* * *
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 bu
ms 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.
The final straw apparently came with a most unwise and unannounced expenditure on my part. I had learned by now not to advertise my horticultural expenditures. Consequently, the delivery of lumber, cast iron fittings and sheets of glass sufficient to construct a charming Edwardian greenhouse took Sparky completely by surprise.
She had the tact to wait until the delivery men left before laying into me, although judging by the mottling of her complexion, the restraint had nearly caused her to burst a vein.
“What the hell is all this, buster! Are you out of your everlovin’ mind? Your wife is walking around in rags, and you’re blowing through my inheritance like a dipso through free muscatel!”
I tried to divert her anger by joshing. “Oh, come now, dear. You have a sturdy and healthy husband not much older than yourself. Surely it’s premature to be speaking of my unlikely demise and your grieving widowhood.”
A look of pure vicious hatred such as I had never before seen on a human visage passed fleetingly across Sparky’s beautiful features, to be replaced by a composed mask of indifference. “Oh, too early is it? Maybe—and maybe not.…”
Her words and expression alarmed me to such a degree that I shrugged quickly into my ratty old puttering-about cardigan, murmured something about attending to a fungus problem, and hastened outside.
Kneeling at the base of a large, mistletoe-festooned oak tree, I was delicately aerating the soil around its roots with a small tool when I heard someone approaching. I looked over my shoulder and saw a horrifying sight.
My loving wife Sparky, hoisting high my fine British axe in her gloved hands.
Struck mute, paralyzed, I could only listen helplessly to her insane rehearsal of some future speech for an unknown audience.
“This is an absolutely awful neighborhood, officer. I’ve noticed tramps and vagrants and petty thieves lurking around our estate ever since my poor dead husband brought me here as his blushing bride. One of them must have finally broken in. I’m sure my husband died defending my virtue.”
“No, Sparky, no!” I finally managed to croak.
Too late, for the axe was already descending.
In my fading eyesight, filled totally with a close-up landscape of bark, I watched my own blood jet and pool in a hollow formed by two intersecting oak roots.
Then all went black.
* * *
The astonishing return of my consciousness at first brought with it no sensory data, aside from a sense of well-being and wholeness. For an indefinite time I basked in the simple absence of the shattering pain that had accompanied Sparky’s treacherous assault. The utter blackness and lack of sound in my current environment failed to frighten me. I felt too much at ease, too peaceful. I could only conclude that some good Samaritan had rescued me from my wife’s attack in time to save my life, and that now I rested in a cozy hospital bed, guarded by watchful nurses and doctors, my eyes and ears bandaged, my healing body suffused with morphine.
The closest I came to worrying about my old life was a vague feeling that certainly some drastic changes would have to be engineered in my spousal relations, once I fully recovered. Perhaps even a trial separation.
Then, after this period of idle, happy musing, odd, subliminal sensations began to filter into my consciousness. I seemed to register light striking me, but in a new fashion. Sunlight seemed to be impinging upon my “skin” and “face” in a whole-body manner, as if I were—horrors!—utterly unclothed at the beach. Discordant, jagged images swept over me. Likewise, I perceived the ambient soundscape in a novel, jumbled manner. Oddest of all though were fresh tactile impressions. I experienced a contradictory feeling of compression and extension, as if I were stuffed into a closet, yet simultaneously stretched on a not uncomfortable rack.
Likewise, my sense of time’s passage had altered. Objective minutes, gauged by the fragmentary movements of the sun, seemed to drip by like hours.
I used this extended realm of time wisely, and by the end of what must have been a single day, I had thoroughly integrated my new senses so that I could see and hear and feel in a coherent way.
From my new immovable vantage I enjoyed a 360 degree omniscient view of some very familiar landscaped grounds. And when I focused my “sight” in one particular direction, I saw my ancestral home standing forlorn and dark. Triangulating my position by landmarks, I could no longer deny the obvious conclusion.
My soul now inhabited the very oak tree at whose foot I had been slaughtered. I was now a male dryad, if such a creature were possible.
Acknowledging this impossible truth, I directed my vision and other senses downward. My human body had been carted away, but my sticky blood still filled the hollow where it had gushed. Alarmingly, I experienced a feeling of oakish satisfaction at this extra-rich watering, as if grateful for my pagan due. Apparently the original spirit of the oak still to some degree overlapped mine, offering its old perceptions.
Well, this was a fine fix, I thought. My old life had reached a premature conclusion, and such comforting rituals as milk and common crackers availed naught. But questioning the miracle would be futile, and I would simply have to learn to inhabit my new body and enjoy this mode of existence.
Surprisingly, the transition came quite easily.
By dawn of the next day, approximately forty-eight hours after my murder, I was already happy in my arboreal magnificence.
All my nurturing of this tree had prepared a veritable temple for my spirit. My roots stretched deeply down and out into nutritious, stable soil, while my crown of efficient leaves reared high into the welcoming sky. My inner flesh was strong and healthy, my limbs proud and free of disease. Birds and squirrels nested in my niches, providing gay company, while sun and rain stoked my slow engines. Ants crawling up and down tickled and massaged me and warred with insidious insects that would have harmed me. Like some Hindoo holyman, I experienced an absolute contentment with my condition, free of unsatisfied desires, my mind at one with ancient cosmic imperatives.
Little Doors Page 28