The Kept (26 page)
“No, Seth, no,” Jakob said and placed the paperwork in a file behind the desk. “Sir, I think your son just came in here and sold a pistol.”
Jakob tore several sheets of butcher paper from a roll on the counter, pulled a knife from his belt, and sliced a dozen even lengths of twine. Elspeth’s nerves jumped and twanged, and she wished for the men to hurry up.
“He bought a vase and some other things for his mother,” Seth said.
Elspeth busied herself wrapping the dresses to hide the tears that threatened to form, folding the paper over with firm creases. “Wonderful,” she said. A foreign joy spread through her. She thought of her trips back to the house, tromping up the hill, a portion of her bag and its weight devoted to her children, to the gifts she’d present them. “His mother will be thrilled.”
“Seth,” Jakob said, “go find your brother and make sure he doesn’t need any help.” The boy didn’t protest but lingered a bit, tidying the top of the counter before Jakob gave him a light pat on the rump that sent him on his way. Once he’d gone, Jakob continued wrapping Elspeth’s packages, his tongue stuck out in concentration. “Pardon my saying so,” Jakob said. “But your son, he could use some more time with his mother.”
Elspeth inhaled, surprised, her nose flaring with pain. “I suppose you might be right.”
The shopkeeper tied the last package tightly, and slid the neat stack across the counter. “You see,” he said, “he told me she was dead.”
“I’m sorry he lied,” she said and picked up her items. “Things are not always easy.”
C
ALEB’S EARS TINGLED
without his hat; he’d been afraid to muss his hair. The road that had been endless with guns at his back only took him a third of an hour to walk, and before he could prepare himself he’d arrived at the Shanes’ home.
Out of the reach of the dynamite, Caleb could only hear the slightest pop and the earth withstood the intrusion; the house appeared as sturdy and solid as ever. Yellow light poured from the windows even though a fraction of sun still topped the slate roof. The statues he’d seen half frozen in the dark appeared to be poking their heads out of the snow with curiosity, wondering about the small boy with combed hair bearing gifts.
He stood there for a good while—until the sun extinguished itself beyond the horizon and the cold crept out of the shadows—before he could force himself to the door. The first rap of his knuckles wasn’t loud enough to hear. He cleared his throat, which squeezed itself shut every time he thought of meeting his real mother. His second knock brought a scuffling of boots and the low sound of voices from somewhere in the house.
Paul answered the door, his coat on and his dark hair pressed beneath a hat. When he saw Caleb, he stepped back and placed a firm hand on Caleb’s arm and took him into the house. He removed his hat and coat and let them fall to the stone floor of the hallway in which they now found themselves.
“Kelly,” he called, “Martin.” He laughed and put his head on Caleb’s shoulder while he hugged him, his hair soft on Caleb’s neck. He led Caleb into a large kitchen, the ceiling high and striped with huge beams. A weak fire smoked at the far side of the room, which contained the table Caleb had seen through the window and a series of shelves full of dishes, bowls, and cups. The middle of the room held a countertop crowded with the beginnings of a meal, jars and eggs and white paper, unfolded and holding a thick steak, the blood bright red in the creases. They stood by the stove, which exuded heat. A door to their right opened, giving way to Martin Shane pulling his suspenders up onto his shoulders, which made Caleb suddenly self-conscious of his own sagging low. He shrugged in his coat, trying to situate them better. A wide smile split Martin’s face.
“Sam,” Martin said. He clapped his hands.
Paul put a quieting finger up to Martin. “Tell me your name again,” Paul said.
“Caleb.”
Martin’s expression darkened and he looked askance at Paul. “Caleb,” he said, his mouth drawing out the syllables. “Of course. So good to see you here.” His smile returned. He pushed Caleb’s hair back, and Caleb wished he’d combed it back to begin with, if that’s what they wanted. Martin ran his fingers across Caleb’s bruises and Caleb tried not to wince. “Kelly!” Martin yelled. Paul never let Caleb leave his grip, almost as if he thought Martin would break him if he let him go. Martin, for his part, continued to paw at him. “You’ll stay for stew?” he asked. He pulled Caleb’s coat from his arm, and it was all Caleb could do to keep hold on to his presents, switching them from hand to hand while Martin yanked the other side of his coat off.
A door creaked and the men turned as a group. There in the doorway, wearing a black dress, her hair knitted up in an intricate bun atop her head, stood the woman that had stopped Caleb’s breath. Her presence stunned them all, and Paul lost his hold on Caleb, who stumbled forward. Kelly opened her arms, and he, uncertain at first, went to her and settled into her embrace. She got down on one knee, and he perched himself on the other, though he was nearly as big as she. Her cheek was cool and smooth against his. She smelled like cooking, like baking bread.
“I’m Kelly,” she said into his ear.
Paul said, “Welcome Caleb.”
Kelly rocked him in her arms. He’d never been so engulfed by another person and he wished he could sleep there, and that all his travels and all his worries would disappear into the night like a quick exhalation.
P
eople had waited on her for most of her life, Elspeth thought while she bathed. After leaving the relative comfort of the van Tessel estate, someone had always awaited her arrival: Jorah had waited in the woods and in their incomplete house; Mary and then the rest of the children—growing like grass in her absence—had waited for their mother to appear over the lip of the hill; Caleb had waited for her amid the gruesome bodies of his family; and he’d waited for her to find the men responsible. This last task she had spent little time on, wary of her own tenuous place in Watersbridge and distracted by her work on the lake, by Charles, and by the idea of another baby. And now, she waited on—and prepared for—Caleb.
She leaned back and dipped her hair in the water, letting it rush in around her ears, shutting out the world. She rolled over and scrubbed her face hard with her hands, the pain immense, the calluses on her palms scratching her cheeks, and emerged without the smudged complexion that had given her the shadowed look of a man. To her hair she applied some of the oils and powders she’d received from Jakob and brushed out the knots and gnarls. It was as short as Caleb’s and she swept it to the side and pinned it in place. The room filled with the scents of crushed mint and rose hips. Soft and loose, the dress felt strange on her body, much different from the stiff constraints of the pants she’d worn to the lakeside—sweat- and mud-caked as they were. In the room’s lone chair, she had the odd sensation of her feet growing heavier and she stood to avoid the Devil’s tug. She speculated on the gifts Caleb had purchased for her, and these imaginings made her buoyant. Besides overused and broken items from the van Tessel children, the only gift she’d ever received had come from Jorah on one of his few voyages into civilization. He’d come home with a torn ear and a dark bruise on his neck, and presented her with a velvet box of hairpins. On the end of each, a small animal had been cast and painted with a careful brush. She, in turn, had passed them along to the girls, who didn’t like to waste them in their hair, where they could not see them, preferring to use them to fasten flowers to their chests. The memory soothed her. Perhaps an hour later, she patted down a pocket of air in her dress. One hand clasped a shard of the broken mirror that hung in the hallway while the other dusted powder onto her cheeks, lessening the severity of her black eyes.
The room had fallen into darkness before she raised herself to light the lamps. One lonely match shook in its box. She said a small prayer, asking for the match to last long enough for them both. It struck on the first try, and once it fizzled down to a manageable flame, she lit one lamp, then the other. She held the match in her fingers, the flame burning slowly, dancing in tremors and waves. She didn’t dare breathe and put it out. When the heat crept close to her fingers, she shook once. As she watched a small ribbon of smoke make its way up toward the ceiling, she imagined the cool surface of the vase, the weight of the clay.
“L
ET THE BOY
breathe,” Paul said.
Kelly relented, and Caleb made a show of readjusting his clothing from her latest embrace, but really, he’d enjoyed this one as much as the first. Martin served stew, thick with potatoes and earthen carrots, strung with beef. Paul tore him a chunk of bread.
“So, Caleb,” Martin said. Paul shot him a warning glance that Caleb followed, but Martin plowed ahead. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve,” Martin said with great purpose. “That’s getting close to manhood.”
Kelly and Paul exchanged a look. “What brought you here to Watersbridge, Caleb?” Kelly asked.
“My mo— My father,” Caleb said. Then, changing his mind about lying to all the expectant faces, “My mother.”
“Did your mother or your father ever talk to you about where you came from?” Paul asked. He propped his elbows on the table and dropped his bread into his stew.
“She told me that I was born here.”
Martin shook his fists with joy, Kelly brought a hand to her chest, and Paul pushed the bread around his bowl with his finger.
“So then,” Caleb said, his fist tightening on the bag of gifts he’d placed by his seat, “you’re my real mother?”
Kelly brought her bowl to the stewpot, even though she had yet to touch her spoon. Paul tapped Martin with the mouthpiece of his pipe, which he loaded with tobacco and tamped down with his pinkie. Martin touched his brow like he’d been struck with a sudden headache. To try to please them, Caleb took a bite of his stew and smiled. He wanted to return to the happy dinner, but his other hand clenched the bag harder, rolling the top under his fingers. Kelly’s chair screeched across the floor as she set it near him. “Caleb,” she said, and pushed his hair away from his forehead again, “your mother was my sister, Kaitlyn. And your father was her husband, Samuel. You were—” She sobbed, a big, gasping sound. “I’m sorry. You were named for him. Samuel.”
Caleb dropped the bag of treasures to the floor. In spite of himself he asked, “Where is she?”
“Someone stole you,” Martin said. “Kidnapped you, right out from under us.” Paul shushed him and lit his pipe. His bread had soaked up the color of the broth and turned soft and dull. Their utensils all remained clean and unused.
“Where is she?”
“Your mother—my sister—” Kelly said. “She passed on.”
“Passed on?” Caleb said, sure he knew what she meant but not wanting to.
The stew gurgled. The tobacco in Paul’s pipe made a small crackling noise and the scent reached Caleb, sweet as the forest in summer.
“She died,” Martin said. Paul and Kelly each said his name at the same time, but he continued. “She died when she gave birth to you.”
The words struck Caleb with a quickness. “To me?”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Kelly said. “It wasn’t anything you did.”
Caleb couldn’t begin to process that another life had been lost because of him. Instead, he focused on Elspeth. Maybe, Caleb thought, his mind shouting, speaking too quickly for him to hear, Elspeth had taken him away because she didn’t wish for him to live without a mother. Or to live without a father. Why, then, would she leave so often, and when she came back, keep herself from him—from all of them—even when she sat in the same room? The pipe smoke that had begun so sweetly now tasted like dizziness, like his mouth when he woke up sick. The world slid away from him and he looked up at it as though from the bottom of a well.
“This is a lot—an awful lot, Caleb,” Kelly said, and he put his head on the table, the soft napkin on his cheek, the heat from his bowl close to his forehead. Before he knew it Kelly helped him from his chair and up a set of dark, narrow stairs. He worried, for a moment, that he’d been poisoned, but Kelly’s arm around him told him different. She carried the bag that contained the gifts he’d purchased for her, the shards of the broken vase scraping against one another. In his hand he still held his spoon.
She pulled back clean-smelling sheets, and Caleb slid in, fully clothed.
“You need rest,” she said. She pried the spoon from his hand. She kissed his cheek, then his nose, then his other cheek. “Poor child.”
A
FAINT NOISE
roused Elspeth. A mouse scurried across the panes of moonlight cast on the floor, and it disappeared behind Caleb’s empty bed. She turned down a corner of his blankets and ran a hand along his pillow to feel the small indent where his head had rested. She felt ridiculous in her perfumes and fancy clothes. She undid her hair. She slid off her shoes and shed her dress, which she hung from the only available hanger, run through an eyehook in the ceiling that awaited some long-missing decoration. The dress swayed back and forth.
Her dreams came quickly: icy, sharp nightmares in which she walked a set of creaking planks in front of a crowd of people: the children she’d taken—Emma, Jesse, Mary, Amos, and Caleb; their mothers and fathers, who screamed for her blood; the small skeleton next to the train tracks, with its delicate finger bones, its incomplete skull; and Jorah. A firm hand pushed her from behind and she plummeted for minutes, hours, before a set of pincers hanging from a crane closed in on her, piercing her below her rib cage, jerking her to a stop. The blood flowed down her legs and dripped from her feet. The crane moved, out over the gray enormity of Lake Erie, until it reached deep water that had not yet frozen, and the pincers released her into the raging waves from such a great height that she sank so deep she could not hope to swim to the surface. As she approached the flat light of day, she crashed into a solid layer of ice. She pounded. But the ice would not break.
She kicked herself awake, out of breath. One man’s gaze stood out from the crowd that had already begun to fade from her memory. He’d placed a hat over his heart, and he didn’t yell like the others. Once the pincers tore into her flesh, he’d slipped his hat back on and turned to go without a word. The name Shane—ignored for so long—rang through her, and she wondered about all the nights Caleb had spent away from her. The dress moved in some unseen wind, the hanger scratching back and forth, producing an awful squealing that sounded nearly like laughter.
“Y
OU’RE AWAKE,” THE
voice said.
“Yes,” Caleb said, and he felt the same cold stone in his bowels he’d felt in the barn, his face against the wood, the stench of his own urine flooding his nostrils.
“It’s Paul,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed. I know it’s been too much for you to take in all at once.”
Caleb sat up. Paul’s shoulders hunched, and his hands cupped around something Caleb couldn’t make out in the dark. Kelly hadn’t drawn the curtains, and Caleb could see the fat moon, heavy in the sky.
“I know that whoever raised you did well,” he said. “Maybe they weren’t the ones who took you. I can’t be sure. But I’m here to warn you.” A creak came from the hallway. Paul and Caleb froze. They waited. Something—an owl, maybe—passed by the window, and Caleb jumped. Paul put his finger to his lips.
“Martin Shane is an unforgiving man,” Paul said once enough time had elapsed that their suspicions quieted. “One who’s unlikely to wait to see whether someone is guilty or not. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Caleb nodded. “When you disappeared, Martin and your father—they looked for you, far and wide, all over the state. Weeks, months at a time, they were gone.” Caleb envisioned a man who looked like him galloping across the wide-open places he and Elspeth had crossed. “They found a woman who thought she may have seen you at the train station,” Paul said, and though Caleb thought he’d remember such a thing—riding on a train—he didn’t interrupt. “She said she saw the doctor and a woman holding a newborn infant. They questioned that doctor, and he never wavered, not even a little.” Paul pulled at a loose string: a tear beginning in the knee of his pants. “Martin and your father went up and down the tracks, stopped at every station, town, and in-between. They exhausted themselves. I don’t know that they slept. Horses gave out by the handful. When they returned, they stayed up all night in the living room, pouring over maps and newspaper reports, each and every word of the woman who thought she might have seen you. And they’d leave again, midnight, noon, it didn’t matter. Whenever a new thought struck them, they’d be off again.
“It was less than a year before it all got to your father. Every time he came back he’d be more and more like a skeleton. Less and less of him. And it was like he couldn’t see anything in this world anymore. He didn’t say much to me, or to Martin, either. And then, one night, they were riding into Watersbridge and your father meant to cross the ice as a shortcut home. Martin said it was too warm, the ice too thin. Your father didn’t listen. Martin had turned his horse around and had only gone a few paces when he heard the ice cracking.”
“My father’s dead,” Caleb said, needing to say it out loud.
“They looked for him that night, dragged some lamps down to the water, tied a rope around the waist of a man named Edwin, who’d been a friend of your father’s, and let him shuffle out onto the ice. I was there. On the way back, Edwin shook his head before the light even touched him, like he’d been shaking his head the whole time. If it hadn’t been your father, and if people didn’t know of his heartbreak already, they wouldn’t have even bothered.”
Caleb tried once more to picture a bigger him riding across the plains, following train tracks that melted into the distance, but all he saw was a gaping hole in the ice that turned clear and still and then froze over completely.
“All this riding and all this hunting turned Martin into a different man. Hell, he was a boy then. Not much older than you.” Caleb saw Martin’s wild eyes as Ethan pinned him down in the Elm. “Every penny he earned he used to hire trackers, hunters: whoever he could find. Trouble was, around here, people had already helped as much as they could, and they’d seen what had happened to your father, and they’d seen what had happened to Martin, and the whole thing scared them to pieces. And it had been two years by that time. You were gone, vanished. But Martin, he kept looking. Every cent he had, he’d find someone who wouldn’t feel guilty taking his money. Sometimes Martin would go along with them, and he’d pull out the maps, the plans, and the words of that woman, and it’d start all over again.”
Paul toyed with whatever he held in his hands. “I could tell soon as I saw you on the trail that you’d been through things. You have some of the same look about you that your father had, that Martin has.” Caleb wanted to tell him about Emma, Jesse, Mary, Jorah, and Amos, and how he’d burned their bodies and he’d burned their home. He wanted someone to stand up and scream for him, to acknowledge all that he’d lost. “Your mother, your father, your family, whoever it is,” Paul said, “are not safe from Martin. Some of the men he hired would come round here, and they were killers. Empty-souled killers.”
Caleb imagined the glint of Jorah’s hair, the small explosion of powder that preceded the man falling in the fields. He walked around the mounds on the other side of the hill. He smelled the earth the following morning. A killer looked at the barn. A red scarf fluttered, and then another and another. He saw the long hair, the stooped walk, and he knew what had happened. “Where did they come from?”