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

I’m not sure. It’s scary to tell a real truth.
    ARE YOU STILL THERE?
    I lost my train of thought. Is it possible that you could turn off the little flying things on the screen?
    ARE YOU ASKING ABOUT THE ANIMATED BUTTERFLIES THAT FLY AROUND THE SIDES AND TOP OF THE SCREEN?
    Yes.
    THOSE ARE MASCOTS. PLEASE DON’T LET THEM BOTHER YOU. SOMETIMES THEY BRING YOU FREE GIFTS, AND MESSAGES FROM FRIENDS.
    PLEASE CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY.
    The bugs are distracting. Can you turn them off?
    I CAN MAKE THEM LESS BRIGHT. WOULD YOU LIKE THAT?
    Thank you.
    WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY? WHEN WE SPOKE BEFORE, YOU WERE TELLING ME ABOUT YOUR CHILDHOOD IN DENVER.
    We left Poland after World War I and wound up in Denver. My mom was adventurous. She loved coming to America even though she told me later she drank stale wine the whole time on the ship ride over. But my dad hated change and liked structure. When he ate, he separated all the different foods into individual plates. He had a bakery in Warsaw where he made cookies so thick and heavy you had to drink a whole glass of water to swallow them. I didn’t like cookies for the first decade of my life. Anyway, when we got to Denver, he opened a bakery called Chicago Breads. I don’t know why he thought people wanted bread from Chicago. You . . .
    ARE YOU STILL THERE?
    That was kind of funny. You didn’t laugh.
    WAS THIS BEFORE WORLD WAR II?
    Yes.
    DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU FIRST HEARD ABOUT
    WORLD WAR II? WAS IT ON THE RADIO? WAS THE RADIO IN YOUR HOUSE?
    I’m not sure. I don’t think I heard about Pearl Harbor until the next morning. My brother told me, I think. He might have heard about it on the radio. He’s the reason we made our home in Denver—because he had a cough and the doctors said the mountain air would be good for him.
    THANK YOU FOR ANSWERING MY QUESTION ABOUT THE WAR.
    It’s like you’re reading my mind. I’m working up to the start of World War II—the war, and . . . this sounds so trite: the secrets, and . . . and . . . the betrayals. I’m . . . very ashamed. Your flying things are distracting.
    WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?
    YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT WORLD WAR II.
    There was an alley behind the bakery that we shared with a children’s clothing store and a kosher market. One day—I was 18 years old—I remember I was wearing a dress with a flower on it. I remember it had just finished raining. I remember that the alley smelled from spoiled meat from garbage bins . . . Mostly I remember his blue eyes and brown hat. The hat was one of those brown hats like they wear in France. What is it called? I’m having trouble remembering.
    WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?
    Oh, yes. A fedora. It was brown, and his eyes were blue. Intense, like a painting at a museum that you think is staring right at you. When he ran into the alley, I was dumping something out into the garbage—that part, I don’t remember—what I was dumping. The man—the young man, I’d guess you’d say—he ran by me. Right by me. Then he stopped. Like he’d forgotten something. He took a few steps back, and he faced me squarely. I recognized him, of course. I didn’t know his name, but I knew his order: usually something like two dozen sticky buns and a dozen long breads. He came in once a month or so. I assumed he did part-time work for a restaurant, or he had a huge family. I didn’t pay much attention, but it was hard not to pay some attention. He was strong. You could tell that. I guessed he was a couple of years older than me. He never said much, except one time. I was reading a Steve Stealth mystery. The hero was a nerdy character who worked in a library but no one knew he also was a detective who solved crimes and beat up the criminals. So one day, he saw me reading the book, he said: “You like adventure.” I think I said yes, or nothing at all, or maybe,