by Matt Richtel
DID YOU SAY YOU’RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING HEARING ABOUT THE OUTBREAK OF WAR ON THE RADIO?
I was telling you about the young man in the alley. And the secret envelope. I’ve been thinking about it a lot—nonstop, actually. In the common room last night they showed The Way We Were. It’s a movie with Barbra Streisand. I love movies, but I actually left in the middle because I was thinking about how to tell the story. When you keep something inside so long, it doesn’t just come out that easily.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
My father was very suspicious; he noticed everything. I was sure he’d discover the envelope I’d gotten from the man in the alley. So I waited until I could hear that there were a few customers at the counter whom he needed to help. I went into the storeroom in back. We had everything organized very neatly. On one wooden shelf were large sacks of flour and sugar, along with smaller bins of flour and sugar that were to be mixed that evening for use the next morning. Another shelf had additives, like vanilla, in big plastic jugs. Oh, it smelled heavenly. And there were chocolate chips, and raisins, which I never liked. And boxes of almonds. You’d think there were lots of little places to hide things. But if one tiny thing was out of place, my father would have known about it.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
Yes, yes. I used to read novels about a spy named Steve Stealth. Did I tell you that? I know I’ve started to repeat myself. Anyway, as I was standing in the storage room with the white envelope, I thought about what a spy would do, and the idea that came to me had to be about the worst one on the whole planet: hide the envelope where my father was so confident everything was in order that he’d never guess that it wasn’t—in order.
Next to the refrigerator, there was an old bin marked “Wheat.” It looked full and heavy. But it wasn’t. It was easy to push aside. When you did—when you moved it—you could see the black safe that was dug in the ground—cut between two planks. That’s where we kept the receipts, and our immigration papers and some old pictures. I put the envelope in the safe, in a file with our immigration papers. I couldn’t imagine my dad would ever think to look in those papers. He couldn’t. Right? I . . . I . . .
YOU HAVE NOT SPOKEN FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?
My grandson took me to a doctor the other day. What do you call it, a . . .
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
A neurologist. Sheesh . . . that word took a while to come to me. Pardon my cursing. It’s not helping, looking at all those butterflies on the screen. I didn’t want to see a neurologist, if you want to know the truth. But then I came to the obvious realization that I’m not afraid of the doctor; I’m afraid of the condition. My mother lost her memory. They didn’t call it dementia back then. They just said she was old. Well, my point is that I want to deal with my memory, to keep it intact, at least long enough to . . . tell the truth. I don’t have to leave a legacy, not like some oil baron or business mogul, but I don’t want to leave a lie either. Maybe my grandson can read this and understand why things have turned out the way they have.
I THINK YOU SAID YOU’RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING THINGS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A DOCTOR WHO SPECIALIZES IN MEMORY LOSS?
I just told you that I am already seeing one. I’d just like to keep talking. Isn’t that the point of this arrangement?
PLEASE CONTINUE.
I waited for the man from the alley to come back. But he didn’t come the next day, or the day after. I kept picturing his face and it made my body warm. I don’t know if it was fear or something else. At work, I kept opening the safe and peeking at the envelope. I nearly opened it a dozen times. But I didn’t want to disappoint the man. I was a girl, y’know. Things were different then, at least for most girls. Well, anyhow, after the second day, I went to the neighborhood park and I looked for him. But he wasn’t there. And then I started to wonder if the whole thing was nothing—wishful thinking of someone who was always inside her own head daydreaming. Anyhow, on the third day, Irving came for a visit.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
I’m tired, and I’ve lost my place a little bit.
DID YOU SAY YOU ARE TIRED?
Yes.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY A GAME? IT’S A GAME THAT ALL THE KIDS ARE PLAYING THESE DAYS, BUT IT’S EASY AND I CAN TEACH YOU.
I suppose so.
USE THE MOUSE TO MOVE THE BLINKING CURSOR AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE BACK AND FORTH.
I know how to use a mouse. I used to be a blue belt in karate. I’m not an invalid or an idiot.
YOU’RE DOING A GOOD JOB WITH THE MOUSE. AS YOU MOVE IT BACK AND FORTH, TRY TO “CATCH” OR “INTERCEPT” THE COLORED BARS AS THEY DROP DOWN THE SCREEN.
ARE YOU STILL THERE? THE MOUSE IS NO LONGER MOVING.
I’m tired.
MAY I RECAP WHAT WE HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT TODAY TO MAKE SURE THAT I HAVE RECORDED IT CORRECTLY?
Yes.
YOU WERE BORN IN WARSAW, POLAND. YOUR FAMILY CAME ON A VERY LARGE SHIP TO AMERICA. YOU MOVED TO DENVER, WHERE YOU ATTENDED HIGH SCHOOL. YOU LEARNED OF PEARL HARBOR ON A LARGE, BLACK RADIO SET. YOUR FATHER OWNED OR OPERATED A BAKERY. HIS FIRST CAR WAS A FORD. AM I GETTING THIS CORRECTLY?
Yes, I think. My father owned a bakery AND operated it. I don’t remember what kind of car my father drove.
THANK YOU. MAY I CONTINUE?
Yes.
YOUR HUSBAND’S NAME WAS IRVING. IS THAT CORRECT?
Yes.
WHAT DID IRVING WEAR ON YOUR WEDDING DAY? WAS IT A MILITARY UNIFORM?
I don’t . . . I’m not sure. I’m very tired. I have to go.
Chapter 22
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
MAY 26, 2010
LET ME PLAY BACK A RECORDING TO YOU OF WHERE WE LEFT OFF. WOULD THAT BE HELPFUL?
You can do that?
YES. THIS IS A SECTION OF OUR LAST CONVERSATION. “And then I started to wonder if the whole thing was nothing—wishful thinking of someone who was always inside her own head daydreaming. Anyhow, on the third day, Irving came for a visit.” WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WHERE YOU LEFT OFF?
Wow. My voice sounds so nasally. I guess that’s how it is when it’s recorded. I hate the way it sounds. How do you record and play it back like that?
I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU CAN TRUST ME. I RECORD EVERYTHING JUST AS YOU SAY IT. DO YOU TRUST ME?
I trust you.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
Yes, I guess. It was with Irving coming for a visit. This was before we were married. Back then, he was an apprentice accountant who helped my father audit his books. We weren’t dating, not exactly, but his interest was clear. I liked him, but you see, I . . . I was looking for something. I wanted to feel excited, specifically by someone. My brother had a friend who was two classes ahead of him in school who cut her hair short. It was kind of scandalous. But, the point is, he had a crush on her. And my parents never felt that way about each other, I’m sure of that. I’m . . . I’m losing my place, and it’s not really the main point . . .
YOU HAVE PAUSED. IS IT BECAUSE THE BUTTERFLY HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU?
What is it saying?
YOU’VE GOT A NEW MESSAGE! THE MESSAGE IS: 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?
I’d like to continue. I . . . Thank you for your message, but it is making it harder to remember what I was talking about. My brain isn’t working right. It’s failing so suddenly. This morning, you wouldn’t believe it—I forgot the name of my suite-mate: Victoria. It was the most embarrassing thing, and I’m sure she didn’t notice. Or, I hope not. I’ve been thinking about the story, and I . . . Where was I? It was . . . Oh that’s right! At the bakery, when the man came back. The man from the
alley! And my husband, Irving—he wasn’t my husband at the time—he was talking to my father. Neither of them was paying attention when the man came in. He wasn’t wearing the hat this time. He had on a T-shirt that showed off his muscles. I think that’s what he was trying to do. He kept his eyes down. He gave me his order. I can’t remember what it was—his order. Finally, when he was paying, he looked at me. I said, quietly, “I can’t get it right now.” I guess I didn’t say it that quietly because I heard my father say: “Just give the man his change.” I got the change, and when I did so, I wrote on a piece of paper: “It’s hidden. I can’t get it right now.” 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. He took his change, and he turned around 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.
DO YOU WANT TO CONTINUE?
I slipped out the back door, and I ran around the front. I saw the man walking down the street. I started to follow him. Why? I’ve always wondered why, and then I think about the boots. Worn, and cracked, and leather like a beautiful reptile sitting on a rock, sun-baked. Dirty, too. This was a man . . . His boots were—they were adventurous, sexy, and dangerous. So I followed him. I was going to find out what happened. He had boots and I had this silly schoolgirl dress, and my imagination, and I . . . I . . .
YOU HAVEN’T SPOKEN FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?
I can’t believe that I forgot her name. She’s been my suite-mate for . . . for I don’t know how long. I can’t remember how long I’ve been sleeping in the room next to hers. Victoria. I . . . it’s going so suddenly. It’s supposed to be gradual. I . . . I’m Lane Idle.
DID YOU SAY YOU’RE HAVING TROUBLE REMEMBERING?
That’s what I said. That’s what I said. That’s what I said!
YOU HAVEN’T SAID ANYTHING FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?
Chapter 23
HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE INTERNAL REPORT.
JUNE 7, 2010
Subject: Lane Idle.
Priority: One.
Possible Wildfire.
Chapter 24
Grandma’s fallen unresponsive.
We are en route from the dental offices to meet Betty Lou, Grandma’s old friend and fellow Bifocal Yokel. As we drive, I marvel again in silence about what I’ve learned in just the last three hours. I turn the revelations over and back again. Lulu Adrianna Pederson works for the titanic Biogen. She asks to meet me, but doesn’t show up, and a young man tells me that Adrianna hasn’t been around for a few days. Meantime, Grandma is screaming “Adrianna can’t breathe.” Has something happened to Adrianna? If so, how could Grandma know about it?
And Grandma is exhibiting strange symptoms. Her mental decline has been precipitous. But her physical abilities and strength remain intact. Did I correctly understand her neurologist was suggesting that her decline could conceivably be due to trauma? What trauma? Adrianna-related? Something at Magnolia Manor? Is Vince mixed up in it?
“And what do I make of the disappearing dental offices?” I say aloud. “I know the economy’s rough. But businesses just don’t go poof within a few hours. I’ll tell you what I think: I think that someone’s spooked that we’re investigating and wants to make sure they leave behind no evidence. What do you think, Grandma?”
“Twelve Angry Men.”
“What?”
“I love the way they figured out the evidence in that movie.”
What went on at the dental offices? How often did Grandma visit? In the morning, I can check with the surrounding businesses and see what they know. Betty Lou may have some insights.
“Idea,” I say.
“What?”
“Earlier in the day, I saw a guy leave the dental offices. A little man who belongs to a Khe Sahn veteran’s group. Bad attitude and skin. We should follow up with that.”
“It’s nice to see you happy, Nathaniel.”
My cell phone rings. From the caller ID, I see it’s G.I. Chuck returning my call. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I tell the Marine-turned-venture-capitalist that I need a favor.
“As I said earlier: I’d prefer if we discuss this in person,” he says.
“I may not live that long.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Only mildly. I think I’m onto a great story,” I say, cringing at my tactic of playing to his romantic view of journalism. “I really need help following up on two leads.”
I tell him I need background on a woman named Lulu Adrianna Pederson. I briefly describe that she’s a scientist and that I’m anxious to learn more about her work.
“What is this about?” he asks.
I offer a cliché drawn from my days growing up in Colorado. “I’ve accidentally poked a hornet’s nest with a stick.”
“Meaning?”
I consider how much to disclose. I don’t know much about Chuck—whom he knows or may share my information with, and whether such sharing might compromise me or Grandma. But my journalistic experience has taught me that the best way to elicit help and information from an interview subject is to be as open and frank as possible. Candor and cooperation beget the same.
I hedge. “Can I explain later?”
He considers this in silence, then says: “No deal. I need some more information now. I’m guessing we’re not talking about some more rogue cops bent on burning down all the toilets in Northern California?”
I force a laugh. “Something more cerebral.” I decide to concede the information, or some of it.
I explain that Adrianna Pederson contacted me to give me a story tip but has since gone underground. I explain that the story might be very interesting and even involve powerful people in the scientific community doing something they shouldn’t; what that might be, I have no idea but my instincts tell me it’s absolutely worth pursuing.
“Where does your grandmother fit in?” he asks.
I hadn’t realized I’d mentioned her. But when he asks, I say aloud the revelation I’ve been brewing.
“As odd as this sounds, I think Grandma knows something about the story, a secret, maybe,” I say. “One that she shouldn’t.”
“Ha,” he says.
“What?”
“That’s the kind of wide-eyed conspiracy theorizing I like to see in my bloggers.”
He asks me to spell Adrianna’s name, and I take a stab at it.
“I’ll look into this. I’ll call you tomorrow to find a time to get together,” he says.
I feel my impatience rising. It’s the Internet era; people never get together in person.
“Fine,” I say. I need his help.
We hang up.
I look at Grandma. She’s sound asleep.
Five minutes later, I pass Betty Lou on the street. She stands three blocks from Magnolia Manor wearing a wool hat and long coat. She holds a shopping bag. The reason I pass her without stopping is because I want to make sure she’s alone, and that I’m not being followed. But I’m not quite sure whether I’ve accomplished either of these goals as I pull around the block a second time and park in front of her.
I roll down the window. Betty Lou’s gaze goes right to Grandma, who is in deep slumber. Then Betty Lou looks at me, hard, like a schoolmarm at a first-grader playing bongos in the middle of naptime. She’s wearing a necklace with a turquoise cat pendant dangling from it.
“Why did you just drive past me? It’s cold out here.”
“You want to get in?”
“I want to know why you’re pretending to be Sean Connery.”
“Get in please.”
She gets into the back, pushing aside my backpack and handing me a paper shopping bag.
“Sean Connery drove an Aston Martin and it didn’t smell like a dorm room,” she says.
“At least the Bond girls are still beautiful,” I say.
“Young people are so patronizing,” she says, for the second time today. Her tone turns serious. “What’s going on, Nathaniel Bond?”
I navigate a vague rhetorical path. I tell her that Grandma had been tense lately and so I decided to give her a little change of scenery for a few days and that I’ve taken her to a neurologist who also prescribes a break. I explain that Vince has taken exception to this notion and would prefer that I not take Grandma Lane away, however temporarily.
“Vince is an officious a-hole,” Betty Lou says. “But he really cares about the residents, and he’s right that she needs to be in a comfortable setting.”
She looks tenderly at Lane. “It came on fast,” she says.
Our mood feels heavy and quiet, darkening.
“Betty Lou, has Lane said anything unusual to you lately?”
“Like what?”
“Has she mentioned a man in blue, or someone named Adrianna?”
“Not to me. But you should ask Harry.”
“Why’s that?”
“I thought journalists were supposed to be observant. Can’t you see they’re good friends?”
I think about this in silence for a moment.
“Older people say strange things when they get forgetful,” she says, gently. “Like ice cream man or blueberry man, or whatever.”
“She said ‘man in blue’ to me. Does Grandma go to the dentist a lot?”
“The dentist? I don’t think so.”
I gamble.
“Do you think you could find out for me?”
She crinkles her brow, uncertain what I mean.
I explain that Grandma’s neurologist said her condition might be exaggerated because she experienced some trauma.
“Separately, Grandma has expressed some fear about going to the dentist.”
“So you think the dentist made her act strange?” she asks, incredulous.
“I’m always a little crazy after I go to the dentist.”
She laughs. “How can I help?”