The More Things Change

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE

G ran gazed out over the snow.

It was just after Thanksgiving, and a weather system that she felt in her bones had settled over Green Valley and dumped several feet of fluffy flakes on the town. Trees bowed heavy limbs over the street, and the sunlight that was breaking through the clouds turned everything to sparkling diamonds and long blue shadows.

The children were out, shouting and running in the empty streets. Residents were on their sidewalks, shoveling and trying to look as if they minded the labor, or the snow, or the shouts, hiding their smiles in their scarves.

It hadn't changed much, over the decades.

And in some ways, it had changed a great deal.

Some of the younger folks were taking photos on tiny pocket telephones, and a cellphone tower had gone in a year ago, but Stanley still came in to nurse coffee nearly every morning driving the same old truck and Marta usually read a book near the window if there wasn't much of a lunch rush. (And there was never much of a lunch rush. )

Old George was just getting started in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher (noisy, new-fangled thing. Gran hated it with a passion.) and getting the grill hot. Devon was already there, pulling the chairs down from the tables easily with one hand and laying down placemats.

Ah, there was Devon's mate, Jamie, making the bell at the door ring. Gran remembered her as a child, always bucking authority. But she'd been gentle, for all of her defiance, never too busy to pause and pet a cat.

She stopped to do that now, automatically, only freezing her hand at the last moment when she remembered who Gran actually was.

Gran purred and arched into her hovering hand approvingly.

It had been a shock to the girl, finding out about the shifters who lived quiet lives all around the humans of Green Valley. But it helped that Devon was patient and persistent, and his little sister, a lynx shifter like he was, wanted them together so badly.

"Patricia got me to promise to building the set for the pageant this year," Jamie told Devon, dropping into one of the chairs he'd set upright. "Can Abby paint?"

"There's a Christmas pageant?" Devon said, putting a menu in front of her. He clearly found the idea quaint.

"Yeah. All the protestant churches get together, because none of them have enough kids to put on their own pageants, and a few years ago, Turner started hosting it in the school gymnasium and throwing a big potluck. The Cohens bring latkes, and Old George shows up with presents, and the Catholic choir does some songs and Marta brings seven pies and everyone eats too much and someone usually spikes the adult punch. It's kind of a Green Valley thing. "

Gran remembered a time when such a thing would have been impossible; it was every church for itself, in a relentless competition that turned neighbors against each other. Turner had grown up in that time, and he'd almost single-handedly turned it around, reminding the little town that the holiday was more than a date on a calendar and an obligation for gifts.

Devon froze. "I have to get you a Christmas present," he said in horror. "I've got to get Abby something! Dammit, this holiday always creeps up on me. Sorry, Gran."

Was he apologizing for swearing? Gran had heard much worse, in her time. She groomed herself in Devon's direction and otherwise ignored him.

"What do you want?" Devon asked desperately.

"I was thinking about the chicken fried steak," Jamie said merrily. "Hash browns, extra crispy."

"For Christmas," Devon insisted. "What do you want for Christmas ?"

"Turkey?" Jamie teased him. "Abby made a killer bird for Thanksgiving. And stuffing, and that green bean casserole. One of Marta's pies?"

"You're no help," Devon scolded her, but he was smiling, and he bent down to kiss her when he was done setting the last place. "I meant a gift. "

"Oh, I don't know," Jamie said breezily. "Maybe diamonds or ball gowns or…" her last suggestion was whispered into Devon's ear and he turned scarlet to the roots of his sandy blond hair.

"But maybe that will count as a stocking stuffer ," she added innocently, and Devon nearly fell over a chair scrambling back to the kitchen with her order.

Gran chuckled, as only a cat can, and rotated twice on her folded bathrobe before she settled contentedly into place, looking outside over the snow once more.

In some ways, nothing had changed at all.