Match Me If You Can, page 2
Why can’t I just lie like a normal person?
“Did he say he was dating someone or didn’t he?” Mrs. Schwartz asks, looking at me like I’m an idiot.
“I don’t remember his exact wording.” I scratch my neck and tuck my hands under my armpits. If I could go back in time, I’d have put on several more layers of deodorant before this meeting. “But he definitely used the word ‘unavailable ’.”
“That’s the only reason he’d be unavailable though, right?” Eidel says, turning to her mother since I’ve clearly proven myself to be an unreliable narrator.
But Mrs. Schwartz turns to me. “Is it?”
“Is it, indeed?” I tap my chin, pretending this was posed as a philosophical question rather than a literal one and channel my inner Socrates. “Who’s to say?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Eidel says to her mother, not even bothering to whisper.
Mrs. Schwartz puts up a hand to silence her daughter, then leans toward me. A vein throbs on her forehead, and up until this point, I’d never realized just how intimidating the effects of the cardiovascular system could be.
“You are the matchmaker. It’s your job to say.”
My palms become itchy with sweat. Actually, my entire body is turning itchy. If matchmakers could rate clients, I’d give these two a one-star review and then write in the comments section: will cause spontaneous outbreak of hives. Proceed with caution.
People like to complain about matchmakers, but no one talks about the grief and hardship we suffer at the hands of our clients. If it isn’t one thing they find to complain about, it’s another.
“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Schwartz,” I say. “And I plan on clarifying with him what he meant. So.” I clap my hands and turn to Eidel. “How are things going with Yitzchok?”
“Wait,” Eidel says, holding up a finger. “Did you use my name when you spoke to Caleb? Or did you just ask if he was hypothetically interested in going out with someone?”
I take a deep breath and paste on a polite smile, the one that fools everyone except for my best friend Miri. She calls it my sociopath face.
“Yes, I used your name. Eidel Schwartz,” I add, in case that was going to be her follow-up question.
“He’s probably already dating someone,” Mrs. Schwartz says to her daughter.
“Like you’re dating Yitzchok,” I add pointedly.
“When I had Shabbos lunch with Caleb this past week,” Eidel continues, as if both her mother and I hadn’t spoken, “I felt this deep connection, and it was unlike anything I experienced before. It was almost like . . .” her eyes turn dreamy, “a preview of love.”
A preview of love? What the hell is she talking about?
Clearly Eidel finds something offensive about my facial expression because her own turns into a scowl. “I’m telling you, we had a connection.”
Oh child, please. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me they had a connection with Caleb, I’d be drinking piña coladas on a beach right now being fanned with giant leaves by attractive pool men.
“Call him.”
I tilt my head at Mrs. Schwartz. Something about her tone of voice seems extra menacing. “Of course,” I say. “I’m not sure what time he gets home from work, but I’ll call tonight.”
But what comes out of her mouth next causes a chill to run down my spine.
“Now.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Call Caleb now.”
“You mean . . .” I swallow. “Right now?”
Mrs. Schwartz bares her teeth. Actually shows them to me, like a wolf that’s closing in on its dinner. Except a wolf wouldn’t have a smudge of lipstick on its canines. It sort of dampens the effect, to be honest.
“Right now,” she barks, and I jump a little in my seat.
Another truth universally acknowledged is that the Schwartzs are one of the most powerful families of Brooklyn. They have the money, influence, and connections to satisfy any whim of theirs within the boroughs of NYC, 5 towns, and then some.
Think Vito Corleone. Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Jay Gatsby. The Kennedys, the Rothschilds, the Rockefellers. Then combine them, and that would be the Schwartzs.
And in my experience, powerful, influential people don’t mind making enemies, especially if said enemy has no leverage. Someone with no money or low ranking in society.
Someone like me.
Despite the fact that I already have eight years of matchmaking experience under my belt, the only reason that Mrs. Schwartz chose to work with me was because she was friends with my mother, who made several matches for their family. I’m good at my job, but I’m still a small fish in a huge matchmaking pond.
I’m hugely lucky to have this opportunity, and all I have to do is not screw it up. Which in theory, doesn’t sound hard, but in reality, is turning out to be quite the nightmare. I’d been handling them well enough until now, but today took a massive one-eighty and I still can’t understand how we got here.
“Well?” Mrs. Schwartz says, making a flurrying motion with her hand. “What are you waiting for? Call him, already.”
I turn to Eidel with a silent plea for help, but she’s too busy staring at her mother like she’s a genius.
“Yes,” Eidel says. “This is a terrific idea.”
This is a terrible idea.
Mrs. Schwartz nods. “We’ll have clarity this way.”
I rub my forehead. The woman doesn’t want clarity, she wants reassurance; either that Caleb is already dating someone and that his disinterest isn’t a personal slight to her daughter, or she wants to be told that not only is he available, but he’s practically chomping at the bit to go out with Eidel. Which is simply not the case.
And we all know what happens to the messenger.
“I would call now, but he’s at work,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my skirt.
“So what? He’s the CEO of his own company,” Mrs. Schwartz says, waving her hands again. “Who’s going to fire him if he takes a phone call?”
She makes a fair point. Caleb built his security firm from the ground up, putting his Navy SEAL skills to good use after retiring from the teams three years ago. Now, people from all over the world hire bodyguards from his company to help keep them safe.
“Do it,” Eidel urges, taking my phone off the coffee table and handing it to me. I stare at it in horror, as if it’s a murder weapon that now has my fingerprints all over it.
Don’t do it. There is literally no scenario where this ends well.
But the intensity of the Schwartzs’ combined stares is starting to affect my ability to breathe. Each tick of the living room clock sounds like a bomb set to detonate in my ears. I rub a fist over my chest, trying to loosen the knot of tension that’s building.
“Let’s go.” Mrs. Schwartz claps her hands. “Chop-chop.”
“I . . .” I lick my dry lips and stand up, gripping the wall to steady me. “Okay. I’ll be right back, and let you know what he says.”
But Mrs. Schwartz has shockingly good reflexes for a woman of her age. “Oh no, you don’t,” she says, yanking on my wrist and pulling me back down. “You’re going to stay right here where I can watch you.”
I can’t fault her instincts.
All right, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath and unlock my phone. I lower the volume so they can’t hear what he says. Brilliant.
“Put it on speaker,” Eidel commands.
I sigh, but this might be even better. I’ll start off the call by casually mentioning who’s listening.
“But don’t tell him we’re here,” Mrs. Schwartz says, reading my mind. Turns out, she’s great at that.
I look up from my phone and frown. “Don’t you think this is a little unethical?”
Mrs. Schwartz laughs for the first time since we’ve sat down. “You’re funny.”
Eidel takes the phone back after I’ve dialed and sets it on the coffee table. We wait in terse silence as it rings. Maybe he won’t pick up. Maybe he’ll be in a meeting or getting a haircut or working out at the gym. There’s lots of reasons why he might not answer. Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up, please don’t—
“Hello?”
Damnit, he picked up.
Chapter Two
“Tinsel?”
The Schwartzs exchange a confused look. Not for the first time, I wish Caleb had thought to call me something more respectable and intimidating. Switchblade, Black Widow, The Obliterator. The possibilities are endless, really.
“Oh good.” I swallow. “You picked up.” I pull at the collar of my shirt. Why is it so hot in here?
“I tend to do that when my phone rings.”
“Right. Makes sense.” I clear my throat. “So, anyway. Remember how I asked if you were interested in going out with Eidel Schwartz?”
“Who?”
“I mentioned her to you on Sunday night.” Silence. “At Zevi’s house. Remember?”
“No.”
What does he mean “no”? I’m going to kill him.
“Eidel Schwartz,” I say slowly, and perhaps, a tad aggressively. “I was looking for the ice cream scooper and then you came in to get napkins—”
“Oh, right,” he says, like, now I remember. “The gold digger. The one you said wasn’t the brightest in the IQ department, but could still sniff out a fake Prada from an authentic one.”
Shiiiit. A gasp comes from the direction the Schwartzs’ side of the room and I squeeze my eyes shut. In all fairness, I’d only said it after he said no. I feel like this is an important point. But before I can even figure out how to do damage control, he keeps going, and I’m paralyzed in a state of absolute terror. I’m slowly drowning in quicksand with nothing to grasp onto.
“She’s the one who you said was pushy and snobby and that she’d never marry anyone outside the top one percent.”
“No, no, no, you silly goose,” I squeak. Silly goose? Who even am I? My knee starts to tremble. I bring my hand down on it hard. “That was someone else.”
“No, it was definitely her.” He chuckles. “I remember because you made a joke about Eidel not being so eidel,” he adds. Eidel sputters in outrage. As for Mrs. Schwartz, she looks like she’s trying to figure out the best place to dispose of my body.
And yes, I did say that about Eidel, but it was more out of wonder than anything else. What are the chances you give your kid a Yiddish name that means gentle and sweet, only for her to turn out to be bold and rude? It’s pretty ironic.
But mostly, I said those things as part of a string of rambling nervous consciousness because we were alone in the kitchen and I was trying to find the ice cream scooper as fast as possible without getting sucked into a conversation with him. At least, not the kind where he asks why I avoid talking to him for any length of time. I still haven’t figured out how to answer if he does.
“How did you describe the mother again? Wait, let me remember how you worded it—”
My finger reaches toward the screen to end the call, but Mrs. Schwartz smacks my hand away.
“—has the manners of a prison guard and the emotional intelligence of a preschooler.”
Silence fills the room.
I am so dead.
“I’m about to head into a meeting now,” Caleb says, blithely unaware of the trauma he’s inflicted. “But it’s good to hear your voice.” A pause. “Talk soon?”
“Mhm humph.” It’s the best I can do, considering the circumstances. I hang up and wait for the proverbial shit to hit the fan.
“How could you?” Mrs. Schwartz says in an eerily controlled voice. “What kind of matchmaker says lashon hara about her client? Especially to the person she’s supposed to be setting her up with, of all people?”
“You want him for yourself, don’t you?” Eidel accuses before turning to her mother. “I bet you anything that’s what this is about.”
My head rears back. “No, I don’t! He’d make a terrible husband,” I say, imagining him walking out the front door with a suitcase in his hand and carelessly tossing a goodbye letter over his shoulder.
“There you go again!” Mrs. Schwartz exclaims, pointing a condemning finger at me. “You have a real problem, you know that?” She stands up and grabs her purse, then motions for her daughter to follow. “Bringing soulmates together is one of the most beautiful mitzvahs in the Torah, but you’ve turned it into something terrible and ugly.” She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t be allowed to do this line of work. You’ve probably ruined more lives than you’ve helped.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, rushing after her. Apologizing doesn’t come naturally to everyone, but it’s like breathing to me. Probably because my mother was a born and bred Minnesotan, so I grew up seeing her apologize to everyone and everything, including inanimate objects she stubbed her toe on. “I never should’ve said those things.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Mrs. Schwartz replies, yanking her coat off the hanger from the small entryway closet. “Your mother was a good, pious woman. But you?” Her eyes glint with disgust. “You must take after your father.”
Her words hit like a poisoned arrow straight to my heart.
“I won’t allow you to hurt more innocent people.” She takes a step forward and I don’t even realize I’m moving backwards until my heels hit the wall. “Mark my words, Ashira Wernick—your matchmaking days are over.”
Naturally, my panic turns up a notch.
“Sure, that’s one option.” I swallow. “Or we could sit down, open a bottle of Chardonnay, and talk about life.” I give her a hopeful smile, but she doesn’t so much as look at me.
“And by the way, Ashira,” Eidel says, one foot already out the door, “it’s more than just copies of Prada handbags that I can tell are frauds.”
I’m struck by the cleverness of her parting line. That kind of riposte would’ve taken me at least a week to think of. But then she adds, “It’s Gucci and Versace too.”
“Aaah.” I give a weak smile. “It’s . . . it’s a talent, for sure.”
I’m a mess of emotions as I watch them walk away. I’m frustrated at myself for ignoring my intuition and calling Caleb, and I’m ashamed for bad-mouthing the Schwartzs. I’m angry at Mrs. Schwartz for comparing me to my deadbeat father.
Plus, there’s the all-consuming, overwhelming panic of her saying she’s going to ruin me. Let’s not forget that.
I shut the front door then lean against it. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. She’ll calm down and move on. There’s no need to panic. In a week from now, she’ll have forgotten all about it. And even if Mrs. Schwartz does try to ruin my reputation, most people have enough common sense to not blindly believe everything she says. Despite her calling me out for speaking lashon hara, she’s one of the biggest gossips in town.
I flop onto the couch and stare up at the ceiling. If only Blue Moon Basherts was successful enough that I didn’t need to worry about being in the Schwartzs’ good graces. But with an ever-increasing number of dating apps and the influx of new matchmakers all trying to be the next Aleeza Ben Shalom, it’s getting harder and harder to keep the business alive.
My mind drifts to my mother. Most of the time, I try to distract myself from thinking about her. The pain of losing her is still too raw. Maybe it shouldn’t be after five years. It’s probably not normal to feel like you’re experiencing an anaphylactic reaction at the thought of never being able to hug someone again.
She got sick when I was a sophomore in high school and by that time, it was just the two of us in the house. Leah was married and living in Israel, and Zevi was in London attending a prestigious film school.
For the longest time, I begged her to see a doctor, but she had a deep-seated fear of everything medical, and it was only after I found her collapsed on the kitchen floor one day that she got a diagnosis. Heart failure, the doctor said. The left chamber of her heart wasn’t pumping enough oxygen and the prognosis was grim.
Overnight, I went from a child to an adult. My mother was no longer able to work or do basic household chores, and I became her caretaker. There were so many days I skipped school because no one else was able to take her to doctor appointments, or because she was especially sick and I worried she wouldn’t be able to call for help in an emergency. I attended summer school in order to graduate, and worked as many babysitting jobs as I could to keep us afloat, often bringing the children to my house so I could keep an eye on my mother at the same time. Money was tight, and as my friends left for seminary and college, I was on the phone battling insurance companies to pay for basic life-saving drugs and procedures.
But there were good times, too. My mother and I grew even closer. It was during this time that she began Blue Moon Basherts on account of her inability to work a nine-to-five job. The only silver lining of her illness was that it gave her the opportunity to do what she loved most in the world—bringing soulmates together. Although there was a lot more to the job than simply making introductions. Often it involved coaching someone how to take turns during a conversation, or helping them decide whether to move forward or call it quits. Sometimes it meant counseling couples through challenges. And occasionally it meant being blamed for other people’s mistakes. I was her protégé, and I saw it all.
On her worst days, I’d nestle beside her in bed and read out loud to her. And on her good days, we worked on Blue Moon Basherts.
My mother was my best friend. It was her unconditional love that shaped me into the person I am today. And when she died, I discovered that I couldn’t grieve the way my siblings did. While Zevi and Leah cried and laughed and told stories about my mother during the seven ritual days following the burial, I sat there numb. I felt nothing. Afterwards, I threw myself into the company we built together. Continuing her work made her feel less unreachable, like she wasn’t in some faraway galaxy, but in the house with me, sitting beside me as I matched people. And every time I got a phone call that a couple got engaged, I felt her hug me.
The idea that Mrs. Schwartz could take all of that away is chilling. No, it’s more than that—it’s enraging.
