Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

“Oh, well, okay, then. As long as he’s one of them good ghosts, not the kind that want to steal your soul or anything.”

Jamal grimaced, shrugged, and threw his hands up in disgust, “Too many of those stupid horror flicks! They never get it right!”

Well, they almost never get right, I thought, eyeing my pimp-ghost friend as he paced around the living room, totally annoyed by the inability of ‘the living’ to understand ‘the dead’. Actually, from what I had seen, a lot of the ‘horror flicks’ had gotten it right on the money, in a lot of different ways. I mean, here I was, watching a pretty ticked-off ghost who couldn’t be seen by anyone else—so far—ranting about how stupid ‘living’ people were. I giggled at that, trying to cover it up with a little cough.

“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 thcentury, 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 onlyreason 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’show 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.

“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!