Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [41]
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