Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [69]
“You’re not complicit,” I mutter to Grandma.
I reach over the counter, grab the phone, and whisk Grandma out. We hustle to the car, dodging a handful of costumed youngsters who have disgorged from a school bus.
“We’ve probably got half an hour, maybe less, before they realize the phone is missing and shut down the service,” I say to Grandma as we climb back into the decked-out and dented Cadillac. Inside, it smells clean, like lemon. “Forgive me if I talk and drive.”
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
It’s 4:15. I’ve got an hour plus before I meet Grandma’s friend, Betty Lou. She should be able to deliver another piece of the puzzle—Grandma’s care file. And maybe she’ll be able to fill in some blanks about the Human Memory Crusade. How many people use it? What do they say about the experience? What has been the role of Magnolia Manor in promoting it?
I have time to stop at Adrianna’s apartment building. I need to see if I can somehow get inside. Maybe I can find Newton playing hoops in the dying daylight. Given that the boy’s picture was in Adrianna’s office and that his name is the basis for several key passwords, it’s clear that he is closer than I thought to the missing scientist. Maybe I can convince him to help me figure out where to look for information.
As I drive, I call my parents. Dad answers.
“Why are you calling from the phone of someone named Jonathan Atkins?” he asks.
“Long story.”
I tell him that I don’t have much time, but have been meaning to talk to him about Grandma. I try to convey urgency but not panic. If he hears drama, Dad’s liable to clam up and, ever the rational type, think about the situation and call me back. I tell him Grandma’s been pretty animated in telling a story about her childhood. The story involves the bakery, Grandpa Irving, somebody nicknamed Pigeon.
“Like the bird?”
“I think so.”
Dad listens in silence. “Your grandmother and I get along fine,” he says. It sounds defensive.
“I don’t see what that . . .”
“I don’t know a lot of the details of her life. She liked telling stories, but she preferred the ones from books. She got prickly around stories about herself.”
It’s the most my father has ever said to me about his relationship with Grandma.
“Anything else?” he asks.
This is not helpful.
“Dad,” I pause. “I need some money.”
“Is everything okay?”
I’ve never in my life asked him for a cent—not even in medical school when I ate 99-cent Ramen noodle dinners for at least a year running.
“I’m in a rough spot. Can you wire a couple hundred bucks?”
“Are you gambling?”
I almost laugh.
“It’s the Internet, Dad,” I say. “It’s killing the journalism business and I’m trying to pay my bills. I’ll recover.”
He doesn’t speak.
I almost can’t believe I’m muttering the next words as they come out of my mouth: “If necessary at some point, I can figure out how to put my medical degree to work.”
After a pause, he says: “Tell me where and when you want the money, and how much you need.”
“I’ll call you back when I figure out the details.”
I need to look for a check-cashing outlet for him to wire the money to.
“You’re not telling me everything, Nathaniel,” he says. “That’s okay. I trust you. It’s . . .” He pauses, then continues. “It’s that way when you have a child, a son. I’m sure you’ll see that at some point.”
I almost laugh again. It’s an unusually close moment for us. I wonder if I should risk acknowledging it somehow but realize I have no vernacular or stomach for what might follow.
“Call you later.”
The phone rings.
“Jonathan’s phone,” I answer.
“Hello,” the person responds. “This is Jonathan. I lost my . . . Did you find my phone?”
“I did. I found it,” I say.
“Oh, great. Great. What a relief. Where?”
“On the sidewalk in the Mission.”
I tell him that I’m across town, but that I can drop it off in a couple of hours, or he can pick it up from me.
“I’ll come to you,” he says.
I agree to meet him after my meeting with Betty Lou. I tell him I’ll come to the Mission. I mostly mean it. I look at Grandma.