The Open Gate

by Kate Seredy

They found the whole family in the kitchen.

  “Linka, wife to Mike,” Mike was explaining. “She fat, huh? Mike good man, make Linka fat, huh?”

  Linka’s response to the family’s greeting was a big all-encompassing smile. Mike was rocking on his heels, evidently waiting for a reply. Gran smiled at him, her eyes mischievous. “Good man, yes, but maybe a little too good, Mike. Don’t you think so?”

  Mike didn’t agree. “Too fat? No. Woman, she never too fat. You,” pointing at Gran, “no husband, no fat. She,” indicating Mother, “Mike t’ink she work too much with head. Now, on farm, she work wit’ hand, she grow good, fat like Linka, huh?”

  “Not if I know it,” Mother said under her breath, grinning at Father, but aloud she said: “Okay, Mike!”

  Mike nodded. “She, Linka, bring cheese. Goat cheese, good, for friend. Give cheese, Linka.”

  Linka bobbed her head, unfolded her shawl, and held out a large, round cake of cheese, wrapped in a clean white cloth. “Linka make,” she said. Above her gift, her round, weatherbeaten face, ageless, like Mike’s, was wreathed in a heartwarming smile. She wouldn’t say another word, just beamed, looking to Mike to be the interpreter. Mike, standing with legs wide apart, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Mother asked Linka a question, but received only a shy chuckle for an answer. Mike said: “She okay, only shy like litt’ heifer. She no speak good anyhow, not like Mike. Speak litt’, work big, t’at good wife. Now we go home. He grasped Linka and propelled her out the door. Then he stuck his head in again, peering at them anxiously. “She okay?”

  “You bet she is,” Father assured him. “We like her very much.”

  “Aaah. Now Mike happy. Friend like Linka, everyt’ing okay.”

  “And that, my dear wife,” Father said, moving rather rapidly toward the door, “is the wisdom of the ages. Remember, will you?

  ‘Speak little, work big,’ that’s a good wife. I want my supper,” he yelled from the other side of the door and they could hear his laughter running with him across the yard.

  They had some of the goat cheese for supper and found it delicious. Dick asked for a third helping of cake, not really expecting to get it, but he did, without any objections. He caught Father’s glance and grinned. “Geeminy! It pays to work in this family!”

  “That was a fine job, Dick,” was all Father said. Gran smiled at him though, and Mother put on a make-believe sad face. “I think it’s awful to have a man for a son. It makes me feel old.”

  Suddenly the tangible reward of the cake didn’t seem half as important as the way they looked at him. Dick finished it half-heartedly, then pushed his plate away. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands in his pockets.

  “Listen, Dad,” he began, speaking with the assurance of his newfound importance, “if you haven’t any other plans, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Fire away, Son.”

  “Just a second, then.” Dick ran to get the drawings he had carefully put away in the cupboard in his room. He came back and laid them side by side on the table. “It’s about these,” he said, watching the faces of Father, Mother, and Gran, as they bent over the drawings. After a few moments Father looked up. His face was serious. “Dick, did YOU do these?”

  There was something in his voice that gave Dick the assurance that the drawings were good; not only to him, but to those who knew more about pictures than he did.

  “No, Dad. Andy drew them. Are they . . . really . . . awfully good?”

  “They are,” Father said seriously. Mother’s face was all excited.

  “Why, John, it’s amazing! They’re fresh and spontaneous . . . there is a real feeling for line and values . . .”

  But Father only nodded. He was still looking at Dick’s flushed and intense face. “Tell me about it, Dick.”

  Haltingly first, then, seeing the interest they were all showing, Dick told what he knew. He told the story of how Andy’s father and mother were killed; unconsciously repeating whole passages of the story, exactly as he had heard it. He talked on and on, about Andy’s sad Christmas days, about what Andy had said of the apple trees dancing; the only thing he didn’t mention was Andy’s Christmas tree for the small creatures. He finished with what Mike had said that afternoon, then there was nothing more to tell. He just stopped, feeling suddenly a little embarrassed, because there was silence in the kitchen and everyone was looking at him strangely.

  “Well,” he spoke again since no one else did, “that’s all. I thought . . .” his voice was casual again, trying to cover up his feeling for Andy, “he is a pretty nice guy . . .”

  It was no use; the feeling was too strong to stay hidden. “Oh gee, Dad,” he cried, “we’ve got everything, Janet and I—you and Mother and Gran . . . and Christmas . . . everything all together. Gee . . . could Andy have a little bit of . . . us? Live here and . . . you know . . .”

  Father got up and walked around to him. He held Dick by both shoulders and looked straight in his eyes. “Whatever you say, Dick. Andy can have from us and with us. As long as it . . . does not hurt the old Van Keurans. Because, Dick, you must think of this: there are some people, like Mrs. Van Keuran, who, when they get badly hurt, don’t show it. They cover up the hurt some way, grit their teeth and go on as if nothing had happened. But, the pain is there, all the time, day and night. Some take it with grace,” one of his hands left Dick’s shoulder, to lie on Gran’s hand for a moment, “some take it well,” he smiled a little, “remember the time I had that awful toothache, what did I do?”

  Dick, beginning to understand, smiled too. “You growled at everybody . . . you were awful cross.”

  Father nodded. “And that was only a toothache that lasted for a few days. Mrs. Van Keuran has had a worse ache for all these years, Dick. We can’t hurt her more by taking Andy away too, can we?”

  “No sir,” Dick admitted.

  “But,” Father went on, looking at Mother now, “we can do a lot for the boy, perhaps for all three of them, if we really want to.” It wasn’t exactly a question, just one of those moments when Father and Mother talked without words.

  “We really want to,” Mother said quietly. Gran sighed and settled back in her chair.

  “City or no city, you’ve got what it takes,” she said with satisfaction. “Leave Em’ly to me. I’ll get her to talk. Maybe she can talk the bitterness out of herself.”

  “These pictures, John,” Mother picked up the drawings again. “I thought I might send some of Andy’s drawings to that modern art periodical I used to work for. They’re always on the lookout for new talent and this boy has plenty, or else I don’t know anything about art.”

  “Good idea,” Father said, then he asked Dick: “Want to run over and see if Andy has more? It’s only a little after eight.”

  Dick was out of the room before he had finished the question. There was a wail: “May I go too?” and Janet caught up with him. Hand in hand they ran down the darkening road. They didn’t speak, but a pressure on Dick’s hand, one he returned, was enough for each to know that the other was happy.

  Twilight came early into the deep valley and there was a light in the Van Keuran kitchen. Two of the high windows in the barn were shining too; the rest of the place was dark. They stopped at the gate, hesitating. “I guess those two are the office windows,” Dick was thinking aloud. “Try the barn first . . . I’m still scared of her,” Janet whispered with a shiver. Dick pushed on the gate cautiously, but it creaked and a hound started to bay. The next moment others, there must have been a dozen of them, set up a howling clamor and the kitchen door flew open. Mrs. Van Keuran stood outlined against the light behind her, a gun in her hand. “Who’s there? What you want?” she shouted.

  “It’s us, Mrs. Van Keuran,” quavered Dick, stepping in front of Janet, just in case. The gun was still pointed, so he added: “Dick and Janet Preston.”

  Mrs. Van Keuran propped the gun against the door jamb and came sailing through the yard.

  “What you two traipsin’ around
for? Had ought to be in bed,” she scolded, but in the same breath she asked, concern creeping through the gruffness of her voice: “Your folks ain’t got any trouble now? I’ll come if’n I’m needed.”

  “Oh no, we are all right,” Dick said. “We just . . . well, we came to see Andy.”

  “Andy! This time of night!” Mrs. Van Keuran disapproved, but then she shrugged. “Well, find him. As likely to be moonin’ up Fox Hill way as anywheres else. Wait,” she cried when the children turned away, “if’n you find that boy, you tell him to come get his supper. He hid out ‘cause I whaled him some for his scribblin’ up good paper ag’in. But tell him, supper’s a’waitin’ . . . something he is right fond of, tell him. I ain’t a’goin’ to traipse after him; he can go hungry if he likes. You just tell him . . . just say, it’s apple dumplin’s keepin’ warm in the oven.”

  “All right, we’ll tell him.” Dick’s voice was gentle. Almost before he knew what he was saying, the words were out: “Don’t worry, Mrs. Van Keuran. Andy is all right.”

  “I ain’t a’worryin’, not for a shiftless boy the like of Andy,” the loud voice kept on protesting long after the barn door closed after the children.

  “Not much, she isn’t,” Janet said in the warm, dark stillness. Dick sighed: “Gee, but people are funny. You know, Janet, I am not afraid of her any more. Are you?”

  “N-no,” Janet said softly. “I hope we find Andy though. I hope he didn’t run away.”

  They tiptoed their way through the dark barn, along the narrow passageway. Drowsy, gentle brown eyes followed their steps, one or two cows lowed softly. A crack of light showed under the office door. Dick knocked and called in a low voice: “Andy, it’s Dick and Janet.”

  There was a deep grunt and the screech of a chair being pushed, then the door opened. Old Mr. Van Keuran stood there, blinking owlishly at the children.

  “Andy ain’t here. You looked in the house?”

  “He isn’t there,” Dick said. “We’d like to find him; where should we look?” His eyes flitted past Mr. Van Keuran and saw something on the desk inside. “Are those papers . . . some of Andy’s drawings?”

  Mr. Van Keuran glanced back as if he didn’t know what was on the desk. “Them?” he hesitated, blinking at Dick again. “He tell you?”

  Dick nodded. “Dad and Mother saw two that Andy gave me. They think Andy is . . . new talent or something, anyway, something special. Mother wants more drawings, to send them to New York. To an art magazine.”

  Some change came into Mr. Van Keuran’s face while Dick was talking. It was as if a kind hand had smoothed out the sad, heavy lines around his mouth. He reached out without a word and pulled the children inside. He stepped to the desk and silently looked at the pictures spread out on it, one arm around Dick, one around Janet. “Powerful good, ain’t they,” he sighed. It wasn’t a sad sigh at all. It sounded like the sigh of a man who had just been relieved of a heavy burden. Then quickly he pushed the papers into a stack and handed them to Dick. “I had them hid away. I knowed all the time . . . all the time. Tell your Ma to do what she wants. Tell her, Andy ain’t shiftless. Tell her . . . I know there is a thing in Andy wants more than I can give him. His father had it . . . maybe that’s why he married Libby—the prettiest there was. Tell your Ma, if’ n Andy needs studyin’, I’ll find a way. Tell her . . . I think a powerful lot of Andy, but . . .”

  He fell silent, his mouth worked but no more words came. His clear blue eyes, half hidden under heavy eyebrows, looked almost pleadingly at Dick. And Dick again felt some understanding welling up in himself that made him say: “I know, Mr. Van Keuran. Don’t worry.”

  The old man dropped his hand on Dick’s shoulder. His hand tightened, he shook Dick a little, then he smiled and when he spoke, his voice sounded brisk again. “I seen you mow the lowland, Boy, slick as a whistle. Right smart. Well, I always knowed you was smart folks, the minute I laid eyes on your Pa. Glad we are neighbors.”

  “Yes sir,” Dick nodded. He was still thinking of Andy. “Shouldn’t we look for Andy, Mr. Van Keuran? His supper is waiting for him.”

  “Look for Andy?” Mr. Van Keuran chuckled. “That boy has more hidin’ holes than a woodchuck. Look if’n you want, but that ain’t findin’! Why? She worried?” he asked with a jerk of his chin.

  “I . . . I guess so,” Dick said. Mr. Van Keuran smiled and shrugged. “Well, no harm. Soften her up a mite, poor soul. Well, I’m a’goin in, give her something to rant at.” He blew out the lantern and they walked together through the barn and out into the yard. He just nodded to the children and went off alone toward the lone light in the house.

  On the way home Janet pulled on Dick’s sleeve. “Let’s look for Andy anyway. Gee, he may have run away for good . . .?"

  Dick was thoughtful. “If he did, looking for him won’t do any good. If he didn’t, if he is just hiding . . .”

  He didn’t go on, just trudged doggedly toward home. He didn’t want to explain to Janet, who was, after all, only a little girl, that if a man wants to hide and cry his heart out, he wouldn’t want to be found doing it.

  “What, Dick? If he is just hiding . . . what?” Janet persisted. They were home now, and Dick clumped wearily up the porch steps. He was very tired and not up to thinking up a good answer. He snapped: “Then it’s none of our business, that’s what.”

  “Biggety,” Janet sniffed. “Just because you can run that old mowing machine—pooh.”

  But then their own cozy, bright kitchen welcomed them and Mother reached eagerly for the drawings. From then on no one talked about anything else but the pictures. Mother, after a while, decided that she would not send them, but drive in to New York herself. When the children went to bed, she, Father, and Gran were working on a shopping list for her. The last thing Dick heard was Mother saying: “I’ll start tomorrow at the crack of dawn . . . be home for supper.”

  CHAPTER X

  ANDY

  WHEN Mother drove into the yard late next afternoon, she drew the rest of the family like a magnet. Father and Dick came, covered with mud, from the ditch they had been working on. Janet ran from the chicken yard, eggs gathered into the bunched up skirt of her dress and Gran, flushed and smelling of cinnamon and baking apples, hurried out of the kitchen.

  Mother hadn’t moved from behind the wheel. She just slumped, drawing deep breaths. Around and above and behind her were boxes and bundles, crates and baskets, but nobody showed any interest in those. They looked at Mother; four pairs of question marks aimed at her out of four pairs of eyes.

  She was obviously bursting with news; her eyes were dancing and she made several attempts to speak. Finally she sort of bubbled over: “Now look, everything is equally important, so here it is in a nutshell: I have leased the apartment for a year, unfurnished. Made arrangements for our stuff to be sent to us; sold the air-conditioning and other buttony gadgets; had lunch with the editor and he went wild over the sketches, wants everything Andy draws—New York is a broiling, sizzling inferno and whoever wants to go back there to live is crazy and the radio just said that England and Russia have signed a mutual aid pact. That’s all.” She leaned back closing her eyes. “And I’m awful hungry,” she sighed.

  Gran was the first to digest all this. “Sounds like a good day’s work to me,” she commented. “Supper will be ready in fifteen minutes.” With that she turned and hurried back to the kitchen. Dick came up for air next.

  “You mean . . . they’re going to—PRINT Andy’s pictures in a MAGAZINE? Honest?” When Mother just nodded silently, because she was holding an eye-to-eye conversation with Father, Dick let out an ear-splitting war whoop and started off toward the Van Keuran house. Janet couldn’t go because of the eggs, so she screamed: “Wait for me,” but Father’s voice caught Dick at the foot of the drive.

  “Come back, you wild Indian. Get washed for supper.”

  “Me too,” Mother sighed, “if you’ll pry me out of this . . . torture chamber.”

  Between Father and Dick they
rescued her before the avalanche of loose bundles descended. She only lost her hat. On the way to the house Father made one remark:

  “Leased the apartment for a year; period.” It was something between a question and a statement; Mother took it to be a question.

  “No. Semicolon. The people want an option on it. Foolish young couple, like to play with buttons. THEY bought the gadgets, right on the spot. Lucky, wasn’t it?”

  Father didn’t answer. He had a queer expression on his face. Dick suddenly remembered the face of a boy in school who had sat on a wet sponge, carefully placed on his chair by his pals. The boy had been a good sport; the shocked surprise on his face had quickly turned into a grin . . . but you could tell that he didn’t LIKE the feel of the wet thing he was sitting on. He hadn’t even been in a hurry to get up, the damage was done, he sat and grinned at himself. That was exactly the way Father’s face looked.

  He was quieter than usual during the meal. Mother did most of the talking; she gave a detailed account of her day, especially about her talk with the editor.

  “He wants to print a dozen or so of Andy’s animal sketches. Of course he didn’t want to pay for them, but little Molly wouldn’t play that way. Now he’s feeling very sorry for himself, but paying twenty-five dollars per drawing just the same. I got it in writing. What’s more,” Mother quieted the pleased exclamations with a wave of her hand, “he would like to see Andy’s . . . a’dreamin’s and a’thinkin’s written down . . . in some form so he could publish them with the pictures. Now, go ahead and make pleasant noises. I’m through.”

  “Gee, oh gee, Mom,” Dick’s voice was awed, “oh gee, Andy is rich now, isn’t he? He can do anything he wants to now, I guess . . . can’t he? Oh boy! I want to tell him right away, I don’t care for any pie, thank you . . . PLEASE!”

  He knew Andy hadn’t run away. Early that afternoon he had been raking hay and had seen Andy cultivating corn on the Van Keuran hill. They had waved to each other. Even from the distance he saw something sad and dejected in Andy’s hunched shoulders and now he had news that would take that sadness away. He squirmed on his chair, waiting for permission.