One Door From Heaven

light flattered Sinsemilla. Bindles, kilos, bales, ounces, pints, and gallons of illegal substances had stolen less of her beauty than seemed either probable or fair, and as good as she looked in daylight, she was even prettier here. Although her bare feet were grass-stained and filthy, though her fine slip was rumpled and streaked with dirt, though her hair had been tossed and tangled by the moon dance, she might pass for a queen.
        "What saith thee, young maiden, in the presence of Cleopatra?" Stopping two steps inside the door, Leilani didn't suggest that an Egyptian queen who had reigned more than two thousand years ago probably had not spoken in a phony accent out of a bad production of Camelot. "I was going to bed, and I just thought I'd see if you were all right."
        Waving Leilani toward her, Sinsemilla said, "Come hither, dour peasant girl, and let thy queen acquaint thee with a work of art fair suitable for the galleries of Eden."
        Leilani had no clue to the meaning of her mother's words. From experience she knew that purposefully remaining clueless might be the wisest policy.
        She advanced one more step, not out of a sense of obligation or curiosity, but because by turning away too quickly, she might invite accusations of rudeness. Her mother imposed no rules or standards on her children, gave them the freedom of her indifference; yet she was sensitive to any indication that her indifference might be repaid in kind, and she wouldn't tolerate a thankless child.
        Regardless of the inconsequential nature or the questionable validity of the triggering offense, an upbraiding from old Sinsemilla could escalate into a long bout of vicious hectoring. Although Mother might not be capable of physical violence, she could do serious damage with words. Because she'd follow you anywhere, push through any door, and insist on your attention, you could find no sanctuary and had to endure her verbal battering-sometimes for hours-until she wound down or went away to get high. During the worst of these harangues, Leilani often wished that her mother would dispense with all the hateful words and throw a few punches instead.
        Leaning forward from the pillows, old Sinsemilla Cleopatra spoke with a smiling insistence that Leilani knew to be a cold command: "Come, glowering girl, come, come! Looketh upon this little beauty and wish that thou were as well made as she."
        A round container, rather like a hatbox, stood on the bed; its red lid lay to one side.
        Sinsemilla had been shopping earlier, in the afternoon. With her, Preston was generous, providing money for drugs and baubles. Maybe she had in fact bought a hat, for in her more seductive moods, she liked the glamour of berets and billycocks, panamas and turbans, cloches and calashes.
        "Don't tarry, child!" the queen commanded. "Come hither at once and lay thine eyes upon this treasure out of Eden."
        Obviously, this audience with her highness wouldn't end until the new hat-or whatever-had been properly admired.
        With a mental sigh that she dared not voice, Leilani approached the bed.
        As she drew closer, she noticed that the hatbox was perforated by two parallel, encircling lines of small holes. For a moment this seemed like mere decoration, and Leilani didn't deduce the function of the holes until she saw what had come in the container.
        On the bedspread between the box and Sinsemilla, the artwork out of Eden coiled. Emerald-green, burnt umber, with a filigree of chrome-yellow. Sinuous body, flat head, glittering black eyes, and a flickering tongue designed for deception.
        The snake turned its head to inspect its new admirer, and with no warning, it struck at Leilani as quick as an electrical current would leap across an arc between two charged poles.

Chapter 20
        
        ON THE HIGHWAY, bound southwest toward Nevada, Curtis and Old Yeller sit on the bed, in the dark, sharing the frankfurters. Their bonding has progressed sufficiently that even in the gloom, the dog doesn't once mistake boy fingers for a permissible part of dinner.
        This mutt isn't, as Curtis first thought, his brother-becoming. She is instead his sister-becoming, and that's okay, too.
        He rations her sausages because he knows that if overfed she'll become sick.
        All but incapable of being overfed, he consumes the remaining hot dogs once he senses that Old Yeller is