Orphan Train

the depot, is barely a town at all. The mayor is standing on the open-air platform,
     and as soon as we disembark we are herded in a ragtag line to a Grange Hall a block
     from the station. The brilliant blue of the morning sky has faded, as if left out
     too long in the sun. The air has cooled. I am no longer nervous or worried. I just
     want to get this over with.
    There are fewer people here, about fifty, but they fill the small brick building.
     There’s no stage, so we walk to the front and turn to face the crowd. Mr. Curran gives
     a less florid version of the speech he gave in Minneapolis and people begin to inch
     forward. They generally appear both poorer and kindlier; the women are wearing country
     dresses and the men seem uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes.
    Expecting nothing makes the whole experience easier to bear. I fully believe that
     I will end up on the train again, to be unloaded at the next town, paraded with the
     remaining children, and shuttled back on the train. Those of us who aren’t chosen
     will likely return to New York to grow up in an orphanage. And maybe that wouldn’t
     be so bad. At least I know what to expect—hard mattresses, rough sheets, strict matrons.
     But also friendship with other girls, three meals a day, school. I can go back to
     that life. I don’t need to find a family here, and perhaps it will be for the best
     if I don’t.
    As I am thinking this, I become aware of a woman looking at me closely. She is about
     my mother’s age, with wavy brown hair cropped close to her head and plain, strong
     features. She wears a high-necked white blouse with vertical pleats, a dark paisley
     scarf, and a plain gray skirt. Heavy black shoes are on her feet. A large oval locket
     hangs on a gold chain around her neck. The man standing behind her is stout and florid,
     with shaggy auburn hair. The buttons of his waistcoat strain to confine his drumlike
     girth.
    The woman comes close to me. “What’s your name?”
    “Niamh.”
    “Eve?”
    “No, Niamh. It’s Irish,” I say.
    “How do you spell it?”
    “N-I-A-M-H.”
    She looks back at the man, who breaks into a grin. “Fresh off the boat,” he says.
     “Ain’t that right, missy?”
    “Well, not—” I begin, but the man interrupts me.
    “Where you from?”
    “County Galway.”
    “Ah, right.” He nods, and my heart jumps. He knows it!
    “My people’re from County Cork. Came over long ago, during the famine.”
    These two are a peculiar pair—she circumspect and reserved, he bouncing on his toes,
     humming with energy.
    “The name would have to change,” she says to her husband.
    “Whatever you want, m’dear.”
    She cocks her head at me. “How old are you?”
    “Nine, ma’am.”
    “Can you sew?”
    I nod.
    “Do you know how to cross-stitch? Hem? Can you do backstitching by hand?”
    “Fairly well.” I learned stitches sitting in our apartment on Elizabeth Street, helping
     Mam when she took in extra work darning and mending and the occasional full dress
     from a bolt of cloth. Much of her work came from the sisters Rosenblum downstairs,
     who did fine finish work and gladly passed along to Mam the more tedious tasks. I
     stood beside her as she traced patterns in chalk on chambray and calico, and I learned
     to make the wide simple chain stitches to guide the emerging shape of the garment.
    “Who taught you?”
    “My mam.”
    “Where is she now?”
    “Passed away.”
    “And your father?”
    “I’m an orphan.” My words hang in the air.
    The woman nods at the man, who puts his hand on her back and guides her to the side
     of the room. I watch as they talk. He shakes his floppy head and rubs his belly. She
     touches the bodice of her blouse with a flat hand, gestures toward me. He stoops,
     hands on his belt, and bends close to whisper in her ear. She looks me up and down.
     Then they come back over.
    “I am Mrs. Byrne,” she says. “My husband works as a women’s clothier, and we employ
     several local women to make garments to order. We are looking for a girl who is good
     with a needle.”
    This is so different from what I was expecting that I don’t know what to say.
    “I will be honest with you. We do not have any children and have no interest in being
     surrogate parents. But if you are respectful and hardworking, you will be treated
     fairly.”
    I nod.
    The woman smiles, her features shifting. For the first time, she seems almost friendly.
     “Good.” She shakes my hand.