Keeper of the Doves by Betsy Byars Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œThe pictures will be small,” Grandmama said, “just about so big, so you have to plan carefully.”
    â€œWe will,” I cried with enough enthusiasm for all of us.
    â€œAnd keep the sun behind you.”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œNonsense, 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.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Lamar?”
    â€œPromise me first.”
    â€œWhy, Lamar, you rascal. I never promise before I know what the promise is.”
    â€œYou must promise to give me one of the photographs.”
    â€œA photograph of yourself. Why, how vain you are, Lamar.”
    â€œNot of me, of you, Abigail.”
    â€œYou want a picture of me in this old housedress? Never!” The dress was new and Abigail looked, as usual, beautiful.
    â€œI’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