Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [1]
ARE YOU FINISHED?
ARE YOU STILL THERE? WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
(Laughter) You’re very persistent. You remind me of my brother, Leonard. He was so curious, and once he got hold of an idea he just wouldn’t let go of it. (Pause) Well, anyway. Denver. I really haven’t started telling that story. Denver was so green and quiet then, before the world got paved over with concrete and everyone started carrying around those silly phones. But it’s not really a story about Denver. It’s about war. Bad things that happen during war, or because of it, maybe. Or maybe war was just an excuse. To be honest, I’m not sure that I want to tell the story after all. I know this is silly, but, well, I’m wondering if I can trust you. Can I really expect a bunch of wires and plastic and Lord knows what else to process my information or keep it private if I say so?
I THINK YOU’VE ASKED WHETHER THE INFORMATION YOU SHARE WITH ME IS PRIVATE. IS THAT CORRECT?
Yes. That is correct.
OUR RECORDS INDICATE THAT YOU HAVE SIGNED RECORDS RELEASING THIS INFORMATION ONLY UPON YOUR PASSING. AT THAT POINT, IT WILL BECOME AVAILABLE AS PART OF A RECORD OF MEMORIES AND LIFE STORIES THAT WILL HELP FUTURE GENERATIONS UNDERSTAND THE 20TH CENTURY AND PEOPLE WHO LIVED THROUGH IT.
Does that mean that this information will be secret until I die?
THIS INFORMATION WILL REMAIN SECRET UNTIL YOUR PASSING.
Good. May I say something?
DID YOU ASK IF YOU CAN SAY SOMETHING? IF SO, YOU ARE FREE TO SAY ANYTHING YOU WANT.
You have to keep my secrets until I die.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
Please.
ARE YOU FINISHED? DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?
People will get hurt. A lot of people. People I care about. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially my grandson, Nathaniel. I don’t want to be too dramatic about it, but I guess you’d say my story is a little dangerous. My grandson is . . . well, he’s a little bit like Huck Finn. He could go off and do something crazy. Just like his grandmother.
Chapter 1
My big toe is exposed and my companion lost in the world beyond.
I look down and see my digit poking through the strained fabric at the top of my black canvas high-tops. They are worn thin by an opposition to shopping that borders on the pathological and by a paltry freelance journalist’s income that of late has put shoe upgrades out of reach.
Other than my aerated toe, Golden Gate Park is warm, incongruously so given the descending darkness. But such is late October in San Francisco, where the seasons are as offbeat and contrarian as the residents.
“Grandma Lane, should I get a new pair of shoes, or just really thick socks and hope for the quick onset of global warming?”
I smile at her but see she’s looking off into the distance.
“Nathaniel, did we see that man earlier?”
It’s a not unexpected non sequitur. My grandmother has dementia. For her, dusk is literal and proverbial—her memory heading quickly into that good night. A month ago, I found her trying to iron her bed linens with a box of Kleenex.
She holds tightly to my hand. I feel aging skin pulled loosely over skeleton.
“What man, Grandma?”
“That one.” She points with her free hand over my shoulder.
Her continuity surprises me. I turn to look. In the fading light, I see a figure disappear into a thick patch of trees half a football field away.
“Danger,” she says.
“It’s okay, Lane. It’s nothing.”
She stops and looks at me.
“Let’s go home,” she says quietly.
She’s right. It’s time to get her back to Magnolia Manor. We’ve spent the day together for “Take Your Grandparents to Work Day.” It consisted mostly of a long lunch, a trip to her dentist’s office, where she refused to get out of the car, and of her watching me interview a pharmaceutical-industry executive on the phone for a magazine story I’m writing. Then pistachio ice cream. A day in the life of a medical journalist is boring but filled with