Orphan Train

around me. I might
     as well be in a foreign country for all its similarities to my sober real life, with
     its predictable routines and rhythms—a day in the store, supper at six, a quiet evening
     of studying or quilting or bridge. Richard, with his carnival-barker slickness, seems
     to have given up on even trying to include me. But I don’t mind. It is marvelous to
     be young on a big-city street.
    A S WE APPROACH THE HEAVY GLASS - AND - BRASS FRONT DOOR OF the Grand Hotel, a liveried doorman opens it wide. Richard sails in with Lil and
     Em, as he calls them, on his arms, and I scurry behind in their wake. The doorman
     tips his cap as I thank him. “Bar’s on the left just through the foyer,” he says,
     making it clear he knows we’re not hotel guests. I’ve never been in a space this majestic—except
     maybe the Chicago train station all those years ago—and it’s all I can do not to gape
     at the starburst chandelier glittering over our heads, the glossy mahogany table with
     an oversized ceramic urn filled with exotic flowers in the center of the room.
    The people in the foyer are equally striking. A woman wearing a flat black hat with
     a net that covers half her face stands at the reception desk with a pile of red leather
     suitcases, pulling off one long black satin glove and then the other. A white-haired
     matron carries a fluffy white dog with black button eyes. A man in a morning coat
     talks on the telephone at the front desk; an older gentleman wearing a monocle, sitting
     alone on a green love seat, holds a small brown book open in front of his nose. These
     people look bored, amused, impatient, self-satisfied—but most of all, they look rich.
     Now I am glad not to be wearing the gaudy, provocative clothing that seems to be drawing
     stares and whispers to Lil and Em.
    Ahead of me, the three of them saunter across the lobby, shrieking with laughter,
     one of Richard’s arms around Lil’s shoulder and the other cinching Em’s waist. “Hey,
     Vivie,” Lil calls, glancing back as if suddenly remembering I’m here, “this way!”
     Richard pulls open the double doors to the bar, throws his hands into the air with
     a flourish, and ushers Lil and Em, giggling and whispering, inside. He follows, and
     the doors close slowly behind him.
    I slow to a stop in front of the green couches. I’m in no hurry to go in there to
     be a fifth wheel, treated like I’m hopelessly out of it, old-fashioned and humorless,
     by the freewheeling Richard. Maybe, I think, I should just walk around for a while
     and then go back to the rooming house. Since the matinee nothing has felt quite real
     anyway; it’s been enough of a day for me—much more, certainly, than I’m used to.
    I perch on one of the couches, watching people come and go. At the door, now, is a
     woman in a purple satin dress with cascading brown hair, elegantly nonchalant, waving
     at the porter with a bejeweled hand as she glides into the foyer. Absorbed in watching
     her as she floats past me toward the concierge desk, I don’t notice the tall, thin
     man with blond hair until he is standing in front of me.
    His eyes are a piercing blue. “Excuse me, miss,” he says. I wonder if maybe he is
     going to say something about how I am so obviously out of place, or ask if I need
     help. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
    I look at his golden-blond hair, short in the back but longer in front—nothing like
     the small-town boys I’m used to, with their hair shorn like sheep. He’s wearing gray
     pants, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie and carrying a slim attaché case. His
     fingers are long and tapered.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Something about you is . . . very familiar.” He’s staring at me so intently that
     it makes me blush.
    “I—” I stammer. “I really don’t know.”
    And then, with a smile playing around his lips, he says, “Forgive me if I’m wrong.
     But are you—were you—did you come here on a train from New York about ten years ago?”
    What? My heart jumps. How does he know that?
    “Are you—Niamh?” he asks.
    And then I know. “Oh my God—Dutchy, it’s you.”

Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1939
    Dutchy drops the attaché case as I stand up, and sweeps me into a hug. I feel the ropy hardness of his arms, the warmth of his slightly concave chest, as
     he holds me tight, tighter than anyone has ever held me. A long embrace in the middle
     of this fancy lobby is probably inappropriate; people