Orphan Train

Bernice”—the
     woman with frizzy hair—“Joan and Sally”—the women at the Singers—“Fanny”—the only
     one who smiles at me—“and Mary. Mary,” she says to the young girl, “you will help
     Dorothy get acquainted with her surroundings. She can do some of your scut work and
     free you up for other things. And, Fanny, you will oversee. As always.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Fanny says.
    Mary’s mouth puckers, and she gives me a hard look.
    “Well, then,” Mrs. Byrne says. “Let’s get back to work. Dorothy, your suitcase is
     in the foyer. We’ll discuss sleeping arrangements at supper.” She turns to leave,
     then adds, “We keep strict hours for mealtimes. Breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve,
     supper at six. There is no snacking between meals. Self-discipline is one of the most
     important qualities a young lady can possess.”
    When Mrs. Byrne leaves the room, Mary jerks her head at me and says, “Come on, hurry
     up. You think I got all day?” Obediently I go over and stand behind her. “What do
     you know about stitching?”
    “I used to help my mam with the mending.”
    “Have you ever used a sewing machine?”
    “No.”
    She frowns. “Does Mrs. Byrne know that?”
    “She didn’t ask.”
    Mary sighs, clearly annoyed. “I didn’t expect to have to teach the basics.”
    “I’m a fast learner.”
    “I hope so.” Mary holds up a flimsy sheet of tissue paper. “This is a pattern. Ever
     heard of it before?”
    I nod and Mary continues, describing the various features of the work I’ll be doing.
     The next few hours are spent doing tasks no one else wants to do—snipping stitches,
     basting, sweeping up, collecting pins and putting them in pincushions. I keep pricking
     myself and have to be careful not to get blood on the cloth.
    Throughout the afternoon the women pass the time with small talk and occasional humming.
     But mostly they are quiet. After a while I say, “Excuse me, I need to use the lavatory.
     Can you tell me where it is?”
    Fanny looks up. “Reckon I’ll take her. My fingers need a rest.” Getting up with some
     difficulty, she motions toward the door. I follow her down the hall into a spare and
     spotless kitchen and out the back door. “This is our privy. Don’t ever let Mrs. Byrne
     catch you using the one in the house.” She pronounces catch “kitch.”
    At the back of the yard, tufted with grass like sparse hair on a balding head, is
     a weathered gray shed with a slit cut out of the door. Fanny nods toward it. “I’ll
     wait.”
    “You don’t have to.”
    “The longer you’re in there, the longer my fingers get a break.”
    The shed is drafty, and I can see a sliver of daylight through the slit. A black toilet
     seat, worn through to wood in some places, is set in the middle of a rough-hewn bench.
     Strips of newspaper hang on a roll on the wall. I remember the privy behind our cottage
     in Kinvara, so the smell doesn’t shock me, though the seat is cold. What will it be
     like out here in a snowstorm? Like this, I suppose, only worse.
    When I’m finished, I open the door, pulling down my dress.
    “You’re pitiful thin,” Fanny says. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Hongry .
    She’s right. My stomach feels like a cavern. “A little,” I admit.
    Fanny’s face is creased and puckered, but her eyes are bright. I can’t tell if she’s
     seventy or a hundred. She’s wearing a pretty purple flowered dress with a gathered
     bodice, and I wonder if she made it herself.
    “Mrs. Byrne don’t give us much for lunch, but it’s prolly more’n you had.” She reaches
     into the side pocket of her dress and pulls out a small shiny apple. “I always save
     something for later, case I need it. She locks up the refrigerator between meals.”
    “No,” I say.
    “Oh yes she does. Says she don’t want us rooting around in there without her permission.
     But I usually manage to save something.” She hands me the apple.
    “I can’t—”
    “Go ahead. You got to learn to take what people are willing to give.”
    The apple smells so fresh and sweet it makes my mouth water.
    “You best eat it here, before we go back in.” Fanny looks at the door to the house,
     then glances up at the second-floor windows. “Whyn’t you take it back in the privy.”
    As unappetizing as this sounds, I am so hungry I don’t care. I step back inside the
     little shed and devour the apple down to the core. Juice runs down my chin, and I
     wipe it with the