Raising Stony Mayhall

by Daryl Gregory

  “Uncle Stony?” she says.

  I think, Who the hell else?

  Now she’s crying in a different way. The good kind of tears? You’d think that after growing up with breathers, and spending this past year doing nothing but watching them, I’d be a little better at interpreting this kind of thing. But it does seem to me that her face is a pleasant mix of shock and happiness and pride. Oh, yes, she’s proud of herself.

  Stubborn girl.

  * * *

  I’ve been present at every funeral and memorial service in Easterly, and we’ve had a lot of them, especially in the first few months after the outbreak. Ruby and Wanda Mayhall sit up front. Ruby’s holding the Etch A Sketch, twiddling with the knobs to cover the fact that they sometimes turn on their own. She’s gotten into the habit of carrying it around at all times. Mom frowns but doesn’t say anything: proof, if we needed any, that Ruby’s status as only begotten granddaughter exempts her from behavior that would have earned a wrist slap for any of her own kids.

  Alice gives the eulogy. She tells the story about finding me in the snow, and how they carried me home and baptized me in the kitchen sink. It’s very well written. Alice was always the best writer.

  My bones are in the casket behind her. I convinced Ruby that I didn’t need them. I wouldn’t know what to do with them if we kept them: walk around like a skeleton from Jason and the Argonauts? I’ve freaked out enough people in my life, thank you. I also convinced her that my persistence in the material world—or rather, my failure to leave it—needed to remain our little secret. What good would it do for people to know that their town is haunted by a ghost? So of course Ruby immediately told Alice. And then Alice and I had to have a fight about why I didn’t tell her earlier. (I think I made a convincing argument, despite—or maybe because of—being able to write only a line at a time.) We agreed, however, that it would be a bad idea to tell Mom. At least for now. No one wants to be responsible for a heart attack.

  Near the end of the service, the middle Stanhoultz girl stands up to sing the song Mom requested. Lizzie is fourteen, and her entire family, mom and dad and five other siblings, made it to the elementary school the night of the outbreak. Mrs. Cho swears that Mrs. Stanhoultz is pregnant again. Lizzie sings “I Will Meet You in the Morning” like a born Baptist. She has a clear, bell-like voice, and Mom is crying by the first chorus. Let me tell you, you haven’t known guilt until you’ve fooled your mother into watching your own funeral.

  I still think about leaving for good. Checking out of this accidental afterlife I’ve found myself in. The door opens a crack. But I hesitate. I linger. It’s not that I’m afraid of oblivion, or hell, or the absence of a promised land. Oh, I’ll admit that sometimes I entertain fantasies about a very Iowa kind of heaven, a place with a big kitchen and a large table and an infinite pot of coffee, where Junie and Crystal and I can argue about nothing while the snow blows outside the windows. Some nights I open that door and gaze into the black tunnel and think about stepping through.

  And then I hear Ruby waking up, bitching about the humidity, or Mom laughing dryly with Mrs. Cho over some fresh news, or Kwang firing up his tractor. And I think, not yet. Maybe stick around for a little while longer. Until Kwang has babies. Until the enclave is safe. Until Ruby finds someone to love.

  Someday I’ll step into the dark. But not yet. Not yet.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Published by Del Rey Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pax knew he was almost to Switchcreek when he saw his first argo.

  The gray-skinned man was hunched over the engine of a decrepit, roofless pickup truck stalled hood-up at the side of the road. He straightened as Pax’s car approached, unfolding like an extension ladder. Ten or eleven feet tall, angular as a dead tree, skin the mottled gray of weathered concrete. No shirt, just overalls that came down to his bony knees. He squinted at Pax’s windshield.

  Jesus, Pax thought. He’d forgotten how big they were.

  He didn’t recognize the argo, but that didn’t mean much, for a lot of reasons. He might even be a cousin. The neighborly thing would be to pull over and ask the man if he needed help. But Pax was running late, so late. He fixed his eyes on the road outside his windshield, pretending not to see the man, and blew past without touching his brakes. The old Ford Tempo shuddered beneath him as he took the next curve.

  The two-lane highway snaked through dense walls of green, the trees leaning into the road. He’d been gone for eleven years, almost twelve. After so long in the north everything seemed too lush, too overgrown. Subtropical. Turn your back and the plants and insects would overrun everything.

  His stomach burned from too much coffee, too little food, and the queasy certainty that he was making a mistake. The call had come three days ago, Deke’s rumbling voice on his cellphone’s voicemail: Jo Lynn was dead. The funeral was on Saturday morning. Just thought you’d want to know.

  Pax deleted the message but spent the rest of the week listening to it replay in his head. Dreading a follow-up call. Then 2 a.m. Saturday morning, when it was too late to make the service—too late unless he drove nonstop and the Ford’s engine refrained from throwing a rod—he tossed some clothes into a suitcase and drove south out of Chicago at 85 mph.

  His father used to yell at him, Paxton Abel Martin, you’d be late for your own funeral! It was Jo who told him not to worry about it, that everybody was late for their own funeral. Pax didn’t get the joke until she explained it to him. Jo was the clever one, the verbal one.

  At the old town line there was a freshly painted sign: WELCOME TO SWITCHCREEK, TN. POPULATION 815. The barbed wire fence that used to mark the border was gone. The cement barriers had been pushed to the roadside. But the little guard shack still stood beside the road like an outhouse, abandoned and drowning in kudzu.

  The way ahead led into what passed for Switchcreek’s downtown, but there was a shortcut to where he was going, if he could find it. He crested the hill, scanning the foliage to his right, and still almost missed it. He braked hard and turned in to a narrow gravel drive that vanished into the trees. The wheels jounced over potholes and ruts, forcing him to slow down.

  The road forked and he turned left automatically, knowing the way even though yesterday he wouldn’t have been able to describe this road to anyone. He passed a half-burned barn, then a trailer that had been boarded up since he was kid, then the rusted carcass of a ’63 Falcon he and Deke had used for target practice with their .22s. Each object seemed strange, then abruptly familiar, then hopelessly strange again—shifting and shifty.

  The road came out of the trees at the top of a hill. He braked to a stop, put the car in park. The engine threatened to die, then fell into an unsteady idle.

  A few hundred yards below lay the cemetery, the redbrick church, and the gravel parking lot half-full of cars. Satellite trucks from two different television stations were there. In the cemetery, the funeral was already in progress.

  Pax leaned forward and folded his arms atop the steering wheel, letting the struggling air conditioner blow into his damp ribs. About fifty people sat or stood around a pearl-gray casket. Most were betas, bald, dark-red heads gleaming like river stones. The few men wore dark suits, the women long dresses. Some of the women had covered their heads with white scarves. A surprising number of them seemed to be pregnant.

  An argo couple stood at the rear of the group, towering over the other mourners. The woman’s broad shoulders and narrow hips made a V of her pale green dress. The man beside her was a head shorter and skinny as a ladder. He wore a plain blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up his chalky forearms. Deke looked exactly as Pax remembered him.

  The people who were seated rose to their feet. They began to sing.

  Pax turned off the car and rolled down the window. Some of the voices were high and flutelike, but the bass rumble, he knew, was provided by the booming chests of the two argos. The melody was difficult to catch at first, but then he recognized the hymn
“Just As I Am.” He knew the words by heart. It was an altar-call song, a slow weeper that struck especially hard for people who’d come through the Changes. Leading them through the song, her brick-red face tilted to the sky, was a beta woman in a long skirt, a flowing white blouse, and a colorful vest. The pastor, Pax guessed, though it was odd to think of a woman pastor at this church. It was odd to think of anyone but his father in the pulpit.

  When the song ended the woman said a few words that Pax couldn’t catch, and then the group began to walk toward the back door of the church. As the rows cleared, two figures remained seated in front of the casket: two bald girls in dark dresses. Some of the mourners touched the girls’ shoulders and moved on.

  Those had to be the twins. Jo’s daughters. He’d known he’d see them here, had braced for it, but even so he wasn’t ready. He was grateful for this chance to see them first from a distance.

  A bald beta man in a dark blue suit squatted down between the girls, and after a brief exchange took their hands in his. They stood and he led them to the church entrance. The argo couple hung back. They bent their heads together, and then the woman went inside alone, ducking to make it through the entrance. Deke glanced up to where Paxton’s car sat on the hill.

  Pax leaned away from the windshield. What he most wanted was to put the car in reverse, then head back through the trees to the highway. Back to Chicago. But he could feel Deke looking at him.

  He stepped out of the car, and hot, moist air enveloped him. He reached back inside and pulled out his suit jacket—frayed at the cuffs, ten years out of style—but didn’t put it on. If he was lucky he wouldn’t have to wear it at all.

  “Into the valley of death,” he said to himself. He folded the jacket over his arm and walked down the hill to the cemetery’s rusting fence.

  The back gate squealed open at his push. He walked through the thick grass between the headstones. When he was a kid he’d used this place like a playground. They all had—Deke, Jo, the other church kids—playing hide-and-seek, sardines, and of course ghost in the graveyard. There weren’t so many headstones then.

  Deke squatted next to the grave, his knees higher than his head like an enormous grasshopper. He’d unhooked one of the chains that had connected the casket to the frame and was rolling it up around his hand. “Thought that was you,” he said without looking up from his work. His voice rumbled like a diesel engine.

  “How you doing, Deke?”

  The man stood up. Pax felt a spark of fear—the back-brain yip of a small mammal confronted with a much larger predator. Argos were skinny, but their bony bodies suggested scythes, siege engines. And Deke seemed to be at least a foot taller than the last time Pax had seen him. His curved spine made his head sit lower than his shoulders, but if he could stand up straight he’d be twice Paxton’s height.

  “You’ve grown,” Pax said. If they’d been anywhere near the same size they might have hugged—normal men did that all the time, didn’t they? Then Deke held out a hand the size of a skillet, and Pax took it as best he good. Deke could have crushed him, but he kept his grip light. His palm felt rough and unyielding, like the face of a cinder block. “Long time, P.K.,” he said.

  P.K. Preacher’s Kid. Nobody had called him that since he was fifteen. Since the day he left Switchcreek.

  Pax dropped his arm. He could still feel the heat of Deke’s skin on his palm.

  “I didn’t get your message until last night,” Pax lied. “I drove all night to get here. I must look like hell.”

  Deke tilted his head, not disagreeing with him. “The important thing’s you got here. I told the reverend I’d take care of the casket, but if you want to go inside, they’re setting out the food.”

  “No, that’s—I’m not hungry.” Another lie. But he hadn’t come here for a hometown reunion. He needed to pay his respects and that was it. He was due back at the restaurant by Monday.

  He looked at the casket, then at the glossy, polished gravestone. Someone had paid for a nice one.

  JO LYNN WHITEHALL

  BORN FEBRUARY 12, 1983

  DIED AUGUST 17, 2010

  LOVING MOTHER

  “ ‘Loving Mother.’ That’s nice,” Pax said. But the epitaph struck him as entirely inadequate. After a while he said, “It seems weird to boil everything down to two words like that.”

  “Especially for Jo,” Deke said. A steel frame supported the casket on thick straps. Deke squatted again to turn a stainless steel handle next to the screw pipe. The casket began to lower into the hole. “It’s the highest compliment the betas have, though. Pretty much the only one that counts.”

  The casket touched bottom. Paxton knelt and pulled up the straps on his side of the grave. Then the two of them lifted the metal frame out of the way.

  Paxton brushed the red clay from his knees. They stood there looking into the hole.

  The late Jo Lynn Whitehall, Paxton thought.

  He tried to imagine her body inside the casket, but it was impossible. He couldn’t picture either of the Jo’s he’d known—not the brown-haired girl from before the Changes, or the sleek creature she’d become after. He waited for tears, the physical rush of some emotion that would prove that he loved her. Nothing came. He felt like he was both here and not here, a double image hovering a few inches out of true.

  Paxton breathed in, then blew out a long breath. “Do you know why she did it?” He couldn’t say the word “suicide.”

  Deke shook his head. They were silent for a time and then Deke said, “Come on inside.”

  Deke didn’t try to persuade him; he simply went in and Pax followed, down the narrow stairs—the dank, cinder-block walls smelling exactly as Pax remembered—and into the basement and the big open room they called the Fellowship Hall. The room was filled with rows of tables covered in white plastic tablecloths. There were at least twice as many people as he’d seen outside at the burial. About a dozen of them were “normal”—unchanged, skipped, passed over, whatever you wanted to call people like him—and none of them looked like reporters.

  Deke went straight to the buffet, three tables laid end-to-end and crowded with food. No one seemed to notice that Pax had snuck in behind the tall man.

  The spread was as impressive as the potlucks he remembered as a boy. Casseroles, sloppy joes, three types of fried chicken, huge bowls of mashed potatoes … One table held nothing but desserts. Enough food to feed three other congregations.

  While they filled their plates Pax surreptitiously looked over the room, scanning for the twins through a crowd of alien faces. After so long away it was a shock to see so many of the changed in one room. TDS—Transcription Divergence Syndrome—had swept through Switchcreek the summer he was fourteen. The disease had divided the population, then divided it again and again, like a dealer cutting a deck of cards into smaller piles. By the end of the summer a quarter of the town was dead. The survivors were divided by symptoms into clades: the giant argos, the seal-skinned betas, the fat charlies. A few, a very few, weren’t changed at all—at least in any way you could detect.

  A toddler in a Sunday dress bumped into his legs and careened away, laughing in a high, piping voice. Two other bald girls—all beta children were girls, all were bald—chased after her into a forest of legs.

  Most of the people in the room were betas. The women and the handful of men were hairless, skin the color of cabernet, raspberry, rose. The women wore dresses, and now that he was closer he could see that even more were pregnant than he’d supposed. The expectant mothers tended to be the younger, smaller women. They were also the ones who seemed to be wearing the head scarves.

  He was surprised by how different the second-generation daughters were from their mothers. The mothers, though skinny and bald and oddly colored, could pass for normal women with some medical condition—as chemo patients, maybe. But their children’s faces were flat, the noses reduced to a nub and two apostrophes, their mouths a long slit.

  Someone grabbed his arm. “Paxton Mart
in!”

  He put on an expectant smile before he turned.

  “It is you,” the woman said. She reached up and pulled him down into a hug. She was about five feet tall and extremely wide, carrying about three hundred pounds under a surprisingly well-tailored pink pantsuit.

  She drew back and gazed at him approvingly, her over-inflated face taut and shiny. Lime green eyeshade and bright red rouge added to the beach ball effect.

  “Aunt Rhonda,” he said, smiling. She wasn’t his aunt, but everyone in town called her that. He was surprised at how happy he was to see her.

  “Just look at you,” she said. “You’re as handsome as I remember.”

  Pax felt the heat in his cheeks. He wasn’t handsome, not in the ways recognized by the outside world. But in Switchcreek he was a skip, one of the few children who had come through the Changes unmarked and still breathing.

  Rhonda didn’t seem to notice his embarrassment. “This is a terrible thing, isn’t it? People say the word ‘tragic’ too much, but that’s what it is. I can’t imagine how tough it must be on her girls.”

  He didn’t know what to say except, “Yes.”

  “I remember your momma carrying Jo Lynn around the church in her little dresses when she was just a year old. She loved that girl like she was her own. So pretty, and so smart. Smart as a whip.”

  Pax waited for the slight, the veiled insult. Rhonda had been the church secretary while his father was pastor. She was a sharp-tongued woman with opinions about everyone and everything, including his mother’s performance as a pastor’s wife.

  Rhonda shook her head. “And you two! You two were like brother and sister. Only three months between you, is that right?”

  “Four,” he said. A dozen feet behind Rhonda, a young charlie man, broad as a linebacker and not showing any of the fat that clung to the older people of his clade, watched them talk. His hair was shaved to a shadow. A diamond stud winked from one ear.