Keeper of the Doves (7 page)

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Authors: Betsy Byars

BOOK: Keeper of the Doves
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I had never seen any sign of weakness in my father before, and to see him in tears was upsetting.
I thought of Anita's fragile heart and stumbled on the carpet. “Is there something wrong with the baby?” I asked.
Grandmama, hearing my concern, beamed over her shoulder. “Tears of joy, my dears, tears of joy.”
One of the Bellas asked Grandmama's back, “Did he cry when we were born?”
“Yes,” the other Bella said, “but those were not tears of joy.”
We went single file into Mama's room. Mama was in bed, propped up on pillows. Her golden hair fanned out on either side of her face.
The baby lay in the crook of her arm. Mama watched the small wrinkled face with a proud smile.
“This is your brother,” she said.
We hesitated. My sisters probably felt as I did—out of place—the five sisters from the fairy tale who find themselves at the ball in their nightclothes.
It was Abigail who managed to speak for all of us. “He's very nice, Mama,” she said.
“Out! Out!” Grandmama said. “Your mother and brother need their rest.”
We went without any more coaxing. I, for one, was not sorry to go.
chapter sixteen
Passing the Baby
“P
lease pass the baby,” Augusta said.
“My five minutes aren't up yet,” Abigail said. “You are the most beautiful baby in the world. Yes, you are. You—”
Papa was holding his pocket watch in one hand. He glanced at it.
My sisters and I were lined up on the sofa to hold our new baby brother. Abigail was first because she was the oldest.
“Papa, it's got to be my turn now,” Augusta said. “Please pass the baby.”
Grandmama was standing beside Papa, concerned that the transfer go smoothly. Her arms were half raised to assist if needed.
“It's time,” Papa said.
Grandmama moved forward quickly. “Now be careful of his head.” She lifted Adam and laid him across Augusta's lap, his head cradled on her arm. I could see a spot on the top of his head where something pulsed.
Then it was Arabella's turn. Then Annabella's. Their turn was a bit shorter, because after about two minutes, the first Bella said, “You can have him now.” The second Bella started to fidget even sooner.
“Please pass the baby, if you're through,” I said, smoothing my skirt over my knees. I wished my lap wasn't so thin, because I didn't want my brother's first impression of me to be one of discomfort.
Grandmama laid Adam on my lap. I looked down at my brother and a wave of love washed over me. Up until this moment, his birth had been only a major upset in my life, and so I was unprepared for the strength of my emotion.
“Time,” Papa said. He returned his pocket watch to its pocket.
“Already? I just got him,” I said.
“It was five minutes, Amie,” Grandmama said firmly. “Now Adam needs to go up to his mother. Nurse!”
The nurse had been standing in the doorway, and she came forward quickly. Grandmama took Adam from me and held him for a moment before passing him to the nurse. My lap seemed suddenly empty.
“Adam is lucky to have such nice, polite, and loving sisters, aren't you, Adam?” Grandmama said. “Aren't you a lucky little boy?”
“And we're lucky to have him,” Abigail said.
“Amen,” said Papa.
I looked up but I knew he was not calling my name.
That afternoon I wrote:
Five minutes I held my brother.
I could have held him all day.
But Papa's watch said time was up
And Grandmama took him away.
Of course the poem didn't make it as wonderful as it was. That's the only trouble with words. There are thousands and thousands of them, but sometimes you cannot find the one you need.
At any rate that was one of the happiest mornings of my life. My brother really did seem to have banished unhappiness from The Willows. It was like something from one of Abigail's fairy stories.
I thought I would never know sorrow again. But, as it turned out, I was wrong.
chapter seventeen
Quick. Hold That Pose.
“Q
uickly now,” Grandmama said.
We were approaching our new brother with our Pocket Kodak cameras, which Grandmama had, at last, presented.
Grandmama's instructions had been hurried. “You have twelve exposures. This is your viewfinder. You look through it and when you see a picture you want to take, you press the shutter, here.”
The Bellas had rashly already taken a few pictures of each other making faces before the instructions, and so they only had eight exposures left. Abigail, Augusta, and I had each taken one picture of Scout and so had eleven exposures remaining.
“The pictures will be small,” Grandmama said, “just about so big, so you have to plan carefully.”
“We will,” I cried with enough enthusiasm for all of us.
“And keep the sun behind you.”
“We will!”
The camera in my hand, small as it was, gave me a feeling of power. It was the way pen and paper made me feel. Creating something is the headiest feeling in the world.
Adam was on Mama's lap. “Now, don't get me in the picture,” Mama said.
“Nonsense, Lily,” Grandmama said, “you look quite nice. Let the children take what they will.”
The morning passed quickly. After lunch the Bellas, cameras in hand, went with Papa to look at a litter of spaniel puppies at the Wilsons. Augusta, Mama's shadow these days, was upstairs rocking the baby. Abigail was in the front yard with her beau, Lamar.
Lamar and Abigail were taking pictures of each other. I heard Lamar say, “Abigail, you must promise me something.”
“What's that, Lamar?”
“Promise me first.”
“Why, Lamar, you rascal. I never promise before I know what the promise is.”
“You must promise to give me one of the photographs.”
“A photograph of yourself. Why, how vain you are, Lamar.”
“Not of me, of you, Abigail.”
“You want a picture of me in this old housedress? Never!” The dress was new and Abigail looked, as usual, beautiful.
“I'll think about it, Lamar. By the time they are developed, you'll have forgotten all about me.”
While Lamar continued to plead, I went around the house, looking for things to photograph.
In early afternoon things seemed to stop around here. I had once tried to write a poem about it.
Nap time at The Willows.
Heads upon our pillows.
The noon train has come and gone.
The whole world, with us, slumbers on.
I paused at the cemetery. Over the fence, I could see the stone lamb of Anita's grave.
My grip on the Kodak tightened. I would take a picture of the lamb.
I opened the gate. As usual, it creaked on its hinges.
I moved toward the lamb. For a moment I just stood there. My thoughts were of Anita and how glad I was that there would not be another small grave beside this one.
Just then, a butterfly landed on the stone lamb. I held my breath. I looked through the viewfinder. There it was.
The butterfly flexed its wings, once, again. My fingers fumbled for the shutter. I inched toward the grave and sank to my knees.
I heard the gate open behind me. I thought it was probably Aunt Pauline. Ever since the photography had begun, she had been posing here and there—leaning against a porch column, smelling a flower in Frederick's memorial garden, gazing off into the distance.
If I got this photograph, I decided, I would be generous and take one of Aunt Pauline.
There. One click and it was done. I turned to Aunt Pauline, smiling with satisfaction.
It was not Aunt Pauline, however, who smiled back at me. It was Mr. Tominski.
His gap-toothed grin froze me in place.
chapter eighteen
Run!
R
un!
That was the only thought in my head.
Run!
But the gate was closed, and Mr. Tominski stood in front of it.
This was the first time I had seen him up close. He was a solid man. I noticed for the first time the size of his hands, his feet in their heavy black boots. They seemed to belong to a bigger man.
I was still on my knees in front of Anita's grave. The sun was beating down on my head, and Mr. Tominski with his huge hands stood between me and safety.
I managed to get to my feet and brush off my skirt. Grandmama had found out from Papa that Mr. Tominski didn't speak any English, only Polish, but he understood everything that was said.
“I b-better go,” I said.
He did not move.
“M-Mama's expecting me.”
He did not move.
“I was just taking a photograph.”
He did not move.
“Grandmama gave me this camera.”
Now he did move. With one huge hand he pointed to himself.
I thought for a moment he was trying to show me his suspenders, for they were brightly colored and stood out against his gray shirt.
He pointed again, jabbing his chest with intensity.
At that moment, I had the most startling thought. Mr. Tominski wanted to pose for a photograph. Mr. Tominski! I tried to keep the shock out of my voice as I said, “Would you like me to take a picture of you, Mr. Tominski?”
He nodded.
“Maybe you could sit on the bench.”
I indicated the bench, and he took a seat. He ran one hand through his straggly hair, as if to smooth it, then rested his huge hands on his knees.
I approached the bench slowly. Of course he did not eat children, as the Bellas had said. He was, as Mama had said, harmless. Yet, my heart pounded in my throat.
I looked through the viewfinder. Mr. Tominski had a serious look on his face, as if this was a big moment in his life. He took a deep breath, as if to inflate himself with importance, and held it.
“One . . . two . . . three.”
I snapped the shutter. Mr. Tominski threw back his head and shouted with glee, “Hee! Hee! Hee!”
Then he grew quiet, but he continued to sit there, as if he were waiting.
My thoughts raced. Maybe, when Mr. Tominski was a boy back in the old country, he had seen important people having their pictures taken. Maybe he had promised himself that one day he would be important enough to have his picture made too.
And maybe, back then, if a person was very important, his picture would be taken twice, to make sure of a good one.
“Let me take one more,” I said.
I looked through the viewfinder and saw his face beaming with pride. “One . . . two . . . three.” I took the picture.

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