Keeper of the Doves (9 page)

“U
ncle William! It's Uncle William!”

The five of us ran down the steps to greet our favorite uncle. Actually he was our only uncle, but if we had had a dozen, he would have been our favorite.

It had been only one month since we had run down these same steps to greet Grandmama. One month and so much had happened. Not only had I gotten a new brother, but I had also learned the depth of my feeling for him. Not only had I lost a beloved dog, but I had also been there for the last sad wag of his tail.

Only one month ago, Mama had called us her white butterflies, and although I flitted across the lawn in the same white pinafore with my sisters, the description no longer seemed to fit me.

“My favorite nieces,” Uncle William cried. The Bellas got there first, and he swung them into the air. “
Mia bella
Bellas,” he said, pretending to be Italian. Then, “Abigail, the fair! Augusta, the dear! And Amen, the answer to an uncle's prayer!” My embrace was the last.

He greeted each of us in a special way, and although Abigail and Augusta were too old to be twirled in the air, I was glad I was not.

Grandmama stood on the porch, smiling. “My favorite son,” she said and kissed him.

The reason for Uncle William's visit was to see his new nephew, but I was especially glad to see him because perhaps he was the one person who could soften the loss of our dog, and make the Bellas forget their sworn revenge.

Uncle William went upstairs first to visit Mama, and after he had admired Adam and we had eaten supper, he did what he was famous for—told us stories.

My uncle was a wonderful storyteller. His stories were of the heavens. He loved the stars, the moon, the planets. He yearned to solve their mysteries.

As we sat at his feet that night, he told of going to the Yerkes Observatory. “Girls, there is a moving floor. It rises.” As he told of the rising floor, he rose from his chair, looking around in amazement, as if our library floor were doing the same thing. “It lifted me to the eyepiece, where I saw miracles—the craters of the moon, the satellites of Jupiter, the spectacular rings of Saturn.”

He told of a man named Tesla. “Remember, Mother, he was the man I saw at the world's fair holding lights—electric lights, girls, wireless electric lights, one in each hand.” He was such an actor that as he stood with his hands outstretched, they seemed to glow.

“There was an article in
Electrical World
called ‘Is Tesla to Signal the Stars?' The man's going to contact life on Mars!”

“Papa, could that be?” Augusta asked. “Could there be life on Mars?”

“Your uncle is telling the story,” Papa said shortly. He loved Mama but seemed to suffer the rest of her family.

It was one of the Bellas who interrupted to ask, “Isn't there a
dog
star, Uncle William?” She emphasized the word
dog
, and I knew, if the adults didn't, that she was turning the conversation to Scout.

“I'll draw it,” Uncle William said with enthusiasm. He rose at once and went to Papa's desk. We, pulled along in the wake of his enthusiasm, followed.

We bent over his shoulder and watched as he drew from memory tiny stars and then connected them to form the outline of the dog. “This is Sirius,” he said, going over the star with the tip of his pen. “Sirius is the brightest star and it is the dog tag, here at the throat.”

“Speaking of dogs,” one of the Bellas said with studied casualness, “did you hear what happened to our dog Scout?”

Mama's hand touched her forehead when she heard the tone of the Bella's voice, and she now rose. “Bedtime! Pauline, the children need to go to bed.”

“Mama, I'm not finished,” Bella said. “I was in the middle of saying something to Uncle William.”

“Bedtime,” Aunt Pauline said.

“Mama, you always said we shouldn't interrupt people,” the other Bella complained.

“Uncle William will be here tomorrow to answer all your questions,” Mama said.

“And tomorrow night,” Uncle William said, “we'll lie outside and I'll show you Polaris and Orion and Venus.”

“And Sirius?” a Bella said with a glance at Mama.

“Yes, Sirius too.”

Quickly Aunt Pauline herded us toward the stairs before there could be any more talk of dog stars.

But I knew that the Bellas' minds, fueling each other, would soon return to their topic of interest—the death, no, the murder of our dog Scout.

I heard Mama say to Uncle William, “Don't encourage the Bellas to talk about Scout.”

“I didn't! I was talking about Sirius!”

“I know, but the Bellas have a one-track mind these days. They're determined to talk about what they think happened to Scout.”

“Oh, William,” Grandmama said, changing the subject, “when are you ever going to come down to earth?”

“As long as there are stars, dear mother, never!” Uncle William replied.

“V
enus . . . Orion . . . Capella . . .”

We were on our backs, staring up at the starlit sky. The house was dark so that we would not be distracted by other lights.

The night air was clean and clear, and the stars seemed unusually close. I had never before been able to see the constellations, but now the sky seemed full of figures and motion.

There was Orion with his sparkling belt and shield. The Bull's horns stretched across the sky. The Archer flexed his bow. The Charioteer drove his team. The Herdsman played his pipe.

And the words, the words were among the most beautiful I had ever heard. You could make up a whole poem out of nothing but stars and constellations.

Aquarius . . . Pegasus . . . the Lyre . . . the Lion . . . Mercury . . . Mars.

One of the twins interrupted my thoughts. “And where is the Dog Star?”

Her voice was studiedly innocent. Uncle William had apparently forgotten that dogs were not to be mentioned.

“There is the dog. Sirius is the dog tag.” Uncle William pointed.

Papa had been with us, leaning against one of the willows, but he had gone into the house for his pipe, so the Bellas were taking the opportunity to bring the conversation around to Scout.

“Did you hear what happened to our dog, Uncle William?”

Now Uncle William brought his thoughts down to earth. He must have remembered Mama's warning because he switched the conversation to another topic.

“Oh, the twins,” he cried with enthusiasm. “You two will want to see the twins—Castor and Pollux. Pollux is the brightest.”

“Mr. Tominski killed our dog!”

“Yes, Mr. Tominski killed our dog!” the other Bella echoed.

Her voice was loud enough to carry into the house. Papa quickly appeared on the porch, but it was too late.

“Mr. Tominski killed Scout. He kicked him. We saw the black marks from his boot on Scout's side. Mr. Tominski is a murderer!”

“Oh, hush,” Abigail said. “We're trying to learn something about the stars.”

“Mr. Tominski is a murderer!” the Bellas said together.

A light came on upstairs in Mama's room. And in the square of light that fell across the bushes, I saw something move.

A figure slipped around the edge of the light, but I saw the bright suspenders against the darker shirt.

Mr. Tominski had been on the edge of the family, enjoying the stars with us. He must have heard the Bellas' terrible words: “Mr. Tominski is a murderer!”

Papa came around the porch on the run. “That is enough, Bellas,” he said as he joined us.

“But, Papa—”

“If you aren't going to learn about the stars, go into the house.”

My eyes searched the shadows for Mr. Tominski, but he was gone.

“You must not have loved Scout at all,” one of the Bellas accused, made bold by the darkness.

“Enough!”

The word rang out with such force that even the crickets seemed to fall silent.

“Albert,” Mama called from her window. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Lily.”

The light went out in Mama's bedroom. In the hush that followed, Papa said in a more reasonable voice, “I loved the dog very much, but there will be other dogs. There may not be another clear night to enjoy the stars during Uncle William's visit.”

There was another silence, and I thought I heard a twig snap in the orchard.

I glanced quickly at Papa, but apparently I was the only one aware that Mr. Tominski was making his way home.

“W
hat is it, Birdie?”

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

Papa frowned. We were having our evening meal in the dining room and Papa did not allow interruptions. Also this was the first time that Mama had felt like joining us for supper since Adam's birth, and Papa wanted it to be special.

Uncle William had been in the middle of an explanation of what we had seen last night. “And if it's clear tonight, I'll show you—”

In the mirror over the buffet I could see the other side of Papa's face, which looked somehow even more displeased.

“It's the sheriff, sir,” Birdie explained, twisting her apron in her distress. “He says it's important.”

Papa got up at once, crumpled his napkin, and laid it beside his plate. He left the room and closed the door behind him. We fell silent but could hear nothing.

Grandmama said, “There's probably trouble at the lumber mill.”

“The mill doesn't operate at night, Grandmama,” Abigail said.

Grandmama silenced her with a look. “Then at the bank,” she said. “I do believe bank robbers operate day and night.”

No one seemed to have any more suggestions. Even the Bellas were quiet—awed, perhaps, as I was by the fact that Sheriff Walkins was in our front hall.

The sheriff had never been to our home before, but I had seen him in town. He was a big cold-eyed man, whose size alone could have kept law and order. His entrance into The Willows seemed to bring a chill that touched even our candlelit dining room.

Mama appeared frozen, her hands stiff on either side of her plate.

Papa was gone for some time. When he returned, his face was pale. His mouth was set. A muscle worked in his jaw.

“What is it, Albert?” Mama said.

He had to force the two words out. “Mr. Tom.”

“The dove keeper?” Grandmama said, puzzled, as if he were the last person she had considered.

Papa nodded and cleared his throat. “It seems he was trying to hop a train. At least that's what the sheriff thinks.”

“Hop a train? But why? Where would he go?” Mama asked.

Papa lifted his shoulders and let them drop.

“And
hop
a train? If he had come to you, Albert, you would have bought him a ticket,” she continued in her reasonable voice. “There was no need to leave like . . .”

She trailed off and Aunt Pauline finished it with “—like a thief in the night. I always said—”

“Be quiet,” Papa said to her in the sternest voice I had ever heard him use with his sister.

“What happened, Albert?” Grandmama asked.

“The fireman on the train said Mr. Tom was just standing by the tracks as he often did. The fireman blew the whistle in greeting. He didn't even know there'd been an accident till he reached the station.”

Mama looked at Papa, as if she were having a hard time understanding. “An accident, Albert?”