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 snacks.
Our walk in the park is a last indulgence with my old friend who does double duty as my father’s mother. She loves the park, and walking here. Forty years ago, she moved to Northern California from Denver and, in her more lucid days, she used to say that Golden Gate Park’s majesty was sufficient proof that pioneers were right to cross the country in covered wagons. I would point out that there was no Golden Gate Park at the time. And she would respond that she’d thought I was smart enough to take her meaning, and then wait a beat and smile.
Her wry, sometimes ebullient, grin appears much less frequently these days. Often, her lips are pursed with what I take to be caution and curiosity, like that of a frightened child taking tentative first steps down stairs. But her blue eyes remain vibrant, her robust hair sits in a gentle curl on her shoulders, colored light blond, and she’s still physically able. In the retirement home’s dining room, she insists on carrying her food tray and does so easily. These relatively youthful vestiges put into sharp relief her stark neurological failings.
We stand on the edge of a wide-open grassy spot, ringed by majestic eucalyptus trees. Notwithstanding the phantom in the distance, we are alone, the last picnicking lovers having abdicated. Tranquil. The sky overhead is deepening to a gray slate, with a distant salmon hue west over the ocean.
Maybe one more lap around the grove.
Then I hear the distinctive click.
Danger.
I wrote a story recently about a biotech giant developing better hearing aids by trying to emulate the temporal lobes of experienced soldiers. The finest among the military have a hyper-developed sense of hearing that can pick up the action of a cocking rifle.
For the story, I listened to a lot of clicks to see if I could discern the ones that betrayed distant loading rifles.
“Want to sit on the grass, Grandma?”
“What?”
I gently pull her to the ground. Maybe there’s some weirdo shooting a pellet gun in the dark.
A popping noise rips through the dusk. A few feet behind us, a tree thuds from impact, spraying bark.
“What the…?!” I yell.
A second bullet hits the same tree.
I scramble on top of Grandma, forming a shell.
Then, in quick succession: Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Grandma lets out a wild cry.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper.
Silence.
The madman must be reloading.
I look up at the tree taking the target practice. It is a few feet away, the tallest and thickest among a line of eucalyptuses ringing the edge of the grove. Past the trees, I can see a slight embankment, sloping downward, then denser foliage. Protective cover.
Coursing with adrenaline, well beyond bewildered, I scoop up Grandma to carry her to safety.
“What’re you doing, Nathaniel?”
“We’re dancing.”
We fall to the ground on the down slope behind the tree. I’m obviously baffled. The park has an archery range but we’re nowhere near it, and these aren’t arrows coming at us. The nearest gun range is miles off.
Is this nut job thinking dusk at the park is a good time to hunt birds, or large mammals? Is it an adolescent who has gotten a little too inspired by his video game console?
Grandma’s blouse is torn.
“Are you hurt?”
She looks me dead in the eye, stricken. “Make a baby before it’s too late.”
I put my finger to Grandma’s lips. I examine her blouse. No blood. I search her eyes for comprehension.
“Don’t move or make any noise,” I whisper.
I pull out my cell phone. I dial 911. But before I can hit “send,” the phone rings. I answer. “Whoever this is, I’ll have to call you back.”
“Nathaniel Idle?” a metallic voice responds.
“I’ll need to call you back.”
“Poor execution,” the voice says.
“Pardon?”
“And a bad pun,” the caller says. “Unintended.”
“Who is this?”
Click. The caller has hung up.
“Who is this?!”
I look at Grandma. From my earliest memories, she’s been a touchstone, the one family member who made me feel like I wasn’t a commitment-phobic, procrastinating, terminal adolescent. Or maybe she just made me feel like being those things was okay.
She withdraws her hand from mine. My eyes catch the bulky imitation sapphire ring on her right index finger.
