The Door to Heaven

by Becket

  Evenings became a routine. She would sit in the rocking chair on the porch to write in her journal. Dominic would work so close to her that she could smell his sweat. She wore perfume that smelled like roses. He banged his hammer. She flipped the pages of her book. He tightened a screw. She pressed her pen so hard into her journal that scratching noises could be heard. They looked at one another through the corners of their eyes. Their cheeks reddened. They failed to act normal. She praised his good work. He nodded his thanks. He made a drink from something called a squaw bush berry, she wrote in her journal. She was curious to try it. He offered her a sip. It was like lemonade. But her face puckered from the sour taste and he laughed and added agave nectar to sweeten the bitterness. She liked his laugh. It was natural and his whole face seemed brighter and inviting. She smiled. Blood rushed to her head. She looked down at her shoes and she thought of the depths of the sea.

  Pascala invited Dominic on a walk. But her invitation made his whole face change. He frowned. He looked afraid. He looked angry. He looked at the island. She remembered the two figures from his childhood drawing. One was dark and the other was light. And they were struggling with each other. He took a sip from his drink of squaw bush berries and then he said, “Vamos,” but it was a quiet walk.

  She asked him questions and she hoped that she was not acting like her papaito. Her papaito was always prodding to know about her feelings and her friends and about her plans for the future. She never had any answers for him. But she hoped Dominic had answers for her. And she was delightfully surprised by his intelligent thoughts on literature, trigonometry, and physics. She wondered why he was not in her papaito’s advanced classes. But they did not talk about school. She reminded him of the first time they met at his garage sale. The mention of this suddenly changed his expression from happy to wistful. She almost changed the subject, but she reminded him that he had snatched from her hands the paperback that she had been reading. “Robinson Crusoe,” they said together and they laughed at this memory. He seemed all right now. The incubus of his bother had disappeared. Once more Pascala noticed how much she liked his laugh. She liked how his smiled made his eyes crinkled and sparkle. She told herself that she should write in her journal later, to understand why she now felt relieved that she has such power over his feelings. It’s as if I have authority over the wind, she wrote.

  They walked to the village square. There were not many tourists from the coast. Villagers were going about their usual business. Pascala liked it when the square was empty. It was the feeling of a departing guest who had stayed one day too many. But she thought she noticed villagers eying her walk by with Dominic. She thought she heard conversations suddenly stop. Shopkeepers and housewives seemed to be smirking at them. She watched him. He was watching the ground. He would not look at anyone. He seemed so comfortable being uncomfortable. She empathized with him, but she also admired him.

  Peers from school gathered outside the coffee shop in the village square. Pascala would call them acquaintances, not friends, but they came over to speak with her as though they had been best friends since birth. Dominic didn’t look at them and he was not angry, simply disinterested, as they looked her in the eyes and made not too furtive glances toward him. They talked to her about school and homework, using words and winks that begged to know if she was with the school outcast. All she wanted was to continue on her way with Dominic, so she stood up straight to tell them that she was happier than she had been in a long while to be walking, talking, journeying with the village millwright.

  Listening to them did not interest Dominic, so he walked away and waited for Pascala at a distance. She felt almost envious of his confidence. Through the corner of her eye she watched him examine the craftsmanship of the coffee shop’s French door. Then she noticed Mr. King approaching the coffee shop from across the street. He had just come from the market and he was clutching a shopping bag to his chest. He did not look at her or her schoolmates. He was still mourning the death of his wife.

  Mrs. King had died the same night Pascala and her papaito were first invited over to Dominic’s house, the night she had seen Dominic sailing a raft over the lake. Pascala and her papaito had attended Mrs. King’s funeral, although they did not know her well. Villagers had filled the church. Many cried. Some mourned. Her papaito wept with Mr. King because now the two men shared a painful common bond. She had thought throughout the funeral of her momma lying on the hospital bed, all bandaged and bloodied and tied to machines. Mr. King had found his wife’s body in her favorite chair, her crochet needles still in her hands. She had the appearance of being asleep. Her last moments had seemed so peaceful.

  Dominic noticed Mr. King coming toward the coffee shop. He stopped studying the French door and opened it for his old neighbor. Mr. King paused in the doorway to look at the young man, the muscles in his cheeks clenching. Dominic’s mouth pursed, his chin pouted, his eyes seemed so apologetic. And right before Mr. King looked down and went inside the coffee shop, with Dominic easing the door shut behind him, both men nodded at one another, each forcing a smile for the other. Pascala wondered what they had just said to each other without saying a word. She wondered why Dominic appeared to be blaming himself for Mrs. King’s death, as if it was all his fault, “as if he could have or should have done something to lessen so much heartache,” she said to herself while she wondered how badly Mrs. King’s death had hurt the bear of a boy for whom her own heart was beginning to ache.

  She left her schoolmates and she led Dominic from the village center to the outlining streets where most villagers lived. Each house was unique and attractive. She liked to look at them. They were not a part of a suburb. They were not quite a neighborhood either. The houses were members of a true community, their development not happening overnight by planning, but organically, in time and by need. If there was enough room, a house was built. If there was enough leeway and clearance, cars blazed trails. Traffic made each street. Many dirt roads became paved. Some paved roads petered out back into dirt paths. And dirt paths led beyond the outlying houses to walking trails that disappeared toward deeper, unmarked ways in the surrounding forest. To most new visitors (and even to some returning tourists), the streets gave the village a labyrinthine feel.

  Pascala led Dominic down one trail explaining how she walked it every morning, before villagers awoke, and after predators slept. She no longer walked streets in the middle of the night. It was not the same after her momma died and her papaito moved to the village. It was safer in the suburbs although not as lovely. The village had a different kind of safety that her papaito talked about and she did not understand. Dominic appeared to be listening as he nodded at her remarks. But he would not look at her. He was focusing downward, at his feet, walking, or at his hands, wringing, his fingers moving. He always seemed to need to be in motion. To her, he seemed to be aching for his millwright tools.

  Pascala explained how she walked to the lake every morning to see the sunrise and marvel at the mockingbirds twittering territorial melodies. There were so many singing all around. They drove away the forest’s silence with unrepeatable songs.

  “The chaos is beautiful,” she said, pointing to a mockingbird on a nearby branch. “Watch how its beak opens the same way each time to sing a new song,” she said to Dominic. “No song is like another. No mockingbird sings the same song twice.”

  “Like lightning not striking twice in the same place,” he said in a quiet yet strong voice.

  She laughed delightedly! She had never thought of that although it made so much sense. The sun never rose without mockingbird songs. And the rising sun seemed like the kingdom of God in light and color. It was soundless without the mockingbirds and it seemed to hover over earth in Heaven by stealth and beauty. It moved the earth with forceful ease that could not be seen or smelled. But it could be felt in the bones and beneath burnt skin. She longed to be as invariable as the dawn and as mutable as the sky. Every morning she prayed the same prayer. Every morning she
heard the same response.

  She did not tell Dominic that she saw him some mornings punting his raft from the island to the mainland in the light of dawn with the golden pink clouds against the powder blue sky. Ducks floated alongside him. Like Huckleberry Finn, she had thought whenever she saw him. She had a burning curiosity to know what the island was like, and if there were mockingbirds, and what kind of trees grew there. Once more she was tempted to envy him and his freedom to punt back and forth from the island. Yet she feared that the island would be too silent for her, even though the idea of so much solitude seemed somewhat tempting. She remembered how, when she was a little girl, she used to imagine living on a distant planet or at the bottom of the sea. But she had sacrificed those old fantasies for the hope of understanding a word that her momma used to say and her guardian angel always whispered into her ear: Communication.

  “Do you pray?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How?”

  Dominic shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think about it. I just pray.”

  “What kind of prayers?”

  “Traditional ones.”

  “Do you talk to God?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And other times?”

  “I guess I talk with God.”

  Pascala liked the distinction. She liked Dominic very much. Has he guessed that I do? she wondered.

  “Listening is difficult,” he added.

  “Do you ever hear silence?”

  “I like silence.”

  “I see you in church.”

  “It’s a small church.”

  “It’s intimate.”

  He cleared his throat, but it still cracked when he asked, “What was the church like where you used to live?”

  Pascala thought for a moment. “Modern.”

  “What would you call our church here?”

  “Country quaint.”

  “Do you ever miss your old church?”

  “I didn’t really know anyone.”

  “You sit in the back of our church.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I wonder if our parents will start sitting together in church.”

  “Maybe they’ll meet in the middle.”

  “Does God answer your prayers?” Pascala asked.

  “I don’t really ask God for anything.”

  “So you only praise and thank God.”

  Dominic shrugged. “I guess so.”

  They came to the lakeshore. Then they walked along the water’s edge. Pascala watched turtles swim just below the surface. One poked its head out. Its shell was large and highly domed and dark green with deep yellow striations. Dominic called it a “box turtle.” There were not many in those parts. “Mostly snappers here,” he said as he picked up the box turtle from the water. The turtle tucked its head and arms and tail inside its shell and it closed its bottom carapace. He traced the rim with his fingertip where the bottom and top carapace had closed. He explained that predators could not get the turtle now.

  “Tight as a drum,” he said.

  “A good defense mechanism,” she said.

  Pascala noticed bubbles rising to the surface of the lake and she asked Dominic what was causing them. He slid the turtle back into the water and without looking he said it was active fish. “Bream or bass or trout,” he said, adding that there were also catfish at the bottom, but he preferred to eat bass instead of brim, and trout instead of bass. Pascala had tasted salmon and tuna, but not any of the others he mentioned. She was curious to know what those others taste like. “Next time you catch one,” she said to him, “save a bite for me.”

  Dominic thought for a moment. Then he looked around, gathered a few branches, and then he surprised Pascala by making a fish trap along the shoreline. “We must wait only a little while,” he said to her, and he led her farther around the lake until enough time had passed. “By the time we return, we should be in for a real treat.”

  Dominic watched the island. Ducks floated over the lake.

  “What kinds of ducks are those,” Pascala asked.

  “Mallards,” he said, and he seemed sad, as though he missed their company.

  She asked him if there were many coyotes. She worried that they were dangerous. He said he was more concerned about the mountain lions. “They eat coyotes for breakfast.”

  “What do you eat for breakfast?” she asked him.

  “Duck eggs.”

  Ruth went ahead of them and looked out for any danger along the path. The angel found the danger not too far away and returned to Pascala, and the love of God allowed Ruth to whisper to Dominic for Pascala’s sake. He, feeling an impulse to look ahead, now saw the danger and he stopped suddenly, putting his arm across Pascala’s waist. His strength gave her goose bumps. He was staring straight ahead with wide eyes that seemed more concerned than afraid.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

  He shushed her. Putting his other hand up, he felt the wind blowing toward them. He sighed with relief, but he still looked worried. Then he lowered to the ground and pulled her down with him. He looked her in the eyes. She had never seen him so serious and commanding. She had never seen such power and control and confidence look into her eyes. He seemed to be looking straight into her. She held her breath.

  “We have to go now,” he whispered, “but we must not make any noise.”

  He had been wearing a red shirt. But he took it off and stuffed it into the back of his pants. He was lean and muscular. Beautiful, Pascala thought as she exhaled. He crouched and took her hand. She was amazed at his power and his gentleness. They crept to the forest bordering the lake. She asked him what he had seen. But he would not speak until they had entered the forest and hid behind a tree. Then he stood and peeked through a branch thick with leaves. He pulled her close and stood behind her. He held a finger over his lips. He pointed over her shoulder, through the leaves and the forest, toward the lakeshore. She breathed in the smell of the sun on his skin. She followed along his arm and she saw what he was pointing to, but she did not understand what they were looking at. Black shapes were splashing in the water. She was about to ask him what those shapes were, but then one of the shapes stood up on its two hind legs. It was a large black bear. It had just come up from the lake. Now it lowered to all fours and it shook water from its coat. Two cubs followed the large bear. The family of bears lumbered on to the shore and collapsed in the tall grass. The cubs rolled and clawed and bit each other with eager playfulness. The large bear looked at the cubs, but watched the forest.

  “We were fortunate,” Dominic whispered.

  “Why?”

  “The wind was blowing toward us.”

  “And if the wind had blown toward the bears?”

  “The sow would have caught our scent.”

  “What’s a sow?”

  “The mother bear.”

  “Where is the father?”

  “Gone.”

  “How dangerous is the mother?”

  “More dangerous than the father.”

  “Would she have seen us as a threat to her cubs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would she have killed us to protect them?”

  “Yes.”

  Pascala considered this. Then with objectivity that made Dominic grin, she said, “Nature helps mothers sacrifice much for the welfare of their children.”

  Dominic nodded. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

  They were safe from the bears on the lakeshore while they walked through the forest. It was colder in the shade. Dominic put his shirt back on. They exited the forest and Pascala was surprised to be near his house. “How did he know where he was going?” she asked her guardian angel. Ruth smiled at Pascala, but the angel smiled on Dominic for having listened to God’s love and inspiration.

  Pascala enjoyed him leading her. For the first time in all those years, since moving to the village, she felt truly safe walking in the woods. He led her back to the fish trap. A good-si
zed fish was floating listlessly in one corner. She was surprised that it had not escaped. He smiled but he was not prideful. He lowered and reached in and snatched the fish from the water and gripped its middle. The fish was long and smooth in the sunlight. Its back was green and brown with dark spots like freckles. Its underbelly was soft and white. “A trout,” Dominic said. It writhed in his hand. He held it by its jaw. She thought of the phrase fishers of men. He preferred fishing with traps. “Nets are too general,” he said. “Hooks are too acute and violent.” Then he held the trout by its tail and slammed the fish hard against a log once to break its neck. Pascala jumped and put her hands to her mouth. He apologized and explained to her how it was the most merciful death. Then he looked up toward the sky and whispered to God, “Thank you.”

  His mamá and her papaito were not in the house. He led her inside where he taught her how to gut fish. He took a knife and he slit the trout from jaw to tail. Then he removed the insides and washed out the hollowed body in the kitchen sink until it was clean and smooth. He handled the procedure so professionally that she was fascinated to know what more he knew, and to learn how he had learned it.

  “Did he learn by interest or by necessity?” she asked her angel Ruth. “Did he learn from a teacher or by experience? Did he also know the word autodidactic?”

  Ruth placed one hand over Pascala’s head and one hand over Dominic’s head, and the angel asked God to make this meal a true communion between them.

  Dominic explained about filleting fish. He held up a bone to show how small and dangerous one is to eat. “Don’t get it caught in your throat,” he said and then he boiled the two fillets in a pot. He took out a pan, set it on the stovetop, and turned on the burner beneath it. He took from the refrigerator some basil and butter. Slicing a generous portion of butter he slid it across the pan. It sizzled and melted. He asked her to cut the basil leaves into smaller portions. She wondered if he had an herb garden. She started off by slowly, carefully cutting the leaves into small portions. She wanted to get it right but she also did not want to cut herself. He was watching her with a smile.