Orphan Train

brought to my attention
     that a couple named the Nielsens, friends of hers, own the general store on Center
     Street. Five years ago they lost their only child.”
    “Diphtheria, I believe it was, poor thing,” Mrs. Murphy adds.
    “Yes, yes, tragedy,” Mr. Sorenson says. “Well, apparently they’ve been looking for
     help with the shop. Mrs. Nielsen contacted Mrs. Murphy several weeks ago, asking whether
     any young woman in residence was seeking employment. And then, when you washed up
     on her doorstep . . .” Perhaps sensing that this characterization of how I got here
     might be perceived as insensitive, he chuckles. “Forgive me, Mrs. Murphy! A figure
     of speech!”
    “Quite all right, Mr. Sorenson, we understand you meant no harm by it.” Mrs. Murphy
     pours more tea into his cup and hands it to him, then turns to me. “After speaking
     with Miss Larsen about your situation, I told Mrs. Nielsen about you. I said that
     you are a sober-minded and mature almost-eleven-year-old girl, that you have impressed
     me with your ability to sew and clean, and that I have no doubt you could be of use
     to her. I explained that while adoption may be the most desirous eventual result,
     it is not expected.” She clasps her hands together. “And so Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen have
     agreed to meet with you.”
    I know I am expected to respond, to express gratitude, but it takes a conscious effort
     to smile, and several moments to form the words. I am not grateful; I am bitterly
     disappointed. I don’t understand why I need to leave, why Mrs. Murphy can’t keep me
     if she thinks I am so well mannered. I don’t want to go into another home where I’m
     treated like a servant, tolerated only for the labor I can provide.
    “How kind of you, Mrs. Murphy!” Miss Larsen exclaims, plunging into the silence. “That’s
     wonderful news, isn’t it, Dorothy?”
    “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Murphy,” I say, choking out the words.
    “You’re quite welcome, child. Quite welcome.” She beams proudly. “Now, Mr. Sorenson.
     Perhaps you and I should attend this meeting as well?”
    Mr. Sorenson drains his teacup and sets it in its saucer. “Indeed, Mrs. Murphy. I
     am also thinking that the two of us should meet separately to discuss the . . . finer
     points of this transaction. What would you say to that?”
    Mrs. Murphy blushes and blinks; she shifts in her chair, picks up her teacup, and
     then puts it down without taking a sip. “Yes, that’s probably wise,” she says, and
     Miss Larsen looks over and gives me a smile.

Hemingford, Minnesota, 1930
    Over the next few days, every time I see her Mrs. Murphy has another suggestion for how I should comport myself on meeting the Nielsens. “A firm handshake, but not
     a squeeze,” she says, passing me on the stairs. “You must be ladylike. They need to
     know that you can be trusted behind the counter,” she lectures at dinner.
    The other women chime in. “Don’t ask questions,” one advises.
    “But answer them without hesitation,” another adds.
    “Make sure your fingernails are clipped and groomed.”
    “Clean your teeth just before with baking soda.”
    “Your hair must be”—Miss Grund grimaces and reaches up to her own head, as if patting
     down soap bubbles—“tamed. You never know how they might feel about a redhead. Especially
     that tinny shade.”
    “Now, now,” Miss Larsen says. “We’re going to scare the poor girl so much she won’t
     know how to act.”
    On the morning of the meeting, a Saturday in mid-December, there is a light knock
     on my bedroom door. It’s Mrs. Murphy, holding a navy blue velvet dress on a hanger.
     “Let’s see if this fits,” she says, handing it to me. I’m not sure whether to invite
     her in or close the door while I change, but she solves this dilemma by bustling in
     and sitting on the bed.
    Mrs. Murphy is so matter-of-fact that I am not ashamed to take my clothes off and
     stand there in my knickers. She removes the dress from the hanger, unzips a seam at
     the side that I hadn’t realized was a zipper, and lifts it over my head, helping me
     with the long sleeves, pulling down the gathered skirt, zipping it up again. She steps
     back in the small space to inspect me, yanks at one side and then the other. Tugs
     at a sleeve. “Let’s see about that hair,” she says, instructing me to turn around
     so she can take a look. Fishing in her apron pocket, she pulls out bobby pins and
     a hair clip.