Orphan Train

Their land was stolen, their
     religion was forbidden, they were forced to bend to foreign domination. It wasn’t
     okay for the Irish, and it’s not okay for the Indians.”
    “Jeez, soapbox much?” Tyler mutters.
    Megan McDonald, one seat ahead of Molly, raises her hand, and Mr. Reed nods. “She
     has a point,” she says. “My grandpa’s from Dublin. He’s always talking about what
     the Brits did.”
    “Well, my granddad’s parents lost everything in the Great Depression. You don’t see
     me crying for handouts. Shit happens, excuse my French,” Tyler says.
    “Tyler’s French aside,” Mr. Reed says, raising his eyebrows at the class as if to
     say he doesn’t approve but will deal with it later, “is that what they’re doing? Asking
     for handouts?”
    “They just want to be treated fairly,” a kid in the back says.
    “But what does that mean? And where does it end?” another kid asks.
    As others join the conversation, Megan turns in her seat and squints at Molly, as
     if noticing her for the first time. “An Indian, huh. That’s cool,” she whispers. “Like
     Molly Molasses, right?”
    W EEKDAYS , NOW , M OLLY DOESN ’ T WAIT FOR J ACK TO TAKE HER TO Vivian’s house. Outside of school she picks up the Island Explorer.
    “You have other things to do,” she tells him. “I know it’s a pain for you to wait
     on me.” But in truth, taking the bus gives her the freedom to stay as long as Vivian
     will have her without Jack’s questions.
    Molly hasn’t told Jack about the portage project. She knows he’d say it’s a bad idea—that
     she’s getting overinvolved in Vivian’s life, asking too much of her. Even so, Jack
     has had an edge in his voice recently. “So hey, you’re getting to the end of your
     hours soon, huh?” he says, and, “Making any progress up there?”
    These days Molly slips into Vivian’s house, ducks her head with a quick hello to Terry,
     sidles up the stairs. It seems both too hard to explain her growing relationship with
     Vivian and beside the point. What does it matter what anyone else thinks?
    “Here’s my theory,” Jack says one day as they’re sitting outside on the lawn at school
     during lunch period.
    It’s a beautiful morning, and the air is fresh and mild. Dandelions dance like sparklers
     in the grass.
    “Vivian is like a mother figure to you. Grandmother, great-grandmother—whatever. She
     listens to you, she tells you stories, lets you help her out. She makes you feel needed.”
    “No,” Molly says with irritation. “It’s not like that. I have hours to do; she has
     work that needs to be done. Simple.”
    “Not really so simple, Moll,” he says with exaggerated reasonableness. “Ma tells me
     there’s not a helluva lot going on up there.” He pops open a big can of iced tea and
     takes a long swallow.
    “We’re making progress. It’s just hard to see.”
    “Hard to see?” He laughs, unwrapping a Subway Italian sandwich. “I thought the whole
     point was to get rid of the boxes. That seems fairly straightforward. No?”
    Molly snaps a carrot stick in half. “We’re organizing things. So they’ll be easier
     to find.”
    “By who? Estate sale people? Because that’s who it’s going to be, you know. Vivian
     will probably never set foot up there again.”
    Is this really any of his business? “Then we’re making it easier for the estate sale
     people.” In truth, though she hasn’t admitted it out loud until now, Molly has virtually
     given up on the idea of disposing of anything. After all, what does it matter? Why
     shouldn’t Vivian’s attic be filled with things that are meaningful to her? The stark
     truth is that she will die sooner than later. And then professionals will descend
     on the house, neatly and efficiently separating the valuable from the sentimental,
     lingering only over items of indeterminate origin or worth. So yes—Molly has begun
     to view her work at Vivian’s in a different light. Maybe it doesn’t matter how much
     gets done. Maybe the value is in the process—in touching each item, in naming and
     identifying, in acknowledging the significance of a cardigan, a pair of children’s
     boots.
    “It’s her stuff,” Molly says. “She doesn’t want to get rid of it. I can’t force her,
     can I?”
    Taking a bite of his sandwich, its fillings spilling out onto the waxy paper below
     his chin, Jack shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’s more the”—he chews and swallows