The Open Gate

by Kate Seredy

  For a while Mother was alone in the kitchen. Slowly she wiped the dishes, listening in the meantime to the noises coming from outside and from somewhere in the house. Dick’s voice and Father’s deep rumble were now loud, then fainter as they made trips from the car to the house. There was the sound of heavy objects being dropped on the creaking boards of the porch, always followed by a grunt from Father. Janet’s excited chatter and Gran’s dry, sparing comments came faintly through the house, accompanied by slithering, rustling, knocking sounds. A grating metallic screech made Mother wince; it sounded like some heavy object being pushed around. BANG . . . it dropped somewhere, reverberating through the house. Mother shivered. She looked around for a place to put the clean dishes and discovered an old corner cupboard. Gingerly she pulled at the door; it opened and Mother gasped, backing away. For a long moment she and the object of her terror stared at each other, then Mother drew a shuddering sigh and suddenly she smiled. “Little rascal,” she whispered, “you are a sweet little thing. But you have no business here. Shooo.”

  The thing, a soft gray and white mouse, disappeared soundlessly as if whisked away by magic. “Quick . . . aren’t you?” Mother whispered, peering cautiously into the dark cupboard. She poked a reluctant finger at the shelf; it came away black with dirt. “Ugh.” Her eyes flitted to the clean dishes, back to the grimy cavern of the cupboard. She shook her head, sighed, squared her shoulders, and went for dish-pan and soap.

  “Poor generation,” she mumbled through her teeth, yanking a chair to the cupboard to stand on, climbed onto it and attacked the top shelf. She was still at it when the door burst open and Gran’s mattress advanced into the kitchen, dragging Father behind it. They landed on the improvised table together; only the contraption was not meant for such an onslaught and collapsed with a splitting crash.

  In the deep silence that followed, the two stared at each other. Mother saw the jumbled still life that was composed of her husband sprawled across the rolled up mattress, the seat of his pants forming the highest peak of the mass, toes and elbows resting on the floor. His eyes were round, gazing incredulously at his wife who stood on the chair, her hair bedraggled, her face grimy, black water running from her arms to gather in pools on the floor. Then her face began to twitch and she wriggled her fingers at him “Daniel Boone, I presume.”

  Father closed one eye and chanted: “Rebecca, oh Rebecca Bryan, my faithful wife . . . now I am ready to die. I am relieved from a burden which has long oppressed me. I have paid all my debts and no one can say when I am gone: Boone was a dishonest man.” He grinned at Mother, then with a heave and a grunt scrambled to his feet. He held out his arms to Mother: “Come, sweet, if grimy maid; we shall make our escape. I am taking you back to civilization.”

  Mother made a face at him: “Don’t step out of character. Oh, pioneer, there IS no civilization. There is just wilderness around us and we are held captive by Indians. Little friendly Indians. To try to escape would be a breach of hospitality; a bitter offense for which we’d pay with our scalps. Once I read a book about you, Daniel, and that’s what you said. Nay . . . nay thou shall not tempt me. Besides,’ she added, laughing, “I am going to finish scrubbing this . . whatumacallit to show Gran that I am not a poor generation. Nothing can daunt me, John; I’ve met and conquered my first mouse. It ran. I stayed. As for spiders, pfffth!” she blew a dusty veil of spiderweb away from her nose, “they have lost their terror for me. They . . . scurry!”

  The grating screech of metal on metal sounded again, followed by heavy pounding. “What in the world is that?” Father exclaimed, listening.

  “Probably ghosts running in terror. Gran has a broom, you know,” Mother laughed. “Better look-see, huh? I’m busy.” Her head and shoulders disappeared in the yawning cupboard, so Father shrugged and turned to go in search of the noise and Gran.

  Mother had the cupboard clean and the dishes put away before anyone came near the kitchen. Then it was Father again. “Seen my flashlight, Molly? I had it in my pocket . . . oh, here it is!” He retrieved it from the jumble of boards and sawhorses. “Going to the barn,” he said in a preoccupied way.

  What for?

  “Hay.”

  Mother gaped at him. “I see. Hay, period. Very enlightening. Were those ghosts on horseback . . . or what?”

  “Huh? Oh gosh, Molly—I don’t know myself. Gran wants hay and . . .”

  “‘Nough said. If Gran wants hay, Gran will have hay.” Mother finished the sentence.

  “John! Are you coming?” shrilled Gran outside.

  “See?” Father sighed, moving hastily toward the door.

  Mother ran after him. “Wait . . . I’m coming with you.”

  They caught up with Gran and the children half way to the barn. There was a moon, its silvery rays drowning out the feeble glow of the flashlight. Father snapped it off but Gran had already seen it.

  “Handy gadget, that,” she conceded. “Never did like to fool around hay with a lantern.”

  “Are we going to sleep in the barn?” Mother asked in a forlorn voice, looking at the blankets Dick and Janet were carrying.

  “Oh no. A mouse might attack us,” Gran sniffed. “We’ll sleep in beds like civilized folk.”

  “Beds . . . Eureka, oh Eureka,” Mother snickered into Father’s shoulder. She felt a little giddy now, past being surprised at anything, past the stage of even wondering where beds would be coming from. Gran seemed to know that she was exhausted because she paused at the barn door. “You sit here, Molly. Mind the lantern here and don’t you kick it over. The Chicago fire . . .” Her voice faded out as she was swallowed by the cavernous interior of the barn, the children and Father stumbling after her.

  “Little Molly, Mrs. O’Leary’s cow,” sighed Mother, closing her eyes. For a while she was conscious of rustling movements in the barn, peals of laughter, Gran’s brisk, brief commands, then she must have slept, for a voice spoke in her ear: “Molly . . . Wake up, Molly.”

  “Go ‘way . . . just please go ‘way . . .“ Mother mumbled. Someone began to shake her. She blinked sleep-dazed eyes at Father. “Oh hello. Didn’t hear the alarm . . . what . . . time is it?”

  “Never mind the time. Here, I’ll carry you.” Mother sighed luxuriously, closing her eyes again. After a while she felt herself lowered onto something soft; a rustling, sweetly scented cloud, that felt like a dream-bed. Kind hands pulled off her shoes and she heard Gran’s voice, soft and gentle: “Oh, she’ll be as good as new in the morning. I’m kind of proud of her.” The very last thing she heard before sleep engulfed her was a wistful sigh from Father: “Just throw the master switch . . .”

  CHAPTER V

  NEIGHBORS

  “JOHN . . . oh NO. NO! Turn it off,” Mother groaned, throwing an arm across her eyes. “I just can’t bear that program.”

  “What did you say, Mom?” Dick’s sleepy voice murmured close by. Mother frowned. “Dick, you in your father’s bed again? Turn that radio off. That . . . Sunrise Quartet or what ever they call it they come right after those cheerful canaries. Ooooh, stop it!”

  A giggle. “Can’t, Mom—they’re in the trees. Millions of them.”

  “Who . . . are?” Mother asked cautiously.

  “Birds. Outside. Just listen.”

  “Moooooo,” bellowed a cow somewhere very close by. Mother sat up and gazed wild-eyed around her. Sun was streaming in through unfamiliar, uncurtained, open windows. Wasps buzzed angrily against the dirty panes, then the huge white head of a cow appeared, staring over the sill with moist, mournful eyes. “Mooooo,” it complained to Mother.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Mother said crossly. “Birds!” Her eyes fell on Dick’s rosy, grinning face. “Dicky,” she touched him gingerly, and snatched her hand back with a gasp. “Oh,” she sighed with relief when she discovered a moist black puppy nose and two shining eyes half hidden under the blanket. “Just a little private Zoo. Dicky, is this real or am I having a nightmare?”

  “Oh gee,Mom, don’t y
ou think it’s fun?” Dick propped himself on an elbow. His free arm made a sweeping gesture. “Look, you didn’t even see our beds last night when Dad carried you in.” Mother’s eyes couldn’t possibly grow rounder, but now they seemed to. “That’s right . . . what were we sleeping on, Dick? It felt wonderful. My word, the room is full of beds!”

  She stretched her neck and counted: “One . . . two . . . is that big snoring hump Father? three . . . four, and five,” she poked a finger at herself. “In my dirty pioneer dress too, cobwebs and all.”

  “Look, ‘Mom,” Dick pulled up a corner of his sheet, baring a mattress made of pinned together blankets, resting on rusty bedsprings. The blankets were stuffed with hay. “We made them last night in the barn. Made us sneeze like anything. Gran said clean hay wouldn’t but this is poor hay, gone to seed. See?” Dick gave his bed a good whack. A cloud of dust blew from the gaping holes between safety pins.

  “Ker-chooo!” they both sneezed. “Mooooooo,” said the visiting cow, pushing her solemnly inquisitive head way over the sill again. At that moment Father, whose bed was right under the window, heaved himself upright. “What in tarnation . . .” he began, but, finding himself cheek to jowl with the unexpected cow, choked on his own words and dove under the blanket.

  Mother, her eyes streaming from hay dust, was doubling up in a half cry, half laughter. Dick jumped up and down on his bed, shrieking with glee, sending dry pollen and old barn dust into the air with each pounce. Funnyface thought this was all for her and added her shrill voice to the general hubbub. Janet woke up, sneezing. Then Father’s rumpled hair and two eyes appeared cautiously over the edge of his blanket—he was measuring the distance between himself and the door. A disturbed and angry wasp buzzed toward him and hastily he withdrew.

  “MOM,” his muffled roar ended in a violent sneeze, “M.OOO.OM! They’re attacking me!”

  The door opened and Gran, fully dressed, fresh, crisp, and rosy-cheeked, stood in the doorway, calmly surveying the scene. With her came the tantalizing aroma of coffee and the sizzle of something frying. Four heads turned toward the door, four noses began to sniff. “Coffee,” Father moaned in a voice full of bliss.

  Gran was, on her way to the window. She caught the cow’s ear in her hand and peered at it. “One of Jake’s. Go on home, Whiteface,” she said, firmly pushing the reluctant cow back where she belonged.

  “How do you know, Gran?” Dick asked.

  “Jake’s tag on her ear. Milked her myself last night. Easy milker.” Gran was looking at Father now. “A cow is a curious creature,” she said in an amused voice, “but it seldom eats people. You big baby,” she added, rumpling his hair. Father reached up and kissed her hand. He was grinning. “Good morning, Mom. It wasn’t the cow . . . it was that . . . those little . . . dive bombers!” He made a vague gesture toward the buzzing windowpane and ducked when another wasp droned by.

  “Oh those . . . just ignore them. In early days people liked to have them around to keep the flies off babies.”

  “I haven’t any flies on me,” Father grumbled. Gran made an odd sound. He glanced up, but her face was innocent.

  “Don’t they sting people, Gran?” Dick asked, sliding forward to get out of bed.

  “No . . . unless you make passes at them,” Gran started to say .

  “OUCH! Wheeeeee.” Dick catapulted to the middle of the floor, holding his hand on the seat of his pajamas. Gran peered onto his bed, “or sit on them,” she finished in a matter-of-fact voice. She inspected the damage. “Mmmm. A little wet clay will fix it. Come on . . . city slickers,” she chuckled, “your clean clothes are in the kitchen. You can wash and dress while I finish getting breakfast.”

  They were just putting away the dishes after breakfast, when an ancient Model-T Ford chugged up the driveway. Gran glanced out. “There’s Jake . . . and Em’ly. Shucks, I haven’t got my layin’ house ready.” She bustled out, Dick and Janet hot on her heels.

  Father looked at Mother. She made an inquiring motion with her arm, that included him, the open door, the cackling chickens outside and ended in a wiggle of fingers. “Hello, Daniel. Aim to stock the place right away? Smart fellow,” she said with a wicked little grin. “Oh, good MORNING!” she smiled as a tall, gaunt, elderly woman appeared in the doorway. “Come right in. Mrs. . . . Van Keuran?”

  “That’s right,” nodded the visitor, moving forward majestically. She was dressed in a full-skirted black dress that was very tight around her waist and almost reached the floor. On top of her severely pinned up iron-gray hair sat a black hat; jet beads strung on wires quivered around its crown like tiny snakes. Father jumped up and bowed to her. She held out a large, white gloved hand obviously for a hand shake and Father’s hand disappeared in her grip. “OGUmph . . .” Good morning, Mrs. Van Keuran,” he said, hastily withdrawing his bruised hand and hiding it behind his back. “I was just on my way to the . . . layin’ house,” he mumbled. With a ‘Heaven may help me’ roll of his eyes in Mother’s direction, he bolted through the door.

  “No mo’ auction blocks fo’ me . . . No more, No more,” his voice rose into the plaintive spiritual. Mother, more to hide the undignified grin on her face than out of curiosity, leaned out the window. He must have been expecting it, for he winked at her, going by.

  “No more auction block fo’ me, No mo’, no mo’, No more auction blocks fo’ me, MANY THOUSAND G-O-N-E. . .”

  “I don’t rightly recollect that hymn,” Mrs. Van Keuran said in a puzzled voice. Mother withdrew her head hastily. “Oh . . . that?

  That’s . . . our favorite Negro spiritual. Won’t you sit down?”

  Incredulity spread thickly over Mrs. Van Keuran’s face. She stood stiffly, not moving toward the offered chair, inspecting Mother from head to foot. Mother gulped. “He . . . my husband . . . is . . . a great student of American folksong,” she babbled, fingers crossed behind her back. “You know . . . collects songs. Like some people collect . . . er . . . butterflies.”

  Mrs. Van Keuran relaxed. “Now . . . that’s put right smart, that is. Songs like butterflies.” She sat. Her face thawed into an indulgent smile. “It beats all what some folks collect! Like those antiquers who come snoopin’ around all the time. Times they get so bad, a body can’t open the door without findin’ one ‘r two buzzin’ around like gadflies.

  You keep your eyes peeled sharp when they come! Humph! Got many of them where you folks come from?”

  “No-o-o, we haven’t seen any. Maybe because we haven’t any old things in our home.”

  Mrs. Van Keuran leaned forward confidentially. “Well, WE have. Some. My Pa . . . he had the stuff though, my! You know what he did one day? Well, sir . . . he skinned a horse-trader out of his pants on a deal an’ he was feelin’ right good. Stopped at the halfway house on his way home, to water the horses, you know, as the sayin’ goes. Toward evenin’, after milkin’ was over you may be sure, in he comes where my Ma was cookin’ the dinner an’ he says to my Ma, he says, ‘Woman, what do you want most? Buy anything you want . . . just say the word:’ So my Ma, she had her heart set on some new furniture she’d seen in the mail order book. Tired of the old stuff she was; it all come down to her from her own folks. So Pa, he orders everything and one day he drives into the yard with a wagon full of bran’ new furnishin’s. Golden Oak it was, slick as a whistle. Then he an’ Ma, they up an’ make a bonfire of the old stuff an’ what wouldn’t burn, like glass and china, he chucks into the old cave’ in well.”

  She looked at Mother expectantly and Mother said: “Oh my! Then what happened?”

  “Nothin’ for a spell. Jake and I got hitched after Pa passed away, the children come, then Ma was took sudden-like. But the old well, it got filled up with rubbish an’ that was that. But then,” she poked a finger at Mother, edging forward on her chair, “a few years back, when them antiquers commenced to snoop around, I says to Jake, I says: Jake, that there old well is full of antiques, I bet. ‘Mind you, I ain’t a bettin’ woman for all we live in Orange County,
just as a manner of speaking. So Jake, he looks at me ‘fraid like as if I was loony, so I tell him what Pa done. Jake, he goes at that well like a hound at a rabbit hole and sure ‘nough, we made more money outen that old well than Jake made in two years’ farmin’! Yessir!”

  With an emphatic nod that set all the jet-snakes wriggling, Mrs. Van Keuran sat back in her chair, waiting for the response.

  “Wasn’t that wonderful!” Mother cried. “But weren’t the things broken?”

  “Some. The china was. Heavy glass, the kind they call Sandwich, wasn’t even chipped. No difference. Once a thing is antique, it’s worth money, broke or not. Dirtier the better, I found.” Her eyes flashed around the kitchen. “You got one right there!” she pointed at the corner cupboard. “Lou could’ve sold it yesterday but that it’s nailed to the wall. I sold mine outa the kitchen for fifty-six dollars.”

  “You DID?” Mother turned to look, with new respect, at the cupboard. “I . . . I . . . scrubbed it last night. Was that bad for it?”

  “Well . . . as long as you don’t disturb what they call the pa-teena it’s all right.”

  “I see. All I disturbed was one mouse and some spiders,” Mother said, with her tongue in her cheek. But Mrs. Van Keuran wasn’t interested. She was inspecting the kitchen thoroughly, as if she had never seen it before. “Got right down to business, I see. Best kitchen in many a mile. Always did like for a kitchen to be roomy; gives a body a chance to sling an arm. Aim to move your stuff in soon? Jake says he might help you tote it up from the deepo.”

  “Well,” Mother gulped, “well . . . you see, Mrs. Van Keuran, we didn’t plan to bring our furniture.” She sighed, thinking, now or never. “The truth is . . .”