He didn’t believe the GPS when it told him he’d arrived. He saw no house, no farm, only white on white in every direction. He was a southern boy at heart, and couldn’t shake the conviction that if he left the car he’d be carried away across the fields. Next June the final drift would melt to reveal his perfectly preserved corpse.
He zipped his ski jacket up to his chin and pulled on his gloves. The car door squealed as he forced it open, then cold slapped him across the face and he gasped. He walked to the front of the car and turned in place, eyes wide for lights and shapes against the twilight. Nothing.
He started to get back in the car, then had another thought. After all, it was a rental. He climbed up on the hood of the car on all fours, and then carefully stood. The sheet metal plonked beneath his boots.
A hundred yards off to his right he saw a stand of trees, the roofline of a house, and the suggestion of an off- white stripe running from the trees to intersect the road. He hopped back in the car.
The stripe turned out to be a driveway, or at least a path through the snow. He rolled past the ring of trees that guarded the house and then braked to a stop. The house was a long, one-story ranch with a marshmallow cap of snow. A low garage or workshop squatted off to the side.
Standing in front of the house was a bulky figure holding a shotgun across his or her chest.
He stepped out of the car. “Hello?” he called. “I’m looking for the DuChamp house.” He walked closer, his hands away from his body-not stick-’ em-up high, but enough to show respect for the gun. “My name is Paxton Martin.”
The figure came closer. It was an unchanged woman, as far as he could tell, heavily bundled against the cold. “I’m Elly,” she said. He’d talked to her on the phone. She was Mr. DuChamp’s sister, and she’d moved out of Switchcreek years before the Changes. “Come on in, Paxton.”
He jogged back to the car, switched it off, and picked up the nylon duffel from the back seat. A minute later she led him into the house to a mudroom stacked with coats. She held the shotgun and showed him where to hang his jacket and set his hiking boots. “They’re in the family room,” she said, and nodded toward a doorway.
He went down a short hallway and entered a large, open room. Couches and armchairs faced a huge stone fireplace.
Three faces gazed at him. If he’d never lived in Switchcreek, they might have looked identical.
Rainy jumped from her chair, took a few steps, and stopped. Sandra didn’t get up from her place on the couch, but Tommy rose to his feet and stood next to Rainy.
“Merry Christmas,” Pax said.
They stared at him. Then Rainy said, “Paxton, it’s January.”
He looked down at the duffel. “Well, I guess I could take these back.” He set down the bag and held out his hand to Tommy. “Thanks for letting me come into your home, Tommy. I know that every visitor is a risk.”
Tommy hesitated, and shook his hand. “You’ll learn that when you set up your own house,” he said. “But some visitors are worth it.”
Pax walked a few steps toward the couch where Sandra lay. “How are you doing, sweetie?” he asked.
She looked up at him. The contentment on her face was unmistakable.
“Do you want to see him?” she asked.
He kneeled in front of her. She shifted the bundle in her arms, and pulled back a blanket. He was sleeping, mouth open and eyes closed. His skin was the color of merlot.
“Oh,” Pax said. His eyes burned, and he blinked hard. “He’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t he?” Sandra said.
Rainy came up behind Pax and put a hand on his shoulder. “His name’s Joseph,” she said. “We’re calling him Joe.”
“I heard.” He looked up at her, then back at Tommy. “I guess you all had to scramble to come up with a boy’s name.”
Tommy said, “We certainly didn’t have a list ready.”
“What do you think it means, Paxton?” Rainy asked. “Will all of them from this generation be boys, or is he a fluke, or…?”
“I don’t know,” Pax said. He couldn’t see how a generation of males made much sense from an evolutionary point of view-but right now he didn’t give a damn about the evolutionary point of view. All he knew was that the Changes weren’t over-that they’d never be over. “Every generation is a mystery,” he said.
He reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. Joseph’s lips closed, then opened with a faint smack. “I’m pretty sure, though, that a boy this beautiful is not a mistake.”
Daryl Gregory
DARYL GREGORY’S short stories have appeared in
