Read Online Devil's Plaything by Matt Richtel - Free Book Online

outside, and I figure the cops can’t be far behind. I need to jet.
    I hustle back to my car and speed to the nursing home to mine the emptying remains of Lane’s hippocampus.
    And I suddenly find myself thinking about snakes.
    Five months earlier, I’d started interviewing Grandma for the magazine story I wanted to write about her.
    We sat on a freshly painted bench outside the home, sunshine on our faces, a game of Boggle on the bench between us. I clipped a tiny microphone to Lane’s blouse so I could record our interview.
    â€œThe computer records me too,” she said.
    The Human Memory Crusade.
    â€œYes, but I smile, come bearing high-calorie snacks, and can take you to the movies later.”
    Lane smiled. “You don’t want to hear me drone on. Now let’s stop before I bore you to death.”
    â€œIt’s for me and your legions of fans. Besides, I’m getting two dollars a word to write about you.”
    This time she laughed out loud.
    â€œReally, Grandma. It would mean a lot to me to hear your stories.”
    After a pause, she said, “Do you remember when I used to take you to the park to hear your stories?”
    When I visited as a kid, it became tradition. She’d take me to Stow Lake. She knew a man who worked at the boathouse. He had strong hands and he rowed us into the middle and she asked me about my life, friends, school, parents. She made me feel so interesting.
    â€œWhere should we start, Grandma? The shed incident in Warsaw, how you and Grandpa met and eloped and borrowed coal to heat the apartment, Uncle Stevie, the Great Wanderer?
    â€œWhy don’t you like that doctor?”
    â€œDoctor?”
    â€œThe man with the wavy hair. The memory doctor. Isn’t that perfect? I forgot the name of his specialty.”
    Earlier that day, I’d taken her to her first neurology appointment after noticing a slip in her command of language.
    â€œStop stalling, Lane.”
    â€œWas it about a woman? Did you two have a fight about a woman? Or money? That’s why men fight.”
    I told her: in medical school, I dated Kristina Babcock, a beauty in the class below me. It didn’t work out. I ran into her a few years ago. She’d married a guy in her class who became a neurologist—now Grandma’s doctor.
    â€œI knew it. You shouldn’t be jealous of him.”
    â€œThe guy just went a different way than I did.” The way of the wife, the three kids, and the mansion.
    We fell silent.
    â€œSnakes,” Grandma finally said.
    I shook my head. Confused.
    â€œThat’s the story I want to tell.”
    â€œOh, snakes. Are you sure you want to talk about that?”
    She told me the story about when I was ten. She took me to the reptile zoo in Golden Gate Park. A zoo volunteer showed me the boa constrictor. The volunteer wanted me to touch the snake. I was afraid and refused. The volunteer took my hand and put it on the snake.
    â€œYou projectile vomited all over the volunteer,” Grandma said.
    I didn’t sleep that night and I came into Grandma’s room and demanded we return to the zoo. I marched up to the volunteer and demanded to touch the snake.
    â€œYou were wearing a baseball cap that came down so far on your forehead that it wasn’t possible to see your eyes. But I could tell how scared you were. You held on to my hand, and you reached out and touched the snake. And you know what happened?”
    â€œI threw up again.”
    â€œYou can be very dramatic,” Grandma said. She paused and patted my hand. “I loved your brother. I still love him, don’t get me wrong. But he was like your dad. And your grandpa Irving. Happy to let the world spin and float in space and not ask why. Not you. You asked why, and you challenged yourself.”
    â€œI should get more than two dollars a word for this humiliation.”
    â€œI’m glad that we became such good friends, that you could trust