Orphan Train

answering.
    “Your mama home?”
    “Who want to know?” the boy says.
    Mr. Sorenson smiles. “Did your mama tell you you’re getting a new sister?”
    “No.”
    “Well, she should be expecting us. Go on and tell her we’re here.”
    The boy stabs at the dirt with the stick. “She’s sleeping. I’m not to bother her.”
    “You go on and wake her up. Maybe she forgot we were coming.”
    The boy traces a circle in the dirt.
    “Tell her it’s Mr. Sorenson from the Children’s Aid Society.”
    He shakes his head. “Don’t want a whupping.”
    “She’s not going to whip you, boy! She’ll be glad to know I’m here.”
    When it’s clear the boy isn’t going to move, Mr. Sorenson rubs his hands together
     and, motioning for me to follow, makes his way gingerly up the creaking steps to the
     porch. I can tell he’s worried about what we might find inside. I am too.
    He knocks loudly on the door, and it swings open from the force of his hand. There’s
     a hole where the doorknob is supposed to be. He steps into the gloom, ushering me
     in with him.
    The front room is nearly bare. It smells like a cave. The floor is planked with rough
     boards, and in places I can see clear through to the ground below. Of the three grimy
     windows, one has a jagged hole in the upper-right corner and one is seamed with spidery
     cracks. A wooden crate stands between two upholstered chairs, soiled with dirt, stuffing
     coming out of split seams, and a threadbare gold sofa. On the far left is a dark hallway.
     Straight ahead, through an open doorway, is the kitchen.
    “Mrs. Grote? Hello?” Mr. Sorenson cocks his head, but there’s no response. “I’m not
     going into a bedroom to find her, that’s for sure,” he mutters. “Mrs. Grote?” he calls,
     louder.
    We hear faint footsteps and a girl of about three, in a dirty pink dress, emerges
     from the hall.
    “Well, hello, little girl!” Mr. Sorenson says, crouching down on his heels. “Is your
     mama back there?”
    “We sleeping.”
    “That’s what your brother said. Is she still asleep?”
    A harsh voice comes from the hallway, startling us both: “What do you want?”
    Mr. Sorenson stands up slowly. A pale woman with long brown hair steps out of the
     darkness. Her eyes are puffy and her lips are chapped, and her nightgown is so thin
     I can see the dark circles of her nipples through the cloth.
    The girl sidles over like a cat and puts an arm around her legs.
    “I’m Chester Sorenson, from the Children’s Aid Society. You must be Mrs. Grote. I’m
     sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I was told you knew we were coming. You did request
     a girl, did you not?”
    The woman rubs her eyes. “What day is it?”
    “Friday, April fourth, ma’am.”
    She coughs. Then she doubles over and coughs again, harder this time, into her fist.
    “Would you like to sit down?” Mr. Sorenson goes over and guides her by the elbow to
     a chair. “Now, is Mr. Grote home?”
    The woman shakes her head.
    “Are you expecting him soon?”
    She lifts her shoulders in a shrug.
    “What time does he get off work?” Mr. Sorenson presses.
    “He don’t go to work no more. Lost his job at the feed store last week.” She glances
     around as if she’s lost something. Then she says, “C’mere, Mabel.” The little girl
     slinks over to her, watching us the whole time. “Go check and see that Gerald Junior’s
     okay in there. And where’s Harold?”
    “Is that the boy outside?” Mr. Sorenson asks.
    “He watching the baby? I told him to.”
    “They’re both out there,” he says, and though his voice is neutral, I can tell he
     doesn’t approve.
    Mrs. Grote chews her lip. She still hasn’t said a word to me. She’s barely looked
     in my direction. “I’m just so tired,” she says to no one in particular.
    “Well, I’m sure you are, ma’am.” It’s clear Mr. Sorenson is itching to get out of
     here. “I’m guessing that’s why you asked for this here orphan girl. Dorothy. Her papers
     say she has experience with children. So that should be a help to you.”
    She nods distractedly. “I got to sleep when they sleep,” she mumbles. “It’s the only
     time I get any rest.”
    “I’m sure it is.”
    Mrs. Grote covers her face with both hands. Then she pushes her stringy hair back
     behind her ears. She juts her chin at me. “This is the girl, huh?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Dorothy. She’s here to be part of your family and be taken care
     of by you and