The Matchmaker's Medium

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.