A story? You want me to tell you a story, just like that, right off the
top of my head? What do you mean, “just make something up?” Why should I? Yes,
of course I have a story. Doesn’t everyone? And it’s a whopper, as they used to
say. What? They still say that? Well, bless me!
Did you know that
between 1854 and 1929, over 200,000 orphaned, homeless, and destitute children
in the United States were placed out across the country, many to farming
families in the mid-west? Some were adopted. Some were indentured. Some were
separated from their brothers and sisters and never saw them again. Yes, that
does sound harsh, but it was the beginning of the foster care system and while
it wasn’t perfect, it was usually better than starving to death on the streets.
Believe me, young man, starving to death is no picnic. But you know all about
that, don’t you? Being hungry, being lonely, and abandoned. I thought as much.
How can I tell? Your eyes, dear, I can see it in your eyes. You remind of
someone I met a long time ago.
Yes, I agree. Never
mind that. You asked for my story. You can tell me yours later. Are you writing
all this down?
Where was I? Yes, yes.
I remember. I’m not as feeble-minded as all that. You know about the orphans,
but what you may not know is this: Not all of those children—or the trains they
rode on- can be accounted for. I know the last one I rode on can’t be. I tried
to tell the authorities years ago, but they didn’t believe a word of it. I
don’t know if that’s because I was a girl, or a girl born in the wrong century,
but mark my words, the Number Nine, bound for Michigan, rolled out of history
and into mystery, for a minute, anyway. Yes, it was a long time ago, but my
memory is as sharp today as it was then. Now, do you want to hear a story or
not? All right then. Settle down and let me tell you what really happened...
~~~
very Podunk town the train had pulled into for the last
3,000 miles since leaving Grand Central Station looked the same: mills, manure,
and mud. We were on the return trip from the Indian Territories, having
criss-crossed what seemed like the entire country; we were the ones no one
seemed to want. I guess they were going to try one more town, then it was back East.
By the time we reached the orphan asylum, I was convinced I’d be the only one
left on the train. It would be all mud and tears there, too.
As we drew slowly into the station, I leaned my cheek
against the cold glass window and blew softly until a fog formed. In it, I
carefully wrote the name inscribed inside my locket – backwards, that it might
be read from outside the train: E S O R. Truth told, I was tiring of the
routine, but I had my instructions. At every station, at every switch, at every
whistle stop, I was to trace those letters on the window. That’s what the
pretty lady had told me back in New York. It will make sense later. Adults
always say things like that. But I did as I was told. In those days, at least,
I was an obedient child, usually.
Miss McCrimmon, who had travelled with us since we left St.
Luke’s and made our way first to the city and then up the Hudson on a crowded
ferry, was already in motion: waking the sleepy heads, wiping noses, chastising
the mischief makers. Not that there were many of those left. No, we were just a
rag tag band of nobodies singing the same sad song; tired of traveling; tired
of life. Mr. Sneed, the weasel-faced agent we’d picked up prior to loading onto
the first of too many trains, came snivelling into our coach looking more than
a little uncomfortable as he patted his red, puckered face with a handkerchief.
His neat brown suit was creased after so many miles of travel and his hat
didn’t look near as crisp as it had at the start of our journey. Not a father, I
had decided, or a grandfather either. If he had been, he would at least have
spared a smile for the gaggle of tired children. To him, we were little more
than cargo – and noisy cargo at that.
‘Ma’am,’ he tipped his hat at our sponsor. ‘I’m afraid we
shall be parting company. Nurse Pettiford and I are to remain aboard and
continue on to New York. You’re to take the next train to Michigan which, I
understand, has been delayed due to inclement weather to the north. I trust the
church has an agent here that can arrange accommodations for those charges
remaining with you?’
‘Here?’ she squawked, drawing a crumpled time table from
beneath her lap robe. ‘But, there’s no scheduled stop for another 40 miles!’
‘My dear woman, you would do well to control that Irish temper—‘
‘Scottish, Mr. Sneed,’ she growled at him, and not for the
first time.
‘Never the less…’
‘Never “nothing”!
Mr. Sneed, might I remind you of the contract you have with St. Luke’s? You are
to see these children safely delivered to their new homes whether that is in
Arkansas, Idaho, or Michigan.’ Miss McCrimmon flicked a wisp of escaped hair
back into her bun. It was of no use. Her red hair was as dishevelled as the
rest of her; as the rest of us.
The man smiled coolly. ‘I have no control over either the
weather or the train lines and a telegram with the change in plans was waiting
for us upon our arrival. Unexpected as that might be, it is the truth of the
matter. I can only surmise that another group of children await our arrival.
‘We’ll be escorting them back west as we no doubt now have a
good number of farming families waiting and you can rest assured not a one has
asked for trouble makers, wee babes, the mentally infirm, or,’ here he cast a
glance at me, ‘girls of questionable intelligence.’
I pulled my straw hat down over my eyes and tried to sink
out of sight. As much as I longed for a family to call my own, I didn’t want to
be anywhere I wasn’t needed – or wanted.
‘You’re to proceed to Michigan and anyone that’s left will
be returned to St. Luke’s. I do wish you well, Miss McCrimmon. Good day to
you.’
‘But, Mister Sneed,’ Miss McCrimmon cried, trailing after
him, pleading our case. ‘We’ve already been to Michigan. Are you saying
additional applications came in? Mr. Sneed? Mr. Sneed, do wait for me – ‘
It was true. We’d been to Michigan once already. I couldn’t
remember how many days ago it was; twelve? ; A hundred and twelve? We numbered
nearly 90 at the outset, enough to fill two passenger cars, but as the days
passed most of the older boys and girls had congregated in the coach ahead of
us. Nurse Pettiford followed soon after.
I glanced around our carriage, at Patrick and Colin
wrestling in the aisle. The twins were always doing that. Not that they looked
anything alike. Mr. Sneed didn’t even think they were twins. Twice they had
refused to be separated, causing such a ruckus that they’d been sent back just
as our train was due to leave the station.
Behind them, looking as sad as I had ever seen him, sat
little Kip. I remembered the summer day he had been brought to the first
orphanage I had lived in: St. Christopher’s Day. That’s how he had got his name
because the Sisters said they had to call him something. Something terrible
must have happened to him because he wouldn’t talk to anyone. The only time
he’d ever spoken to me was when it was discovered neither of us were Catholic
and we were unloaded on the Society. I can’t repeat what he said, but between
you and me, it was awful funny.
Comely, towheaded Piotr sat quietly across the aisle,
staring out a window, rolling a red leather ball back and forth between his
hands. I asked him about it once, but it took longer to explain the game it was
used for than I suspect the game itself took to play. Willie was behind him,
scowling, his arms crossed over his chest as he sat hunched and brooding.
Whenever Miss McCrimmon started reciting her Second Chances speech, he huffed
and puffed like a grumpy old man and pulled his peaked wool hat down over his
eyes. I couldn’t see Mac, but I could hear the merry tap of spoons, so I knew
he was nearby. Mac had a deck of playing cards that he had kept tucked up under
his straw hat since one of the older boys, now gone, had nabbed it from him.
Upon inspection we discovered cards were missing, but Mac
said he could get by as long as he still had one Ace to keep up his sleeve.
Jean was nowhere to be seen, but I wasn’t surprised. He had
made it his business to explore every inch of our train from the locomotive on
back to the caboose. He knew what every switch and lever did and how to make it
all operate in reverse order. Paul and Thomas – named after Saints because no
one could pronounce the names they had arrived with – were deep in conversation
in a language I couldn’t begin to describe. I liked Paul. I was rarely at a
loss for words, even as a young girl, but when he was around it felt like
butterflies were fluttering around my tummy and I said the stupidest things.
Thomas, on the other hand, made me laugh. He was tall and strong and I couldn’t
imagine why he hadn’t been placed out yet. I was sort of glad, though, because
he had always watched out for me as well as little Daivi and baby Mathieu, who
just needed a chance to charm someone. I couldn’t believe they were still on
the train either, but secretly hoped wherever they went, I could go too.
I slumped a little more in my seat, smearing the spot where
I had so carefully written on the fogged glass. It was time to face the music.
No one was coming for me. No more second chances.
Not here. Not ever.
A tap at the window drew my attention and I looked down.
There, on the platform, stood a serious looking man that I hadn’t noticed just
moments before. I wasn’t sure which was stranger, the man’s leather coat that
made him look like a boat captain without a hat—or a boat for that matter – or
the enormous blue telegraph box that stood a short distance away. I could
scarcely believe the size of it. Why, you might step inside it, it was so
large! A proper little hut, better than the dirty coal shed I had slept in for
a forgotten number of days back East, before a pair of kind souls had found me
and I was taken to the local parish orphanage and from there to St. Luke’s.
He pointed at me or, I should say, at the window, pursing
his lips slightly to mimic what at first I thought was a whistle. A moment
later I understood and blew softly again over the place where I had traced the
letters. It reappeared as if by magic and the man lifted his eyebrows in
question. I struggled to lower the window and peered out at him. The boys,
alerted by this new change in events, clustered around me, snubbed noses
pressed against cool glass.