Greg Bear: Darwin's Children

She had never walked so far from home. The rain would change everything about the air and the smells. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Fred,” the man answered. “Fred Trinket. I know you’d like to meet them, and they surely would like to meet you.”

“Stop talking that way,” Stella said.

“What way?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

Fred Trinket had clogged his nose with cotton and his mouth sang with shrill mint.

“Of course,” he said reasonably. “I know that, honey. I have a shelter. A place for kids in trouble. Would you like to see some pictures?” Trinket asked. “They’re in the glove box.” He watched her, still smiling. He had a kind enough face, she decided. A little sad. He seemed concerned about how she felt. “Pictures of my kids, the ones on the recorder.”

Stella felt intensely curious. “Like me?” she asked.

“Just like you,” Fred said. “You’re sparking real pretty, you know that? The others spark the same way when they’re curious. Something to see.”

“What’s sparking?”

“Your freckles,” Fred said, pointing. “They spread out on your cheeks like butterfly wings. I’m used to seeing that at my shelter. I could call your house again, see if somebody’s home, tell your daddy or mama to meet us. Should I?”

He was getting nervous. She could smell that much, not that it meant anything. Everybody was nervous these days. He did not want to hurt her, she was pretty sure; there was nothing horny about his scent or his manner, and he did not smell of cigarettes or alcohol.

He did not smell anything like the young men in the convenience store.

She told herself again she would have to take chances if she wanted to get anywhere, if she wanted anything to change. “Yes,” she said.

Fred pushed redial. The cell phone beeped the tune of the house number. Still no answer. Her mother was probably out looking for her.

“Let’s go to my house,” Fred said. “It’s not far and there are cold drinks in the ice chest. Strawberry soda. Genuine Nehi in long-necked bottles. I’ll call your mama again when we get there.”

She swallowed hard, opened the glove box, and pulled out a packet of color photos, five by sevens. The kids in the first photo, seven of them, were having a party, a birthday party, with a bright red cake. Fred stood in the background beside a plump older woman with a blank look. Other than Fred and the older woman, the kids at the party were all about her age. One boy might have been older, but he was standing in the background.

All like her. SHEVA children.

“Jesus,” Stella said.

“Easy on that,” Fred said amiably. “Jesus is Lord.”

The bumper sticker on Fred’s truck said that. On the tailgate was glued a golden plastic fish. The fish, labeled “Truth,” was eating another fish with legs, labeled “Darwin.”

Fred turned on the motor and put the truck in gear. The rain was falling in big hard drops, tapping on the roof and the hood like a million bored fingers.

“Battle of the Wilderness took place not far from here,” Fred said as he drove. He turned right carefully, as if worried about jostling precious cargo. “Civil War. Holy place in its way. Real quiet. I love it out this way. Less traffic, fewer condo-minimums, right?”

Stella leafed through the pictures again, found some more stuck in a plastic pocket. Seven different kids, mugging for the camera or staring at it seriously, some sitting in big chairs in a big house.

One boy had no expression at all. “Who’s this?” she asked Fred.

Fred spared a quick look. “That is Will. Strong Will, Mother calls him. He lived off snakes and squirrels before he came to our shelter.” Fred Trinket smiled and shook his head at the thought. “You’ll like him. And the others, too.”

The red truck pulled up to a two-story house with tall white columns. Two long brick planters filled with scrawny, dripping oleanders bordered the white steps. Fred Trinket had done nothing overt to upset Stella, but now they were at his house.

“It’s about lunchtime,” Trinket said. “The others will be eating. Mother feeds them about now. I eat later. It’s my digestion. None too good.”

“You eat oatmeal,” Stella said.

Trinket beamed. “That is right, young lady. I eat oatmeal for breakfast. Sometimes a single slice of bacon. What else?”

“You like garlic.”

“For dinner, I have spaghetti with garlic, that’s right.” Trinket shook his head happily. “Marvelous. You smell all that.”

He opened his door and came around. Stella got out and he pointed up the porch steps to the house. A big white door stood there, solid and patient, flanked by two tall, skinny windows. The paint was new. The doorknob reeked of Brasso, a smell she did not like. She did not touch the door. Trinket opened it for her. The door was not locked.

“We trust people,” Trinket said. “Mother!” he called. “We have a guest.”

Mitch pulled into the dirt driveway beneath a sodden gray sky. Kaye was not in the house when he arrived. She honked at him from the road as he came out after searching the empty house. His long legs took him in five quick strides to the old truck.

“How long?” Mitch asked, leaning in. He touched her wet cheeks through the driver’s side window.

“Three or four hours,” Kaye said. “I took a nap and she was gone.”

He got in beside her. Just as she put the truck in gear, Mitch held up his hand. “Phone,” he said. She cut the engine and they both listened. From the house came a faint ringing.

Mitch ran to the house. The screen door slammed behind him and he picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Bailey?” a man asked.

That was the name they had told Stella to use.

“Yeah,” Mitch said, wiping rain from his brow and eyes. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Fred Trinket. I did not know you were living so near, Mr. Bailey.”

“I’m in a hurry, Mr. Trinket. Where’s my daughter?”

“Please don’t be upset. She’s in my house right now, and she’s very worried about you.”

“We’re worried about her. Where are you?”

“She’s fine, Mr. Rafelson . We’d like you to come and see something we think is interesting and important. Something you may very well find fascinating.” The man who called himself Trinket gave directions.

Mitch rejoined Kaye in the truck. “Someone has Stella,” he said.

“Emergency Action?”

“A teacher, a crank, somebody,” Mitch said. No time now to mention the man knew his real name. He did not think Stella would have told anyone that. “About ten miles from here.”

Kaye was already spinning the truck around on the road.

“There,” Trinket said, putting away the phone and drying his short hair with a towel. “Have you ever met with more than one or two of the children at a time?”

Stella did not answer for a moment, it was such an odd question. She wanted to think it over, even though she knew what he meant. She looked around the living room of the big house. The furniture was colonial , she knew from reading catalogs and magazines: maple with antique print fabric—butter churns, horse tack, plows. It was really ugly. The wallpaper was dark green flocked velvet with floral patterns that looked like sad faces. The entire room smelled of a citronella candle burning on a small side table, too sweet even for Stella’s tastes. There had been chicken cooking in the past hour, and broccoli.

“No,” she finally said.

“That is sad , isn’t it?”