Summer's Gate

Claire, Ohio 1962

There were signs in the stars that night, and Mel Floyd let them melt straight into his chest and coat his aching heart. He laid on the hood of his truck, a hand tucked flat behind his head resting against the windshield and watched the sky.

The whisky he drank warmed his body and made his mind float. There had been a melancholy, uncertain flutter inside his chest all day, and with the whisky companioning him, it turned into powerful confidence. The throbbing beat he could hear was certain and unyielding. He breathed deep and gazed into the stars for an answer. All day in the fields he had thought of her. The image of Dorothy West numbed him to the bone. The one-hundred degree heat had no effect on him. Each hay bale seemed as light as a stuffed animal as he stacked them up eight-high from the bed of the hay wagon, and when the time came to break for lunch he took no water, and he ate nothing. Kent Big, the farm lead and owner, didn’t seem to care about Mel dying off in the heat. It would have been some good amusement, and maybe an excuse to quit work for an hour or two and get out of the sun while he took Mel’s parched body to the hospital. The young men who worked for Kent Big for more than a single season were considered either as tough as a coffin nail, or crazier than a shithouse rat.

It was a Saturday night, and Mel knew just where she would be. All the young workers got together on Saturday nights in an abandoned drive-in cinema lot five miles out of town. There they had bonfires, played music, occasionally had fights, and found partners for the night. The steamy truck windows signaled not to disturb, and everywhere could be heard the soft giggles and moans of young women engaged within.

Mel took the back roads and cut across a three-acre field to get to the drive-in lot. He pulled in slowly and shut his lights off. Two large bonfires blazed and around them stood young men and women holding beers and liquor bottles, most smoking cigarettes. He parked his truck far off from the crowds and made his way up to the fires. There she was, her blonde hair shimmering softly in the firelight. Dorothy West stood between two of her friends, receiving a small flask of bourbon and swigging daintily.

Mel felt nervous. He forgot his bottle of whisky and wished he could get another two good swigs down before he called on Dorothy. As he considered walking back to his truck to retrieve the bottle, their eyes met and became locked. Dorothy eyed Mel softly, and Mel thought he must have looked bug-eyed and drunk and paranoid. In truth, he was. Then he laughed at the thought, and Dorothy laughed back. The bonfire crackled as another dry branch was thrown on and sent up wobbling sparks into the air. Mel watched them rise and fizzle out. When he looked back towards Dorothy she had given up her staring and became again a part of her friends’ conversation. He kicked some dirt around with his boot, glancing up every five-seconds, but Dorothy seemed to be ignoring him now.

“Whatuhya drinkin’ slick?” Dan Mickey bumped Mel on the shoulder and slid a cold beer into his hand.

“Mickey,” said Mel with a laborious smile. “Thanks,” he said cracking the can open. The beer was cold and soothing, but he was hurting and nervous now with the thought of losing Dorothy. He kept an eye on her while she talked, smirking absently at Dan Mickey when he told a few crude jokes.

“Carrington Mill is paying ten cents lower per bushel than any other damn mill in Forest County,” said Dan. “We’re getting scalped this year. Dads’ not willin’ to haul the grain up to Cleaver’s Mill. Waste of diesel he told me. But ten cents…” He paused and chugged the rest of his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, crushed it between his thigh and his palm. “Fuckin’ madness. I blame them damn yellow bastards. You want another?”

Mel took the last swig from the can and nodded. They cracked two new cans together and took a simultaneous fresh drink.

“That Dorothy West is a doll, ain’t she,” said Dan. The things I’d do to that girl would make a dog sick.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Dan retrieved a flask from his back pocket and flung it upwards to his mouth.

“I reckon I have as good a chance as anyone with that gal tonight."

Mel clenched his fist. The taste of the beer in his mouth turned sour. Dan slid his hands in his front pockets and idled clumsily around the fire barrier between him and the group of girls. Mel felt sick. He hoped Dan would stumble into the fire and burst into flames before he reached Dorothy and said something vulgar. A loud crack came from the fire and a big branch that had been roasting snapped in two, sending up a shower of sparks. In the moment of the blaze, Dorothy West skirted passed the approaching Dan with the grace of an ice skater and seemed to skip over towards Mel. Dan Mickey whirled his head around, looking at Dorothy, throwing himself off balance. By the time he regained his footing, Dorothy was pushing up curiously close to Mel. Mel’s hand hovered steadily behind her back. Dan stared at Dorothy and Mel for only a second before staggering over to the remaining girls Dorothy had left.

“You smell like hay,” said Dorothy, her eyes two silver-blue coins, shining and soft. She pinched Mel’s dirty white t-shirt and brought the cloth to her nose.

“Hmmm,” she said, a curious twinge in her eyes. She raised herself up on her toes. Her soft nose graced his bottom lip as she inhaled. “And whisky,” she said, releasing Mel’s shirt.

They talked for an hour before heading back to Mel’s truck. The nervousness Mel had experienced had not passed. He was cautious, remembering advice his father had given him eight years prior:

You can cross your T’s and dot your I’s makin’ shine, but never bet your pennies on its’ drinkin’ till you tasted it and the world still has color.

Mel’s father made moonshine whisky and sold it for a fair price. The Summer of Mel’s twelfth year, his father went blind from a bad batch of hooch, suffered paralysis, and blasted the back of his head out with a twelve-gauge shotgun in the garden shed two years after.

Mel dared not hold Dorothy yet.

The sky and the road shared the same endless, dark, smoothness. Mel sped down country lanes with the radio on, Dorothy laughing and gripping his thigh when he swerved around paralyzed racoons with shining eyes. They passed each other the bottle of whisky Mel left in his truck. The beers he drank around the fire had dissolved and were useless. He hated thinking about them now.

Tommy Roe sang Sheila on the radio loud and clear. Dorothy sang along, bobbing up and down in the passenger seat. “Me and Sheila go for a ride… oh oh oh oh feelin’ funny inside.” Dorothy burst into laughter.

Mel felt the satisfying echo of work in his hands. The bale twine, stiff as tendons, made creases bordering on tears in the skin in his fingers. The creases pulsed and pounded. He loved the feeling. It was payment and pleasure.

Tommy Roe sang on: “Never knew a girl like a little Sheila, her name drives me insane, sweet little girl, that’s my little Sheila, man this little girl is fine.”

Dorothy stole little glances at Mel. She poked his ribs and tried to jiggle the steering wheel, firm and unmovig in his hands. Tommy Roe faded out. Mel took a sharp left and sped through a freshly cut hayfield. Dorothy giggled and wrapped herself around Mel’s shoulders, clinging like a frightened cat. The field seemed endless. The truck’s headlights beamed into steady flashes of endless grass stubble. Mel tensed on the brakes until the truck rolled to a stop. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, looking out into the stretch of field his headlamps lit up.

Dorothy spoke after a moment.

“Let’s be in the dark.” She turned off the ignition and they both sat in silence.

A tingling radiated throughout Mel. At that moment, with the whisky giving him confidence, he didn’t care if the sun shot up from the horizon, if the hay trucks rumbled into the fields, and the day’s heat crept into his heart and burned him up. He would work in eternal summer heat if it meant that Dorothy West would warm the passenger seat of his truck every night.

The truck’s engine sizzled and calmed. Crickets chirped and Mel rolled down his window to let fresh air into the cab. It smelled of sweet hay and earth. Dorothy let her window down as well, sticking her head outside to breathe. She rested her head on her arm, laid along the window opening, and took pleasant deep breaths. She smelled hay, night, stars, enjoyed the earthy buzz of cricket song.

“Dorothy,” said Mel, looking down at the truck pedals. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. He laughed. Bit his lip.

Dorothy laughed, scooching nearer to him. “What is it,” she asked, poking him in the shoulder. “Spit it out, farmer boy.”

He turned to her slowly, his face as cold and still as stone. Her white teeth were iridescent and clear in the darkness, and the perfect, soft contour of her face hovered in his like a figure in a dream.

“Can I kiss you.”

She lowered her chin and giggled. “Can you?”

“I will,” he said, rubbing his thighs. “If you want.” He swayed backwards towards his own window, but was pulled back strongly, Dorothy gripping a handful of his shirt.

Dorothy put both her hands on his chest, pushing him back and gripping his shirt again to pull him into her. They kissed softly until Dorothy became so happy she had to break off the kiss to laugh.

Something slammed onto the truck hood, followed by another similar thump, then the scraping of claws. Mel reluctantly pulled away from Dorothy’s lips and looked out the front window. On the hood of the truck were two objects, one slightly smaller than the other. The two dark objects stood side by side, not moving.

“What is it,” asked Dorothy, her eyes squinting at the dark objects. She clung to Mel’s right arm and crouched low near his chest.

Mel squinted hard and listened to the slow faint scarping. The larger of the two objects seemed to enlarge itself, like it was inflating, and then what Mel thought to be a head shot up out of the dark lump.

“Racoons?”

Mel smiled and laughed quietly to himself, gazing into certainty. “Nope,” he said, taking Dorothy slowly and warmly around the shoulders. “Barn owls. Looks like a pair of barn owls.”

Dorothy sighed and snuggled deeply into Mel. “How strange. How beautiful.”

They both laughed quietly as the little dark objects became clearer in the moonlight. Their white faces were round and soft, their bodies no bigger than a cat’s.

“Do you think it means something.”

“Like what,” whispered Mel.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe its one of those omens. Ma says that seein’ a cardinal first thing in the morning is a sign that you’re going to have a good day. Or findin’ a penny heads up on the sidewalk. That kind of thing.”

“Could be good.” He imagined the owls a kind of animal reflection of Dorothy and himself, snuggled together in the darkness. “Yes,” said Mel, his voice soft and deep, “I think it’s a good sign.”

He kissed Dorothy again and brought her in close to his chest. The owls scuffled on the outside of the truck and took flight again, one after the other.

“There they go,” said Dorothy.

“Off to hunt, I expect.”

“Poor little mice.”

The romance of Dorothy West and Mel Floyd was the talk of the town for the following weeks. Mel saw her every night, which was no trouble to Dorothy’s parents, who thought Mel kind, honest, and hard working.

Mel took Dorothy out for ice cream at Penny’s Diner, the site of all local gossip. Here the old farmers of Claire, the little village of less than five-hundred households, where Mel and Dorothy lived, talked about everything from failed harvests to faulty ewes. When Dorothy entered the diner, they all went silent and stared at her. They nodded towards Mel with all-knowing faces.

“Claire’s own prince and princess,” said Jeff Kingsley, one of the oldest farmers in Claire. His eyes were hidden behind deep, dark, tan bags and wrinkles caused by years spent in the sun.

“Two vanilla cones,” said Dorothy, addressing the owner of the diner, Penny Greene, who claimed to be the direct descendant of Pontiac, chief of the Ottawa Indian tribe during the late 18th century.

Penny gave Dorothy a kind smile and fetched the ice creams.

“What are you doin’ working for Kent Big,” Jeff shouted towards Mel.

“Excuse me,” said Mel, feeling childish holding his ice cream cone.

“You know Cash left for Montana,” said Roger. “Wants to be a mountain man. Can you believe it? We’re short on help, Mel.”

Mel felt a lump in his throat and looked back at Dorothy, who was blissfully licking her ice cream cone near the doorway.

“Let me get back with you on that, Jeff,” said Mel, trying to look stern and respectful, a tough balance only a few men Mel knew had mastered.

Jeff Kingsley raised a bottle of beer at Mel and took a swig. Mel nodded, glancing once at Roger, who looked completely exhausted and desperate for a hand at the farm work.

“Come back for a beer tonight,” said Jeff, catching Mel in the doorway of the diner. “We’ll talk about it.” The last words came off as an order, not an invitation. Mel turned and left without a word, grabbed Dorothy’s hand, and led her East, out of town.

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It was late July, and the sun loomed intensely over the little town of Claire. Mel mopped the sweat from his neck and forehead with an old handkerchief. Dorothy wore a thin, snow-white cotton dress and didn’t drop a bead of sweat. Mel marveled at her- skipping ahead, singing quietly to herself when the conversation had gone silent, stopping to pick cornflowers from the field.

“I bet my boots you’re thankful for it being your day off,” said Dorothy. “What a scorcher.”

“No doubt,” said Mel coolly, mopping his neck and forehead, blowing dripping beads of sweat from his lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt heat like this.” He stopped and took a few breaths while Dorothy skipped ahead. “Why don’t you sweat!” He shouted after her.

Dorothy spun around, her dress swishing around her knees. “You want to know why,” she asked, her eyes keen, narrowed, alluring.

Mel stood up straight, placed his hands in the pockets of his tan baggy slacks. “Well, yes. Yes, I do indeed, Miss Dorothy West. How can it be that under this here sun,” he said, casually strolling towards her, “That your skin looks as cool and clean as a porcelain doll, while I’m melting into a puddle over here.”

They met. She reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the handkerchief. She sponged his dripping forehead and neck.

“Don’t you know anything about women,” she asked. “It’s a known fact of nature that a woman in love doesn’t sweat. She just doesn’t.” She folded the handkerchief and slid it back into Mel’s pocket.

“And I suppose when men are in love they sweat like a hog on a spit?”

She pressed her palms into his chest and laughed. “You are wetter than a fish,” she said. “Let’s cool off in Jack Findlay’s pond. He said I could swim there anytime I like."

“I bet he did,” said Mel, glancing from Dorothy’s toes to her eyes. “Well alright then, let’s go. I know a shortcut from here."

Jack Findlay was heir to the only fortune Claire had ever known. As far as anybody knew, Jack never worked a day in his life after his parents died when he was nineteen. Since, he had lived privately on his six-hundred acre estate, always drinking champagne and smoking cigars.

Mel and Dorothy approached the large house with their fingers laced. They rang the doorbell and knocked a few times without an answer.

“Oh, he’s probably up in Cleveland,” said Dorothy. “Let’s just go back to the pond. I know he won’t mind.”

“I can’t swim in a man’s pond without his permission."

“You have my permission. Isn’t that good enough?"

Mel turned away from the door and leaned against a large white beam on the sheltered porch.

“You’re telling me you don’t want to see me out of this dress and in the water,” Dorothy asked, digging her foot into the floorboards of the porch.

Mel turned, faced her, and held his breath. The day was without a breeze, and even under the shade of the porch, Mel’s body felt dogged, fatigued, and overheated. In an instant, he grabbed her hand and the two ran full-out towards the pond behind the house.

The water was warm and thick as oil, but it was clean and refreshing. They dove together to the bottom, where the water was colder. Mel held his breath for as long as he could, staying at the bottom, squishing the mud between his toes. They swam together across the pond to the opposite bank and rested on a grassy knoll, dripping wet, under the shade of a massive elm tree. Dorothy laid her wet head on his chest, which raised and sank with each of Mel’s happy breaths.

“Dorothy West,” said Mel.

“Yes,” she said, rolling over on top of him.

“I love you.”

Mel opened his mouth to speak again but no words came out.

“You better had,” said Dorothy.

The two left the estate and followed the train tracks back into town. Dorothy walked barefoot on the crossbeams of the track. Her shoes dangled from Mel’s hand like prized fish caught in the pond. She walked ahead of him, picking up rocks, singing to herself.

“Let’s get another ice cream,” she shouted back at Mel.

He smiled and nodded. She giggled and skipped from beam to beam, singing.

Beneath Mel’s feet came a faint vibration, and the train whistle sounded far in the distance.

“Train’s coming,” shouted Mel.

Dorothy skipped and sang to herself. Mel checked back to see if the train was approaching the bend out of a cluster of bordering trees, but saw nothing, and the whistle was still faint. The vibrations were constant and gaining.

“Let’s hop on that train and ride it up to Cleveland,” shouted Dorothy. “We can meet up with Jack Findlay and thank him for letting us swim. I do like champagne on a hot day. I’m sure he would treat us well in the city.”

“Maybe,” said Mel, looking over his shoulder for the train. “Let’s get off the tracks.”

The crossing that dissected the main road into Claire was ahead, and, beyond, the tracks curved immediately to the right, where they connected to lines that lead farther East. Dorothy skipped ahead, spun around on the gate pole at the crossing and continued down the tracks.

“Town is that way,” shouted Mel, getting Dorothy to pause and turn back to him. “I thought you wanted another ice cream."

“I want to follow these tracks into the city, Mel. Let’s just keep on going forever. We could be railroad hobos and travel across America. Doesn’t that sound exciting! We’ll be just like those barn owls! Free to fly wherever we want to.”

The lights at the crossing gate flashed, and the arms began to drop. There was a faint screeching of metal, and the high-pitched whistle of the train shook the air. Clouds of smoke puffed high over the bend of trees behind Mel. Dorothy gasped and fell to the ground where the tracks separated beyond the crossing. Mel sprinted for her.

Mel let Dorothy’s shoes fall onto the tracks. He stared down into the gap between the rails that had shifted. Dorothy was seated on a blackened old railway tie, her ankle clamped tightly between the rails.

“Mel,” whimpered Dorothy, her eyes teary, her lips trembling. She suddenly burst out in a fit of laughter, looking around her, looking at Mel, then her eyes became wide, her breathing quickened, her face puckered, and she began to cry.

The shrill whistle of the train stabbed the air and made Mel dizzy. He turned to see the thundering black train billowing giant white clouds of smoke. The piercing whistle sounded again. Mel scanned the tracks for the switch to open the rail. He found it, ten yards away up the rail line.

“I’m gonna pull on that switch and open this up. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

“It hurts, Mel. It’s crushing my foot.” She cried again and tucked her head in her chest.

Mel ran for the switch, clamped the trigger, and pulled back on it as hard as he possibly could. He pulled until the tendons in his arms were about to snap, and when it wouldn’t budge, he swallowed hard and took sight of the approaching train, a calmness washing over him. He ran back to Dorothy and squatted next to her.

“I’m gonna get that train to stop okay,” he told her, holding her cheeks in both hands. “Don’t cry, Dorothy. Please don’t cry.”

Mel ran fifty feet out towards the train, waving his hands wildly, trying to scream for the conductor, but his voice was paralyzed. He stopped, watching the clouds of smoke rise so close that he could smell them. The tracks vibrated beneath his feet, shaking his whole body. He put his head down for a moment, took a breath, and looked back at Dorothy. He ran back to her, landing firmly on his knees in sharp stone.

“It looks so close,” she said.

“It's stopping, don’t you worry. Don’t cry now. This is just unlucky is all.”

“I’m sorry."

“No, no, no,” said Mel, his hands shaking. He took a deep breath and stared at the ground for a moment. The train whistle was violent and loud. “Look out towards the train. It’s slowing down now. Do you hear the breaks kicking in?”

Dorothy turned to look at the train. “No, I-.”

When Dorothy turned her head away, Mel balled his fist and struck her across the cheek with all his might. Her eyes flickered and she let out a choke. She dizzily turned her head, and Mel caught her again, harder, on the other cheek. She slumped and fell unconscious.

Mel trembled above her body, trying to touch her soft hand, which looked twenty feet away. He grabbed her torso and pulled her as tight against the side of the tracks as he could, her foot still pinned between the rails. The whistle of the train screeched violently. Mel looked up, cradling Dorothy with both arms around the chest, to see the dark, silhouetted figure of the conductor inside the dimly lit cab.

The train approached swiftly, and when it came, Mel squeezed Dorothy as tight as he could. He let out a scream that seemed louder than the roar of the train. There was a tug, like a piece of wood snagged on a lathe, and Dorothy’s unconscious body fell into Mel’s arms softly. He wrapped his belt around the bleeding, torn stump, and pulled it as tight as it would go. Dorothy’s blood dripped into the dark crevices between the tracks.

Mel carried Dorothy for two miles back into town. She had woken up several times, felt the pain in her leg, seemed to understand what had happened, and fell unconscious again. Men and women sprung out of Penny's Diner when they saw Mel carrying her limp body towards his truck. There were horrible shouts and protests, but any person who looked into Mel Floyd’s eyes that evening knew he was dying, helpless, innocent. Mel collapsed once he got Dorothy in his truck. Two men grabbed him by the shoulders as he shouted, hysterically, for an ambulance, for a hospital, for Dorothy.

He was pulled into the diner, breathing hard, sweating, and shaking uncontrollably.

“Get me some water, Penny,” shouted a voice Mel thought sounded like Kent Big. “Hurry up now!”

Mel mumbled and stuttered, his vision blotched and wavy.

“Come on boy, drink it down, take a breather. Talk to us when you’re ready,” said the voice. “What happened to you. What happened to Dorothy West?”

“Give him space,” said Penny. “Leave him alone. He needs to breathe.”

Mel’s eyes shot wide open. He heard nothing but the stinging whistle of the train. It was heading straight for him. He couldn’t move. He heard Dorothy scream and he flailed his arms around like a madman, knocking water pitchers over, flipping chairs, nipping the chin of Jeff Kingsley with a solid fist. Then he went limp, became dizzy, and fainted into the arms of Penny Greene.

The diner was quiet apart from the gentle clink of glassware and muffled conversation. Mel awoke dizzy and weak. Penny Greene sat across from him sipping ice tea in a small mug.

“Mel,” she said softly. “Can you hear me?”

Mel tossed his head weakly left and right. Jeff Kingsley cautiously strolled over to the table, followed by a band of timid old farmers who refused to leave the diner until Mel’s story was told. They held beers tight in their hands.

“Give him space now,” said Penny, a serious slant in her brow.

The diner door opened slowly. Penny and the farmers turned to see the broad dark figure of Claire’s Sheriff, Clint Shreve. He wore calf length black boots and a fitting leather jacket, his badge smudged and in need of a polish.

“What’s the story, Clint?” Jeff Kingsley met the Sheriff by the bar and offered him a cold beer. He took it happily and sat down at the bar, glancing back at Mel between each sip.

“Have a drink,” said Penny, sliding the cup of iced tea towards Mel.

Mel took the cup weakly and drank.

Sheriff Clint Shreve, lacking patience, drained the rest of his beer, spun around on the cushioned bar stool and pulled up a chair next to Penny.

“How we doin’ there, Mel,” he asked dryly.

“Sherriff,” said Jeff Kingsley, “Do we know what happened today?”

The sheriff turned slightly to Jeff and licked his lips. “That’s what I’m here to figure out.” He clasped his hands in front of him on the table. “Mel,” he said calmly. “Can you tell me what happened to Dorothy West?”

“He needs some time,” said Penny.

“He’s alright,” said the Sheriff. “Mel.” He paused and sent Penny away to get him another beer. “Mel. What’s the story?”

Mel felt like his throat was swollen shut. He tried to speak to the Sherriff but only puckered and trembled. “I. . . .” he choked out, his head feeling swollen and hot.

Penny brought the Sherriff a fresh beer and he drank half in two gulps.

Mel tried to speak again, his head spinning. “We swam for a bit. It was hot out.”

The group of farmers gathered around the table trying to get details.

“Give us some space, would ya,” shouted the Sheriff. The farmers edged backwards and rested on the bar. Penny brought them all fresh beers.

“We swam,” said Mel. "We walked back into town. We took the tracks.” He paused, the shadowy image of the conductor in the dark cabin flashed into his mind. He winced and clenched his fists. His vision went blurry and his thoughts felt all tangled up, like meshed words in a squashed and torn piece of newspaper. The sharp whistle of the train broke into his mind.

“You were walking on the tracks,” said the Sheriff. “And what happened to Dorothy West. Where did it happen.”

“There were owls,” said Mel distantly. “Two barn owls. She liked them. It was a good sign.”

The farmers looked at each other with confusion.

“Heat got to him,” whispered Jeff Kingsley.

Penny Greene eyed Mel intently. “What about the owls, Mel,” she asked, placing a hand on his.

The Sheriff threw Mel curious, suspicious glances, began asking irrelevant questions. He asked twice for another beer before Penny reluctantly left Mel’s side.

“Is she okay,” asked Mel.

“She’s in the hospital,” said the Sherriff.

Penny set another beer on the table. The group of farmers waved her back behind the bar for another round themselves.

“Were you drinking,” asked the Sheriff, taking a swig of beer.

Mel slumped in his chair, his palms sweaty, his head hot and spinning.

“They were here earlier today, Sheriff,” said Penny. “Sober as songbirds.”