Devil's Plaything (9 page)

T
he 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.”

W
e walk to the side of the court. Between games, the boys have scattered and sit along the chain-link fence. I approach the one who looked at me.

“You're very fast,” I say.

“More quick than fast,” he responds, without looking up. Friendly. I'm guessing around twelve years old. He's shorter than his friends, wearing blue mesh shorts long enough to touch the tops of his high-tops. His Golden State Warriors tank top reveals the underdeveloped shoulders of pre-adolescence.

One of his cohorts shouts in his direction: “If he's an agent, give him my number.”

“The teacher gave us the afternoon off for Halloween,” he explains. Earnest.

“I used to play. I wasn't very good,” I say.

“I used to be a teacher,” Grandma says.

We both turn and look at her.

“She plays too,” I say. “She has a wicked jump hook.”

The boy laughs.

“I'm Nathaniel, and this is Lane. My grandmother.”

One of his friends shouts in his direction. “Let's go, Newton. Rubber match.”

“Hello, Newton,” I offer.

“It's a nickname,” he says and he stands.

“I'm looking for someone,” I say.

“We're looking for someone,” Grandma says.

“It's . . .” I gamble. “Mr. Pederson.”

Newton's taken a step away from us, but he keeps his cool. “Never heard of him,” he says.

“What about
Ms.
Pederson?” I ask. Maybe I've gotten the gender wrong on the mystery package sender with the last name starting with P.

“C'mon, Newton!” one of his friends bellows.

“I'm being called to action,” he says.

“May I interject please?” Grandma asks. Without waiting for a response, she continues: “I commend the young man on his word choice. It's energizing to hear English spoken with precision.”

For some reason, this stops Newton. He turns around. “Are you a real-estate agent?”

Grandma thinks the question is directed to her.

“My father worked in a bakery.”

“I'm a journalist. I got a note from Ms. Pederson asking to meet me here. I think she wanted to contact me about a story.”

“Newton!” A friend screams

He turns to them. “I'll be there in a moment!”

“Why do they call you Newton?”

“I like science.”

“Me too. Why did you think we were real estate agents?”

“Because you stop living here when you can afford anything else.”

I consider it. “Is Ms. Pederson too rich for these digs?”

“Her first name is Lulu,” he says. “But she hates it. She thinks it makes her sound like an airhead.”

“Lulu Pederson?” I ask. L. P.

He doesn't respond.

“Have you seen Ms. Pederson around?” I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

“Not for a few days. She tutors me in science on Wednesdays, but she didn't show up last night.”

“So you think maybe she moved out of the neighborhood?”

“Newton!” a friend shouts.

“I would,” he says in response to my question. “Anyway, I gotta run . . .”

I interrupt him. “Any idea where can I find her?”

“Nathaniel, you ask a lot of questions,” Grandma inserts.

Newton laughs. “She's funny.”

“It's really important that I find her,” I say.

He looks at me cautiously, measuring me now.

“She's pretty smart—a genius. I assume she'll find you if she's interested.”

“Please,” I say. “It's critically important.”

He's had enough, and now one of his friends is striding purposefully towards us to retrieve him.

“Try her company. It's called Biogen,” he says.

“Biogen?” I make sure I heard correctly.

He nods.

The biotech giant.

He's walking away.

“What does she do at Biogen?”

He shrugs.

“Is she a scientist?” I shout after him. I start to walk around the side of the court, to find an entrance.

Newton's friend—the one who came to retrieve him—takes a step in my direction. He's much bigger and less friendly.

“Can we get back to our game?” he asks. It sounds rhetorical. He wants this interview to end.

“Newton, please. This is important. I need you to help me.” I'm using an adult voice I'm surprised to know I've got inside of me. I'm asking this child to behave reasonably.

“I'm not supposed to talk to strange adults.” Trump card. Smart kid. “If you see her, tell her Newton says hello,” he adds.

I pull out my business card. I wave it, and stick it in a gym bag left where Newton was sitting.

“This is my phone number, Newton. Call me if you want to talk about Lulu.”

Grandma and I are sitting back in the car. I cup her chilly hands in mine and blow on them, then gently rub, feeling the frail bones beneath.

“Congratulations, partner,” I say.

“Harry doesn't have trouble hiding his excitement. He always seems calm, even when he's not.”

“You just played Good Cop,” I say.

“I've never had a problem with people in law enforcement.”

We finally have a lead.

“Have you heard of Biogen?”

“What?”

“It's one of the most respected biotech companies in the world. I think it's the biggest.”

No response.

I look at the clock. It's 4:20. Probably too late to get to Biogen, which is located in South San Francisco. But it's not too late to call.

I call Directory Assistance and get Biogen's main number. I call the company, suffer through instructions from an automated attendant, and hit zero for a live human. When I get one, I ask for Lulu Pederson. The human operator transfers me. The phone rings three times, then goes to voice mail.

“You've reached Adrianna Pederson in Biogen's Advanced Life Computing department. I'm not available right now; leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

Did I hear right. Did the voice mail say “
Adrianna
Pederson”?

Adrianna. That was the name Grandma was muttering.

Maybe I'm imagining things.

I call Biogen a second time and ask for Lulu Pederson. I get her voice mail and realize that, indeed, I hadn't imagined a thing.

“You've reached Adrianna Pederson in Biogen's Advanced Life Computing department. I'm not available right now; leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

I leave a message.

“Adrianna, this is Nat Idle. I'm hoping that means something to you. Please call me—day or night. Anytime.”

I leave my phone number and hang up.

“Grandma, who is Adrianna?”

No response.

“Wait here.”

I step out of the car, lock Grandma inside, and walk to the basketball court. I approach the in-progress game.

“Newton!”

The players pause.

“Does Lulu use the name Adrianna?”

He nods. “I told you already: she hates ‘Lulu.' Adrianna is her middle name.”

I shake my head.

“Leave him alone,” one of the other boys says. “We'll start screaming if you bother us anymore.”

I nod and put out my hands—surrender.

The boys start playing again. I turn to see Grandma in the car, and let the latest revelations sink in. I try to make sense of the disparate pieces. I received a mysterious computer memory stick from someone with the initials L. P. That person appears to work for Biogen. And she has the middle name Adrianna, which happens to be the same name Grandma has been muttering. How and why is Grandma connected to any of this? Does Grandma know the answer—somewhere in her damaged gray matter?

And what has happened to Adrianna? Why did she miss our meeting?

Inside the car, I stare at Grandma, who stares straight ahead. Then looks at me and cocks her head.

I bite the inside of my lip to keep from conveying my shock and the depth of my curiosity. A woman named Lulu Pederson—who may have written me a mystery note with a mystery attachment and knows I went to the Galapagos—shares the name of a woman who is haunting my demented grandmother. And now Lulu Adrianna Pederson seems to be missing.

I need help.

I dial Chuck. He doesn't answer. I leave a message telling him I'd like his help following up on a lead in our story.

“Lane smooched a colored boy,” Grandma says.

“Lane, let's go home, get some rest, and try to avoid any more nasty surprises. On the way, we can make one more stop by that dentist's office.”

“No thank you.” Emphatic.

I look at her. She blinks twice rapidly, betraying some discomfort.

“What's wrong with the dentist?”

“I said no.”

“Grandma?”

No response.

Her silence speaks volumes. I have to check out that office.