Orphan Train

back of my hand. My da used to eat the apple core and all—“where
     all the nutrients are. It’s plain ignorant to throw it out,” he’d say. But to me the
     hard cartilage is like eating the bones of a fish.
    When I open the door, Fanny strokes her chin. I look at her, puzzled. “Evidence,”
     she says, and I wipe my sticky jaw.
    Mary scowls when I step back into the sewing room. She shoves a pile of cloth at me
     and says, “Pin these.” I spend the next hour pinning edge to edge as carefully as
     I can, but each time I put a completed one down she grabs it, inspects it hastily,
     and flings it back at me. “It’s a sloppy mess. Do it again.”
    “But—”
    “Don’t argue. You should be ashamed of this work.”
    The other women look up and silently return to their sewing.
    I pull out the pins with shaking hands. Then I slowly repin the cloth, measuring an
     inch apart with a metal sewing gauge. On the mantelpiece an ornate gold clock with
     a domed glass front ticks loudly. I hold my breath as Mary inspects my work. “This
     has some irregularity,” she says finally, holding it up.
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    “It’s uneven.” She won’t look me in the eye. “Maybe you’re just . . .” Her voice trails
     off.
    “What?”
    “Maybe you aren’t cut out for this kind of work.”
    My bottom lip trembles, and I press my lips together hard. I keep thinking someone—maybe
     Fanny?—will step in, but no one does. “I learned how to sew from my mother.”
    “You’re not mending a rip in your father’s trousers. People are paying good money—”
    “I know how to sew,” I blurt. “Maybe better than you.”
    Mary gapes at me. “You . . . you are nothing, ” she sputters. “Don’t even have a—a family!”
    My ears are buzzing. The only thing I can think to say is, “And you don’t have any
     manners.” I stand up and leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me. In the dark
     hall, I contemplate my options. I could run away, but where would I go?
    After a moment the door opens, and Fanny slips out. “Goodness, child,” she whispers.
     “Why you have to be so mouthy?”
    “That girl is mean. What’d I do to her?”
    Fanny puts a hand on my arm. Her fingers are rough, calloused. “It don’t do you any
     good to squabble.”
    “But my pins were straight.”
    She sighs. “Mary’s only hurting herself by making you do the work over. She’s paid
     by the piece, so I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing. But you—well, let me ask
     you this. Are they paying you?”
    “Paying me?”
    “Fanny!” a voice rings out above us. We look up to see Mrs. Byrne at the top of the
     stairs. Her face is flushed. “What on earth is going on?” I can’t tell if she heard
     what we were saying.
    “Nothing to concern you, ma’am,” Fanny says quickly. “A little spat between the girls
     is all.”
    “Over what?”
    “Honest, ma’am, I don’t think you want to know.”
    “Oh, but I do.”
    Fanny gazes at me and shakes her head. “Well . . . You seen that boy who delivers
     the afternoon paper? They got to arguing over whether he has a sweetheart. You know
     how girls can be.”
    I exhale slowly.
    “The foolishness, Fanny,” Mrs. Byrne says.
    “I didn’t want to tell you.”
    “You two get back in there. Dorothy, I don’t want to hear another word of this nonsense,
     you understand?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “There is work to be done.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Fanny opens the door and walks ahead of me into the sewing room. Mary and I don’t
     speak for the rest of the afternoon.
    That night at supper Mrs. Byrne serves chopped beef, potato salad stained pink by
     beets, and rubbery cabbage. Mr. Byrne chews noisily. I can hear every click of his
     jaw. I know to put my napkin in my lap—Gram taught me that. I know how to use a knife
     and fork. Though the beef tastes as dry and flavorless as cardboard, I’m so ravenous
     that it’s all I can do not to shove it into my mouth. Small, ladylike bites, Gram
     said.
    After a few minutes, Mrs. Byrne puts down her fork and says, “Dorothy, it’s time to
     discuss the rules of the house. As you already know, you are to use the privy in the
     back. Once a week, on Sunday evenings, I will draw a bath for you in the tub in the
     washroom off the kitchen. Sunday is also washday, which you’ll be expected to help
     with. Bedtime is at nine P.M ., with lights out. There’s a pallet for you in the hall closet.