Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

He realized he had his father’s T-shirt in his hand again. He spread it across the bed like a blanket.

His father loved him. His father needed him. The terms were indistinguishable.

He went back to the guest room and looked under the bed for the stack of papers Rhonda had given him. They weren’t there. He sat on the bed, looking around at the bookshelves. He’d signed them that night, then-what? He remembered falling asleep, but he couldn’t recall putting the papers away.

It didn’t matter. He’d find them later, and burn them.

The gate was closed, of course. He leaned out of the window of the Tempo and pressed the intercom’s call button. “Hello?”

After a long pause a male voice came back. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hi, this is Paxton Martin. Is this-” He couldn’t remember the name of the security guard he’d met. Barry? Brian? “I’m here to see my father.”

“Oh, hi there, Paxton,” the voice said. Genuinely friendly. “I thought that was you. We met the other day.”

Pax looked at the gate, then spotted the camera sticking up above the wall. Paxton lifted a hand in a wave. Another five seconds passed. “So if you could open the gate?”

“Rhonda’s not here right now,” the guard said. “You want to leave a message?”

“No message. I’m just here to see my father. Harlan Martin.”

“Rhonda always tells me if we’re going to have visitors. Did you call ahead? Visitors need to call ahead.”

“Well I didn’t do that.” Pax struggled to keep his voice level. “So if you could just let me in, I need to talk to my father. It’s important. Family business.”

“You really need to call ahead.”

“Listen-what was your name again?”

“Barron.” Cold now.

“Barron, open the gate. I never signed anything, so you’re holding my father illegally. I’ve come to take him home. You can’t stop the next of kin from seeing him.”

“You’re going to have to talk to Aunt Rhonda about that. Now if you can give me your phone number, I’m ready to write it down.”

“Open the fucking gate, Barron.”

“Son, there’s no call for cussing.”

“Open the fucking gate!”

No answer. Pax pressed the call button, then pressed it again.

He switched off the car, got out, and marched up to the gate. He grabbed the iron bars with both hands and yanked, but they didn’t move.

He stepped back, looked at the stone walls that adjoined the gate at each side. They were about ten feet high, made of big stones set into the mortar. Maybe climbable, if his legs didn’t already feel like Jell-O. An argo could have pulled himself right over them.

He walked back to the car, slid between the side mirror and the intercom post, and got in. He thought about gunning the engine and ramming the gates, but the little Ford would probably bounce off.

He took a breath and pressed the button again. “Barron, I’m sorry I swore. I’m a little frustrated. All I want to do is see my father.”

No answer.

He pressed the call button again. Pax said, “I need to talk to Aunt Rhonda in person. Could you tell me where she is? Barron?”

“Hold on,” the guard said.

A minute passed. Pax leaned against the steering wheel. The back of his head was wet with sweat. Another blazing August day in Switchcreek, Tennessee.

Another minute passed, then Barron said, “Aunt Rhonda says she’ll talk to you. It’s Saturday, so she’s working at the Welcome Center.”

Jesus, Pax thought, he couldn’t have just told him that?

“Okay, thanks,” Pax said. He started the car and then leaned out to the box again. “Could you do me one favor? Could you tell my father that I was here?”

“Uh, I’d have to ask Rhonda about that,” Barron said.

“Barron?”

“Yes?”

He was going to ask him, When you take a shit, do you ask Rhonda if it’s okay to wipe your ass?

“Have a super day,” Pax said.

Downtown seemed busier than when he’d arrived last Saturday. There were two buses at the Icee Freeze, and scores of cars lined the streets and filled the Bugler’s parking lot. He finally found an empty parking spot on Main Street and walked a block to the Welcome Center.

Pax didn’t know how old the building was-late 1800s? Over the years it had been a church, a post office, and a one-room schoolhouse. It had been boarded up years before he was born and no one had gotten around to tearing it down.

He walked up the wooden steps and through the open door. Inside it was cool and shadowy. The wide, uneven planks of the floor looked original, but the rest of the interior had been refurbished into a combination information center and gift shop; half a dozen tourists were browsing through racks of books and postcards and knickknacks. A charlie girl worked the cash register in the back. Aunt Rhonda was talking to an older couple and pointing to a topographical map of the area hanging on the wall. She noticed Pax and let him know with a nod that she’d get to him in a bit.

He looked over the merchandise: commemorative plates; novelty “argo-sized” pencils; stuffed black bears with “Welcome to Switchcreek” dog tags; bald beta dolls you could dress in male or female outfits. One wall was all T-shirts and sweatshirts. The book rack held several scientific books on the Changes, as well as a couple photo-heavy coffee-table books and a slim, cheaply printed book titled The Families of Switchcreek . He looked up “Martin” in the index and found that his father was given an entire page. His mother got two sentences-one about her life as the pastor’s wife and one on her death of TDS-B. Paxton got one line: “His son, Paxton Martin, was one of the few who did not contract TDS.” He was relieved there wasn’t more. Something like, “He lives in Chicago, where he smokes dope, plays Halo, and continues to be an embarrassment to his father.”

“How do you like our little store?” Aunt Rhonda said. She’d slipped up beside him.

“It’s…” He put the book back in its spot. “People buy a lot of this stuff?”

“More than you think. It’s only been open two summers and we’ve already earned back the setup costs. Why don’t you come on back?”

She led him to the back of the center. “We’re part of the Smoky Mountain Tourist Complex. We’ve got the most visited national park in the country just down the road, and that generates all kinds of spillover.” She lifted up a section of the back counter and held it open for him. “Now, we’re never going to be Pigeon Forge or Gatlinburg. The whole unsolved genetic catastrophe thing keeps our numbers down.”

Rhonda told the girl behind the counter that she’d be out back, then led him out to a fenced yard behind the center. Everett, bald head gleaming in the sun, sat at a patio table talking quietly into a cell phone. Rhonda took a chair next to Everett and gestured for Pax to sit next to her. “This is just the start,” she said. “I’m working with an eco-tourist company to develop an educational entertainment package. Meet with the residents, see how they live, that kind of thing. Have you ever been to Williamsburg? The colonial village? Something like that. But with all the clades. Shake hands with an argo! Cook dinner with a beta. That kind of thing.”

“A freak show.”

Rhonda poked him hard with a stubby finger. “It’s only a freak show, Paxton Martin, if ignorant people talk about us that way. How do you think we’re going to get people to understand us and not fear us? Education. Education and exposure. I’m trying to get the Learning Channel to do a reality show on us, like they did with that midget family.”

“Yeah…” Pax said. He had no idea what to say to that. “Listen, why I wanted to talk with you-”