The motor home is rolling along at the speed limit or faster, and he assumes that the owners — the man and woman whose voices he heard earlier — are still in the cockpit, hashing over the excitement at the truck stop. If they’re sitting at the far end of the vehicle, facing away from the bedroom, they aren’t in a position to see any light that might leak under or around the door.
Curtis eases off the bed. He feels the wall beside the jamb, finds the switch.
His dark-adapted eyes sting briefly from the glare.
Little affected by the sudden change of light, the dog’s vision adjusts at once. Previously lying on the bed, she now stands upon it, following Curtis’s movements with curiosity, her tail wagging in expectation of either adventure or a share of the juice.
The bedroom is too small and too utilitarian for decorative bowls or for knickknacks that might be of use.
Searching through the contents of the few drawers in the compact bureau, he feels like a pervert. He’s not exactly sure what perverts do, or why they do whatever it is they do, but he knows that secretly poking through other people’s underwear is definitely a sign that you are a pervert, and there seems to be as much underwear in this bureau as anything else.
Flushed with embarrassment, unable to look at Old Yeller, the boy turns from the bureau and tries the top drawer on the nearest nightstand. Inside, among articles of no use to him, are a pair of white plastic jars, each four inches in diameter and three inches tall. Though small, either of these will be suitable as a dish for the dog; he will simply refill it with juice as often as the pooch requires.
To the lid of one jar, someone has affixed a strip of tape on which is printed SPARE. Curtis interprets this to mean that of the two jars, this is the one of less importance to the owners of the motor home, and so he decides to appropriate this spare in order to cause them as little inconvenience as possible.
The jar features a screw-top. When he twists off the lid, he is horrified to discover a full set of teeth inside. They grin at him, complete with pink gums, but purged of blood.
Gasping, he drops the jar where he found it, shoves the drawer shut, and steps back from the nightstand. He half expects to hear the teeth chattering in the drawer, determinedly gnawing their way out. He has seen movies about serial killers. These human monsters collect souvenirs of their kills. Some keep severed heads in the refrigerator or preserve their victims’ eyes in jars of formaldehyde. Others make garments from the skin of those they murder, or they create mobiles with weird arrangements of dangling bones.
None of those movies or books has introduced him to a homicidal psychopath who collects teeth still firmly fixed in carved-out chunks of jawbone, gums attached. Nevertheless, though just a boy, he is sufficiently well informed about the darker side of human nature to understand what he saw in that jar.
“Serial killers,” he whispers to Old Yeller. Serial killers. This concept is too complex for the dog to grasp. She lacks the cultural references to make sense of it. Her tail stops wagging, but only because she feels her brother-becoming’s distress.
Curtis still must find a bowl for the orange juice, but he’s not going to look in any more nightstand drawers. No way. Otherwise, only the closet remains unexplored. Movies and books warn that closets are problematical. The worst thing that you could dream up in a nightmare, no matter how hideous and fantastic and unlikely, might be waiting for you in a closet.
This is a beautiful world, a masterpiece of creation, but ii is also a dangerous place. Villains human and inhuman and supernatural lurk in basements and in cobweb-festooned attics. In graveyards at night. In abandoned houses, in castles inhabited by people with surnames of Germanic or Slavic origin, in funeral homes, in ancient pyramids, in lonely woods, under the surface of virtually any large body of water, even also on occasion under the soap-obscured surface of a full bathtub, and of course in spaceships whether they are here on Earth or cruising distant avenues of the universe.
Right now, he’d rather explore a graveyard or a scarab-infested pyramid with mummies on the march, or the chambers of any spaceship, instead of the closet in these serial killers’ motor home. He’s not in an Egyptian desert, however, and he’s not aboard a faster-than-light vessel beyond the Horsehead Nebula in the constellation of Orion. He’s here, like it or not, and if ever he has needed to draw strength from his mother’s courageous example, this is the moment.
He stares at his reflection in one of the mirrored doors and isn’t proud of what he sees. Pale face. Eyes wide and shining with fear. The posture of a fright-buckled child: tensed body, hunched shoulders, head tucked down as if he expects someone to strike him.
Old Yeller turns her attention from Curtis to the closet. She issues a low growl.
Maybe something hideous does lurk in there. Perhaps awaiting Curtis is a discovery far more disgusting and terrifying than the teeth.
Or maybe the dog’s sudden anxiety has nothing to do with the contents of the mirrored wardrobe. She might simply have absorbed Curtis’s mood.
The closet door rattles. Probably just road vibration.
Resolved to live up to his mother’s expectations, reminding himself of his remorse over failing to rescue Donella, determined to locate a suitable juice bowl for his thirsty dog, he grips the handle on one of the sliding doors. He draws a deep breath, clenches his teeth, and opens the closet.
As his reflection slides away from him and as the interior of the wardrobe is revealed, Curtis sighs with relief when he fails to find jars of pickled eyeballs arrayed on the one long shell. None of the garments hanging from the rod appears to be made of human skin.
Still wary but with growing confidence, he drops to his knees to search the closet floor for anything that might be used as a bowl. Lie finds only men’s and women’s shoes, and he’s grateful that they don’t contain a collection of severed feet.
A pair of men’s walking shoes appear new. He takes one of these from the closet, puts it on the floor near the bed, and fills it with orange juice from the plastic jug.
Ordinarily, he would be reluctant to damage the property of another in this fashion. But serial killers don’t deserve the same respect as law-abiding citizens.
Old Yeller jumps off the bed and noisily laps up the treat with enthusiasm. She doesn’t hesitate or pause to consider the taste — as though she has drunk orange juice before.
Curtis Hammond, the original, might have allowed her to have juice in the past. The current Curtis Hammond suspects, however, that he and the mutt are continuing to bond and that she recognizes the taste from his recent experience of it.
A boy and his dog can form astonishing, profound connections. He knows this to be true not entirely from movies and books, but from experience with animals in the past.
Curtis is “not quite right,” as Burt Hooper put it, and Old Yeller is neither yellow nor male, nor particularly old, but they are going to be a great team.
After refilling the shoe, he puts down the juice container and sits on the edge of the bed to watch the dog drink.
I’ll take good care of you, he promises.
He is pleased by his ability to function in spite of his fear. He’s also pleased by his resourcefulness.
Although they’re riding the Hannibal Lecter band bus and running from a pack of terminators who have more attitude than Schwarzenegger with a bee up his ass, although they’re wanted by the FBI and surely by other government agencies that have more-ominous initials and less-honorable intentions, Curtis remains optimistic about his chances of escape. The sight of his canine companion, happily drinking, draws a smile from him. He takes a moment to thank God for keeping him alive, and he thanks his mother for the survival training that so far has been an invaluable assist to God in this matter.