“You sound very proud. Establishing the community can’t have been easy in the early days.”
“It wasn’t. I wasn’t born then, but the older people still tell stories at our gatherings. We are proud of our early history, from the early twenties when there were no houses, to the early thirties when we had no money, to the forties when they had no food. The wartime was the hardest.”
“We celebrate our one-hundred-year anniversary in two years. Our community produces everything we need, including electricity. We are completely independent of the outside world.”
Am I the only one who feels claustrophobic? Isn’t what Ray describes the blueprint of a cult-like religious group? My stomach roils and it’s not from the sinful cinnamon bun I had this morning. I glance over at Scott but he is excited and asks Ray question after question about forestry and game management. Hunting game will always be his thing and I’ve given up trying to turn him into a vegetarian. He’ll always be a hunter.
I give myself a quick scolding. When did I stop keeping an open mind and giving people the benefit of the doubt? My prejudices are running away with me. So far I’ve no reason to think Gateway isn’t kosher. On the contrary, it appears to be a well-functioning, well-organized commune of like-minded people … even if my stomach tells me otherwise.
“We put lots of effort into being self-sufficient, aim for zero-waste, and recycle everything. We generate power through solar panels and water comes from the mountain and goes through a purifying process at our utility plant. I’ll show you later.”
“That’s very impressive.”
I get it. This tour through the compound to Gateway village is to make Scott and me lean toward selling our homestead to them. But it’s turning into a bragging party and I’ve just about heard enough of how wonderful everything is. It certainly wasn’t that wonderful until a year ago. A bit more humility would go a long way.
Ray disrupts my thoughts. Has he read my mind?
“Your parents were interested in that too. They were forerunners of modern environmentalists. It was the premise on which Gateway was conceived. It’s very unfortunate that some devious people used us as a cover for their disgusting practices. It’ll haunt us for some time to come.”
I glance over at Scott. Raymond managed to impress him with Gateway’s set-up. And rightfully so. The estate or compound—I don’t know what to call it—looks like a peaceful paradise. It’s so different from what Maddie remembered. Everything is light and inviting. The buildings, small one-story houses with plenty of flowers in the front gardens, look like someone transported them straight from a Swiss Alpine village.
Scott nudges me and points to the group of houses at the edge of the park.
“What do you think? Wouldn’t this be a good place for us to live?”
For a moment I’m not sure whether he’s lost his mind or is suffering from some form of post-coma delusional thinking. Then I see a twinkle in his eye. What a rotten thing to do, giving me such a fright.
“You almost had me there. It’s… nice.”
Amadeus has a different opinion about it. Irony is dripping from the words he’s hissing in the back of my mind. “All that’s missing is a Disney ride and a choir singing in the background it’s a small world after all. We should get out of here. Next, he’ll wrap us in cotton candy and then we’re stuck. I don’t trust this guy.”
He’s right? Everywhere we look we see a Disneyesque world. Families in tidy outfits mill in the park, girls pushing little prams for their dolls and boys playing catch with their fathers. None of the children has a dirty trouser or a smudge on their face. Nobody cries because they fell and scraped their knee. A display of perfection. Did I fall into the set of The Stepford Wives or Pleasantville? Could Raymond have staged it all to impress Scott and me? Yes? Na!
I have little time to ponder the question. Ray stops the car in front of a building that looks like it started as a schoolhouse before someone upgraded it with beautiful wood cladding and oversized windows.
“This is our Community Hall. Here we share our meals and, like today, have performances and entertainment. It also doubles as our meeting place where we discuss important decisions about our community.”
Raymond’s voice dims into the background as I listen to the crunching sound our shoes make on the gravel. Something has to be less than perfect. I look around for a crumbling bit of plaster or at least a dripping tap. Can it be that living in a house with no electricity and running water has ruined me for civilized society to the extent that I criticize tidiness and order?
The Community Hall has an immense park as its backyard. And when I say immense, I mean at least the size of four if not six football fields. The lawn, of course, is pristine English sward. Not even the tiniest dandelion or buttercup dares to disrupt the picture of excellence. The park features random groups of trees sprinkled throughout, and benches placed at the edge of a small pond complete the picture-perfect, ideal world. I’m convinced people who see this for the first time can’t wait to join the community.
When we leave the car Scott links his arm with me. “What do you think? Isn’t it impressive?”
“It is very nice. Too perfect for my taste. I would miss Aunt Amanda’s cooking range that fills the house with smoke if the wood is too wet. I’m sure they don’t have wet firewood here.”
Ray locks the car and joins us. He must have heard my last comment. He shakes his head.
“Closer to the pine plantation, we have a large barn to store firewood and keep it dry. How did you know?”
“It was a guess. Everything is so well-thought-out here; I couldn’t imagine you not having thought of a
