One Door Away From Heaven (69 page)

Laughter and the presence of so many wonderful dogs inevitably encourages a visit now and then from other folks whose rigs and tents are tied down in this campground. After hard play, many of the dogs are sleeping. Although the family is not at work right now, they will always take advantage of an opportunity to pass along the Gift. And so before they all retire, long after midnight, the number of people who have gathered around the campfire has grown by seven, and there have been tears, though only tears of joy, and seven lives have been changed forever, but only for the better.

For the newcomers, after they have known the dreams of the dogs, Micky poses the riddle that she learned from Aunt Gen.
What will you find behind the door that is one door away from Heaven?

To date, Curtis is the only one who has answered it correctly on the first try, and this evening, the seven newcomers eventually puzzle their way close to the true response, but none earns a cigar.

Leilani gives the answer according to Geneva, which everyone in the family can recite to the word. “If your heart is closed, then you will find behind that door nothing to light your way. But if your heart is open, you will find behind that door people who, like you, are searching, and you will find the
right
door together with them. None of us can ever save himself; we are the instruments of one another’s salvation, and only by the hope that we give to others do we lift ourselves out of the darkness into light.”

Time passes as time does, and the campfire subsides to a mound of glowing coals. People and dogs drift home to bed.

Other than Curtis, the last two to leave are Micky and Leilani. Larry, Curly, and Moe have gone home with Aunt Gen. The campsites are about two hundred yards from these picnic grounds, and Micky lights the way with a Coleman lantern, held high. Woman and girl walk hand in hand, into a darkness that holds no fear for them. The murmur of their voices and their gentle laughter drifts back to him, all the music anyone could ever need. If this were a movie, and if Curtis were a film director, he would make this the final scene: woman and girl, saviors of each other, walking away from the camera into a future that together they have redeemed. Indeed, the movie would be called
Redemption.
Having seen 9,658 films and then some, he knows that in this final scene, as they walk away, the screen would fade to black; however, this is reality, and neither Micky nor Leilani will ever fade to black but will go on forever.

Curtis remains behind to extinguish the hot coals with river water and to stir the ashes, although he doesn’t do so at once. He sits with sister-become at his side, just the two of them enthralled by the mystery of the stars and by the pearl-perfect moon, together enjoying the
rightness
of all things.

He is no longer being Curtis Hammond, for he has
become
Curtis Hammond. This world is his destiny, and he can’t imagine a finer home or one more beautiful. Oh, Lord, he is a Gump, all right, but he’s finding his way well enough in spite of that.

A sudden whirl of wind spins up a twist of fallen leaves, sends them dancing slowly, slowly around the perimeter of the smoldering campfire until they reach Curtis, whereupon the wind expires in a puff, casting the greenery in his face. Leaves stick in his hair, dangle from his ears. He spits one out of his mouth.

Dogs laugh. At least most of them do, and
this
one is always ready to be amused. The playful Presence must love her even more than He loves others of her kind, and He sees in Curtis not merely one who will save a world, but also a perfect foil for His jokes.

One door away from Heaven,

We live each day and hour.

One door away from Heaven,

But it lies beyond our power

To open the door to Heaven

And enter when we choose.

One door away from Heaven,

And the key is ours to lose.

One door away from Heaven,

But, oh, the entry dues.

—The Book of Counted Sorrows

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Utilitarian bioethics as portrayed in
One Door Away from Heaven
is unfortunately not a figment of my imagination, but a real threat to you and to everyone you love. This philosophy embodies the antihuman essence of fascism, expresses the contempt for individual freedom and for the disabled and the frail that has in the past marked every form of totalitarianism. One day our great universities will be required to redeem themselves from the shame of having honored and promulgated ethicists who would excuse and facilitate the killing of the disabled, the weak, and the elderly.

Serendipitously, as I was finishing this novel, Encounter Books published a nonfiction work offering the best survey of utilitarian bioethics written for a general audience that I have yet seen. If, for your own protection and for the sake of those you love, you want to know more about the subject than I’ve covered herein, I highly recommend
Culture of Death: The Assault on Medical Ethics in America
by Wesley J. Smith. You will find it more hair-raising than any novel you’ve ever read.

For the second time (the first having been as I worked on
From the Corner of His Eye
), I have written a novel while listening to the singular and beautiful music of the late Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. When I mentioned Bruddah Iz in that previous book, a couple thousand of you wrote to share your enthusiasm for his life-affirming music. Of his six CDs, my personal favorites are
Facing Future, In Dis Life,
and
E Ala Ē.
Israel’s work is available from The Mountain Apple Company, P.O. Box 22373, Honolulu, Hawaii 96823. Or visit them on the Web at
www.mountainapplecompany.com
.

T
his book is dedicated to Irwyn Applebaum, who has encouraged me “to take the train out there where the trains don’t usually go,” and whose character as both a publisher and a man has restored my lost faith in the publishing industry, or business, or folly, or whatever else it might accurately be called.

And:

T
o Tracy Devine, my editor, who never panics when, far past my deadline, I want to take yet more time to do draft number forty before turning in the script, whose editorial eye has twenty-ten vision, who is graciousness personified, who makes every phase of the work a delight—and who will think that this dedication is too effusive and in need of cutting. Well, this time she’s wrong.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:

                           Dean Koontz

                           P.O. Box 9529

                           Newport Beach, California 92658