Little Doors (38 page)

“The Land will enshrine her name forever.”

As an ethereal gleam faded from their eyes, the women hugged each other, then moved toward the door.

“If he found Westbrook after so long—” began Calla.

“Then, Dormender, plainly Iatros can find us,” finished Hazel.

“And when he does, Aniatis?”

“What else? Would you have all this death among the Tetrad be for naught? We return. We return to Cockaigne.”

THE SHORT ASHY AFTERLIFE OF HIRAM P. DOTTLE

The head of the spike bites deep into the hard substance of my body, and the man’s blunt teeth grip the lower part of my anatomy with compulsive, fearful force. The spike supports me, while my body in turn supports the man’s entire weight. He’s a small, dumpy fellow, to be sure, but still the strain on me is considerable. Relying thus on a small piece of rusty hardware for our lives, both of us dangle over five stories of empty space, the cobbled street far below us a rain-slick bumpy surface lit by a few dim streetlights casting golden pools of lumi just then the gunshot rings out.

* * *

My name is Hiram P. Dottle, and once upon a time I enjoyed a quiet easy life, full of cerebral and sensual pleasures of a mild nature. No guns or danger intruded into my reclusive private sphere. But all of that security and somnolence ended with the arrival of Sparky Flint.

But I rush ahead of my story. More of this temptress soon enough.

Although not born to great wealth, at the time my tale commences I was living comfortably on a guaranteed income, having retired in early middle age from my career as an accountant. I owed my good fortune to the demise of an elderly and well-off maiden aunt in Crescent City: Denise K. Sinkel, formerly of the Massachusetts Sinkels. Her will left everything to “my nephew, Hiram, the only one who always remembered his lonely old aunt at Christmas.”

This statement was accurate, even down to poor Aunt Denise’s famous self-pity. My contribution to Aunt Denise’s good cheer was, I fear, minimal, and offered me as much pleasure as it did her. I always saw to it that Aunt Denise’s house was graced with several handmade wreaths and garlands, as well as a few poinsettia plants during the holidays. Riding the bus myself from Central City to its urban neighbor, I kept careful watch over the homemade wreaths and personally cultivated plants resting securely in overhead stowage, never relaxing my vigilance until the cabbie deposited me safely at Aunt Denises.

Horticulture and flower arranging, you see, were my hobbies. You’d probably never guess it from looking at me, but accounting was never my real love, merely a safe and reliable means of earning my income. Mother and Father both insisted that I turn my adult hand to some low-risk mode of employment promising a small but steady return. So I reluctantly discarded my typical childhood fascination with such icons of daring exploration as Lowell Thomas, Frank Buck and Richard Halliburton—why, today I can hardly believe the youthful dreams I had, involving travel to exotic climes and battle with wild animals and savage natives!—and when I reached my early maturity I enrolled at Keating’s School of Accountancy.

Thirty years later Mother and Father had long since passed away, deeding me the ancestral home where I still occupied my boyhood room. The property consisted of a well-kept but fading Victorian manse set on five acres of land in a neighborhood rather fallen, if you’ll permit the pun, to seed. This surprising legacy descended on an asocial bachelor who in the morning mirror seemed undressed without his green celluloid eyeshade and sleeve garters. Having perused enough ledgers and balance sheets to build a tower to the moon—had I cared to indulge in such fanciful behavior—I was more than ready to leave my career behind and plunge more deeply into my passions.

The redeeming moments in what most people would call a boring life occurred in my garden. In the suburbs of Central City, my property, through diligent and loving application, had been ultimately turned into a miniature Versailles, replete with espaliers, pollarded aisles and substantial fountains. I venture to say that not even the immaculately landscaped grounds of Idlewhile Cemetery (I am naturally excluding that spooky and mysteriously overgrown portion in the northwest corner) could compete on a foot-by-foot basis with my land. Why, the neighborhood children, dirty urchins all, frequently congregated at my fence to gape in awe. At least I assumed their emotions were respectful, although several times I sensed an out-thrust tongue swiftly withdrawn when I turned to face them. No matter, though, for I was content.

After Aunt Denises independence-granting demise, I enjoyed four whole luxurious years of complete devotion to gardening. My joyful days were filled with propagating and repotting, grafting and staking, double-digging and turf-laying. I managed the funds that had so unexpectedly become mine with care and wisdom, investing them in U.S. Treasury Bonds at a solid 1.5 percent annual return. Combined with my own personal savings, this interest income satisfied all my simple needs. Although I admit I did once boldly dip into some of the capital to secure a new wheelbarrow, a toolshed, and some fine hand-wrought British tools.

Including, in a magnificent example of life’s irony, the well-honed axe that killed me.

You will have gathered by my small clues that an unexpected climacteric occurred in my life shortly after my inheritance. That deadly turning point consisted of my meeting the irresistible Sparky Flint.

I can’t now say what came over me that fatal night. Some imp of the perverse took hold of my lapels and whispered evil urgings into my ear. To be short about it, I developed an instant but avid craving for a spot of sherry.

Aunt Denise had always treated me to a small annual glass of sherry upon my completion of decorating her house. After ten years of the ritual I grew accustomed to the taste, and actually came to look forward to the uncommon indulgence. Now, four years without tasting a drop of sherry, and my quiescent desires suddenly came to life. I felt an unquenchable thirst that only strong drink could satisfy. So I set out with grim determination for a saloon.

The trolley dropped me off downtown. Walking the unfamiliar nighttime streets of Central City, I tried to gauge which establishment might prove most suitable for a gentleman of my retiring nature.

Unfortunately, my instincts were flawed. I ended up entering a most ungenteel “dive.”

The “joint” was packed with smoking, sweating, cursing, laughing humanity, their voices echoing off the garish walls and grimy ceiling. I felt like a frightened cow amidst his ignorant bovine peers on the abattoir walkway.

Nonetheless my unnatural compulsion for the fruit of the vine still held sway. I worked my way toward the bar, past lap-seated trollops hoisting foamy mugs of beer to their lips and brawny laborers knocking back “boilermakers.”

At the bar I secured my drink, enduring a sneer or two at my uncommon choice of beverage from my immediate neighbors and even from the bartender himself, an ugly bruiser. I rested one foot on the brass rail, in imitation of my fellow imbibers, but the stance felt too unsteady, and I moved off to a small empty table.

And then the singing began.

Supernal, sirenical singing like nothing I had ever heard before, as if hundreds of calla lilies had suddenly taken voice.

I suppose the mode employed by this diabolically angelic female voice might have been termed “torch song.” If so, the metaphor was apt, since my whole soul was enflamed by the unseen songstress. No doubt the alcohol coursing wildly through my veins played its part as well.

I stood up instinctively in an attempt to spot the singer and was rewarded by sight of a small, lighted stage. And there she stood, microphone in hand.

Sparky Flint.

Her hair a tumbling mass of poppy-red curls, her cosmetic-enhanced face brazenly sensuous, her Junoesque figure wrapped in a tight jade evening dress, the singer caressed each syllable of her lustful song in a way that delivered the words like vernal osmosis straight to my heart.

I remained standing for the exotic chanteuse’s entire hypnotic performance, learning her name only when a coarse emcee ushered her off the stage.

Collapsing back into my seat, I downed the remaining inch of my sherry in one dynamic swallow. And as I set the glass down, my eyes confronted the satin-swaddled bosom of Sparky Flint herself.

“Mind if I pull up a chair, honey?”

“Nuh—no, nuh—not at all.”

She took up her seat so closely to mine that our knees almost touched, and I could see the very weave of her silk stockings where they caressed her ankle above the strap of her shoe. Conquering the reek of spilled ale and tobacco and human musk, a whiff of her sharp synthetic floral scent carried to my nostrils. The barroom seemed to spin in circles about me.

“Care to buy a girl a drink, sport?”

“I—that is—why, certainly.” I tried to adopt a dapper manner. “I fear I must have misplaced my manners in my other suit.”

I summoned a barmaid and Sparky ordered a cocktail unfamiliar to me. Once she had refreshed her tired vocal cords, she fixed me with an inquisitive yet friendly stare.

“I never had no guy stand up for my whole show before. Most of these bums wouldn’t know if the management had a hyena cackling up there. You musta really liked my singing, huh?”

“Why, yes, most assuredly. Such dulcet yet thrilling tones have never before laved my ears.”

Sparky drained her drink and began toying with a toothpick-pierced olive. “You’re a regular charmer, fella. Say, what’s your name?”

“Hiram. Hiram P. Dottle.”

“Well, Hiram, let me let you in on a little secret. A lady likes to be appreciated for her talents, you know. She can get mighty friendly with the right guy, if he shows a little gen-u-wine interest. And even though I’ve got a swell set of pipes, that ain’t all the assets Sparky Flint’s got hidden. Say, speaking of assets—why doncha tell me a little more about yourself.”

I gulped, swallowing some kind of sudden lump big as an iris corm, and began to recount my life history. Sparky brightened considerably when I described my home, and became positively overwrought when I detailed the clever way I had invested Aunt Denise’s money. By this point she was practically sitting in my lap, and I confess that I had indulged in two more glasses of sherry.

“Oh, Dottie, you’ve led such a fascinating life! You don’t mind if I call you Dottie, do you?”

No one had ever employed such a diminutive variant of my name before. But then again, never had I established such a quick bond with any female of the species. “Why, I—”

“I thought you’d be jake with that! You’re such a broad-minded character. Did anyone ever tell you that your mustache is so attractively wispy, Dottie? I bet it tickles just like a caterpillar when you kiss.”

And then to test her proposition, she planted her lips directly upon mine, in the most thrilling moment of my life, comparable only to my success in breeding a pure-white pansy, a feat written up as a sidebar in
Horticulture Monthly
.

We were married one month later. Only upon securing the marriage license did I learn Sparky Flint’s birth name. Christened Maisie Grumbach, she had been raised in Central City’s orphanage, and possessed no kin of any kind.

“A girl on her own’s gotta be fast on her feet, Dottie. I learned that early on at the orphanage. When it’s slopping time at the hog trough, the slow piglet goes to bed hungry. The main chance just don’t linger. Grab what you can, when you can—that’s Sparky Flint’s motto.”

The first six months of our marriage offered all the connubial and domestic joys imaginable. Sparky lavished her affections on me. If I could blush in my present state I certainly would, to recall how she twisted her “little Dottie-wottie” around her slim fingers, with honeyed words and lascivious attentions. And all the while, behind her facade of love, lurked a heartless viper of greed and treachery.

The first rift in our romance developed when I proposed to spend one thousand dollars to put in an elaborate carp pond. I realized this constituted a large sum, but I felt justified in devoting this amount to my harmless hobby. After all, hadn’t I given Sparky the elaborate wedding she desired, spending liberally on her gown and jewelry, as well as providing a feast for those few guests we could summon up between us? (I found Sparky’s friends rather unsavory, and spent as little time with them as possible.)

“Ten Ben Franklins on a fishing hole!” shrieked Sparky, abusing her nightingale’s throat most horridly. “And I haven’t had a new pair of shoes in a month! What the hell are you thinking? Do I look like the kind of dame who prefers sardines to high heels?”

“But Sparky, dear—”

“Fuhgeddaboutit!”

Our marital situation deteriorated rapidly from that point on, as if a plug had been pulled on a greasy water tower full of ill feelings that now drained over us. Accusations, vituperations, insinuations—these replaced whispered endearments and fond embraces on Sparky’s part. My share of these increasingly frequent arguments consisted of silence and a hangdog expression, followed by contrite agreement. Nevertheless, unplacated, my wife began spending inordinate amounts of time away from home, frequently returning only after I had finished my nine o’clock snack of milk and common crackers and turned out the lights for sleep.