Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

“Uh, yes? Can I help you with—“

“One of my friends gave me your number, but I left a bunch of messages and you never called back. So I asked him for your address, and he finally coughed it up, so here I am.”

“I see. Here you are.”

Jamal walked around in front of the guy, checking him out and sizing him up, like he either wanted fight him or try on his clothes. I waved my hand at him, like I was telling the leader of the band, That’s enough music! Stop playing!

“Look, lady, I’m not gonna try anything funny, I need your help. My little brother’s missing.”

Aw, crap. Not another one.

“Come in, sorry about my manners, it’s been a crappy day.”

“Well, no offense, but I don’t think your day could be worse than mine.”

I shuffled him in, shoved the warped door closed behind him, and started peeling my own layers off. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Again.”

“Okay.”

I yanked my scarf, gloves, hat, and coat off, then plopped down on the couch for my daily struggle with the mukluks. I had bought them in Alaska one summer, when Don and I went on one of our ‘discover the world’ trips. What a sad, pathetic joke that turned out to be.

Finally freed of the boots, I dumped them over by the front door, turning on a small space heater I kept nearby, so the boots and winter gear would actually dry instead of just stink up the place.

“Can I take your stuff?” I asked, motioning to his hat and coat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, removing his coat to reveal the truth: it wasn’t the coat that made him look like a small giant. It was him.

“Do you play football or something?” I asked absentmindedly, as I tried to figure out where to hang his Shaquille-O’Neal-worthy monstrosity.

“Yeah. Offensive line. Who’s your team?”

“Oh, um, the bulldogs, like you,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out who his favorite team was.

He laughed, a booming thunderous sound, and clutched his stomach. In my peripheral vision, I could see Jamal literally rolling on the floor, barely making any sounds because he was laughing so hard.

“What?” I looked back and forth from Jamal to this gigantic kid, completely confused.

“You really—you really don’t know?” still laughing so hard that tears were shining in his eyes.

“Know what?”

After a few minutes, the kid wiped his face and took a few deep breaths, reigning the laughter in so it was just a few hiccups and snorts.

“They’re the Georgetown Hoyas not the bulldogs. And their football team sucks . Just so ya know.” He pulled his hat off, handing it to me, with a little smirk on his face.

“Oh, what ever ,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. At least I got the giant kid-man to laugh. Maybe now he won’t break me in half and throw me around like a puppet. Ha-ha.

“You want me to put my boots by the door?”

“Yeah, just sit them next to mine.”

He shuffled over to the growing pile of clothes and boots, unceremoniously dumping his on the floor. His stocking feet made a ‘swish-swish’ sound as he scooted back across the room, trying to decide where to sit.

“Try the recliner, it might hold you.”

He turned and looked at me funny, like he couldn’t tell if I was serious or not, then somehow folded himself into the leather seat. I settled back into the couch, trying to relax, narrowing my eyes a little as Jamal finally stopped laughing and walked over toward the kid again.

“So you said something about your brother missing, um, what was your name again?”

He instantly got serious. “Marcus. Yeah, my brother’s been missing for a couple of days, now. He’s only seven, and I’m worried about him.”

“Seven? Wow; that is young.”

“I know. He’s never gone missing before, never even wandered off at the store or anything . Trevor’s one of those good kids, almost a mama’s boy, but not a punk or anything. If he gets hurt he doesn’t act like a pussy—I mean, uh, a sissy.”

I tilted my head to the side, like I was trying to figure him out, but I was really waiting for Jamal to lean over and say something. He had back up, away from the recliner, tilting his head back one way, then the other, looking at Marcus with his eyebrows furrowed.

Not getting any help from Jamal, I asked, “Where was he the last time you saw him?”

“Mama saw him two days ago; he was watchin’ cartoons on Nickelodeon while she went to the shower. She wasn’t gone but ten, fifteen minutes, same as damn near every day. She hates to take a shower at night cuz then her hair stays wet in the pillow, and—“

“Okay, I got it. So, what time of day was it?”

“Let’s see, I just left for school, I’m a senior this year, so I have a late start class three days a week. Would’ve been around 10.”

“And there was no sign of anyone coming in? Nothing knocked over?”

“Nope. Like he just disappeared right out of the living room, vanished. Didn’t even take his boots or coat or anything.”

“And what did your mother do when she got out of the shower?”

“She freaked . I mean, I guess she looked around for a few minutes and all, but she said when she saw his coat was still there and the TV was on and the door was unlocked—“

“The door was unlocked?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. We taught him to keep it locked and chained from the inside, and not to answer the door unless a grown up is around,” he put his head down, started fidgeting with his hands. “Guess that didn’t sink in too good, huh.”

“So she saw the TV still on, the winter clothes still there, and the door was unlocked. Anything else?” I snuck a peek at Jamal, who had his eyes closed, his hands up to his temples, like one of those commercials where the guy has a “really bad migraine, right across here ”.

“That’s about it. The phone never rang, she didn’t hear any loud noises, nothing was knocked over or stolen, Trevor just—up and disappeared.”

He raised his head, looking at me with big, shining, brown eyes, looking like an overgrown, scared little kid, instead of the almost-man colossus he really was.

“That’s not a lot of information to go on,” I said, turning to Jamal and clearing my throat. Finally, he seemed to snap out of it, rushing over to my side and whispering frantically into my ear. As he spoke, I repeated what he said, nearly word for word:

‘ Your brother is still alive. But someone took him out of the house. Someone stronger than him. A stranger to you.’

I stopped, pulled my head back and asked Jamal, “Are you sure? That’s what you want me to say? ‘A stranger to you’?”

Jamal didn’t even answer, just pointed at Marcus, as if to say, Tell him!

“All right, all right,” I said, shaking my head at his strangely cryptic words.

“Who are you talking to?” Marcus asked, looking at me like I was an escaped mental patient.

“Didn’t your friend tell you how things work?” I asked, feeling annoyed.

“Sort of. He said you know stuff that other people don’t know. Like, how to find missing things and people.”

“That’s part of it. The other part is where I get the information from. To put it bluntly: I get it from a ghost. My ghost. Marcus, meet Jamal.” I gestured from Marcus to Jamal, like they were finally being properly introduced. Marcus lifted his eyebrows and looked like he might want to run outside without bothering to find his boots and coat. Jamal did a formal little bow, smiled, and turned to see how I would handle this one.

“Just trust me. Jamal here is from D.C. and he’s pretty good at figuring things out for people.”