Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

“Barron said you were pretty riled up.”

“I was a little frustrated. Your hired help wasn’t that helpful.”

Everett glanced up, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve decided that my father needs to stay with me,” Pax said. “At home.”

Rhonda looked at Everett, who was still mumbling into his phone. A ghost of a smile crossed her lips, and she took her time turning back to him. “Oh, hon.” She patted his hand. “That’s sweet. And very brave of you.”

“My father doesn’t want to be in your ‘Home.’ He told me that himself.”

“But you called me anyway, didn’t you?” Rhonda said. “Your father ran away at the break of dawn, half out of his mind. And you asked for me to come and take care of him.”

“I know that, and I appreciate your help, but I may have-I overreacted. I’ve thought about it now. It’s my job to take care of him.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought about this at all. You know you can’t watch your daddy twenty-four hours a day-the other night proved that. You don’t know the first thing about taking care of a man like your father.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re going to quit your job in Chicago? Move back to Switchcreek, back into this house-and spend the next twenty or thirty years playing nursemaid?” She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I’m his son. I can take him out of there whenever I want. Legally, there’s nothing-”

“Legally?”

“I haven’t signed anything. Yes, I called you, but-”

“Oh, hon, you signed those papers days ago.”

“What?” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t pretend, Paxton. They were sitting there waiting for me.”

“You broke into my house?”

“Of course not. The door was wide open, and they were sitting right there by the door-it was a wonder they didn’t blow away. I’ll send over your copies as soon as I can.”

“You walked into my house and took them. Just like that.”

Rhonda leaned back in her chair-or rather, her head leaned back, since her spherical body had nowhere to go-and crossed her arms under her enormous bosom. “Settle down, now,” she said in a firm voice. “You’re shaking, Paxton, and your color’s not good.”

Everett said something final into his phone and snapped it shut.

“You can’t do this,” Pax said. “I’m going to get a lawyer.”

“You’re welcome to,” Rhonda said. “But I don’t think it’s going to make you feel better. There’s only one thing that’ll do that right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be frank, Paxton. You’ve taken a large dose of the vintage-maybe bigger than anyone’s ever taken, and you’re not even a charlie! The doctor told me there’d be effects. Right now you’re feeling the loss. It feels like something’s dying, doesn’t it?”

For a moment he couldn’t speak. Something was dying. Or someone.

He pushed away from the table and stood. “You can’t do this,” he said.

“Now you’re just repeating yourself,” Everett said.

“Paxton,” Rhonda said kindly. “I’ll talk to you again when you’re feeling more like yourself. Go back to Chicago. Take some time. You’re going to see that I’m doing right by you and your daddy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Pax said. But then he was walking away, back into the dark of the building.

Deke’s house was only a block from where he’d parked. Pax knocked hard on the double-height door and a low voice called him in.

Donna and two beta women looked up at him. They were sitting in the living room, the betas on the couch. They’d all been gazing at something Donna held in the palm of one hand. At first he thought it was a napkin or lump of cloth, but then he saw a tiny red arm reach up and he realized it was a baby.

“Paxton,” Donna said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jesus, he was tired of people asking him that. “It’s just hot.” He’d felt a little nauseous on the walk over, and as soon as he’d stepped into the air-conditioning he’d immediately broken into a sweat.

“Paxton, this is my cousin Jocelyn, and her friend April. And this is Celia.” She turned her hand so that he could see the girl’s face. She was perfectly bald, with mottled, red-orange skin. Her eyes were closed, and her little mouth hung open.

“She’s beautiful,” Pax said to the women on the couch. Both of them were the color of raspberry syrup. He had no idea which one was Jocelyn, and if Jocelyn was the mother. He also didn’t know if the baby really was beautiful for a beta; he’d only recognized that she was cute in the way of babies from so many species, from meerkat pups to ducklings.

“She’s only a month old,” Donna said softly.

“One month old today,” one of the beta women said.

They made small talk for a couple of minutes, all of it about babies, which Pax knew nothing about. Donna didn’t offer to let him hold the child, thank God. She rocked it in her big hand and talked to it in that rumbling voice.

“So is Deke around?” Pax asked finally.

“He’s at the shop,” Donna said. When he looked blank she said, “Alpha Furniture. Just go up Main and take a left on High Street. Listen for power tools and stop when you get to the fire truck-can’t miss it.”

“Nice meeting you,” Pax said to the betas. “Congratulations.”

Outside, he untucked his shirt and used it to mop his face. The shop was only a few blocks away, but it was uphill. He decided to drive.

An old-fashioned fire truck was parked in front of a garage like an old dog napping in the sun. It was thirty or forty years old, shiny and red and braced with white ladders, and fronted by a chrome bumper like a fat lip. Like so many antique vehicles it seemed smaller than it ought to be, maybe seven-eighths actual size. The small, round-roofed cab was topped by a single red cylinder light like a Shriner’s cap.

The garage was attached to another building the size of a barn. ALPHA FURNITURE was painted in big blue letters on the slanted roof. Through an open bay door came the high whine of a power saw. Deke’s Jeep was parked out front alongside another Jeep and a Chevy pickup with a roof peeled off like the lid of a can.

Pax walked up to the open door. An old argo man was pushing with one hand an enormous plank down a table saw; another, younger argo was catching the split ends. The man doing the pushing was about seven feet tall, shorter than most of the argos. His right arm ended in a stump at the elbow. Maybe he’d lost it to a saw, but more likely something had gone wrong during the Changes; not all body parts took to the transformation. After the plank had cleared he noticed Pax standing in the doorway.

“I’m looking for Deke?” Pax called.

The young argo gestured toward the far end of the building, where space had been sectioned off by plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling. Pax picked his way across the room through projects in various states of completion. Everything was giant-sized: bed frames, tables, chairs. At the far end much of the space was taken up by church pews, a dozen huge oak slabs with high backs. Most were still raw wood, but two had been lacquered and polished to a buttery gleam.

He reached the plastic sheets and stepped through a part in the curtains. Deke sat at an enormous desk, staring grimly at a computer screen.

“Cool fire truck,” Pax said.

“Oh, hey there, P.K.” He leaned back from the screen. Pax caught a glimpse of a spreadsheet. “Yeah, that’s Bart. A 1974 Pierce. A town in Kentucky donated it to us. It was worth more to them as a tax write-off.”

Pax nodded at the screen. “If this is a bad time…”