One Door Away From Heaven by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

determined not to let Death also take sweet memories and long-kept traditions in addition to his prize of flesh.
    Micky popped open a can of Budweiser. “They think the economy’s going down the drain.”
    “Who does, dear?”
    “Everyone I talked to about a job.”
    Having set the pasta salad on the dinette table, Geneva began slicing roasted chicken breasts for sandwiches. “Those people are just pessimists. The economy’s always going down the drain for some folks, but it’s a warm bath for others. You’ll find work, sweetie.”
    The beer provided icy solace. “How do you stay so upbeat?”
    Focused on the chicken, Geneva said, “Easy. I just look around.”
    Micky looked around. “Sorry, Aunt Gen, but all I see is a poky little trailer kitchen so old the gloss is worn off the Formica.”
    “Then you don’t know how to look yet, honey. There’s a dish of pickles, some olives, a bowl of potato salad, a tray of cheese, and other stuff in the fridge. Would you put everything on the table?”
    Extracting the cheese tray from the refrigerator, Micky said, “Are you cooking for a cellblock full of condemned men or something?”
    Geneva set a platter of sliced chicken on the table. “Didn’t you notice—we have three place settings this evening?”
    “A dinner guest?”
    A knock answered the question. The back door stood open to facilitate air circulation, so Leilani Klonk rapped on the jamb.
    “Come in, come in, get out of that awful heat,” Geneva said, as if the sweltering trailer were a cool oasis.
    Backlit by the westering sun, wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a small green heart embroidered on the left breast, Leilani entered in a rattle and clatter of steely leg brace, though she had climbed the three back steps with no noise.
    This had been worse than a sucky day. The language necessary to describe Micky’s job search in its full dreadfulness would not merely have embarrassed Aunt Geneva; it would have shocked and appalled her. Therefore, at the arrival of the disabled girl, Micky was surprised to feel the same buoying expectation that had kept her from drowning in self-pity since she’d moved in here.
    “Mrs. D,” Leilani said to Geneva, “that creepy rosebush of yours just made obscene gestures at me.”
    Geneva smiled. “If there was an altercation, dear, I’m sure you started it.”
    With the thumb on her deformed hand, Leilani gestured toward Geneva, and said to Micky, “She’s an original. Where’d you find her?”
    “She’s my father’s sister, so she was part of the deal.”
    “Bonus points,” said Leilani. “Your dad must be great.”
    “Why would you think so?”
    “His sister’s cool.”
    Micky said, “He abandoned my mother and me when I was three.”
    “That’s tough. But
my
useless dad skipped the day I was born.”
    “I didn’t know we were in a rotten-dad contest.”
    “At least my real dad isn’t a murderer like my current
pseudo
father—or as far as I know, he isn’t. Is your dad a murderer?”
    “I lose again. He’s just a selfish pig.”
    “Mrs. D, you don’t mind she calls your brother a selfish pig?”
    “Sadly, dear, it’s true.”
    “So you aren’t just bonus points, Mrs. D. You’re like this terrific prize that turned up in a box of rancid old Cracker Jack.”
    Geneva beamed. “That’s so sweet, Leilani. Would you like some fresh lemonade?”
    Indicating the can of Budweiser on the table, the girl said, “If beer’s good enough for Micky, it’s good enough for me.”
    Geneva poured lemonade. “Pretend it’s Budweiser.”
    To Micky, Leilani said, “She thinks I’m a child.”
    “You
are
a child.”
    “Depends on your definition of
child.
”
    “Anyone twelve or younger.”
    “Oh, that’s sad. You resorted to an arbitrary number. That reveals a shallow capacity for independent thought and analysis.”
    “Okay,” said Micky, “then try this one on for size. You’re a child because you don’t yet have