Free The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay by Kelly Harms Page B

“I’m sorry, but can you just tell me? My next class starts in two minutes.” He looks to his classroom clock, then to me, then to his phone. “I’m sorry to be so rude, but how did you even find me? No, wait, first tell me why you’re here. Then explain how you tracked me down. No, wait.” he looks at the wall clock again. “There’s no time.”
    â€œI’ll be quick,” I tell him, because I don’t think I can get the guts up to do this again. “First, I googled you. And secondly, we’re married.”
    He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead he stares at me blankly for so long I start to sweat. Profusely. Eventually, after what feels like five minutes of solid silence, I dig in my handbag and foist over the notice from Las Vegas County. He takes it, reads it, and looks up at me.
    â€œWell,” he says at last. “So we are. Wow.”
    â€œWe’re coming up on our ten-year anniversary,” I say jokingly, though I can’t imagine why I am joking right now. He grimaces and I do too. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. I screwed up badly a long time ago, and I’m here to fix it.”
    Another long silence. “I … am … a little … flummoxed,” he says slowly. He is choosing his words so carefully, so kindly.
    â€œOf course you’re surprised. And your students—” I gesture to the door, where it looks like about thirty acne-marked faces are pressing up against the door.
    â€œThey’re here. Okay. So, I’ve got to teach this class.”
    â€œYes, I understand. I’ll go. I just wanted to let you know that I’m on it, and I’ll get it taken care of. I have a friend who’s a lawyer—”
    This seems to make him snap out of it. He shakes his head quickly. “No. No, that’s—I mean, yes, but—” he takes a deep breath. “Listen, this is a private matter. Come to my house for dinner tonight.” He quickly jots something on a scrap of paper. “Come over around eight. We’ll figure it out between the two of us, right? No big deal. No lawyers.”
    I take it gratefully, feeling like it is more than I could possibly have hoped for given the circumstances. “That’s so … yes, of course. Yes, I’ll be there.”
    â€œGood. Perfect. Uh … looking forward to it.” He seems to have largely regained his composure. “Let the hordes in on your way out, would you? They’ll be dying to grill me the second you leave.”
    â€œOf course. Good luck. I’ll see you … tonight?”
    â€œTonight. Turn left at the giant carving of the bear.”

 
    Four
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    When Ben told me to turn at the giant carving of the bear, I probably should have understood that when directions like that are necessary, you will be in the deepest, darkest woods imaginable. At 8:00 P.M. in mid-January in the frozen north, the sky is darker than dark, full of stars, just five minutes outside town. There is only a waning moon for light. If there are street lights, they aren’t on. My car’s headlights are the only illumination in any direction, and they light up only a small cylinder of snow falling on pavement. I can still see the yellow lines on the edges of the road, and I stay just to the left of them, and drive as slowly as I can safely drive until I find the bear. It is indeed giant, and lit up by a spotlight.
    In Minnow Bay proper, I’d seen a store dedicated to selling just these types of log carvings, made, I have to imagine, with chainsaws. Eagles, fish, bears, the occasional Super Bowl trophy. But nothing on the scale of this. I imagine the lumberjack who’d endeavored to make this fearsome, violent statue. The bear is more than life-size, ten feet tall probably, with his forearms up high and claws bared but his elbows tucked in close to his body, as the medium of