that other one must be on meth. Did I not see how he cut right in front of us? At which point I had to remind him that some jerk blindfolded me.
He found that hilarious.
“Tell me about you and Caleb. Why do you trust him so much?” I try again. I know they met a long time ago at one of the annual training events between the U.S. Navy SEALs and the Israeli IDF’s equivalent Shayetet 13, but I have no idea how they formed such a close bond.
“Listen, little civilian,” he says. “People in special forces, no matter what country we serve, we are the same people. Same personality traits. Same stubbornness, same high intensity, same ego. Always out to prove who is fittest and smartest. But during an operation, there is no I, there is only we.”
I have to admit, that sounds exactly like Caleb. He’s competitive and stubborn, but when it comes down to it, he always puts other people’s needs above his own.
“Many years ago, we were in Croatia, teaching their commandos skills because they idiots over there and know nothing.”
Yep. There’s that ego he was just talking about.
“One night, we get free tickets to go to the Serbia-Croatia world cup qualifier.” He stops and sighs. “We could smell the players’ armpits, that’s how close our seats were.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”
“Yes, it was wonderful,” he says. “But then some psycho started shooting at people. And you know what Caleb did? He covered me with his body to save my life. He didn’t have to, but he did.”
“Wow,” I say softly. I imagine the scene. The chaos and the fear that they must’ve felt. It’s one thing to train for a battle, but quite another to live it—especially when it wasn’t a battle, but a football match.
“But, neither of you got hurt, right?”
“Not me, but Caleb, yes. That Yehudi took three bullets for me—a Sunni Muslim. And in that moment, he became more than just my friend. He became my brother,” he says in a thick voice.
“That’s really beautiful,” I say, even though the thought of Caleb getting shot makes me feel ill. It makes me wonder what else he’s been through as a soldier, or how many other injuries he’s sustained. There’s an entire fifteen-year period of his life that I don’t know much about. I feel unexpectedly choked up.
