Orphan Train

Sorenson your story, and I’ll tell him what I know. I won’t let you go back there.”
    The next few hours are a blur. I mimic Lucy’s movements, pulling out the spelling
     primer when she does, lining up behind her to write on the board, but I barely register
     what’s going on around me. When she whispers, “Are you all right?” I shrug. She squeezes
     my hand but doesn’t probe further—and I don’t know if it’s because she senses I don’t
     want to talk about it or if she’s afraid of what I might say.
    After lunch, when we are back in our seats, I see a vehicle way off in the distance.
     The sound of the motor fills my head; the dark truck coming toward the school is the
     only thing I see. And here it is—puttering up the steep drive, screeching to a stop
     behind Mr. Post’s truck.
    I see Mr. Sorenson in the driver’s seat. He sits there for a moment. Takes off his
     black felt hat, strokes his black mustache. Then he opens the car door.
    “M Y , MY , MY ,” M R . S ORENSON SAYS WHEN I’ VE FINISHED MY STORY . We are sitting on hard chairs on the back porch, warmer now than it was earlier
     in the day from the sun and the heat of the stove. He reaches out to pat my leg, then
     seems to think better of it and rests his hand on his hip. With his other hand he
     strokes his mustache. “Such a long walk in the cold. You must have been very . . .”
     His voice trails off. “And yet. And yet. I wonder: the middle of the night. Might
     you perhaps have . . . ?”
    I look at him steadily, my heart pounding in my chest.
    “ . . . misconstrued?”
    He looks at Miss Larsen. “A ten-year-old girl . . . don’t you find, Miss Larsen, that
     there can be a certain—excitability? A tendency to overdramatize?”
    “It depends on the girl, Mr. Sorenson,” she says stiffly, lifting her chin. “I have
     never known Dorothy to lie.”
    Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Ah, Miss Larsen, that’s not at all what I’m saying,
     of course not! I merely meant that sometimes, particularly if one has been through
     distressing events in one’s young life, one might be inclined to jump to conclusions—to
     inadvertently blow things out of proportion. I saw with my own eyes that living conditions
     in the Grote household were, well, less than optimal. But we can’t all have storybook
     families, can we, Miss Larsen? The world is not a perfect place, and when we are dependent
     on the charity of others, we are not always in a position to complain.” He smiles
     at me. “My recommendation, Dorothy, is to give it another try. I can talk to the Grotes
     and impress upon them the need to improve conditions.”
    Miss Larsen’s eyes are glittering strangely, and a red rash has crept up her neck.
     “Did you hear the girl, Mr. Sorenson?” she says in a strained voice. “There was an
     attempted . . . violation. And Mrs. Grote, coming upon the appalling scene, cast her
     out. Surely you don’t expect Dorothy to return to that situation, now, do you? Frankly,
     I wonder why you don’t ask the police to go out there and take a look. It doesn’t
     sound like a healthy place for the other children there, either.”
    Mr. Sorenson is nodding slowly, as if to say Now, now, it was just a thought, don’t get shrill, let’s all calm down. But what he says is, “Well, then, you see, we’re in a bit of a pickle. There are
     no families that I know of at the moment seeking orphans. I could inquire farther
     afield, of course. Contact the Children’s Aid in New York. If it comes down to it,
     Dorothy could go back there, I suppose, on the next train that comes through.”
    “Surely we won’t need to resort to that,” Miss Larsen says.
    He gives a little shrug. “One would hope not. One doesn’t know.”
    She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Let’s explore our options
     then, Mr. Sorenson, shall we? And in the meantime—for a day or two—Dorothy can come
     home with me.”
    I look up at her with surprise. “But I thought—”
    “It can’t be permanent,” she says quickly. “I live in a boardinghouse, Mr. Sorenson,
     where no children are allowed. But my landlady has a kind heart, and she knows I am
     a schoolteacher and that not all of my children are”—she appears to pick her words
     carefully—“housed advantageously. I think she will be sympathetic—as I say, for a
     day or two.”
    Mr. Sorenson strokes his mustache. “Very well, Miss Larsen. I will look into