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       Homemade chocolate-chip cookies wafted a delicious greeting as I poked my head in the scarred front door. I
plowed inside, past the framed photo mural that never changed, ready to down a gooey dozen. My stomach grumbled,
protesting like my sensible mom it couldn’t handle the sugar onslaught. Go for it! my taste buds vetoed.
     “Artie! How was your last day of middle school?” My grandfather beamed from his dusty brown recliner, his
eyebrows wiggled like greyed wooley worms dancing a jig. He scooted up to the edge of the spot-worn seat and
grabbed me close for a rousing man-hug.
     “Same old, same old.” But next year would be a minefield of new experiences. My belly wobbled, full of imaginary
plundering earthworms as I projected the future. New school, new faces, older bullies. Fear welled. I tamped it down,
replacing the mental footage with a caped superhero stomping Godzilla-butt, so Papa wouldn’t see.
     “Ready for our double feature?”
     “Yep.” I dug in my navy knapsack and whipped out a bright green jot pad with my special silver pen hooked inside
the metallic comb. “I brought my codebook.”
     Papa pushed off the chair’s arm, wobbled to his feet and paused a blip to steady his balance. “We’ll dive in as soon
as we bribe Mima for some cookies,” he whispered.
     “Sounds like a plan to me.” I mumbled, keeping the secret mission under wraps.
     “I heard that.” Mima’s head peeked out past the kitchen’s white doorjamb, her lips spread into a mischievous grin.
Come get them…if you can.”
     Papa hobbled, fighting his overactive arthritis to reach her and planted a small peck on her rosy, wrinkled cheek.
“You always were a tempter.” Mima patted her curls back into place, while he waved for me to follow his charge into
the orange marigold wallpapered haven. “Let’s raid her stash, my boy.”
     I also answer to Sonny Boy and my favorite nickname, Decoder--my spy alias. Papa is Deep Pocket, eventhough
he doesn’t have any such thing. Frugal. That’s how he’d described his life three years ago after we’d chosen monikers.
That ten minute time-window had been the highlight of my initiation into the realms of old-time radio during my first after-
school visit post-relocation.
     “Want some milk?” Mima opened the fridge door decorated with magnets, already reading my mind as she hefted
out the gallon jug.
     I bobbed my head yes and grabbed as many cookies as one hand could hold. Then remembering my manners I
swiped a paper towel and hunkered down on a scarred wooden chair to relish Mima’s baking mastery.
     Chewy cookie dough with melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chunks dissolved on my tongue.
     “By that grin I’d say I’ve done it again.” Mima wiped her hands on her gingham apron, took a seat on the opposite
side of the daisy covered kitchen table, and lovingly looked back and forth between Papa and me.
     “Artie never forget a woman who can cook is a sizeable asset.”
     I flipped open my notebook and wrote that down, careful not to leave chocolatey fingerprints on the margin. They
could be traced. Atleast that’s what Scotland Yard asserted.
     “Finish up then we’ll convene. ” Excited, Papa shoved half a cookie in his mouth and returned to the living room.
The tape player’s door popped open, then plastic grated against plastic as he loaded the tape. I shoveled two more
cookies down my hatch, guzzled the glass of milk like I was destroying evidence and wiped my wet lips with my shirt
sleeve.
     “Artie, you’re supposed to use a napkin,” Mima scolded.
     “Sorry. I--“
     “Can’t wait to get started. I know where you get that from. Run along, I’ll clean up.”
     It wasn’t the first time she’d let me slip. I jumped to my feet and planted a kiss on her cheek, then hightailed it to my
usual listening spot on the lime green carpet, a foot in front of the radio. Kneeling, I leaned forward, my finger hovered
over the play button, poised for Papa’s permission.
     “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
     “Another code to break?”
     “Not exactly, sonny boy. It’s a present.”
     I crumpled backwards, my eyes wide. I’d never got anything other than at my birthday or Christmas. Mima and
Papa didn’t have extra money. Mom had reminded me plenty of times. But they had enough love stored up to rival Fort
Knox’s gold deposits. “You shouldn’t have—“
     “Today’s a special day.” He reached in his threadbare cardigan’s pocket, wrapped his hand around something
small then held out his fist.
     I scooted closer.
     He uncurled his sausage-like fingers. A decoder ring lay in his palm. It’s silver tarnished with age, the letters worn
from years of use. It was still the most fabulous treasure I’d ever owned. “Is it mine?”
     “Uh huh, for making your grade.” Papa took hold of my hand and slipped on the ring. It fit like a glove--on my
middle finger. “You’ll grow into it. I eventually did.”
     Wow. This had been Papa’s when he was a boy! I tested the dial, watching the alphabet tinker by.
     “Ready to test it out?” A folded slip of notebook paper dangled between his thumb and forefinger, beckoning me.
     “You bet!” I opened the sheet and stared at the ink jumble—RWUJ RNCA. The first letters of each word
matched. A hunch told me they didn’t start with a vowel, which left twenty consonants to work over.
     “I’ll give you a hint. A equals C.”
     A Caesar cipher, one of the simplest in the book. I should’ve known. Determined to catch up, my fingers and eyes
flew from the turn dial to my pen and paper. I finished in twelve seconds flat. “Push Play!”
     Papa chuckled and reached out to ruffle my curly hair playfully with his Grizzly bear sized hand. “Let’s get to it, my
boy. You know the drill.”
     I clicked the levered button down, hanging on the dead air whir and waited, my nerves tingling with uncertainty. A
pop, then “Lights out!” I burst up missile-like and followed the commentators instructions as I tipped the switch off. The
street lights’ weak glare highlighted the curtains’ edges, but didn’t meander inside our dark shroud. My duty done, I
battened down on a ragged crocheted pillow, my legs crossed indian-style.
     For an hour I lost myself in a world of make believe suspense that mirrored real life…atleast of the forties. Today,
everything hustled-and-bustled with complexity. The tape player’s trigger snapped loudly in the silence, the second
mysterious case closed expertly.
     Yesterday was gone for another weekend. Seventy-one hours to wait until another fix. I spied the library’s multi-
cassette case boasting 30 hours of spine-tingling intensity. Stealing was dispicably wrong and punishable to finger-
chopping extents, but borrowing…that would be okay. Except Papa wasn’t bribeable. He’d been around the block a
few too many times, or so he liked to remind Mima. Plus at seveny-seven Papa had everything he needed. I had nothing
enticing to barter.
     I’d simply have to wait.
     R-i-i-n-n-n-g-g-g-g. Mom’s signal. Time to split and run home. Straight to the end of the block, hang a left at
Marson’s Veggie Stand, hop Mrs. Roberts’ knee-high hedge and shuffle up the side steps. Dinner would be waiting,
steam rising from the mandatory home-cooked meal as mom codgered me to wash up like a five year old that had been
digging in the dirt.
     “Artie, my boy. It was a pleasure.” Papa extended his hand and clasped my fingers tightly when they hooked over
his. Then he pulled me close, patted me with a whack on the back and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you
Monday afternoon.”
     “After Mom ferries me over.” Straight from the babysitter’s. How embarrasing. I was thirteen and three-quarters
after all. In two sweet months I’d kiss the unlucky number goodbye forever. My first teenage year would be tucked
under my belt like a special been-there-done-that secret codebook. Pretty soon, I’d be as smart as Papa if all his
knowledge tidbits rubbed off the right way.
     “Artie, time to start home,” Mima called from the kitchen, busy fixing their own meal. But she hustled through, her
slippers scratching against the tile to give me a gentle hug. Then she clicked on the lamp, bringing a warm glow to the
hazy darkroom. “Be safe.”
     “I will Mima. Bye Papa.” I slid my notebook in my knapsack and crossed the few steps to the door, my feet
dragging. I didn’t want to leave…to go home and listen to my parents’ endless parade of daily routine. Nor my little
sister’s boasts about her plot to socially take over the school I’d left behind. I’d rather stay here, cocooned safely in the
cozy brick cottage and dote like my grandparents.
     “Better hurry, my boy or we’ll get in trouble.”
     Which meant no radio shows. That couldn’t happen. “I’m off.” I shot out the door and bypassed the four concrete
steps with one gigantic Superman leap, his theme music thundering like my fearfully beating heart.
     Mima stepped up to the storm-glass door, her fingers against her lips as she fretted over Artie’s break-neck speed.
“What kind of nonsense are you feeding Artie? You haven’t had that old ring since I’ve known you.”
     “I know, I know.” Papa shooed her back to the kitchen and his boiling al-dente spaghetti. “I picked it up last
Sunday at the yard sale down the street—the Brennan place I believe.” His grandson’s delight at the well-deserved
treat had been well worth two measly quarters. Papa peeked through the window’s eyelet curtains, following his pride-
and-joy’s race down their darkening street. “The truth would spoil Artie’s fun. Besides, what’s the worst that can
happen?”
     “You shouldn’t ask questions like that.”
     “Superstitious?” Papa hugged Mima close and danced a short-lived Fred Astaire two-step into the kitchen.
     “Everything’s going to work out right. You’ll see.”