Orphan Train

crumble in my mouth.
    “No, no, no, ” Carmine says. I think I may faint.
    “Do you need a girl to help with him?” I blurt. “I could”—I think wildly, trying to
     remember what I am good at—“mend clothes. And cook.”
    The woman gives me a pitying look. “Oh, child,” she says. “I am sorry. We can’t afford
     two. We just—we came here for a baby. I’m sure you’ll find . . .” Her voice trails
     off. “We just want a baby to complete our family.”
    I push back tears. Carmine feels the change in me and starts to whimper. “You must
     go to your new mam,” I tell him and peel him off me.
    The woman takes him awkwardly, jostling him in her arms. She isn’t used to holding
     a baby. I reach out and tuck his leg under her arm. “Thank you for taking care of
     him,” she says.
    Mrs. Scatcherd herds the three of them off the stage toward a table covered with forms,
     Carmine’s dark head on the woman’s shoulder.
    O NE BY ONE , THE CHILDREN AROUND ME ARE CHOSEN . T HE BOY beside me wanders away with a short, round woman who tells him it’s high time she
     has a man around the house. The dog-whine girl goes off with a stylish couple in hats.
     Dutchy and I are standing together talking quietly when a man approaches with skin
     as tanned and scuffed as old shoe leather, trailed by a sour-looking woman. The man
     stands in front of us for a minute, then reaches out and squeezes Dutchy’s arm.
    “What’re you doing?” Dutchy says with surprise.
    “Open your mouth.”
    I can see that Dutchy wants to haul off and hit him, but Mr. Curran is watching us
     closely, and he doesn’t dare. The man sticks a dirty-looking finger in his mouth.
     Dutchy jerks his head around.
    “Ever work as a hay baler?” the man asks.
    Dutchy stares straight ahead.
    “You hear me?”
    “No.”
    “No, you didn’t hear me?”
    Dutchy looks at him. “Never worked as a hay baler. Don’t even know what that is.”
    “Whaddaya think?” the man says to the woman. “He’s a tough one, but we could use a
     kid this size.”
    “I reckon he’ll fall in line.” Stepping up to Dutchy, she says, “We break horses.
     Boys aren’t that different.”
    “Let’s load ’im up,” the man says. “We got a drive ahead of us.”
    “You’re all set?” Mr. Curran says, coming toward us with a nervous laugh.
    “Yep. This is the one.”
    “Well, all right! If you’ll just follow me over here, we can sign those papers.”
    It’s just as Dutchy predicted. Coarse country people looking for a field hand. They
     don’t even walk him down off the stage.
    “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” I whisper.
    “If he lays a hand on me . . .”
    “You can get placed somewhere else.”
    “I’m labor,” he says. “That’s what I am.”
    “They have to send you to school.”
    He laughs. “And what’ll happen if they don’t?”
    “You’ll make them send you. And then, in a few years—”
    “I’ll come and find you,” he says.
    I have to fight to control my voice. “Nobody wants me. I have to get back on the train.”
    “Hey, boy! Stop yer dallying,” the man calls, clapping his hands so loudly that everyone
     turns to look.
    Dutchy walks across the stage and down the steps. Mr. Curran pumps the man’s hand,
     pats him on the shoulder. Mrs. Scatcherd escorts the couple out the door, Dutchy trailing
     behind. In the doorway he turns and finds my face. And then he’s gone.
    It’s hard to believe, but it’s not yet noon. Two hours have passed since we pulled
     into the station. There are about ten adults milling around, and a half-dozen train
     riders left—me, a few sickly looking teenage boys, and some homely children—undernourished,
     walleyed, beetle browed. It’s obvious why we weren’t chosen.
    Mrs. Scatcherd mounts the stage. “All right, children. The journey continues,” she
     says. “It is impossible to know what combination of factors makes a child suitable
     for a certain family, but to be perfectly frank, you would not want to be with a family
     that doesn’t welcome you wholeheartedly. So—though this may not seem like the desired
     outcome, I tell you that it is for the best. And if, after several more attempts,
     it becomes clear that . . .” Her voice wavers. “For now, let’s just worry about our
     next destination. The good people of Albans, Minnesota, are waiting.”

Albans, Minnesota, 1929
    It’s early afternoon when we arrive in Albans, which, I can see as we pull up to