The Forgotten Door

by Alexander Key

  While the truck wound along the road, Little Jon sat with his hands clenched, trying to suppress the sudden tears of thankfulness that ran down his cheeks. It was so wonderful to find people who were, well, like people should be. If only he could talk to them and explain …

  He tried to fit their spoken words to the thoughts he had felt in them. Their names he knew: Thomas, Mary, Sally, Brooks. His quick ears had already picked out scores of words for his eager memory to hold, but fitting them to the right thoughts would take time. He wished they would speak more to one another, but they said little during the short drive.

  Even so, he was aware of questions in all of them. The man: Odd—never saw a boy like him. Can’t be from around here. The woman: There’s something very strange about him. It isn’t just his long hair. His features are so—so sensitive. And his jacket—where in the world can you find material like that?

  The truck slowed presently, and the headlights swept a small brown building with a sign that read BEAN’S ROCK SHOP, SMOKY MOUNTAIN GEMS. The truck turned into a lane beside it, and climbed in second gear to a house nearly hidden by evergreens. There was a barn some distance behind the house, and Little Jon was aware of animals there, waiting. A dog barked furiously at them until he gave it an answering thought of friendliness.

  They got out, and the woman carried him to the door, which the man opened with a key. Lights came on, and he was placed on a couch by a fireplace. It was a comfortable room, paneled in brown wood. He was aware of a flicker of pride in the man, who had built this home with his own hands.

  The man said, “Brooks, you and Sally unload the groceries, then look after the stock.”

  “Aw, Dad,” Brooks grumbled. “Please, can’t we —”

  “Do as I say, and I’ll handle the milking later. There’ll be plenty of time to get acquainted with him. And if your mother will whip up some supper for us, I’ll build a fire and play doctor. This boy needs attention.”

  While the man kindled a fire, Little Jon removed his woven boots and carefully rolled his trousers above his knees.

  The man, turning, saw the bruises and whistled softly. He examined them carefully. “You sure got banged up, young fellow, but I don’t believe any bones are broken. Some of the Bean family liniment ought to do the trick. Good for everything from hornet stings to housemaid’s knee.”

  At that moment, as Brooks and his sister were bringing in the last of the groceries, a truck turned into the lane outside. Little Jon sat up quickly, his lips compressed. There was no mistaking the particular sound of that truck.

  Brooks peered out of the window. “I think it’s Mr. Gilby Pitts, Dad.”

  Thomas Bean frowned. “Wonder what Gilby—” He stopped, and exclaimed, “Hey, young fellow, what’s come over you?”

  Little Jon was on his feet, trembling, trying to limp away. It was not fear that made him tremble, but a sudden return of the morning’s shock, when he had met an evil that was beyond his understanding.

  Mary Bean, entering from the kitchen, put her arm around him and asked softly, “Have you had trouble with Mr. Pitts, dear?”

  At his tight face and nod, she frowned at her husband. “Thomas, he’s afraid of Gilby. I don’t know what’s happened, but I don’t like —”

  “Take him into our bedroom and close the door,” Thomas Bean said quickly. “Knowing Gilby, I’d just as soon not —”

  Save for the forgotten boots near the sofa, the room was clear when the knock sounded.

  After an exchange of greetings, Gilby Pitts entered.

  “You folks just git home, Tom?” he asked.

  “Oh, a short while ago.”

  “See anything kinda unusual on the way back?”

  “Saw a nice sunset. Why?”

  “H’mp! I don’t pay no mind to sunsets.” Gilby shuffled toward the fireplace, rubbing his unshaven jaw against his high shoulder. His narrow eyes darted about the room. “There’s queer things goin’ on around here, Tom. I don’t like it. You still got that bloodhound you raised?”

  “No. Traded it to Ben Whipple over at Windy Gap for a calf. Trying to train another dog, but he’s a tough one. About got me licked.”

  “Sure wish you had that hound. I got a mind to go over to Whipple’s an’ borrow him.”

  “What on earth for?” Thomas Bean looked at Gilby curiously.

  “Might as well tell you, Tom. There’s a wild boy loose in this country. Seen ’im with my own eyes. Emma can tell you. I caught the little varmint, but Emma an’ me couldn’t git nothin’ out of him. While we were tryin’ to make ’im talk, he tore loose an’ took off like a streak. Never seen nothin’ like it! Cleared a fence like — like —”

  “A wild boy!” Thomas exclaimed. Then he asked softly, “What was he doing when you caught him, Gilby?”

  “Trespassin’. An’ I got signs up. I —”

  “Oh, come now. No one worries about trespassing signs except in hunting season. You know that. We cross each other’s land all the time. Saves miles of travel by the roads. I do it all the time when I’m out rock-hunting.”

  “This is a heap different. I been missing things. I —”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Thomas Bean interrupted, “that this boy you’re talking about could be lost, and in need of help? Why, he could be badly hurt —”

  “He weren’t hurt! You shoulda seen ’im jump!”

  “Then you must have frightened him badly. Why did you frighten him?”

  “The varmint come sneakin’ down to that west field o’ mine with the deer. He —”

  “With the deer!”

  “That’s what I said. With the deer. Just like he was one of ’em!”

  Thomas pursed his lips, then said dryly, “You wouldn’t have been taking a shot at one, would you, Gilby?”

  Gilby Pitts spat angrily into the fireplace. “Fool deer been ruinin’ my field. Man’s got a right to scare ’em away.”

  “But the boy —”

  “He took off, an’ got tangled in the barbed-wire fence, or I’d never acaught ’im. Acted like he didn’t know the barbed wire was there. But he knowed it the second time, when he busted loose. Sailed right over it like he had wings. I tell you he’s wild. Wild as they come.” Gilby stopped. In a lower tone he added, “An’ that’s not all. He ain’t natural. I don’t like unnatural things around. If there’s more like ’im, we ought to know about it.”

  There was a moment’s silence. In the adjoining bedroom, where every word of the conversation could be heard, Mary Bean had opened the liniment bottle and was rubbing Little Jon’s bruises. There was wonder in her eyes as she whispered, “Is that true about the deer? You were — friendly with them?”

  He nodded, and struggled to fit new words to thoughts. But the words were too few.

  “You’re an odd one,” she whispered. “I wish you could remember your name. Try real hard.”

  “J — Jon,” he said. The name came unbidden to his lips. There was more to it, but the rest would not come.

  They fell silent, for Thomas Bean was talking.

  “Gilby,” said Thomas, “if I were you, I’d go sort of easy about this. Suppose a stray kid from over at the government camp got lost. If he fell and hurt himself, he could wander around in a daze, not even knowing who he was. If you actually found him, and scared him away instead of trying to help him, you’d be in for a lot of criticism.”

  “Well, mebbe …”

  “What’s more, this isn’t hunting season, and you’d be in for more trouble if people thought you were trying to sneak some venison.”

  “Now lissen to me, Tom —”

  “I’m only telling you the truth, Gilby. Anyway, it’s quite possible that some Cherokee boys from the Reservation came over this way on a hike. You know how they are in the spring.”

  “Aw, I dunno. Emma didn’t think he was no Cherokee.” Gilby shuffled around, and suddenly muttered, “I declare. Them’s queer-lookin’ boots yonder.”

  In the bedroom, Mary Bean
stood up quickly, alarm in her blue eyes. She went to the door and started to slip into the hall, but at that instant Sally darted past her from the kitchen.

  “Hello, Mr. Gilby,” Sally chirped brightly, scooping the boots from under Gilby Pitt’s nose. “My goodness, Mommy will scalp me if I don’t get the mud off these.” She skipped back into the kitchen, calling, “Mommy, when are we going to have supper? I’m hungry!”

  “Coming in a minute, dear,” her mother answered.

  Gilby Pitts scowled, rubbed his chin on his high shoulder, and finally shambled toward the door. “Reckon I’ll be goin’, Tom. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Sure will. Be seeing you.”

  No one said a word until Gilby Pitts’s truck was safely down the road. Then Thomas expelled a long breath. “Confounded old skinflint!” he muttered.

  “Do you think he suspected anything?” Mary said, bringing Little Jon back into the room.

  “Probably not. He’s just nosy. I only wish he hadn’t seen the boy this morning — but maybe I’ve calmed him down enough so he won’t do anything.” He grinned suddenly at his daughter. “Thanks, Sally, for snatching the boots. That was quick thinking.”

  “I deserve a dime for that,” Sally said pertly, holding out her hand. “Fork over!” she demanded. “Don’t be a stingy-puss.”

  “Mercenary wretch,” he growled, giving her the dime. He stooped and kissed her.

  “I’m not mercenary,” she said. “See, I can give as well as receive.” She pressed the dime into Little Jon’s hand. “It’s yours — and — and I hope you stay with us a long time.”

  Brooks Bean, who had temporarily forgotten his chores, watched the exchange with interest. Abruptly he burst out, “Say, guy, didn’t you ever see a dime before?”

  “His name is Jon,” said Mary Bean. “Like short for Jonathan. His name is all he can remember at the moment.”

  “But — but, jumping smoke,” Brooks persisted, “a dime’s a dime. Don’t you know what money is, Jon?”

  Little Jon shook his head.

  “But you must know English, or you wouldn’t know what we’re saying,” Brooks went on, baffled. “So you must know about money!”

  Mary Bean said firmly, “We’ve questioned him enough for one evening. After all, if you had a bump on your head as big as his, you wouldn’t know which way was up. Jon’s had a pretty bad day. What he needs is something to eat, and a good night’s rest. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and there’ll be plenty of time to talk.”

  There was only one other surprise that evening. They had scrambled eggs for supper, along with some of Mary Bean’s home-canned vegetables, generous slices of baked ham, and some fried chicken left over from the day before. Little Jon ate ravenously of everything but the ham and chicken, which he refused to touch.

  He began to nod at the table, and was sound asleep before he could finish undressing for bed. He shared Brooks’s bed that night and wore a pair of old pajamas, much too large for him, that Brooks had outgrown.

  He Learns a New Language

  IN THE MORNING little Jon felt nearly as well as ever. Save for the bump on his head, which was better, all his swellings had gone down during the night, and the ugly bruises had almost vanished. There was hardly a sign of the scratches that had marred his hands and face. He could walk easily.

  “I can’t understand it,” Mary Bean said at breakfast. “I never saw anyone heal so fast. I’ve heard of fast healers, but …”

  “Oh, it’s only our special Bean liniment,” Thomas said lightly, carefully hiding his own surprise. “Jon, it’s an old Indian concoction. Supposed to cure everything but poverty and rabies. If it wasn’t for the poverty restriction, I could sell it in the shop and make a fortune on it.”

  “Aw, Dad,” Brooks began, but Sally said brightly, “Why don’t we rub some on Jon’s head? Maybe it would bring back his memory!”

  Little Jon laughed. He knew she meant it, which made it all the funnier.

  The others laughed with him, then looked at him curiously.

  Thomas Bean said, “It’s good to hear you laugh, Jon. That means your voice will be coming back soon as well as your memory. Then we can locate your folks.” He paused, frowning. “What I can’t understand is why there was no mention of you on the radio this morning. Ordinarily, in this mountain country, if anyone gets lost, you hear about it first thing on the local station and search parties go out. But there wasn’t a word.”

  Mary Bean murmured, “I hope it wasn’t like what happened over beyond the gap last summer.”

  Brooks said, “Jon, some tourists drove off the mountain, but nobody even knew about it for a week. Some hikers just happened to stumble over their car. Everybody in it was stone dead.”

  “Brooks!” his mother said despairingly. “You shouldn’t —”

  “Aw, he didn’t wander off from any wrecked car,” Brooks told her. “I know. I asked him about it while we were getting dressed. Jon doesn’t know any more about cars than he does about money.”

  Thomas Bean blinked. “Is that true, Jon?”

  “Yes,” said Little Jon, speaking his first word of English.

  “He spoke!” Sally cried, delighted. “Maybe some of the liniment got on his tongue.”

  Neither Thomas nor Mary laughed. They glanced at each other, their eyes shadowed with questions. Mary Bean said, “Thomas, I’m not going to church this morning. Why don’t you go on with Brooks and Sally, and sort of nose around …”

  “Um, O.K. I follow you. I’ll see what I can pick up — without saying anything.”

  “Right. Now, Brooks,” she said, “you and Sally listen to me carefully. I don’t want either of you to mention a word about Jon to a soul. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Brooks. “I’m not dumb.”

  “But why shouldn’t we mention him?” Sally asked. “I think Jon’s nice, don’t you?”

  “Of course he is, dear. And we want to protect him. Remember how Mr. Gilby was last night?”

  “Oh, him!” Sally wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “So you see how it is, dear. There are too many things about Jon that people like Mr. Gilby can’t understand — and they could make all kinds of, well, difficulties. Will you promise to keep Jon a secret?”

  “I promise, Mommy.”

  “That’s my girl,” said Thomas, smiling at her. “Better get ready, you two. We don’t want to be late.”

  When they were gone, Mary Bean went to the radio and tuned it carefully to the local station. She listened to the next news report, then shook her head.

  “Do you know about radios?” she asked.

  Little Jon was not deceived by the casual tone of her voice. The question was important to her, for behind it were those troubling thoughts about cars and money.

  “Yes,” he replied. Then he remembered the politeness word, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wonderfull” she exclaimed. “It’s coming back. Is it hard to talk?”

  “It is hard — now. But — it is coming.” He liked her bright hair, and her quick blue eyes that were almost green. Sally looked much like her, but Brooks resembled his father.

  “Well, we’ll take it easy,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t talk to you at all for a day or two. You may have a concussion or something — I don’t know too much about those things, but you’ve still got that bump on your head. Does it hurt this morning?”

  “Only — when I — touch it. Please — talk. It— helps.”

  “O.K. We’ll talk up a storm. I’m the biggest talker in seven counties — when I have the chance.” She laughed. “Poor Thomas is too busy trying to keep the money coming in to listen to me half the time.”

  “Money?” he said. “Why?”

  “There we go again! Money. You must know what money is! Everybody has to have it. You can’t eat without it — though we manage pretty well, what with a garden and the stuff I can from it, plus chickens and a cow. They call this place a farm — but no farmer could
possibly make a living from it these days, no matter how hard he worked. And we all work hard. Thomas is no farmer — but he refuses to live in cities, so he studied geology after the war, and managed to buy this place and start the Rock Shop. That’s where our money comes from — mainly during the summer from tourists.”

  She stopped, her eyes crinkling. “Am I talking too much?”

  “Oh, no! Please — please talk more.”

  “All right. About money. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never seen any before?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “And the same for automobiles?”

  “They are — strange to me.”

  “And you’re getting stranger to me by the minute.”

  Mary Bean sat down, and he was aware of her growing bewilderment as she stared at him. His own bewilderment matched hers, but he fought it down while his mind sorted the dozens of new words he was learning. Words were used in patterns, and they had to match the patterns that thoughts came in. It was very easy — but it took time.

  Suddenly she jumped up. “Jon, I’m going through the house and point out things. I want you to tell me whether they are familiar or strange. You know about radios, so you should know about TV also.”

  “It is like radio — but has — pictures?”

  “Yes, television. We don’t have a set — we’ve been using our extra money for books — but we hope to get one soon.”

  “Television — it seems familiar.”

  “Good. What about books?” She waved to the shelves of books flanking the fireplace.

  “Familiar,” he said instantly.

  “Can you read this one?” She handed him a copy of one of Sally’s books.

  “No. I cannot read — this.”

  “That’s strange. I get the feeling you’re older than you look. Anyone who speaks English ought to be able to read this. Oh, dear, I didn’t realize — maybe English isn’t your language.”

  “There is another language I — I seem to know.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” she exclaimed happily. “If you could speak a little of it, maybe I could recognize it.”