Devil's Plaything

appears to be empty.

I feel along the wall to my right, and flip on the light.

There is a small waiting area at the entrance, ringed by white chairs with white seat cushions. On a coffee table between the chairs sit copies of Newsweek, Sports Illustrated, and other magazines. I’m struck again that there is little else to define the place — nothing on the walls, no signs with appointment directions or instructions on dental care.

Also missing is the woman behind the counter, the one I’d argued with earlier. Her desk has been emptied out. There are no papers, computer, office supplies — just a single black ballpoint pen lying on a stark white counter.

Next to the counter is a doorway leading to the back.

“Hello,” I say loudly and directed to the back. “I’m here for my appointment.”

No answer.

I walk to the door that leads to the back and open it. Behind it, two doorways, presumably to examination rooms.

I open the door to my right. Behind it, a small white room, completely empty. Not even an examination chair.

I step back into the hallway and walk to the second door.

I put my hand to the knob, and hesitate. Will I find Adrianna, unable to breathe?

Is Grandma okay outside? I shouldn’t be leaving her in the dark.

I push open the door. I feel along the wall for a switch and turn on the light. Another small examination room, also abandoned. Mostly.

A high-backed chair faces a wall on which there are taped three images that look like they’ve been cut from old magazines: an ad for a 1960s red Chevrolet, a picture of an old television with rabbit ears, and a photo of the first moon walk. There are also two New York Times front pages tacked up, one announcing the attack on Pearl Harbor and another of Jackie Robinson rounding third base, hand pumped in the air in celebration.

From outside, I hear a high-pitched sound.

Screaming.

Chapter 20

I sprint into the darkness.

The piercing sound comes from directly below me. I squint to get my bearings.

“Grandma?!”

I fly down the stairs. I make out someone standing near the door of a ground-floor office. The figure is hunched. Grandma.

I hustle to her.

She stares into the office’s plate-glass window.

“Adrianna can’t breathe,” she says.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

I gently put my hand on her back. She flinches and her hand whips up and slaps my arm away. She’s strong.

“Grandma, it’s me.”

“I’m not going inside.”

“Absolutely not. We’re not going inside.”

I put my arm on her shoulder. She’s quivering.

“My father drove a red Chevrolet,” she says.

“Deep breath, Grandma.”

“My family came from Eastern Europe.”

“Poland, Grandma. You’re absolutely right.”

“Irving wore a suit to our wedding.”

She’s all over the place.

“Grandma,” I take a step back, and hold her hands. “What happened here?”

“I did my best to love Irving. I made him tuna casserole, which I hate. I just didn’t fit into that kind of life — a casserole life. I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“What happened here, Lane? Please focus.”

“There are some things I’d prefer to forget.”

“Did you see something happen to Adrianna? Did she…” I pause before saying the words, “Why can’t she breathe?”

“Do you know what it’s like to feel suffocated? Do you know what it’s like when you’re trapped? It’s like being anesthetized. Do you know what that word means?”

“Grandma…”

“You want to feel thrilled. Isn’t that what it means to be alive? You know that, Nathaniel. That’s why I can tell you.”

She’s meandering, anxious, confused, pouring out and swirling together memory, philosophy, fear, anger, raw emotion.

“What do you want to forget, Grandma?”

“Pigeon.”

Pigeon. This doesn’t ring the remotest bell.

“Pigeon — like the bird?”

“Pigeon, take me someplace warm.”

I take a deep breath.

“Shhh,” she says, animatedly.

“What?”

“Is there something there?” She’s looking out into the parking lot.

I look in the darkness. I hear nothing, see nothing.

“Harry, take me someplace warm, please.”

“I’m Nathaniel.”

She does not respond at first.

“You should marry that friend of yours,” she finally says. “There are ways you can have everything, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

I take a deep breath. The San Francisco air hangs dusty wet with incoming fog and night.

My cortex clicks through dozens of seemingly unrelated details and events. I can’t grasp the connection but I know there is one. I notice I’m rubbing my thumb against my index finger, an old habit that happens when I’m close to figuring something out.

“You’re saying a lot of different things, Grandma. But I have this strange feeling that there is some connective tissue. There are clues in what you’re saying. But I have no idea how to assemble them — and which are clues, which are…” I stop, because I don’t want to say the word “nonsense.”

“Nathaniel, you were always close enough to see the truth.”

“What truth, Lane?”

Chapter 21

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.

MAY 20, 2010