Devil's Plaything

Chapter 17

The corner of Hayes and Buchanan looks like a bulldoze site waiting to happen. It is home to a low-income housing project in the Western Addition, one of the islands of San Francisco that has temporarily escaped gentrification. Prevailing economics can’t support these low-income renters any more than, eventually, they can support me.

Next to the dilapidated green apartment complex, three boys play hoops on a cracked cement basketball court with a bent orange rim.

We park across the street in a spot that puts me in the sun and lets Grandma, sitting in the passenger seat, get shade by the lone tree on the block. This is the end of San Francisco’s second summer, neither of which takes place during the traditional months of June to September. Our first summer happens in the early spring, and the second in September and October. Now it’s warm in the middle of the day, cool and damp at morning and evening, rain and fog starting to visit at night, and destined to bring a quick end to these blissful moments of sun basking.

Grandma and I are half an hour early for a meeting I hope will explain everything, or anything — the shooting, the thumb drive, whether aliens visited Roswell.

The plate-glass door of the large apartment building opens and a short, wiry boy walks out dribbling a ball.

“Lane smooched a colored boy,” Grandma says. “That’s what they said.”

“What does that mean?”

“I came from Eastern Europe,” she responds. “Not Western Europe.”

“You are correct. What does that have to do with you kissing a boy?”

“I grew up in Denver. I think you know that. There was a boy who lived in our neighborhood named Randall. He was colored. Now we say something else.”

“African-American.”

“We liked to talk about books, but that’s all we ever did was talk about books, and once we went to a museum. And his name was Randall.”

“You said that, Grandma.”

“What?”

“What happened with Randall?”

She pauses. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

I suspect she’s going to tell me that the other kids made fun of her because she was friends with a colored boy. She can’t confirm this. She’s slipped away.

I look at the clock. It is 2:50.

“Grandma, as long as we’re on the topic of Denver, would you like to tell me the rest of your story and what happened at the bakery your father owned? Remember, you were telling me about the Idle clan?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“We never got to finish our conversation. My notes are incomplete, and I’d love to know your story.”

“I already told the box,” she says.

“You told the box — you mean you told your story to the computer?”

No response.

“My turn to tell a kissing story,” I say.

I know Grandma’s not really listening. But I’m trying to pass the time, so I start talking about Pauline. Maybe I’m fueled by a memory of past talks with Grandma — her genuine interest, deep visceral laughter, a feeling she gave me that my decisions always made complete sense.

“Pauline, my boss, she listens like you do,” I mutter. “She leaves me satisfied, like comfort food.”

“Are you telling me a story or eating?”

I laugh. “Thank you for calling me out on my nonsensical simile.”

She looks at me.

“We met a year ago on a hike organized by mutual friends,” I continue.

“You’re smiling, Nathaniel.”

I tell Grandma that Pauline and I split off from the rest of the group and before I knew it, we had walked two hours and talked. On the way back to the cabin, Pauline stopped and pointed. Frozen ten yards in front of us was a deer, paralyzed. Then it did something I wouldn’t have predicted in a million years. It took a step toward Pauline, then another. When it was three feet from her it stopped, and sniffed the air. And then it lowered its head and started chomping on grass.

“You are beloved by animals and you look good in shorts,” I whispered to Pauline.

The deer didn’t even look up before bolting.

“You just look good in shorts,” Pauline said.

We both cleared our throats. On the way back to the car, I had the weirdest thought: if I see another deer tonight, I’ll ask her out. I didn’t and I wound up burying my urges and working for Pauline.

“What kind of bullshit abdication was it to leave my fate to a deer?” I say to Grandma.

“You are angry.”

I rub my hand on my forehead. “I’m confused. I went to see a shrink, a few months ago, just once.”

I tell Grandma what I haven’t told anyone else. I gave this psychotherapist my dating history since med school, starting with Annie. Next came Erin, who split up with me after I left her brother’s wedding ceremony to file a breaking story about lead-tainted Chinese dog bones killing pooches. Good story, bad timing. Erin said I despised any celebration of permanence.

Each relationship grew progressively shorter, mostly ended by me.

“At this point, I can meet someone at a party or on a hike, fall for her and split up before I’ve asked her out,” I tell Grandma.

“I think you’d like talking to the box,” she says.

“I am by career and emotion a journalist. I write short stories, complete them, move on to another subject. I can’t even commit to an idea, a subject matter, let alone a life partner.”

I’d been looking straight ahead but I turn to her. “The obvious conclusion is that I hate commitment. But what’s truer is that I love endings.”

“Is something coming to an end?”

“I love the sense of freedom that comes from being finished, however momentarily. I relish the moment I become free.”

“I think you’d enjoy talking to the box,” Grandma repeats.

“What box?”

“The computer. It listens to you all day, even if you get boring or no one wants to hear your story.”

I laugh. “Probably costs less than a shrink.”

“I don’t think you usually talk this much,” she says. “It’s nice.”

I sigh. For some reason, I’d expected Grandma to dole out wisdom or comfort, like she used to.

“Can you tell me how I can get as big a rush out of being with one person as I can from the moment I become free?”

Grandma responds: “Our generation liked mixed drinks, or beer. Yours seems to like mobile phones.”

I smile. Lane offers wisdom after all. Maybe my problem is technology. The Internet age exacerbates my frenetic characteristics. Information, ideas, emotions flit in and out — a veritable blog of a world with constant updates and no time to stand still. My head and gut on a swivel. My thoughts, emotions, and memories more fleeting than ever. The opportunities to create new ones more powerful. I live from one brief moment of purpose to the next.

“Grandma, what did you talk about with the box?”

“In due time,” she says, absently.

“Grandma?”

No response.

I glance at the clock on my phone; five minutes after three. I got lost in mystery, and in Lane’s relative loquaciousness. I take stock of our surroundings.

There is no one standing at the entrance to the complex — no L. P., the initials from the mystery package, no “Adrianna,” the name of someone Grandma says can’t breathe.

Nor is there anyone on any of the four corners of the intersection of Hayes and Buchanan.

We sit ten more minutes in silence.

“Grandma, I’m going to have to explore.”

“If you say so.”

“You should join me.”

I unbuckle Grandma’s seat belt, then go around to the passenger side of the car to help her out. I give her my arm to hold, but she pushes it away.

“I’m not an invalid.”

We cross the street to the Westside Apartments. It’s a squat three-story building that from the address directory next to an intercom looks to have some two dozen apartments.

I look down the directory to see if any names have the initials L. P. I have no reason to believe that the sender of the mystery package is a resident here, but I’ve got to start somewhere. There are two residents with a last name that starts with P. One is Renee Peal, and the other has no first name. The little strip of paper just says: “Pederson.”

As I’m glancing down the list, a tall, older man with stooped shoulders approaches the building door and inserts his key. His hand shakes lightly with the earliest onset of Parkinson’s. He opens the door, and starts to close it behind him. Before it can shut, I slip my hand in the door to keep it open. The man turns around.

“Who are you here to see?” he asks.

“Renee Pape,” I respond without a beat.

“Well then buzz her,” he says. “We’re not allowed to let anyone in the building.”

He looks at my hand and gently shuts the door.

So much for sneaking in to randomly haunt the halls in search of someone with the initials L. P.

“I can’t tell if it’s fall or spring,” Grandma says.

I look at her, then over at the basketball courts. The four players have taken a break in their game. The one who joined the group from the apartment complex is looking in my direction. When he sees me look up, he looks away.

“That’s the second time I’ve seen him looking at me, Lane.”

“Well, I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Grandma, I used to be a decent basketball player.”

“You must have been taller then.” She winks.

“I’m still plenty handsome.”

She smiles. She’s in there somewhere.

I look at the playground. “You know what they say about the third time.”

“It’s a charm,” Grandma says.

“The young fellow just glanced at us again.”