The Kept Read Online Free PDF
Author: James Scott
Indians in her books. His eyes were kind.
“The van Tessels deserve to see better of us,” her father said with crimson cheeks and straining neck muscles, his anger loosed but his volume contained. As if summoned by the mention of his name, or by the harshness of their whispers, the shadows of Mr. van Tessel’s fine shoes appeared at the crack beneath their door.
Her mother wept, and Elspeth knew better than to look to her for support and instead glanced around the room, her home—the bed her parents shared, the straw mattress at their feet where she slept, her small trove of books that the van Tessel girls had grown out of, her mirror, another van Tessel castoff because it had been warped somehow and stretched one’s appearance at the edges of the gilded frame—and she knew, even before she heard the slither of her father’s belt being drawn from his pants, that she would not see any of it again.
She squirmed to get away, but her father grasped both of her wrists in one strong hand and brought the leather down upon her back and her head. He struck her again and again, and she cried out. Her blood dotted the floor as it flew from the buckle. She screamed for him to stop, and the two shadows shifted beneath the door and then disappeared. The beating ended. Her father wrapped the belt around his hand like a bandage. He even seemed to whisper his ragged breathing. When Elspeth pushed herself onto her feet, he leaned against the dresser on his fists.
“It’s time you go, child,” her mother said. “Here.” She opened a drawer and presented Elspeth with a neatly folded pillowcase, pressed between her two palms. “For your things.” When Elspeth reached for the linen, her mother retracted her hands, as if she’d be scalded by her touch.
Less than a mile from the van Tessel estate, Lothute caught up to her and matched the rhythm of her careless steps. He handed her a cloth, and she held it to her head. “Is this my fault?” he asked her.
She stood there, shocked and crying, her few possessions in the pillowcase—yet another van Tessel hand-me-down, already torn—wondering what this man would do to her mother and father if she told him the truth.
“I don’t know where I’ll go,” she said, the echoes of the lashes racking her body.
“I’ll protect you,” he said. She looked out at him from between eyelashes caked with blood. He took the cloth from her and dabbed at her injuries, swabbed the clots from her face, then examined the wounds, his face inches from hers. “All shall heal in time. I promise.” He smiled. She smelled his sweat. He nodded to her belongings. “I’ll return with my things.”
He walked through the woods, and she followed his white shirt flitting among the trees until she could find no trace of him. Only after he’d left did she consider the beating—or worse—that awaited him at the van Tessels, and she prayed for his survival and tried to reassemble the day through the miasma of her shock. She’d only wanted to say hello. But after this, they had no choice. After this, he was hers, and she was his. And so she sat down to wait.
C ALEB SPENT TWO days listening at his mother’s hip, thinking each wretched breath might not be followed by another. From the shelf in the living area he’d fetched one of their Bibles, and though he could not read it, not well, he set it next to her limp hand, thinking it might comfort her, wherever she was. The pillow he’d tucked beneath her head. He couldn’t bring himself to end her pain and leave himself alone in the world.
Once he grabbed her hand but it was so feverish and wet that it felt like no hand at all. She hadn’t improved, nor had she gotten worse. Caleb opened the house to the outdoors and let the cold and the light flood the kitchen. The wind dried his tears. He hoped the fresh air would dispel the odor of his brothers’ and sisters’ deterioration, but by dusk he had to tie a handkerchief around his face to fight
“The van Tessels deserve to see better of us,” her father said with crimson cheeks and straining neck muscles, his anger loosed but his volume contained. As if summoned by the mention of his name, or by the harshness of their whispers, the shadows of Mr. van Tessel’s fine shoes appeared at the crack beneath their door.
Her mother wept, and Elspeth knew better than to look to her for support and instead glanced around the room, her home—the bed her parents shared, the straw mattress at their feet where she slept, her small trove of books that the van Tessel girls had grown out of, her mirror, another van Tessel castoff because it had been warped somehow and stretched one’s appearance at the edges of the gilded frame—and she knew, even before she heard the slither of her father’s belt being drawn from his pants, that she would not see any of it again.
She squirmed to get away, but her father grasped both of her wrists in one strong hand and brought the leather down upon her back and her head. He struck her again and again, and she cried out. Her blood dotted the floor as it flew from the buckle. She screamed for him to stop, and the two shadows shifted beneath the door and then disappeared. The beating ended. Her father wrapped the belt around his hand like a bandage. He even seemed to whisper his ragged breathing. When Elspeth pushed herself onto her feet, he leaned against the dresser on his fists.
“It’s time you go, child,” her mother said. “Here.” She opened a drawer and presented Elspeth with a neatly folded pillowcase, pressed between her two palms. “For your things.” When Elspeth reached for the linen, her mother retracted her hands, as if she’d be scalded by her touch.
Less than a mile from the van Tessel estate, Lothute caught up to her and matched the rhythm of her careless steps. He handed her a cloth, and she held it to her head. “Is this my fault?” he asked her.
She stood there, shocked and crying, her few possessions in the pillowcase—yet another van Tessel hand-me-down, already torn—wondering what this man would do to her mother and father if she told him the truth.
“I don’t know where I’ll go,” she said, the echoes of the lashes racking her body.
“I’ll protect you,” he said. She looked out at him from between eyelashes caked with blood. He took the cloth from her and dabbed at her injuries, swabbed the clots from her face, then examined the wounds, his face inches from hers. “All shall heal in time. I promise.” He smiled. She smelled his sweat. He nodded to her belongings. “I’ll return with my things.”
He walked through the woods, and she followed his white shirt flitting among the trees until she could find no trace of him. Only after he’d left did she consider the beating—or worse—that awaited him at the van Tessels, and she prayed for his survival and tried to reassemble the day through the miasma of her shock. She’d only wanted to say hello. But after this, they had no choice. After this, he was hers, and she was his. And so she sat down to wait.
C ALEB SPENT TWO days listening at his mother’s hip, thinking each wretched breath might not be followed by another. From the shelf in the living area he’d fetched one of their Bibles, and though he could not read it, not well, he set it next to her limp hand, thinking it might comfort her, wherever she was. The pillow he’d tucked beneath her head. He couldn’t bring himself to end her pain and leave himself alone in the world.
Once he grabbed her hand but it was so feverish and wet that it felt like no hand at all. She hadn’t improved, nor had she gotten worse. Caleb opened the house to the outdoors and let the cold and the light flood the kitchen. The wind dried his tears. He hoped the fresh air would dispel the odor of his brothers’ and sisters’ deterioration, but by dusk he had to tie a handkerchief around his face to fight
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