One Door From Heaven

of chocolates for a brain, then he's sitting in front of a plate of chicken and waffles."
        "That's you, Mr. Hooper," Curtis observes. Then he understands. "Oh." The trucker's tears of laughter are this poor afflicted man's way of dealing with his loneliness, his disability, his pain. "I'm sorry, sir." The boy feels deep sympathy for this truck-driving Gump, and he regrets being so insensitive as to have thought that Burt Hooper was simply rude. "I'd help you if I could."
        Although the trucker looks vastly amused, this is, of course, purely sham amusement to cover his embarrassment at his own shortcomings. "You help me? How?"
        "If I could, I'd make you normal just like Ms. Donella and me."
        The intellectually disadvantaged trucker is so deeply touched by this expression of concern that he swivels on his stool, putting his back to Curtis, and struggles to master his emotions. Although to all appearances, Burt Hooper is striving to quell a fit of giddiness, the boy now knows that this is like the laughter of a secretly forlorn clown: genuine if you listen with just your ears, but sadly fraudulent if you listen with your heart.
        Exhibiting rhinoscerosian contempt for Mr. Hooper, Donella turns away from him. "Don't you pay any mind to him, Curtis. He's had every opportunity to be normal his whole life, but he's always chosen to be just the sorry soul he is."
        This baffles the boy because he's been under the impression that a Gump has no choice but to be a Gump, as nature made him.
        "Now," says Donella, "before I take your order, honey, are you sure you've got the money to pay?"
        From a pocket of his jeans, he extracts a crumpled wad of currency, including the remaining proceeds from the Hammond larceny and the five bucks that the dog snatched from the breeze in the parking lot.
        "Why, you are indeed a gentleman of means," says Donella. "You just put it away for now, and pay the cashier when you leave."
        "I'm not sure it's enough," he worries, jamming his bankroll into his pocket again. "I need two bottles of water, a cheeseburger for my dad, a cheeseburger for me, potato chips, and probably two cheeseburgers for Old Yeller."
        "Old Yeller would be your dog?"
        He beams, for he and the waitress are clearly connecting now. "That's exactly right."
        "No sense paying big bucks for cheeseburgers when your dog will like something else better," Donella advises.
        "What's that?"
        "I'll have the cook grill up a couple meat patties, rare, and mix them with some plain cooked rice and a little gravy. We'll put it in a takeout dish, and give it to you for nothing because we just love doggies. Your pooch will think he's died and gone to Heaven."
        The boy almost corrects her on two counts. First, Old Yeller in this case is a she, not a he. Second, the dog surely knows what Heaven's like and won't confuse paradise with a good dinner.
        He raises neither issue. Bad guys are looking for him. He's been too long in this one spot. Motion is commotion.
        "Thank you, Ms. Donella. You're as wonderful as I just knew you were when I first saw you."
        Surprising the boy, she affectionately squeezes his right hand. "Whenever people think they're smarter than you, Curtis, just you remember what I'm going to tell you." She leans across the counter as far as her fabulous bulk will allow, bringing her face closer to his, and she whispers these teaberry-scented words: "You're a better person than any of them."
        Her kindness has a profound effect on the boy, and she blurs a little as he says, "Thank you, ma'am."
        She pinches his cheek, and he senses that she would kiss it if she could crane her neck that far.
        As a desperate but relatively unseasoned fugitive, he has been largely successful at adventuring, and now he's hopeful that he'll learn to be good at socializing too, which is vitally important if he is to pass as an ordinary boy under the name Curtis Hammond or any other.
        His confidence is restored.
        The loud drumming of fear with which he has lived for the past twenty-four hours has subsided to a faint rataplan of less-exhausting anxiety.
        He has found hope. Hope that he will survive. Hope that he will discover a place where he belongs and where he feels at home.
        Now, if he can find a toilet, all will be right with the world.
        He asks