Orphan Train

Niamh.”
    When I hear my name, I turn to glimpse his blond hair in a stairwell. Then he’s gone.
     I look over at the adults, occupied with plans and forms. A large rat scurries along
     the far brick wall, and as the rest of the children point and shriek I scoop up Carmine,
     leaving our small pile of suitcases, and slip behind a pillar and a pile of wooden
     crates.
    In the stairwell, out of sight of the platform, Dutchy leans against a curved wall.
     When he sees me, he turns without expression and bounds up the stairs, vanishing around
     a corner. With a glance behind, and seeing no one, I hold Carmine close and follow
     him, keeping my eyes on the wide steps so I don’t fall. Carmine tilts his head up
     and leans back in my arms, floppy as a sack of rice. “ Yite, ” he murmurs, pointing. My gaze follows his chubby finger to what I realize is the
     enormous, barrel-vaulted ceiling of the train station, laced with skylights.
    We step into the huge terminal, filled with people of all shapes and colors—wealthy
     women in furs trailed by servants, men in top hats and morning coats, shop girls in
     bright dresses. It’s too much to take in all at once—statuary and columns, balconies
     and staircases, oversized wooden benches. Dutchy is standing in the middle, looking
     up at the sky through that glass ceiling, and then he takes off his cap and flings
     it into the air. Carmine struggles to free himself, and as soon as I set him down
     he races toward Dutchy and grabs his legs. Dutchy reaches down and hoists him on his
     shoulders, and as I get close I hear him say, “Put your arms out, little man, and
     I’ll spin you.” He clasps Carmine’s legs and twirls, Carmine stretching out his arms
     and throwing his head back, gazing up at the skylights, shrieking with glee as they
     turn, and in that moment, for the first time since the fire, my worries are gone.
     I feel a joy so strong it’s almost painful—a knife’s edge of joy.
    And then a whistle pierces the air. Three policemen in dark uniforms rush toward Dutchy
     with their sticks drawn, and everything happens too fast: I see Mrs. Scatcherd at
     the top of the stairwell pointing her crow wing, Mr. Curran running in those ridiculous
     white shoes, Carmine clutching Dutchy’s neck in terror as a fat policeman shouts,
     “Get down!” My arm is wrenched behind my back and a man spits in my ear, “Trying to
     get away, were yeh?” his breath like licorice. It’s hopeless to respond, so I keep
     my mouth shut as he forces me to my knees.
    A hush falls over the cavernous hall. Out of the corner of my eye I see Dutchy on
     the floor, under a policeman’s truncheon. Carmine is howling, his cries puncturing
     the stillness, and every time Dutchy moves, he gets jammed in the side. Then he’s
     in handcuffs and the fat policeman yanks him to his feet, pushing him roughly so he
     stumbles forward, tripping over his feet.
    In this moment I know that he’s been in scrapes like this before. His face is blank;
     he doesn’t even protest. I can tell what the bystanders think: he’s a common criminal;
     he’s broken the law, likely more than one. The police are protecting the good citizens
     of Chicago, and thank God for them.
    The fat policeman drags Dutchy over to Mrs. Scatcherd, and Licorice Breath, following
     his lead, yanks me roughly by the arm.
    Mrs. Scatcherd looks as if she’s bitten into a lime. Her lips are puckered in a quivering
     O, and she appears to be trembling. “I placed this young man with you,” she says to
     me in a terrible quiet voice, “in the hopes that you might provide a civilizing influence.
     It appears that I was gravely mistaken.”
    My mind is racing. If only I can convince her that he means no harm. “No, ma’am, I—”
    “Do not interrupt.”
    I look down.
    “So what do you have to say for yourself ?”
    I know that nothing I can say will change her opinion of me. And in that realization
     I feel oddly free. The most I can hope for is to keep Dutchy from being sent back
     to the streets.
    “It’s my fault,” I say. “I asked Dutchy—I mean Hans—to escort me and the baby up the
     stairs.” I look over at Carmine, trying to squirm out of the arms of the policeman
     holding him. “I thought . . . maybe we could get a glimpse of that lake. I thought
     the baby would like to see it.”
    Mrs. Scatcherd glares at me. Dutchy looks at me with surprise. Carmine says, “Yake?”
    “And then—Carmine saw the