Keeper of the Doves Read online

  “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.

  chapter twenty-two

  Venus and Mars

  “Venus . . . 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.

  chapter twenty-three

  What Was Wrong

  “What 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?”

  Papa nodded.

  “Mr. Tom is injured?” Now she got up purposefully. “You must bring him here to the house. Birdie!”

  Birdie was still standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her apron twisted out of recognition.

  Papa shook his head. “It’s too late.”

  “Dead?” Mama sank back into her chair. “Oh, no. No!”

  Papa said nothing.

  “I’m trying to remember the last time I saw him alive,” Mama said.

  I didn’t have to try to remember. I had seen him last night turning away from those hurtful words, Mr. Tominski is a murderer! a shadow in the moonlight, going home. I thought he had been heading toward his doves, but now I knew he had been heading away from us forever.

  Aunt Pauline broke the silence. She said, “I trust you all remember that I dreamed of a graveyard. I knew someone would die. I’m just glad it wasn’t one of—”

  “Pauline, please!” Mama said.

  “—us!”

  Papa sighed. “The sheriff’s waiting for me. I’m going into town. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  Uncle William rose. “I’ll go with you, Albert.”

  “I’d be grateful for your company,” Papa said.

  He crossed the room, kissed Mama’s cheek, and then he and Uncle William departed.

  I glanced across the table to where the Bellas sat, side by side. They seemed deflated. Their faces showed none of the satisfaction I had expected, instead a sort of disappointment, as if they had been cheated of their revenge. Perhaps they felt they had had no active part in a train accident.

  I would not be the one to tell them that they had.

  chapter twenty-four

  X Marks the Spot

  X marks the spot.

  I lay in bed, overcome with an emotion I could not name. There was probably a word for the way I felt, but feelings were the hardest things to find a word for.

  As I lay there, The Willows took the form of a giant map, covered with Xs.

  X—the spot where Mr. Tom got off the train years ago.

  X—where he found my wounded father and carried him to safety.

  X—his home in the chapel where he lived for twenty-five years.

  X—the stump where he sat, laughing, while the doves flew over his head.

  X—the bench in the cemetery, where he sat grinning his gap-toothed smile, and I took his photograph.

  X—where my sisters and I lay under the stars and Mr. Tom heard himself called a murderer.

  And the final X—his grave, where we had his funeral this afternoon.

  “Surely, surely,” Aunt Pauline had said, “you are not going to bury him in the family cemetery!”

  Papa said, “I am.”

  “But that is for family.”

  “Mr. Tom is family. Those were our father’s exact words. ‘Mr. Tom is family.’ Our father didn’t say, ‘Mr. Tom is like family.’ ”

  “I never heard Father say that. And I, for one, could not rest easy in my grave, knowing that that man lay in the same sacred place.”

  “Then I am sorry to tell you, dear sister, that you will not rest easy,” Papa said.

  It was Papa who led the brief ceremony. He wore his white linen suit. He held his hands behind his back, the fingers so tightly clasped that his knuckles were whiter than his suit. His head was bowed.

  Aunt Pauline and Mama sat on the bench. Aunt Pauline was stern and indignant. Mama was tearful, but I thought perhaps her tears were not so much for Mr. Tominski as for her suffering and inconsolable husband.

  The Bellas did not attend. Grandmama and Uncle William had taken them into town.

  Abigail and Augusta began the service with a song, for once in perfect harmony.

  “Just as I am, without one plea

  But that Thy blood was shed for me,

  And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,

  O Lamb of God, I come, I come.”

  My thoughts drifted back to the last time I had heard my sisters sing, the time I had seen Mr. Tominski’s smiling face at the window. I was saddened by the thought of my needless fears.

  “Greater love,” Papa began, “hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend.”

  Papa then spoke about how Mr. Tom, a fugitive from justice, had risked capture to save him. This was the first time I had heard Mr. Tom was a fugitive, and I was still wondering about that when Papa said, “I believe Amie has a poem she would like to read.”

  I unrolled my sheet of paper. The air around me seemed changed, hard to breath. At that moment we heard the mournful sound of the train. Ever since Mr. Tominski’s accident, the engineer had been blowing his whistle from twenty miles away, clearing the tracks, trying to prevent another tragedy.

  I took a deep breath. All the graves bore flowers for the occasion, but on this sad day even the flowers seemed to scent the air with unhappiness.

  “Amie,” Papa prompted.

  I read.

  “He came to us on the noonday train.

  The train that took him away again.

  He was a gentle man, his loves

  Were our family and his doves.

  A shy and simple man and yet

  He touched us and we’ll not forget.

  I think Grandmama said it best:

  The dove magician’s gone to rest.”

  Papa nodded to Abigail and Augusta, and they began a final hymn.

  “Blest be the tie that binds

  Our hearts in Christian love!

  The fellowship of kindred minds

  Is like to that above.”

  Papa began to weep. He put his hands over his face and his shoulders shook.

  So, I thought, there are two times in a man’s life when he cries—when he gains a son and when he loses a friend.

  The last verse brought tears to all our eyes.

  “When we asunder part

  It gives us inward pain;

  But we shall still be joined in heart,

  And hope to meet again.”

  When the song ended, the women and children went back into the house. We moved through the empty rooms in silence, listening to the clumps of earth being shoveled into Mr. Tominski’s grave.

  chapter twenty-five

  No Longer Young

  “Your poem was fine, Amie.”

  “I wish it could have been better.”

  “It was fine.”

  “Papa, I’ve been thinking about what you said at the funeral. Can I ask you a question?”

  “You ask too many questions, Amie.”

  “How else can I learn, Papa?”

  We were back behind the chapel, where the doves cooed in their cages. The way the limbs of the trees arched over our heads made it seem like an outdoor chap
el. Behind us, Mr. Tom’s chapel had been closed, the door and windows nailed shut.

  “At the funeral you said Mr. Tom was a fugitive.”

  “Yes.”

  “A fugitive from what?”

  “I don’t mind telling you now, Amen, but I wouldn’t want it to go any further.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Well, like a lot of young Polish immigrants, Mr. Tom came to this country to work in the Kentucky coal mines. There was a murder—I don’t know the details—but Mr. Tom was the lead suspect. He escaped before he could be arrested.”

  “Did the police come after him?”

  “They didn’t track him to The Willows, if that’s what you mean, but all his life he was afraid they would. He would never go into town. He hid from visitors. He relied on me for everything.”

  Papa put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. “I think that night when, as you told me, he must have heard the twins call him a murderer, all he could think of was what had happened in Kentucky.”

  “And he was afraid all over again.”

  “He was a very simple man, Amen, and his mind in many ways was like a child’s.”

  “Do you think he did kill Scout?”

  “Maybe he kicked the dog. I don’t know. The night he escaped, there were dogs after him, tracking him, and I don’t think he had much love for dogs after that.”

  “Anyway, Papa, I’m very, very glad he saved your life.”

  “I am too, Amie.”

  After a minute I said, “So that’s another thing he was—a fugitive. How many things can one man be? Aunt Pauline said he was a drifter, a hobo. Mama called him a harmless old man. Grandmama called him a dove magician. You said he was a friend. I think he was a hero for saving your life. Can a man be so many things?”

  “So many things—and more.”

  He stepped back to the dove cage and opened it. The doves flew out and landed in the trees. They waited, their heads cocked to one side. I think they hoped that Mr. Tominski would come out and call them into action.

  “He’s not coming,” Papa said to the doves. “Go back to the woods.” He made a shooing motion with both hands.

  “Will they be all right, Papa?”