Orphan Train

still think it’s odd. I have half a
     mind to make you take it off.”
    “Come now, Lois,” Mr. Byrne says. “It’s a trinket from home. No harm to it.”
    “Perhaps it’s time to put away those old-country things.”
    “It’s not bothering anyone, is it?”
    I glance over at him, surprised that he’s sticking up for me. He winks at me as if
     it’s a game.
    “It’s bothering me,” she says. “There’s no reason this girl needs to tell the world
     far and wide that she’s a Catholic.”
    Mr. Byrne laughs. “Look at her hair. There’s no denying she’s Irish, is there?”
    “So unbecoming in a girl,” Mrs. Byrne says under her breath.
    Later Mr. Byrne tells me that his wife doesn’t like Catholics in general, even though
     she married one. It helps that he never goes to church. “Works out well for the both
     of us,” he says.

Albans, Minnesota, 1929–1930
    When Mrs. Byrne appears in the sewing room one Tuesday afternoon at the end of October, it��s clear that something is wrong. She looks haggard and stricken.
     Her cropped dark bob, usually in tight waves against her head, is sticking out all
     over. Bernice jumps up, but Mrs. Byrne waves her away.
    “Girls,” she says, holding her hand to her throat, “girls! I need to tell you something.
     The stock market crashed today. It’s in free fall. And many lives are . . .” She stops
     to catch her breath.
    “Ma’am, do you want to sit down?” Bernice says.
    Mrs. Byrne ignores her. “People lost everything,” she mutters, gripping the back of
     Mary’s chair. Her eyes roam the room as if she is looking for something to focus on.
     “If we can’t feed ourselves, we can hardly afford to employ you, now, can we?” Her
     eyes fill with tears and she backs out of the room, shaking her head.
    We hear the front door open and Mrs. Byrne clatter down the steps.
    Bernice tells us all to get back to work, but Joan, one of the women at the Singers,
     stands up abruptly. “I have to get home to my husband. I have to know what’s going
     on. What use is it to keep working if we won’t be paid?”
    “Leave if you must,” Fanny says.
    Joan is the only one who leaves, but the rest of us are jittery throughout the afternoon.
     It’s hard to sew when your hands are shaking.
    I T ’ S HARD TO TELL EXACTLY WHAT ’ S GOING ON , BUT AS THE WEEKS pass we begin to catch glimmers. Mr. Byrne apparently invested quite a bit in the
     stock market, and the money is gone. The demand for new garments has slowed, and people
     have taken to mending their own clothes—it’s one place they can easily cut corners.
    Mrs. Byrne is even more scattered and absent. We’ve stopped eating dinner together.
     She takes her food upstairs, leaving a desiccated chicken leg or a bowl of cold brisket
     in a chunk of brown gelatinous fat on the counter, with strict instructions that I
     wash my dish when I’m done. Thanksgiving is like any other day. I never celebrated
     it with my Irish family, so it doesn’t bother me, but the girls mutter under their
     breath all day long: it’s not Christian, it’s not American to keep them from their
     families.
    Maybe because the alternative is so bleak, I’ve grown to like the sewing room. I look
     forward to seeing the women every day—kind Fanny, simple-minded Bernice, and quiet
     Sally and Joan. (All except Mary, who can’t seem to forgive me for being alive.) And
     I like the work. My fingers are getting strong and quick; a piece that used to take
     an hour or more I can do in minutes. I used to be afraid of new stitches and techniques,
     but now welcome each new challenge—pencil-sharp pleats, sequins, delicate lace.
    The others can see that I’m improving, and they’ve started giving me more to do. Without
     ever saying it directly, Fanny has taken over Mary’s job of supervising my work. “Be
     careful, dear,” she says, running a light finger over my stitches. “Take the time
     to make them small and even. Remember, somebody will wear this, probably over and
     over until it’s worn through. A lady wants to feel pretty, no matter how much money
     she has.”
    Ever since I arrived in Minnesota people have been warning me about the extreme cold
     that’s on the way. I am beginning to feel it. Kinvara is rain soaked much of the year,
     and Irish winters are cold and wet. New York is gray and slushy and miserable for
     months. But neither place compares to this. Already we’ve had two big snowstorms.