For something to be a pleasant surprise, I think, it has to be essentially what you expected but delivered in a way you didn’t. The Gates Ajar was exactly this for me. Phelps wrote it after the US Civil War to address the unassuaged grief of the women of America—in both the North and the South—who had lost fathers, brothers, sons, lovers and husbands, and for whose pain conventional religious ideas about the afterlife were useless at best, cruel at worst. Essentially, Phelps popularised the conception most of us now have of “heaven”: a place where we’re reunited with our loved ones, from which our ancestors can look down on us, and where our fundamental happiness as individuals is important to God. Before this, heaven seems to have been presented as very uniform, with specific conventions: earthly relationships of love, marriage, and friendship wouldn’t exist or be remembered, and everyone would wear white and play harps and sing “Worthy Is the Lamb” all the time forever. Consequently, a few children in The Gates Ajar express the hope that they’ll be allowed to go to hell on Saturdays to play.
What Phelps offers in her novel as an alternative vision, where the love of God is channeled into an afterlife environment where our human love for each other is honored and perfected. So far, so sentimental nineteenth century; what I didn’t expect was for Phelps to create such sympathetic characters and an actual plot of some substance. The protagonist, Mary, is immensely appealing: she wants to be a good person but can’t help being consumed by rage and despair at the death of her brother Royal—her only family member—and the failure of her church’s elders to provide adequate comfort. Her aunt, Winifred, who brings the kinder vision of heaven, is actually only about thirty-five, and is fascinating: a mother and bereaved wife whose theological argumentation is lively, spirited, but never mean or pedantic. Winifred’s daughter Faith is hilarious, a three-year-old who talks to her dead father and is quite sure heaven will be full of gingersnaps and pink building blocks.
Unfortunately, Phelps never even contemplates the existence and experience of grief for non-white women. The novel is set in Massachusetts and Black women—newly emancipated but historically well acquainted with grief—absolutely don’t exist in this world. The war is barely mentioned apart from providing the reason for Royal’s death, and slavery isn’t mentioned at all. Not surprising, but disappointing; there could have been more. And I’d definitely read a longer novel about Winifred creating an alternative-theology-driven social order in a small-town environment. Overall, though, lots crammed into this 134-page novella, and much, much more interesting than its current status as a historical curio gives it credit for.