The sudden ascent from a decade of darkness into the glory of light was not brought about by the hands of a holy healer. No celestial trumpets announced the restoration of his vision, just as none had announced his birth.
A roller coaster had something to do with his recovery, as did a seagull. And you can’t discount the importance of Barty’s profound desire to make his mother proud of him before her second death.
The first time she died was the day Barty was born.
January 6, 1965.
In Bright Beach, California, most residents spoke of Barty’s mother, Agnes Lampion-also known as the Pie Lady-with affection. She lived for others, her heart tuned to their anguish and their needs. In this materialistic world, her selflessness was cause for suspicion among those whose blood was as rich with cynicism as with iron. Even such hard souls, however, admitted that the Pie Lady had countless admirers and no enemies.
The man who tore the Lampion family’s world apart, on the night of Barty’s birth, had not been her enemy. He was a stranger, but the chain of his destiny shared a link with theirs.
Eyes removed yet sight regained? Caused somehow by a roller coaster and a seagull and love for his mother? His mother, who died twice? I had no idea what any of this meant or how I would deliver on these bizarre narrative promises. One of my favorite reviews of the novel appeared in the San Diego Union-Tribune, where the critic said in part: “His opening is like a man announcing he will juggle bowling balls while frying eggs and piloting a hot-air balloon. Preposterous-but Koontz then proceeds to do it, and much more.” He described accurately my concern as I sat in my office, reading that first chapter over and over. A hot-air balloon, indeed.
Over the years, when a story took a seemingly illogical or an incomprehensible twist, I learned that my subconscious or maybe my intuition was at work and that I should trust it. Eventually, the story would evolve to a point where the twist made perfect sense, and I was always amazed that on some level I had known all along what I was doing even while doubts bombarded my conscious mind.
But From the Corner of His Eye would have the most complex set of themes and the largest cast of characters that I had ever tackled. And now it opened with what appeared to be narrative promises highly difficult if not impossible to fulfill.
The more I observed Trixie, however, the more confident I felt about being able to write this challenging book. The protagnosists of Corner were people who suffered pain and terrible losses but who refused to embrace cynicism and who strove either to work their way back toward a condition of innocence or (in the case of the children in the cast) tried to hold fast to their innocence in a corrupted world. My revelation that Trixie’s intelligence and sense of wonder revealed that she had a soul and the revelation that the innocence of her soul was the source of her constant joy prepared me to write convincingly about Agnes and her son, Barty. Junior Cain, the vicious yet hapless antagonist, embodied the fourth revelation I received from watching Trixie: that the flight from innocence so characteristic of our time is a leap into absurdity and insanity. Not only had Trixie prepared me to write this book, but she also had at least in part inspired it.
Because Trixie restored my sense of wonder to its childhood shine, I decided that having composed the first chapter, I had to write this story because I couldn’t rest until I knew what had happened-and would happen-to blind Barty and to his mother.
FROM THE CORNER OF HIS EYE took a week short of a year to write, and by the middle of 2001, I was deep into another novel that proved no less complex and would wind up nearly as long, One Door Away From Heaven. On a working Saturday, I delayed Trixie’s afternoon feeding by half an hour, until four o’clock, and then knocked off for the day. After she inhaled her kibble, finished licking her chops, and returned to the bowl to be certain she had not missed a kibble or two, we set out on an hour-long walk.
When you walk a dog regularly in the same community, you develop a group of acquaintances who are walking their dogs, too. Often you stop and chat for a couple of minutes, usually to swap dog stories, to talk about dog parks and dog beaches and dog treats and dog toys and dog illnesses and dog doctors and dog books and, you know, just dogs in general.
Most of the time, the other people don’t ask your name and don’t volunteer their names, not because they are obsessed with privacy but only because it doesn’t cross their minds that our names matter in this particular social network. We are dog guardians, and that’s usually all we need to know about one another, because we do know the names of one another’s dogs.
Every time I encountered a new person with a dog I had never seen before, that person’s first question to me went like this: “She’s a beautiful golden. What’s her name?” I introduced Trixie, complimented the newcomer’s dog, and asked its name. If the dog’s name was Sparky, the man walking him was known to me thereafter as “Sparky’s dad.” When Gerda came home from a walk with our girl, I’d ask if she met anyone, and she’d say, “Pookie’s mom recommended this cafe that allows dogs on the patio, and Barney’s dad says they have some fabulous new plush toys at Three Dog Bakery.”
Reading the newspaper at breakfast one morning, I saw a photo of a couple we met sometimes on our dog walks. They had been given some community-service award. A day or two later, I remembered the article and said to Gerda, “Gizmo’s dad and mom do a lot of good work for at-risk kids, got this award, photo in the paper.”
Gerda said, “What’re their names?”
I stared at her blankly.
She said, “Surely the paper didn’t just refer to them as ‘Gizmo’s dad and mom.’”
“The story didn’t even mention Gizmo,” I said. “Which goes to show you how worthless most newspaper articles are. They never get the real story.”
I am sure I read those people’s names. I just didn’t retain them because I already knew them as Gizmo’s mom and dad, and that told me the most essential thing I needed to know for the limited social context in which we related to one another. If during daily walks you encountered a guy without a dog but with a third eye in his forehead, and if later at dinner you told your spouse, “I ran into Three Eyes this morning, had a nice little chat about designer sunglasses,” the dinner conversation would not be significantly enhanced if you knew his real name was Jim Smith.
After encountering the same woman-Wally’s mom-two or three times a week for over three years, during walks with Trixie, she crossed the street to me one morning, leading Wally, and said, “I owe you an apology. I didn’t realize who you were.”
“I’m Trixie’s dad,” I replied.
She said, “I’ve been reading your books for years, I love them, I’ve seen your pictures on the jackets, and for some reason I just didn’t make the connection.”
We chatted about books for a minute or two, and then I asked her name, since she now knew mine.
“I’m Wally’s mom,” she said, and we both laughed, and then she told me that Ralph’s Supermarket had finally restocked Frosty Paws.
Ten minutes after we parted, I realized she hadn’t answered my question. I still didn’t know her name.
I am quite sure that at home that evening, she said something to her husband like: “I asked Trixie’s dad when he has a new book coming out, and he said next month.”
In Harbor Ridge, in addition to people walking their dogs, Gerda and I frequently encountered the grandfather of an Indian family who lived on the next block. He required the assistance of a walker, one of those models with wheels, and he proceeded at a slow but steady pace across the flat streets on top of the ridge, venturing out twice a day for what must have been a one-mile constitutional each time. I was impressed by his commitment to remaining active.