The Forgotten Door (3 page)

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

I
N 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.”

Little Jon looked out of the window, and let his mind rove over the greening valley in the distance. Suddenly he began to hum a little song about valleys. The humming changed to singing words. He wondered where he had heard it.

Mary Bean clapped her hands. “That was beautiful, Jon! Beautiful!” Her bewilderment returned. “I thought I knew something about languages — my father taught them in school. But this is a new one. How long have you known English?”

“I don't know it yet. I only began — last night.”

She shook her head. “Say that again?”

“I — I am learning it from you, now,” he said, and instantly wondered if he should have told her. She didn't believe him. It was strange that she couldn't understand thoughts, even strong ones — but nobody here seemed to be able to. Only the animals …

“Jon,” she said, very patiently, “do you know the difference between truth and — and falsehood?”

“Truth? Falsehood? Truth is — is right,” he managed to say. “Falsehood is — not truth. There is another word for it — but you have not spoken it yet.”

“The word is ‘lie,'” she said softly. “When you are not telling the truth, you are telling a falsehood — a lie.”

His chin quivered a moment, then stiffened. “You think I am not telling you the truth — but — but I
must!
You are as strange to me as — as I am to you. Yesterday — in the morning — I woke up — on a mountain — far away from — from here. I hurt all over. I felt as if — as if I had fall — fallen. I did not know my name until last night, when you asked me. Everything was strange. The mountain, the trees, everything … only the deer. I—” He stopped, all at once aware of the dog he had glimpsed last night.

The dog was thirsty. It was almost a hurt to feel the dryness of its throat, the craving for water.

He told Mary Bean about the dog, but she shook her head. “Oh, I'm sure he was taken care of. Thomas wouldn't forget Rascal. Anyway, how could you possibly —”

“But he
did
forget the water. How could Rascal think a lie?”

“Jon!” There was something like fright in her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that you can —” She shook her head, and said, “We'll go out to Rascal's pen and see —”

They had started through the doorway when they heard a car coming down the road. Instantly she drew him back inside and closed the door. They stood waiting for the car to pass. It slowed, then went on.

“The Johnsons,” she said. “They would have stopped if they'd seen us. Thank goodness they didn't.”

Almost in the same breath she said firmly, “Rascal will have to wait. Jon, I'm going to cut your hair, and I'm going to give you some different clothes to wear. I hope you don't mind, but I want you to look as much like other boys as possible. It's terribly important.”

“I don't mind,” he said, giving Rascal a quieting thought. “I'm sorry to — to make so much trouble.”

“I don't mind it in the least. In fact, if I can only get used to you, I believe I'm going to enjoy this. But getting used to you …”

She got scissors and a comb, and started to cut. She found the nearly hidden clip holding his hair together at the nape of his neck. “O-o-oh!” she gasped. “What workmanship! Thomas will be interested in this.”

She put the clip carefully aside, and very expertly cut his hair. “I'm the family barber,” she explained. “You'd be surprised what it saves. Costs a dollar-fifty in town, and nearly double that in cities. That's six dollars a month for Brooks and Thomas. Now, let's see. Clothes. Most of Brooks's old things went to the charity collection, but I saved the best for Sally to play in. They ought to fit you.”