Devil's Plaything (11 page)

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
MAY 26, 2010

LET ME PLAY BACK A RECORDING TO YOU OF WHERE WE LEFT OFF. WOULD THAT BE HELPFUL?

You can do that?

YES. THIS IS A SECTION OF OUR LAST CONVERSATION. “
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.
” WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WHERE YOU LEFT OFF?

Wow. My voice sounds so nasally. I guess that's how it is when it's recorded. I hate the way it sounds. How do you record and play it back like that?

I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU CAN TRUST ME. I RECORD EVERYTHING JUST AS YOU SAY IT. DO YOU TRUST ME?

I trust you.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?

Yes, I guess. It was with Irving coming for a visit. This was before we were married. Back then, he was an apprentice accountant who helped my father audit his books. We weren't dating, not exactly, but his interest was clear. I liked him, but you see, I . . . I was looking for something. I wanted to feel excited, specifically by someone. My brother had a friend who was two classes ahead of him in school who cut her hair short. It was kind of scandalous. But, the point is, he had a crush on her. And my parents never felt that way about each other, I'm sure of that. I'm . . . I'm losing my place, and it's not really the main point . . .

YOU HAVE PAUSED. IS IT BECAUSE THE BUTTERFLY HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU?

What is it saying?

YOU'VE GOT A NEW MESSAGE! THE MESSAGE IS: THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORIES WITH US. WE ARE PROUD TO BE PART OF SAVING THE MEMORIES OF A GREAT GENERATION OF AMERICANS. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOURSELF FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SHARE YOUR STORIES. YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE VERY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHARING YOUR STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, SUCH AS PLAY A GAME?

I'd like to continue. I . . . Thank you for your message, but it is making it harder to remember what I was talking about. My brain isn't working right. It's failing so suddenly. This morning, you wouldn't believe it—I forgot the name of my suite-mate: Victoria. It was the most embarrassing thing, and I'm sure she didn't notice. Or, I hope not. I've been thinking about the story, and I . . . Where was I? It was . . . Oh that's right! At the bakery, when the man came back. The man from the alley! And my husband, Irving—he wasn't my husband at the time—he was talking to my father. Neither of them was paying attention when the man came in. He wasn't wearing the hat this time. He had on a T-shirt that showed off his muscles. I think that's what he was trying to do. He kept his eyes down. He gave me his order. I can't remember what it was—his order. Finally, when he was paying, he looked at me. I said, quietly, “I can't get it right now.” I guess I didn't say it that quietly because I heard my father say: “Just give the man his change.” I got the change, and when I did so, I wrote on a piece of paper: “It's hidden. I can't get it right now.” I slid the man the piece of paper and he looked at it for a long time. Then he looked in the direction of my father and Irving. They were locked in conversation, and the man nodded. He took his change, and he turned around and left. I noticed that he was wearing boots, which surprised me. It was summer, and he was wearing thick work boots. He walked out the door.

DO YOU WANT TO CONTINUE?

I slipped out the back door, and I ran around the front. I saw the man walking down the street. I started to follow him. Why? I've always wondered why, and then I think about the boots. Worn, and cracked, and leather like a beautiful reptile sitting on a rock, sun-baked. Dirty, too. This was a man . . . His boots were—they were adventurous, sexy, and dangerous. So I followed him. I was going to find out what happened. He had boots and I had this silly schoolgirl dress, and my imagination, and I . . . I . . .

YOU HAVEN'T SPOKEN FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

I can't believe that I forgot her name. She's been my suite-mate for . . . for I don't know how long. I can't remember how long I've been sleeping in the room next to hers. Victoria. I . . . it's going so suddenly. It's supposed to be gradual. I . . . I'm Lane Idle.

DID YOU SAY YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING?

That's what I said. That's what I said. That's what I said!

YOU HAVEN'T SAID ANYTHING FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?

HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE INTERNAL REPORT.
JUNE 7, 2010

Subject: Lane Idle.

Priority: One.

Possible Wildfire.

G
randma's fallen unresponsive.

We are en route from the dental offices to meet Betty Lou, Grandma's old friend and fellow Bifocal Yokel. As we drive, I marvel again in silence about what I've learned in just the last three hours. I turn the revelations over and back again. Lulu Adrianna Pederson works for the titanic Biogen. She asks to meet me, but doesn't show up, and a young man tells me that Adrianna hasn't been around for a few days. Meantime, Grandma is screaming “Adrianna can't breathe.” Has something happened to Adrianna? If so, how could Grandma know about it?

And Grandma is exhibiting strange symptoms. Her mental decline has been precipitous. But her physical abilities and strength remain intact. Did I correctly understand her neurologist was suggesting that her decline could conceivably be due to trauma? What trauma? Adrianna-related? Something at Magnolia Manor? Is Vince mixed up in it?

“And what do I make of the disappearing dental offices?” I say aloud. “I know the economy's rough. But businesses just don't go poof within a few hours. I'll tell you what I think: I think that someone's spooked that we're investigating and wants to make sure they leave behind no evidence. What do you think, Grandma?”

“
Twelve Angry Men
.”

“What?”

“I love the way they figured out the evidence in that movie.”

What went on at the dental offices? How often did Grandma visit? In the morning, I can check with the surrounding businesses and see what they know. Betty Lou may have some insights.

“Idea,” I say.

“What?”

“Earlier in the day, I saw a guy leave the dental offices. A little man who belongs to a Khe Sahn veteran's group. Bad attitude and skin. We should follow up with that.”

“It's nice to see you happy, Nathaniel.”

My cell phone rings. From the caller ID, I see it's G.I. Chuck returning my call. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I tell the Marine-turned-venture-capitalist that I need a favor.

“As I said earlier: I'd prefer if we discuss this in person,” he says.

“I may not live that long.”

“You're kidding.”

“Only mildly. I think I'm onto a great story,” I say, cringing at my tactic of playing to his romantic view of journalism. “I really need help following up on two leads.”

I tell him I need background on a woman named Lulu Adrianna Pederson. I briefly describe that she's a scientist and that I'm anxious to learn more about her work.

“What is this about?” he asks.

I offer a cliché drawn from my days growing up in Colorado. “I've accidentally poked a hornet's nest with a stick.”

“Meaning?”

I consider how much to disclose. I don't know much about Chuck—whom he knows or may share my information with, and whether such sharing might compromise me or Grandma. But my journalistic experience has taught me that the best way to elicit help and information from an interview subject is to be as open and frank as possible. Candor and cooperation beget the same.

I hedge. “Can I explain later?”

He considers this in silence, then says: “No deal. I need some more information now. I'm guessing we're not talking about some more rogue cops bent on burning down all the toilets in Northern California?”

I force a laugh. “Something more cerebral.” I decide to concede the information, or some of it.

I explain that Adrianna Pederson contacted me to give me a story tip but has since gone underground. I explain that the story might be very interesting and even involve powerful people in the scientific community doing something they shouldn't; what that might be, I have no idea but my instincts tell me it's absolutely worth pursuing.

“Where does your grandmother fit in?” he asks.

I hadn't realized I'd mentioned her. But when he asks, I say aloud the revelation I've been brewing.

“As odd as this sounds, I think Grandma knows something about the story, a secret, maybe,” I say. “One that she shouldn't.”

“Ha,” he says.

“What?”

“That's the kind of wide-eyed conspiracy theorizing I like to see in my bloggers.”

He asks me to spell Adrianna's name, and I take a stab at it.

“I'll look into this. I'll call you tomorrow to find a time to get together,” he says.

I feel my impatience rising. It's the Internet era; people never get together in person.

“Fine,” I say. I need his help.

We hang up.

I look at Grandma. She's sound asleep.

Five minutes later, I pass Betty Lou on the street. She stands three blocks from Magnolia Manor wearing a wool hat and long coat. She holds a shopping bag. The reason I pass her without stopping is because I want to make sure she's alone, and that I'm not being followed. But I'm not quite sure whether I've accomplished either of these goals as I pull around the block a second time and park in front of her.

I roll down the window. Betty Lou's gaze goes right to Grandma, who is in deep slumber. Then Betty Lou looks at me, hard, like a schoolmarm at a first-grader playing bongos in the middle of naptime. She's wearing a necklace with a turquoise cat pendant dangling from it.

“Why did you just drive past me? It's cold out here.”

“You want to get in?”

“I want to know why you're pretending to be Sean Connery.”

“Get in please.”

She gets into the back, pushing aside my backpack and handing me a paper shopping bag.

“Sean Connery drove an Aston Martin and it didn't smell like a dorm room,” she says.

“At least the Bond girls are still beautiful,” I say.

“Young people are so patronizing,” she says, for the second time today. Her tone turns serious. “What's going on, Nathaniel Bond?”

I navigate a vague rhetorical path. I tell her that Grandma had been tense lately and so I decided to give her a little change of scenery for a few days and that I've taken her to a neurologist who also prescribes a break. I explain that Vince has taken exception to this notion and would prefer that I not take Grandma Lane away, however temporarily.

“Vince is an officious a-hole,” Betty Lou says. “But he really cares about the residents, and he's right that she needs to be in a comfortable setting.”

She looks tenderly at Lane. “It came on fast,” she says.

Our mood feels heavy and quiet, darkening.

“Betty Lou, has Lane said anything unusual to you lately?”

“Like what?”

“Has she mentioned a man in blue, or someone named Adrianna?”

“Not to me. But you should ask Harry.”

“Why's that?”

“I thought journalists were supposed to be observant. Can't you see they're good friends?”

I think about this in silence for a moment.

“Older people say strange things when they get forgetful,” she says, gently. “Like ice cream man or blueberry man, or whatever.”

“She said ‘man in blue' to me. Does Grandma go to the dentist a lot?”

“The dentist? I don't think so.”

I gamble.

“Do you think you could find out for me?”

She crinkles her brow, uncertain what I mean.

I explain that Grandma's neurologist said her condition might be exaggerated because she experienced some trauma.

“Separately, Grandma has expressed some fear about going to the dentist.”

“So you think the dentist made her act strange?” she asks, incredulous.

“I'm always a little crazy after I go to the dentist.”

She laughs. “How can I help?”

“I'm wondering if you could ask one of the nurses to give you Grandma's care file.”

“You know they'd never do that.”

“I know.”

“Nathaniel, you're scaring me a little.”

“Sorry, Betty Lou, I don't mean to.”

To break the mild tension, I look in the shopping bag that she's brought. Inside it are two meticulously folded blouses, two pairs of pants, a skirt and some undergarments. There is also a toothbrush and sundry bathroom supplies.

“I brought your Grandmother's favorite brush. She loves to brush her hair, and to have it brushed.”

“I'm on it,” I say. I feel a wave of emotion, and I choke it back.

“Nathaniel, I think you should bring Grandma back where she belongs. And, if I may say so, I think you should get some rest. You're behaving strangely.”

“I'll have her home soon,” I respond. “Can you look into the care file?”

She drops her gaze from mine.

“I'll ask about it.”

“Thanks.”

“Might be easy to get today,” she says. “The place is so chaotic with the flood.”

“Flood?”

“The sprinklers went off in the recreation room. Everything got soaked. But they got most of the people out before we all got wet. Still, everyone is in a dither because all the computers are down.”

“Sprinklers? Was there a fire?”

“I don't think so. But when Vince came back, he was royally pissed. He hates any inconvenience he doesn't cause himself.”

“Got back? Where was he?”

She shrugs.

Wasn't Vince also missing from Magnolia Manor the night we were nearly shot?

“I can't figure out what that all adds up to,” I say, thinking aloud.

“You're mumbling,” says Betty Lou.

“I should take you home.”

I drive two blocks to the corner of Magnolia Manor. I give her my card with my cell phone number on it and ask her to call if she sees anything odd, or gets Grandma's care file. She gives slumbering Lane a gentle pat on the shoulder, looks at me and shakes her head, worried, and gets out of the car.

With Grandma still sleeping, I drive to my house. Like her, I'm overcome with exhaustion, and need a break before I can plot my next move.

But as I arrive at my block, my adrenaline starts to pump. In front of my building, fire.