Orphan Train

lights.” I point up and look at Carmine, and he throws his
     head back and shouts, “Yite!”
    The policemen aren’t sure what to do. Licorice Breath lets go of my arm, apparently
     persuaded that I’m not going to flee.
    Mr. Curran glances at Mrs. Scatcherd, whose expression has ever so slightly softened.
    “You are a foolish and headstrong girl,” she says, but her voice has lost its edge,
     and I can tell she’s not as angry as she wants to appear. “You flouted my instructions
     to stay on the platform. You put the entire group of children at risk, and you have
     disgraced yourself. Worse, you have disgraced me. And Mr. Curran,” she adds, turning
     toward him. He winces, as if to say Leave me out of it . “But this is not, I suppose, a matter for the police. A civil, not a legal, matter,”
     she clarifies.
    The fat policeman makes a show of unlocking Dutchy’s handcuffs and clipping them to
     his belt. “Sure you don’t want us to take him in, ma’am?”
    “Thank you, sir, but Mr. Curran and I will devise a sufficient punishment.”
    “As you say.” He touches the brim of his cap, backs away, and turns on his heels.
    “Make no mistake,” Mrs. Scatcherd says gravely, staring down her nose at us. “You
     will be punished.”
    M RS . S CATCHERD RAPS D UTCHY ’ S KNUCKLES SEVERAL TIMES WITH a long wooden ruler, though it seems to me a halfhearted penalty. He barely winces,
     then shakes his hands twice in the air and winks at me. Truly, there isn’t much more
     she can do. Stripped of family and identity, fed meager rations, consigned to hard
     wooden seats until we are to be, as Slobbery Jack suggested, sold into slavery—our
     mere existence is punishment enough. Though she threatens to separate the three of
     us, in the end she leaves us together—not wanting to infect the others with Dutchy’s
     delinquency, she says, and apparently having decided that taking care of Carmine would’ve
     extended my punishment to her. She tells us not to speak to or even look at each other.
     “If I hear as much as a murmur, so help me . . .” she says, the threat losing air
     over our heads like a pricked balloon.
    By the time we leave Chicago, it is evening. Carmine sits on my lap with his hands
     on the window, face pressed against the glass, gazing out at the streets and buildings,
     all lit up. “Yite,” he says softly as the city recedes into the distance. I look out
     the window with him. Soon all is dark; it’s impossible to tell where land ends and
     the sky begins.
    “Get a good night’s rest,” Mrs. Scatcherd calls from the front of the car. “In the
     morning you will need to be at your very best. It is vital that you make a good impression.
     Your drowsiness might well be construed as laziness.”
    “What if nobody wants me?” one boy asks, and the entire car seems to hold its breath.
     It is the question on everyone’s mind, the question none of us are sure we want the
     answer to.
    Mrs. Scatcherd looks down at Mr. Curran as if she’s been waiting for this. “If it
     happens that you are not chosen at the first stop, you will have several additional
     opportunities. I cannot think of an instance . . .” She pauses and purses her lips.
     “It is uncommon for a child to be with us on the return trip to New York.”
    “Pardon me, ma’am,” a girl near the front says. “What if I don’t want to go with the
     people who choose me?”
    “What if they beat us?” a boy cries out.
    “Children!” Mrs. Scatcherd’s small glasses flash as she turns her head from side to
     side. “I will not have you interrupting!” She seems poised to sit down without addressing
     these questions, but then changes her mind. “I will say this: There is no accounting
     for taste and personalities. Some parents are looking for a healthy boy to work on
     the farm—as we all know, hard work is good for children, and you would be lucky to
     be placed with a God-fearing farm family, all you boys—and some people want babies.
     People sometimes think they want one thing, but later change their minds. Though we
     dearly hope all of you will find the right homes at the first stop, it doesn’t always
     work that way. So in addition to being respectable and polite, you must also keep
     your faith in God to guide you forward if the way is not clear. Whether your journey
     is long or short, He will help you as long as you place your trust in Him.”
    I look over at Dutchy, and he looks back at