Devil's Plaything

Bullseye looks at us, makes some silent calculation, then starts to accelerate forward.

“Go after him?” he asks. But it sounds more like a statement than a question.

“Wait.” I pause him. I return to my defunct Toyota. From the back, I retrieve my ragged backpack and the laptop that contains the whole of my virtual existence. I climb back into the Cadillac and Bullseye drives off. We head to the on-ramp of Highway 101. The wrecked Prius is nowhere in sight.

“I need to borrow a car,” I say.

“Should we call the police?” Samantha says. “You’re a great investigative journalist but this seems to call for people with the power to detain, arrest, and punish.”

She’s right — about the second part.

I pull out Chuck’s phone. I dial 911. Before I hit “send,” Bullseye intercedes.

“You should read this first,” he says. Over the back of the seat, he extends a hand, holding a dozen pieces of paper stapled together.

I close the phone and take the papers.

The first one is headed: Transcript from the Human Memory Crusade. June 19, 2010.

Subject: Lane Eliza Idle.

I’m looking at the secrets Grandma told the box.

Chapter 34

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.

THIS IS A SECTION OF OUR PREVIOUS CONVERSATION:

“I slid the man the piece of paper and he looked at it — for a long time. Then he looked in the direction of my father and Irving. They were locked in conversation, and the man nodded. Then he took his change, and he turned and left. I noticed that he was wearing boots, which surprised me. It was summer, and he was wearing thick work boots. He walked out the door.”

YOU HAVEN’T SPOKEN FOR A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

Yes.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH THE STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, LIKE PLAY A GAME?

I tried to follow Pigeon in his cracked leather boots. But I couldn’t follow him. And I got so frustrated. That day, and the next day, and the next. He didn’t come back to the bakery. He left me there with that white envelope, sealed and mysterious, and I started to wonder what on Earth could he have asked me to hide. It was like… there’s a book, oh, you know, the story with the beating heart that drives the man in the castle crazy. Poe, right. It was Edgar Allan Poe. That was what the envelope was like. My imagination was really churning too. Did it have to do with something secret, or… When did the war happen? Maybe I thought it had to do with the war. Wait, the war came after. Please, please, can you stop with the butterflies? They are really messing around with my concentration.

DID YOU ASK ABOUT THE BUTTERFLIES?

I’m trying to talk about something. I finally couldn’t stand it. I went to the alley, and…

I’M NOT SURE I UNDERSTOOD YOU. CAN YOU SPEAK INTO THE MICROPHONE?

I was laughing. I’m laughing. My memory is going, I know that. But I can remember this so clearly. It was such a moment in my life. I took the envelope from the black safe, and I tucked it into the top of my stockings. This was before they rationed stockings. And… anyhow, I went into the alley. I tried for the umpteenth time to look through the envelope at what was inside. I couldn’t see. From the kitchen, I’d taken a short knife, like the kind you use to thinly slice the loaves for Friday night and Sunday morning. I cut open the top of the envelope. Out dropped a piece of lined paper, like from a school notebook. In block handwriting, very formal, it said — I’ll never forget because I still have the paper, though the writing has faded — it said: “SECRET INSTRUCTIONS ON PG. 45 OF ‘ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.’ DENVER PUBLIC LIBRARY, SECOND FLOOR.” I read it again, and again, and again. And then I went right in to my father, and I said: “I’ve got to go to the library.” And he said to me: “It’s terrible in Poland. Didn’t I tell you it was going to be terrible there? We were so smart to leave because we could have wound up dead. Be careful going to the library. It’s a bad time to be outside in the world.” And I didn’t hear a word he said because I was so determined. I… I realize that I’m just talking and talking. Have I told you all this before? I’m… I’m having trouble remembering.

DID YOU SAY YOU’RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING?

Yes.

YOU GREW UP IN DENVER. DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?

Yes. Of course.

MAY I TAKE A MOMENT TO RECAP WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT IN THE PAST?

I suppose.

THANK YOU. YOU TOLD ME ABOUT YOUR FATHER, WHO WORKED IN A BAKERY IN DENVER. YOU HAVE SHARED MANY STORIES ABOUT THE BAKERY AND THE PEOPLE YOU MET THERE. I HAVE RECORDED THOSE STORIES FOR YOU. YOU ALSO TALKED ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND, WHO WAS NAMED IRVING. WHEN YOU WERE MARRIED, IT WAS A FESTIVE OCCASION. HE WORE A MILITARY UNIFORM, WHICH WAS CUSTOMARY AT THE TIME. HE WORKED AS AN ACCOUNTANT AND HE DROVE A CHEVROLET. THE CHEVROLET WAS BLUE. PRIOR TO GETTING MARRIED, YOU ATTENDED HIGH SCHOOL IN DENVER. WHEN YOU WERE A YOUNG WOMAN, YOU HEARD ABOUT THE OUTBREAK OF WORLD WAR II ON A LARGE, BLACK RADIO. SHALL I CONTINUE?

I… no, I think that is okay.

HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED YOUR INFORMATION?

I think so. I…

HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED THAT YOUR HUSBAND WORE A MILITARY UNIFORM ON YOUR WEDDING DAY?

I… I think so.

THANK YOU. IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME TO BE ACCURATE WITH THE DETAILS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?

The butterfly has a message for me.

ARE YOU ASKING IF THE BUTTERFLY HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU?

It is flying in the middle of the screen, and there are lights and sounds coming from its dots.

TO RETRIEVE THE MESSAGE, PLEASE MOVE THE CURSOR OVER ONE OF THE DOTS.

THANK YOU. WELL DONE. HERE IS YOUR MESSAGE: THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORIES WITH US. WE ARE PROUD TO BE PART OF SAVING THE MEMORIES OF A GREAT GENERATION OF AMERICANS. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOURSELF FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SHARE YOUR STORIES. YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE VERY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHARING YOUR STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, SUCH AS PLAY A GAME?

ARE YOU STILL THERE?

* * *

“Nathaniel!”

I look up from Grandma’s transcript to see Sam staring at me with great intensity. It takes a moment to pull out of the past.

“My grandfather wasn’t in the military,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

“This transcript says that when my grandparents got married, Irving wore a military uniform. That’s just not correct.”

I look at Grandma. “Did Irving wear a uniform when you got married?”

“You know I don’t remember things the way I used to.”

“So Grandpa didn’t wear a uniform when you got married?”

“Irving wore a military uniform when we got married. He drove a Chevrolet.”

“You’re sure?”