The Matchmaker's Medium (12 page)

“No, he doesn’t want to steal anything. But let me see if I can figure out what else he knows.” I motioned towards Jamal, who refused at first, stubbornly shaking his head with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Luckily, he gave in after only a few seconds, leaning over to whisper in my ear again:

“
Trevor is in a basement, with the stronger one. He won’t let Trevor out. He’s crying and scared; he thinks no one will find him. He’s calling for his mama—
“

“That’s enough.”

I nodded, aware that they had touched a raw nerve in the young man. Jamal stepped away, turned his back and disappeared through the wall, to the outside. Not for the first time—or the last—I desperately wished I could disappear, too.

Marcus’ tears ran freely, spilling down his soft-skinned cheeks, stopping at his neatly-trimmed, barely-peach-fuzz moustache, then detouring down his chin and neck. He swiped at them with the heel of his hands, like he was angry that he couldn’t stop such an embarrassing and inconvenient thing.

“I gotta go tell the police all this stuff, so they can rescue him.”

“Okay,” I said, rising to help him gather his winter gear.

“No, it’s okay, I got it,” he said, waving off my help.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, I know it’s got to be devastating to—“

“Look, no offense, lady, but you don’t know anything about how I feel. My little brother barely knows how to ride a bike, cuz I taught him a few months ago. Now he’s in some basement, crying and scared, thinks no one’s comin’ for him.”

I hung my head, shamed into silence.

He finished dressing, pulling his stocking cap over his head, as I reached around him to the doorknob. But he touched my hand and asked, “You don’t know where he is?”

I felt tears filling my own eyes, and I bit my lip, trying to will them away. “No, Jamal didn’t tell me, which means even he doesn’t know.”

“All right, then,” he said, moving my hand away, turning the knob easily in his huge hand, and popping the stuck door open like it was a piece of paper. “I’ll call you when we find him.”

“Okay,” I said, watching him walk away, his huge frame bent as he carried the weight of the universe with him, down the crumbled-splotchy concrete walk.

He didn’t call me.

* * * *

About a week later, I was watching the news on a huge flat-screen monitor in the bank, as I waited in line to get a money order for my rent.
Stupid landlord, stuck in the damn 20
^th
century, asking for money orders to pay rent.
Every month I had to do it, I complained and bitched about it. But, as I stood there in line with four or five other people, wondering the same old thing I always wondered when I was in a situation like this—
What the hell happened to ‘customer service’? It’s like no one cares if the customer is happy anymore, even when we’re the
only
reason they have a job at all—
something familiar caught my eye.

As usual, the TV volume was on ‘mute’ and I had to read the subtitles for closed captioning—which I always hated, because they missed words or spelled everything wrong—when a picture popped up on the screen. The kid looked like a miniature version of Marcus.

Oh, no.

I yelled to the bank teller, “Turn it up! Please, turn it up!” To which, the teller did nothing at all, except look up long enough to give me a dirty look, then go back to what she was doing—leafing through a magazine or catalog.

Desperate to know what they were saying, I rushed over and manually touched the volume buttons, holding the ‘plus’ until it was so loud dead people from Iowa should’ve been sitting up to pay attention.

“Hey! You can’t touch that!” the lackadaisical teller said.
So
that’s
how you get their attention. Touch their precious TV buttons. Good to know.

I flipped her the bird, then turned to the monitor:

“—police got the information from an anonymous tipster, whose identity has not been revealed. But for little Trevor, the information came too late. Despite the close proximity to Trevor’s house, the kidnapper was able to conceal his activities long enough to elude police and cause the death of this young boy. The investigation is ongoing, with police interviewing the young man who allegedly committed the crimes, later today. In other news—“

Horrified and numb with shock, I turned away from the TV just as some tie-wearing ‘manager’ type came over to confront me. But, one look at my face shut him up quicker than any words could have. As I mechanically pushed the door open and walked out to my car, the customers and employees gossiped long enough to agree: that woman looked like I had just seen a ghost.

Chapter Ten

“No
wonder
you won’t do real medium work anymore,” Esteban said, his tea sweating on the coffee table, ice melted long ago.

“Yeah.”

I chugged the last of my tea, handing him the glass.

“Wow. I guess it’s thirsty work telling about that stuff,” he said, raising his eyebrows and shrugging a little.

“What’s happenin’, little mama?” Jamal whispered in my ear, as Esteban walked into the kitchen.

“Jamal! What are you
doing
here?” I asked, suddenly terrified:
How long has he been here?

“Only a few minutes, don’t worry. I didn’t wanna see you two whities doin the horizontal mambo.”

“He is
not
white, Jamal. He’s Puerto Rican.”

“Ha! Well, excu-uuse
me
, white girl!” he said, slapping his leg and faking a smile. Then immediately switching to his Super Serious face. “Now that you’re done getting’ your freaky-deaky on, we got a problem.”

“A problem? With what?”

“You mean who.”

“Okay, a problem with who?”

He opened his eyes really wide, tilted his head toward the kitchen, and gave me a half-smirk, half-smile.

“Esteban?”

“One and the same.”

“No, way.”

“Yes, way.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Can’t talk here, he’ll think you’re crazy.”

“What’d you say?” Esteban called from the kitchen.

“Oh, nothing! Just talking to myself!” I yelled, hoping he wouldn’t come rushing into the living room.

“Come on, give the square an excuse so we can split,” Jamal said, settling the argument.

“Oh, all right,
fine
then,” I said, already feeling irritable.

I slammed her hand on the couch, jumped up, and stormed into the kitchen, fuming.

“I have to
go
now, Esteban,” I said, rage thickening my voice.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding his soapy hands up like a man surrendering to the bank robber.

Staring at him, I felt my anger already melting away, much like the soap suds falling from his hands onto the floor with a mighty
plop!

“Oops,” he said, sheepishly.

He looked at the floor, then I looked, then we both looked back up at each other simultaneously, and started roaring with laughter. Esteban came over and swiped my face with some of the soapy suds, smearing them down my face and onto my blouse.

“Oh, darn, look at
that
,” he said, in mock-shame. “Now I have to take that pesky shirt back off, and put it in the dryer.” He stopped laughing, kissing me again, unbuttoning my shirt.

My last thought was,
God, please let Jamal be gone already.

Standing just outside the kitchen, watching as Esteban leaned closer into Amber, kissing her and taking off her clothes, Jamal felt an old feeling building inside of him, boiling and scalding him with its overwhelming power: jealous, blind rage.

* * * *

A few hours later, I was in my car, while the sun was thinking about making its way up from the horizon. At first, I had been relieved that Jamal was nowhere to be found. Especially while Esteban and I had our ‘alone time’. But now, hours later, I was starting to worry. For him to tell me there was something wrong, then disappear for hours on end, was completely out of character. If he was alive, I’d probably be making a few phone calls to hospitals and police stations by now. But, as things stood now, I couldn’t very well call
anyone.

Who ya gonna call?
I thought, in the sing-songy version from the movie
Ghostbusters.
Embarrassed by my own dorkiness, I shuddered and brushed the thought out of my head. Then I felt mad again.

“Jamal, wherever you are, I hope you know what a complete
jerk
you’re being, just taking off and not coming back for
hours
!” I yelled to the empty car, starting to worry about my own sanity. “God!” I slammed my hand onto the steering wheel so hard, the horn button pushed down a little, making the car emit a wounded-cow sound. Surprised, I accidentally pulled the steering wheel to the left a little, swerving into oncoming traffic.

“Watch it!”

The steering wheel jerked to back to the right, just enough to pull me out of the path of an oncoming semi-truck, barreling down the hazy highway, horn blaring in disapproval.

I slowed and pulled to the soft shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires, brakes groaning as I came to a full stop. My heart was pounding a thousand miles a minute, and I felt the iced tea trying to come back up. I put my head down on the steering wheel, trying to slow my breathing, in through my nose, out through my mouth, like that personal trainer taught me in D.C. all those years ago. He was a terrible trainer—spent most of our session staring at himself in the mirror—but at least that breathing technique stuck in my head.

“Sorry, lil’ mama,” Jamal said softly, in the seat next to me.

I lifted her head and glared at him. “I hope you’re happy you big loser,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, and leaning back into my seat, “you almost got me killed.”

“How was I supposed to know you were gonna act all crazy and slam the horn?”

“I didn’t—oh, just
forget it
!” I said, turning my head away so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“That’s funny,” he said, chuckling a little bit, “you don’t really think I’ll go away if you can’t see me, do you?”

“No, but at least I won’t have to look at your stupid smiling face!”

He chuckle-snorted for a few minutes, as my anger slowly dissolved. Eventually, I gave in, when my adrenaline had run its course. Yawning, I reached for the keys to turn the car back on, until –

“Wait a minute,” I said, turning to Jamal, “did you move the steering wheel back?”

He just stared at me for a second, with that cliché deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Jamal…” I said, like a mother who caught her first-grader in the cookies before dinner.

“Well,” he said, pretending to have something very important going on outside the passenger’s window.

“Look at me, Jamal,” I said, wishing for the millionth time I could physically touch him.

He kept staring out the window.

“When did you figure it out?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He just shrugged his shoulder, still looking out the window.

I sighed. Loudly.

“All right, let’s go.” I turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling as it warmed up. Slowly pulling away, I said, “Next time don’t hide things from me.”

He didn’t answer, his back still turned to me.

* * * *

I dropped my keys and purse on the table, just as the sun peeked its way above the horizon. As I kicked my shoes off, winding my way past all my secondhand furniture, I felt exhaustion taking hold.
Great sex—twice—plus the rush of nearly being smashed to death by a semi, equals too much adrenaline and a huge crash.

“Jamal, if you have something to tell me, you better hurry up, or I’ll be asleep before you can get a word in edgewise.”

He was nowhere to be found.”

She yawned again, a glamorously overdone yawn, feeling like a huge lion in the Serengeti.

“All right, big guy, goin’ once—goin’ twice—“

“I know why Victoria’s grandmama kept showin’ up.” I couldn’t see him, but he was nearby.

“Okay—why?”

“Trevor.”

I froze in mid-yawn, dropped my arms to my sides, adrenaline suddenly kicking in again.

“What about—him?” I still felt bad saying his name. Even
thinking
his name made me feel terrible all over again, like it was just yesterday.

“Y’know that kid that killed him?”

Of
course
I did. After that day in the bank, I followed the case through the newspapers, online, even called the police station and the courthouse for updates a few times, posing as a reporter. Although I never set foot in the courtroom, I knew more about the proceedings than some of the detectives on the case. That’s the beauty of modern technology: spectators seem to know more about crimes and their subsequent legal proceedings than those catching and prosecuting the criminals.

“Sure.”

“Well, he ain’t a kid no more.”

I felt goosebumps forming on her arms, spreading to her legs and the back of her neck.

Why did he say something was wrong with Esteban and then start talking about the kid who murdered Trevor?  

“Don’t worry, girl, it ain’t Esteban,” Jamal said, finally strolling into view. He paced a little, back and forth in front of me, rubbing his goatee in thought. I watched for a while, until I felt like I would pop.

“Okay, then
what
?” I asked, antsy and jumpy from everything, but especially the idea that my new love interest might be somehow connected to a child’s kidnapping and murder.

“You know that shop of his?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that kid—the one who killed Trevor—he works there.”

Time stopped.

Well, not really, but it felt like it.

I could have passed a lie detector test with flying colors, when the question of time stoppage came up, in the moments after Jamal told me that horrific truth.
Why, yes, Mr. Officer Sir, time did, in fact,
stop
when he told me the kid who killed Trevor worked at my new lover’s mechanic shop.

“Please tell me you’re just messing with me, Jamal.”

“Nope. No jokes or playin’ around this time, girl. It’s a total drag, but I knew I had to tell you before the fuzz starts pokin’ around and you find out on your own.”

“Why would the police be involved?”

He just looked at her.

“Who told you about this?”

“The grandmama.”

Wait, what?

“Why would Victoria’s grandmother want to tell her to—ohhh.” I caught herself in mid-sentence, when I realized Victoria’s son could be in very real danger, if he—

“Oh, my God! I have to tell Esteban! What if his son—“

“Now you see what we’re workin’ with,” Jamal said, walking quickly toward her purse on the front table. “Go on, get that sale-phoning thing and call him up. Tell him to get The Man over there and cart him away.”

“It’s a
cell phone
, Jamal. How many times do I have to explain it to you?”