The Devil's Alphabet

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-”

“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.