The Open Gate

by Kate Seredy

  “Mattress,” Mother repeated in a dazed voice, staring at Gran. “Why—why roll it up?”

  “So we can take it. Never slept on a strange mattress and never will. I brought it here with me and it’s coming with me wherever we are going,” Gran said with an edge in her voice. Mother opened her mouth, changed her mind and closed it again. She groaned a little, then she said resignedly: “All right, Gran. John is getting the car. I’ll tell him when he comes.”

  Gran nodded. “Then I’ll go get my hat so I’ll be ready.” She turned back from the door of her room. “I’ve pinned my blankets and pillows in a sheet; he can carry those out too.”

  After she disappeared, Mother cradled her head in her hands and propped her elbows on her knees. She was still sitting that way when the entrance door opened and Father’s brisk voice said: “Well, well, the car is filled up and—why, Molly, what’s the matter? Anything go wrong?”

  Mother looked up. She brushed her hair off her forehead and began to tell him about Gran’s mattress. The expression of concern on Father’s face gave way to relief, then disbelief and finally consternation. He began to sputter: “Mattress—pillows—but we can’t . . .”

  There was a choking sound from Mother that suddenly turned into a giggle. “Oh, John, remember the jokes we used to make about vacation-bound cars? Folding beds, baby carriages, boats, boxes, crates, bedding all piled up on top of pepple? Well, that will be us now.”

  Father’s face slowly crinkled into a broad grin. “Sure you don’t mind, Molly?”

  “Not really!” Mother said. “The thought of the next few hours, buried under all this,” she made a sweeping gesture, “PLUS half of Gran’s bedroom, sort of took my breath away but I’m all right now. Did you see Mr. Wright?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  “Uhum,” Father nodded, casting a glance at Gran’s closed door. “Every cottage is absolutely the latest thing; modern plumbing with electric pump, tiled kitchen with all the automatic gadgets you can think of, electric stove and icebox, they even have special outlets for radio and there is switchboard service from the main building. Mr. Wright said it’s just like home, if not better. ‘Just open the door, throw the main switch and the house practically runs itself.’ There is a good crowd for golf and bridge—what else do we want?”

  “Ssh, don’t let Gran know it or she’ll refuse to go,” Mother whispered, her eyes dancing.

  Father shook his head and grinned. Bending close to Mother’s ear he whispered: “Sssh. Place is full of push buttons. We’ll be just as comfortable as we are here by tonight.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE OPEN GATE

  THE Prestons’ streamlined, glittering sedan looked and sounded more like a prairie schooner than a modern automobile as it wound its creaking way out of the city. All along the way people stopped to look; some grinned, others shook their heads disapprovingly. Father’s temper was wearing a little thin by the time they reached George Washington Bridge. The guard at the toll house leaned his elbows on the car window while Father groped for money. “How much?” he asked the guard. The man grinned and scratched his head.

  “What’s the toll for covered wagons, Jack?” he called over his shoulder to his companion in the toll house. “Ought to charge you double.” He grinned at Father.

  “Just—tell . . . me . . . how . . . much,” Father said between his teeth, finally managing to jerk his hand out of his pocket. The guard took a dollar bill, gave Father the change and said, still good naturedly:

  “Just the regular fee and a piece of free advice. Keep your temper, Mister, you may need it if things start moving on this load.”

  “Fresh!” Gran’s voice piped from among the luggage on the back seat, but the car was moving away. Father mumbled under his breath:

  “Who wouldn’t laugh? We must look like traveling gypsies.”

  “Never mind, dear,” soothed Mother. “We’ll be in the country in a little while and no one will pay any attention to us. I know one thing though,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “I’ll never laugh at another covered wagon as long as I live.”

  “Mmmmm, the air smells good,” Janet sniffed, struggling to get nearer the window. “Makes me hungry.” Dick groaned and Mother said:

  “Why, we had breakfast just a little while ago; it’s only eleven o’clock now.”

  “When do we eat?” Janet persisted.

  Father said: “I had HOPED that we could reach the camp and eat lunch at the clubhouse but I forgot to figure on my daughter’s stomach.”

  “ARE YOU BOTHERED BY HEADACHES? Do you feel jumpy and out of sorts?” A voice blared suddenly.

  “YES!” roared Father who had given a violent start when Dick turned the radio on full blast. “Turn that thing off, Dick. No, wait a minute. Push in the second button there, news broadcast is about due.”

  “Push buttons, push buttons, push buttons,” Gran scolded on the back seat. “People nowadays shouldn’t have ten fingers, one would be enough.”

  “Couldn’t cook a dinner with one finger, Gran,” Janet laughed at her.

  Gran sniffed, “Why not? Automatic stove, automatic cake mixer, automatic . . .”

  “Ssh,” Father shushed them, his head bent toward the radio. He drove slowly, his eyes on the road but his mind on the news commentator’s words:

  “Today, almost on the anniversary of Napoleon’s ill fated invasion of Russia, the Moscow radio announced that a million and a half Russian children would leave large Soviet cities to, quote,—participate in various scientific expeditions,—unquote. News is reaching us that Russian civilians are fleeing the western frontiers. What does this mean? What can it mean? Coupled with persistent rumors of the past few days, insisting that Adolf Hitler’s huge armies are massing on the Russian frontier, it can only mean one thing—an immediate attack on the U.S.S.R. And so, another friendship treaty between neighbor-nations might prove to be a mockery; another solemn pledge will be broken by the leader of the so-called new order; another . . .”

  Father snapped off the radio. No one spoke for a long while. It was Dick who broke the silence:

  “Dad . . . do you suppose we’ll get into the fight? Fred Miller said that his father said we ought to mind our own business and stay out.”

  “Whom does he mean by ‘we’?” Gran asked in a sharp voice.

  “Us, Americans—the United States, I guess,” Dick said.

  Gran sat up straight.

  “And who is this man that he can tell US what to do and what not to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Dick hesitated. “Exporter or something . . . they came from Germany a few years ago when Fred was just a baby.”

  “Humph!” Gran sniffed. “Well, you tell that Fred to tell his father that if a Yank wants to fight, he’ll fight without any by your leave from anybody!”

  Father started to laugh. “Mom . . . I thought you were an isolationist!”

  “I am no kind of an ‘ist.’ I am just a plain American and the man isn’t born yet who can keep me out of a fracas once I am mad enough to pitch in. And I am beginning to be!”

  “Heaven help the Nazis once your kind gets going, Mom,” said Father, chuckling.

  Gran struggled for elbow room as she pounded her fists on her knee. “I’m mad at the whole kit’n caboodle of bad neighbors over there!” she said hotly. “They’ve made such a mess of their own backyards, it’ll take a few Yankee regiments to clean it up again . . .“ She paused and exclaimed: “Did you say MY KIND? Aren’t YOU my kind, John Ward Preston?”

  “Of course I am, Mom,” said Father seriously. “But this isn’t just another war; it’s a world revolution against the crumbling economic structure . . .” He got no farther because Gran’s sharp voice cut in:

  “Economic fiddlesticks. It’s another dog-eat-dog fracas between bad neighbors, only there are more in the fight now. Somebody has got to knock their heads together to teach them that you’ve got to give and take in this world to get along.”

  “T
hat’s just what I was trying to say,” Father murmured with an amused glance at Mother.

  “Say it in plain English then!” Gran grumbled, settling back into her corner. “And I don’t want to hear any more news today,” she continued plaintively, “it upsets my stomach.”

  “Wouldn’t lunch settle your stomach, Gran?” Janet sounded hopeful. “Eating always settles mine.”

  “Would,” Gran conceded. “How much farther to that place, John?” Father glanced at the dashboard. “Mmmm—about two hours. But I’ll make a bargain with you hungry sparrows. One hour from now we’ll look for a nice shady spot and have a picnic lunch. All right?”

  Everybody agreed that it was. By one o’clock the car was well on its way through Orange County, but no one had seen a place yet where they wanted to stop.

  “There are so many nice side roads though, John,” said Mother, “why don’t you drive off the highway on the next one? We’ll surely find a secluded spot there.”

  “We are coming to one now,” Dick cried. “See, Dad, where those cars have just turned by the red flag.”

  Gran perked up at the words. “Red flag? I see it. There must be a . . . well, well! Looks like a real nice road, John. I wish you’d try it.”

  “Auction today.” Janet pointed to the words on the red flag as Father turned. “What does that mean?”

  Gran hissed and pulled her back from the window. “You stepped on my pet corn, you little colt,” she scolded.

  At that Janet forgot about the flag.

  They were rocking slowly along a shaded, twisting country lane. On both sides of the road sloping pastures stretched to dark, wooded hills, for the road was like a deep gash cut between rolling mountains. Beyond the barbed wire fences cows grazed placidly and here and there a browsing horse lifted his head to gaze at the passing car. Dick sighed happily:

  “Gee, Dad, maybe tomorrow we can have a horseback ride. I hope they have wild horses in camp; the kind that jump and stand on their hind legs.”

  Mother made a small, choking sound. Gran, who had shown keen interest in the countryside since they had left the highway, sniffed derisively:

  “Hoisteins, Holsteins all over the place. Give me a good Guernsey or a little brown Jersey any time.”

  “Are they wild, Gran?” Dick asked eagerly. Gran blinked at him for a moment, then said impatiently: “I’m talking about cows. And that,” she sighed, “is city education. My grandson doesn’t know a cow from a horse!”

  “But I do!” Dick’s voice was indignant. He turned to Father. “Dad, Gran is teasing me,” he began, but Father said:

  “Stop squabbling, you two, and find me a spot where we don’t have to climb over barbed wire barricades. There . . . no, that’s just a fork in the road. I’ll get lost yet.”

  Gran leaned forward, peering with great interest at a tree they were just passing. There were all kinds of advertisements tacked to the tree; among them a small red arrow, pointing to the right. Gran grunted.

  “Take the right fork, John, it’s prettier that way,” she chuckled. “As the old saying goes . . . Keep to the right and you can’t go wrong.”

  Father shrugged. “Looks shadier that way . . . we might as well.” He took the right turn. Gran relaxed. Her face wore a beatific smile. They drove uphill, downhill, and uphill again for quite a while. Father was getting more impatient every moment.

  “Nice country lane!” he grumbled. “It’s a labyrinth . . . a trap! Barbed wire . . . barbed wire . . . what are they doing here fighting a war? Aaah!” he sighed. “An opening! This is where we stop; not a yard farther into this wilderness will I drive.”

  “Much prettier farther on . . . look at the view we could have!” Gran cajoled, looking longingly at the road slanting up and over the hill. But Father had already pulled the car into the mouth of a lumber trail. Gran sighed, but didn’t say more. They piled out, stretching and sniffing the cool, spicy air. Only Mother hung back, half in, half out of the car door. “Snakes,” she said in a small voice, looking anxiously at Father.

  “Nonsense!” Gran stamped her foot. “Big girl like you afraid of little snakes. Give me that lunchbox . . . I’m starving.”

  The huge box was packed in three separate compartments, labeled: LUNCH, SUPPER, BREAKFAST. They all teased Gran about it, Father most.of all. “Did you think we were going to blaze a trail in the wilderness, Mom?” he asked, grabbing the last lunch cookie one split second ahead of Janet. “Piggie,” he laughed at her when she squealed. Gran, who had seemed very absentminded all through lunch, glanced up.

  “No, it isn’t a pig either. I’ve been listening all this time— Wait now! It must be— IT IS!”

  “Not a bear, Mom?“ Father laughed. “Not Indians?”

  “Be quiet!” Gran cocked her head, listening intently. From somewhere over the hill came a faint, monotonous chant; the words were blurred but it was plain that a man was shouting something over and over at the top of his voice.

  “I KNEW it! Somebody is crying an auction!” Gran exclaimed, her face shining.

  “That’s what it is,” Father said without interest. “Well, let’s be on our way—getting late.”

  “I would like to go to the auction,” Gran said mildly.

  “But, Mom!” Father exclaimed, turning his wrist watch toward her, “it’s two o’clock now and . . .“ Gran didn’t seem to listen.

  “I haven’t been to a country auction since Frank was a baby. John wasn’t born yet; we still lived on the old farm.” Her face had a faraway look and her voice was soft. “I bought a Franklin stove for twenty-five cents and it was the best stove we ever had. And your father, John, bought a sow and she had nineteen little pigs the next farrowing—oh, but she was a lovely sow!” Gran glanced up at Father and said in a small voice like a child pleading: “I would so like to see another country auction before I die.”

  Father raised his arms and let them drop in a resigned gesture. He knew Gran. When she looked helpless and meek, her mind was made up and nothing anyone could do would change it. “You win, Mom. Auction it is. But—where is the darned thing, anyway?”

  “Just over the hill!” cried Gran, suddenly full of animation. “I can tell by the voice—we could walk over—just leave the car here. Come on!”

  “Leave all this stuff here for anyone who comes along to help himself to?”

  Gran was already trotting up the road. She glanced back to Father. “Country folks don’t steal !” She threw the words over her shoulder. Dick and Janet raced after her and Mother said: “Just lock the car, John; we might as well see what it’s all about. I’ve never been to an auction.”

  “Neither have I. Lot of junk, no doubt,” muttered Father, locking the car door. “Why else would they have an auction?” He was still muttering and puffing when, reaching the sharp turn of the road on top of the hill, they could see the large, rambling farm buildings where the auction sale was in full swing. On the down-slope cars were parked on both sides of the road, bumper to bumper; a lot of them had been driven into the pastures and the farmyard was packed full of all kinds of vehicles. There were old trucks and shining new sedans, station wagons and Model-T Fords, teams and wagons and even a high old buggy with a bony old horse asleep in his traces.

  Father stopped in surprise. His arm brushed against a sturdy post and he leaned on it for a moment. “Quite a crowd! Wonder what the attraction is?”

  Mother laughed. “Just look at Gran! She is going a mile a minute.” Gran’s little figure was indeed moving fast. She had reached the farm drive and began to elbow her way through the outside fringes of the crowd. Father, watching her, groaned:

  “We’ll have a sweet time to extricate her from that jam of people. Perhaps we’d better wait by the car, after all.”

  He half turned to look back, uncertain of just what to do, then he noticed a crudely lettered large sign on the gate that hung, or rather sagged, on the post. The gate had been opened wide and now leaned, half concealed among the weeds and brush by the side of
the road. His eyes crinkled into a smile as he called Mother’s attention to the sign.

  “Look, Molly. Private road. Keep out. That means us, I suppose. An omen.”

  Mother slipped her arm into his. “Well, with the world and his aunt in there, two more won’t make any difference. Come on. I never did believe in signs.”

  As they drew nearer to the farm, they could distinguish the auctioneer’s words.

  “Now, people,” he shouted, “are you going to stand there and let those chairs be GIVEN away? Start the bid . . . start the bid. Who’ll give me ten dollars for the lot? Ten dollars for Six beautiful chairs. Do I hear ten dollars? Who’ll give me five? Say something, people... we haven’t got all day. One dollar then—who’ll give me . . .?”

  “A nickel,” a voice yelled and the auctioneer went on without blinking an eyelash: “Five cents I am bid, now who’ll give me ten? Five cents I’m bid, folks, for six beautiful chairs . . . ten cents by two of you . . . fifteen, now twenty . . .”

  “Oh Dad, Dad . . . come over here,” Dick’s excited voice shrilled over the noise. They discovered him on the far side of the yard, standing on a bench under an apple tree. He was waving his arms. “Come on, Dad, look!”

  When they reached him he was off the bench, rolling on the grass, laughing and playing with an ecstatic young dog. “He . . . just loves me, Dad,” Dick exclaimed, trying to sit up. “Stop that, you . . . funny-face you,” he spluttered when the dog jumped him again, licking his face. Dick tried to hold the squirming puppy and speak to Father whenever his face was free of flaying paws, flopping ears, or a wildly wagging tail.

  “They . . . they’re going to sell him . . . and . . . he just loved me . . . right away. Phew . . . don’t sit on my head, Funnyface . . . and . . . look, Dad, could we buy him?”

  “Oh, you must be mistaken, Dicky,” Mother said, smiling. “No one would sell a dog at auction . . . why . . . it just isn’t . . . decent!”