Orphan Train

“We’ll sign the papers, then.”
    The hovering Mr. Curran descends, and we are led to the table where the necessary
     forms are signed and dated.
    “I think you’ll find that Niamh is mature for her years,” Mrs. Scatcherd tells them.
     “If she is brought up in a strict, God-fearing household, there is no reason to believe
     she can’t become a woman of substance.” Taking me aside, she whispers, “You are lucky
     to have found a home. Do not disappoint me, or the Society. I don’t know if you’ll
     get another chance.”
    Mr. Byrne hoists my brown suitcase onto his shoulder. I follow him and his wife out
     of the Grange Hall, down the quiet street, and around the corner to where their black
     Model A is parked in front of a modest storefront with hand-lettered signs advertising
     sales: NORWEGIAN SARDINES IN OIL 15 CENTS, ROUND STEAK , 36 CENTS/LB . Wind rustles through the tall sparse trees that line the road. After laying my suitcase
     flat in the trunk, Mr. Byrne opens the rear door for me. The interior of the car is
     black, the leather seats cool and slippery. I feel very small in the backseat. The
     Byrnes take their places in the front and don’t glance back.
    Mr. Byrne reaches over and touches his wife’s shoulder, and she smiles at him. With
     a loud rumble the car springs to life and we set off. The Byrnes are having an animated
     conversation in the front seat, but I can’t hear a word.
    S EVERAL MINUTES LATER , M R . B YRNE PULLS INTO THE DRIVEWAY of a modest beige stucco house with brown trim. As soon as he turns off the car,
     Mrs. Byrne looks back at me and says, “We’ve decided on Dorothy.”
    “You like that name?” Mr. Byrne asks.
    “For goodness’ sake, Raymond, it doesn’t matter what she thinks,” Mrs. Byrne snaps
     as she opens her car door. “Dorothy is our choice, and Dorothy she will be.”
    I turn the name over in my mind: Dorothy. All right. I’m Dorothy now.
    The stucco is chipped and paint is peeling off the trim. But the windows are sparkling
     clean, and the lawn is short and neat. A domed planter of rust-colored mums sits on
     either side of the steps.
    “One of your tasks will be to sweep the front porch, steps, and walkway every day
     until the snow comes. Rain or shine,” Mrs. Byrne says as I follow her to the front
     door. “You will find the dustpan and broom inside the hall closet on the left.” She
     turns around to face me, and I nearly bump into her. “Are you paying attention? I
     don’t like to repeat myself.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Byrne.”
    “Call me ma’am. Ma’am will suffice.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    The small foyer is gloomy and dark. Shadows from the white crocheted curtains on every
     window cast lacy shapes on the floor. To the left, through a slightly open door, I
     glimpse the red-flocked wallpaper and mahogany table and chairs of a dining room.
     Mrs. Byrne pushes a button on the wall and the overhead light springs on as Mr. Byrne
     comes through the front door, having retrieved my bag from the truck. “Ready?” she
     says. Mrs. Byrne opens the door to the right onto a room that, to my surprise, is
     full of people.

Albans, Minnesota, 1929
    Two women in white blouses sit in front of black sewing machines with the word Singer spelled out in gold along the body, pumping one foot on the iron lattice step that
     moves the needle up and down. They don’t look up as we enter, just keep watching the
     needle, tucking the thread under the foot and pressing the fabric flat. A round young
     woman with frizzy brown hair kneels on the floor in front of a cloth mannequin, stitching
     tiny pearls onto a bodice. A gray-haired woman sits on a brown chair, perfectly erect,
     hemming a calico skirt. And a girl who appears only a few years older than me is cutting
     a pattern out of thin paper on a table. On the wall above her head is a framed needlepoint
     that says, in tiny black-and-yellow cross-stitching, KEEP ME BUSY AS A BEE.
    “Fanny, can you stop a minute?” Mrs. Byrne says, touching the gray-haired woman on
     the shoulder. “Tell the others.”
    “Break,” the old woman says. They all look up, but the only one who changes position
     is the girl, who puts down her shears.
    Mrs. Byrne looks around the room, leading with her chin. “As you know, we have needed
     extra help for quite some time, and I am pleased to report that we have found it.
     This is Dorothy.” She lifts her hand in my direction. “Dorothy, say hello to