Orphan Train

thanks,” she says nonchalantly.
     “But does this mean I have to read it?”
    “Absolutely. There will be a quiz,” Vivian says.
    For a while they work in near silence, Molly holding up an item—a sky-blue cardigan
     with stained and yellowed flowers, a brown dress with several missing buttons, a periwinkle
     scarf and one matching mitten—and Vivian sighing, “I suppose there’s no reason to
     keep that,” then inevitably adding, “Let’s put it in the ‘maybe’ pile.” At one point,
     apropos of nothing, Vivian says, “So where is that mother of yours, anyway?”
    Molly has gotten used to this kind of non sequitur. Vivian tends to pick up discussions
     they started a few days earlier right where they left off, as if it’s perfectly natural
     to do so.
    “Oh, who knows.” She’s just opened a box that, to her delight, looks easy to dispose
     of—dozens of dusty store ledgers from the 1940s and ’50s. Surely Vivian has no reason
     to hang on to them. “These can go, don’t you think?” she says, holding up a slim black
     book.
    Vivian takes it from her and flips through it. “Well . . .” Her voice trails off.
     She looks up. “Have you looked for her?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    Molly gives Vivian a sharp look. She’s not used to people asking such blunt questions—asking
     any questions at all, really. The only other person who speaks this bluntly to her
     is Lori the social worker, and she already knows the details of her story. (And anyway,
     Lori doesn’t ask “why” questions. She’s only interested in cause, effect, and a lecture.)
     But Molly can’t snap at Vivian, who has, after all, given her a get-out-of-jail-free
     card. If “free” means fifty hours of pointed questions. She brushes the hair out of
     her eyes. “I haven’t looked for her because I don’t care.”
    “Really.”
    “Really.”
    “You’re not curious at all.”
    “Nope.”
    “I’m not sure I believe that.”
    Molly shrugs.
    “Hmm. Because actually, you seem kind of . . . angry.”
    “I’m not angry. I just don’t care.” Molly lifts a stack of ledgers out of the box
     and thumps it on the floor. “Can we recycle these?”
    Vivian pats her hand. “I think maybe I’ll hang on to this box,” she says, as if she
     hasn’t said that about everything they’ve gone through so far.
    “S HE ’ S ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS !” M OLLY SAYS , BURYING HER FACE IN Jack’s neck. They’re in his Saturn, and she’s straddling him in the pushed-back front
     seat.
    Laughing, his stubble rough against her cheek, he says, “What do you mean?” He slips
     his hands under her shirt and strokes her ribs with his fingers.
    “That tickles,” she says, squirming.
    “I like it when you move like that.”
    She kisses his neck, the dark patch on his chin, the corner of his lip, a thick eyebrow,
     and he pulls her closer, running his hands up her sides and under her small breasts,
     cupping them.
    “I don’t know a damn thing about her life—not that I care! But she expects me to tell
     her everything about mine.”
    “Oh, come on, what can it hurt? If she knows a little more about you, maybe she’s
     nicer to you. Maybe the hours go a little faster. She’s probably lonely. Just wants
     someone to talk to.”
    Molly screws up her face.
    “Try a little tenderness,” Jack croons.
    She sighs. “I don’t need to entertain her with stories about my shitty life. We can’t
     all be rich as hell and live in a mansion.”
    He kisses her shoulder. “So turn it around. Ask her questions.”
    “Do I care?” She sighs, tracing her finger along his ear until he turns his head and
     bites it, takes it in his mouth.
    He reaches down and grabs the lever, and the seat falls back with a jolt. Molly lands
     sloppily on top of him and they both start to laugh. Sliding over to make room for
     her in the bucket seat, Jack says, “Just do what it takes to get those hours over
     with, right?” Turning sideways, he runs his fingers along the waistband of her black
     leggings. “If you can’t stick it out, I might have to figure out a way to go to juvie
     with you. And that would suck for both of us.”
    “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
    Pushing her waistband down over her hip, he says, “That’s what I’m looking for.” He
     traces the inky black lines of the turtle on her hip. Its shell is a pointy oval,
     bisected at an angle, like a shield with a daisy on one side and a tribal flourish
     on the