Orphan Train

does Mary hate me?” I ask when we’re nearly there.
    “Pish. She doesn’t hate you, child. She’s scared.”
    “Of what?”
    “What do you think?”
    I don’t know. Why would Mary be scared of me?
    “She’s sure you’re going to take her job,” Fanny says. “Mrs. Byrne holds her money
     tight in her fist. Why would she pay Mary to do the work you can be trained to do
     for nothing?”
    I try not to betray any emotion, but Fanny’s words sting. “That’s why they picked
     me.”
    She smiles kindly. “You must know that already. Any girl who can hold a needle and
     thread would’ve sufficed. Free labor is free labor.” As we climb the steps to the
     house, she says, “You can’t blame Mary for being afraid.”
    From then on, instead of worrying about Mary, I concentrate on the work. I focus on
     making my stitches identically sized and spaced. I carefully iron each garment until
     it’s smooth and crisp. Each piece of clothing that moves from my basket to Mary’s—or
     one of the other women’s—gives me a feeling of accomplishment.
    But my relationship with her doesn’t improve. If anything, as my own work gets better,
     she becomes harsher and more exacting. I place a basted skirt in my basket and Mary
     snatches it, looks at it closely, rips the stitches out, and tosses it at me again.
    T HE LEAVES TURN FROM ROSE - TINGED TO CANDY - APPLE RED TO A dull brown, and I walk to the outhouse on a spongy, sweet-smelling carpet. One day
     Mrs. Byrne looks me up and down and asks if I have any other clothes. I’ve been alternating
     between the two dresses I came with, one blue-and-white checked and one gingham.
    “No,” I say.
    “Well, then,” she says, “you will make yourself some.”
    Later that afternoon she drives me to town, one foot hesitantly on the gas pedal and
     the other, at erratic intervals, on the brake. Proceeding forward in a jerky fashion
     we end up eventually in front of the general store.
    “You may choose three different fabrics,” she says. “Let’s see—three yards each?”
     I nod. “The cloth must be sturdy and inexpensive—that’s the only kind that makes sense
     for a . . .” She pauses. “A nine-year-old girl.”
    Mrs. Byrne leads me over to a section filled with bolts of fabric, directing me to
     the shelf with the cheaper ones. I choose a blue-and-gray checked cotton, a delicate
     green print, and a pink paisley. Mrs. Byrne nods at the first two choices and grimaces
     at the third. “Mercy, not with red hair.” She pulls out a bolt of blue chambray.
    “A modest bodice is what I’m thinking, with a minimum of frill. Simple and plain.
     A gathered skirt. You can wear that pinafore on top when you’re working. Do you have
     more than one pinafore?”
    When I shake my head, she says, “We have plenty of ticking fabric in the sewing room.
     You can make it from that. Do you have a coat? Or a sweater?”
    “The nuns gave me a coat, but it’s too small.”
    After the fabric is measured, cut, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with twine, I
     follow Mrs. Byrne down the street to a women’s clothes shop. She heads straight for
     the sale rack at the back and finds a mustard-colored wool coat, several sizes too
     big for me, with shiny black buttons. When I put it on, she frowns. “Well, it’s a
     good deal,” she says. “And there’s no sense in getting something you’ll outgrow in
     a month. I think it’s fine.”
    I hate the coat. It’s not even very warm. But I’m afraid to object. Luckily, there’s
     a large selection of sweaters on clearance, and I find a navy blue cable-knit and
     an off-white V-neck in my size. Mrs. Byrne adds a bulky, too-large corduroy skirt
     that’s 70 percent off.
    That evening, at dinner, I wear my new white sweater and skirt. “What’s that thing
     around your neck?” Mrs. Byrne says, and I realize that she is talking about my necklace,
     which is usually hidden by my high-necked dresses. She leans closer to look.
    “An Irish cross,” I say.
    “It’s very odd-looking. What are those, hands? And why does the heart have a crown?”
     She sits back in her chair. “That looks sacrilegious to me.”
    I tell her the story of how my gram was given this necklace for her First Communion
     and passed it down to me before I came to America. “The hands clasped together symbolize
     friendship. The heart is love. And the crown stands for loyalty,” I explain.
    She sniffs, refolds the napkin in her lap. “I