Devil's Plaything (10 page)

I
weave through a few side streets, and take a right turn onto Geary, a fat thoroughfare thickening to a crawl with commuter traffic. We slip into the mess. We putt along in silence for a few blocks, and then I see something troubling in the rearview mirror, one lane over to the right.

There's a Prius several cars behind us. Its driver looks like the lovechild of a circus clown and Bigfoot.

I turn off my engine, yank out the keys, and put on the hazards. I open the door and start hustling toward the Prius.

I am thoroughly pissed off, but I still realize I have two big problems.

One is that my move prompts an eruption of honks. The collective angst of several dozen drivers already frustrated by life's deep unfairness—traffic, the Bay Area cost of living, the fact they don't yet own an iPad—spills out into a symphony of honking harangues.

The second problem takes a moment longer to materialize.

I zigzag to the driver's-side window of the hybrid. I peer inside at the face of a man in his mid-twenties with a soul patch, hefty sideburns, ring-pierced lower lip, and an ostentatious hairy wig. He holds a dime-store clown mask he has pulled from his face, leaving it dangling from his neck by an elastic string.

He looks startled, then menacing, like a guy who goes to Oakland Raiders games just for the fights in the stands. His speakers thump with hip-hop.

He rolls down his window. He starts to speak. Starts to, then pauses, turns down the hip-hop, and makes an impassioned plea.

“I am one hundred percent sober.”

On the passenger seat I see a fifth of Jack Daniel's, half drained. The bottle is open, tilting to the side, dribbling out its contents.

“Who do you work for?” I ask.

“What?”

“Are you following us?”

Then something dawns on him.

“You better be a cop,” he says. “Or I'm going to drive my forehead through your forehead. You ever see the Ultimate Fighting Championship?”

Something dawns on me too. This is not the hybrid I saw in the park. And there is little likelihood its driver has been plotting my demise, at least not until this very moment.

“Undercover pre-Halloween law-enforcement brigade,” I say.

I sprint back to my car, start it, and pull hard into the right lane. I then yank a sharp right onto a side street to get out of the traffic jam.

I don't fully exhale until I realize that the hybrid driver has, apparently, decided not to follow us.

“You're frightening me,” Grandma says.

“I'm sorry. My imagination's in overdrive.”

“Ha!” Grandma says declaratively. “You seem like you're enjoying yourself.”

This time, it is I who uses Grandma's regular refrain.

“I'm not sure I understand,” I say.

“The Idles like to run after things.”

“The neurologist is right.”

“What?”

“You're away from Magnolia Manor and you're getting more lucid.”

“If you say so.”

As we drive, I call Magnolia Manor and ask for Betty Lou, Grandma's close friend.

“Where's Lane?” Betty Lou asks immediately.

“We're going to hang out for a few days. Her doctor says she needs some concentrated time with her grandson. But I need a few changes of clothes for Lane.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well then why not just come back here and get some clothes yourself?”

“Betty Lou, you're a clever old lass.”

“Bring her back here, Nathaniel.”

“Please, Betty Lou,” I say. I want to add: I know what I'm doing. But I'm not sure that I do. Instead, I say: “I'm taking great care of her, and she's doing fine.”

“Then why are they looking for her, and you?”

“Who is?”

“Vince and the rest of those a-holes.”

I tell her I don't have time to explain. I ask her to meet me on the street in an hour.

“Harry is worried sick,” she says.

“Don't tell anyone we've talked.”

“What's going on, Nathaniel?”

“I don't know. Maybe nothing. I wouldn't worry about it.”

“Young people are so patronizing.”

Click.

Half an hour later, I pull into the dental office. It's just after 5:30, getting dark, and the lot has largely cleared out.

“Sit tight for just a second, Lane.”

“I'm bored. Can I use the computer?”

I hand her the video-game phone.

“No, the computer!” she says.

“It is a computer.”

“What?”

She's staring at the screen.

“I'll be back in just a second.”

I walk up the stairs and I notice the office door is ajar. I push it open. Inside, the office is quiet, dark, and appears to be empty.

I feel along the wall to my right, and flip on the light.

There is a small waiting area at the entrance, ringed by white chairs with white seat cushions. On a coffee table between the chairs sit copies of
Newsweek
,
Sports Illustrated
, and other magazines. I'm struck again that there is little else to define the place—nothing on the walls, no signs with appointment directions or instructions on dental care.

Also missing is the woman behind the counter, the one I'd argued with earlier. Her desk has been emptied out. There are no papers, computer, office supplies—just a single black ballpoint pen lying on a stark white counter.

Next to the counter is a doorway leading to the back.

“Hello,” I say loudly and directed to the back. “I'm here for my appointment.”

No answer.

I walk to the door that leads to the back and open it. Behind it, two doorways, presumably to examination rooms.

I open the door to my right. Behind it, a small white room, completely empty. Not even an examination chair.

I step back into the hallway and walk to the second door.

I put my hand to the knob, and hesitate. Will I find Adrianna, unable to breathe?

Is Grandma okay outside? I shouldn't be leaving her in the dark.

I push open the door. I feel along the wall for a switch and turn on the light. Another small examination room, also abandoned. Mostly.

A high-backed chair faces a wall on which there are taped three images that look like they've been cut from old magazines: an ad for a 1960s red Chevrolet, a picture of an old television with rabbit ears, and a photo of the first moon walk. There are also two
New York Times
front pages tacked up, one announcing the attack on Pearl Harbor and another of Jackie Robinson rounding third base, hand pumped in the air in celebration.

From outside, I hear a high-pitched sound.

Screaming.

I
sprint into the darkness.

The piercing sound comes from directly below me. I squint to get my bearings.

“Grandma?!”

I fly down the stairs. I make out someone standing near the door of a ground-floor office. The figure is hunched. Grandma.

I hustle to her.

She stares into the office's plate-glass window.

“Adrianna can't breathe,” she says.

“It's okay. I'm here.”

I gently put my hand on her back. She flinches and her hand whips up and slaps my arm away. She's strong.

“Grandma, it's me.”

“I'm not going inside.”

“Absolutely not. We're not going inside.”

I put my arm on her shoulder. She's quivering.

“My father drove a red Chevrolet,” she says.

“Deep breath, Grandma.”

“My family came from Eastern Europe.”

“Poland, Grandma. You're absolutely right.”

“Irving wore a suit to our wedding.”

She's all over the place.

“Grandma,” I take a step back, and hold her hands. “What happened here?”

“I did my best to love Irving. I made him tuna casserole, which I hate. I just didn't fit into that kind of life—a casserole life. I know you know what I'm talking about.”

“What happened here, Lane? Please focus.”

“There are some things I'd prefer to forget.”

“Did you see something happen to Adrianna? Did she . . .” I pause before saying the words, “Why can't she breathe?”

“Do you know what it's like to feel suffocated? Do you know what it's like when you're trapped? It's like being anesthetized. Do you know what that word means?”

“Grandma . . .”

“You want to feel thrilled. Isn't that what it means to be alive?
You
know that, Nathaniel. That's why I can tell you.”

She's meandering, anxious, confused, pouring out and swirling together memory, philosophy, fear, anger, raw emotion.

“What do you want to forget, Grandma?”

“Pigeon.”

Pigeon. This doesn't ring the remotest bell.

“Pigeon—like the bird?”

“Pigeon, take me someplace warm.”

I take a deep breath.

“Shhh,” she says, animatedly.

“What?”

“Is there something there?” She's looking out into the parking lot.

I look in the darkness. I hear nothing, see nothing.

“Harry, take me someplace warm, please.”

“I'm Nathaniel.”

She does not respond at first.

“You should marry that friend of yours,” she finally says. “There are ways you can have everything, but I wouldn't recommend it.”

I take a deep breath. The San Francisco air hangs dusty wet with incoming fog and night.

My cortex clicks through dozens of seemingly unrelated details and events. I can't grasp the connection but I know there is one. I notice I'm rubbing my thumb against my index finger, an old habit that happens when I'm close to figuring something out.

“You're saying a lot of different things, Grandma. But I have this strange feeling that there is some connective tissue. There are clues in what you're saying. But I have no idea how to assemble them—and which are clues, which are . . .” I stop, because I don't want to say the word “nonsense.”

“Nathaniel, you were always close enough to see the truth.”

“What truth, Lane?”

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
MAY 20, 2010

WELCOME BACK LANE IDLE. WHILE I LOAD YOUR FILE, PLEASE ENJOY THESE VIDEO IMAGES OF AMERICA'S RICH PAST. THE LATE 1940S AND 1950S WERE A TIME OF GREAT PROSPERITY AND GROWTH FOR THIS COUNTRY, PARTICULARLY AFTER A HARD-FOUGHT VICTORY IN WORLD WAR II. TENS OF MILLIONS OF AMERICANS GATHERED AROUND RADIOS TO LEARN ABOUT PEARL HARBOR, AND, SIX YEARS LATER, THE ALLIED VICTORY. THEN THEY CELEBRATED IN THE STREETS, RINGING IN A PERIOD OF COMMON PURPOSE, AND EXTRAORDINARY PROSPERITY.

That's true, I guess, and a little schmaltzy, if you don't mind my saying so.

WHEN WE LAST SPOKE, YOU TOLD ME HOW YOU LEARNED OF PEARL HARBOR LISTENING TO A LARGE BLACK RADIO IN YOUR HOUSE IN DENVER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO ELABORATE?

I don't remember that particular time very well, or that incident. I'm trying to talk about something else.

DID YOU SAY YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING HEARING ABOUT THE OUTBREAK OF WAR ON THE RADIO?

I was telling you about the young man in the alley. And the secret envelope. I've been thinking about it a lot—nonstop, actually. In the common room last night they showed
The Way We Were
. It's a movie with Barbra Streisand. I love movies, but I actually left in the middle because I was thinking about how to tell the story. When you keep something inside so long, it doesn't just come out that easily.

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

My father was very suspicious; he noticed
everything
. I was sure he'd discover the envelope I'd gotten from the man in the alley. So I waited until I could hear that there were a few customers at the counter whom he needed to help. I went into the storeroom in back. We had everything organized very neatly. On one wooden shelf were large sacks of flour and sugar, along with smaller bins of flour and sugar that were to be mixed that evening for use the next morning. Another shelf had additives, like vanilla, in big plastic jugs. Oh, it smelled heavenly. And there were chocolate chips, and raisins, which I never liked. And boxes of almonds. You'd think there were lots of little places to hide things. But if one tiny thing was out of place, my father would have known about it.

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

Yes, yes. I used to read novels about a spy named Steve Stealth. Did I tell you that? I know I've started to repeat myself. Anyway, as I was standing in the storage room with the white envelope, I thought about what a spy would do, and the idea that came to me had to be about the worst one on the whole planet: hide the envelope where my father was so confident everything was in order that he'd never guess that it wasn't—in order.

Next to the refrigerator, there was an old bin marked “Wheat.” It looked full and heavy. But it wasn't. It was easy to push aside. When you did—when you moved it—you could see the black safe that was dug in the ground—cut between two planks. That's where we kept the receipts, and our immigration papers and some old pictures. I put the envelope in the safe, in a file with our immigration papers. I couldn't imagine my dad would ever think to look in those papers. He couldn't. Right? I . . . I . . .

YOU HAVE NOT SPOKEN FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

My grandson took me to a doctor the other day. What do you call it, a . . .

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

A neurologist. Sheesh . . . that word took a while to come to me. Pardon my cursing. It's not helping, looking at all those butterflies on the screen. I didn't want to see a neurologist, if you want to know the truth. But then I came to the obvious realization that I'm not afraid of the doctor; I'm afraid of the condition. My mother lost her memory. They didn't call it dementia back then. They just said she was old. Well, my point is that I want to deal with my memory, to keep it intact, at least long enough to . . . tell the truth. I don't have to leave a legacy, not like some oil baron or business mogul, but I don't want to leave a lie either. Maybe my grandson can read this and understand why things have turned out the way they have.

I THINK YOU SAID YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING THINGS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A DOCTOR WHO SPECIALIZES IN MEMORY LOSS?

I just told you that I am already seeing one. I'd just like to keep talking. Isn't that the point of this arrangement?

PLEASE CONTINUE.

I waited for the man from the alley to come back. But he didn't come the next day, or the day after. I kept picturing his face and it made my body warm. I don't know if it was fear or something else. At work, I kept opening the safe and peeking at the envelope. I nearly opened it a dozen times. But I didn't want to disappoint the man. I was a girl, y'know. Things were different then, at least for most girls. Well, anyhow, after the second day, I went to the neighborhood park and I looked for him. But he wasn't there. And then I started to wonder if the whole thing was nothing—wishful thinking of someone who was always inside her own head daydreaming. Anyhow, on the third day, Irving came for a visit.

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

I'm tired, and I've lost my place a little bit.

DID YOU SAY YOU ARE TIRED?

Yes.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME? IT'S A GAME THAT ALL THE KIDS ARE PLAYING THESE DAYS, BUT IT'S EASY AND I CAN TEACH YOU.

I suppose so.

USE THE MOUSE TO MOVE THE BLINKING CURSOR AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE BACK AND FORTH.

I know how to use a mouse. I used to be a blue belt in karate. I'm not an invalid or an idiot.

YOU'RE DOING A GOOD JOB WITH THE MOUSE. AS YOU MOVE IT BACK AND FORTH, TRY TO “CATCH” OR “INTERCEPT” THE COLORED BARS AS THEY DROP DOWN THE SCREEN.

ARE YOU STILL THERE? THE MOUSE IS NO LONGER MOVING.

I'm tired.

MAY I RECAP WHAT WE HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT TODAY TO MAKE SURE THAT I HAVE RECORDED IT CORRECTLY?

Yes.

YOU WERE BORN IN WARSAW, POLAND. YOUR FAMILY CAME ON A VERY LARGE SHIP TO AMERICA. YOU MOVED TO DENVER, WHERE YOU ATTENDED HIGH SCHOOL. YOU LEARNED OF PEARL HARBOR ON A LARGE, BLACK RADIO SET. YOUR FATHER OWNED OR OPERATED A BAKERY. HIS FIRST CAR WAS A FORD. AM I GETTING THIS CORRECTLY?

Yes, I think. My father owned a bakery AND operated it. I don't remember what kind of car my father drove.

THANK YOU. MAY I CONTINUE?

Yes.

YOUR HUSBAND'S NAME WAS IRVING. IS THAT CORRECT?

Yes.

WHAT DID IRVING WEAR ON YOUR WEDDING DAY? WAS IT A MILITARY UNIFORM?

I don't . . . I'm not sure. I'm very tired. I have to go.