The Gate (2 page)

“It's something you can do the rest of your life,” Ben had maintained. “Sports are great. They'll teach you about teamwork and winning and losing, and you need that, but they don't last.” It was the same reason Ben wanted Easy to play tennis in the spring.

“How long until you turn sixteen, Easy?” I asked.

“ 'Bout three months.”

“Just think,” I said, “then you'll be able to drive . . . legally.”

We all laughed. Easy had been driving cars around the lot since he was ten, and for the last few years, Ben would send Easy and Donny if he needed a runner to pick something up at the auction or the body shop. Donny said they were a team, and he even had a name for them. He said they were “Slow and Easy,” and after a while, the name stuck.

We sat and talked for a while, and then Donny and Easy went back out to the shop.

“Listen, Ben,” I said. “You have to sell some cars, that's a given. But turning a few car deals isn't going to be enough and you know it. I've bought you a little time here, but that's all I'm going to do. The ball's in your court now. I don't know what you're going to do, but you'd better do something. I'm not bailing you out again even if it means we lose this place. I'm as serious as a heart attack about this, little brother. Somehow you've got to inject some cash into this place. To be honest with you, short of a miracle, I don't see how you're going to do it, so if I were you I'd start praying, and I'm not kidding.”

As I walked out the door Ben said, “Don't worry, bro—Slow and Easy and I'll get it done. And as for the praying, I'll get that
done too. I've already been talking to God about this. We just need a little time to work things out, that's all.”

———

I needed a little time too, a little time away from all this. I looked at several cottages, but my mind kept coming back to the old inn. Why was I so intrigued by this place? Was it really the same place that had pinned so many warm memories to the soft places of my heart? Would such a place do the same thing for my children and grandchildren? Curiosity and nostalgia beat my thoughts back and forth like a tennis ball until I finally gave in.

“Maybe you're right,” I said to Carol. “While you're gone, I think I'm going to take a drive up there and check it out. It's a short drive, only a few hours.”

“You should!” Carol replied with that little grin that said she didn't believe me.

“I'm serious!” I insisted, and the conversation ended.

That was Tuesday night, and by Friday I was sure she'd forgotten all about it. I loaded her luggage in the car, kissed her good-bye, and went back inside, and there on my dresser was the ad for the inn with the directions to get there.

Did Carol do that?
I wondered.
Or did I inadvertently hit
PRINT
the other night?

I couldn't be sure. Either way, the idea was growing on me, and after lunch, I started meandering my way up north.

I stopped in North Bay and got lost in Barnes & Noble for part of the afternoon, and then I went out to the state park and took a long walk on the beach. There's something soothing about the rhythmic melody of waves slapping against the shore, and as I walked, I also began to unwind. Little kids were building sand castles, and an old woman in a big straw hat dozed in a lawn chair.

It was about six thirty when I got a couple of Coney dogs at the Dog 'n Suds. I walked out on the pier and watched the sunset as I ate my supper. An old man in a pair of tattered bib overalls
and a T-shirt had a couple of nice perch in a bucket, and he and I struck up a conversation about the weather.

“It was a gorgeous day,” he said. “But with the wind kicking up like that and those dark clouds rolling in, it's a sure sign of rain.”

He began reeling in his line and picking up his gear, and I slurped down the last mouthful of my root beer float and made my way to the car.

I got back in the Beetle as lightning flashed across the darkening sky. I pushed the button to put the top up and started driving north again. I had intended to stay at a little hotel about a block from the highway, but as I pulled off the exit, I noticed that the neon sign said “No Vacancy.” I could backtrack about twenty miles to the Holiday Inn in North Bay, turn around and take my curiosity home with me, or try to find Angel's Gate before dark. I chose the latter.

I made my way north along Oceania Drive, then I turned down Old Mill Road and began looking for the little two-track road that led back to the cottage. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof and the swish-slosh of the wipers lulled me along.

A lot had changed since I was a boy, but I'd occasionally recognize an old landmark. The building for the Chuck Wagon Restaurant where we'd get greasy burgers and strawberry malts was still there, but it was a laundromat now. The big rock and the flagpole still stood like sentinels outside the general store, and the baseball park with the broken backstop was still across the street. The road turned from blacktop to gravel just past the old iron bridge, and I knew I was getting close.

About three miles down the gravel road, I passed a row of mailboxes and turned down a two-track road that ran next to the old cemetery. There were two red brick columns on either side of the drive joined by an arch. Tucked in the weeds to the right of the drive was a Paradise Realty sign, and I was confident that I'd found Angel's Gate. The road ran parallel to a low brick wall capped with concrete that had a black wrought-iron fence on
top. The little two-track path was not well-traveled, and I crept along carefully, expecting to see the old cottage at any minute.

The rain had intensified, the road was in worse shape than I expected, and before I got ten yards in, I splashed through a huge puddle and found myself up to the running boards in mud. I was stuck and unable to move. If I had been in my Outback, this would just be a momentary inconvenience. With its all-wheel drive, I'd bounce right through this, but in Carol's Bug, I knew I was in trouble. I tried my best to rock the car loose, but it was no use. The mud was a foot deep and as slippery as a wet goldfish.

I thought about calling for a tow truck, but there were no signal bars on my cell phone. I tried again to rock the car loose, but I was stuck like a Dutchman with his finger in the dike. I finally turned off the ignition and watched the headlights slowly fade to black. I was hoping to see a light or some sign of life, but no. There was nothing I could do but wait until morning, so I cranked the seat back and closed my eyes, and eventually the rhythmic drumming of the rain drowned out my frustration and lulled me to sleep.

There's nothing worse than feeling stuck and unable to move.

It had been a long time since I'd spent the night in a car, and in the morning my foot was asleep, my back was stiff, and my mouth tasted like night crawlers. I had only two choices: I could go back the way I came in, or I could continue to follow the two-track and hope it ended somewhere with a phone. It was a good five miles back to the laundromat, so I decided to walk where the road would take me. I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants, and sloshed my way through the mud.

As I walked, I noticed that what I had thought was a cemetery was really more of a botanical garden. There were flowers and fruit trees, blueberry bushes, ornamental grasses, and neatly trimmed shrubbery all placed in little clusters within a well-manicured lawn. Rocks, bricks, and scalloped metal edging encircled the clusters, and the
more I looked at the garden's beauty, the more a pattern began to emerge. Looking more closely, I could also see that vegetables of various kinds were scattered amidst the flowers and fruit trees, and the variegated heights and colors were very pleasing to the eye. If this was part of the Paradise Realty property, it lived up to its name!

A lot of people get bogged down with the busyness of life.

About a half mile into my walk, I began to get little glimpses of the cottage peeking through the trees. It seemed bigger and newer than the place I was looking for, but I hoped that maybe they'd let me use their phone. As I got closer, I noticed that there was a gate in the fence reminiscent of the entrance to the cemetery that I saw last night.

Two stone columns formed an arch over a heavy wooden gate. I tugged on the handle to the gate, but it was bolted and locked from the inside.

The road twisted its way down past the lake, so I walked out on someone's dock, dangled my feet in the water, and washed the mud off myself. The sun was breaking over the tree line, and it cast a long silver reflection on the rippled water. It was going to be a beautiful day.

I sat there for a few minutes enjoying the view. When I stood and turned around, I realized that someone had opened the gate, and there was a sign that said “Paradise Realty Open House,” with Michael DeAngelo's picture on it.

Before I could say anything, Michael came walking through the gate and caught me by surprise. His presence seemed to fill my space, so I took a step back. He was tall and thick and athletically built, with longish black hair that flowed back from his widow's peak, like Tom Hanks in the movie
The Da Vinci Code
. There was a whisper of gray in his sideburns as well as his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to startle you. There's no need to be frightened. I'm Michael, and we've been expecting you.”

“Oh, yes, you're the agent. I recognize you from the picture.”

A good salesman always makes you feel like he's on your side, and Michael was no exception. There was something charismatic about him. His words were soothing and persuasive, and you got the impression that he meant what he said.

Gathering my composure, I walked through the gate and up the sidewalk and knocked on the screen door.

“Well, come on in, Scout. We've been waiting for you,” said a man from inside.

At first I wasn't sure he was talking to me. No one had called me that name in almost fifty years. Scout was the nickname my mother gave me as a toddler because I had a habit of breaking loose and running out ahead of everyone else unless she kept a firm grip on my little hand. It was not an admirable trait in her mind, and eventually she hooked a short piece of clothesline to my belt to rein me in whenever she took my sister and me shopping.

It must be a coincidence
, I thought to myself.
He probably calls every guy “Scout” or “Sport” or something like that.

The voice of the man who called me Scout sounded familiar. It was slow, deliberate, and deep, like Gregory Peck in
To Kill a Mockingbird
, but the man himself looked more like Paul Newman. He was tall, lean, and weathered, with steely blue eyes and short, cropped gray hair that receded slightly. He wore faded blue jeans, white Converse tennis shoes, and a green T-shirt that said “Save the Whales” on it. His shirt had the white dust of flour on it, and from the looks of him, I made him out to be the cook.

The screen door closed behind me, and I was standing in the kitchen. The room was filled with the alluring smell of freshly baked sticky buns. There was something familiar and yet foreign about this place. If it was the place of my memories, it had undergone an extensive remodel somewhere along the way. I'm not saying that it felt like home, but it was the kind of place you
wanted to come home to. Then again, sometimes you can feel right at home in a place you've never been.

As I looked around, I saw flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, and a bag of crushed walnuts scattered in disarray atop the counter, along with bowls of varying sizes sitting next to a mixer with beaters still covered with dough.

Sometimes you can feel right at home in a place you've never been.

A block of butter, a pitcher of milk, brightly colored aluminum glasses, yellowed bone china plates, and an assortment of silverware were set on the table. The table itself was made of tubular chrome with a slate gray Formica top. One side was shoved tight against the wall, and three matching chairs were tucked neatly under the other three sides.

The floor was wooden and worn. White beadboard went about five feet up the walls and was capped with a shelf that served as a plate rail. Above it, black-and-white photos leaned against a royal blue wall. The cupboards were white with glass doors that displayed an eclectic assortment of dishes and glasses. The appliances were white and rounded, bulbous, like the ones out of the fifties, although they appeared to be new.

“Come on in,” the man said, motioning toward the table with his head. “I'll be frosting those sticky buns in a minute, and the milk is cold and fresh. I'm telling you, it's a little taste of heaven.”

“You're in for a treat,” said Michael, who had followed me in. “Ahbee bakes his cinnamon rolls from scratch, like everything else he makes.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I feel kind of foolish. I appreciate the invitation for breakfast, I really do, and I'd love to see the place—in fact, I came for the open house—but first I need a tow truck. You see, I got stuck in the mud last night, and I ended up sleeping in my car. So right now, all I really want to do is use your phone, okay?”

“Sure,” answered Michael. “That's understandable. You don't need to explain it to us. We know what happened. People come
knocking on our door all the time when they get stuck. We help them. We're always willing to help. But right now I'll bet your mind is buzzing with questions. Am I right?”

“Well, yes,” I answered, somewhat puzzled. “That's exactly right. I'm a little confused. I know word gets around fast in a small town, but do I know you? Were you expecting me? What's this really about?”

“That's your department,” Michael said to Ahbee. “You're in charge of ideas and answers. I'm just the messenger.”

“Oh, there'll be lots of time for explanations later,” the old one said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I'm so glad you're here.”