A Stepford Carol

Graydon Lane and Jane Winston's appropriately weathered Volvo drove in formation down the traditionally winding New England roads in the DMZ between Connecticut and Massachusetts.

           It was touring season. Tasteful highway signs provided instruction. This way to the Red Lion Inn. This other way to Hilltop Orchards and Balderdash Cellars for wine tastings in converted barns, early music laid on. Antique marts, also in converted barns. There were a lot of converted barns with exposed rafters that made their rather-too-far-west Upper West Side pied-a-terre feel cramped.

           Their one brick wall was red. Everything else was gray and beige, the only appropriate backdrop for today's minimalist life. They had even rolled up and stored their Asian rugs as being just Too Much Color. Such rugs, they were told, no longer sparked joy.

           Before they left on what was headlined as a restorative weekend, Jane and Gray had each caught the other looking at the tasteful matting on their floors, over the polished wood. They missed the rugs.

           It was time for exploration and shopping. Mandatory tasteful acquisitions lay stacked in the back seat. The purchases had been carefully negotiated. Nevertheless, civilized discussion showed signs of collapsing into recrimination when the deer attacked. Almost invisible in the afternoon sunglare, the first one dashed across the road. Graydon swerved just in time. The Adventures in Connoisseurship jounced and clattered in the back. The deer jumped an ancient stone fence and vanished into the woods.

           “We've shaken that wine,” Jane pronounced. “Whole bottle could blow up.” She glanced over at Graydon, who had whooshed with relief at his skill and sagged in his leather seat.

           “Never mind,” she added sensibly. “That was damn good driving.”

           At that moment, a full-grown buck leaped into their path. It deer-boned the Volvo with a wallop that made it shake on its axles.

            Jane screamed and clutched the dashboard, while Gray clutched the wheel and fought to keep them on the road.

           The deer was dying. The car was trashed.

           “Shit!” Gray said. It was the only thing to say except “oh, the poor deer,” which Jane supplied.

           “We'll need help,” Graydon said. “I can't drive like this.”

           Jane pulled out her phone. “State patrol for the deer, poor thing. And a garage for the car, if we can find one. Where are we? Willoughby? Stepford? I've got bars. I'll try both.”

           Jane could fuss, Gray thought, but she was good at essentials.

           The buck kicked feebly beside the road. It would have to be put down. Gray pulled off the road.

           “You know,” Jane remarked, “you'd never have gotten that traction with the red Jag you've been talking about.”

           Graydon glanced at her. What, after all, did Jane know about cars? He considered whether the old quarrel was worth pursuing, then looked for the nearest road sign.

           “Damn all, isn't that Stepford after all?”

           “Stepford was right after Willoughby,” Jane replied. “Five exits ago. Are you sure we're not going in circles?”

           They used to love to drive together. When had their date weekends become tests of self-control? They had had such hopes of this New England weekend. It wasn't quite leaf season. No sensible people drove into the country in leaf season. Leaf peeping was for tourists. But a sensible Sunday drive? T

           Both of them had had hopes for this weekend not just as a date, but as a rapprochement. Kill or cure. Well, they appeared to have killed a deer.

           Jane glanced into the Volvo's back seat at the artisanal honeys, cheeses, an antique or two...a couple of bottles of wine. All secure. She doubted the jolt of the crash would hurt the wine. It was too young to develop sediment. She was the couple's expert on vinifera. Gray just drank. Right about now, he could use a drink. But not in front of the State Patrol.

           Unstrapping, they struggled out of the car. At least, the doors were sound. The bumper and hood had buckled protectively. Gray tried to pop the hood from from within the car. Limited access. They would need a tow and a garage. And a B&B, because he was damned if they were going to be standing on the road all night.

           “Save the charge,” he called to Jane, tapping away. “We'll probably need to call work.”

           “I reached State Patrol,” said Jane. “They want a milepost. I'll run ahead and find a number.”

            Gray suppressed the guilty guilty thought that he should be going, not Jane.

           The shadows cast by the long trees were lengthening. Only a few of the clone formation dashed past: three BMWs, a Mercedes, a small fleet of Nissans, and a Range Rover that slowed, then sped past. Several passengers slowed to survey the wrecked car and deer. Phones came out to record the devastation.

           Jane had opened the door on her side. She cast a dubious look at the dying animal. Then, she and her phone headed for a usable milestone.

           A battered red truck pulled over behind them. A withered wreath, probably a remnant of last year's Christmas decorations, hung off the hood ornament. The driver wore a blue cap, thank God, not a red MAGA one. He joined Gray at the front of his car. Unlike Gray's LL Beans, the newcomer's flannels and jeans were faded, drab even. They conformed to the shape of his body. He had a weathered face, but kind eyes beneath the blue brim of his cap.

           “I'm Isaac,” said the newcomer. “Car needs work. First things first, though. That deer's got to be put down.”

           “We called the State Patrol,” said Gray.

           “No use waiting,” said their rescuer. “I can do it. Gun's in the truck.”

           He looked over at Gray, then at Jane. “Do either of you care to?” Politely, he offered them the opportunity to take down their own accidental prey.

           “We don't shoot,” said Jane primly. Then, to everyone's surprise, she added, “Right now, I wish we did.”

           The trucker nodded at her approvingly. “You may not want to look,” he said.

           Reaching into the cab of the old truck, he pulled out a long gun. “Mostly, I bow hunt,” he explained. “It's more fair to the animals..”

           He walked over to the buck, which kicked only feebly. He knelt and touched its head, as if saying farewell.

           Gray put his arm around Jane's shoulder. She turned her face into his chest. The gun went off.

           The trucker gestured over the remains like some sort of ritual. Gray would convince himself he had not seen it. He returned the gun to the truck. His face was grave, as if he had hated what he had to do.

           “It's sad,” Jane said.

           The trucker nodded, then said, “People who didn't expect dinner will get venison. You don't see them, but there's hungry families in these parts.”

           Red and blue lights flashed behind them in the road. The daylight was starting to fade. The patrol car was the first vehicle they had seen since the truck had pulled up behind them.

           “I think we should be all right...” Jane started to say as Gray started the thank-yous.

           The trucker shook his head. “I know that car. It's Officer Greg,” he told them.

           Gray opened the door and reached into the glove compartment for his registration. By the time he emerged, Isaac the trucker, Isaac, Greg the Patrolman, Jane – “and that's Gray,” said Jane – were engrossed in logistics.

           “I put down the buck,” Isaac told the Patrolman. “One bullet. Clean shot. No pain.”

           Officer Greg nodded solemnly to Isaac. He turned and walked over to the dead buck, bending to touch its head.

           Greg walked around the Volvo and shook his head. “Car needs a new bumper,” he said. “How fast did you say you were going?”

           “I didn't,” Gray started to bristle, then stopped. “I was below the speed limit. We'd slowed to look at the signs. We're trying to get into Stepford.”

           “These routes can be tricky,” Greg agreed. “Car really needs to go into the shop. Isaac, do you know if Allards are back?”

           “They'll get in tonight,” the trucker said. “He'll have the garage open bright and early tomorrow.”

           “Jeff Allard runs the garage,” said the patrolman. “He's good, and he won't stiff you. But this may take some time...”

           “Especially if he has to order parts,” Gray said, resigned. “Can I get a loaner?”

           He was used to the “you're not in the City” look. He supposed this time he deserved it.

           “Allard has to be there before we can see if he's got a spare,” said the Patrolman.

           “I can give you a tow into town,” said Isaac. He held out a hand to quiet protests. “No, you've had a shock. Temperature's going to drop, and I don't want you standing out here. I'm glad to help. Greg, do you want to give me a hand?”

           Gray followed both locals out to the car, making noises about payment and Triple-A and not wanting to be a bother.

           “We're going to need some sort of B&B or a motel,” Jane observed. She had her phone out and was scrolling happily through the listings.

           “I suspect you're going to have to be here a couple of days,” he said. “My wife can put you up. She's opened this sort of B&B. Real nice and very reasonable. You can settle with her.”

           Oh God, there would be chintz. And potpourri. Gray didn't want quaint and country. He wanted pizza, or someplace bright with shiny chrome and full of pie, coffee, and preposterously tall cakes.

           “Is there some sort of diner about? Or a restaurant you especially like?” Gray asked. “Happy to take you both to dinner, that is, if you're not on duty, sir?”

           Jane beamed at him. Gray's shoulders eased in the knowledge he'd gotten something right.

           “If you're staying with us, you're eating with us,” Isaac said. “Greg, when are you off-duty? Mary said she was making pot roast. I just stopped off to pick up a few things for tomorrow. There's fresh bread and pies. Apple and mixed berry.”

           “We can help,” Jane said. She ran back to the car. Gray knew she was rifling through the Acquisitions. Wine? No, they might not be drinkers. Baked goods? Isaac said there would be pie.

           He heard her exclaim in quiet triumph as she emerged with her prizes. Cheese, and honey to drizzle onto it. If they didn't want it to accompany the dessert pies, it would be great for breakfast.

           Maybe the parts would take some time to arrive. Work would have to understand that no, they hadn't brought their laptops. No, phone reception around here wasn't the greatest. Damn, they were sorry.

           Were they really?

           Isaac fished the arcana necessary for a safe tow from the bed of the truck. He started the vehicle, then edged close to the car.

           “Greg?” he asked the Patrolman. “You want me to take in the deer?” He turned to Gray and Jane. “The two of you will fit into the truck. I don't think you should try driving your car till it's fixed up.”

           “I've called it in. I'll stay here until it's picked up,” Greg said.

            To a kind of quiet murmuring, the two men lifted the deer. It almost seemed as if they were singing to it. Isaac gently tucked a blue tarp around it.

           “Some sort of harvest home ritual, do you think?” Jane asked. Gray made the expected scoff noises. The air was cooling fast. A moment more, and she'd be shivering. Gray reached into the car and pulled out a windbreaker.

           The last of the twilight was on them when the party of truck, damaged car, and police escort drove past Willoughby, across the ancient shed of a rickety covered bridge, and into the very town of Stepford that Gray and Jane had been trying to reach all afternoon.

           They were met by four other people, two of them women. They lowered the buck to the newcomers, who raised it onto their shoulders and carried it off to a cave carved into the ridge that paralleled the road.

           “They probably process the meat here. Easier than carrying it down into someone's basement.” Jane replied. “It makes sense.”

           Isaac dropped off the Volvo at a barn turned garage and convenience store. A black and white sign neatly painted ALLARD. Jane made a dash for the bathroom. When she returned, she nodded, telegraphing that it was spotless.

           “Now,” said Isaac with satisfaction, “we can go home.”

           Squeezing back into the well-worn middle seat of the truck, Jane peered out the window. One hand went to her mouth. Stepford...it was Colonial. It was Victorian. It was white wood, not siding, surrounded by green lawns and expansive canopies of trees.

           Jane sighed in relief. You could expect Pollyanna or Anne of Green Gables to emerge from one of those houses. Or even Penrod Schofield, wearing knickerbockers and cap and looking for tar..

           Lights in wrought-iron lanterns mounted on high poles flicked on. Some of the houses had meticulously cared-for gingerbread and porches draped in bunting. A door opened, and a man emerged to take down the flag in front of his house now that the light had faded.

           A woman emerged from another door and rang a bell. At its sound, children on bicycles raced toward home.

           Jane and Graydon met each other's eyes. Graydon could feel the tension knots on his back begin to unwind.

           “I wish we'd gotten in earlier,” he said.

           “I suspect we'll be here a couple of days,” Jane replied. “You don't really expect the parts to come on time, do you?”

           Graydon smiled. He could imagine telling people all about scenic Stepford, which time had forgotten, over Aperol spritzers.

           On second thought, maybe they would not. It was just the sort of place people might like, might want to visit. He found himself hating the idea of pitting Isaac and Mary's sincere hospitality against the Manhattan connoisseurship of their crowd.

           “Do you even like our crowd?” Jane asked with her habit of treating Gray's thoughts like her own living room. “I don't want to see people come here and build condos on the town green, do you?”

            There was nothing new about discussing real estate with their friends. Houses and farm-to-table produce were two subjects that never went stale in their crowd.

           Isaac pointed. “Here we are! That's the house where you'll be staying. Over there's my wife's other business.”

           “Look!” Jane cried tactfully. “A Christmas shop!”

           Graydon recoiled. He knew those stores, a sort of Tchaikowsky on steroids, ornate, overpriced, and terribly tasteful, smelling of pine, popcorn,and potpourri. Nevertheless, Isaac seemed proud of it, so he followed Jane past the SUVs, the carefully arrayed people, and their outsize strollers. He knew they had to buy something, and the things in these places were always overpriced.

           Blinking at the way the light changed, he entered a psychedelic wonderland of frosted candles, plaid taffeta, branches sprayed white and glittering, and cabinets full of artisanal foods, mostly jams and chutneys. Fancy soaps – you could get drunk on the scent of bayberry. Holly and ivy twined in bronze and china vases.

           “Mistletoe!” Graydon said. He swung Jane about and tried to kiss her. She blushed and pulled away.

           “Not even in this Hallmark movie set?”

           “I think it's charming,” Jane said. She dodged to examine handloomed placemats. “Christmas year-round.”

           “We're closing up,” Isaac told her. “Tomorrow, my wife will be right happy to see you.”

           Gray just bet she would.

           He ventured further into the barn. Over on the far wall shone a sign: Christmas in July. It was surrounded with pine boughs sprayed with fixative. Below it were bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, more plaid taffeta in red and black and green wrapped around anything from bagels to catnip toys than anyone wanted to imagine. Lining the walls were trees of all colors and sizes.

           “Oh,” said Jane. She had reached the ornaments. She extended a cautious finger to touch what looked like birds, hand pressed glass colored in iridescent paint with bristles sticking out for wings and a tail. A delicately stamped pomegranate. “A nice Swiss family down the street from us had these. I didn't know they still made them.”

           She smiled, and all the careful sophistication fell away from her moisturized face. In that moment, she was a child again, and Gray remembered why, of all the women whose resumes he'd perused, she had most attracted him.

           He put a hand out and touched her shoulder. She looked up and smiled. For a moment they stood there, feeling like the innocent kids they had tried hard to evolve from.

           Had they tried too hard? Guilty as charged.

           Could they get it back? They were reaching the time when people “consciously uncoupled.”

           Then Isaac came to fetch them, to introduce them to Mary, who exclaimed over the cheese and the honey – she knew the farm that had the hives – and showed them to their room. They grinned at each other at the chintz, the pot-pourri in its ancient china bowl. Last night's bed and breakfast, the one they visited each summer, had always been a guilty pleasure with its pink chintz and white wicker until this year when it had morphed into beige, its menu became polyglot, and prices had soared accordingly.

           “I hope you brought good appetites?” Mary caroled up the stairs.

           “After what Isaac said about pot roast and pie, we're starving!” Graydon called back down.

           An improper but delicious-looking meal weighed down the old dining table with its heavy carved legs. Lots of beef and soft vegetables, including potatoes. Not a bit of kale or quinoa anywhere, thank God.

           ###

           Heedless of thread count, they slept like the dead. Unexpected shrieks woke them.

           “I don't believe it!” Jane said. “A real live rooster!”

           Gray laughed and tossed her a robe. “It's a nuisance, not an amenity. Better hurry. If they get up with the chickens, we're late already. I could kill for coffee.”

           They didn't have much left in the way of clean clothes. Jane cadged a flannel shirt from Gray to wear as a jacket. They made it downstairs in time to see Isaac coming in from outside. His boots were wet, and he stamped them on a heavy mat.

           “Outside in the fields,” he said. “Checking on things.”

           Coffee there was, but that was it. “The Congregationalists are having a pancakes and sausage breakfast,” Mary said. “We thought you might like to go. If not….”

           If not, Mary and Isaac would have to scrounge something fast.

           “I haven't been to one of these since I was a kid,” Jane announced. “In my home town, they were usually at the high school in the cafeteria. The teachers cooked.”

           She grinned at Graydon. “I bet I can eat more sausages than you,” she challenged.

           He just bet she could, after all those Pilates classes.

           “The kids chow down like you wouldn't believe,” Mary said. “We should get there quick, before varsity lacrosse scoops up all the food.”

           In the church parking lot, townspeople were cooking on an assortment of battered grills. The smell was heavenly.

           “Bring on the lacrosse team!” Gray said. “I'll fight 'em for the last pancake.”

           “You and whose army?” asked Jane. She drew in a breath of the smoke and grease-filled air. “We'd better get in line now.”

           They took a look at the white Congregationalist church, its planks as well-kept as the day it went up some time in the eighteenth century.

           Over to the side, they saw one of the BMWs from yesterday and maybe an Audi or two, plus their people. They hung back, as if waiting to be handed a rulebook or introduced.

           It looked as if no one had made the slightest gesture of going over and offering them a plate. They looked like they'd be right at home at Sarabeth's Kitchen or someplace… and that was it. They had just driven in. Probably seen it advertised and thought it might be quaint.

           At that moment, Mary handed Gray a plate and gestured him toward a grill. He filled his plate with fluffy pancakes and delectably greasy sausage. When he finally took his mind away from food, the interloping tourists were gone.

           A capped man introducing himself as Ned Allard strolled up, tipped cap to Mary and Jane, and told Graydon that it would be three days until new parts came.

           “No problem,” said Mary.

           “You'[re very kind,” Jane said softly.

           “You're paying.”

           “Anything we can do to help?” Jane offered.

           Mary brightened. “The ornaments in the shop could use dusting,” she admitted. “Look, why don't the two of you spend the day wandering around? Time enough tomorrow to put you to work.”

           That meant some sort of tasks for Graydon too. Well, he was glad to oblige. Maybe he could hang around Allard's and see what was up.

           “You know,” he said to Jane, “This is too good.”

           “Children of the corn?” she asked.

           “The Lottery.”

           She laughed and gestured at the women who had come by to meet her.

           “She's going to be my new assistant,:” Mary told them. “Come back Monday.”

           .”You're not really thinking Bill Mumy's going to throw us into the far field, are you?” Jane quipped. “This is a good life. I thought it might be poky and hokey, but it feels good. Like something I'm remembering I forgot a long time ago.”

           “We don't have to go back,” Graydon said on impulse. “Our places would sell in a weekend.”

           “We could work from anywhere. We could even retire. What do you think?”

           Jane gasped. “Do we really want to pull up stakes at this point in our lives?”

           “That's the sunk costs fallacy,” Graydon told her and saw her grimace. She hated jargon. “Think it through. These people like us. They've taken us in. You saw the people in the BMW. They just didn't pass muster.”

           “For heaven's sake,” Jane said, “it's not always about getting into schools, into clubs, into small towns. We just arrived. Would we be happy here?”

           “You seen happy enough, offering to help out Mary.”

           Jane blushed. She was comfortable with these people – might as well admit it. Graydon too liked these people too.

           I'm not going out to live among pod-people, he reassured himself. But concerns divorced from real estate slithered back into his thoughts. They're not pod people. They're honest country people. Why is that scary? Because they took us in practically without question?

           “Tell you what,” Graydon said. “That was a small crowd at the church breakfast. And Mary doesn't seem to have many customers and fewer paying guests. This town is sparsely populated. I was talking to Allard, who says that there are a number of empty houses: kids grow up, move away, inherit, and the houses stand empty. If we set up base camp here, we might be able to do really well for ourselves.”

           It made sense. Most of Graydon's ideas did. But “We need to do more research,” said Jane. She always said that.

           Research that day consisted of a somewhat pricey tour of antique shops where as “you're staying with Isaac and Mary” produced things from hidden cupboards. They rode out to a farm Mary had recommended.

           “What can we bring you back?” Jane had asked.

           “The eggs are good there.”

           While Jane selected just the right colored eggs, Graydon lounged around outside, talking about land and farms and houses in town.

           “Not much of a market for apartments,” said the farmer. “We like space between us and our neighbors.”

           “Good fences make good neighbors,” quoted Graydon. That earned him a smile of his very own. No apartments. Other kinds of development projects were possible. He wanted to see the town's zoning ordinances, lot sizes, that sort of thing. There was plenty of land on the outskirts of the town. The houses in the town center, even the ones left unoccupied, were spacious and well-maintained beneath their shade and apple trees.

           They stopped at a cafe in the center of town. White curtains fluttered at its windows. Graydon pulled out his phone and started scrolling, searching for information.

           “No bars again,” he grumbled. “What's wrong with this thing?”

           The server came by, a much older woman in a starched apron with the same welcoming smile everyone in town seemed to display.

           “Those don't work here. Ground's too low, and we don't have a whole lot of wires. Someone tried, a few years back, to set up what they called an internet cafe, but the rates were dear, they couldn't get reception, and someone came in, dropped his laptop computer, and chipped a table. So why don't you just put the phone back in your pocket and eat your pie?”

           Eat your nice pie, honey.

           Jane was snickering.

           Graydon shoved his phone back into his chinos and ate his nice pie.

           The pie was great. The burgers had been good, too.This ought to be a chain, he thought. You could expand this one as the flagship restaurant...he wanted to reach for his phone and start making notes, but restrained himself.

           This place needed development, he told himself. A man who could fit in while writing a business plan acceptable to a VC boutique could clean up.

           “We have to take this one step at a time,” said Jane, reading the familiar signs.

           Once they left the cafe, reception cleared up. Again, Graydon bent over his phone, thumbs flashing on the tiny alphanumerics. “None of the vacant houses here in Stepford are listed on Zillow!” he said..

           “They may not want to sell,” Jane cautioned him.

           “Everyone wants cash,” Graydon assured her.

           ###

           Day after day passed. Allard had repaired the car. Had washed it and even detailed it in a way that made it look years newer. Now, it sat in the drive outside Mary's B&B. Graydon was hinting about putting a FOR SALE sign on it and buying a truck.

           Jane found she enjoyed working at Mary's Christmas store, where people smiled at her, welcomed her in, and when she began to feel a little peaked in the morning, provided her with home remedies. They had thought so, they told her, but they didn't like to say.

           Several pointed out one particular house whose windows looked like eyes waiting for a mind to use them.

           “The people's kids left after school, just packed up and left without a word. I bet you could get it for a song. I helped our church group clean it,” Mary said.

           It would be a good place to bring up a child, Jane thought. She could apply for maternity leave or work part time here. She began to consider how best to tell her manager and coworker. Graydon already had arranged for leave to research the town and create a business plan.

           A customer, one of the hyper-organized types who prepared for Christmas in July, heaped up a mound of purchases and was inquiring about a discount. Mildly surprised, Jane said she would have to ask the owner.

           Mary was not in the store. Maybe she was over in the church. She and Isaac both seemed to spend a great deal of time working with various committees there.

           Jane had never been in it. She hadn't wanted to intrude, of course, but curiosity woke in her – that and the need to inquire for her customer.

           She settled the woman with tea and a catalog, and left the store. Eleanor could watch it while she was gone: it wasn't as if she had any real responsibilities there beyond those of a good, conscientious volunteer.

           She walked over to the church, across the green velvet of the square to where its white wood cleaned in the sun. Light struck the panel announcing the building's pre-Revolutionary age. The polished doors were firmly shut. Jane tried the shining brass handles. After a firm push, they gave, and she walked right in, savoring the smell of decades of lovingly waxed wood, the odor of candles that had been burned, of Sunday's flowers. Light poured in through the long, narrow windows. Dust danced in the slanting beams.

           One sunbeam brushed a table resting below the altar. It was gray and square, and looked to be older than anything else in the building. Curiosity piqued, Jane went over to it, thoughts of finding Mary forgotten. Was that box Shaker? It was beautifully finished and carefully joined. She glanced around the room. No Mary. Jane put out a cautious finger to brush the cool wood. In this place of shining wood and paint, it had a curiously dull finish.

           Jane put out a cautious finger to brush it, and that very much took care of that. She touched its lid, raised it a trifle, then opened it fully. Embedded on what looked like velvety leather lay a knife, with indentations. It looked like a santoku for fine cooking, except that instead of being made of Japanese steel, complex with many foldings, it seemed made out stone. She touched the handle, then the blade, though not its edge.

           The knife was flint. Weathered flint, bearing dark stains that Jane definitely didn't like the look of. Beside it lay a pile of flint chips. They had been knapped finely and were all of one size. Like tokens. Tesserae, like mosaic cubes.

           A chill ran up Jane's back. They looked like lots that could be, had to be drawn. Jane was not religious, but that didn't look very early American, but like something older and more cruel.

           Footsteps behind her made her let the box click closed.

           “What are you doing here?” Alarm quivered in Mary's voice.

           “Customer's been buying out the store. She wants a discount.” Jane grimaced. It was nothing she herself might have done before coming her, but how out of place it seemed now.

           She was the one out of place, judging from Mary's unease, her eagerness to shepherd Jane away from the table that held the box.

           “I'm sorry,” Jane ventured. “I came in looking for you. The door was open,” she lied and hoped her entry had been unseen, “and I wanted to see. I have been to houses of worship all over the world. It feels so tranquil. So historic...”

           She was babbling like a fool.

           “Come out of there,” Mary said. “Now.”

           With Mary as escort, Jane walked up the aisle and out into the sun. The chill that still ran down her spine seemed embedded there.

           ###

           “I may have blown it for us,” she confessed to Graydon, who had spent the day going door to door in the abandoned houses on Stepford's green. “I just wanted to see the inside of the church.”

           “We'll see that the baby goes to Sunday School,” Graydon promised. “Let's take a walk”

           He led her out of the town proper and into the woods. They wandered through the trees toward what looked like a pool of sunlight enticed them. They walked toward the sun into an empty field.

           Once again, Jane felt that shiver, despite the sun's warmth. Scattered over the heavy leaves and mold that carpeted the ground were bleached twigs. They looked like bones, just a the white rocks atop the stone walls endemic to this part of the state looked like skulls. Old skulls. Petrified over the years.

           How many years? Summoning her memories of fieldwork in Mexico, she bent to examine the most suspicious rocks. She would need a test kit, but she didn't think she was wrong. The snap of a broken branch made her almost fall.

           Then, she ran out of the woods, Graydon pelting after her.

           Outside the B&B, she saw Mary carrying cheerfully patterned and ribboned bags, helping her customer back into her car. It was a Jaguar. Not at all what people around here considered a proper car. They fit the bags into the tiny passenger area, and the woman drove away and out of everyone's lives.

              Jane ran up the stairs, reached their room, wedged a chair against the door and bent over, panting somewhat. Graydon was rapt in his dream of real estate. Jane let out what she was afraid was a whimper and ran to him.

           It had to be baby hormones. Why had everything that looked cheerful, festive, even, become frightening?

           “Listen to me,” she said, bringing Gray out of his analysis of Real Estate Investment Trusts and how the model could be applied to Stepford.

           “I want to get out of here as soon as we can get the car. I know you were talking truck, but I want to go home!”

           “What's the matter?”

           “I've figured it out,” Jane said. “We've gotten it all wrong. Just the other day, at the breakfast, we were preening that the tourists who thought they might settle here didn't stick around had were leaving because they just didn't make the grade with this community? I think I was wrong, and I only hope we're not too late to make it up.”

           “Make what up?” Gray asked.

           “You didn't see that box. Or that knife. It was flint. It had stains on it. They looked like blood stains. And I saw Mary's reaction. She was angry. More than that, she was scared. The place felt very strange. Cult-like. The church is the center of it, and I think the box is the center of the church.”

           “I'm no expert, but we need to get you to an OB-GYN,” Gray said.

           “I studied Meso-American society in college,” Jane said. “Think Aztecs!”

           “For God's sake, we're in New England,” Graydon regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

           “Aztecs aren't the only people who had cults of human sacrifice. The Golden Bough. The King Must Die. What does it say about us that people took us in here? We had something they wanted.” Her hands slide to her abdomen, which was still only faintly rounded. “Not just that.”

           Graydon just had to make a joke. “What do you expect? That we'll drive down the highway and expect someone to run into a truck filled with pods?”

           Jane shook her head. “I want more information,” she said.

           She kicked off her shoes. Her ankles were only the least bit swollen. If she had to run, she could. Right now, she didn't have to go far. The bathrooms were not en suite, thank God. No one would blame a woman in the early stages of pregnancy for using them frequently.

           She opened the bathroom door, ran water to cover her footsteps, then tiptoed to the head of the stairs.

           “It's too soon,” said Isaac.

           “They seem like such suitable candidates. Such nice people that, honestly, I felt bad...”

           “Population's way down,” came a third voice that Jane recognized as the police officer who had brought them here.

           Mary let out a sob. “I just know it. She saw the knife. I'm sorry. I trusted her. I didn't realize how far she would go to … to help me make such a good sale. I tried so hard...” her voice choked.

           “We'll remember, come midwinter,” said the police officer.

           “That you will not,” Isaac said flatly. “I'm one of the Elders here, and I say...”

           “We have to keep them now,” said the officer. “They pretty much have seen everything there is to see. They're close to the truth.”

           “We're leaving them alone too long,” Mary said. “I think they went upstairs.”

           Jane raced back into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. Then, she tiptoed back into the room.

              “They're talking about us in the kitchen,” Jane said. “The patrolman said something about Midwinter, and remembering it about Mary. Isaac got mad. Midwinter,” she added. “When the nights are longest...”

           “Yeah and a big wolf eats the sun.” But Gray's voice shook, and Jane knew she had convinced him.

              “Okay, I'll build my real estate empire long distance. The more people we get in here, maybe, we could dilute this...this influence.”

              “Maybe,” Jane said. She didn't know if she believed it. What she did know was that she didn't want their child – her baby! – growing up in this sort of environment.

           That night,they discarded everything they had left in their room in Mary's bed and breakfast. It wasn't as if they'd have the heart – horrible joke – to use any of it again. It would look as if they'd decided to go for a zero-dark-thirty walk, or drive, given the car. Both sat up, listening, until the sounds of the house subsided, except for the faint creaks of an old building settling on its foundation.

              They crept down the stairs and into the Volvo. It slid noiselessly down the drive – that was quite a tuneup Allard's had given them (they would have to mail payment from the City) and out onto the road, making for the highway.

              The turnoff was blocked by cars and trucks. The good people of Stepford surrounded their car. They carried flashlights and torches that smoked into the sky, a blend of the new and the ancient.

           “I'm sorry,” said Isaac. “You'll have to come back with us now. You'll like it here. That's a nice house you bid on, and Allard will give you a fair price on the truck...lots of us are right happy here.”

           “It's a lottery,” Jane said with loathing. “You draw those flint chips. Like something out of Shirley Jackson. Only you don't use rocks. You use that knife.”

              “You know, you don't have to,” Graydon said. Pleading rang in his voice. “We can work this out. We can strike a deal. We can bring in more people, take over the local government...”

           “We need more people,” said Mary. “They'll give all of us a better chance.”

           “And may the odds be ever in your favor,” Jane chanted the slogan. “What happens to the losers?” she shot out.

              Mary looked down.

           “We have to increase the odds,” Mary said. She met Jane's eyes.

              “You should be all right,” she told Jane, gesturing at her belly. “For a long time.”

              “We put you at risk,” Jane said. “I put you at risk. I'm sorry.”

              Mary held out her hands. Jane took them. Both women wept.

              And maybe the odds will be in our favor, and we will survive, Jane thought. Maybe Gray can do what he thinks, and then we'll all survive.

           By the time he got funding, some of the nice people here would be gone. She knew it.

           “You've had a shock,” Isaac said kindly. “I'll drive back with you. Back to the house. We'll have some tea, then call it a night. Tomorrow, we'll look at all of this with fresh eyes. Tomorrow, you can take another look at that house. There's no need to rush into anything.”

###

           The jingle bells rang at the barn's entrance, and two weekenders ventured in, blinking in the unexpected twilight that enabled the Christmas bulbs to twinkle more vivaciously. Luring them in. Jane set an unmanicured hand with its new bright ring on the stroller parked beside her. It was not a Maclaren, but something older, more serviceable, taken from the attic in the empty house they had made their own. She had wrapped a puffy bow of red and green taffeta ribbon on it, and the baby within wore another in his wardrobe of festive clothes.

           Young Gray was the best thing that had ever happened to either of them. The first of many, Mary had said. Older children walked about the shop in their bright smocks, carefully lifting each ornament or prize from its proper place, dusting it, and replacing it in just the correct spot. The pine boughs around the fireplace were fresh. The entire town was decked out for Christmas.

           Christmas in July, all over town. Just as Graydon's marketing plan outlined. Already, it was having some success. Stepford was scheduled for features in the tourist and shelter magazines, with Graydon and Jane being pushed forward as reluctant spokespeople because the town natives really were reluctant, afraid even, to go on the record. If Gray played his cards right, and he was good at cards, he might be the first outsider to be named Elder.

           Isaac would have been pleased.

           The music was subdued: old-fashioned Christmas carols – none of that Bing Crosby or Irving Berlin stuff. More modern music was tacky; early music was too obscure, at least, that's what Graydon's focus groups had said. Jane turned down the music so customers could hear themselves think. She rose from her seat by the stroller to approach the newcomers, lowering her eyelids, the better to assess them, just as they noticed the stroller and bustled over enthusiastically.

           Mary was watching. Now that Isaac had substituted himself for her at Midwinter, she had become even more vigilant. She was owed. Meanwhile, Graydon pursued his dream of freedom through owning Stepford's real estate, developing its land, and turning that field with all the rocks in it over to archeologists at UConn-Stepford. It was too close for comfort, but it would put the Elders-- the surviving Elders--on notice.            

           The customers – and potential neighbors, Jane decided – had exclaimed over her baby long enough. Time to get to work. And to see, as she had been assigned, whether these people might be suitable.

           She forced the terror from her eyes, met theirs, and put on her very best smile. “May I help you?” she asked.

                                            The end