Orphan Train

For the next few minutes she pokes and prods, pulling the hair back from
     my face and smoothing it into submission. When she’s finished to her satisfaction,
     she turns me around to look at my reflection in the glass.
    Despite my trepidation about meeting the Nielsens, I can’t help smiling. For the first
     time since Mr. Grote butchered my hair months ago, I look almost pretty. I have never
     worn a velvet dress before. It is heavy and a little stiff, with a full skirt that
     falls in a lush drape to my midcalf. It gives off a faint scent of mothballs whenever
     I move. I think it’s beautiful, but Mrs. Murphy isn’t satisfied. Narrowing her eyes
     at me and clicking her tongue, she pinches the material. “Wait a minute, I’ll be right
     back,” she says, hurrying out and returning a few moments later with a wide black
     ribbon. “Turn around,” she instructs, and when I do, she loops the sash around my
     waist and ties it in the back with a wide bow. We both inspect her handiwork in the
     mirror.
    “There we are. You look like a princess, my dear,” Mrs. Murphy declares. “Are your
     black stockings clean?”
    I nod.
    “Put them on, then. And your black shoes will be fine.” She laughs, her hands on my
     waist. “A redheaded Irish princess you are, right here in Minnesota!”
    A T THREE O ’ CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON , IN THE EARLY HOURS OF THE first heavy snowstorm of the season, I greet Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen in Mrs. Murphy’s
     parlor, with Mr. Sorenson and Miss Larsen standing by.
    Mr. Nielsen resembles a large gray mouse, complete with twitching whiskers, pink-tinged
     ears, and a tiny mouth. He is wearing a gray three-piece suit and a silk striped bow
     tie, and he walks with a black cane. Mrs. Nielsen is thin, almost frail. Her dark
     head of hair, streaked with silver, is pulled back in a bun. She has dark eyebrows
     and eyelashes and deep-set brown eyes, and her lips are stained a dark red. She wears
     no powder or rouge on her olive skin.
    Mrs. Murphy puts the Nielsens at ease, plying them with tea and biscuits and inquiring
     about their short trip across town in the snow and then remarking generally on the
     weather: how the temperature dipped in the past few days and snow clouds gathered
     slowly to the west, how the storm finally began today, as everyone knew it would.
     They speculate about how much snow we are bound to get tonight, how long it will stay
     on the ground, when we might expect more snow, and what kind of winter it will be.
     Surely it won’t rival the winter of 1922, when ice storms were followed by blizzards
     and nobody could get any relief? Or the black-dust blizzard of 1923—remember that?—when
     dirty snow blew down from North Dakota, seven-foot snowdrifts covered entire sections
     of the city, and people didn’t leave their houses for weeks? On the other hand, there’s
     little chance that it will be as mild as 1921, the warmest December on record.
    The Nielsens are politely curious about me, and I do my best to answer their questions
     without sounding either desperate or apathetic. The other three adults watch us with
     a quivering intensity. I sense them urging me to do well, to sit up straight and answer
     in complete sentences.
    Finally, as one conversational theme after another runs its course, Mr. Sorenson says,
     “All right then. I believe we all know why we are here—to determine whether the Nielsens
     might be willing to provide Dorothy with a home, and whether Dorothy is suitable to
     their needs. To that end, Dorothy—can you tell the Nielsens why you wish to become
     part of their household, and what you might bring to it yourself ?”
    If I am honest—which is not, of course, what Mr. Sorenson is asking of me—I will say
     that I simply need a warm, dry place to live. I want enough food to eat, clothes,
     and shoes that will protect me from the cold. I want calmness and order. More than
     anything, I want to feel safe in my bed.
    “I can sew, and I am quite neat. I’m good with numbers,” I say.
    Mr. Nielsen, turning to Mrs. Murphy, asks, “And can the young lady cook and clean?
     Is she hardworking?”
    “Is she a Protestant?” Mrs. Nielsen adds.
    “She is a hardworking girl, I can attest to that,” Mrs. Murphy says.
    “I can cook some things,” I tell them, “though at my previous residence I was expected
     to make stew out of squirrels and raccoons, and I’d rather not do that again.”
    “Mercy, no,” Mrs. Nielsen says.