Devil's Plaything

“The computer records me too,” she said.

The Human Memory Crusade.

“Yes, but I smile, come bearing high-calorie snacks, and can take you to the movies later.”

Lane smiled. “You don’t want to hear me drone on. Now let’s stop before I bore you to death.”

“It’s for me and your legions of fans. Besides, I’m getting two dollars a word to write about you.”

This time she laughed out loud.

“Really, Grandma. It would mean a lot to me to hear your stories.”

After a pause, she said, “Do you remember when I used to take you to the park to hear your stories?”

When I visited as a kid, it became tradition. She’d take me to Stow Lake. She knew a man who worked at the boathouse. He had strong hands and he rowed us into the middle and she asked me about my life, friends, school, parents. She made me feel so interesting.

“Where should we start, Grandma? The shed incident in Warsaw, how you and Grandpa met and eloped and borrowed coal to heat the apartment, Uncle Stevie, the Great Wanderer?

“Why don’t you like that doctor?”

“Doctor?”

“The man with the wavy hair. The memory doctor. Isn’t that perfect? I forgot the name of his specialty.”

Earlier that day, I’d taken her to her first neurology appointment after noticing a slip in her command of language.

“Stop stalling, Lane.”

“Was it about a woman? Did you two have a fight about a woman? Or money? That’s why men fight.”

I told her: in medical school, I dated Kristina Babcock, a beauty in the class below me. It didn’t work out. I ran into her a few years ago. She’d married a guy in her class who became a neurologist — now Grandma’s doctor.

“I knew it. You shouldn’t be jealous of him.”

“The guy just went a different way than I did.” The way of the wife, the three kids, and the mansion.

We fell silent.

“Snakes,” Grandma finally said.

I shook my head. Confused.

“That’s the story I want to tell.”

“Oh, snakes. Are you sure you want to talk about that?”

She told me the story about when I was ten. She took me to the reptile zoo in Golden Gate Park. A zoo volunteer showed me the boa constrictor. The volunteer wanted me to touch the snake. I was afraid and refused. The volunteer took my hand and put it on the snake.

“You projectile vomited all over the volunteer,” Grandma said.

I didn’t sleep that night and I came into Grandma’s room and demanded we return to the zoo. I marched up to the volunteer and demanded to touch the snake.

“You were wearing a baseball cap that came down so far on your forehead that it wasn’t possible to see your eyes. But I could tell how scared you were. You held on to my hand, and you reached out and touched the snake. And you know what happened?”

“I threw up again.”

“You can be very dramatic,” Grandma said. She paused and patted my hand. “I loved your brother. I still love him, don’t get me wrong. But he was like your dad. And your grandpa Irving. Happy to let the world spin and float in space and not ask why. Not you. You asked why, and you challenged yourself.”

“I should get more than two dollars a word for this humiliation.”

“I’m glad that we became such good friends, that you could trust me. It’s a fine legacy,” she said, sounding distant.

“Are you okay, Grandma?”

“Do you still trust me?”

The way she said it made it sound like she was trying to provoke conversation.

“Grandma?”

“What?”

“Do you want to talk about what happened later that day?”

“Which day?”

“The snake day.”

“I’m pretty tired.”

What happened that day is that we went back to the house. I crawled under my grandparents’ bed to write my first story. It was about a superhero who defeated a gigantic evil boa constrictor named Zooby. Talk about your unoriginal inkblot tests. I also got my first case of writer’s block.

Bored, I started yanking on a loose floorboard. I pulled it up and found the picture. Or the half picture. It was ripped. Grandma was in the remaining half, wearing her Rosie the Riveter outfit. She was standing on a dock. And there were some words on it.

“I don’t remember what it said on the picture but I always associated it with someone making you afraid,” I said.

Her eyes were closed.

“Grandma?”

“What?”

“You got so angry when I showed it to you.”

“When you showed what to me?”

“The picture I found hidden under your bed. You asked me in a quiet voice not to tell anyone. You were crying. You told me that something very bad could happen.”

“Your imagination was always so vivid.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I’d like some hibiscus tea.”

“I’m just curious, Grandma. Did you want to talk today about snakes, or about the picture under the bed?”

“I’m totally pooped. Your generation doesn’t use that word, but we use it all the time.”

“Would it help if I turned off the tape?”

She didn’t respond. I remained silent, hoping she’d feel compelled to fill the void and continue. It didn’t work.

“I’d like a chance to think about whether I’m going to start over,” she finally said.

“Start what over?”

“With a story. A particular story. The story.”

“About the family?”

“About falling in love, and about how all this came to be.”

“Grandma?”

“I’ve said what I want to.”

“Please.”

“It’s just a silly story about love. Mostly, it’s about that.”

“That doesn’t sound remotely silly. I can’t think of anything less silly than love.”

“People make choices. You made a choice about not marrying that woman. And not becoming a doctor. Sometimes other choices seem more exciting than others. Sometimes they’re the right decisions, and sometimes they’re not.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You will. You’ll understand better than anyone how it can become the devil’s plaything.”

“How what can become the devil’s plaything?”

“An idle mind. You and I, we have idle minds. Pun intended.”

“Cute.”

“I want to set the record straight. I want to tell my story. Everyone does. We all have our version of events.