Orphan Train

this train. But
     that would not be”—she looks around at us slowly, dwelling on each somber face—“Christian.
     Would it? Mr. Curran and I are here to escort you to a better life. Any suggestion
     to the contrary is ignorant and outrageous. It is our fervent hope that each of you
     will find a path out of the depravity of your early lives, and with firm guidance
     and hard work transform into respectable citizens who can pull your weight in society.
     Now. I am not so naive as to believe that this will be the case for all.” She casts
     a withering look at a blond-haired older boy, one of the troublemakers. “But I am
     hopeful that most of you will view this as an opportunity. Perhaps the only chance
     you will ever get to make something of yourselves.” She adjusts the cape around her
     shoulders. “Mr. Curran, maybe the young man who spoke to you so impudently should
     be moved to a seat where his dubious charms will not be so enthusiastically embraced.”
     She lifts her chin, peering out from her bonnet like a turtle from its shell. “Ah—there’s
     a space beside Niamh,” she says, pointing a crooked finger in my direction. “With
     the added bonus of a squirming toddler.”
    My skin prickles. Oh no. But I can see that Mrs. Scatcherd is in no mood to reconsider.
     So I slide as close as I can to the window and set Carmine and his blanket next to
     me, in the middle of the seat.
    Several rows ahead, on the other side of the aisle, the boy stands, sighs loudly,
     and pulls his bright-blue flannel cap down hard on his head. He makes a production
     of getting out of his seat, then drags his feet up the aisle like a condemned man
     approaching a noose. When he gets to my row, he squints at me, then at Carmine, and
     makes a face at his friends. “This should be fun,” he says loudly.
    “You will not speak, young sir,” Mrs. Scatcherd trills. “You will sit down and behave
     like a gentleman.”
    He flings himself into his seat, his legs in the aisle, then takes his cap off and
     slaps it against the seat in front of us, raising a small cloud of dust. The kids
     in that seat turn around and stare. “Man,” he mutters, not really to anybody, “what
     an old goat.” He holds his finger out to Carmine, who studies it and looks at his
     face. The boy wiggles his finger and Carmine buries his head in my lap.
    “Don’t get you nowhere being shy,” the boy says. He looks over at me, his gaze loitering
     on my face and body in a way that makes me blush. He has straight sandy hair and pale
     blue eyes and is twelve or thirteen, from what I can tell, though his manner seems
     older. “A redhead. That’s worse than a bootblack. Who’s gonna want you?”
    I feel the sting of truth in his words, but I lift my chin. “At least I’m not a criminal.”
    He laughs. “That’s what I am, am I?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Would you believe me?”
    “Probably not.”
    “No point then, is there.”
    I do not respond and we three sit in silence, Carmine awed into stillness by the boy’s
     presence. I look out at the severe and lonely landscape drifting past the window.
     It’s been raining off and on all day. Gray clouds hang low in a watery sky.
    “They took my kit from me,” the boy says after a while.
    I turn to look at him. “What?”
    “My bootblack kit. All my paste and brushes. How do they expect me to make a living?”
    “They don’t. They’re going to find you a family.”
    “Ah, that’s right,” he says with a dry laugh. “A ma to tuck me in at night and a pa
     to teach me a trade. I don’t see it working out like that. Do you?”
    “I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it,” I say, though of course I have. I’ve gleaned
     bits and pieces: that babies are the first to be chosen, then older boys, prized by
     farmers for their strong bones and muscles. Last to go are girls like me, too old
     to be turned into ladies, too young to be serious help around the house, not much
     use in the field. If we’re not chosen, we get sent back to the orphanage. “Anyway,
     what can we do about it?”
    Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a penny. He rolls it across his fingers, holds
     it between thumb and forefinger and touches it to Carmine’s nose, then clasps it in
     his closed fist. When he opens his hand, the penny isn’t there. He reaches behind
     Carmine’s ear, and—“Presto,” he says, handing him the penny.
    Carmine gazes at it, astonished.
    “You can put up with