Dean Koontz - One Door Away From Heaven

Although wearing only the beach-towel sarong, he's no longer self-conscious. He feels quite Polynesian, like Bing Crosby in The Road to Bali.

Instead of chunks of coconut or a bowl of poi, instead of the shredded flesh of a wild pig spiced with eel tongue, he has his own bag of cheese-flavored popcorn and a can of Orange Crush, though he had asked for a beer.

Better still, he's blessed by the company of the Spelkenfelter sisters, Castoria and Polluxia. He finds the details of their lives to be unlike anything he knows from films or books.

They were born and raised in a bucolic town in Indiana, which Polly calls "a long yawn of bricks and boards." According to Cass, the most exciting pastimes the area offers are watching cows graze, watching chickens peck, and watching hogs sleep, although Curtis can perceive no entertainment value in two of these three activities.

Their father, Sidney Spelkenfelter, is a professor of Greek and Roman history at a private college, and his wife, Imogene, teaches art history. Sidney and Imogene are kind and loving parents, but they are also, says Cass, "as naive as goldfish who think the world ends at the bowl." Because their parents were academics, too, Sidney and Imogene have resided ever in tenured security, explaining life to others but living a pale version of it.

Co-valedictorians of their high-school class, Cass and Polly skipped college in favor of Las Vegas. Within a month, they were the centerpiece feathered-and-sequined nudes in a major hotel's showroom extravaganza with a cast of seventy-four dancers, twelve showgirls, nine specialty acts, two elephants, four chimps, six dogs, and a python.

Because of a mutual lifelong interest in juggling and trapeze acrobatics, within a year they were elevated to Las — Vegas stardom in a ten-million-dollar stage-musical spectacular featuring a theme of extraterrestrial, contact. They played acrobatic alien queens plotting to turn all human males into love slaves.

"That was when we first got interested in UFOs," Cass reveals.

"In the opening dance number," Polly reminisces, "we descended these neon stairs from a giant flying saucer. It was awesome."

"And this time we didn't have to be naked the whole show," says Cass. "We came out of the saucer nude, of course—"

"Like any alien love queens would," adds Polly, and they reveal delicious giggles that remind Curtis of the immortal Goldie Hawn.

Curtis laughs, too, amused by their irony and self-mockery.

"After the first nine minutes," Cass says, "we wore lots of cool costumes better suited to juggling and acrobatic trapeze work."

"Trying to juggle honeydews while nude," Polly explains, "you risk grabbing the wrong melons and ruining the act."

They both giggle again, but this time the joke eludes Curtis.

"Then we were nude in the last number," Polly says, "except for the feathered headdress, sequined G-string, and stiletto-heeled ankle boots. The producer insisted this was 'authentic' love-queen attire."

Cass says, "Tell me, Curtis, how many alien love queens have you seen wearing gold-lame, stiletto-heeled ankle boots?"

"None," he answers truthfully.

"That was our argument exactly. They look stupid. Not queenly in any corner of the universe. We didn't mind the feathered headdresses, but how many alien love queens have you met who wear those, either?"

"None."

"To be fair, you can't disprove our producer's contention," says Polly. "After all, how many alien love queens have you really seen?"

"Only two," Curtis admits, "but neither of them was a juggler."

For some reason, the twins find this highly amusing.

"But I guess you could say one of them was something of an acrobat," Curtis elaborates, "because she could bend over backward until she was able to lick the heels of her own feet."

This statement only rings new peals of laughter and more silvery giggles from the Spelkenfelter girls.

"It isn't an erotic thing," he hastens to clarify. "She bends backward for the reason a rattlesnake coils. From that position, she can spring twenty feet and snap your head off with her mandibles."

"Try to turn that into a Vegas musical number!" Cass suggests, joining her sister in yet more laughter.

"Well, I don't know everything about Las Vegas stage shows," Curtis says, "but you'd probably have to leave out the part where she injects her eggs into the severed head."

Through genuinely explosive laughter, Polly says, "Not if you did it with enough glitter, sweetie."

"You're a pistol, Curtis Hammond," says Cass.

"You're a hoot," agrees Polly.

Listening to the twins giggle, watching Polly drive with one hand and wipe tears of laughter off her face with the other, Curtis decides that he must be wittier than he has heretofore realized.

Maybe he's getting better at socializing.

Speeding northwest over a seemingly infinite stretch of two-lane blacktop as beautiful and mysterious as any view of classic American highway in any movie, speeding also toward a setting sun that fires the prairie into molten red-and-gold glass, as the mighty engine of the Fleetwood rumbles reassuringly, in the company of the fabulous Castoria and the fabulous Polluxia and the God-connected Old Yeller, with cheese popcorn and Orange Crush, showered and fully in control of his biological identity, feeling more confident than at any time in recent memory, Curtis believes he must be the luckiest boy alive.

When Cass excuses herself to take Curtis's clothes out of the dryer, the dog follows her, and the boy turns his chair to face the road ahead. Co-pilot in name only, he nevertheless feels empowered by Polly's fast and expert driving.

For a while they talk about the Fleetwood. Polly knows every detail of the big vehicle's construction and operation. This is a 44,500-pound, 45-foot-long behemoth with a Cummins diesel engine, an Allison Automatic 4000 MH transmission, a 150-gallon fuel tank, a 160-gallon water tank, and a GPS navigation system. She speaks of it as lovingly as young men in the movies speak of their hot rods.

He's surprised to hear that this customized version cost seven hundred thousand dollars, and when he makes the assumption that the twins' wealth resulted from their success in Vegas, Polly corrects his misapprehension. They became financially independent — but not truly wealthy — following marriage to the Flackberg brothers. "But that's a tragic story, sweetie, and I'm in too good a mood to tell it now."

Because of a mutual lifelong interest in the mechanical design and repair of motor vehicles, Polly and Cass are well suited to the continuous travel that marks this phase of their lives. Regardless of what breaks or wears out, they can fix it, given the necessary spare parts, a basic supply of which they carry with them.

"There's nothing better in this world," declares Polly, "than getting dirty, oily, greasy, and sweaty while working on your wheels— and in the end putting wrong right with your own hands."

These women are the cleanest, most well-groomed, most sparkling, sweetest-smelling people whom Curtis has ever seen, and though he's hugely enamored of them in their current condition, he is intrigued by the prospect of seeing them dirty, oily, greasy, sweaty, wielding wrenches and power tools, confronting a recalcitrant 44,500-pound mechanical beast and, with their skill and determination, returning it to full operation.

Indeed, a mental image of Castoria and Polluxia, in the throes of engine-repair delight, pulses so persistently through his thoughts that he wonders why it has such great appeal. Odd.

Trailed by Old Yeller, Cass returns to report that she has finished ironing Curtis's clothes.

Retreating to the bathroom to trade sarong for proper dress, he's saddened that his time with the Spelkenfelter twins is drawing to an end. For their safety, he must leave at the first opportunity.