One Door From Heaven

for a vehicle with a gross weight of over fifty-two thousand pounds than would have been the right name for an elephant. With slide-out bedroom and galley-lounge extensions, it reliably proved to be the biggest vehicle in any campground, so large that children gaped in awe. Retiree vagabonds of a certain age, already worried about turning radiuses and tricky angles of approach to their campsite hookups, turned as pale as Milk of Magnesia if they were unfortunate enough to be required to slot-park their humbler Winnebagos and Air-streams in this beast's shadow, and most regarded the leviathan with resentment or paranoid terror.
        It sure rode well, however, as stable and solid as a bank vault on wheels. The motion-triggered hula dolls danced steadily, but in pleasantly lazy swivels, never with spasmodic abandon. And while in transit, Leilani could read her novel about evil pigmen from another dimension with no risk of motion sickness.
        She was so accustomed to the dolls that they didn't distract her from her book, and the same could be said of the colorful Hawaiian-shirt fabrics in which the dinette chairs were upholstered. Plenty of distraction was continually provided, however, by old Sinsemilla and Dr. Doom, who occupied the pilot's and co-pilot's chairs.
        They were up to something. Of course, being up to something was the natural condition of these two, as sure as bees were born to make honey and beavers to build dams.
        Conspiratorial, they kept their voices low. Since Leilani was the only other person aboard Fair Wind, she was inclined to suspect that they were conspiring against her.
        They wouldn't be scheming up a simple game of find-the-brace or its equivalent. Such mean fun was impromptu by nature, dependent on opportunity and on what chemicals dear Mater had recently ingested. Besides, petty cruelties had no appeal for Dr. Doom, whose interest was excited only by cruelty on an operatic scale.
        From time to time, Sinsemilla looked sneakily over her shoulder at Leilani or peeked around the wing of the co-pilot's chair. Leilani pretended to be unaware of this surreptitious monitoring. Her mother might interpret even fleeting eye contact as an invitation to wreak a little torment.
        More than anything else, the giggling unnerved her. Sinsemilla was a frequent giggler, and perhaps seventy or eighty percent of the time, this indicated that she was in an effervescent girls-just-want-to-have-fun frame of mind, but sometimes it served the same purpose as a rattlesnake's rattle, warning of a strike. Worse, more than once during this long conversation, between whispers and murmurs, Dr. Doom giggled, as well, which was a first; his giggle had the artery-icing effect of Charles Manson merry-eyed and tittering with delight.
        They were eastbound on Interstate 15, nearing the Nevada border, deep in the blazing Mojave Desert, when Sinsemilla left the cockpit and joined Leilani at the dinette table.
        "What're you reading, baby?"
        "A fantasy thing," she replied without looking up from the page.
        "What's it about?"
        "Evil pigmen."
        "Piggies aren't evil," Sinsemilla corrected. "Piggies are sweet, gentle creatures."
        "Well, these aren't pigs as we know them. These are from another dimension."
        "People are evil, not piggies."
        "Not all people are evil," Leilani countered in defense of her species, finally looking up from the book. "Mother Teresa wasn't evil."
        "Evil," Sinsemilla insisted.
        "Haley Joel Osment isn't evil. He's cute."
        "The actor kid? Evil. All of us are evil, baby. We're a cancer on the planet," Sinsemilla said with a smile that was probably like the one that she had worn when the doctors shot enough megawatts of electricity through her brain to fry bacon on her forehead.
        "Anyway, these are pigmen. Not just pigs."
        "Baby, Lani, trust me. If you combined a piggy and a man, the natural goodness of the piggy would overcome the evil of the man. Pigmen would never be evil. They'd be good."
        "Well, these pigmen are total bastards," Leilani said, wondering if anyone, anywhere, in the history of the world, had ever engaged in philosophical discussions like those that her mother inspired. As far as she was aware, Plato and Socrates hadn't conducted a dialogue on the morality and the motives of pigmen from other dimensions. "These particular pigmen," she