Orphan Train - DropPDF1.droppdf.com/files/M9Adq/orphan-train-christina-baker-kline.pdf · Talisman....

DEDICATION

ToChristinaLooperBaker,whohandedmethethread,

andCaroleRobertsonKline,whogavemethecloth

EPIGRAPH

Inportagingfromoneriver to another,Wabanakis had tocarry theircanoesandall other possessions.Everyone knew thevalue of travelinglight and understoodthatitrequiredleavingsome things behind.

Nothing encumberedmovement more thanfear,whichwas oftenthe most difficultburdentosurrender.

—BUNNYMCBRIDE,WomenoftheDawn

CONTENTS

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

SpruceHarbor,Maine,2011


NewYorkCity,1929

NewYorkCity,1929

New York Central Train,1929

UnionStation,Chicago,1929



TheMilwaukeeTrain,1929

Milwaukee Road Depot,Minneapolis,1929

Albans,Minnesota,1929





Albans, Minnesota, 1929–1930

Hemingford County,Minnesota,1930








Hemingford, Minnesota,

1930



Hemingford, Minnesota,1930

Hemingford, Minnesota,1930

Hemingford, Minnesota,1930–1931


1935–1939



Minneapolis, Minnesota,1939

Minneapolis, Minnesota,1939

Hemingford, Minnesota,1940–1943


1943





Acknowledgments

P.S.

AbouttheauthorAboutthebook

AlsobyChristinaBakerKline

Credits

Copyright

AboutthePublisher

Prologue

I believe in ghosts. They’rethe ones who haunt us, theoneswhohaveleftusbehind.ManytimesinmylifeIhavefelt them around me,observing, witnessing, whenno one in the living worldknew or cared whathappened.

Iamninety-oneyearsold,andalmosteveryonewhowasonce in my life is now aghost.

Sometimes these spiritshave been more real to methan people, more real thanGod. They fill silence withtheirweight,denseandwarm,likebreaddoughrisingundercloth.Mygram,withherkindeyes and talcum-dusted skin.My da, sober, laughing. My

mam, singing a tune. Thebitterness and alcohol anddepression are stripped awayfrom these phantomincarnations, and theyconsole and protect me indeathastheyneverdidinlife.

I’ve come to think that’swhat heaven is—a place inthe memory of others whereourbestselvesliveon.

Maybe I am lucky—thatattheageofnineIwasgiven

theghostsofmyparents’bestselves, and at twenty-threethe ghost of my true love’sbest self. And my sister,Maisie,everpresent,anangelon my shoulder. Eighteenmonths to my nine years,thirteen years to my twenty.Nowsheiseighty-fourtomyninety-one,andwithmestill.

No substitute for theliving, perhaps, but I wasn’tgiven a choice. I could take

solace in their presence or Icould fall down in a heap,lamentingwhatI’dlost.

The ghosts whispered tome,tellingmetogoon.


Through her bedroom wallMolly can hear her fosterparents talking about her inthe living room, just beyondher door. “This is not whatwe signed up for,” Dina issaying.“IfI’dknownshehad

this many problems, I neverwould’veagreedtoit.”

“I know, I know.”Ralph’s voice isweary.He’sthe one, Molly knows, whowanted to be a foster parent.Longago,inhisyouth,whenhe’d been a “troubled teen,”as he told her withoutelaboration,asocialworkerathisschoolhadsignedhimupfor theBigBrother program,and he’d always felt that his

big brother—his mentor, hecallshim—kepthimontrack.But Dina was suspicious ofMollyfromthestart.Itdidn’thelpthatbeforeMollythey’dhadaboywhotriedtosettheelementaryschoolonfire.

“I have enough stress atwork,” Dina says, her voicerising. “I don’t need to comehometothisshit.”

Dina works as adispatcher at the Spruce

Harbor police station, and asfar as Molly can see thereisn’t much to stress over—afew drunk drivers, theoccasional black eye, pettythefts, accidents. If you’regoing to be a dispatcheranywhere in the world,SpruceHarborisprobablytheleast stressful placeimaginable.ButDinaishigh-strungbynature.Thesmallestthingsgettoher.It’sasifshe

assumes everything will goright, and when it doesn’t—which, of course, is prettyoften—she is surprised andaffronted.

Molly is the opposite. Somanythingshavegonewrongforherinherseventeenyearsthat she’s come to expect it.When something does goright, shehardlyknowswhattothink.

Whichwas justwhat had

happened with Jack. WhenMolly transferred to MountDesert Island High Schoollastyear,intenthgrade,mostof the kids seemed to go outof their way to avoid her.They had their friends, theircliques,andshedidn’tfitintoany of them. Itwas true thatshe hadn’t made it easy; sheknows from experience thattoughandweirdispreferableto pathetic and vulnerable,

and she wears her Gothpersona like armor. Jackwasthe only one who’d tried tobreakthrough.

It was mid-October, insocial studies class. When itcame time to team up for aproject,Mollywas, as usual,the odd one out. Jack askedher to join him and hispartner, Jody, who wasclearly less than thrilled. Forthe entire fifty-minute class,

Mollywasacatwithitsbackup. Why was he being sonice?Whatdidhewantfromher? Was he one of thoseguys who got a kick out ofmessing with the weird girl?Whatever his motive, shewasn’tabout togivean inch.Shestoodbackwithherarmscrossed, shoulders hunched,darkstiffhairinhereyes.Sheshrugged and grunted whenJack asked her questions,

though she followed alongwellenoughanddidhershareof the work. “That girl isfreakin’ strange,” Mollyheard Jody mutter as theywere leaving class after thebell rang. “She creeps meout.”WhenMollyturnedandcaught Jack’s eye, hesurprisedherwithasmile.“Ithink she’s kind ofawesome,” he said, holdingMolly’s gaze. For the first

timesinceshe’dcometothisschool, she couldn’t helpherself;shesmiledback.

Over the next fewmonths, Molly got bits andpieces of Jack’s story. Hisfather was a Dominicanmigrant worker who met hismotherpickingblueberries inCherryfield,gotherpregnant,moved back to the D.R. toshackupwithalocalgirl,andnever looked back. His

mother, who never married,worksforaricholdladyinashorefront mansion. By allrights Jack should be on thesocial fringes too, but heisn’t. He has some majorthings going for him: flashymoves on the soccer field, adazzlingsmile,greatbigcoweyes, and ridiculous lashes.And even though he refusesto take himself seriously,Molly can tell he’s way

smarter than he admits,probably even smarter thanheknows.

Molly couldn’t care lessabout Jack’s prowess on thesoccer field, but smart sherespects.(Thecoweyesareabonus.) Her own curiosity istheonethingthathaskeptherfrom going off the rails.Being Goth wipes away anyexpectation ofconventionality, so Molly

findsshe’sfreetobeweirdinlots of ways at once. Shereads all the time—in thehalls,inthecafeteria—mostlynovels with angstyprotagonists: The VirginSuicides,Catcher in theRye,The Bell Jar. She copiesvocabulary words down in anotebook because she likesthe way they sound:Harridan. Pusillanimous.Talisman. Dowager.

Enervating.Sycophantic...As a newcomer Molly

had liked the distance herpersonacreated, thewarinessand mistrust she saw in theeyesofherpeers.Butthoughshe’s loath to admit it, latelythatpersonahasbeguntofeelrestrictive.Ittakesagestogetthelookrighteverymorning,and rituals once freightedwith meaning—dyeing herhair jet-black accented with

purple or white streaks,rimming her eyes with kohl,applying foundation severalshades lighter than her skintone, adjusting and fasteningvarious pieces ofuncomfortableclothing—nowmakeherimpatient.Shefeelslike a circus clown whowakesuponemorningandnolonger wants to glue on theredrubbernose.Mostpeopledon’t have to exert so much

effort to stay in character.Why should she? Shefantasizes that the next placeshe goes—because there’salways a next place, anotherfoster home, a new school—she’ll start over with a new,easier-to-maintain look.Grunge?Sexkitten?

The probability that thiswill be sooner rather thanlater grows more likely withevery passing minute. Dina

has wanted to get rid ofMolly for a while, and nowshe’s got a valid excuse.Ralph staked his credibilityon Molly’s behavior; heworkedhardtopersuadeDinathat a sweet kid was hidingunder that fierce hair andmakeup. Well, Ralph’scredibility is out thewindownow.

Molly gets down on herhandsandkneesand lifts the

eyeletbedskirt.Shepullsouttwo brightly colored duffelbags, the ones Ralph boughtfor her on clearance at theL.L.Bean outlet in Ellsworth(the red one monogrammed“Braden” and the orangeHawaiian-flowered one“Ashley”—rejectedforcolor,style,or just thedorkinessofthose names in white thread,Molly doesn’t know). Asshe’s opening the top drawer

of her dresser, a percussivethumpingunderhercomforterturns into a tinny version ofDaddy Yankee’s “Impacto.”“So you’ll know it’sme andanswer the damn phone,”Jacksaidwhenheboughthertheringtone.

“Hola, mi amigo,” shesayswhenshefinallyfindsit.

“Hey,what’sup,chica?”“Oh, you know. Dina’s

notsohappyrightnow.”

“Yeah?”“Yeah.It’sprettybad.”“Howbad?”“Well, I think I’m out of

here.” She feels her breathcatch in her throat. Itsurprises her, given howmany times she’s beenthroughaversionofthis.

“Nah,” he says. “I don’tthinkso.”

“Yeah,” she says, pullingout a wad of socks and

underwearanddumpingthemintheBradenbag.“Icanhearthem out there talking aboutit.”

“Butyouneedtodothosecommunityservicehours.”

“It’s not going tohappen.” She picks up hercharm necklace, tangled in aheaponthetopofthedresser,and rubs the gold chainbetweenherfingers,tryingtoloosen the knot. “Dina says

nobody will take me. I’muntrustworthy.” The tangleloosensunder her thumbandshe pulls the strands apart.“It’s okay. I hear juvie isn’tsobad.It’sonlyafewmonthsanyway.”

“But—you didn’t stealthatbook.”

Cradlingtheflatphonetoher ear, she puts on thenecklace, fumbling with theclasp,andlooksinthemirror

above her dresser. Blackmakeupissmearedunderhereyeslikeafootballplayer.

“Right,Molly?”The thing is—she did

steal it. Or tried. It’s herfavoritenovel,JaneEyre,andshewantedtoownit,tohaveit in her possession.Sherman’s Bookstore in BarHarbordidn’thaveitinstock,andshewastooshytoasktheclerk to order it. Dina

wouldn’t give her a creditcardnumbertobuyitonline.She had never wantedanything sobadly. (Well . . .notforawhile.)Sothereshewas, in the library on herknees in the narrow fictionstacks, with three copies ofthe novel, two paperbacksand one hardcover, on theshelf in front of her. She’dalready taken the hardcoveroutof thelibrarytwice,gone

up to the front desk andsigned it outwith her librarycard. She pulled all threebooks off the shelf, weighedtheminherhand.Sheputthehardcover back, slid it inbeside The Da Vinci Code.The newer paperback, too,shereturnedtotheshelf.

The copy she slippedunder the waistband of herjeanswasold anddog-eared,the pages yellowed, with

passagesunderlinedinpencil.The cheap binding, with itsdry glue, was beginning todetach from the pages. Ifthey’d put it in the annuallibrary sale, it would havegone for ten cents at most.Nobody, Molly figured,would miss it. Two other,newer copies were available.But the library had recentlyinstalled magnetic antitheftstrips, and several months

earlier fourvolunteers, ladiesofacertainagewhodevotedthemselvespassionatelytoallthingsSpruceHarborLibrary,had spent several weeksinstalling them on the insidecoversofalleleven thousandbooks. So when Molly leftthebuilding thatday throughwhatshehadn’tevenrealizedwas a theft-detection gate, aloud, insistent beepingbrought the head librarian,

Susan LeBlanc, swoopingoverlikeahomingpigeon.

Molly confessedimmediately—or rather triedto say that she’d meant tosign it out. But SusanLeBlanc was having none ofit.“Forgoodness’sake,don’tinsultmewithalie,”shesaid.“I’ve been watching you. Ithought you were up tosomething.” And what ashame that her assumptions

had proven correct! She’dhavelikedtobesurprisedinagoodway,justthisonce.

“Aw, shit. Really?” Jacksighs.

Looking in the mirror,Molly runs her finger acrossthe charms on the chainaroundherneck.Shedoesn’twear it much anymore, butevery time somethinghappensandsheknowsshe’llbe on the move again, she

puts it on. She bought thechain at a discount store,Marden’s, in Ellsworth, andstrung it with these threecharms—a blue-and-greencloisonné fish, a pewterraven, and a tiny brownbear—thather fathergaveheronher eighth birthday. He waskilled in a one-car rolloverseveralweeks later, speedingdown I-95 on an icy night,afterwhichhermother,allof

twenty-three, started adownward spiral she neverrecovered from. By Molly’snext birthday she was livingwith a new family, and hermother was in jail. Thecharmsareall shehas leftofwhatusedtobeherlife.

Jack is a nice guy. Butshe’s been waiting for this.Eventually,likeeveryoneelse—social workers, teachers,foster parents—he’ll get fed

up, feel betrayed, realizeMolly’s more trouble thanshe’s worth. Much as shewants tocareforhim,andasgood as she is at letting himbelievethatshedoes,shehasneverreallyletherself.Itisn’tthat she’s faking it, exactly,but part of her is alwaysholdingback.Shehaslearnedthat she can control heremotions by thinking of herchest cavity as an enormous

box with a chain lock. Sheopens the box and stuffs inany stray unmanageablefeelings, any waywardsadnessorregret,andclampsitshut.

Ralph, too, has tried toseethegoodnessinher.Heispredisposed to it; he sees itwhenit isn’teventhere.Andthough part of Molly isgrateful for his faith in her,she doesn’t fully trust it. It’s

almostbetterwithDina,whodoesn’t try to hide hersuspicions. It’s easier toassumethatpeoplehaveitoutfor you than to bedisappointedwhentheydon’tcomethrough.

“JaneEyre?”Jacksays.“Whatdoesitmatter?”“Iwould’ve bought it for

you.”“Yeah, well.” Even after

getting into trouble like this

and probably getting sentaway,sheknowsshe’dneverhave asked Jack to buy thebook.Ifthereisonethingshehatesmostaboutbeinginthefoster care system, it’s thisdependence on people youbarely know, yourvulnerability to their whims.Shehaslearnednottoexpectanything from anybody. Herbirthdays are often forgotten;she is an afterthought at

holidays.Shehastomakedowithwhat shegets, andwhatshe gets is rarely what sheaskedfor.

“You’re so fuckingstubborn!” Jack says, as ifdivining her thoughts. “Lookatthetroubleyougetyourselfinto.”

There’s a hard knock onMolly’s door. She holds thephone to her chest andwatches the doorknob turn.

That’s another thing—nolock,noprivacy.

Dina pokes her head intothe room, her pink-lipstickedmouth a thin line. “We needtohaveaconversation.”

“All right.Letmegetoffthephone.”

“Whoareyoutalkingto?”Mollyhesitates.Doesshe

havetoanswer?Oh,whatthehell.“Jack.”

Dina scowls. “Hurry up.

Wedon’thaveallnight.”“I’ll be right there.”

Molly waits, staring blanklyat Dina until her headdisappears around the doorframe, and puts the phonebacktoherear.“Timeforthefiringsquad.”

“No, no, listen,” Jacksays. “I have an idea. It’s alittle...crazy.”

“What,”shesayssullenly.“Ihavetogo.”

“Italkedtomymother—”“Jack, are you serious?

You told her? She alreadyhatesme.”

“Whoa,hearmeout.Firstof all, she doesn’t hate you.Andsecond,shespoketothelady she works for, and itlooks likemaybeyoucandoyourhoursthere.”

“What?”“Yeah.”“But—how?”

“Well, you know mymom is the world’s worsthousekeeper.”

Molly loves the way hesays this—matter-of-factly,without judgment, as if hewere reporting that hismotherisleft-handed.

“So the lady wants toclean out her attic—oldpapersandboxesandall thisshit, my mom’s worstnightmare. And I came up

with the idea to haveyoudoit. I bet you could kill thefiftyhoursthere,easy.”

“Wait a minute—youwant me to clean an oldlady’sattic?”

“Yeah. Right up youralley,don’tyou think?Comeon,Iknowhowanalyouare.Don’ttrytodenyit.Allyourstufflinedupontheshelf.Allyour papers in files. Andaren’t your books

alphabetical?”“Younoticedthat?”“I know you better than

youthink.”Mollydoeshavetoadmit,

as peculiar as it is, she likesputting things inorder.She’sactually kind of a neat freak.Moving around as much asshe has, she learned to takecare of her few possessions.But she’s not sure about thisidea. Stuck alone in amusty

attic day after day, goingthroughsomelady’strash?

Still—given thealternative...

“Shewants tomeetyou,”Jacksays.

“Who?”“Vivian Daly. The old

lady.Shewantsyou to comefor—”

“An interview. I have tointerview with her, you’resaying.”

“It’sjustpartofthedeal,”he says. “Are you up forthat?”

“DoIhaveachoice?”“Sure. You can go to

jail.”“Molly!” Dina barks,

rapping on the door. “Outhererightnow!”

“Allright!”shecalls,andthen,toJack,“Allright.”

“Allrightwhat?”“I’lldoit.I’llgoandmeet

her.Interviewwithher.”“Great,” he says. “Oh,

and—youmightwanttoweara skirt or something, just—y’know.Andmaybe takeoutafewearrings.”

“What about the nosering?”

“I love thenose ring,”hesays.“But...”

“Igetit.”“Just for this first

meeting.”

“It’s all right. Listen—thanks.”

“Don’t thank me forbeingselfish,”hesays.“Ijustwant you around a littlelonger.”

When Molly opens thebedroom door to Dina’s andRalph’s tense andapprehensive faces, shesmiles. “You don’t have toworry. I’ve got a way to domy hours.” Dina shoots a

look at Ralph, an expressionMolly recognizes fromreadingyearsofhostparents’cues.“ButIunderstandifyouwant me to leave. I’ll findsomethingelse.”

“We don’t want you toleave,” Ralph says, at thesame time that Dina says,“We need to talk about it.”Theystareateachother.

“Whatever,” Molly says.“If it doesn’t work out, it’s

okay.”Andinthatmoment,with

bravadoborrowedfromJack,it is okay. If it doesn’t workout, it doesn’t work out.Mollylearnedlongagothatalot of the heartbreak andbetrayalthatotherpeoplefeartheir entire lives, she hasalready faced. Father dead.Mother off the deep end.Shuttled around and rejectedtimeandtimeagain.Andstill

she breathes and sleeps andgrows taller. She wakes upevery morning and puts onclothes.Sowhenshesaysit’sokay,what shemeans is thatshe knows she can survivejust about anything. Andnow, for the first time sinceshe can remember, she hassomeone lookingout for her.(What’s his problem,anyway?)


Molly takes a deep breath.Thehouse isbigger than sheimagined—a white Victorianmonolith with curlicues andblackshutters.Peeringoutthewindshield, she can see thatit’s in meticulous shape—no

evidence of peeling or rot,which means it must havebeen recently painted. Nodoubt the old lady employspeople who work on itconstantly,aqueen’sarmyofworkerbees.

It’s a warm Aprilmorning. The ground isspongywithmeltedsnowandrain,buttodayisoneofthoserare, almost balmy days thathint at the glorious summer

ahead.Thesky is luminouslyblue, with large woollyclouds. Clumps of crocusesseem to have sproutedeverywhere.

“Okay,” Jack’s saying,“here’s thedeal.She’sanicelady,butkindofuptight.Youknow—notexactlyabarreloflaughs.” He puts his car inpark and squeezes Molly’sshoulder.“Justnodandsmileandyou’llbefine.”

“How old is she again?”Molly mumbles. She’sannoyed with herself forfeeling nervous. Who cares?It’sjustsomeancientpackratwhoneedshelpgettingridofher shit. She hopes it isn’tdisgusting and smelly, likethe houses of those hoardersonTV.

“I don’t know—old. Bytheway,youlooknice,”Jackadds.

Molly scowls. She’swearing a pink Lands’ Endblouse that Dina loaned herfor the occasion. “I barelyrecognize you,” Dina saiddrily when Molly emergedfromherbedroominit.“Youlookso...ladylike.”

At Jack’s request Mollyhas taken out the nose ringand left only two studs ineachear.Shespentmoretimethanusualonhermakeup,too

—blending the foundation toa shade more pale thanghostly, going lighter on thekohl.Sheevenboughtapinklipstick at the drugstore—Maybelline Wet Shine LipColor in “Mauvelous,” aname that cracksherup.Shestripped off her many thrift-storeringsandiswearingthecharmnecklacefromherdadinstead of the usual chunkyarray of crucifixes and silver

skulls. Her hair’s still black,withthewhitestripeoneitherside of her face, and herfingernails are black, too—but it’s clear she’s made aneffort to look, as Dinaremarked,“closertoanormalhumanbeing.”

After Jack’s Hail Marypass—or“HailMolly,”ashecalled it—Dina grudginglyagreed to give her anotherchance. “Cleaning an old

lady’s attic?” she snorted.“Yeah, right. I give it aweek.”

Molly hardly expected abig vote of confidence fromDina, but she has somedoubts herself. Is she reallygoingtodevotefiftyhoursofher life to a crotchetydowager in a drafty attic,going through boxes filledwith moths and dust mitesandwhoknowswhatelse?In

juvie she’d be spending thesame time in group therapy(always interesting) andwatching The View(interesting enough). There’dbe other girls to hang with.As it is she’ll have Dina athome and this old lady herewatchinghereverymove.

Mollylooksatherwatch.They’re five minutes early,thanks to Jack, who hustledheroutthedoor.

“Remember:eyecontact,”he says. “And be sure tosmile.”

“Youaresuchamom.”“You know what your

problemis?”“That my boyfriend is

actinglikeamom?”“No.Yourproblemisyou

don’tseemtorealizeyourassisonthelinehere.”

“Whatline?Where?”Shelooks around, wiggling her

buttintheseat.“Listen.” He rubs his

chin. “My ma didn’t tellVivian about juvie and allthat. As far as she knows,you’re doing a communityserviceprojectforschool.”

“So she doesn’t knowabout my criminal past?Sucker.”

“Ay diablo,” he says,opening the door and gettingout.

“Are you coming inwithme?”

He slams the door, thenwalksaround thebackof thecar to thepassenger side andopens the door. “No, I amescorting you to the frontstep.”

“My, what a gentleman.”She slides out. “Or is it thatyou don’t trust me not tobolt?”

“Truthfully, both,” he

says.

STANDING BEFORE THE LARGEWALNUT DOOR, WITH ITSOVERSIZED brass knocker,Molly hesitates. She turns tolook at Jack, who is alreadybackinhiscar,headphonesinhis ears, flipping throughwhat she knows is a dog-earedcollectionofJunotDíazstories he keeps in the glove

compartment. She standsstraight,shouldersback,tucksher hair behind her ears,fiddleswith the collar of herblouse (When’s the last timeshe wore a collar? A dogcollar, maybe), and raps theknocker.Noanswer.Sherapsagain, a little louder. Thenshe notices a buzzer to theleftofthedoorandpushesit.Chimes gong loudly in thehouse,andwithinsecondsshe

can see Jack’s mom, Terry,barreling toward her with aworried expression. It’salways startling to see Jack’sbig brown eyes in hismother’s wide, soft-featuredface.

Though Jack has assuredMolly that his mother is onboard—“That damn atticprojecthasbeenhangingoverher head for so long, youhavenoidea”—Mollyknows

the reality is morecomplicated.Terryadoresheronly son, and would do justabout anything to make himhappy. However much Jackwants to believe that Terry’sfineanddandywiththisplan,Molly knows that hesteamrolleredherintoit.

When Terry opens thedoor,shegivesMollyaonce-over. “Well, you clean upnice.”

“Thanks. I guess,”Mollymutters. She can’t tell ifTerry’soutfit isauniformorif it’s just so boring that itlooks like one: black pants,clunky black shoes withrubber soles, a matronlypeach-coloredT-shirt.

Mollyfollowsherdownalong hallway lined with oilpaintingsandetchingsingoldframes, the Oriental runnerbeneath their feet muting

their footsteps.At the end ofthehallisacloseddoor.

Terry leans with her earagainst it for a moment andknocks softly. “Vivian?”Sheopens thedoor a crack. “Thegirlishere.MollyAyer.Yep,okay.”

She opens the door wideonto a large, sunny livingroomwithviewsofthewater,filled with floor-to-ceilingbookcases and antique

furniture. An old lady,wearing a black cashmerecrewneck sweater, is sittingbeside the bay window in afadedredwingbackchair,herveinyhandsfoldedinherlap,a wool tartan blanket drapedoverherknees.

Whentheyarestandinginfront of her, Terry says,“Molly,thisisMrs.Daly.”

“Hello,” Molly says,holding out her hand as her

fathertaughthertodo.“Hello.” The old

woman’s hand, when Mollygraspsit,isdryandcool.Sheisasprightly,spiderywoman,with a narrow nose andpiercing hazel eyes as brightand sharp as a bird’s. Herskin is thin, almosttranslucent, and her wavysilver hair is gathered at thenape of her neck in a bun.Light freckles—or are they

age spots?—are sprinkledacross her face. Atopographical map of veinsruns up her hands and overherwrists,andshehasdozensof tiny creases around hereyes. She reminds Molly ofthe nuns at the CatholicschoolsheattendedbrieflyinAugusta (a quick stopoverwith an ill-suited fosterfamily), who seemed ancientin some ways and

preternaturally young inothers. Like the nuns, thiswoman has a slightlyimperiousair,asifsheisusedto getting herway.Andwhywouldn’t she? Molly thinks.She is used to getting herway.

“All right, then. I’llbe inthe kitchen if you needme,”Terry says, and disappearsthroughanotherdoor.

The old woman leans

towardMolly, a slight frownonherface.“Howonearthdoyou achieve that effect? Theskunk stripe,” she says,reachingupandbrushingherowntemple.

“Umm . . .” Molly issurprised; no one has everasked her this before. “It’s acombination of bleach anddye.”

“Howdidyoulearntodoit?”

“I saw a video onYouTube.”

“YouTube?”“OntheInternet.”“Ah.” She lifts her chin.

“Thecomputer.I’mtoooldtotakeupsuchfads.”

“Idon’tthinkyoucancallit a fad if it’s changed theway we live,” Molly says,then smiles contritely, awarethat she’s already gottenherself into a disagreement

withherpotentialboss.“Not theway I live,” the

oldwoman says. “Itmust bequitetime-consuming.”

“What?”“Doingthattoyourhair.”“Oh. It’s not sobad. I’ve

been doing it for a whilenow.”

“What’s your naturalcolor, if you don’t mind myasking?”

“I don’t mind,” Molly

says.“It’sdarkbrown.”“Well,mynaturalcoloris

red.”IttakesMollyamomenttorealizeshe’smakingalittlejokeaboutbeinggray.

“I like what you’ve donewith it,” sheparries. “It suitsyou.”

Theoldwomannodsandsettles back in her chair. Sheseemstoapprove.Mollyfeelssomeofthetensionleavehershoulders. “Excuse my

rudeness, but at my agethere’s no point in beatingaround the bush. Yourappearance is quite stylized.Are you one of those—whataretheycalled,gothics?”

Molly can’t help smiling.“Sortof.”

“You borrowed thatblouse,Ipresume.”

“Uh...”“You needn’t have

bothered.Itdoesn’tsuityou.”

She gestures forMolly to sitacross from her. “You maycallmeVivian. I never likedbeing called Mrs. Daly. Myhusband is no longer alive,youknow.”

“I’msorry.”“Noneed tobe sorry.He

died eight years ago.Anyway, I am ninety-oneyearsold.NotmanypeopleIonceknewarestillalive.”

Molly isn’t sure how to

respond—isn’titpolitetotellpeopletheydon’t lookasoldas they are? She wouldn’thaveguessedthatthiswomanisninety-one,butshedoesn’thave much basis forcomparison. Her father’sparents died when he wasyoung; her mother’s parentsnevermarried, and shenevermethergrandfather.Theonegrandparent Mollyremembers, her mother’s

mother, died of cancer whenshewasthree.

“Terry tells me you’re infoster care,” Vivian says.“Areyouanorphan?”

“My mother’s alive, but—yes, I consider myself anorphan.”

“Technically you’re not,though.”

“Ithinkifyoudon’thaveparents who look after you,then you can call yourself

whateveryouwant.”Vivian gives her a long

look, as if she’s consideringthis idea. “Fair enough,” shesays.“Tellmeaboutyourself,then.”

Mollyhas lived inMaineher entire life. She’s nevereven crossed the state line.She remembers bits andpieces of her childhood onIndianIslandbeforeshewentinto foster care: the gray-

sidedtrailershelivedinwithher parents, the communitycenterwithpickupsparkedallaround, Sockalexis BingoPalace, and St. Anne’sChurch. She remembers anIndian corn-husk doll withblack hair and a traditionalnative costume that she kepton a shelf in her room—though she preferred theBarbies donated by charitiesand doled out at the

community center atChristmas. They were neverthepopularones,ofcourse—never Cinderella or BeautyQueen Barbie, but insteadone-off oddities that bargainhunters could find onclearance: Hot Rod Barbie,Jungle Barbie. It didn’tmatter. However peculiarBarbie’s costume, herfeatureswere always reliablythesame:thefreakishstiletto-

readyfeet, theoversizedrackand ribless midsection, theski-slope nose and shinyplastichair...

But that’s not whatVivianwants to hear.Wheretostart?Whattoreveal?Thisis the problem. It’s not ahappy story, and Molly haslearned through experiencethat people either recoil ordon’t believe her or, worse,pity her. So she’s learned to

tell an abridged version.“Well,” she says, “I’m aPenobscot Indian on myfather’s side. When I wasyoung, we lived on areservationnearOldTown.”

“Ah.Hencetheblackhairandtribalmakeup.”

Molly is startled. She’snever thought to make thatconnection—isittrue?

Sometime in the eighthgrade, during a particularly

rough year—angry,screaming foster parents;jealousfostersiblings;apackofmean girls at school—shegot a box of L’Oreal ten-minute hair color and CoverGirl ebony eyeliner andtransformed herself in thefamily bathroom. A friendwhoworkedatClaire’satthemall did her piercings thefollowing weekend—a stringof holes in each ear, up

through the cartilage, a studinhernose,andaringinhereyebrow (though that onedidn’t last; it soon gotinfected and had to be takenout, the remaining scar aspiderweb tracing). Thepiercingswere the straw thatgot her thrown out of thatfoster home. Missionaccomplished.

Mollycontinuesherstory—howherfatherdiedandher

mother couldn’t take care ofher, how she ended up withRalphandDina.

“So Terry tells me youwere assigned some kind ofcommunity service project.And she came up with thebrilliant idea for you to helpme clean my attic,” Viviansays. “Seems like a badbargainforyou,butwhoamItosay?”

“I’mkindofaneatfreak,

believe it or not. I likeorganizingthings.”

“Then you are evenstranger than you appear.”Vivian sits back and claspsher hands together. “I’ll tellyou something. By yourdefinition I was orphaned,too, at almost exactly thesameage.Sowehavethatincommon.”

Molly isn’t sure how torespond. Does Vivian want

hertoaskaboutthis,orisshejustputtingthatoutthere?It’shard to tell. “Your parents. . .” she ventures, “didn’tlookafteryou?”

“They tried. There was afire . . .” Vivian shrugs. “Itwas all so long ago, I barelyremember. Now—when doyouwanttobegin?”

NewYorkCity,1929

Maisie sensed it first. Shewouldn’t stop crying. Sinceshe was a month old, whenour mother got sick, Maisiehad slept with me on mynarrow cot in the smallwindowless room we shared

with our brothers. It was sodarkthatIwondered,asIhadmanytimesbefore,ifthiswaswhatblindness felt like—thisenveloping void. I couldbarely make out, or perhapsonly sense, the forms of theboys, stirring fitfully but notyet awake: Dominick andJames, six-year-old twins,huddled together for warmthonapalletonthefloor.

Sittingonthecotwithmy

back against the wall, I heldMaisie the way Mam hadshown me, cupped over myshoulder. I tried everything Icouldthinkoftocomforther,allthethingsthathadworkedbefore: stroking her back,runningtwofingersdownthebridgeof her nose, hummingour father’s favorite song,“My SingingBird,” softly inher ear: I have heard theblackbird pipe his note, the

thrushandthelinnettoo/Butthere’snoneofthemcansingsosweet,mysingingbird,asyou. But she only shriekedlouder, her body convulsinginspasms.

Maisie was eighteenmonths old, but her weightwas like a bundle of rags.Only a few weeks after shewas born, Mam came downwith a fever and could nolonger feed her, so wemade

do with warm sweetenedwater, slow-cooked crushedoats, milk when we couldafford it.Allofuswere thin.Food was scarce; days wentby when we had little morethanrubberypotatoesinweakbroth.Mamwasn’tmuchofacook even in the best ofhealth, and some days shedidn’t bother to try. Morethan once, until I learned tocook, we ate potatoes raw

fromthebin.It had been two years

sinceweleftourhomeonthewest coast of Ireland. Lifewas hard there, too; our daheldandlostastringofjobs,none of which were enoughto support us.We lived in atiny unheated housemade ofstone in a small village inCounty Galway calledKinvara.Peopleallarounduswere fleeing to America: we

heardtalesoforangesthesizeof baking potatoes; fields ofgrain waving under sunnyskies; clean, dry timberhouseswith indoor plumbingand electricity. Jobs asplentiful as the fruit on thetrees. As one final act ofkindness toward us—orperhaps to rid themselves ofthe nuisance of constantworry—Da’s parents andsisters scraped together the

money for ocean passage forour family of five, and on awarmspringdayweboardedtheAgnesPauline,boundforEllisIsland.Theonlylinkwehadtoourfuturewasanamescrawled on a piece of papermy father tucked in his shirtpocket as we boarded theship: a man who hademigrated ten years earlierand now, according to hisKinvara relatives, owned a

respectable diningestablishment in New YorkCity.

Despite having lived allour lives ina seasidevillage,noneofushadeverbeenonaboat,much less a ship in themiddle of the ocean. ExceptformybrotherDom,fortifiedwiththeconstitutionofabull,we were ill for much of thevoyage. It was worse forMam,whodiscoveredon the

boatshewasagainwithchildand could hardly keep anyfooddown.Butevenwithallof this, as I stood on thelower deck outside our dark,cramped rooms in steerage,watchingtheoilywaterchurnbeneath theAgnes Pauline, Ifelt my spirits lift. Surely, Ithought, we would find aplace for ourselves inAmerica.

The morning that we

arrived in New York harborwas so foggy and overcastthatthoughmybrothersandIstoodat therailing,squintinginto the drizzle, we couldbarely make out the ghostlyformof theStatueofLibertya short distance from thedocks. We were herded intolong lines to be inspected,interrogated, stamped, andthen set loose amonghundreds of other

immigrants, speakinglanguagesthatsoundedtomyears like the braying of farmanimals.

There were no wavingfields of grain that I couldsee, no oversized oranges.We tooka ferry to the islandofManhattanandwalked thestreets,MamandIstaggeringunder the weight of ourpossessions, the twinsclamoringtobeheld,Dawith

a suitcase under each arm,clutching amap in one handand the tattered paper withMark Flannery, The IrishRose, Delancey Street,written in his mother’scrabbedcursive, in theother.After losing our way severaltimes,Dagaveuponthemapand began asking people onthestreetfordirections.Moreoften than not they turnedawaywithout answering;one

man spit on the ground, hisface twisted with loathing.But finally we found theplace—anIrishpub,asseedyas the roughest ones on thebackstreetsofGalway.

Mam and the boys and Iwaitedon thesidewalkwhileDawent inside.The rainhadstopped; steam rose from thewet street into thehumidair.We stood in our dampclothing,stiffenedfromsweat

andground-indirt,scratchingour scabbed heads (from liceon the ship, as pervasive assea-sickness), our feetblistering in the new shoesGram had bought before weleft but Mam didn’t let uswear until we walked onAmerican soil—andwonderedwhatwehadgottenourselvesinto.ExceptforthissorryreproductionofanIrishpubbeforeus,nothinginthis

new land bore the slightestresemblance to theworldweknew.

Mark Flannery hadreceived a letter from hissister and was expecting us.He hired our da as adishwasher and took us to aneighborhood like no placeI’d ever seen—tall brickbuildings packed together onnarrow streets teeming withpeople. He knew of an

apartmentforrent,tendollarsamonth,onthethirdfloorofa five-story tenement onElizabethStreet.Afterheleftus at the door, we followedthe Polish landlord, Mr.Kaminski, down the tiledhallway and up the stairs,strugglingintheheatandthedark with our bags while helectured us on the virtues ofcleanliness and civility andindustriousness, all of which

he clearly suspected welacked. “I have no troublewiththeIrish,as longasyoustay out of trouble,” he toldus in his booming voice.Glancing atDa’s face, I sawan expression I’d never seenbefore, but instantlyunderstood: the shock ofrealization that here, in thisforeignplace,he’dbe judgedharshlyassoonasheopenedhismouth.

The landlord called ournew home a railroadapartment:eachroomleadingto thenext, like railwaycars.My parents’ tiny bedroom,with a window facing thebackofanotherbuilding,wasatoneend;theroomIsharedwiththeboysandMaisiewasnext, then the kitchen, andthenthefrontparlor,withtwowindows overlooking thebusy street. Mr. Kaminski

pulled a chain hanging fromthe pressed-metal kitchenceiling,andlightseepedfroma bulb, casting a wan glowover a scarredwooden table,a small stained sink with afaucet that ran cold water, agasstove.Inthehall,outsidethe apartment door, was alavatory we shared with ourneighbors—a childlessGerman couple called theSchatzmans,thelandlordtold

us.“Theykeepquiet,andwillexpect you to do the same,”he said, frowning as mybrothers, restless and fidgety,madeagameofshovingeachother.

Despite the landlord’sdisapproval, the swelteringheat, the gloomy rooms, andthe cacophony of strangenoises, so unfamiliar to mycountry ears, I felt anotherswell of hope. As I looked

aroundourfourrooms, itdidseem that we were off to afreshstart,havingleftbehindthemanyhardshipsof life inKinvara: the damp that sankintoourbones,themiserable,cramped hut, our father’sdrinking—didImentionthat?—thatthreweverysmallgaininto peril. Here, our da hadthe promise of a job. Wecould pull a chain for light;the twist of a knob brought

running water. Just outsidethe door, in a dry hallway, atoilet and bathtub. Howevermodest,thiswasachanceforanewbeginning.

I don’t know how muchofmymemoryofthistimeisaffected bymy age now andhow much is a result of theage I was then—sevenwhenwe leftKinvara, nine on thatnight when Maisie wouldn’tstop crying, that night that,

even more than leavingIreland,changedthecourseofmy life forever. Eighty-twoyears later, the sound of hercryingstillhauntsme.IfonlyI had paid closer attention towhyshewascryinginsteadofsimply trying to quiet her. Ifonly I had paid closerattention.

I was so afraid that ourlives would fall apart againthat I tried to ignore the

things that frightened memost:ourda’scontinuedloveaffair with drink, which achange in country did notchange; Mam’s black moodsand rages; the incessantfighting between them. Iwanted everything to be allright. I held Maisie to mychest and whispered in herear—there’s none of themcansingsosweet,mysingingbird, as you—trying to

silenceher.Whenshe finallystopped, Iwas only relieved,notunderstandingthatMaisiewas like a canary in amine,warning us of danger, but itwastoolate.

NewYorkCity,1929

Threedaysafter thefire,Mr.Schatzman wakes me fromsleep to tell me that he andMrs.Schatzmanhavefiguredoutaperfectsolution(yes,hesays “perfect,” parr-fec, inhisGermanaccent;Ilearn,in

thisinstant,theterriblepowerof superlatives). They willtakemetotheChildren’sAidSociety, a place staffed byfriendly social workers whokeepthechildrenintheircarewarmanddryandfed.

“I can’t go,” I say. “Mymother will need me whenshegetsoutofthehospital.”Iknow that my father andbrothersaredead.Isawthemin the hallway, covered with

sheets. But Mam was takenawayonastretcher,andIsawMaisie moving, whimpering,asamaninauniformcarriedherdownthehall.

He shakeshis head. “Shewon’tbecomingback.”

“ButMaisie,then—”“Your sister, Margaret,

didn’t make it,” he says,turningaway.

My mother and father,two brothers, and a sister as

dear tomeasmyownself—there is no language for myloss.AndevenifIfindwordsto describewhat I feel, thereis no one to tell. Everyone Iamattachedtointheworld—this new world—is dead orgone.

The night of the fire, thenighttheytookmein,Icouldhear Mrs. Schatzman in herbedroom, fretting with herhusband about what to do

with me. “I didn’t ask forthis,”shehissed,thewordsasdistincttomyearsasifshe’dbeen in the same room.“Those Irish! Too manychildrenintoosmallaspace.The only surprise is that thiskind of thing doesn’t happenmore.”

As I listened through thewall, a hollow space openedwithin me. I didn’t ask forthis. Only hours earlier, my

da had come in from his jobat the bar and changed hisclothes,ashealwaysdidafterwork, shedding rank smellswith each layer. Mammended a pile of clothesshe’d taken in for money.Dominick peeled potatoes.James played in a corner. IdrewonapieceofpaperwithMaisie, teaching her letters,the hot-water-bottle weightandwarmthofheronmylap,

herstickyfingersinmyhair.I try to forget the horror

of what happened. Or—perhaps forget is the wrongword.HowcanIforget?Andyet how can Imove forwardeven a step without tampingdown the despair I feel?WhenIclosemyeyes,IhearMaisie’s cries and Mam’sscreams, smell the acridsmoke, feel the heat of thefire on my skin, and heave

upright on my pallet in theSchatzmans’parlor,soakedinacoldsweat.

My mother’s parents aredead,herbrothers inEurope,onehavingfollowedtheothertoserveinthemilitary,andIknow nothing about how tofind them. But it occurs tome,andItellMr.Schatzman,thatsomeonemighttrytogetin touch with my father’smother andhis sisterback in

Ireland, though we haven’thad contact with them sincewe came to this country. IneversawaletterfromGram,nor did I ever see my fatherwriting one.Our life inNewYork was so bleak, and weclung to it with such anunsteadygrip,thatIdoubtmyda hadmuch he would wantto report. Idon’tknowmuchmore than the name of ourvillage and my father’s

family name—thoughperhaps this informationwouldbeenough.

But Mr. Schatzmanfrowns and shakes his head,andit’sthenthatIrealizejusthow alone I am. There is noadult on this side of theAtlantic who has reason totake any interest in me, noone to guideme onto a boatorpayformypassage.Iamaburden to society, and

nobody’sresponsibility.

“YOU—THE IRISH GIRL. OVERHERE.” A THIN, SCOWLINGMATRON in a white bonnetbeckons with a bony finger.She must know I’m Irishfrom the papers Mr.Schatzmanfilledoutwhenhebrought me in to theChildren’sAidseveralweeksago—or perhaps it is my

accent, still as thick as peat.“Humph,” she says, pursingherlips,whenIstandinfrontofher.“Redhair.”

“Unfortunate,” the plumpwoman beside her says, thensighs. “And those freckles.It’shardenoughtogetplacedoutatherage.”

The bony one licks herthumbandpushesthehairoffmyface.“Don’twanttoscarethem away, now, do you?

Youmustkeepitpulledback.If you’re neat and wellmannered, theymight not beso quick to jump toconclusions.”

She buttons my sleeves,and when she leans down toretieeachofmyblackshoes,a mildewy smell rises fromher bonnet. “It is imperativethat you look presentable.The kind of girl a womanwouldwantaroundthehouse.

Clean and well-spoken. Butnot too—” She shoots theotheronealook.

“Toowhat?”Iask.“Somewomen don’t take

kindly to a comely girlsleeping under the sameroof,” she says. “Not thatyou’reso. . . .Butstill.”Shepointsatmynecklace.“Whatisthat?”

I reach up and touch thesmall pewter claddaghCeltic

crossIhavewornsinceIwassix, tracking the groovedoutline of the heart with myfinger.“AnIrishcross.”

“You’re not allowed tobring keepsakes with you onthetrain.”

My heart is pounding sohardIbelieveshecanhearit.“Itwasmygram’s.”

The two women peer atthecross,andIcansee themhesitating, trying to decide

whattodo.“She gave it to me in

Ireland,beforewecameover.It’s—It’s the only thing Ihave left.” This is true, butit’s also true that I say itbecause I think it will swaythem.Anditdoes.

WE HEAR THE TRAIN BEFOREWECANSEEIT.ALOWHUM,ARUMBLE UNDERFOOT, a deep-

throatedwhistle, faint at firstand then louder as the traingets close. We crane ournecks to lookdown the track(evenasoneofoursponsors,Mrs.Scatcherd,shouts inherreedy voice, “Chil-dren!Places, chil-dren!”), andsuddenly here it is: a blackengine looming over us,shadowing the platform,lettingoutahissofsteamlikeamassivepantinganimal.

I am with a group oftwentychildren,allages.Weare scrubbed and in ourdonated clothes, the girls indresses with white pinaforesand thick stockings, theboysinknickers thatbuttonbelowthe knee, white dress shirts,neckties, thick wool suitcoats. It is an unseasonablywarm October day, Indiansummer,Mrs.Scatcherdcallsit, and we are sweltering on

theplatform.Myhairisdampagainstmyneck,thepinaforestiff and uncomfortable. Inone hand I clutch a smallbrown suitcase that,excepting the cross, containseverything I have in theworld, all newly acquired: abible, two sets of clothes, ahat,ablackcoatseveralsizestoo small, a pair of shoes.Inside the coat is my name,embroideredbyavolunteerat

the Children’s Aid Society:NiamhPower.

Yes, Niamh. Pronounced“Neev.” A common enoughnameinCountyGalway,andnot so unusual in the Irishtenements in New York, butcertainly not acceptableanywherethetrainmighttakeme. The lady who sewedthose lettersseveraldaysagotsked over the task. “I hopeyou aren’t attached to that

name, youngmiss, because Ican promise if you’re luckyenough to be chosen, yournewparentswill change it inasecond.”MyNiamh,mydaused to callme. But I’m notso attached to the name. Iknow it’s hard to pronounce,foreign, unlovely to thosewho don’t understand—apeculiarjumbleofunmatchedconsonants.

Noonefeelssorryforme

because I’ve lost my family.Eachofushasasadtale;wewouldn’t be here otherwise.Thegeneralfeelingisthatit’sbestnottotalkaboutthepast,that the quickest relief willcome in forgetting. TheChildren’sAid treatsus as ifwewerebornthemomentwewere brought in, that likemoths breaking out of theircocoons we’ve left our oldlives behind and, God

willing, will soon launchourselvesintonewones.

Mrs. Scatcherd and Mr.Curran, a milquetoast with abrown mustache, line us upby height, tallest to shortest,whichgenerallymeansoldestto youngest, with the babiesin the arms of the childrenover eight. Mrs. Scatcherdpushes a baby into my armsbeforeIcanobject—anolive-skinned, cross-eyed fourteen-

month-old named Carmine(who, I can already guess,will soon answer to anothername).Heclingstomelikeaterrified kitten. Brownsuitcase in one hand, theother holding Carminesecure, I navigate the highstepsintothetrainunsteadilybefore Mr. Curran scurriesover to take my bag. “Usesomecommonsense,girl,”hescolds. “If you fall, you’ll

crack your skulls, and thenwe’ll have to leave the bothofyoubehind.”

THE WOODEN SEATS IN THETRAINCARALLFACEFORWARDEXCEPT for two groups ofseats opposite each other inthe front, separated by anarrow aisle. I find a three-seater for Carmine and me,and Mr. Curran heaves mysuitcase onto the rack above

myhead.Carminesoonwantstocrawlofftheseat,andIamsobusytryingtodistracthimfrom escaping that I barelynoticeas theotherkidscomeonboardandthecarfills.

Mrs. Scatcherd stands atthe front of the car, holdingon to two leather seat backs,the arms of her black capedraping like the wings of acrow. “They call this anorphan train, children, and

youareluckytobeonit.Youare leaving behind an evilplace, full of ignorance,poverty, and vice, for thenobilityofcountrylife.Whileyouareonthis trainyouwillfollow some simple rules.You will be cooperative andlisten to instructions. Youwill be respectful of yourchaperones.Youwilltreatthetraincarrespectfullyandwillnot damage it in any way.

You will encourage yourseatmates to behaveappropriately. In short, youwillmakeMr.Curranandmeproudofyourbehavior.”Hervoicerisesaswesettleinourseats.“Whenyouareallowedtostepoff the train,youwillstay within the area wedesignate. You will notwanderoffaloneatanytime.And if your behavior provestobeaproblem,ifyoucannot

adhere to these simple rulesofcommondecency,youwillbesentstraightbacktowhereyou came from anddischarged on the street, lefttofendforyourselves.”

The younger childrenappear bewildered by thislitany, but those of us olderthansixorsevenhadalreadyheard a version of it severaltimesattheorphanagebeforeweleft.Thewordswashover

me. Of more immediateconcern is the fact thatCarmine is hungry, as am I.We had only a dry piece ofbread and a tin cup of milkfor breakfast, hours ago,before it was light. Carmineisfussingandchewingonhishand, a habit that must becomforting to him. (Maisiesucked her thumb.) But Iknownottoaskwhenfoodiscoming. It will come when

thesponsorsarereadytogiveit, and no entreaties willchangethat.

I tug Carmine onto mylap. At breakfast thismorning, when I droppedsugar into my tea, I slippedtwo lumps into my pocket.Now I rub one between myfingers, crushing it togranules, then lick my indexfingerandstickitinthesugarbefore popping it in

Carmine’s mouth. The lookof wonder on his face, hisdelightasherealizeshisgoodfortune,makesme smile.Heclutches my hand with bothof his chubby ones, holdingon tight as he drifts off tosleep.

Eventually I, too, amlulled to sleep by the steadyrumble of the clickingwheels. When I wake, withCarmine stirring and rubbing

his eyes, Mrs. Scatcherd isstanding over me. She isclose enough that I can seethe small pink veins, likeseams on the back of adelicateleaf,spreadingacrosshercheeks, thedownyfuronherjawbone,herbristlyblackeyebrows.

She stares at me intentlythrough her small roundglasses. “There were littleonesathome,Igather.”

Inod.“You appear to know

whatyou’redoing.”As if on cue, Carmine

bleatsinmylap.“Ithinkhe’shungry,” I tell her. I feel hisdiaper rag, which is dry ontheoutsidebutspongy.“Andreadyforachange.”

Sheturnstowardthefrontof the car, gesturing back atmeoverhershoulder.“Comeon,then.”

Holding the baby againstmy chest, I rise unsteadilyfrom my seat and swaybehind her up the aisle.Children sitting in twos andthrees look up with dolefuleyes as I pass. None of usknowswherewe are headed,andIthinkthatexceptforthevery youngest, each of us isapprehensiveandfearful.Oursponsors have told us little;we know only that we are

going to a landwhere applesgrow in abundance on low-hanging branches and cowsand pigs and sheep roamfreelyinthefreshcountryair.A landwhere good people—families—areeagertotakeusin. I haven’t seen a cow, orany animal, for that matter,except a stray dog and theoccasional hardy bird, sinceleavingCountyGalway,andIlook forward to seeing them

again. But I am skeptical. Iknow all too well how it iswhen the beautiful visionsyou’ve been fed don’tmatchupwithreality.

Many of the children onthis train have been at theChildren’s Aid for so longthat they have no memoriesof their mothers. They canstartanew,welcomedintothearms of the only familiesthey’ll ever know. I

remember too much: mygram’s ample bosom, hersmall dry hands, the darkcottage with a crumblingstonewallflankingitsnarrowgarden. The heavy mist thatsettled over the bay early inthe morning and late in theafternoon, the mutton andpotatoesGramwouldbringtothehousewhenMamwastootired to cook or we didn’thave money for ingredients.

Buyingmilkandbreadat thecorner shop on PhantomStreet—Sraid a’ Phuca, myda called it in Gaelic—socalled because the stonehousesinthatsectionoftownwere built on cemeterygrounds.Mymam’s chappedlips and fleeting smile, themelancholy that filled ourhomeinKinvaraandtraveledwith us across the ocean totake up permanent residence

in the dim corners of ourtenement apartment in NewYork.

And now here I am onthis train, wiping Carmine’sbottomwhileMrs. Scatcherdhoversaboveus,shieldingmewith a blanket to hide theprocedure from Mr. Curran,issuing instructions I don’tneed. Once I have Carmineclean and dry, I sling himover my shoulder and make

my way back to my seatwhile Mr. Curran distributeslunch pails filled with breadand cheese and fruit, and tincups of milk. FeedingCarminebreadsoakedinmilkreminds me of the Irish dishcalledchampIoftenmadeforMaisieandtheboys—amashof potatoes, milk, greenonions (on the rare occasionwhenwehadthem),andsalt.On the nightswhenwewent

to bed hungry, all of usdreamedofthatchamp.

Afterdistributingthefoodandonewoolblankettoeachof us,Mr. Curran announcesthat there is a bucket and adipper for water, and if weraiseourhandswecancomeforward for a drink. There’sanindoortoilet,heinformsus(though,aswesoonfindout,this “toilet” is a terrifyingopenholeabovethetracks).

Carmine, drunk on sweetmilkandbread, splays inmylap,hisdarkheadinthecrookof my arm. I wrap thescratchyblanketaroundus.Inthe rhythmic clacking of thetrainandthestirring,peopledsilence of the car, I feelcocooned.Carmine smells aslovely as a custard, the solidweight of him so comfortingit makes me teary. Hisspongy skin, pliable limbs,

darkfringedlashes—evenhissighs make me think (howcould they not?) of Maisie.Theideaofherdyingaloneinthehospital,sufferingpainfulburns, is too much to bear.Why am I alive, and shedead?

In our tenement therewere families who spilled inand out of each other’sapartments,sharingchildcareand stews. The men worked

togetheringrocerystoresandblacksmith shops. Thewomenrancottageindustries,making lace and darningsocks.WhenIpassedbytheirapartments and saw themsitting together in a circle,hunched over their work,speaking a language I didn’tunderstand, I felt a sharppang.

MyparentsleftIrelandinhopesofabrighterfuture,all

of us believing we were onour way to a land of plenty.Asithappened,theyfailedinthis new land, failed in justabout every way possible. Itmayhavebeenthattheywereweakpeople,illsuitedfortherigors of emigration, itshumiliations andcompromises, its competingdemands of self-disciplineand adventurousness. But Iwonder how things might

have been different if myfather was part of a familybusiness that gave himstructure and a steadypaycheck instead of workinginabar,theworstplaceforaman like him—or if mymother had been surroundedbywomen,sistersandnieces,perhaps, who could haveprovided relief fromdestitution and loneliness, arefugefromstrangers.

In Kinvara, poor as wewere, and unstable, we atleast had family nearby,people who knew us. Wesharedtraditionsandawayoflooking at the world. Wedidn’tknowuntilwelefthowmuch we took those thingsforgranted.

NewYorkCentralTrain,

1929

As the hours pass I get usedtothemotionofthetrain,theheavywheelsclackingintheirgrooves, the industrial humunder my seat. Dusk softens

the sharp points of treesoutside my window; the skyslowlydarkens,thenblackensaround an orb of moon.Hourslater,afaintbluetingeyields to the soft pastels ofdawn,andsoonenoughsunisstreaming in, the stop-startrhythmof the trainmaking itallfeellikestillphotography,thousands of images thattaken together create a sceneinmotion.

Wepass the time lookingoutattheevolvinglandscape,talking, playing games. Mrs.Scatcherd has a checkers setand a bible, and I thumbthrough it, looking forPsalm121, Mam’s favorite: I willlift up mine eyes unto thehills,fromwhencecomethmyhelp. My help cometh fromtheLord,whichmadeheavenandearth...

I’m one of few children

on the train who can read.Mamtaughtmeallmylettersyears ago, in Ireland, thentaughtmehowtospell.Whenwe got to New York, she’dmake me read to her,anything with words on it—crates and bottles I found inthestreet.

“Donner brand car-bonatedbev—”

“Beverage.”“Beverage. LemonKist

soda.Artifickle—”“Artificial.The‘c’sounds

like‘s.’”“Artificial color. Kitric—

citricacidadded.”“Good.”When I became more

proficient,Mamwentintotheshabby trunk beside her bedand brought out a hardbackbook of poems, blue withgoldtrim.FrancisFahywasaKinvara poet born into a

family of seventeen children.At fifteen he became anassistant teacher at the localboys’ school before headingoff to England (like everyother Irish poet, Mam said),where he mingled with thelikesofYeatsandShaw.Shewould turn the pagescarefully, running her fingerovertheblacklinesonflimsypaper,mouthingthewordstoherself, until she found the

oneshewanted.“‘Galway Bay,’” she

would say. “My favorite.Readittome.”

AndsoIdid:

Had I youth’sblood andhopeful moodand heart offireoncemore,

Forallthegoldthe world

might hold I’dneverquityourshore,

I’d livecontentwhate’er Godsent withneighbours oldandgray,

And lay mybones ’neathchurchyardstones, besideyou, Galway

Bay.

Once I looked up from ahaltingandbotched renditionto see two lines of tearsrivuleting Mam’s cheeks.“JesusMaryandJoseph,”shesaid. “We should never haveleftthatplace.”

Sometimes, on the train,wesing.Mr.Currantaughtusa songbeforewe left that hestands to lead us in at least

onceaday:

Fromthecity’sgloomtothecountry’sbloom

Wherethefragrantbreezessigh

Fromthecity’sblighttothegreenwoodbright

LikethebirdsofsummerflyOChildren,dearChildrenYoung,happy,pure...

We stop at a depot for

sandwich fixings and freshfruit and milk, but only Mr.Currangetsoff.Icanseehimoutside my window in hiswhite wingtips, talking tofarmerson theplatform.Oneholds abasketof apples, oneasackfullofbread.Amanina black apron reaches into abox and unwraps a packageof brown paper to reveal athick yellow slab of cheese,and my stomach rumbles.

They haven’t fed us much,somecrustsofbreadandmilkandanappleeach in thepasttwenty-fourhours,andIdon’tknow if it’s because they’reafraid of running out or ifthey think it’s for our moralgood.

Mrs. Scatcherd strides upand down the aisle, lettingtwo groups of children at atime get up to stretch whilethe train is still. “Shake each

leg,”sheinstructs.“Goodforthecirculation.”Theyoungerchildren are restless, and theolder boys stir up trouble insmall ways, wherever theycan find it. Iwantnothing todowiththeseboys,whoseemas feral as a pack of dogs.Our landlord, Mr. Kaminski,called boys like these “streetArabs,”lawlessvagrantswhotravel in gangs, pickpocketsandworse.

When the train pulls outof the station, one of theseboyslightsamatch,invokingthewrathofMr.Curran,whoboxeshimabouttheheadandshouts, for the whole car tohear, that he’s a worthlessgood-for-nothing clod of dirtonGod’sgreenearthandwillnever amount to anything.This outburst does little butboost the boy’s status in theeyes of his friends,who take

todevisingingeniouswaystoirritate Mr. Curran withoutgiving themselves away.Paperairplanes,loudbelches,high-pitched, ghostly moansfollowed by stifled giggles—itdrivesMr.Curranmadthathecannotpickoutoneboytopunish for all this. But whatcan he do, short of kickingthemalloutat thenextstop?Which he actually threatens,finally, looming in the aisle

above the seats of twoparticularlyrowdyboys,onlyto prompt the bigger one’sretort that he’ll be happy tomakehiswayonhisown,hasdoneitforyearswithnogreatharm,youcanshineshoes inany city in America, he’llwager, and it’s probably ahellofa lotbetter thanbeingsent to live in a barn withanimals, eating only pigslops, or getting carried off

byIndians.Childrenmurmur in their

seats.What’dhesay?Mr. Curran looks around

uneasily. “You’re scaring awholecarfullofkids.Happynow?”hesays.

“It’strue,ain’tit?”“Of course it ain’t—isn’t

—true.Kids,settledown.”“I hear we’ll be sold at

auctiontothehighestbidder,”anotherboystage-whispers.

Thecargrowssilent.Mrs.Scatcherd stands up,wearingher usual thin-lipped scowland broad-brimmed bonnet.She is farmore imposing, inher heavy black cloak andflashingsteel-rimmedglasses,than Mr. Curran could everbe. “I have heard enough,”she says in a shrill voice. “Iam tempted to throw thewholelotofyouoffthistrain.But that would not be”—she

looks around at us slowly,dwellingoneachsomberface—“Christian. Would it? Mr.Curran and I are here toescort you to a better life.Any suggestion to thecontrary is ignorant andoutrageous. It is our ferventhope that each of you willfind a path out of thedepravity of your early lives,and with firm guidance andhard work transform into

respectable citizens who canpull your weight in society.Now.Iamnotsonaiveas tobelieve that this will be thecase for all.” She casts awithering look at a blond-haired older boy, one of thetroublemakers. “But I amhopeful thatmostofyouwillview this as an opportunity.Perhaps the only chance youwill ever get to makesomething of yourselves.”

She adjusts the cape aroundher shoulders. “Mr. Curran,maybe the young man whospoke to you so impudentlyshould be moved to a seatwhere his dubious charmswillnotbesoenthusiasticallyembraced.”Sheliftsherchin,peering out from her bonnetlike a turtle from its shell.“Ah—there’s a space besideNiamh,” she says, pointing acrooked finger in my

direction. “With the addedbonus of a squirmingtoddler.”

My skin prickles. Oh no.But I can see that Mrs.Scatcherd is in no mood toreconsider.SoIslideascloseasIcantothewindowandsetCarmineandhisblanketnextto me, in the middle of theseat.

Several rows ahead, ontheothersideoftheaisle,the

boy stands, sighs loudly, andpulls his bright-blue flannelcap down hard on his head.He makes a production ofgetting out of his seat, thendragshisfeetuptheaislelikea condemned manapproaching a noose. Whenhegetstomyrow,hesquintsat me, then at Carmine, andmakes a face at his friends.“Thisshouldbefun,”hesaysloudly.

“You will not speak,young sir,” Mrs. Scatcherdtrills.“Youwillsitdownandbehavelikeagentleman.”

Heflingshimself intohisseat,hislegsintheaisle,thentakes his cap off and slaps itagainsttheseatinfrontofus,raisinga smallcloudofdust.The kids in that seat turnaround and stare. “Man,” hemutters, not really toanybody,“whatanoldgoat.”

He holds his finger out toCarmine, who studies it andlooks at his face. The boywiggles his finger andCarmine buries his head inmylap.

“Don’t get you nowherebeing shy,” the boy says.Helooks over at me, his gazeloiteringonmyfaceandbodyinawaythatmakesmeblush.Hehasstraightsandyhairandpale blue eyes and is twelve

or thirteen, from what I cantell,thoughhismannerseemsolder. “A redhead. That’sworse than a bootblack.Who’sgonnawantyou?”

I feel thestingof truth inhiswords,but I liftmychin.“AtleastI’mnotacriminal.”

Helaughs.“That’swhatIam,amI?”

“Youtellme.”“Wouldyoubelieveme?”“Probablynot.”

“Nopointthen,isthere.”I do not respond and we

three sit in silence, Carmineawed into stillness by theboy’s presence. I look out atthe severe and lonelylandscape drifting past thewindow.It’sbeenrainingoffand on all day. Gray cloudshanglowinawaterysky.

“They took my kit fromme,” the boy says after awhile.

I turn to look at him.“What?”

“My bootblack kit. Allmy paste and brushes. Howdo theyexpectme tomakealiving?”

“They don’t. They’regoingtofindyouafamily.”

“Ah,that’sright,”hesayswith a dry laugh. “A ma totuckme in at night and a pato teach me a trade. I don’tsee it working out like that.

Doyou?”“I don’t know. Haven’t

thought about it,” I say,thoughofcourse Ihave. I’vegleaned bits and pieces: thatbabies are the first to bechosen, then older boys,prized by farmers for theirstrong bones and muscles.Last to go are girls like me,too old to be turned intoladies, too young to beserious help around the

house, not much use in thefield.Ifwe’renotchosen,weget sent back to theorphanage. “Anyway, whatcanwedoaboutit?”

Reaching into his pocket,hepullsoutapenny.Herollsit across his fingers, holds itbetweenthumbandforefingerand touches it to Carmine’snose, then clasps it in hisclosed fist. When he openshis hand, the penny isn’t

there. He reaches behindCarmine’s ear, and—“Presto,” he says, handinghimthepenny.

Carmine gazes at it,astonished.

“Youcanputupwithit,”theboysays.“Oryoucanrunaway. Or maybe you’ll getlucky and live happily everafter. Only the good Lordknows what’s going tohappen,andHeain’ttelling.”

UnionStation,Chicago,1929

We become an odd littlefamily, the boy—real nameHans, I learn, called Dutchyon the street—and CarmineandIinourthree-seatabode.Dutchy tellsmehewas bornin New York to German

parents, that his mother diedof pneumonia and his fathersenthimouton thestreets toearn money as a bootblack,beating himwith a belt if hedidn’t bring enough in. Soone day he stopped goinghome.Hefellinwithagroupof boys who slept on anyconvenient step or sidewalkduringthesummer,andinthewintermonths in barrels anddoorways,indiscardedboxes

on iron gratings on themargin of Printing HouseSquare, warm air and steamrising from the enginesbeneath. He taught himselfpianobyearinthebackroomof a speakeasy, plunked outtunes at night for drunkenpatrons, saw things notwelve-year-old should see.The boys tried to look afteroneanother,thoughifonegotsick or maimed—catching

pneumonia or falling off astreetcar or under thewheelsof a truck—there wasn’tmuchanyofthemcoulddo.

AfewkidsfromDutchy’sgangareon the trainwithus—he points out SlobberyJack, who has a habit ofspilling on himself, andWhitey, a boy withtranslucent skin. They werelured off the street with thepromise of a hot meal, and

here’swheretheyendedup.“What about the hot

meal?Didyougetit?”“Didwe ever.Roast beef

and potatoes. And a cleanbed. But I don’t trust it. Iwager they’re paid by thehead, the way Indians takescalps.”

“It’s charity,” I say.“Didn’t you hear what Mrs.Scatcherd said? It’s theirChristianduty.”

“All I know is nobodyeverdidnothingformeoutofChristian duty. I call tell bythe way they’re talking I’mgoingtoendupworkedtothebone and not see a dime forit. You’re a girl. You mightbeallright,bakingpiesinthekitchen or taking care of ababy.” He squints at me.“Except for the red hair andfreckles, you look okay.You’ll be fine and dandy

sitting at the table with anapkin on your lap. Not me.I’m too old to be taughtmanners, or to followsomebody else’s rules. Theonly thing I’m good for ishard labor. Same with all ofus newsies and peddlers andbill posters and bootblacks.”Henodstowardoneboyafteranotherinthecar.

ON THE THIRD DAY WE CROSSTHEILLINOISSTATELINE.NEARCHICAGO, Mrs. Scatcherdstandsforanotherlecture.“Ina fewminuteswewill arriveat Union Station, whereuponwe will switch trains for thenext portion of our journey,”she tellsus. “If itwereup tome,I’dsendyouinastraightline right across the platformto the other train, without aminute’sworrythatyou’llget

yourselves into trouble. Butwe are not allowed to boardforhalfanhour.Youngmen,youwillwearyoursuitcoats,andyoungladiesmustputonyourpinafores.Carefulnottomussthemnow.

“Chicago is a proud andnoble city, on the edge of agreat lake.The lakemakes itwindy, hence its appellation:the Windy City. You willbring your suitcases, of

course,andyourwoolblanketto wrap yourself in, as wewillbeontheplatformforatleastanhour.

“The good citizens ofChicago no doubt view youas ruffians, thieves, andbeggars, hopeless sinnerswhohavenotachanceintheworld of being redeemed.They are justifiablysuspicious of your character.Your task is to prove them

wrong—to behave withimpeccable manners, andcomport yourselves like themodel citizens theChildren’sAidSocietybelievesyoucanbecome.”

THE WIND ON THE PLATFORMRUSHES THROUGHMY DRESS. IWRAPmyblankettightaroundmyshoulders,keepingacloseeye on Carmine as he

staggers around, seeminglyoblivious to the cold. Hewants to know the names ofeverything: Train. Wheel.Mrs. Scatcherd, frowning atthe conductor. Mr. Curran,poring over papers with astation agent. Lights—whichtoCarmine’samazementturnonwhilehe’sgazingatthem,asifbymagic.

Contrary to Mrs.Scatcherd’s expectations—or

perhaps in response to herrebuke—we are a quiet lot,even the older boys. Wehuddle together, complacentascattle,stampingourfeettostaywarm.

ExceptforDutchy.Wheredidhego?

“Psst.Niamh.”When I hear my name, I

turntoglimpsehisblondhairinastairwell.Thenhe’sgone.I look over at the adults,

occupied with plans andforms. A large rat scurriesalong the far brickwall, andas the rest of the childrenpoint and shriek I scoop upCarmine, leaving our smallpile of suitcases, and slipbehind a pillar and a pile ofwoodencrates.

In the stairwell, out ofsightof theplatform,Dutchyleans against a curved wall.When he sees me, he turns

without expression andbounds up the stairs,vanishing around a corner.With a glance behind, andseeingnoone,IholdCarminecloseandfollowhim,keepingmyeyesonthewidestepssoI don’t fall. Carmine tilts hisheadupandleansbackinmyarms,floppyasasackofrice.“Yite,”hemurmurs,pointing.My gaze follows his chubbyfinger towhat I realize is the

enormous, barrel-vaultedceiling of the train station,lacedwithskylights.

We step into the hugeterminal,filledwithpeopleofall shapes and colors—wealthywomeninfurstrailedby servants, men in top hatsandmorningcoats,shopgirlsin bright dresses. It’s toomuchtotakeinallatonce—statuary and columns,balconies and staircases,

oversized wooden benches.Dutchy is standing in themiddle,lookingupattheskythroughthatglassceiling,andthenhe takesoffhis capandflingsit intotheair.Carminestruggles to freehimself, andassoonasIsethimdownheraces toward Dutchy andgrabs his legs. Dutchyreaches down and hoists himonhisshoulders,andasIgetclose I hear him say, “Put

yourarmsout,littleman,andI’ll spin you.” He claspsCarmine’s legs and twirls,Carmine stretching out hisarms and throwing his headback, gazing up at theskylights,shriekingwithgleeas they turn, and in thatmoment, for the first timesincethefire,myworriesaregone. I feel a joy so strongit’s almostpainful—aknife’sedgeofjoy.

And then a whistlepierces the air. Threepolicemen in dark uniformsrushtowardDutchywiththeirsticks drawn, and everythinghappens too fast: I see Mrs.Scatcherd at the top of thestairwell pointing her crowwing,Mr. Curran running inthose ridiculous white shoes,Carmine clutching Dutchy’sneck in terror as a fatpoliceman shouts, “Get

down!”My arm iswrenchedbehind my back and a manspitsinmyear,“Tryingtogetaway, were yeh?” his breathlike licorice. It’s hopeless torespond,soIkeepmymouthshut as he forces me to myknees.

A hush falls over thecavernous hall. Out of thecorner of my eye I seeDutchy on the floor, under apoliceman’s truncheon.

Carmine ishowling,hiscriespuncturing the stillness, andeverytimeDutchymoves,hegetsjammedintheside.Thenhe’s in handcuffs and the fatpoliceman yanks him to hisfeet, pushing him roughly sohestumblesforward,trippingoverhisfeet.

In this moment I knowthathe’sbeen in scrapes likethisbefore.Hisfaceisblank;hedoesn’tevenprotest.Ican

tellwhatthebystandersthink:he’sacommoncriminal;he’sbroken the law, likely morethan one. The police areprotecting the good citizensof Chicago, and thank Godforthem.

The fat policeman dragsDutchy over to Mrs.Scatcherd, and LicoriceBreath, following his lead,yanksmeroughlybythearm.

Mrs.Scatcherdlooksasif

she’s bitten into a lime. Herlips are puckered in aquiveringO,and sheappearstobetrembling.“Iplacedthisyoung man with you,” shesays tome in a terrible quietvoice, “in the hopes that youmight provide a civilizinginfluence. It appears that Iwasgravelymistaken.”

Mymindisracing.IfonlyI can convince her that hemeansnoharm.“No,ma’am,

I—”“Donotinterrupt.”Ilookdown.“Sowhat do you have to

sayforyourself?”IknowthatnothingIcan

say will change her opinionofme.AndinthatrealizationI feel oddly free. Themost Ican hope for is to keepDutchy frombeing sentbacktothestreets.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I

asked Dutchy—I mean Hans—to escort me and the babyup the stairs.” I look over atCarmine,tryingtosquirmoutof the armsof thepolicemanholding him. “I thought . . .maybe we could get aglimpseofthatlake.Ithoughtthebabywouldliketoseeit.”

Mrs. Scatcherd glares atme.Dutchy looksatmewithsurprise. Carmine says,“Yake?”

“And then—Carminesawthe lights.” I point up andlook at Carmine, and hethrows his head back andshouts,“Yite!”

Thepolicemenaren’tsurewhat to do. Licorice Breathletsgoofmyarm,apparentlypersuaded that I’m not goingtoflee.

Mr. Curran glances atMrs. Scatcherd, whoseexpression has ever so

slightlysoftened.“You are a foolish and

headstronggirl,”shesays,buther voice has lost its edge,and I can tell she’s not asangryasshewantstoappear.“You floutedmy instructionsto stay on the platform. Youput the entire group ofchildrenatrisk,andyouhavedisgraced yourself. Worse,you have disgracedme. AndMr. Curran,” she adds,

turning toward him. Hewinces,asiftosayLeavemeout of it. “But this is not, Isuppose, a matter for thepolice. A civil, not a legal,matter,”sheclarifies.

The fat policemanmakesashowofunlockingDutchy’shandcuffs and clipping themto his belt. “Sure you don’twant us to take him in,ma’am?”

“Thank you, sir, but Mr.

Curran and I will devise asufficientpunishment.”

“Asyousay.”Hetouchesthe brim of his cap, backsaway,andturnsonhisheels.

“Make nomistake,”Mrs.Scatcherd says gravely,staring down her nose at us.“Youwillbepunished.”

MRS. SCATCHERD RAPSDUTCHY’S KNUCKLES SEVERAL

TIMES WITH a long woodenruler,thoughitseemstomeahalfhearted penalty. Hebarelywinces,thenshakeshishands twice in the air andwinksatme.Truly,thereisn’tmuch more she can do.Stripped of family andidentity, fed meager rations,consigned to hard woodenseats until we are to be, asSlobberyJacksuggested,soldinto slavery—our mere

existence is punishmentenough.Thoughshethreatenstoseparate the threeofus, intheendsheleavesustogether—not wanting to infect theothers with Dutchy’sdelinquency, she says, andapparently having decidedthat taking care of Carminewould’ve extended mypunishment to her. She tellsus not to speak to or evenlook at each other. “If I hear

asmuchasamurmur,sohelpme . . .” she says, the threatlosingairoverourheadslikeaprickedballoon.

By the time we leaveChicago, it is evening.Carmine sits onmy lapwithhis hands on the window,facepressedagainsttheglass,gazing out at the streets andbuildings, all lit up. “Yite,”he says softly as the cityrecedes into the distance. I

look out the window withhim. Soon all is dark; it’simpossible to tellwhere landendsandtheskybegins.

“Getagoodnight’srest,”Mrs.Scatcherdcallsfromthefront of the car. “In themorning youwill need to beat your very best. It is vitalthat you make a goodimpression. Your drowsinessmight well be construed aslaziness.”

“What if nobody wantsme?” one boy asks, and theentire car seems to hold itsbreath. It is the question oneveryone’smind,thequestionnone of us are surewewanttheanswerto.

Mrs. Scatcherd looksdown at Mr. Curran as ifshe’s been waiting for this.“Ifithappensthatyouarenotchosen at the first stop, youwill have several additional

opportunities. I cannot thinkof an instance . . .” Shepausesandpursesherlips.“Itisuncommonforachildtobewith us on the return trip toNewYork.”

“Pardon me, ma’am,” agirl near the front says.“What if I don’t want to gowith the people who chooseme?”

“What if theybeatus?”aboycriesout.

“Children!” Mrs.Scatcherd’s small glassesflash as she turns her headfrom side to side. “Iwill nothave you interrupting!” Sheseems poised to sit downwithout addressing thesequestions, but then changesher mind. “I will say this:There is no accounting fortaste and personalities. Someparents are looking for ahealthy boy to work on the

farm—as we all know, hardwork is good for children,andyouwouldbeluckytobeplaced with a God-fearingfarm family, all you boys—andsomepeoplewantbabies.People sometimes think theywant one thing, but laterchange their minds. Thoughwedearlyhopeallofyouwillfind the right homes at thefirst stop, it doesn’t alwaysworkthatway.Soinaddition

to being respectable andpolite, you must also keepyour faith in God to guideyouforwardifthewayisnotclear. Whether your journeyis longorshort,HewillhelpyouaslongasyouplaceyourtrustinHim.”

IlookoveratDutchy,andhe looks back at me. Mrs.Scatcherd knows as little aswedoaboutwhetherwe’llbechosen by people who will

treatuswithkindness.Weareheaded toward the unknown,andwehavenochoicebuttosit quietly in our hard seatsand let ourselves be takenthere.


Walking back to the car,Molly sees Jack through thewindshield, eyes closed,grooving out to a song shecan’thear.

“Hey,” she says loudly,openingthepassengerdoor.

He opens his eyes andyanksthebudsoutofhisears.“How’ditgo?”

She shakes her head andclimbsin.Hardtobelieveshewas only in there for twentyminutes. “Vivian’s an oddone.Fiftyhours!MyGod.”

“But it’s going to workout?”

“I guess so. We made aplantostartonMonday.”

Jack pats her leg.

“Awesome.You’llknockoutthosehoursinnotime.”

“Let’s not count ourchickens.”

She’s always doing this,crabbily countering hisenthusiasm, but it’s becomesomethingofaroutine.She’lltell him, “I’m nothing likeyou, Jack. I’m bitchy andspiteful,” but is secretlyrelieved when he laughs itoff. He has an optimistic

certainty that she’s a goodpersonathercore.And ifhehas this faith inher, thenshemustbeallright,right?

“Justkeeptellingyourself—betterthanjuvie,”hesays.

“Areyousureaboutthat?It’d probably be easier toservemytimeandgetitoverwith.”

“Except for that smallproblemofhavingarecord.”

She shrugs. “That’d be

kindofbadass, though,don’tyouthink?”

“Really, Moll?” he sayswith a sigh, turning theignitionkey.

She smiles to let himknow she’s kidding. Sort of.“‘Better than juvie.’ Thatwould make a good tattoo.”Shepointstoherarm.“Righthere across my bicep, intwenty-pointscript.”

“Don’t even joke,” he

says.

DINA PLUNKS THE SKILLET OFHAMBURGER HELPER ON THETRIVET in the middle of thetable and sits heavily in herchair.“Oof.I’mexhausted.”

“Toughdayatwork,huh,babe?” Ralph says, as healways does, though Dinaneveraskshimabouthisday.Maybe plumbing isn’t as

exciting as being a policedispatcher in thrill-a-minuteSpruceHarbor. “Molly, handmeyourplate.”

“My back is killing mefrom that crappy chair theymakemesitin,”Dinasays.“Iswear if I went to achiropractor, I’d have alawsuit.”

Molly gives her plate toRalph and he drops somecasserole on it. Molly has

learned to pick around themeat—even in a dish likethis, where you can hardlytell what’s what and it’s allmixed together—becauseDina refuses to acknowledgethatshe’savegetarian.

Dina listens toconservative talk radio,belongs to a fundamentalistChristian church, and has a“Guns don’t kill people—abortion clinics do” bumper

sticker on her car. She andMolly are about as oppositeas it is possible to be,whichwould be fine if Dina didn’ttake Molly’s choices as apersonal affront. Dina isconstantly rolling her eyes,muttering under her breathabout Molly’s variousinfractions—didn’t put awayherlaundry,leftabowlinthesink, can’t be bothered tomake her bed—all of which

are part and parcel of theliberal agenda that’s ruiningthis country. Molly knowsshe should ignore thesecomments—“water off aduck’s back,” Ralph says—buttheyirkher.She’soverlysensitive to them, like atuning fork pitched too high.It’s all part of Dina’sunwavering message: Begrateful. Dress like a normalperson. Don’t have opinions.

Eat the food that’s put infrontofyou.

Molly can’t quite figureouthowRalphfits intoallofthis. She knows he andDinamet in high school, followeda predictable football player/cheerleader story arc, andhavebeentogethereversince,but she can’t tell if Ralphactually buys Dina’s partylineorjusttoesittomakehislife easier. Sometimes she

sees a glimmer ofindependence—a raisedeyebrow, a carefullyworded,possibly ironic observation,like, “Well,we can’tmake adecision on that till the bossgetshome.”

Still—all thingsconsidered,Mollyknows shehas it pretty good: her ownroom in a tidy house,employed and sober fosterparents,adecenthighschool,

a nice boyfriend. She isn’texpected to take care of apassel of kids, as shewas atoneoftheplacesshelived,orclean up after fifteen dirtycats,asshewasatanother.Inthepastnineyearsshe’sbeeninoveradozenfosterhomes,some for as little as a week.She’s been spanked with aspatula, slapped across theface, made to sleep on anunheated sun porch in the

winter, taught to roll a jointbyafosterfather,fedliesforthesocialworker.Shegothertattillegallyatsixteenfromatwenty-three-year-old friendoftheBangorfamily,an“inkexpert-in-training,” as hecalled himself, who was juststartingoutanddiditforfree—or, well . . . sort of. Shewasn’t so attached to hervirginityanyway.

Withthetinesofherfork,

Mollymashes the hamburgerintoherplate,hopingtogrindit into oblivion. She takes abite and smiles at Dina.“Good.Thanks.”

Dina purses her lips andcocksherhead,clearlytryingto gauge whether Molly’spraise is sincere.Well,Dina,Mollythinks,itisanditisn’t.Thank you for taking me inand feeding me. But if youthink you can quash my

ideals, force me to eat meatwhen I told you I don’t,expectme tocareaboutyouraching back when you don’tseem the slightest bitinterestedinmylife,youcanforget it. I’ll play yourfucking game. But I don’thavetoplaybyyourrules.


Terry leads the way to thethird floor, bustling up thestairs, with Vivian movingmore slowly behind her andMollytakinguptherear.Thehouse is large and drafty—muchtoolarge,Mollythinks,

for an old woman who livesalone. It has fourteen rooms,most of which are shutteredduring the winter months.During the Terry-narratedtour on the way to the attic,Molly gets the story: Vivianand her husband owned andran a department store inMinnesota, and when theysoldittwentyyearsago,theytookasailingtripuptheEastCoast to celebrate their

retirement. They spied thishouse,aformershipcaptain’sestate, from the harbor, andonanimpulsedecidedtobuyit. And that was it: theypacked up and moved toMaine. Ever since Jim died,eight years ago, Vivian haslivedherebyherself.

Inaclearingat thetopofthestairs,Terry,pantingabit,putsherhandonherhipandlooksaround. “Yikes!Where

tostart,Vivi?”Vivian reaches the top

step, clutching the banister.She is wearing anothercashmere sweater, gray thistime, and a silver necklacewithanoddlittlecharmonit.

“Well,let’ssee.”Glancing around, Molly

canseethat thethirdfloorofthe house consists of afinished section—twobedrooms tucked under the

slopeof the roof and anold-fashioned bathroom with aclaw-foot tub—and a large,open attic partwith a rough-planked floorhalf covered inpatches of ancient linoleum.It has visible rafters withinsulationpackedbetweenthebeams. Though the raftersand floor are dark, the spaceis surprisingly light. Leveredwindows nestle in eachdormer, providing a clear

view of the bay and themarinabeyond.

The attic is filled withboxesandfurniturepackedsotightly it’s hard to movearound. In one corner is along clothes rack coveredwith a plastic zippered case.Severalcedarchests,solargethatMollywondershowtheygotuphere in thefirstplace,are lined up against a wallnext to a stack of steamer

trunks. Overhead, severalbare bulbs glow like tinymoons.

Wandering among thecardboardboxes,Viviantrailsher fingertips across the topsof them, peering at theircryptic labels: The store,1960–. The Nielsens.Valuables. “I suppose this iswhy people have children,isn’t it?” she muses. “Sosomebodywillcareaboutthe

stufftheyleavebehind.”MollylooksoveratTerry,

whoisshakingherheadwithgrim resignation. It occurs toher that maybe Terry’sreluctance to take on thisproject has as much to dowith avoiding this kind ofmaudlinmoment as avoidingtheworkitself.

Glancing surreptitiouslyat her phone,Molly sees it’s4:15—only fifteen minutes

since she arrived. She’ssupposed to stay until sixtoday,andthencomefortwohours four days a week, andfour hours every weekenduntil—well,untilshefinishesher time or Vivian dropsdead, whichever comes first.Accordingtohercalculations,itshouldtakeaboutamonth.Tofinishthehours,nottokillVivian.

Though if the next forty-

nine hours and forty-fiveminutes are this tedious, shedoesn’tknowifshe’llbeabletostandit.

In American Historythey’ve been studying howthe United States wasfounded on indenturedservitude. The teacher, Mr.Reed, said that in theseventeenth century nearlytwo-thirds of English settlerscame over that way, selling

yearsoftheirfreedomforthepromiseofaneventualbetterlife.Mostofthemwereundertheageoftwenty-one.

Molly has decided tothinkofthisjobasindenturedservitude: each hour sheworks is another hour closertofreedom.

“It’llbegoodtoclearoutthis stuff, Vivi,” Terry issaying. “Well, I’m going toget started on the laundry.

Call if you need me!” ShenodstoMollyasiftosayAllyours! and retreats down thestairs.

Molly knows all aboutTerry’s work routine.“You’re like me at the gym,hey,Ma?” Jack says, teasingheraboutit.“Onedaybiceps,nextdayquads.”Terryrarelydeviates from her self-imposed schedule; with ahousethissize,shesays,you

have to tackle a differentsection every day: bedroomsand laundry on Monday,bathrooms and plants onTuesday, kitchen andshopping on Wednesday,other main rooms onThursday, cooking for theweekendonFriday.

Molly wades throughstacks of boxes sealed withshinybeige tape toget to thewindow, which she opens a

crack. Even up here, at thetopof thisbigoldhouse,shecan smell the salty air.“They’renotinanyparticularorder, are they?” she asksVivian, turning back around.“How long have they beenhere?”

“I haven’t touched themsince we moved in. So thatmustbe—”

“Twentyyears.”Vivian gives her a flinty

smile.“Youwerelistening.”“Were you ever tempted

to just toss it all in aDumpster?”

Vivianpursesherlips.“I didn’t mean—sorry.”

Mollywinces, realizingshe’spushedalittlefar.

All right, it’sofficial, sheneeds an attitude adjustment.Whyisshesohostile?Vivianhasn’t done anything to her.She should be grateful.

Without Vivian she’d besliding down a dark pathtoward nowhere good. But itkind of feels nice to nurtureher resentment, to foster it.It’s something she can savorand control, this feeling ofhaving been wronged by theworld. That she has fulfilledherroleasathievingmemberof the underclass, nowindentured to this genteelmidwesternwhitelady,istoo

perfectforwords.Deep breath. Smile. As

Lori, thecourt-ordered socialworker she meets withbiweekly always tells her todo,Molly decides tomake amental list of all the positivethings about her situation.Let’s see. One, if she canstick it out, this wholeincidentwillbestrickenfromher record. Two, she has aplace—however tense and

tenuous at the moment—tolive.Three,ifyoumustspendfifty hours in an uninsulatedattic in Maine, spring isprobablythebesttimeofyearto do it. Four, Vivian isancient, but she doesn’tappeartobesenile.

Five—who knows?Maybe there actually will besomethinginterestingintheseboxes.

Bending down, Molly

scansthelabelsaroundher.“Ithink we should go throughthem in chronological order.Let’s see—this one says‘WWII.’ Is there anythingbeforethat?”

“Yes.” Vivian squeezesbetween two stacks andmakes her way toward thecedar chests. “The earlieststuff I have is over here, Ithink. These crates are tooheavy to move, though. So

we’ll have to start in thiscorner. Is that okay withyou?”

Molly nods. Downstairs,Terry handed her a cheapserrated knife with a plastichandle, a slippery stack ofwhite plastic garbage bags,and a wire-bound notebookwith a pen clipped to it tokeep track of “inventory,” asshe called it. Now Mollytakes the knife and pokes it

through the tape of the boxVivian has chosen: 1929–1930. Vivian, sitting on awoodenchest,waitspatiently.After opening the flaps,Molly lifts out a mustard-colored coat, and Vivianscowls. “Mercy sake,” shesays. “I can’t believe I savedthatcoat.Ialwayshatedit.”

Molly holds the coat up,inspecting it. It’s interesting,actually, sort of a military

stylewithboldblackbuttons.The gray silk lining isdisintegrating.Going throughthe pockets, she fishes out afolded piece of lined paper,almost worn away at thecreases. She unfolds it toreveal a child’s carefulcursive in faint pencil,practicing the same sentenceoverandoveragain:Uprightand do right make all right.Uprightanddorightmakeall

right. Upright and do right...

Vivian takes it from herandspreadsthepaperopenonher knee. “I remember this.Miss Larsen had the mostbeautifulpenmanship.”

“Yourteacher?”Vivian nods. “Try as I

might,Icouldneverformmyletterslikehers.”

Mollylooksattheperfectswoops hitting the broken

lineinexactlythesamespot.“Looks pretty good to me.Youshouldseemyscrawl.”

“They barely teach itanymore,Ihear.”

“Yeah, everything’s oncomputer.”Mollyissuddenlystruckbythefact thatVivianwrote these words on thissheet of paper more thaneightyyearsago.Uprightanddo right make all right.“Things have changed a lot

sinceyouweremyage,huh?”Viviancocksherhead.“I

suppose. Most of it doesn’taffect me much. I still sleepinabed.Sitinachair.Washdishesinasink.”

OrTerrywashesdishesina sink, to be accurate,Mollythinks.

“I don’t watch muchtelevision.You know I don’thave a computer. In a lot ofwaysmylifeisjustasitwas

twenty or even forty yearsago.”

“That’s kind of sad,”Molly blurts, thenimmediately regrets it. ButVivian doesn’t seemoffended. Making a “whocares?” face, she says, “Idon’t think I’ve missedmuch.”

“Wireless Internet,digitalphotographs, smartphones,Facebook, YouTube . . .”

Molly taps thefingersofonehand. “The entire world haschangedinthepastdecade.”

“Notmyworld.”“But you’re missing out

onsomuch.”Vivian laughs. “I hardly

think FaceTube—whateverthat is—would improve myqualityoflife.”

Molly shakes her head.“It’s Facebook. AndYouTube.”

“Whatever!” Vivian saysbreezily. “I don’t care. I likemyquietlife.”

“But there’s a balance.Honestly, I don’t know howyou can just exist in this—bubble.”

Viviansmiles.“Youdon’thave trouble speaking yourmind,doyou?”

Soshe’sbeen told.“Whydidyoukeepthiscoat,ifyouhated it?” Molly asks,

changingthesubject.Vivian picks it up and

holds it out in front of her.“That’s a very goodquestion.”

“So should we put it intheGoodwillpile?”

Folding the coat in herlap, Vivian says, “Ah . . .maybe.Let’sseewhatelseisinthisbox.”

TheMilwaukeeTrain,1929

Isleepbadlythelastnightonthe train. Carmine is upseveral times in the night,irritable and fidgety, andthoughItrytosoothehim,hecries fitfully for a long time,disturbingthechildrenaround

us. As dawn emerges instreaks of yellow, he finallyfalls asleep, his head onDutchy’s curled leg and hisfeet in my lap. I am wide-awake,sofilledwithnervousenergy that I can feel theblood pumping through myheart.

I’vebeenwearingmyhairpulled back in a messyponytail, but now I untie theoldribbonandletitfalltomy

shoulders,combingthroughitwith my fingers andsmoothingthetendrilsaroundmy face. I pull it back astightlyasIcan.

Turning, I catch Dutchylookingatme.

“Your hair is pretty.” Isquintathiminthegloomtosee if he’s teasing, and helooksbackatmesleepily.

“That’snotwhatyousaidafewdaysago.”

“Isaidyou’llhaveahardtime.”

Iwant topushawaybothhiskindnessandhishonesty.

“Can’thelpwhatyouare,canyou,”hesays.

I cranemyneck to see ifMrs. Scatcherd might haveheard us, but there’s nomovementupfront.

“Let’s make a promise,”hesays.“Tofindeachother.”

“How can we? We’ll

probably end up in differentplaces.”

“Iknow.”“And my name will be

changed.”“Mine too, maybe. But

wecantry.”Carmine flops over,

tucking his legs beneath himand stretching his arms, andboth of us shift toaccommodatehim.

“Doyoubelieveinfate?”

Iask.“What’sthatagain?”“That everything is

decided. You’re just—youknow—livingitout.”

“Godhasitallplannedinadvance.”

Inod.“I dunno. I don’t like the

planmuchsofar.”“Meeither.”Webothlaugh.“Mrs. Scatcherd says we

shouldmakea clean slate,” Isay.“Letgoofthepast.”

“I can let go of the past,noproblem.”Hepicksupthewoolblanketthathasfallentothe floor and tucks it aroundthe lump ofCarmine’s body,covering the parts that areexposed.“ButIdon’twanttoforgeteverything.”

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW I SEETHREE SETS OF TRACKS

PARALLELING the one we areon, brown and silver, andbeyondthembroadflatfieldsof furrowed soil. The sky isclear and blue. The train carsmells of diaper rags andsweatandsourmilk.

At the front of the carMrs. Scatcherd stands up,bends down to confer withMr. Curran, and stands upagain. She is wearing herblackbonnet.

“Allright,children.Wakeup!” she says, lookingaround, clapping her handsseveral times.Her eyeglassesglintinthemorninglight.

Around me I hear smallgrunts and sighs as thoselucky enough to have sleptstretch out their crampedlimbs.

“It is time to makeyourselves presentable. Eachof you has a change of

clothing in your suitcase,whichasyouknow ison therack overhead. Big ones,please assist the little ones. Icannot stress enough howimportantitistomakeagoodfirst impression. Clean faces,combedhair,shirtstuckedin.Bright eyes and smiles. Youwill not fidget or touch yourface.Andyouwill saywhat,Rebecca?”

We’re familiar with the

script: “Please and thankyou,”Rebeccasays,hervoicebarelyaudible.

“Please and thank youwhat?”

“Please and thank you,ma’am.”

“You will wait to speakuntil you are spoken to, andthen youwill say please andthank you, ma’am. You willwaittodowhat,Andrew?”

“Speak until you are

spokento?”“Exactly. You will not

fidgetorwhat,Norma?”“Touch your face.

Ma’am.Ma’ammadam.”Titters erupt from the

seats. Mrs. Scatcherd glaresatus.“Thisamusesyou,doesit? I don’t imagine you’llthinkit’squitesofunnywhenall the adults say no thankyou, I do not want a rude,slovenly child, and you’ll

have to get backon the trainandgotothenextstation.Doyouthinkso,Mr.Curran?”

Mr. Curran’s head jerksup at the sound of his name.“Noindeed,Mrs.Scatcherd.”

The train is silent. Notgetting chosen isn’tsomething we want to thinkabout.A littlegirl in therowbehindmebegins tocry,andsoonIcanhearmuffledsniffsallaroundme.Atthefrontof

the train, Mrs. Scatcherdclaspsherhandstogetherandcurls her lips into somethingresembling a smile. “Now,now. No need for that. Aswithalmosteverythinginlife,if you are polite and presentyourself favorably, it isprobable that you willsucceed.ThegoodcitizensofMinneapolis are coming tothe meeting hall today withtheearnestintentionoftaking

one of you home—possiblymorethanone.Soremember,girls, tie your hair ribbonsneatly.Boys, clean facesandcombed hair. Shirts buttonedproperly. When wedisembark,youwillstandinastraight line. You will speakonly when spoken to. Inshort, youwill do everythinginyourpowertomakeiteasyforanadulttochooseyou.Isthatclear?”

ThesunissobrightthatIhave to squint, so hot that Iedgetothemiddleseat,outofthe glare of the window,scooping Carmine onto mylap. As we go under bridgesand pull through stations thelight flickers and Carminemakes a shadow game ofmoving his hand across mywhitepinafore.

“Youshouldmakeoutallright,” Dutchy says in a low

voice.“Atleastyouwon’tbebreaking your back doingfarmwork.”

“You don’t know that Iwon’t,”Isay.“Andyoudon’tknowthatyouwill.”

MilwaukeeRoadDepot,

Minneapolis,1929

The train pulls into thestation with a high-pitchedsquealing of brakes and agreat gust of steam.Carmine

is quiet, gaping at thebuildings and wires andpeople outside the window,after hundreds of miles offieldsandtrees.

We stand and begin togather our belongings.Dutchy reaches up for ourbags and sets them in theaisle. Out the window I cansee Mrs. Scatcherd and Mr.Curran on the platformtalking to two men in suits

and ties and black fedoras,with several policemenbehind them. Mr. Curranshakes their hands, thensweepshishandtowardusaswestepoffthetrain.

IwanttosaysomethingtoDutchy, but I can’t think ofwhat.Myhandsareclammy.It’s a terrible kind ofanticipation, not knowingwhatwe’rewalkinginto.ThelasttimeIfeltthiswayIwas

in the waiting rooms at EllisIsland. We were tired, andMam wasn’t well, and wedidn’t know where we weregoingorwhatkindoflifewewould have. But now I cansee all I took for granted: Ihad a family. I believed thatwhatever happened, we’d betogether.

A policeman blows awhistle and holds his arm inthe air, and we understand

that we’re to line up. ThesolidweightofCarmineis inmy arms, his hot breath,slightly sour and sticky fromhis morning milk, on mycheek. Dutchy carries ourbags.

“Quickly, children,”Mrs.Scatcherd says. “In twostraight lines. That’s good.”Her tone is softer thanusual,and I wonder if it’s becausewe’re around other adults or

because she knows what’snext. “This way.” Weproceedbehindherupawidestone staircase, the clatter ofour hard-soled shoes on thestepsechoinglikeadrumroll.At the top of the stairs wemake our way down acorridor lit by glowing gaslamps, and into the mainwaitingroomofthestation—not asmajestic as the one inChicago, but impressive

nonetheless. It’s big andbright,withlarge,multipanedwindows. Up ahead, Mrs.Scatcherd’s black robebillowsbehindherlikeasail.

Peoplepointandwhisper,and I wonder if they knowwhy we’re here. And then Ispot a broadside affixed to acolumn.Inblackblocklettersonwhitepapers,itreads:

WANTED

HOMESFORORPHANCHILDREN

ACOMPANYOFHOMELESSCHILDRENFROMTHEEAST

WILLARRIVEAT

MILWAUKEEROADDEPOT,FRIDAY,OCTOBER18.DISTRIBUTIONWILLTAKE

PLACEAT10A.M.THESECHILDRENAREOFVARIOUSAGESANDBOTH

SEXES,HAVINGBEENTHROWNFRIENDLESSUPONTHEWORLD

...

“WhatdidIsay?”Dutchysays, following my glance.“Pigslops.”

“You can read?” I askwithsurprise,andhegrins.

As ifsomeonehas turneda crank in my back, I ampropelledforward,onefootinfront of the other. Thecacophony of the stationbecomes a dull roar in my

ears.Ismellsomethingsweet—candyapples?—aswepassa vendor’s cart. The hair onmyneck is limp,andI feelatrickle of sweat down myback. Carmine is impossiblyheavy. How strange, I think—that I am in a place myparents have never been andwill never see. How strangethat I am here and they aregone.

Itouchthecladdaghcross

aroundmyneck.Theolder boysno longer

seem so rough. Their maskshave slipped; I see fear ontheir faces. Some of thechildren are sniffling, butmost are trying very hard tobe quiet, to do what’sexpectedofthem.

Ahead of us, Mrs.Scatcherd stands beside alargeoakdoor,handsclaspedin front of her. When we

reach her, we gather aroundinasemicircle,theoldergirlsholding babies and theyounger children holdinghands, the boys’ handsstuffedintheirpockets.

Mrs. Scatcherd bows herhead.“Mary,MotherofGod,we beseech you to cast abenevolent eye over thesechildren, to guide them andblessthemastheymaketheirway in the world. We are

your humble servants in Hisname.Amen.”

“Amen,” the pious fewsayquickly,andtherestofusfollow.

Mrs. Scatcherd takes offher glasses. “We havereachedourdestination.Fromhere, the Lord willing, youwill disperse to familieswhoneedyouandwantyou.”Sheclears her throat. “Nowremember, not everyone will

findamatchrightaway.Thisistobeexpected,andnothingtoworryabout.Ifyoudonotmatch now you will simplyboard the train with Mr.Curran and me, and we willtraveltoanotherstationaboutanhourfromhere.Andifyoudo not find placement there,youwill comewithus to thenexttown.”

The children around memovelikeaskittishherd.My

stomach is hollow andtrembly.

Mrs.Scatcherdnods.“Allright, Mr. Curran, are weready?”

“Weare,Mrs.Scatcherd,”hesays,andleansagainstthelarge doorwith his shoulder,pushingitopen.

WE’RE AT THE BACK OF ALARGE, WOOD-PANELED ROOM

WITHNOwindows, filledwithpeople milling about androws of empty chairs. AsMrs.Scatcherdleadsusdownthe center aisle toward a lowstageatthefront,ahushfallsover the crowd, and then aswelling murmur. People intheaislemoveaside to letuspass.

Maybe, I think, someoneherewillwantme.MaybeI’llhavealifeI’veneverdaredto

imagine, in a bright, snughousewherethereisplentytoeat—warm cake and milkytea with as much sugar as Iplease.ButIamquakingasImakemywayupthestairstothestage.

We line up by height,smallesttotallest,someofusstill holding babies. ThoughDutchy is three years olderthanme, I’mtall formyage,and we’re only separated by

oneboyintheline.Mr. Curran clears his

throat and begins to make aspeech.Lookingoverathim,I notice his flushed cheeksand rabbity eyes, his droopybrown mustache and bristlyeyebrows, the stomach thatprotrudes from thebottomofhis vest like a barely hiddenballoon. “A simplematter ofpaperwork,”hetellsthegoodpeople of Minnesota, “is all

that stands between you andone of the children on thisstage—strong, healthy, goodfor farm work and helpingaround the house. You havethe chance to save a childfromdestitution,poverty,andI believe Mrs. Scatcherdwouldagree that it isnot toogreat an exaggeration to addsinanddepravity.”

Mrs.Scatcherdnods.“So you have the

opportunitybothtodoagooddeed and get something inreturn,” he continues. “Youwill be expected to feed,clothe, and educate the childuntil theageofeighteen,andprovide a religious educationas well, of course, and it isourdeepesthopethatyouwillgrow to feel not onlyfondness for your child, buttoembracehimasyourown.

“The child you select is

yoursforfree,”headds,“onaninety-day trial. At whichpoint, if you so choose, youmaysendhimback.”

Thegirlbesidememakesa low noise like a dog’swhineandslipsherhandintomine. It’s as cold and dampas thebackofa toad.“Don’tworry,we’llbeallright...”Ibegin, but she gives me alook of such desperation thatmy words trail off. As we

watch people line up andbegin to mount the steps tothe stage, I feel like one ofthe cows in the agriculturalshow my granddad took metoinKinvara.

Infrontofmenowstandsayoungblondwoman, slightand pale, and an earnest-lookingmanwithathrobbingAdam’s apple and wearing afelt hat. The woman stepsforward.“MayI?”

“Excuse me?” I say, notunderstanding.

She holds out her arms.Oh.ShewantsCarmine.

He looks at the womanbefore hiding his face in thecrookofmyneck.

“He’sshy,”Itellher.“Hello, little boy,” she

says.“What’syourname?”Herefusestolifthishead.

Ijigglehim.The woman turns to the

man and says softly, “Theeyes can be fixed, don’t youthink?” and he says, “I don’tknow.Iwouldreckonso.”

Anotherman andwomanare watching us. She’sheavyset, with a furrowedbrowanda soiledapron,andhe’s got thin strips of hairacrosshisbonyhead.

“What about that one?”themansays,pointingatme.

“Don’t like the look of

her,” thewoman sayswith agrimace.

“She don’t like the lookofyou,neither,”Dutchysays,andallofusturntowardhimin surprise.Theboybetweenusshrinksback.

“What’d you say?” Theman goes over and plantshimselfinfrontofDutchy.

“Your wife’s got no callto talk like that.” Dutchy’svoice is low, but I can hear

everyword.“You stay out of it,” the

man says, lifting Dutchy’schin with his index finger.“Mywife can talk aboutyouorphans any way shegoddamnwants.”

There’sa rustling,a flashof black cape, and like asnakethroughtheunderbrushMrs. Scatcherd is upon us.“What is the problem here?”Her voice is hushed and

forceful.“This boy talked back to

myhusband,”thewifesays.Mrs. Scatcherd looks at

Dutchy and then at thecouple. “Hans is—spirited,”she says. “Hedoesn’t alwaysthink before he speaks. I’msorry, I didn’t catch yourname—”

“Barney McCallum. Andthishere’smywife,Eva.”

Mrs. Scatcherd nods.

“Whatdoyouhave to say toMr.McCallum,then,Hans?”

Dutchylooksdownathisfeet.Iknowwhathewantstosay. I think we all do.“Apologize,” he mumbleswithoutlookingup.

While this is unfolding,the slim blond woman infrontofmehasbeenstrokingCarmine’s arm with herfinger, and now, still nestledagainst me, he is looking

through his lashes at her.“Sweet thing, aren’t you?”She pokes him gently in hissoftmiddle, andhegivesheratentativesmile.

The woman looks at herhusband. “I think he’s theone.”

I can feel Mrs.Scatcherd’seyesonus.“Nicelady,”IwhisperinCarmine’sear. “She wants to be yourmam.”

“Mam,” he says, hiswarmbreathonmyface.Hiseyesareroundandshining.

“His name is Carmine.”Reaching up, I pry hismonkey arms from aroundmyneck,claspingtheminmyhand.

The woman smells ofroses—like the lush whiteblooms along the lane atmygram’shouse.Sheisasfinelybonedasabird.Sheputsher

hand on Carmine’s back andhe clings to me tighter. “It’sall right,” I start, but thewordscrumbleinmymouth.

“No, no, no,” Carminesays.IthinkImayfaint.

“Do you need a girl tohelp with him?” I blurt. “Icould”—Ithinkwildly,tryingtorememberwhat Iamgoodat—“mend clothes. Andcook.”

The woman gives me a

pityinglook.“Oh,child,”shesays. “I am sorry. We can’tafford two. We just—wecame here for a baby. I’msure you’ll find . . .” Hervoicetrailsoff.“Wejustwanta baby to complete ourfamily.”

I push back tears.Carmine feels the change inme and starts to whimper.“You must go to your newmam,”Itellhimandpeelhim

offme.The woman takes him

awkwardly, jostling him inher arms. She isn’t used toholding a baby. I reach outand tuck his leg under herarm. “Thank you for takingcareofhim,”shesays.

Mrs. Scatcherd herds thethree of them off the stagetoward a table covered withforms, Carmine’s dark headonthewoman’sshoulder.

ONE BY ONE, THE CHILDRENAROUNDME ARE CHOSEN. THEBOYbesidemewandersawaywith a short, round womanwho tells him it’s high timeshe has a man around thehouse. The dog-whine girlgoesoffwithastylishcouplein hats. Dutchy and I arestanding together talkingquietly when a manapproaches with skin astanned and scuffed as old

shoe leather, trailed by asour-looking woman. Themanstandsinfrontofusforaminute, then reaches out andsqueezesDutchy’sarm.

“What’re you doing?”Dutchysayswithsurprise.

“Openyourmouth.”I can see that Dutchy

wantstohauloffandhithim,butMr.Curraniswatchingusclosely, and he doesn’t dare.The man sticks a dirty-

looking finger in his mouth.Dutchyjerkshisheadaround.

“Ever work as a haybaler?”themanasks.

Dutchy stares straightahead.

“Youhearme?”“No.”“No, you didn’t hear

me?”Dutchy looks at him.

“Never worked as a haybaler.Don’t evenknowwhat

thatis.”“Whaddaya think?” the

man says to the woman.“He’s a tough one, but wecoulduseakidthissize.”

“I reckon he’ll fall inline.”SteppinguptoDutchy,she says, “We break horses.Boysaren’tthatdifferent.”

“Let’s load ’im up,” theman says. “We got a driveaheadofus.”

“You’re all set?” Mr.

Curran says, coming towarduswithanervouslaugh.

“Yep.Thisistheone.”“Well, all right! If you’ll

just followmeover here,wecansignthosepapers.”

It’s just as Dutchypredicted. Coarse countrypeople looking for a fieldhand. They don’t even walkhimdownoffthestage.

“Maybe it won’t be thatbad,”Iwhisper.

“If he lays a hand onme...”

“You can get placedsomewhereelse.”

“I’m labor,” he says.“That’swhatIam.”

“Theyhavetosendyoutoschool.”

He laughs. “And what’llhappeniftheydon’t?”

“You’ll make them sendyou.Andthen,inafewyears—”

“I’ll come and findyou,”hesays.

I have to fight to controlmy voice. “Nobody wantsme.Ihavetogetbackonthetrain.”

“Hey, boy! Stop yerdallying,” the man calls,clapping his hands so loudlythateveryoneturnstolook.

Dutchy walks across thestageanddownthesteps.Mr.Curran pumps the man’s

hand, pats him on theshoulder. Mrs. Scatcherdescorts the couple out thedoor,Dutchy trailing behind.In the doorway he turns andfindsmy face.And thenhe’sgone.

It’s hard to believe, butit’s not yet noon. Two hourshave passed since we pulledinto the station. There areabout ten adults millingaround,andahalf-dozentrain

riders left—me, a few sicklylooking teenage boys, andsome homely children—undernourished, walleyed,beetle browed. It’s obviouswhyweweren’tchosen.

Mrs. Scatcherd mountsthestage.“Allright,children.The journey continues,” shesays. “It is impossible toknow what combination offactorsmakesachildsuitableforacertainfamily,buttobe

perfectly frank, you wouldnotwant to bewith a familythat doesn’t welcome youwholeheartedly. So—thoughthis may not seem like thedesired outcome, I tell youthat it is for thebest.And if,afterseveralmoreattempts,itbecomes clear that . . .” Hervoicewavers.“Fornow,let’sjust worry about our nextdestination. The good peopleof Albans, Minnesota, are

waiting.”


It’s early afternoonwhenwearriveinAlbans,which,Icanseeaswepulluptothedepot,is barely a town at all. Themayor is standing on theopen-air platform, and assoonaswedisembarkweare

herded in a ragtag line to aGrangeHallablockfromthestation. The brilliant blue ofthemorningskyhasfaded,asifleftouttoolonginthesun.The air has cooled. I am nolonger nervous or worried. Ijust want to get this overwith.

There are fewer peoplehere,about fifty,but theyfillthe small brick building.There’snostage,sowewalk

to the front and turn to facethecrowd.Mr.Currangivesaless florid version of thespeech he gave inMinneapolisandpeoplebeginto inch forward. Theygenerally appear both poorerand kindlier; the women arewearing country dresses andthemen seem uncomfortableintheirSundayclothes.

Expecting nothing makesthe whole experience easier

to bear. I fully believe that Iwillenduponthetrainagain,to be unloaded at the nexttown, paraded with theremaining children, andshuttled back on the train.Those of us who aren’tchosen will likely return toNew York to grow up in anorphanage. And maybe thatwouldn’tbesobad.AtleastIknow what to expect—hardmattresses, rough sheets,

strict matrons. But alsofriendship with other girls,three meals a day, school. Ican go back to that life. Idon’t need to find a familyhere, and perhaps it will beforthebestifIdon’t.

As I am thinking this, Ibecome aware of a womanlookingatmeclosely.She isaboutmymother’s age,withwavy brown hair croppedclose to her head and plain,

strong features. She wears ahigh-necked white blousewith vertical pleats, a darkpaisleyscarf,andaplaingrayskirt. Heavy black shoes areon her feet. A large ovallocket hangs on a gold chainaround her neck. The manstanding behind her is stoutand florid, with shaggyauburn hair. The buttons ofhiswaistcoatstraintoconfinehisdrumlikegirth.

The woman comes closetome.“What’syourname?”

“Niamh.”“Eve?”“No,Niamh. It’s Irish,” I

say.“Howdoyouspellit?”“N-I-A-M-H.”She looks back at the

man,whobreaks into a grin.“Freshoff theboat,”hesays.“Ain’tthatright,missy?”

“Well,not—”Ibegin,but

themaninterruptsme.“Whereyoufrom?”“CountyGalway.”“Ah,right.”Henods,and

myheartjumps.Heknowsit!“My people’re from

CountyCork.Cameoverlongago,duringthefamine.”

These two are a peculiarpair—she circumspect andreserved, he bouncing on histoes,hummingwithenergy.

“Thenamewouldhaveto

change,” she says to herhusband.

“Whatever you want,m’dear.”

Shecocksherheadatme.“Howoldareyou?”

“Nine,ma’am.”“Canyousew?”Inod.“Do you know how to

cross-stitch? Hem? Can youdobackstitchingbyhand?”

“Fairly well.” I learned

stitches sitting in ourapartmentonElizabethStreet,helpingMamwhen she tookin extra work darning andmending and the occasionalfulldressfromaboltofcloth.Muchofherworkcamefromthe sisters Rosenblumdownstairs, who did finefinishworkandgladlypassedalong to Mam the moretedious tasks. I stood besideher as she traced patterns in

chalk on chambray andcalico,and I learned tomakethewidesimplechainstitchesto guide the emerging shapeofthegarment.

“Whotaughtyou?”“Mymam.”“Whereisshenow?”“Passedaway.”“Andyourfather?”“I’m an orphan.” My

wordshangintheair.The woman nods at the

man, who puts his hand onherbackandguideshertotheside of the room. I watch asthey talk. He shakes hisfloppy head and rubs hisbelly.She touches thebodiceofherblousewithaflathand,gestures toward me. Hestoops,handsonhisbelt,andbendsclosetowhisper inherear. She looks me up anddown. Then they come backover.

“I am Mrs. Byrne,” shesays. “My husbandworks asa women’s clothier, and weemploy several local womento make garments to order.Wearelookingforagirlwhoisgoodwithaneedle.”

This is so different fromwhat I was expecting that Idon’tknowwhattosay.

“I will be honest withyou. We do not have anychildren and have no interest

in being surrogate parents.But if you are respectful andhardworking, you will betreatedfairly.”

Inod.The woman smiles, her

featuresshifting.For thefirsttime, she seems almostfriendly. “Good.” She shakesmy hand. “We’ll sign thepapers,then.”

The hoveringMr. Currandescends, and we are led to

thetablewherethenecessaryformsaresignedanddated.

“I think you’ll find thatNiamh is mature for heryears,” Mrs. Scatcherd tellsthem.“Ifsheisbroughtupina strict, God-fearinghousehold, there isno reasontobelieveshecan’tbecomeawomanofsubstance.”Takingmeaside,shewhispers,“Youare lucky to have found ahome.Donotdisappointme,

ortheSociety.Idon’tknowifyou’llgetanotherchance.”

Mr. Byrne hoists mybrown suitcase onto hisshoulder.Ifollowhimandhiswife out of the GrangeHall,down the quiet street, andaround the corner to wheretheirblackModelAisparkedinfrontofamodeststorefrontwith hand-lettered signsadvertising sales:NORWEGIANSARDINES IN OIL 15 CENTS,

ROUND STEAK, 36 CENTS/LB.Wind rustles through the tallsparsetreesthatlinetheroad.After laying my suitcase flatinthetrunk,Mr.Byrneopensthe rear door for me. Theinteriorofthecarisblack,theleather seats cool andslippery. I feel very small inthebackseat.TheByrnestaketheir places in the front anddon’tglanceback.

Mr. Byrne reaches over

and touches his wife’sshoulder, and she smiles athim.With a loud rumble thecar springs to lifeandwesetoff.TheByrnesarehavingananimated conversation in thefront seat, but I can’t hear aword.

SEVERALMINUTESLATER,MR.BYRNE PULLS INTO THEDRIVEWAY of amodest beige

stucco house with browntrim.As soonashe turnsoffthe car, Mrs. Byrne looksbackatmeandsays,“We’vedecidedonDorothy.”

“You like that name?”Mr.Byrneasks.

“For goodness’ sake,Raymond, it doesn’t matterwhatshethinks,”Mrs.Byrnesnaps as she opens her cardoor.“Dorothyisourchoice,andDorothyshewillbe.”

I turn the name over inmymind:Dorothy.All right.I’mDorothynow.

Thestuccoischippedandpaint is peeling off the trim.But the windows aresparklingclean,and the lawnis short and neat. A domedplanter of rust-coloredmumssitsoneithersideofthesteps.

“Oneofyourtaskswillbeto sweep the front porch,steps,andwalkwayeveryday

untilthesnowcomes.Rainorshine,”Mrs. Byrne says as Ifollow her to the front door.“You will find the dustpanand broom inside the hallcloset on the left.” She turnsaround to face me, and Inearly bump into her. “Areyoupayingattention? Idon’tliketorepeatmyself.”

“Yes,Mrs.Byrne.”“Call me ma’am. Ma’am

willsuffice.”

“Yes,ma’am.”Thesmallfoyerisgloomy

and dark. Shadows from thewhite crocheted curtains onevery window cast lacyshapes on the floor. To theleft, through a slightly opendoor, I glimpse the red-flocked wallpaper andmahoganytableandchairsofa dining room. Mrs. Byrnepushes a button on the wallandtheoverheadlightsprings

on as Mr. Byrne comesthroughthefrontdoor,havingretrieved my bag from thetruck. “Ready?” she says.Mrs.Byrneopensthedoortotherightontoa roomthat, tomysurprise,isfullofpeople.


Twowomen in white blousessit in front of black sewingmachines with the wordSinger spelled out in goldalong thebody,pumpingonefoot on the iron lattice stepthatmovestheneedleupand

down.Theydon’t lookupaswe enter, just keep watchingtheneedle,tuckingthethreadunder the foot and pressingthefabricflat.Aroundyoungwoman with frizzy brownhair kneels on the floor infront of a cloth mannequin,stitching tiny pearls onto abodice.Agray-hairedwomansits on a brown chair,perfectly erect, hemming acalico skirt. And a girl who

appears only a few yearsolder than me is cutting apatternoutofthinpaperonatable. On the wall above herhead is a framed needlepointthat says, in tiny black-and-yellow cross-stitching, KEEPMEBUSYASABEE.

“Fanny, can you stop aminute?” Mrs. Byrne says,touching the gray-hairedwomanontheshoulder.“Telltheothers.”

“Break,” the old womansays.Theyalllookup,buttheonly one who changesposition is the girl,who putsdownhershears.

Mrs. Byrne looks aroundthe room, leading with herchin.“Asyouknow,wehaveneeded extra help for quitesome time, and I am pleasedto report that we have foundit.This isDorothy.”She liftsher hand in my direction.

“Dorothy, say hello toBernice”—the woman withfrizzy hair—“Joan andSally”—the women at theSingers—“Fanny”—the onlyonewho smiles atme—“andMary.Mary,”shesays to theyoung girl, “you will helpDorothy get acquainted withher surroundings.Shecandosome of your scut work andfree you up for other things.And,Fanny,youwilloversee.

Asalways.”“Yes, ma’am,” Fanny

says.Mary’s mouth puckers,

andshegivesmeahardlook.“Well, then,”Mrs. Byrne

says.“Let’sgetbacktowork.Dorothy, your suitcase is inthe foyer. We’ll discusssleeping arrangements atsupper.” She turns to leave,then adds, “We keep stricthours for mealtimes.

Breakfast at eight, lunch attwelve,supperatsix.Thereisno snacking between meals.Self-discipline is one of themost important qualities ayoungladycanpossess.”

When Mrs. Byrne leavesthe room, Mary jerks herhead atme and says, “Comeon,hurryup.YouthinkIgotall day?” Obediently I goover and stand behind her.“What do you know about

stitching?”“I used to help my mam

withthemending.”“Have you ever used a

sewingmachine?”“No.”She frowns. “Does Mrs.

Byrneknowthat?”“Shedidn’task.”Mary sighs, clearly

annoyed. “I didn’t expect tohavetoteachthebasics.”

“I’mafastlearner.”

“I hope so.” Mary holdsup a flimsy sheet of tissuepaper.“Thisisapattern.Everheardofitbefore?”

InodandMarycontinues,describing the variousfeatures of the work I’ll bedoing.Thenextfewhoursarespentdoingtasksnooneelsewants to do—snippingstitches, basting, sweepingup, collecting pins andputtingtheminpincushions.I

keep pricking myself andhave to be careful not to getbloodonthecloth.

Throughout the afternoonthewomenpassthetimewithsmall talk and occasionalhumming. But mostly theyarequiet.AfterawhileIsay,“Excuseme,Ineedtousethelavatory. Can you tell mewhereitis?”

Fanny looks up. “ReckonI’lltakeher.Myfingersneed

arest.”Gettingupwithsomedifficulty,shemotionstowardthe door. I follow her downthe hall into a spare andspotless kitchen and out thebackdoor.“Thisisourprivy.Don’t ever let Mrs. Byrnecatchyouusingtheoneinthehouse.”Shepronouncescatch“kitch.”

At the back of the yard,tufted with grass like sparsehair on a balding head, is a

weathered gray shed with aslitcutoutofthedoor.Fannynodstowardit.“I’llwait.”

“Youdon’thaveto.”“The longer you’re in

there, the longer my fingersgetabreak.”

The shed is drafty, and Ican see a sliver of daylightthroughtheslit.Ablacktoiletseat,wornthroughtowoodinsome places, is set in themiddle of a rough-hewn

bench. Strips of newspaperhang on a roll on thewall. Iremember the privy behindourcottageinKinvara,sothesmell doesn’t shock me,thoughtheseat iscold.Whatwill it be like out here in asnowstorm? Like this, Isuppose,onlyworse.

WhenI’mfinished,Iopenthe door, pulling down mydress.

“You’re pitiful thin,”

Fanny says. “I’ll bet you’rehungry.”Hongry.

She’s right. My stomachfeelslikeacavern.“Alittle,”Iadmit.

Fanny’s face is creasedand puckered, but her eyesarebright.Ican’ttellifshe’sseventy or a hundred. She’swearing a pretty purpleflowered dress with agathered bodice, and Iwonderifshemadeitherself.

“Mrs.Byrnedon’tgiveusmuchforlunch,butit’sprollymore’nyouhad.”Shereachesinto the side pocket of herdress and pulls out a smallshiny apple. “I always savesomething for later, case Ineed it. She locks up therefrigeratorbetweenmeals.”

“No,”Isay.“Oh yes she does. Says

she don’t want us rootingaround in there without her

permission. But I usuallymanage to save something.”Shehandsmetheapple.

“Ican’t—”“Go ahead. You got to

learn to takewhatpeoplearewillingtogive.”

Theapplesmellssofreshandsweetitmakesmymouthwater.

“You best eat it here,beforewegobackin.”Fannylooksatthedoortothehouse,

thenglancesupatthesecond-floor windows. “Whyn’t youtakeitbackintheprivy.”

As unappetizing as thissounds, I am so hungry Idon’t care. I stepback insidethe littleshedanddevour theappledowntothecore.Juiceruns down my chin, and Iwipe it with the back of myhand.My da used to eat theapple core and all—“whereallthenutrientsare.It’splain

ignoranttothrowitout,”he’dsay. But to me the hardcartilage is like eating thebonesofafish.

When I open the door,Fannystrokesherchin.Ilookat her, puzzled. “Evidence,”she says, and I wipe mystickyjaw.

Mary scowlswhen I stepback into the sewing room.She shoves a pile of cloth atme and says, “Pin these.” I

spend the next hour pinningedgetoedgeascarefullyasIcan, but each time I put acompleted one down shegrabs it, inspects it hastily,andflingsitbackatme.“It’sasloppymess.Doitagain.”

“But—”“Don’targue.Youshould

beashamedofthiswork.”Theotherwomenlookup

and silently return to theirsewing.

I pull out the pins withshakinghands.ThenIslowlyrepin thecloth,measuringaninch apart with a metalsewing gauge. On themantelpiece an ornate goldclock with a domed glassfront ticks loudly. I holdmybreath as Mary inspects mywork. “This has someirregularity,”shesaysfinally,holdingitup.

“What’swrongwithit?”

“It’s uneven.” She won’tlook me in the eye. “Maybeyou’re just . . .” Her voicetrailsoff.

“What?”“Maybeyouaren’tcutout

forthiskindofwork.”My bottom lip trembles,

and I press my lips togetherhard. I keep thinkingsomeone—maybe Fanny?—willstep in,butnoonedoes.“I learned how to sew from

mymother.”“You’re not mending a

rip in your father’s trousers.People are paying goodmoney—”

“I know how to sew,” Iblurt. “Maybe better thanyou.”

Mary gapes at me. “You. . . you are nothing,” shesputters. “Don’t even have a—afamily!”

Myearsarebuzzing.The

only thing I can think to sayis, “And you don’t have anymanners.” I stand up andleave the room, pulling thedoor shut behind me. In thedark hall, I contemplate myoptions.Icouldrunaway,butwherewouldIgo?

After a moment the dooropens, and Fanny slips out.“Goodness, child,” shewhispers. “Why you have tobesomouthy?”

“That girl is mean.What’dIdotoher?”

Fannyputsahandonmyarm. Her fingers are rough,calloused. “It don’t do youanygoodtosquabble.”

“But my pins werestraight.”

She sighs. “Mary’s onlyhurting herself by makingyou do the work over. She’spaid by the piece, so I don’tknow what she thinks she’s

doing.Butyou—well, letmeaskyouthis.Aretheypayingyou?”

“Payingme?”“Fanny!” a voice rings

out above us.We look up toseeMrs. Byrne at the top ofthestairs.Herfaceisflushed.“Whatonearthisgoingon?”I can’t tell if she heardwhatweweresaying.

“Nothing to concern you,ma’am,”Fanny says quickly.

“A little spat between thegirlsisall.”

“Overwhat?”“Honest, ma’am, I don’t

thinkyouwanttoknow.”“Oh,butIdo.”Fanny gazes at me and

shakes her head. “Well . . .You seen that boy whodelivers the afternoon paper?They got to arguing overwhether he has a sweetheart.Youknowhowgirlscanbe.”

Iexhaleslowly.“Thefoolishness,Fanny,”

Mrs.Byrnesays.“I didn’t want to tell

you.”“You two get back in

there. Dorothy, I don’t wantto hear another word of thisnonsense,youunderstand?”

“Yes,ma’am.”“There is work to be

done.”“Yes,ma’am.”

Fannyopensthedoorandwalks ahead of me into thesewing room. Mary and Idon’tspeakfortherestoftheafternoon.

Thatnightat supperMrs.Byrne serves chopped beef,potato salad stained pink bybeets, and rubbery cabbage.Mr. Byrne chews noisily. Ican hear every click of hisjaw.Iknowtoputmynapkinin my lap—Gram taught me

that. I know how to use aknife and fork. Though thebeef tastes as dry andflavorless as cardboard, I’msoravenous that it’sall Icando not to shove it into mymouth. Small, ladylike bites,Gramsaid.

Afterafewminutes,Mrs.Byrneputsdownherforkandsays, “Dorothy, it’s time todiscusstherulesofthehouse.Asyoualreadyknow,youare

to use the privy in the back.Once a week, on Sundayevenings, I will draw a bathfor you in the tub in thewashroom off the kitchen.Sunday is also washday,which you’ll be expected tohelpwith.Bedtime is at nineP.M.,withlightsout.There’sapallet for you in the hallcloset. You’ll bring it out inthe evenings and roll it upneatly in themorning,before

the girls arrive at eightthirty.”

“I’ll be sleeping—in thehallway?”Iaskwithsurprise.

“Mercy,youdon’texpectto sleep on the second floorwith us, do you?” she sayswith a laugh. “Heavenforbid.”

Whendinner isover,Mr.Byrne announces that he isgoingforastroll.

“AndIhaveworktodo,”

Mrs. Byrne says. “Dorothy,youwill clean up the dishes.Paycarefulattentiontowherethings belong. The best wayforyoutolearnourwaysistoobserve closely, and teachyourself. Where do we keepthe wooden spoons? Thejuice glasses? It should be afungameforyou.”Sheturnsto leave. “You are not todisturb Mr. Byrne and meafter dinner. You will put

yourself to bed at theappropriate timeand turnoutyourlight.”Withacurtsmile,shesays,“Weexpecttohavea positive experience withyou. Don’t do anything tothreatenourtrust.”

Ilookaroundatthedishespiledinthesink,thestripsofbeet peel staining a woodencuttingboard,asaucepanhalffull of translucent cabbage, aroasting pan charred and

waxedwith grease.Glancingat the door to be sure theByrnes are gone, I spear ahunk of the flavorlesscabbage on a fork andswallow it greedily, barelychewing. I eat the restof thecabbage this way, listeningforMrs. Byrne’s foot on thestairs.

As I wash the dishes Ilookoutthewindowoverthesink at the yard behind the

house, murky now in thefadingeveninglight;thereareafewspiderytrees,theirthintrunks flayed into branches.By the time I’ve finishedscrubbing the roasting pan,the sky is dark and the yardhas faded from view. Theclock above the stove says7:30.

I pour myself a glass ofwaterfromthekitchenfaucetandsitatthetable.Itfeelstoo

earlytogotobed,butIdon’tknowwhatelsetodo.Idon’thave a book to read, and Ihaven’tseenanyinthehouse.We didn’t have many booksintheapartmentonElizabethStreet, either, but the twinswere always getting oldpapers from the newsies. Inschool it was poems I likedbest—Wordsworth andKeatsand Shelley. Our teachermadeusmemorizethewords

to “Ode on a Grecian Urn,”andalone in thekitchennowI closemy eyes andwhisperThoustillunravish’dbrideofquietness, Thou foster-childofSilenceandslowTime. . .butthat’sallIcanremember.

I need to look on thebright side, as Gram alwayssaid.It’snotsobadhere.Thehouse is austere, but notuncomfortable. The lightabove the kitchen table is

warmandcheery.TheByrnesdon’twant to treatme like achild, but I’m not so sure Iwant to be treated like one.Work that keeps my handsand mind busy is probablyjustwhat I need.And soon Iwillgotoschool.

I think of my own homeon Elizabeth Street—sodifferent, but truthfully nobetter than this.Mam in bedin midafternoon, in the

sweltering heat, lying in herroompastdark,withtheboyswhining for food andMaisiesobbing and me thinking I’llgomadwith theheatandthehunger and the noise. Da upand gone—at work, he said,thoughthemoneyhebroughthome was less each week,and he’d stumble in aftermidnight reeking of hops.We’d hear him tramping upthestairs,beltingouttheIrish

national anthem—“We’rechildren of a fighting race, /That never yet has knowndisgrace, /Andaswemarch,thefoetoface,/We’llchantasoldier’s song”—thenburstingintotheapartment,toMam’s shushing andscolding. He’d standsilhouettedinthegrainylightof the bedroom, and thoughallofusweresupposedtobeasleep, and pretended to be,

we were rapt, awed by hischeerandbravado.

In the hall closet I findmy suitcase and a pile ofbedding. I unroll a horsehairpallet and place a thinyellowed pillow at the top.There’sawhitesheet,whichIspread on the mattress andtuck around the edges, and amoth-eatenquilt.

Before going to bed Iopenthebackdoorandmake

my way to the privy. Thelight from the kitchenwindowcastsadullglowforabout five feet, and then it’sdark.

The grass is brittleunderfoot. I know my way,but it’s different at night, theoutline of the shed barelyvisible ahead. I look up intothe starless sky. My heartpounds.This silentblacknessscares me more than

nighttime in thecity,with itsnoiseandlight.

I open the latch and goinside the shed. Afterward,shaking, I pull my knickersup and flee, the doorknocking behindme as I runacross the yard and up thethree steps to the kitchen. Ilock the door as instructedand lean against it, panting.AndthenInoticethepadlockon therefrigerator.Whendid

that happen? Mr. or Mrs.Byrne must have comedownstairs while I wasoutside.


Sometime in thesecondweekitbecomescleartoMollythat“cleaning out the attic”means taking things out,fretting over them for a fewminutes, and putting themback where they were, in a

slightly neater stack. Out ofthe twodozenboxes she andVivian have been through sofar,onlyashortpileofmustybooks and some yellowedlinen have been deemed tooruinedtokeep.

“Idon’tthinkI’mhelpingyoumuch,”Mollysays.

“Well,that’strue,”Viviansays. “But I’m helping you,aren’tI?”

“So you came up with a

fakeprojectasafavortome?Or, Isuppose,Terry?”Mollysays,playingalong.

“Doingmycivicduty.”“You’reverynoble.”Sittingonthefloorof the

attic, Molly lifts the piecesout of a cedar chest one byone, Vivian perched on awooden chair beside her.Brownwool gloves.A greenvelvet dress with a wideribbon sash. An off-white

cardigan. Anne of GreenGables.

“Hand me that book,”Vivian says. She takes thehardbound green volume,withgold letteringanda linedrawing of a girl withabundant red hair in achignon on the front, andopens it. “Ah, yes, Iremember,” she says. “I wasalmost exactly the heroine’sage when I read this for the

firsttime.Ateachergaveittome—my favorite teacher.Youknow,MissLarsen.”Sheleafs through the bookslowly, stopping at a pagehereandthere.“Annetalkssomuch, doesn’t she? I wasmuch shyer than that.” Shelooksup.“Whataboutyou?”

“Sorry,Ihaven’treadit,”Mollysays.

“No, no. I mean, wereyoushyasagirl?WhatamI

saying,you’restillagirl.ButI mean when you wereyoung?”

“Notexactlyshy.Iwas—quiet.”

“Circumspect,” Viviansays.“Watchful.”

Molly turns these wordsover in her mind.Circumspect? Watchful? Isshe? There was a time afterher father died and after shewas taken away, or her

motherwas taken away—it’shard to know which camefirst, or if they happened atthe same time—that shestopped talking altogether.Everyone was talking at andabout her, but nobody askedheropinion,or listenedwhenshe gave it. So she stoppedtrying. It was during thisperiodthatshewouldwakeinthenightandgetoutofbedtogotoherparents’room,only

torealize,standinginthehall,thatshehadnoparents.

“Well, you’re not exactlyeffervescent now, are you?”Vivian says. “But I saw yououtside earlier when Jackdropped you off, and yourface was”—Vivian lifts herknobby hands, splaying herfingers—“alllitup.Youweretalkingupastorm.”

“Were you spying onme?”

“Ofcourse!HowelseamI going to find out anythingaboutyou?”

Molly has been pullingthings out of the chest andputting them in piles—clothes, books, knickknackswrapped in old newspaper.Butnowshesitsbackonherheels and looks at Vivian.“Youarefunny,”shesays.

“I’ve been called manythings in my life, my dear,

but I’m not sure anyone hasevercalledmefunny.”

“I’llbettheyhave.”“Behind my back,

perhaps.” Vivian closes thebook. “You strike me as areader.AmIright?”

Molly shrugs. Thereading part of her feelsprivate, between her and thecharactersinabook.

“So what’s your favoritenovel?”

“I dunno. I don’t haveone.”

“Oh,Ithinkyouprobablydo.You’rethetype.”

“What’s that supposed tomean?”

Vivian spreads a handacross her chest, her pink-tinged fingernails as delicateseeming as a baby’s. “I cantell that you feel things.Deeply.”

Mollymakesaface.

Vivian presses the bookintoMolly’shand.“Nodoubtyou’ll find this old-fashionedand sentimental, but I wantyoutohaveit.”

“You’regivingittome?”“Whynot?”To her surprise Molly

feelsalumpinherthroat.Sheswallows, pushing it down.How ridiculous—an old ladygives her a moldy book shehas no use for, and she

chokes up. She must begettingherperiod.

She fights to keep herexpression neutral. “Well,thanks,” she saysnonchalantly. “But does thismeanIhavetoreadit?”

“Absolutely. There willbeaquiz,”Viviansays.

For awhile theywork innear silence, Molly holdingup an item—a sky-bluecardigan with stained and

yellowed flowers, a browndress with several missingbuttons, a periwinkle scarfand one matching mitten—and Vivian sighing, “Isuppose there’s no reason tokeep that,” then inevitablyadding, “Let’s put it in the‘maybe’ pile.” At one point,apropos of nothing, Viviansays, “So where is thatmotherofyours,anyway?”

Molly has gotten used to

this kind of non sequitur.Vivian tends to pick updiscussionstheystartedafewdays earlier right where theyleft off, as if it’s perfectlynaturaltodoso.

“Oh, who knows.” She’sjustopenedaboxthat, toherdelight, lookseasytodisposeof—dozens of dusty storeledgers from the 1940s and’50s. Surely Vivian has noreason to hang on to them.

“These can go, don’t youthink?”shesays,holdingupaslimblackbook.

Vivian takes it from herand flips through it. “Well.. .”Hervoicetrailsoff.Shelooks up. “Have you lookedforher?”

“No.”“Whynot?”Molly gives Vivian a

sharp look.She’snotused topeople asking such blunt

questions—asking anyquestions at all, really. Theonlyotherpersonwhospeaksthisbluntly toher isLori thesocial worker, and shealready knows the details ofherstory. (Andanyway,Loridoesn’t ask “why” questions.She’s only interested incause, effect, and a lecture.)But Molly can’t snap atVivian, who has, after all,given her a get-out-of-jail-

free card. If “free” meansfifty hours of pointedquestions. She brushes thehair out of her eyes. “Ihaven’t looked for herbecauseIdon’tcare.”

“Really.”“Really.”“You’re not curious at

all.”“Nope.”“I’m not sure I believe

that.”

Mollyshrugs.“Hmm. Because actually,

youseemkindof...angry.”“I’m not angry. I just

don’t care.” Molly lifts astack of ledgers out of thebox and thumps it on thefloor. “Can we recyclethese?”

Vivian pats her hand. “Ithink maybe I’ll hang on tothis box,” she says, as if shehasn’t said that about

everything they’ve gonethroughsofar.

“SHE’S ALL UP IN MYBUSINESS!” MOLLY SAYS,BURYING HER FACE IN Jack’sneck. They’re in his Saturn,and she’s straddling him inthepushed-backfrontseat.

Laughing, his stubblerough against her cheek, hesays, “What do you mean?”

He slips his hands under hershirtandstrokesherribswithhisfingers.

“That tickles,” she says,squirming.

“I like itwhenyoumovelikethat.”

She kisses his neck, thedark patch on his chin, thecorner of his lip, a thickeyebrow, and he pulls hercloser, running his hands uphersidesandunderhersmall

breasts,cuppingthem.“I don’t know a damn

thingabouther life—not thatIcare!Butsheexpectsmetotell her everything aboutmine.”

“Oh,comeon,whatcanithurt? If she knows a littlemoreaboutyou,maybeshe’snicertoyou.Maybethehoursgo a little faster. She’sprobably lonely. Just wantssomeonetotalkto.”

Mollyscrewsupherface.“Try a little tenderness,”

Jackcroons.She sighs. “I don’t need

to entertain her with storiesaboutmyshittylife.Wecan’tallberichashellandliveinamansion.”

He kisses her shoulder.“So turn it around. Ask herquestions.”

“Do I care?” She sighs,tracing her finger along his

earuntilheturnshisheadandbitesit,takesitinhismouth.

He reaches down andgrabs the lever, and the seatfalls back with a jolt. Mollylands sloppily on top of himand they both start to laugh.Sliding over to make roomfor her in the bucket seat,Jack says, “Just do what ittakes to get those hours overwith, right?” Turningsideways, he runs his fingers

along the waistband of herblack leggings. “If you can’tstick it out, I might have tofigureoutawaytogotojuviewith you. And that wouldsuckforbothofus.”

“Doesn’t soundsobad tome.”

Pushing her waistbanddown over her hip, he says,“That’s what I’m lookingfor.”Hetracestheinkyblacklinesof the turtleonherhip.

Its shell is a pointy oval,bisected at an angle, like ashield with a daisy on oneside and a tribal flourish onthe other, its flippersextending in pointy arcs.“What’sthislittleguy’snameagain?”

“Itdoesn’thaveaname.”Leaningdownandkissing

her hip, he says, “I’m goingtocallhimCarlos.”

“Why?”

“He looks like a Carlos.Right? See his little head?He’skindofwagging it, like‘What’s up?’ Hey, Carlos,”he says in a Dominican-accented falsetto, tapping theturtle with his index finger.“What’shappening,man?”

“It’s not aCarlos. It’s anIndian symbol,” she says, alittle irritated, pushing hishandaway.

“Oh,comeon,admit it—

you were drunk and got thisrandom-ass turtle. It couldjust as easily have been aheartdrippingbloodor somefakeChinesewords.”

“That’s not true! Turtlesmeansomethingveryspecificinmyculture.”

“Oh yeah, warriorprincess?” he says. “Likewhat?”

“Turtlescarrytheirhomeson their backs.”Running her

finger over the tattoo, shetells him what her dad toldher: “They’re exposed andhidden at the same time.They’rea symbolof strengthandperseverance.”

“That’sverydeep.”“You know why?

BecauseI’mverydeep.”“Ohyeah?”“Yeah,” she says, kissing

himonthemouth.“Actually,I did it because when we

livedonIndianIslandwehadthisturtlenamedShelly.”

“Hah,Shelly.Igetit.”“Yup. Anyway, I don’t

knowwhathappenedtoit.”Jack curls his hand

around her hip bone. “I’msure it’s fine,” he says.“Don’t turtles live, like, ahundredyears?”

“Not in a tank with noonetofeedthemtheydon’t.”

He doesn’t say anything,

just puts his arm around hershoulderandkissesherhair.

She settles in beside himon the bucket seat. Thewindshield is fogged and thenight is dark, and in Jack’shard-domed little Saturn shefeels cocooned, protected.Yeah, that’s right. Like aturtleinashell.


No one comes to the doorwhenMolly rings thebuzzer.Thehouseisquiet.Shelooksatherphone:9:45A.M. It’sateacher enrichment day andthere’s no school, so shefigured, why not knock out

somehours?Molly rubs her arms and

triestodecidewhattodo.It’san unseasonably cool andmistymorning,andsheforgotto bring a sweater. She tookthe Island Explorer, the freebus that makes a continuousloopoftheisland,andgotoffatthecloseststoptoVivian’s,about a ten-minute walk. Ifnoone’shome,she’llhavetogo back to the stop andwait

forthenextbus,whichcouldtake awhile. But despite thegoose bumps, Molly hasalways liked days like this.The stark gray sky and baretreelimbsfeelmoresuitedtoher than the uncomplicatedpromiseofsunnyspringdays.

In the little notebook shecarries around, Molly hascarefully recorded her time:four hours one day, two thenext. Twenty-three so far.

She made an Excelspreadsheetonherlaptopthatlays it all out. Jack wouldlaugh if he knew, but she’sbeen in the system longenough to understand that itall comes down todocumentation. Get yourpapersinorder,withtherightsignatures and recordkeeping,and thechargeswillbe dropped, money released,whatever. If you’re

disorganized, you risk losingeverything.

Mollyfiguresshecankillat least five hours today.That’ll be twenty-eight, andshe’ll be more than halffinished.

She rings the bell again,cups her hands against theglass to peer into the dimhallway. Trying thedoorknob, she finds that itturnsandthedooropens.

“Hello?” she says as shesteps inside, and, when shegets no response, tries again,a bit louder, as she walksdownthehall.

Yesterday,beforesheleft,Molly told Vivian that she’dbe coming early today, butshehadn’tgivenatime.Now,standing in the living roomwith the shades drawn, shewonders if she should leave.The old house is full of

noises. Its pine floors creak,windowpanes rattle, fliesbuzzneartheceiling,curtainsflap. Without the distractionof human voices, Mollyimaginesshecanhearsoundsin other rooms: bedspringsgroaning, faucets dripping,fluorescent lights humming,pullchainsrattling.

She takes a moment tolook around—at the ornatemantelpiece above the

fireplace, the decorated oakmoldings and brasschandelier. Out of the fourlarge windows facing thewater she can see the sinecurve of the coastline, theserrated firs in the distance,theglitteryamethystsea.Theroomsmellsofoldbooksandlast night’s fire and, faintly,something savory from thekitchen—it’s Friday; Terrymust be cooking for the

weekend.Mollyisgazingattheold

hardcovers on the tallbookshelveswhenthedoortothe kitchen opens and Terrybustlesin.

Mollyturns.“Hithere.”“Ack!” Terry shrieks,

clutching the rag she’sholding to her chest. “Youscared the hell out of me!Whatareyoudoinghere?”

“Umm, well,” Molly

stammers, beginning towonder the same thing, “Irang the buzzer a few timesandthenIjustletmyselfin.”

“Vivian knew you werecoming?”

Did she? “I’m not surethatwesettledonanexact—”

Terry narrows her eyesand frowns. “You can’t justshowupwhenyoufeellikeit.She’s not available any oldtime.”

“Iknow,”Mollysays,herfacewarming.“I’msorry.”

“Vivianwouldneverhaveagreedtostart thisearly.Shehasaroutine.Getsupateightor nine, comes downstairs atten.”

“I thought oldpeople gotupearly,”Mollymumbles.

“Not all old people.”Terry puts her hands on herhips.“Butthat’snotthepoint.Youbrokein.”

“Well,Ididn’t—”Sighing,Terrysays,“Jack

may have told you I wasn’tcrazy about this idea. Aboutyou doing your hours thisway.”

Molly nods. Here comesthelecture.

“He went out on a limbforyou,don’taskmewhy.”

“Iknow,and I appreciateit.” Molly is aware that it’swhenshe’sdefensivethatshe

gets in trouble.But she can’tresist saying, “And I hopeI’m proving worthy of thattrust.”

“Not by showing upunannouncedlikethis,you’renot.”

All right, she deservedthat.Whatwas it the teacherinherLegal Issuesclasssaidtheotherday?Neverbringupa point you don’t have ananswerfor.

“And another thing,”Terrycontinues.“Iwasintheatticthismorning.Ican’ttellwhatyou’redoingupthere.”

Molly bounces on theballs of her feet, pissed thatshe’sbeingcalledoutforthisthing she can’t control andeven more pissed at herselffor not convincing Vivian togetridofthings.Ofcourseitlooks to Terry like Molly isjust twiddling her thumbs,

letting the time slide like agovernmentworker punchingaclock.

“Vivian doesn’t want togetridofanything,”shesays.“I’m cleaning out the boxesandlabelingthem.”

“Let me give you someadvice,” Terry says. “Vivianis torn between her heart”—and here she again holds thewadded-up rag to her heart—“and her head.” As if

Molly might not make theconnection,shemovestheragto her head. “Letting go ofher stuff is like sayinggood-bye to her life. And that’stough for anybody to do. Soyour job is to make her.BecauseIpromiseyouthis:Iwill not be happy if youspend fifty hours up thereshuffling things around withnothing toshowfor it. I loveJack,but...”Sheshakesher

head. “Honestly, enough isenough.” At this point Terryseemstobetalkingtoherself,or possibly to Jack, andthere’slittleMollycandobutbite her lip and nod to showshegetsit.

After Terry grudginglyallows that it might actuallybe a good idea to get goingearlier today, and that ifVivian doesn’t show up inhalf anhourmaybe she’ll go

up and rouse her, she tellsMolly to make herself athome; she has work to do.“You’ve got something tooccupyyourselfwith, right?”shesaysbeforeheadingbacktothekitchen.

The book Vivian gaveMollyisinherbackpack.Shehasn’t bothered to crack ityet, mainly because it seemslike homework for a jobthat’s already punishment,

but also because she’srereading Jane Eyre forEnglish class (ironically, theteacher, Mrs. Tate, handedout school-issued copies theweek after Molly tried topilfer it) and that book ishuge. It’s always a shock tothe system to reenter it; justtoreadachaptershefindsshehas to slow down herbreathing and go into atrance, like a hibernating

bear. All her classmates arecomplaining about it—Brontë’s protracteddigressions about humannature, the subplots aboutJane’s friends at LowoodSchool, the long-winded,“unrealistic” dialogue. “Whycan’tshejusttellthefreakingstory?” Tyler Baldwingrumbled in class. “I fallasleep every time I start toread it. What’s that called,

narcolopsy?”This complaint evinced a

chorus of agreement, butMolly was silent. And Mrs.Tate—on alert, no doubt, forthe slightest spark in thedampwoodpileofherclass—noticed.

“So what do you think,Molly?”

Molly shrugged, notwanting to appear overeager.“Ilikethebook.”

“What do you like aboutit?”

“I don’t know. I just likeit.”

“What’s your favoritepart?”

Feeling the eyes of theclass on her,Molly shrank alittle in her chair. “I don’tknow.”

“It’s just a boringromancenovel,”Tylersaid.

“No,itisn’t,”sheblurted.

“Why not?” Mrs. Tatepressed.

“Because . . .” Shethought for a moment.“Jane’s kind of an outlaw.She’s passionate anddetermined and says exactlywhatshethinks.”

“Where do you get that?Because I’m definitely notfeelingit,”Tylersaid.

“Okay, well—like thisline,” Molly said. Riffling

through the book, she foundthesceneshewasthinkingof.“‘I assured him I wasnaturally hard—very flinty,and that he would often findme so; and that, moreover, Iwas determined to show himdivers rugged points in mycharacter...heshouldknowfullywhatsortofabargainhehad made, while there wasyettimetorescindit.’”

Mrs. Tate raised her

eyebrows and smiled.“Sounds like someone Iknow.”

Now, sitting alone in ared wingback chair, waitingfor Vivian to come down,Molly takes out Anne ofGreenGables.

She opens to the firstpage:

Mrs. Rachel Lyndelived justwhere the

Avonlea main roaddipped down into alittle hollow,fringed with aldersand ladies’eardrops andtraversed by abrook that had itssource away backin thewoodsof theold Cuthbert place...

It’s clearly a bookintended for younggirls, andat first Molly isn’t sure shecan relate. But as she readsshefindsherselfcaughtupinthe story. The sun moveshigher in the sky; she has totilt the book out of the glareand then, after severalminutes, switch to the otherwingbacksoshedoesn’thavetosquint.

After an hour or so, she

hears the door to the hallopen, and she looks up.Vivian comes into the room,glances around, focuses onMolly,andsmiles,seeminglyunsurprisedtoseeher.

“Bright and early!” shesays.“Ilikeyourenthusiasm.Maybe I’ll letyouemptyoutaboxtoday.Ortwo,ifyou’relucky.”


OnMondaymorningIgetupearlyandwashmyfaceinthekitchen sink before Mr. andMrs.Byrneareup,thenbraidmy hair carefully and attachtwo ribbons I found in thescrappileinthesewingroom.

I put on my cleanest dressand the pinafore, which Ihungonabranchby thesideof the house to dry after wedidthewashingonSunday.

At breakfast—lumpyoatswith no sugar—when I askhowtogettoschoolandwhattimeI’mexpectedtobethere,Mrs. Byrne looks at herhusbandandthenbackatme.She pulls her dark paisleyscarf tight around her

shoulders. “Dorothy, Mr.Byrneand I feel thatyouarenotreadyforschool.”

The oats taste likecongealed animal fat in mymouth. I look at Mr. Byrne,who is bending to tie hisshoelaces. His frizzy curlsflopoverhisforehead,hidinghisface.

“What do you mean?” Iask.“TheChildren’sAid—”

Mrs. Byrne clasps her

handstogetherandgivesmeatight-lipped smile. “You areno longer a ward of theChildren’s Aid Society, areyou? We are the ones todeterminewhat’sbestforyounow.”

My heart skips. “But I’msupposedtogo.”

“We’ll see how youprogress over the next fewweeks, but for nowwe thinkit best for you to take some

time to adjust to your newhome.”

“I am—adjusted,” I say,warmth rising to my cheeks.“I’vedoneeverythingyou’veasked of me. If you’reconcerned I won’t have timetodothesewing...”

Mrs.Byrnefixesmewitha steady eye, and my voicefalters. “School has been insession for more than amonth,” she says. “You are

impossibly behind, with nochance of catching up thisyear. And Lord knows whatyourschoolingwaslikeintheslum.”

My skin prickles. EvenMr.Byrne is startledby this.“Now, now, Lois,” he saysunderhisbreath.

“I wasn’t in a—slum.” Ichoke out the word. Andthen, because she hasn’tasked, because neither of

themhasasked,Iadd,“Iwasin the fourth grade. Myteacher was Miss Uhrig. Iwas in the Chorus, and weperformed an operetta,‘PolishedPebbles.’”

Theybothlookatme.“Ilikeschool,”Isay.Mrs. Byrne gets up and

startstostackourdishes.Shetakesmyplateeven though Ihaven’t finished my toast.Heractionsarejerky,andthe

silverware clanks against thechina. She runs water in thesinkanddumpstheplatesandutensils into it with a loudclatter. Then she turnsaround, wiping her hands onherapron.“Youinsolentgirl.I don’t want to hear anotherword. We are the ones whodecidewhat’sbestforyou.Isthatclear?”

And that’s the end of it.Thesubjectofschooldoesn’t

comeupagain.

SEVERAL TIMES A DAY MRS.BYRNE MATERIALIZES IN THESEWING roomlikeaphantom,but she never picks up aneedle.Herduties,asfarasIcan see, consist of keepingtrack of orders, handing outassignments to Fanny, whothendolesthemouttous,andcollecting the finished

garments.SheasksFannyforprogressreports,allthewhilescanning the room tobesurethe rest of us are hard atwork.

I am full ofquestions fortheByrnes that I’m afraid toask. What is Mr. Byrne’sbusiness, exactly?Whatdoeshe do with the clothes thewomen make? (I could saywemake, but thework I do,basting and hemming, is like

peeling potatoes and callingyourselfacook.)WheredoesMrs. Byrne go all day, andwhat does she do with hertime? I can hear her upstairsnow and then, but it’simpossible to know whatshe’supto.

Mrs. Byrne has manyrules. She scoldsme in frontof the other girls for minorinfractionsandmistakes—notfolding my bed linen as

tightly as I should have orleaving the door to thekitchen ajar.All doors in thehousearesupposedtobeshutat all times, unless you’reentering or leaving. Thewaythe house is closed off—thedoor to the sewing room, thedoors to the kitchen anddiningroom,eventhedooratthetopofthestairs—makesita forbidding and mysteriousplace.At night, onmypallet

inthatdarkhallatthefootofthe stairs, rubbing my feettogether for warmth, I amfrightened. I’ve never beenalone like this. Even at theChildren’sAidSociety,inmyiron bed on the ward, I wassurroundedbyothergirls.

I’mnotallowedtohelpinthe kitchen—I think Mrs.Byrne is afraid I might stealfood. And, indeed, likeFanny, I have taken to

slippingasliceofbreadoranapple into my pocket. Thefood Mrs. Byrne makes isbland and unappealing—softgraypeasfromacan,starchyboiledpotatoes,waterystews—and there’s never enoughofit.Ican’ttellifMr.Byrnereally doesn’t notice howdreadful the food is, orwhether he doesn’t care—orif his mind is simplyelsewhere.

When Mrs. Byrne isn’taround,Mr.Byrneisfriendly.HelikestotalkwithmeaboutIreland. His own family, hetells me, is from Sallybrook,near theeastcoast.HisuncleandcousinswereRepublicansin theWar of Independence;they fought with MichaelCollins andwere there at theFour Courts building inDublin in April of 1922,when the Brits stormed the

building and killed theinsurgents, and they werethere when Collins wasassassinated a few monthslater, near Cork. Collins wasthegreatestheroIrelandeverhad,don’tyouknow?

Yes, I nod. I know. ButI’m skeptical his cousinswerethere.Mydausedtosayevery Irishman you meet inAmerica swears to have arelativewhofoughtalongside

MichaelCollins.My da loved Michael

Collins. He sang all therevolutionary songs, usuallyloudly and out of tune, untilMam would tell him to bequiet, that the babies weresleeping. He told me lots ofdramatic stories—about theKilmainham jail in Dublin,forinstance,whereoneoftheleaders of the 1916 uprising,Joseph Plunkett, married his

sweetheart Grace Gifford inthe tiny chapel just hoursbefore being executed byfiring squad. Fifteen wereexecutedinallthatday,evenJamesConnolly,whowastooill to stand, so they strappedhimtoachairandcarriedhimout into the courtyard andriddledhisbodywithbullets.“Riddled his body withbullets”—my da talked likethat. Mam was always

shushing him, but he wavedher off. “It’s important theyknowthis,”hesaid.“It’stheirhistory! We might be overhere now, but by God, ourpeopleareoverthere.”

Mam had her reasons forwanting to forget. It was the1922 treaty, leading to theformation of the Free State,thatpushedusoutofKinvara,she said. The Crown Forces,determined to crush the

rebels, raided towns inCounty Galway and blew uprailway lines. The economywasinruins.Littleworkwasto be had. My da couldn’tfindajob.

Well,itwasthat,shesaid,andthedrink.

“You could be mydaughter, you know,” Mr.Byrne tells me. “Your name—Dorothy . . . we alwayssaid we’d give to our own

child someday, but alas itdidn’tcometopass.Andhereyouare,redhairandall.”

I keep forgetting toanswer to Dorothy. But in away I’m glad to have a newidentity. Itmakes it easier tolet go of so much else. I’mnot thesameNiamhwho lefther gram and aunties anduncles in Kinvara and cameacrosstheoceanontheAgnesPauline, who lived with her

family on Elizabeth Street.No,IamDorothynow.

“DOROTHY, WE NEED TOTALK,” MRS. BYRNE SAYS ATDINNERONEevening. Iglanceat Mr. Byrne, who isstudiously buttering a bakedpotato.

“Mary says that you arenot—how should I put this?—aparticularlyquicklearner.

She says that you seem—resistant? Defiant? She’s notsurewhich.”

“It’snottrue.”Mrs. Byrne’s eyes blaze.

“Listen closely. If itwere upto me, I would contact thecommittee immediately andreturnyou fora replacement.ButMr.Byrneconvincedmetogiveyoua secondchance.However—ifIhearonemorecomplaint about your

behavior or comportment,youwillbereturned.”

Shepausesandtakesasipof water. “I am tempted toattributethisbehaviortoyourIrishblood.Yes,itistruethatMr. Byrne is Irish—indeed,that’s why we gave you achance at all—but I wouldalsopointout thatMr.Byrnedid not, as he might have,marry an Irish girl, for goodreason.”

The next dayMrs.Byrnecomes into the sewing roomand says she needsme to goonanerrandintothecenteroftown,amile’swalk.“It’snotcomplicated,”shesaystestilywhen I ask for directions.“Weren’t you payingattentionwhenwedroveyouhere?”

“I can go with her thisfirst time, ma’am,” Fannysays.

Mrs.Byrnedoesnot lookhappyabout this. “Don’tyouhaveworktodo,Fanny?”

“I just finished this pile,”Fanny says, placing a veinedhand on a stack of ladies’skirts. “All hemmed andironed.Myfingersaresore.”

“All right, then. Thisonce,”Mrs.Byrnesays.

We walk slowly, onaccount of Fanny’s hip,through the Byrnes’

neighborhoodofsmallhouseson cramped lots. At thecorner ofElmStreetwe turnleft onto Center and crossMaple, Birch, and Sprucebefore turning right ontoMain. Most of the housesseem fairly new and arevariations of the same fewdesigns. They’re painteddifferent colors, landscapedneatly with shrubs andbushes.Somefrontwalkways

go straight to the door, andothers meander in a curvypath. As we get closer totown we pass multi-familydwellings and some outlyingbusinesses—a gas station, acorner shop, a nurserystocked with flowers thecolors of autumn leaves: rustandgoldandcrimson.

“Ican’t imaginewhyyoudidn’tmemorizethisrouteonthedrivehome,”Fannysays.

“My, girl, you are slow.” Ilookat her sideways and shegivesmeaslysmile.

ThegeneralstoreonMainStreet is dimly lit and verywarm. It takes amoment formy eyes to adjust. When Ilook up, I see cured hamshanging from the ceiling andshelves and shelves of drygoods. Fanny and I pick upseveral packs of sewingneedles, somepatternpapers,

andaboltofcheesecloth,andafter shepays,Fanny takes apenny from the change shegets and slides it toward meacross the counter. “Getyourself a stick of candy forthewalkback.”

The jars of hard candystickslineduponashelfholddazzling combinations ofcolors and flavors. Afterdeliberating for a longmoment, I choose a swirl of

pink watermelon and greenapple.

I unwrap my candy stickandoffertobreakoffapiece,butFanny refuses it. “Idon’thaveasweettoothanymore.”

“Ididn’tknowyoucouldoutgrowthat.”

“It’sforyou,”shesays.Onthewaybackwewalk

slowly.Neitherofus,Ithink,is eager to get there. Thehard, grooved candy stick is

bothsweetandsour,ajoltofflavor so intense I almostswoon. I suck it so that ittapers to a point, savoringeach taste. “You’ll have togetridofthatbeforewereachthe house,” Fanny says. Shedoesn’tneedtoexplain.

“Why does Mary hateme?”Iaskwhenwe’renearlythere.

“Pish. She doesn’t hateyou,child.She’sscared.”

“Ofwhat?”“Whatdoyouthink?”Idon’tknow.Whywould

Marybescaredofme?“She’s sure you’re going

to take her job,”Fanny says.“Mrs.Byrneholdshermoneytight in her fist. Why wouldshepayMary todo theworkyou can be trained to do fornothing?”

I try not to betray anyemotion, but Fanny’s words

sting. “That’s why theypickedme.”

She smiles kindly. “Youmust know that already.Anygirl who can hold a needleandthreadwould’vesufficed.Free labor is free labor.” Aswe climb the steps to thehouse, she says, “You can’tblameMaryforbeingafraid.”

From then on, instead ofworrying about Mary, Iconcentrate on the work. I

focus onmakingmy stitchesidenticallysizedandspaced.Icarefully iron each garmentuntil it’s smooth and crisp.Each piece of clothing thatmoves from my basket toMary’s—or one of the otherwomen’s—givesmeafeelingofaccomplishment.

But my relationship withher doesn’t improve. Ifanything, as my own workgets better, she becomes

harsher andmore exacting. Iplace a basted skirt in mybasket andMary snatches it,looks at it closely, rips thestitches out, and tosses it atmeagain.

THELEAVESTURNFROMROSE-TINGED TO CANDY-APPLE REDTOAdullbrown,andIwalktothe outhouse on a spongy,sweet-smelling carpet. One

dayMrs.Byrne looksme upand down and asks if I haveany other clothes. I’ve beenalternating between the twodresses I came with, oneblue-and-white checked andonegingham.

“No,”Isay.“Well, then,” she says,

“you will make yourselfsome.”

Later that afternoon shedrives me to town, one foot

hesitantly on the gas pedaland the other, at erraticintervals, on the brake.Proceedingforwardinajerkyfashionweendupeventuallyinfrontofthegeneralstore.

“You may choose threedifferent fabrics,” she says.“Let’s see—three yardseach?”Inod.“Theclothmustbe sturdy and inexpensive—that’s the only kind thatmakes sense for a . . .” She

pauses. “A nine-year-oldgirl.”

Mrs.Byrneleadsmeoverto a section filled with boltsof fabric, directingme to theshelfwiththecheaperones.Ichoose a blue-and-graychecked cotton, a delicategreen print, and a pinkpaisley. Mrs. Byrne nods atthe first two choices andgrimacesatthethird.“Mercy,not with red hair.” She pulls

outaboltofbluechambray.“Amodestbodiceiswhat

I’m thinking, with aminimumoffrill.Simpleandplain. A gathered skirt. Youcanwearthatpinaforeontopwhenyou’reworking.Doyouhave more than onepinafore?”

When I shake my head,shesays,“Wehaveplentyofticking fabric in the sewingroom.You canmake it from

that.Doyouhaveacoat?Orasweater?”

“The nuns gave me acoat,butit’stoosmall.”

After the fabric ismeasured, cut, wrapped inbrown paper, and tied withtwine, I follow Mrs. Byrnedownthestreettoawomen’sclothes shop. She headsstraight for the sale rack atthebackandfindsamustard-colored wool coat, several

sizes too big for me, withshiny black buttons. When Iput it on, she frowns. “Well,it’s a good deal,” she says.“And there’s no sense ingetting something you’lloutgrow in a month. I thinkit’sfine.”

I hate the coat. It’s noteven very warm. But I’mafraid to object. Luckily,there’s a large selection ofsweaters on clearance, and I

find a navy blue cable-knitand an off-white V-neck inmy size. Mrs. Byrne adds abulky, too-large corduroyskirtthat’s70percentoff.

Thatevening, atdinner, Iwear my new white sweaterand skirt. “What’s that thingaround your neck?” Mrs.Byrnesays,andIrealizethatshe is talking about mynecklace, which is usuallyhidden by my high-necked

dresses. She leans closer tolook.

“AnIrishcross,”Isay.“It’s very odd-looking.

What are those, hands? Andwhy does the heart have acrown?”She sits back in herchair. “That lookssacrilegioustome.”

Itellherthestoryofhowmy gram was given thisnecklace for her FirstCommunion and passed it

downtomebefore Icame toAmerica.“Thehandsclaspedtogether symbolizefriendship. The heart is love.And the crown stands forloyalty,”Iexplain.

She sniffs, refolds thenapkininherlap.“Istillthinkit’sodd.Ihavehalfamindtomakeyoutakeitoff.”

“Come now, Lois,” Mr.Byrne says. “It’s a trinketfromhome.Noharmtoit.”

“Perhaps it’s time to putaway those old-countrythings.”

“It’s not botheringanyone,isit?”

I glance over at him,surprisedthathe’sstickingupforme.Hewinksatmeas ifit’sagame.

“It’s bothering me,” shesays. “There’s no reason thisgirlneedstotelltheworldfarand wide that she’s a

Catholic.”Mr. Byrne laughs. “Look

at her hair. There’s nodenyingshe’sIrish,isthere?”

“So unbecoming in agirl,”Mrs. Byrne says underherbreath.

LaterMr. Byrne tells methat his wife doesn’t likeCatholics in general, eventhough she married one. Ithelps that he never goes tochurch. “Works out well for

thebothofus,”hesays.

Albans,Minnesota,1929–

1930

WhenMrs. Byrne appears inthesewingroomoneTuesdayafternoon at the end ofOctober, it’s clear thatsomething is wrong. She

looks haggard and stricken.Her cropped dark bob,usuallyintightwavesagainsther head, is sticking out allover. Bernice jumps up, butMrs.Byrnewavesheraway.

“Girls,” she says,holdingherhandtoherthroat,“girls!I need to tell you something.The stock market crashedtoday. It’s in free fall. Andmanylivesare...”Shestopstocatchherbreath.

“Ma’am, do you want tositdown?”Bernicesays.

Mrs. Byrne ignores her.“People lost everything,” shemutters, gripping thebackofMary’s chair. Her eyes roamthe roomas if she is lookingforsomethingtofocuson.“Ifwe can’t feed ourselves, wecan hardly afford to employyou,now,canwe?”Hereyesfill with tears and she backsout of the room, shaking her

head.We hear the front door

open and Mrs. Byrne clatterdownthesteps.

Bernice tells us all to getback to work, but Joan, oneof thewomen at theSingers,standsupabruptly.“Ihavetoget home to my husband. Ihave to know what’s goingon. What use is it to keepworking if we won’t bepaid?”

“Leave if you must,”Fannysays.

Joan is the only onewholeaves, but the rest of us arejittery throughout theafternoon. It’s hard to sewwhenyourhandsareshaking.

IT’S HARD TO TELL EXACTLYWHAT’SGOINGON,BUTASTHEWEEKSpasswebegintocatchglimmers. Mr. Byrne

apparentlyinvestedquiteabitin the stock market, and themoney is gone. The demandfornewgarmentshasslowed,and people have taken tomending their own clothes—it’soneplace theycaneasilycutcorners.

Mrs. Byrne is evenmorescattered and absent. We’vestopped eating dinnertogether. She takes her foodupstairs, leaving a desiccated

chickenlegorabowlofcoldbrisket in a chunk of browngelatinous faton thecounter,with strict instructions that IwashmydishwhenI’mdone.Thanksgiving is like anyother day. I never celebrateditwithmy Irish family, so itdoesn’t bother me, but thegirlsmutterundertheirbreathall day long: it’s notChristian, it’s not Americanto keep them from their

families.Maybe because the

alternative is so bleak, I’vegrown to like the sewingroom. I look forward toseeing the women every day—kindFanny,simple-mindedBernice, and quiet Sally andJoan. (All exceptMary, whocan’t seem to forgiveme forbeing alive.) And I like thework.My fingers are gettingstrongandquick;apiecethat

usedtotakeanhourormoreIcan do in minutes. I used tobe afraidofnew stitches andtechniques,butnowwelcomeeach new challenge—pencil-sharppleats,sequins,delicatelace.

The others can see thatI’m improving, and they’vestartedgivingmemoretodo.Without ever saying itdirectly,FannyhastakenoverMary’sjobofsupervisingmy

work.“Becareful,dear,” shesays, running a light fingerover my stitches. “Take thetime tomake themsmallandeven. Remember, somebodywillwear this, probably overand over until it’s wornthrough.Aladywantstofeelpretty, no matter how muchmoneyshehas.”

Ever since I arrived inMinnesota people have beenwarning me about the

extreme cold that’s on theway.Iambeginningtofeelit.Kinvara is rain soakedmuchof theyear, and Irishwintersare cold andwet. NewYorkis gray and slushy andmiserable for months. Butneither place compares tothis. Already we’ve had twobig snowstorms. As theweather gets colder, myfingers are so stiffwhen I’msewingthatIhavetostopand

rubthemsoIcankeepgoing.Inoticethattheotherwomenarewearingfingerlessgloves,and when I ask where theycame from, they tellme theymadethemthemselves.

Idon’tknowhowtoknit.My mam never taught me.But I know I need to get apair of gloves for my stiff,coldhands.

Several days beforeChristmas, Mrs. Byrne

announces that ChristmasDay, Wednesday, will be anunpaid holiday. She andMr.Byrne will be gone for theday, visiting relatives out oftown. She doesn’t askme tocomealong.Attheendofourworkday on Christmas Eve,Fanny slips me a smallbrown-wrapped parcel.“Open this later,” shewhispers. “Tell them youbrought it from home.” I put

the packet in my pocket andwade through knee-deepsnow to the privy, where Iopen it in the semidarkness,wind slicing through thecracksinthewallsandtheslitin the door. It’s a pair offingerless gloves knit from adense navy blue yarn, and athick pair of brown woolmittens. When I put on themittens I find that Fannylined them with heavy wool

and reinforced the top of thethumbandother fingerswithextrapadding.

As with Dutchy andCarmine on the train, thislittle cluster of women hasbecome a kind of family tome. Like an abandoned foalthat nestles against cows inthe barnyard, maybe I justneed to feel the warmth ofbelonging. And if I’m notgoing to find that with the

Byrnes,Iwillfindit,howeverpartial and illusory, with thewomeninthesewingroom.

BY JANUARY, IAM LOSING SOMUCH WEIGHT THAT MY NEWDRESSES, the ones I mademyself,swimonmyhips.Mr.Byrnecomesandgoesatoddhours, and I barely see him.We have less and less work.Fanny is teachingmehow toknit,andsometimestheother

girls bring in work of theirown so they won’t go crazywith idleness. The heat isturned off as soon as theworkers leave at five. Thelightsgooffatseven.Ispendnights on my pallet wide-awake and shivering in thedark, listeningtothehowlingof the seemingly endlessstorms that rage outside. Iwonder about Dutchy—ifhe’s sleeping in a barn with

animals, eating only pigslops.Ihopehe’swarm.

One day in earlyFebruary, Mrs. Byrne entersthe sewing room silently andunexpectedly. She seems tohave stopped grooming.She’swornthesamedressallweek, and her bodice issoiled. Her hair is lank andgreasy,andshehasasoreonherlip.

She asks the Singer girl

Sallytostepoutintothehall,and several minutes laterSallyreturnstotheroomwithred-rimmed eyes. She picksupherbelongingsinsilence.

A few weeks later Mrs.Byrne comes for Bernice.Theygooutintothehall,andthen Bernice returns andgathersherthings.

After that it’s just FannyandMaryandme.

It’s a windy afternoon in

lateMarchwhenMrs.Byrneslips into the room and asksfor Mary. I feel sorry forMary then—despite hermeanness,despiteeverything.Slowly she picks up herbelongings, puts on her hatandcoat.She looks atFannyandmeandnods,andwenodback.“Godblessyou,child,”Fannysays.

When Mary and Mrs.Byrne leave the room,Fanny

and I watch the door,strainingtoheartheindistinctmurmuringinthehall.Fannysays,“Lordy, I’m tooold forthis.”

Aweeklater,thedoorbellrings. Fanny and I look ateach other. This is strange.Thedoorbellneverrings.

We hear Mrs. Byrnerustle down the stairs, undothe heavy locks, open thesqueaky door. We hear her

talkingtoamaninthehall.The door to the sewing

room opens, and I jump alittle. In comes a heavysetman inablack felthat andagray suit. He has a blackmustache and jowls like abassethound.

“This the girl?” he asks,pointing a sausagey finger atme.

Mrs.Byrnenods.Themantakesoffhishat

andsetsitonasmalltablebythedoor.Thenhepullsapairofeyeglassesoutofthebreastpocket of his overcoat andputs them on, perchedpartway down his bulbousnose. He takes a piece offolded paper out of anotherpocket andopens itwithonehand. “Let’s see. NiamhPower.” He pronounces it“Nem.” Peering over hisglasses at Mrs. Byrne, he

says,“YouchangedhernametoDorothy?”

“We thought the girlshould have an Americanname.” Mrs. Byrne makes astrangled sound that Iinterpret as a laugh. “Notlegally,ofcourse,”sheadds.

“Andyoudidnot changehersurname.”

“Ofcoursenot.”“Youweren’tconsidering

adoption?”

“Mercy,no.”He looks at me over his

glasses, then back at thepaper.Theclock ticks loudlyabove the mantelpiece. Theman folds thepaperandputsitbackinhispocket.

“Dorothy, I am Mr.Sorenson.I’malocalagentofthe Children’s Aid Society,and as such I oversee theplacement of homeless trainriders. Oftentimes the

placements work out as theyshould, and everyone iscontent. But now and then,unfortunately”—he takes hisglasses off and slips themback into his breast pocket—“things don’t work out.”He looks atMrs.Byrne. Shehas, I notice, a jagged run inher beige stockings, and hereyemakeupissmeared.“Andwe need to procure newaccommodations.” He clears

his throat. “Do youunderstandwhatI’msaying?”

Inod,thoughI’mnotsureIdo.

“Good. There’s a couplein Hemingford—well, on afarm outside of that town,actually—who’verequestedagirl about your age. Amother, father, and fourchildren. Wilma and GeraldGrote.”

I turn toMrs.Byrne.She

is gazing off somewhere inthe middle distance. Thoughshe’s never been particularlykindtome,herwillingnesstoabandon me comes as ashock. “You don’t want meanymore?”

Mr. Sorenson looks backand forth between us. “It’s acomplicatedsituation.”

As we’re talking, Mrs.Byrne drifts over to thewindow. She pulls aside the

lace curtain and gazes out atthe street, at the skim-milksky.

“I’msureyouhaveheardthis is a difficult time,” Mr.Sorenson continues. “Notonly for theByrnesbut for alot of people. And—well,their business has beenaffected.”

Withasuddenmovement,Mrs.Byrne drops the curtainandwheelsaround.“Sheeats

toomuch!”shecries.“Ihaveto padlock the refrigerator.It’s never enough!” She putsher palms over her eyes andruns past us, out into thehallway and up the stairs,where she slams the door atthetop.

We are silent for amoment, then Fanny says,“That woman ought to beashamed.Thegirlisskinandbones.” She adds, “They

never even sent her toschool.”

Mr. Sorenson clears histhroat. “Well,” he says,“perhaps this will be for thebest for all concerned.” Hefixes on me again. “TheGrotes are good countrypeople,fromwhatIhear.”

“Four children?” I say.“Whydotheywantanother?”

“As I understand it—andI could be wrong; I haven’t

hadthepleasuretomeetthemyet, this is all hearsay, youunderstand—but what I havegleaned is thatMrs.Grote isonce again with child, andshe is looking for amother’shelper.”

I ponder this. I think ofCarmine, of Maisie. Of thetwins, sitting at our ricketytable on Elizabeth Streetwaiting patiently for theirapplemash.Iimagineawhite

farmhouse with blackshutters, a red barn in theback, a post-and-rail fence,chickens inacoop.Anythinghas to be better than apadlocked refrigerator and apallet in the hall. “When dotheywantme?”

“I’m taking you therenow.”

Mr. Sorenson says he’llgive me a few minutes tocollect my things and goes

out to his car. In the hall Ipullmy brown suitcase fromthebackof the closet.Fannystands in the door of thesewingroomandwatchesmepack. I fold up the threedressesImade,oneofwhich,the blue chambray, I haven’tfinished, plusmy other dressfrom the Children’s Aid. Iaddthetwonewsweatersandthe corduroy skirt and themittens and gloves from

Fanny. I’d just as soon leavetheuglymustardcoatbehind,butFannysaysI’llregretitifIdo, that it’sevencolderoutthereonthosefarmsthanitishereintown.

When I’m done, we goback in the sewing roomandFanny finds a small pair ofscissors,twospoolsofthread,blackandwhite,apincushionand pins, and a cellophanepacketofneedles.Sheaddsa

cardboard flat of opalescentbuttons for my unfinisheddress.Thenshewrapsitallincheeseclothforme to tuck inthetopofmysuitcase.

“Won’tyougetintroublefor giving me these?” I askher.

“Pish,” she says. “I don’tevencare.”

I do not say good-bye tothe Byrnes. Who knowswhereMr.Byrneis,andMrs.

Byrne doesn’t comedownstairs. But Fanny givesmealonghug.Sheholdsmyface in her small cold hands.“You are a good girl,Niamh,” she says. “Don’t letanybodytellyoudifferent.”

Mr. Sorenson’s vehicle,parked in the drivewaybehind the Model A, is adark-greenChryslertruck.Heopens the passenger door forme, then goes around to the

otherside.Theinteriorsmellsof tobacco and apples. Hebacksoutofthedrivewayandpointsthecartotheleft,awayfrom town and toward adirectionI’veneverbeen.Wefollow Elm Street until itends, then turn right downanotherquietstreet,wherethehouses are set back fartherfrom the sidewalks, until wecome to an intersection andturn onto a long, flat road

withfieldsonbothsides.I gaze out at the fields, a

dull patchwork. Brown cowshuddle together, lifting theirnecks to watch the noisytruck as it passes. Horsesgraze. Pieces of farmequipment in the distancelooklikeabandonedtoys.Thehorizon line, flat and low, isstraight ahead, and the skylooks like dishwater. Blackbirds pierce the sky like

inversestars.IfeelalmostsorryforMr.

Sorenson on our drive. I cantell this weighs on him. It’sprobablynotwhathethoughthe was signing up for whenhe agreed to be an agent forthe Children’s Aid Society.He keeps asking if I’mcomfortable,iftheheatistoolow or too high. When helearns Iknowalmostnothingabout Minnesota he tells me

allaboutit—howitbecameastate just over seventy yearsago and is now the twelfthlargest in the United States.How its name comes from aDakota Indian word for“cloudy water.” How itcontains thousands of lakes,filledwithfishofallkinds—walleye, for one thing,catfish, largemouth bass,rainbow trout, perch, andpike. The Mississippi River

starts in Minnesota, did Iknow that? And these fields—he waves his fingerstoward the window—theyfeedthewholecountry.Let’ssee, there’sgrain, thebiggestexport—a thrashergoes fromfarm to farm, and neighborsget together to bundle theshocks. There’s sugar beetsand sweet corn and greenpeas.Andthoselowbuildingsway over there? Turkey

farms. Minnesota is thebiggestproducerofturkeysinthe country. There’d be noThanksgiving withoutMinnesota, that’s for darnsure. And don’t get mestartedonhunting.We’vegotpheasants, quail, grouse,whitetail deer, you name it.It’sahunter’sparadise.

I listen to Mr. Sorensonand nod politely as he talks,but it’shard toconcentrate. I

feel myself retreating tosomeplacedeepinside.Itisapitiful kind of childhood, toknow that no one loves youor is taking care of you, toalways be on the outsidelooking in. I feel a decadeolder than my years. I knowtoomuch;Ihaveseenpeopleat their worst, at their mostdesperateandselfish,andthisknowledge makes me wary.So I am learning to pretend,

to smile and nod, to displayempathy I do not feel. I amlearning to pass, to look likeeveryone else, even though Ifeelbrokeninside.

HemingfordCounty,

Minnesota,1930

Afterabouthalfanhour,Mr.Sorensonturnsontoanarrowunpaved road. Dirt risesaround us as we drive,coating the windshield and

sidewindows.Wepassmorefields and then a copse ofbirch tree skeletons, crossthroughadilapidatedcoveredbridge over a murky streamstill sheeted with ice, turndown a bumpy dirt roadbordered by pine trees. Mr.Sorenson is holding a cardwith what looks likedirectionsonit.Heslowsthetruck, pulls to a stop, looksbacktowardthebridge.Then

he peers out the grimywindshieldatthetreesahead.“No goldarn signs,” hemutters. He puts his foot onthepedalandinchesforward.

Outof the sidewindow Ipointtoafadedredragtiedtoastickandwhatappearstobea driveway, overgrown withweeds.

“Mustbeit,”hesays.Hairybranchesscrapethe

truck on either side as we

make our way down thedrive.Afteraboutfiftyyards,we come to a small woodenhouse—a shack, really—unpainted, with a saggingfront porch piled with junk.In the grassless section infront of the house, a baby iscrawlingontopofadogwithblackmattedfur,andaboyofabout six ispokinga stick inthe dirt. His hair is so short,and he’s so skinny, that he

lookslikeawizenedoldman.Despite the cold, he and thebabyarebarefoot.

Mr. Sorenson parks thetruckasfarfromthechildrenas possible in the smallclearing and gets out of thetruck.Igetoutonmyside.

“Hello,boy,”hesays.The child gapes at him,

notanswering.“Yourmamahome?”“Whowanttoknow?”the

boysays.Mr. Sorenson smiles.

“Did your mama tell youyou’regettinganewsister?”

“No.”“Well, she should be

expecting us. Go on and tellherwe’rehere.”

The boy stabs at the dirtwith the stick. “She’ssleeping. I’m not to botherher.”

“Yougoonandwakeher

up. Maybe she forgot wewerecoming.”

Theboy tracesacircle inthedirt.

“Tell her it’s Mr.SorensonfromtheChildren’sAidSociety.”

He shakes his head.“Don’twantawhupping.”

“She’s not going towhipyou, boy! She’ll be glad toknowI’mhere.”

When it’s clear the boy

isn’t going to move, Mr.Sorenson rubs his handstogether and, motioning forme to follow,makeshiswaygingerlyupthecreakingstepsto the porch. I can tell he’sworriedaboutwhatwemightfindinside.Iamtoo.

He knocks loudly on thedoor,anditswingsopenfromtheforceofhishand.There’saholewhere thedoorknob issupposedtobe.Hestepsinto

the gloom, ushering me inwithhim.

The front room is nearlybare. It smells like a cave.The floor is planked withroughboards,and inplaces Ican see clear through to theground below. Of the threegrimy windows, one has ajaggedholeintheupper-rightcorner and one is seamedwith spidery cracks. Awooden crate stands between

twoupholsteredchairs,soiledwithdirt,stuffingcomingoutof split seams, and athreadbare gold sofa. On thefar left is a dark hallway.Straight ahead, through anopendoorway,isthekitchen.

“Mrs.Grote?Hello?”Mr.Sorenson cockshis head, butthere’sno response. “I’mnotgoing into abedroom to findher, that’s for sure,” hemutters. “Mrs. Grote?” he

calls,louder.We hear faint footsteps

andagirlofaboutthree,inadirty pink dress, emergesfromthehall.

“Well, hello, little girl!”Mr.Sorensonsays,crouchingdown on his heels. “Is yourmamabackthere?”

“Wesleeping.”“That’swhatyourbrother

said.Isshestillasleep?”Aharshvoicecomesfrom

thehallway,startlingusboth:“Whatdoyouwant?”

Mr. Sorenson stands upslowly. A pale woman withlong brown hair steps out ofthe darkness. Her eyes arepuffy and her lips arechapped, and her nightgownis so thin I can see the darkcirclesofhernipplesthroughthecloth.

Thegirlsidlesoverlikeacat and puts an arm around

herlegs.“I’m Chester Sorenson,

from the Children’s AidSociety. You must be Mrs.Grote. I’m sorry to botheryou, ma’am, but I was toldyou knew we were coming.You did request a girl, didyounot?”

Thewomanrubshereyes.“Whatdayisit?”

“Friday, April fourth,ma’am.”

She coughs. Then shedoubles over and coughsagain, harder this time, intoherfist.

“Would you like to sitdown?” Mr. Sorenson goesover and guides her by theelbow to a chair. “Now, isMr.Grotehome?”

The woman shakes herhead.

“Are you expecting himsoon?”

She lifts her shoulders inashrug.

“What time does he getoff work?” Mr. Sorensonpresses.

“He don’t go towork nomore.Losthisjobatthefeedstore lastweek.”Sheglancesaround as if she’s lostsomething. Then she says,“C’mere, Mabel.” The littlegirl slinks over to her,watching us the whole time.

“Go check and see thatGeraldJunior’sokayinthere.Andwhere’sHarold?”

“Is that theboyoutside?”Mr.Sorensonasks.

“Hewatchingthebaby?Itoldhimto.”

“They’re both out there,”hesays,andthoughhisvoiceisneutral,Icantellhedoesn’tapprove.

Mrs.Grotechewsherlip.Shestillhasn’tsaidawordto

me. She’s barely looked inmy direction. “I’m just sotired,” she says to no one inparticular.

“Well, I’m sure you are,ma’am.” It’s clear Mr.Sorensonisitchingtogetoutof here. “I’m guessing that’swhy you asked for this hereorphan girl. Dorothy. Herpaperssayshehasexperiencewith children. So that shouldbeahelptoyou.”

She nods distractedly. “Igottosleepwhentheysleep,”she mumbles. “It’s the onlytimeIgetanyrest.”

“I’msureitis.”Mrs. Grote covers her

face with both hands. Thenshe pushes her stringy hairbackbehindherears.Shejutsher chin at me. “This is thegirl,huh?”

“Yes, ma’am. Name’sDorothy.She’sheretobepart

of your family and be takencare of by you and help youinreturn.”

She focuses on my face,buthereyesareflat.“What’sherage?”

“Nineyearsold.”“I have enough kids.

What I need is somebodywhocanhelpmeout.”

“It’s all part of thedeal,”Mr.Sorensonsays.“YoufeedandclotheDorothyandmake

sure she gets to school, andshe will earn her keep bydoing chores around thehouse.” He pulls his glassesand the sheetofpaperoutofhisvariouspockets,thenputshis glasses on and tilts hishead back to read it. “I seethere’s a school four milesdown.And there’s a ride shecan catch at the post road,three-quartermilefromhere.”Hetakeshisglassesoff.“It’s

required that Dorothy attendschool, Mrs. Grote. Do youagreetoabidebythat?”

Shecrossesherarms,andfor a moment it looks as ifshe’s going to refuse.MaybeI won’t have to stay here,afterall!

Then the front doorcreaksopen.Weturntoseeatall, thin, dark-haired manwearing a plaid shirt withrolled-up sleeves and grungy

overalls. “The girlwill go toschool,whether shewants toor not,” he says. “I’ll makesureofit.”

Mr.Sorensonstridesoverand extends his hand. “Youmust be Gerald Grote. I’mChesterSorenson.AndthisisDorothy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Mr.Grote clasps his hand, nodsover toward me. “She’ll dojustfine.”

“All right, then,” Mr.Sorenson says, clearlyrelieved. “Let’s make itofficial.”

There’s paperwork, butnot a lot. It’s only a fewminutes beforeMr. Sorensonhasretrievedmybagfromthetruck and is driving away. Iwatch him through thecracked front window withthe baby,Nettie,whimperingonmyhip.

HemingfordCounty,

Minnesota,1930

“Where will I sleep?” I askMr.Grotewhenitgetsdark.

Helooksatme,handsonhis hips, as if he hasn’tconsidered this question. He

gestures toward the hallway.“There’s abedroomyonder,”hesays.“Ifyoudon’twanttosleepwith theothers, Iguessyoucansleepouthereonthecouch. We don’t stand onceremony. I been known todozeoffonitmyself.”

In thebedroom, threeoldmattresseswithout sheets arelaidacross the floor, acarpetof bony springs. Mabel,GeraldJr.,andHaroldsprawl

across them, tugging atattered wool blanket andthree old quilts from eachother. I don’t want to sleephere, but it’s better thansharing the couch with Mr.Grote. In the middle of thenightonekidoranotherendsupunderthecrookofmyarmor spooned against my back.They smell earthy and sour,likewildanimals.

DESPAIR INHABITSTHISHOUSE.MRS. GROTE DOESN’T WANTALL these kids, and neithershenorMr.Grotereallytakescare of them. She sleeps allthe time, and the childrencome and go from her bed.There’s brown paper tackedovertheopenwindowinthatroom,soit’sasdarkasaholein the ground. The childrenburrowinnexttoher,cravingwarmth. Sometimes she lets

themcrawlinandsometimesshe pushes them out. Whenthey’re denied a spot, theirwails penetrate my skin liketinyneedles.

There’snorunningwater,and no electricity or indoorplumbing here. The Grotesuse gas lights and candles,and there’s a pump and anouthouse in the backyard,wood stacked on the porch.The damp logs in the

fireplace make the housesmoky and give off a tepidheat.

Mrs.Grotebarelylooksatme. She sends a child out tobefedorcallsmetofixheracupofcoffee.Shemakesmenervous. I do what I’m toldand make an effort to avoidher. The children sniffaround, trying to get used tome, all except for two-year-old Gerald Jr., who takes to

me right away, follows melikeapuppy.

IaskMr.Grotehowtheyfoundme. He says he saw aflyer in town—homelesschildren for distribution.Wilma wouldn’t get out ofbed,andhedidn’tknowwhatelsetodo.

I feel abandoned andforgotten, dropped intomiseryworsethanmyown.

MR.GROTESAYSHE’LLNEVERGET ANOTHER JOB IF HE CANMANAGE it. He plans to liveofftheland.Hewasbornandraised in the woods; it’s theonlylifeheknowsorcarestoknow. He built this housewith his own two hands, hesays, and his goal is to beentirely self-sufficient. Hehas an old goat in thebackyardandamuleandhalfadozenchickens;hecanfeed

his family on what he canhunt and find in the woodsand on a handful of seeds,along with the goat’s milkand eggs from the chickens,andhecansellthingsintownifhehasto.

Mr. Grote is lean and fitfrom walking miles everyday.Like an Indian, he says.He has a car, but it’s rustedand broken down behind thehouse.He can’t afford to get

it fixed, so he goeseverywhere on foot orsometimes on the old mulethat he says wandered offfrom a horsemeat truck thatbrokedownontheroadafewmonths back. His fingernailsare rimmedwithgrimemadeupofaxlegreaseandplantingsoil and animal blood andwhoknowswhatelse,groundinsodeepitcan’tbewashedoff. I’ve only ever seen him

inonepairofoveralls.Mr.Grotedoesn’tbelieve

in government telling himwhat todo.Tell the truth,hedoesn’t believe ingovernment at all. He hasneverbeentoschooladayinhis life and doesn’t see thepoint. But he’ll send me toschool if that’s what it takestokeep the authoritiesoutofhishair.

ON MONDAY, THREE DAYSAFTER I ARRIVE, MR. GROTESHAKES MY shoulder in thedarkness so I can get readyfor school. The room is socold I can see my breath. Iputononeofmynewdresseswithbothsweaterslayeredontop. I wear Fanny’s mittens,the thick stockings I worefrom New York, my sturdyblackshoes.

Irunouttothepumpand

fillapitcherwithcoldwater,thenbringitinsidetoheatonthestove.Afterpouringwarmwater in a tin bowl, I take arag and scrub my face, myneck,my fingernails.There’san old mirror in the kitchen,spotted with rusty stains andfreckledwithblackspecks,soruined it’s almost impossibletoseemyself in. Idividemyunwashed hair into twopigtails,usingmyfingersasa

comb, and then braid themtightly, tying the ends withthreadfromthepacketFannymade for me. Then I lookcloselyatmyreflection.Iamas clean as I can managewithout taking a bath. Myfaceispaleandserious.

I barely have anybreakfast, justsomewildricepudding made with goat’smilk and maple syrup Mr.Grotetappedthedaybefore.I

am so relieved to be gettingout of this dark, fetid cabinfor the day that I swingHarold around, joke withGerald Jr., share my ricepuddingwithMabel,whohasonly just started looking meintheeye.Mr.Grotedrawsamap for me with a knife inthe dirt—you go out thedrive, turn left there whereyoucamein,walktillyougettotheTsection,thengoover

that bridge back yonder andon till you get to the countyroad. Half an hour, give ortake.

He doesn’t offer a lunchpail,andIdon’taskforone.Islip thetwoeggsIboiledthenight before when I wasmaking supper into my coatpocket. I have that piece ofpaperfromMr.Sorensonthatsays a man named Mr. Postwhodrivesthekidstoschool

in his truck will be at thecorner at8:30A.M. and bringmebackat4:30P.M.It’s7:40,butI’mreadytogo.Bettertowait at the corner than riskmissingmyride.

Iskipdownthedriveway,hurry up the road, linger onthe bridge for a moment,lookingdownatthereflectionoftheskylikemercuryonthedarkwater,thefoamingwhitesuds near the rocks. Ice

glistens on tree branches,frostwebsoverdriedgrassesin a sparkling net. Theevergreens are dusted withthe light snow that fell lastnight like a forest ofChristmas trees. For the firsttime, I am struck by thebeautyofthisplace.

I hear the truck before Isee it. About twenty yardsfrom me, it slows to a stopwith a great screeching of

brakes,andIhavetorunbackalong the road to get on.Anapple-facedman in a tan cappeers out at me. “Come on,darlin’.Don’thaveallday.”

The truck has a tarpaulinover its bed. I climb in theback, laid with two flatplanks for passengers to siton. There’s a heap of horseblanketsinthecorner,andthefour kids sitting there arehuddled in them, having

wrapped the blankets overtheir shoulders and tuckedthem around their legs. Thecanvas cover gives everyonea yellowish tint. Two of thekids appear close tomy age.Aswebumpalong,Ihangontothewoodenbenchwithmymittened fingers so I don’tfall onto the floor when wehit a rough patch.The driverstops twice more to pick uppassengers. The bed is only

big enough to seat sixcomfortably, and eight of usare crammed in here—we’retight on the bench, but ourbodies give offmuch-neededwarmth. Nobody speaks.When the truck is moving,wind slices through the gapsinthetarp.

After several miles, thetruck makes a turn, brakessquealing, and climbs up asteep driveway before

grinding to a stop.We jumpout of the truck bed and lineup, then walk to theschoolhouse, a smallclapboardbuildingwithabellinfront.Ayoungwomaninacornflower-blue dress, alavender scarf wrappedaround her neck, is standingat the front door.Her face ispretty and lively: big browneyes and a wide smile. Hershiny brown hair is pulled

backwithawhiteribbon.“Welcome, children.

Proceedinanorderlyfashion,asalways.”Hervoiceishighand clear. “Good morning,Michael . . . Bertha . . .Darlene,” she says, greetingeach child by name.When Ireachher,shesays,“Now—Ihaven’t met you yet, but Iheard you were coming. I’mMiss Larsen. And you mustbe—”

Isay“Niamh”atthesametimethatshesays“Dorothy.”Seeing the expression onmyface,shesays,“DidIgetthatwrong? Or do you have anickname?”

“No,ma’am.It’sjust...”Ifeelmycheeksredden.

“Whatisit?”“I used to be Niamh.

Sometimes I forget what myname is. Nobody really callsme anything at my new

home.”“Well, I can call you

Niamhifyoulike.”“It’s all right. Dorothy is

fine.”She smiles, studying my

face. “As you wish. LucyGreen?” she says, turning tothe girl behind me. “WouldyoumindshowingDorothytoherdesk?”

IfollowLucyintoanarealined with hooks, where we

hang up our coats. Then weenter a large, sunny roomsmellingofwood smoke andchalk that contains an oilstove, a desk for the teacher,rows of benches and workspaces, and slateblackboardsalong the east and southwalls, with posters of thealphabet and multiplicationtablesabove.Theotherwallsare made up of largewindows.Electriclightsshine

overhead,andlowshelvesarefilledwithbooks.

Wheneveryone is seated,MissLarsenpullsalooponastring and a colorful map oftheworldunfurlsonthewall.Ather request I goup to themap and identify Ireland.Looking at it closely, I canfindCountyGalwayandeventhecitycenter.ThevillageofKinvara isn’t named, but Irub the place where it

belongs, right under Galwayonthejaggedlineofthewestcoast. There is New York—and here’s Chicago. Andhere’s Minneapolis.Hemingford County isn’t onthemap,either.

Including me, there aretwenty-three of us betweenthe ages of six and sixteen.Most of the kids are fromfarms themselves and otherrural homes and are learning

to read andwrite at all ages.Wesmellunwashed—andit’sworse with the older oneswhohavehitpuberty.There’saheapof rags, a fewbarsofsoap, and a carton of bakingsoda in the indoor lavatory,MissLarsen tellsme, incaseyouwanttofreshenup.

When Miss Larsen talksto me, she bends down andlooks me in the eye. Whenshe asks questions, shewaits

formyanswer.Shesmellsoflemons and vanilla. And shetreats me like I’m smart.After I take a test todetermine my reading level,shehandsmeabookfromtheshelfbyherdesk,ahardcoverfilled with small black typecalledAnneofGreenGables,withoutpictures,andtellsmeshewillaskwhatIthinkofitwhenI’mdone.

You’dthinkwithallthese

kids it would be chaotic, butMissLarsen rarely raises hervoice. The driver, Mr. Post,chopswood, tends the stove,sweeps the leaves from thefront walkway, and doesmechanical repairs on thetruck. He also teachesmathematics up to geometry,which he says he neverlearnedbecausethatyearwaslocustsandhewasneededonthefarm.

AtrecessLucyinvitesmetoplaygameswithagroupofthem—Annie Annie Over;Pump, Pump, Pull Away;RingAroundtheRosie.

When I get out of thetruck at four thirty and havetowalkthelongroutebacktothe cabin, my footsteps areslow.

THE FOOD THIS FAMILYSUBSISTS ON IS LIKE NOTHING

I’VE EVER eaten before. Mr.Groteleavesatdawnwithhisrifleandrodandbringshomesquirrels and wild turkeys,whiskeryfish,nowandthenawhite-tailed deer. He returnsin the late afternoon coveredin pine-tree gum. He bringshome red squirrels most ofall,buttheyaren’tasgoodasthe larger fox and graysquirrels, which he callsbushy tails.The fox squirrels

are sobig that someof themlook like orange cats. Theychirp and whistle, and hetricks them into showingthemselves by clicking twocoins together,which soundslike their chatter. The graysquirrelshave themostmeat,hetellsme,butarehardesttoseeinthewoods.Theymakea harsh chich-chich noisewhenthey’reangryorscared.That’showhefindsthem.

Mr. Grote skins and gutsthe animals in several fluidmotions, then hands me tinyhearts and livers, slabs ofdeep red meat. All I knowhow to make is boiledcabbage and mutton, I tellhim, but he says it’s not thatdifferent. He shows me howtomakeagallimaufry,astewof diced meat, onion, andvegetables, with mustard,ginger, and vinegar. You

cook the meat in animal fatoverhighheattosearit,thenadd potatoes and vegetablesand the rest. “It’s just ahotchpotch,” he says.“Whatever’saround.”

At first I amhorrified bythe ghoulish skinnedsquirrels,asredandmuscularas skinless human bodies inMiss Larsen’s science book.Buthungercuresmyqualms.Soon enough, squirrel stew

tastesnormal.Out in back is a homely

garden that, even now, inmid-April, has rootvegetables waiting to be dug—blightedpotatoesandyamsandtough-skinnedcarrotsandturnips. Mr. Grote takes meout there with a pick andteaches me how to pry themfrom the earth, then washthemoffunderthepump.Butthe ground is still partially

frozen,andthevegetablesarehardtoextract.Thetwoofusspendaboutfourhoursinthecold digging for those toughold vegetables, planted lastsummer, until we have agnarled and ugly pile. Thechildrenwanderinandoutofthe house, sit and watch usfrom the kitchen window. Iamgrateful formyfingerlessgloves.

Mr.Groteshowsmehow

he grows wild rice in thestreamandcollectstheseeds.The rice is nutty and brown.He plants the seeds afterharvestinlatesummerforthecrop the following year. It’san annual plant, he explains,which means that it dies intheautumn.Seedsthatfallinautumn take root in springunderwater, and then theshoot grows above thesurface. The stalks look like

tall grass swaying in thewater.

In the summer, he says,he grows herbs in a patchbehind the house—mint,rosemary, and thyme—andhangsthemtodryintheshed.Even now there’s a pot oflavenderinthekitchen.It’sastrange sight in that squalidroom, like a rose in ajunkyard.

At school one late-April

dayMissLarsensendsmeoutto the porch to get somefirewood, and when I comeback in, the entire class, ledby Lucy Green, is standing,singinghappybirthdaytome.

Tears spring to my eyes.“Howdidyouknow?”

“The date was in yourpaperwork.” Miss Larsensmiles,handingmeasliceofcurrant bread. “My landladymadethis.”

I look at her, not sure Iunderstand.“Forme?”

“Imentioned thatwehada new girl, and that yourbirthdaywascomingup.Shelikestobake.”

The bread, dense andmoist,tasteslikeIreland.OnebiteandIambackinGram’scottage, in frontofherwarmStanleyrange.

“Nine to ten is a bigleap,” Mr. Post says. “One

digit to two. You’ll be twodigitsnowforthenextninetyyears.”

Unwrapping the leftovercurrant bread at the Grotes’thatevening,Itellthemaboutmy party. Mr. Grote snorts.“How ridiculous, celebratinga birth date. I don’t evenknowthedayIwasborn,andIsurecan’t rememberanyoftheirs,”hesays,swinginghishand toward his kids. “But

let’shavethatcake.”


Looking closely at Molly’sfile, Lori the social workersettles on a stool. “So you’llbeagingoutof fostercare in. . . let’s see . . . you turnedseventeen inJanuary,soninemonths. Have you thought

aboutwhatyou’regoingtodothen?”

Molly shrugs. “Notreally.”

Lori scribbles somethingon the file folder in front ofher. With her bright buttoneyesandpointy snoutnosinginto Molly’s business, Lorireminds her of a ferret.They’re sitting at a lab tablein an otherwise emptychemistry classroom at the

high school during lunchperiod,astheydoeveryotherWednesday.

“Any problems with theThibodeaus?”

Molly shakes her head.Dina barely speaks to her;Ralph is pleasant enough—sameasalways.

Loritapshernosewithanindex finger. “You’re notwearingthisanymore.”

“Jack thought it might

scare the old lady.” She didtake the nose ring out forJack, but the truth is, shehasn’tbeeninahurrytoputitback in. There are thingsaboutitshelikes—thewayitmarksher as a rebel, foronething.Multipleearringsdon’thave the same punk appeal;every forty-somethingdivorcée on the island hashalf a dozen hoops in herears. But the ring takes a lot

ofmaintenance;it’salwaysindanger of infection, and shehastobecarefulwithitwhenshe washes her face or putson makeup. It’s kind of arelief to have a metal-freeface.

Flipping slowly throughthe file, Lori says, “You’velogged twenty-eight hours sofar. Good for you.What’s itlike?”

“Not bad. Better than I

thoughtitwouldbe.”“Howdoyoumean?”Molly’sbeen surprised to

findthatshelooksforwardtoit.Ninety-oneyears isa longtime to live—there’s a lot ofhistory in those boxes, andyou never know what you’llfind. The other day, forexample,theywentthroughabox of Christmas ornamentsfrom the 1930s that Vivianhad forgotten she kept.

Cardboard stars andsnowflakes covered in goldandsilverglitter;ornateglassballs,redandgreenandgold.Vivian told her stories aboutdecorating the family storefortheholidays,puttingtheseornamentsona realpine treeinthewindow.

“I like her. She’s kind ofcool.”

“You mean the ‘oldlady’?”

“Yeah.”“Well, good.” Lori gives

her a tight smile. A ferretysmile. “You’ve got what,twenty-two hours left, right?Try tomake themost of thisexperience. And I hope Idon’tneedtoremindyouthatyou’reonprobation.Ifyou’recaught drinking or doingdrugs or otherwise breakingthelaw,we’rebacktosquareone.Youclearonthat?”

Molly is tempted to say,Damn, you mean I have toshutdownmymeth lab?AndI gotta delete those nakedpictures I posted onFacebook? But instead shesmiles steadily at Lori andsays,“I’mclear.”

PullingMolly’s transcriptout of the file, Lori says,“Lookatthis.YourSATsarein the 600s.And you have a3.8 average this semester.

That’sreallygood.”“It’saneasyschool.”“No,itisn’t.”“It’snotthatbigadeal.”“It isabigdeal, actually.

Theseareapplying-to-collegestats.Haveyouthoughtaboutthat?”

“No.”“Whynot?”Last year, when she

transferred from BangorHigh,shewasclosetofailing.

In Bangor, she’d had noincentive to do homework—her foster parents werepartiers, and she’d comehome from school to find ahouse full of drunks. InSpruceHarbor,therearen’tsomany distractions. Dina andRalph don’t drink or smoke,and they’re strict. Jack has abeernowandthen,but that’sabout it. And Mollydiscovered that she actually

likestostudy.Noonehasevertalkedto

her about college except theschool guidance counselorwho halfheartedlyrecommended nursing schoolwhen she got an A lastsemester in bio. Her gradeshavekindof shotupwithoutanyonenoticing.

“I don’t really think I’mcollegematerial,”Mollysays.

“Well, apparently you

are,” says Lori. “And sinceyou’reofficiallyonyourownwhen you turn eighteen, youmight want to start lookingintoit.Therearesomedecentscholarships out there foraged-out foster youth.” Sheshuts the folder. “Oryoucanapply for a job behind thecounter at the SomesvilleOne-Stop.It’suptoyou.”

“SO HOW’S THAT COMMUNITYSERVICE WORKING OUT?”RALPHasksatdinner,pouringhimselfabigglassofmilk.

“It’s all right,” Mollysays. “The woman is reallyold.Shehasalotofstuff.”

“Fifty hours’ worth?”Dinaasks.

“I don’t know. But Iguess thereareother things IcandoifIfinishcleaningoutboxes.Thehouseishuge.”

“Yeah, I’ve done somework over there. Old pipes,”Ralph says. “Have you metTerry?Thehousekeeper?”

Molly nods. “Actually,she’sJack’smother.”

Dina perks up. “Wait aminute.TerryGallant?Iwentto high school with her! Ididn’t know Jack was herkid.”

“Yep,”Mollysays.Waving a chunk of hot

dogaroundonherfork,Dinasays, “Oh, how the mightyhavefallen.”

MollygivesRalphawhatthe fuck? look, but he justgazesplacidlyback.

“It’s sadwhathappens topeople, y’know?” Dina says,shaking her head. “TerryGallant used to be MissPopular.HomecomingQueenand all that. Then she gotknockedupbysomeMexican

scrub—and now look at her,she’samaid.”

“Actually, he wasDominican,”Mollymumbles.

“Whatever.Thoseillegalsareallthesame,aren’tthey?”

Deep breath, stay cool,get through dinner. “If yousayso.”

“Idosayso.”“Hey, now, ladies, that’s

enough.” Ralph is smiling,butit’saworriedgrimace;he

knowsMolly is pissed. He’salways making excuses—“She didn’t mean nothingby it,” “She’s yanking yourchain”—when Dina doesthings like intone “the Tribehas spoken” when Mollyexpresses an opinion. “Youneed to stop taking yourselfso seriously, littlegirl,”DinasaidwhenMollyaskedhertoknock it off. “If you can’tlaugh at yourself, you’re

going to have a very hardlife.”

So Molly moves hermouth muscles into a smile,picks up her plate, thanksDina for dinner. She saysshe’s got a lot of homework,andRalphsayshe’llcleanupthe kitchen. Dina says it’stimeforsometrashTV.

“Housewives of SpruceHarbor,” Ralph says. “Whenarewegoingtoseethat?”

“Maybe Terry Gallantcould be in it. Show thatyearbookphoto of her in hertiara, cut to her washingfloors.” Dina cackles. “I’dwatchthatoneforsure!”


For the past few weeks inMolly’s American Historyclass they’ve been studyingthe Wabanaki Indians, aconfederacy of fiveAlgonquian-speaking tribes,including the Penobscot, that

live near the North Atlanticcoast. Maine, Mr. Reed tellsthem, is the only state in thenationthatrequiresschoolstoteach Native Americanculture and history. They’veread Native narratives andcontrasting contemporaneousviewpoints and taken a fieldtrip to The Abbe, the Indianmuseum in Bar Harbor, andnow they have to do aresearchreportonthesubject

worth a third of their finalgrade.

For this assignmentthey’re supposed to focus ona concept called “portaging.”IntheolddaystheWabanakishad tocarry theircanoesandeverything else theypossessed across land fromonewaterbodytothenext,sothey had to think carefullyaboutwhat tokeepandwhatto discard. They learned to

travel light. Mr. Reed tellsstudents they have tointerview someone—amother or father orgrandparent—abouttheirownportages, the moments intheir lives when they’ve hadto take a journey, literal ormetaphorical. They’ll usetape recorders and conductwhathecalls“oralhistories,”asking the person questions,transcribing the answers, and

putting it together inchronological order as anarrative. The questions onthe assignment sheet are:Whatdidyouchoosetobringwith you to the next place?What did you leave behind?What insights did you gainaboutwhat’simportant?

Molly’s kind of into theidea of the project, but shedoesn’t want to interviewRalphor—Godforbid—Dina.

Jack?Tooyoung.Terry? She’d never agree

toit.The social worker, Lori?

Ick,no.So that leaves Vivian.

Molly has gleaned somethings about her—that she’sadopted, that she grew up intheMidwestandinheritedthefamily business from herwell-offparents, that sheandher husband expanded it and

eventuallysolditforthekindofprofitthatallowedthemtoretire toamansion inMaine.Mostof all, that she’s really,really old. Maybe it’ll be astretch to find drama inVivian’s portage—a happy,stable life does not aninteresting storymake, right?But even the rich have theirproblems, or so Molly’sheard. It will be her task toextract them. If, that is, she

canconvinceViviantotalktoher.

MOLLY’S OWN CHILDHOODMEMORIES ARE SCANT ANDPARTIAL.SHE remembers thatthe TV in the living roomseemed to be on all the timeandthatthetrailersmelledofcigarette smokeand thecat’slitterbox and mildew. Sheremembers her mother lyingon the couch chain-smoking

withtheshadesdrawnbeforeshe left for her job at theMini-Mart. She remembersforaging for food—cold hotdogs and toast—when hermother wasn’t home, andsometimeswhenshewas.Sheremembers the giant puddleof melting snow just outsidethe door of the trailer, solarge that she had to jumpacross it from the top step togettodryground.

And there are other,better, memories: makingfried eggs with her dad,turning them over with alarge black plastic spatula.“Not so fast, MollyMolasses,” he’d say. “Easy.Otherwise the eggs’ll gosplat.” Going to St. Anne’sChurch on Easter andchoosing a blooming crocusinagreenplasticpotcoveredwith foil that was silver on

oneside,brightyellowontheother. Every Easter she andher mother planted thosecrocuses near the fencebesidethedriveway,andsoonenough a whole cluster ofthem, white and purple andpink, sprang annually likemagic from the bald Aprilearth.

She remembers thirdgrade at the Indian IslandSchool, where she learned

that the name Penobscot isfromPanawahpskek,meaning“the place where the rocksspreadout”attheheadofthetribal river, right where theywere. That Wabanaki means“Dawnland,” because thetribesliveintheregionwherethefirstlightofdawntouchestheAmericancontinent.Thatthe Penobscot people havelived in the territory thatbecame Maine for eleven

thousand years, movingaround season to season,followingfood.They trappedand hunted moose, caribou,otters, and beavers; theyspeared fish and clams andmussels. Indian Island, justabove a waterfall, becametheirgatheringplace.

She learned about Indianwords that have beenincorporated into AmericanEnglish, like moose and

pecan and squash, andPenobscot words like kwaikwai,afriendlygreeting,andwoliwoni, thank you. Shelearned that they lived inwigwams, not teepees, andthat they made canoes fromthe bark of a single whitebirch tree, removed in onepiece soasnot tokill it.Shelearned about the baskets thePenobscots still make out ofbirch bark, sweet grass, and

brownash,allofwhichgrowin Maine wetlands, and,guided by her teacher, evenmadeasmalloneherself.

She knows that she wasnamedforMollyMolasses,afamous Penobscot IndianborntheyearbeforeAmericadeclared its independencefrom England. MollyMolasses lived into hernineties, coming and goingfrom Indian Island, and was

said to possess m’teoulin,power given by the GreatSpirittoafewforthegoodofthewhole.Thosewhopossessthis power, her dad said,could interpret dreams, repeldisease or death, informhunters where to find game,and send a spirit helper toharmtheirenemies.

But she didn’t learn untilthisyear,inMr.Reed’sclass,that there were over thirty

thousand Wabanakis livingontheEastCoastin1600andthat 90 percent of them haddiedby1620,almostentirelya result of contact withsettlers, who brought foreigndiseases and alcohol, drainedresources,andfoughtwiththetribes for controlof the land.She didn’t know that Indianwomen had more power andauthority than white women,a fact detailed in captivity

stories. That Indian farmershad greater skill and bounty,and more successful yields,than most Europeans whoworked the same land. No,they weren’t “primitive”—their social networks werehighlyadvanced.Andthoughthey were called savages,even a prominent Englishgeneral, Philip Sheridan, hadto admit, “We took awaytheircountryandtheirmeans

ofsupport.Itwasforthisandagainst this that they madewar. Could anyone expectless?”

Mollyhadalwaysthoughtthe Indians rebelled likeguerrillas, scalping andpillaging. Learning that theyattempted to negotiate withthe settlers, wearingEuropean-style suits andaddressing Congress in theassumption of good faith—

and were repeatedly lied toandbetrayed—enragesher.

In Mr. Reed’s classroomthere’s a photo of MollyMolasses taken near the endof her life. In it she sitsramrod straight, wearing abeaded,peakedheaddressandtwo large silver broochesaround her neck. Her face isdark and wrinkled and herexpressionisfierce.Sittinginthe empty classroom after

school one day,Molly staresat that face for a long time,looking for answers toquestions she doesn’t knowhowtoask.

ON THE NIGHT OF HER EIGHTHBIRTHDAY, AFTER ICE-CREAMSANDWICHES and a Sara Leecake her mother broughthome from the Mini-Mart,after making a fervent wish,

eyes squeezed shut as sheblewoutthetinypink-stripedbirthday candles (for abicycle, she remembers, pinkwithwhiteandpinkstreamersliketheonethegirlacrossthestreet got for her birthdayseveral months earlier),Molly sat on the couchwaiting for her dad to comehome. Her mom paced backand forth,punching redialonthe handset, muttering under

her breath, how could youforget your only daughter’sbirthday? But he didn’t pickup. After a while they gaveupandwenttobed.

An hour or so later shewaswokenbyashakeontheshoulder. Her father wassitting in thechairbesideherbed, swayinga little,holdinga plastic grocery bag andwhispering, “Hey there,Molly Molasses, you

awake?”She opened her eyes.

Blinked.“You awake?” he said

again, reaching over andswitching on the princesslamphe’dboughtforheratayardsale.

Shenodded.“Holdoutyourhand.”Fumblingwiththebag,he

pulled out three flat jewelrycards—each gray plastic,

covered in gray fuzz on oneside, with a small charmwired in place. “Fishy,” hesaid, handing her the smallpearly blue-and-green fish;“raven,” the pewter bird;“bear,” a tiny brown teddybear. “It’s supposed to be aMaine black bear, but thiswas all they had,” he saysapologetically.“Sohere’sthedealio; I was trying to thinkof what I could get for your

birthday that would meansomething, not just the usualBarbie crap. And I wasthinking—you and me areIndian. Yourmom’s not, butweare.AndI’vealwayslikedIndiansymbols.Knowwhatasymbolis?”

Sheshookherhead.“Shit that stands for shit.

Solet’sseeifIrememberthisright.” Sitting on the bed, heplucked the bird card out of

herhand,turningitaroundinhisfingers.“Okay,thisguyismagic.He’llprotectyoufrombad spells andotherkindsofweirdnessyoumightnotevenbe aware of.” Carefully hedetached the small charmfrom its plastic card,unwinding the wire ties andplacing the bird on herbedsidetable.Thenhepickedup the teddy bear. “Thisfierceanimalisaprotector.”

Shelaughed.“No, really. It may not

look like it, but appearancescan be deceiving. This dudeis a fearless spirit. And withthat fearless spirit, he signalsbravery to thosewho requireit.”Hefreedthebearfromthecard and set it on the tablenexttothebird.

“All right. Now the fish.Thisonemightbethebestofall. Itgivesyou thepower to

resist other people’s magic.Howcoolisthat?”

She thought for amoment. “But how is thatdifferentfrombadspells?”

He took the wire off thecard and set the fish besidetheothercharms,liningthemup carefully with his finger.“Very good question.You’rehalf asleep and still sharperthan most people whenthey’re wide-awake. Okay, I

can see how it sounds thesame. But the difference isimportant,sopayattention.”

Shesatupstraighter.“Somebody else’s magic

might not be bad spells. Itmightbe stuff that looks realgoodand sounds real nice. Itmight be—oh, I don’t know—somebody trying toconvinceyoutodosomethingyou know you shouldn’t do.Likesmokecigarettes.”

“Yuck.I’dneverdothat.”“Right. But maybe it’s

something that’s not soyucky,liketakingacandybarfrom the Mini-Mart withoutpaying.”

“But Mommy worksthere.”

“Yeah,shedoes,butevenif she didn’t, you know it’swrong to steal a candy bar,right?Butmaybe this personhasalotofmagicandisvery

convincing. ‘Oh, come on,Moll,youwon’tgetcaught,’”he says in a gruff whisper,“‘don’tyoulovecandy,don’tyouwantsome,comeon,justone time?’” Picking up thefish, he talks in a stern fishyvoice: “‘No, thank you! Iknowwhatyou’reupto.Youarenotputtingyourmagiconme, no sir, I will swim rightaway from you, y’hear?Okay, bye now.’” He turned

thecharmaroundandmadeawave with his hand, up anddown.

Feelingaroundinthebag,hesaid,“Aw,shit.Imeanttoget you a chain to clip theseon.” He patted her knee.“Don’tworryaboutit.That’llbeparttwo.”

Twoweeks later, cominghome late one night, he lostcontrol of his car, and thatwas that.Within sixmonths,

Mollywas living somewhereelse. It was years before sheboughtherselfthatchain.


“Portage.” Vivian wrinkleshernose.“Itsoundslike—oh,I don’t know—a piemade ofsausage.”

A pie made of sausage?Okay,maybe this isn’t goingtowork.

“Carrying my boatbetweenbodiesofwater?I’mnot so good with metaphors,dear,”Viviansays.“What’sitsupposedtomean?”

“Well,” Molly says, “Ithinktheboatrepresentswhatyou take with you—theessential things—from placeto place. And the water—well, I think it’s the placeyou’realwaystryingtogetto.Doesthatmakesense?”

“Not really. I’m afraidI’mmoreconfusedthanIwasbefore.”

Molly pulls out a list ofquestions. “Let’s just getstarted and see whathappens.”

Theyaresittingintheredwingbackchairs in the livingroom in the waning light oflateafternoon.Theirworkforthedayisfinished,andTerryhas gone home. It was

pouring earlier, great sheetsof rain, and now the cloudsoutside the window arecrystal tipped, like mountainpeaks in the sky, raysemanating downward like anillustration in a children’sbible.

Molly pushes the buttonon the tiny digital taperecorder she signed out fromtheschool libraryandcheckstoseethatit’sworking.Then

she takes a deep breath andruns a fingerunder the chainaround her neck. “My dadgave me these charms, andeach one representssomething different. Theraven protects against blackmagic. The bear inspirescourage. The fish signifies arefusal to recognize otherpeople’smagic.”

“I never knew thosecharms had meaning.”

Absently, Vivian reaches upand touches her ownnecklace.

Looking closely at thepewter pendant for the firsttime, Molly asks, “Is yournecklace—significant?”

“Well, it is tome. But itdoesn’t have any magicalqualities.”Shesmiles.

“Maybe it does,” Mollysays. “I think of thesequalitiesasmetaphorical,you

know? So black magic iswhatever leads people to thedarkside—theirowngreedorinsecuritythatmakesthemdodestructive things. And thewarrior spirit of the bearprotects us not only fromotherswhomighthurtusbutour own internal demons.And I think other people’smagic is what we’revulnerableto—howwe’reledastray. So . . . my first

question for you is kind of aweirdone. I guessyoucouldthink of it as metaphorical,too.” She glances at the taperecorderoncemoreandtakesa deep breath. “Okay, heregoes. Do you believe inspirits?Orghosts?”

“My, that is quite aquestion.” Clasping her frail,veined hands in her lap,Viviangazesoutthewindow.For a moment Molly thinks

she isn’t going to answer.And then, so quietly that shehas to lean forward in herchair to hear, Vivian says,“Yes, I do. I believe inghosts.”

“Doyouthinkthey’re...presentinourlives?”

Vivian fixes her hazeleyes on Molly and nods.“They’re theoneswhohauntus,”shesays.“Theoneswhohaveleftusbehind.”

HemingfordCounty,

Minnesota,1930

There’s hardly any food inthe house. Mr. Grote hasreturned from the woodsempty-handed for the pastthree days, and we’re

subsisting on eggs andpotatoes. It gets so desperatehe decides to kill one of thechickensandstartseyeingthegoat. He is quiet these dayswhen he comes in. Doesn’tspeaktothekids,whoclamorfor him, holding on to hislegs. He bats them off likethey’refliesonhoney.

On the evening of thethird day, I can feel himlookingatme.Hehasafunny

expression on his face, likehe’s doingmath in his head.Finally he says, “So what’sthat thing you got aroundyour neck?” and it’s clearwhathe’supto.

“There’snovalueinit,”Isay.

“Looks like silver,” hesays, peering at it.“Tarnished.”

My heart thumps in myears.“It’stin.”

“Lemmesee.”Mr. Grote comes closer,

then touches the raisedheart,the clasped hands, with hisdirty finger. “What is that,somekindofpagansymbol?”

I don’t knowwhat paganis, but it sounds wicked.“Probably.”

“Whogaveittoyou?”“My gram.” It’s the first

time I’ve mentioned myfamilytohim,andIdon’tlike

the feeling. I wish I couldtakeitback.“Itwasworthlessto her. She was throwing itaway.”

He frowns. “Sure isstrange looking. Doubt IcouldsellitifItried.”

Mr.Grote talks tome allthe time—when I’m pullingfeathers off the chicken,frying potatoes on thewoodstove,sittingby thefirein the living room with a

child in my lap. He tells meabout his family—how therewas some kind of dispute,and his brother killed hisfather when Mr. Grote wassixteenandheranawayfromhome and never went back.He met Mrs. Grote aroundthat time, and Harold wasborn when they wereeighteen.Theyneveractuallytied theknotuntil theyhadahousefulofkids.Allhewants

todoishuntandfish,hesays,buthehas to feedandclotheallthesebabies.God’shonesttruth, hedidn’twant a singleone of ’em. God’s honesttruth,he’safraidhecouldgetmadenoughtohurtthem.

Astheweekspassandtheweathergetswarmer,hetakestowhittlingonthefrontporchuntil late in the evening, abottleofwhiskeybyhisside,andhe’salwaysaskingmeto

join him. In the darkness hetellsmemore than Iwant toknow. He and Mrs. Grotebarely say a word to eachother anymore, he says. Shehates to talk, but loves sex.But he can’t stand to touchher—she doesn’t bother toclean herself, and there’salwaysakidhangingoffher.Hesays,“Ishould’vemarriedsomeone like you, Dorothy.You wouldn’t’ve trappedme

likethis,wouldya?”Helikesmyredhair.“Youknowwhattheysay,”hetellsme.“Ifyouwant trouble, find yourself aredhead.” The first girl hekissed had red hair, but thatwasalongtimeago,hesays,backwhenhewasyoungandgood-looking.

“Surprised I was good-looking? I was a boy once,you know. I’m only twenty-fournow.”

Hehasneverbeeninlovewithhiswife,hesays.

CallmeGerald,hesays.I know that Mr. Grote

shouldn’tbesayingall this.Iamonlytenyearsold.

THE CHILDREN WHIMPER LIKEWOUNDED DOGS AND CLUSTERTOGETHER for comfort. Theydon’t play like normal kids,running and jumping. Theirnoses are always filled with

green mucus, and their eyesarerunny.Imovethroughthehouselikeanarmoredbeetle,impervious to Mrs. Grote’ssharp tongue, Harold’swhining, the cries of GeraldJr.,whowillnever inhis lifesatisfy his aching need to beheld.IseeMabelturningintoasullengirl,all tooawareofthe ways she has beenburdened, ill-treated,abandoned to this sorry lot. I

knowhowithappened to thechildren, living thisway, butit’shardformetolovethem.Their misery onlymakesmemore aware of my own. Ittakes all my energy to keepmyself clean, to get up andoutthedoorinthemorningtoschool.

Lying on a mattress atnight during a rainstorm,metalribspokingatmefromunder the thin ticking, water

dripping on my face, mystomachhollowandempty, Iremember a time on theAgnes Pauline when it wasraining and everyone wasseasick and my da tried todistract us kids from ourmiserybygettingus to closeour eyes and visualize aperfect day. That was threeyearsago,whenIwasseven,butthedayIimaginedisstillvivid in my mind. It’s a

Sunday afternoon and I amgoing to visit Gram in hersnughomeontheoutskirtsoftown.Walkingtoherhouse—climbingoverstonewallsandacross fields of wild grassthat move in the wind likewavesonthesea—Ismellthesweet smoke from turf firesandlistentothethrushesandblackbirds practice theirwildsongs. In the distance I seethe thatched-roof house with

itswhitewashedwalls,potsofred geraniums blooming onthe window-sill, Gram’ssturdy black bike proppedinside the gate, near thehedgewhereblackberriesandsloe fruit hang in dense blueclusters.

Inside, a goose roasts inthe oven and the black-and-white dog, Monty, waitsunder the table for scraps.Granddad’s out fishing for

trout in the river with ahomemade rod or huntinggrouseorpartridgeacrossthefields. So it’s just Gram andme,aloneforafewhours.

Gramisrollingdoughforarhubarbtart,backandforthwith the big rolling pin,dusting the yellow doughwith handfuls of flour,stretching it to cover thebrimming pie dish.Now andthen she takes a puff of her

SweetAfton,wispsofsmokerising above her head. Sheoffersme a bull’s-eye sweet,which she’s stashed in herapron pocket with a half-dozen half-smoked Aftonbutts—a mix of flavors I’llnever forget. On the front ofthe yellow cigarette box is apoem by Robert Burns thatGram likes to sing to an oldIrishtune:

Flowgently,sweetAfton,amongthygreenbraes.

Flowgently,I’llsingtheeasonginthypraise.

I sit on a three-leggedstool listening to the crackleand spit of goose skin in theovenwhileshetrimsaribbonofdoughfromaroundtherimof the pie dish, making across with a remnant for thecenterandbrushingitallwith

abeatenegg,finishingwithaflourish of fork pricks and asprinkle of sugar. When thetart’s safely in the oven wemove to the front room, the“goodroom,”shecallsit,justthe two of us, for afternoontea, strong and black withplenty of sugar, and currantbread,slicedandwarm.Gramchoosestwoteacupsfromhercollection of rose-patternedchinaintheglass-front,along

with matching saucers andsmall plates, and sets eachpiece carefully on a starchedlinen placemat. Irish lace,hanging in the windows,filters the afternoon light,softening the lines on herface.

From my perch on thecushioned chair I see thewooden footrest with itsfloral needlepoint cover infrontofher rocker, the small

shelfofbooks—prayerbooksand poetry, mainly—by thestairs.IseeGramsingingandhumming as she pours thetea. Her strong hands andkindsmile.Herloveforme.

Now, tossing and turningon this damp, sour-smellingmattress,Itrytofocusonmyperfect day, but thesememories lead to other,darker thoughts. Mrs. Grote,back there moaning in her

bedroom, isn’t so differentfrommy ownmam. Both ofthem overburdened and ill-equipped, weak by nature orcircumstance, married tostrong-willed, selfish men,addicted to the opiate ofsleep. Mam expected me tocookandcleanand takecareofMaisieandtheboys,reliedon me to hear her troubles,called me naive when Iinsisted things would get

better, that we would be allright. “You don’t know,”she’d say. “You don’t knowthehalf of it.”One time, notlong before the fire, shewascurledonherbed in thedarkand I heard her crying andwentintocomforther.WhenIputmyarmsaroundher,shesprangup, flingingmeaway.“You don’t care about me,”she snapped. “Don’t pretendyou do. You only want your

supper.”I shrank back, my face

flamingas if I’dbeenstruck.And in that momentsomething changed. I didn’ttrust her anymore.When shecried, I feltnumb.After that,she called me heartless,unfeeling.AndmaybeIwas.

AT THE BEGINNING OF JUNE,WEALLCOMEDOWNWITHLICE,

EVERY last one of us, evenNettie, who has barely fourhairsonherhead.Irememberlicefromtheboat—Mamwasterrified of us kids getting it,and she checked our headsevery day, quarantining uswhen we heard aboutoutbreaks in other cabins.“Worst thing in the world togetridof,”shesaid,andtoldus about the epidemic at thegirls’schoolinKinvarawhen

she was a boarder. Theyshavedeveryhead.Mamwasvainaboutherthick,darkhairand refused to cut it everagain.Wegot it on theboat,justthesame.

Gerald won’t stopscratching, and when Iinspect his scalp I find it’steeming. I check the othertwoandfindbugsonthemaswell. Every surface in thehouseprobablyhasliceonit,

thecouchandchairsandMrs.Grote.Iknowwhatanordealthiswill be: nomore school,myhairgone,hoursof labor,washingthebedsheets...

I feel an overwhelmingurgetoflee.

Mrs.Groteislyinginbedwith the baby. Propped ontwo soiled pillows, theblanketpulleduptoherchin,she just stares at me when Icomein.Hereyesaresunkin

theirsockets.“Thechildrenhavelice.”She purses her lips. “Do

you?”“Probably,sincetheydo.”She seems to think about

this for a moment. Then shesays,“Youbrungtheparasiteintothishouse.”

My face colors. “No,ma’am,Idon’tthinkso.”

“They came fromsomewhere,”shesays.

“I think . . .” I start, butit’shardtogetthewordsout.“I think you might need tocheck the bed. And yourhair.”

“Youbrung it!” she says,flinging back the covers.“Comeinhere,actingallhighandmighty,likeyou’rebetterthanus...”

Hernightgownisbunchedup around her belly. I see adark triangle of fur between

her legs and turn away,embarrassed.

“Don’t you dare leave!”she shrieks. She snatchesbaby Nettie, wailing, off thebed and tucks her under onearm,pointingat thebedwiththe other. “Sheets need to beboiled. Then you can startgoing through the kids’ hairwitha comb. I toldGerald itwas too much, bringing avagrant in this house when

Lord knows where she’sbeen.”

The next five hours areeven more miserable than Iimagined—boiling pots ofwater and emptying it into abig tub without scalding anyof thechildren,pullingeveryblanketandsheetandpieceofclothing I can find into thewater and scrubbing themwith lye soap, then pushingthe sheets through the hand

wringer. I’m barely strongenough to load and turn thecrank,andmyarmsachewiththeeffort.

When Mr. Grote comeshome he talks to his wife,who’s camped on the livingroomcouch.Snatchesoftheirconversationwaftbacktome—“trash,” “vermin,” “dirtyIrish bog-trotter”—and in afew minutes he comesthrough the kitchen door to

findme onmy knees, tryingto turn the wringer. “LordJesus,” he says, and gets toworkhelpingme.

Mr.Grote agrees that themattresses are probablyinfested.Hethinksifwedragthem out to the porch andpourboilingwaterover themit will kill the bugs. “I havehalfamindtodothesametothekids,”hesays,andIknowhe’s only barely kidding. He

makesquickworkofshavingtheheadsof all four of themwith a straight razor.Despitemy attempts to hold theirheads still, they twitch andfidget, and as a result havelittlebloodynicksandgashesall over their heads. Theyremind me of photos ofsoldiers returning from theGreat War, hollow-eyed andbald.Mr.Groterubslyeovereach head, and the children

scream and yell. Mrs. Grotesitsonthecouch,watching.

“Wilma, it’s your turn,”he says, turning to her withtherazorinhishand.

“No.”“We have to check, at

least.”“Check the girl. She

brought them here.” Mrs.Grote turns her face to thebackofthecouch.

Mr. Grote motions me

over.Itakemyhairoutofitstightbraidsandkneelinfrontof himwhile he gently picksthrough. It’s strange to feelthisman’sbreathonmyneck,his fingers on my scalp. Hepinches something betweenhis fingers and sits back onhis heels. “Yep. You gotsomeeggsinthere.”

I am the only one ofmysiblingswithredhair.WhenIaskedmydawhereIgotit,he

jokedthattheremust’vebeenrustinthepipes.Hisownhairwas dark—“cured,” he said,through years of toil—butwhen he was young it wasmore like auburn. Nothinglikeyours,hesaid.Yourhairis as vivid as a Kinvarasunset, autumn leaves, theKoigoldfishinthewindowofthathotelinGalway.

Mr.Grotedoesn’twanttoshave my head. He says it

wouldbe a crime. Insteadhewindsmyhairaroundhisfistand slices straight through itat the nape of my neck. Aheap of coils slide to thefloor, and he cuts the rest ofthe hair on my head abouttwoincheslong.

Ispendthenextfourdaysin that miserable house,burning logs and boilingwater, the children crankyandunderfootas theyalways

are,Mrs.Grotebackondampsheets on the mildewingmattresswithherlice-infestedhair,andthere’snothingIcandoaboutanyofit,nothingatall.

“WE’VE MISSED YOU,DOROTHY!” MISS LARSENSAYSWHENIreturntoschool.“And my—a brand-newhairstyle!”

Itouchthetopofmyheadwheremyhair isstickingup.Miss Larsen knows why myhairisshort—it’sinthenoteIhadtogiveherwhenIgotoutof the truck—butshedoesn’tgive away a thing.“Actually,” she says, “youlook like a flapper. Do youknowwhatthatis?”

Ishakemyhead.“Flappers are big-city

girlswho cut their hair short

and go dancing and do whatthey please.”She givesme afriendly smile. “Who knows,Dorothy? Maybe that’s whatyou’llbecome.”

HemingfordCounty,

Minnesota,1930

By summer’s end,Mr. Groteseemstobehavingmoreluck.Whatever he can kill hebrings home in a sack andskins right away, then hangs

intheshedoutback.Hebuiltasmokerbehindtheshedandnowhekeeps itgoingall thetime, filling it with squirrelsand fish and even raccoons.Themeatgivesoffacurdled-sweet smell that turns mystomach, but it’s better thangoinghungry.

Mrs. Grote is pregnantagain. She says the baby’sdue in March. I’m worriedI’ll be expected to help her

when the time comes.WhenMam had Maisie there wereplenty of neighbors onElizabeth Street who’d beenthrough it before, and all Ihad to do was watch theyounger kids. Mrs.Schatzman, down the hall,and the Krasnow sisters afloor below, with sevenchildrenbetween them,cameinto the apartment and tookover, closing the bedroom

door behind them. My dawentout.Maybehewassentout by them, I don’t know. Iwas in the living room,playing patty-cake andreciting the alphabet andsingingallthesongshe’dbeltoutwhenhecamehomefromthe pub late at night,wakingtheneighbors.

Bymid-September,roundbalesofgoldenstrawdot theyellow fields on my walk to

the county road, arranged ingeometric formations andstacked in pyramids andscattered in haphazardclumps. In history we learnabout the pilgrims inPlymouth Plantation in 1621and the food they ate, wildturkeys and corn and fivedeer brought to the feast bythe Indians. We talk aboutfamily traditions,but like theByrnes, theGrotesdon’t take

any notice of the holiday.When I mention it to Mr.Grote, he says, “What’s thebigdealaboutaturkey?Icanbag one of those any oldday.”Butheneverdoes.

Mr. Grote has becomeeven more distant, up at thecrackofdawn togohunting,then skinning and smokingthemeat at night.Whenhe’shome,heyellsatthechildrenoravoidsthem.Sometimeshe

shakes the baby until itwhimpers and stops crying. Idon’t evenknow if he sleepsin the back bedroomanymore. Oftentimes I findhim asleep on the couch inthe living room, his formunderaquiltliketheexposedrootofanoldtree.

I WAKE ONE NOVEMBERMORNING COATED IN A FINECOLD DUST. There must have

been a storm in the night;snow piles in small drifts onthemattresses, having blownin through the cracks andcrevicesinthewallsandroof.I sit up and look around.Three of the kids are in theroom with me, huddled likesheep.Igetup,shakingsnowfrom my hair. I slept in myclothes from yesterday, but Idon’t want Miss Larsen andthe girls at school, Lucy in

particular, to see me in thesame clothes two days in arow (though other kids, I’venoticed,havenoshameaboutthisatall). Ipulladressandmy other sweater from mysuitcase,whichIkeepopeninacorner,andchangequickly,pulling them over my head.None ofmy clothes are everparticularly clean, but I clingtotheseritualsnevertheless.

It’s the promise of the

warm schoolhouse, MissLarsen’s friendly smile, andthe distraction of other lives,otherworlds on the pages ofthe books we read in class,thatgetmeoutthedoor.Thewalk to the corner is gettingharder; with each snowfall Ihavetoforgeanewpath.Mr.Grote tellsme that when theheavy storms hit in a fewweeks Imight aswell forgetit.

At school Miss Larsentakesmeaside.Sheholdsmyhandandlooksintomyeyes.“Arethingsallrightathome,Dorothy?”

Inod.“If there’s anything you

wanttotellme—”“No, ma’am,” I say.

“Everythingisfine.”“You haven’t been

handinginyourhomework.”There’s no time or place

toreadordohomeworkattheGrotes’, and after the sungoes down at five there’s nolight, either. There are onlytwocandlestubsinthehouse,and Mrs. Grote keeps onewith her in the back room.ButIdon’twantMissLarsentofeelsorryforme.Iwanttobetreatedlikeeveryoneelse.

“I’lltryharder,”Isay.“You . . .” Her fingers

flutteratherneck, thendrop.

“Isitdifficulttokeepclean?”Ishrug,feelingtheheatof

shame.Myneck. I’ll have tobemorethorough.

“Do you have runningwater?”

“No,ma’am.”She bites her lip. “Well.

Comeandseemeifyoueverwanttotalk,youhear?”

“I’mfine,MissLarsen,”Itellher.“Everythingisfine.”

I AM ASLEEP ON A PILE OFBLANKETS, HAVING BEENNUDGEDOFFTHEmattressesbya fitful child, when I feel ahand onmy face. I openmyeyes.Mr.Grote,bendingoverme, puts a finger to his lips,then motions for to me tocome. Groggily I get up,wrapping a quilt aroundmyself,andfollowhimtotheliving room. In the weakmoonlight, filtered through

cloudsandthedirtywindows,Iseehimsitonthegoldsofaand pat the cushion besidehim.

Ipullthequilttighter.Hepats the cushion again. I goovertohim,butIdon’tsit.

“It’s cold tonight,” hesays in a lowvoice. “I couldusesomecompany.”

“You should go backtherewithher,”Isay.

“Don’twanttodothat.”

“I’m tired,” I tell him.“I’mgoingtobed.”

He shakes his head.“You’regonnastayherewithme.”

I feel a flutter in mystomachandturntoleave.

He reaches out and grabsmyarm.“Iwantyoutostay,Isaid.”

I look at him in thegloom. Mr. Grote has neverfrightened me before, but

something in his voice isdifferent, and I know I needto be careful. His mouth iscurled up at the edges into afunnysmile.

He tugs the quilt. “Wecanwarmeachotherup.”

I yank it tighter aroundmy shoulders and turn awayagain,andthenIamfalling.Ihit my elbow on the hardfloorandfeelasharppainasI landheavilyon it,mynose

to the floor. Twisting in thequilt, I look up to see whathappened.Ifeelaroughhandonmyhead. Iwant tomove,butamtrappedinacocoon.

“You do what I say.” Ifeel his stubbled face onmycheek,smellhisgamybreath.Isquirmagainandheputshisfootonmyback.“Bequiet.”

His big rough hand isinside the quilt, and then it’sundermy sweater, undermy

dress.ItrytopullawaybutIcan’t.Hishandroamsupanddown and I feel a jolt ofshock as he probes the placebetweenmylegs,pushesatitwith his fingers. Hissandpaperfaceisstillagainstmine, rubbing against mycheek, and his breathing isjagged.

“Yesss,”hegulpsintomyear.He ishunchedabovemelike a dog, one hand rubbing

hardatmyskinandtheotherunbuttoning his trousers.Hearing the rough snap ofeach button, I bend andsquirmbutam trapped in thequiltlikeaflyinaweb.Iseehispantsopenandlowonhiships, the engorged penisbetween his legs, his hardwhitebelly.I’veseenenoughanimals in the yard to knowwhat he’s trying to do.Thoughmyarmsaretrapped,

I rockmybody to try tosealthequiltaroundme.Heyanksat it roughly and I feel itgivingway,andasitdoeshewhispers in my ear, “Easy,now, you like this, don’tyou,”and I start towhimper.When he sticks two fingersinside me, his jagged nailstearatmyskinandIcryout.He slaps his other hand overmy mouth and rams hisfingers deeper, grinding

againstme,andImakenoiseslike a horse, frantic gutturalsounds from deep in mythroat.

And thenhe liftshishipsand takes his hand off mymouth. I scream and feel theblinding shock of a slapacrossmyface.

From the direction of thehallway comes a voice—“Gerald?”—andhefreezes,just for a second, before

slitheringoffmelikealizard,fumbling with his buttons,pullinghimselfoffthefloor.

“What in the name ofChrist—” Mrs. Grote isleaning against the doorframe, cupping her roundedstomachwithonehand.

I yankmy underpants upand my dress and sweaterdown, sit up and stumble tomy feet, clutching the quiltaroundme.

“Nother!”shewails.“Now, Wilma, it isn’t

whatitlookslike—”“You animal!” Her voice

isdeepandsavage.Sheturnsto me. “And you—you—Iknew—” She points at thedoor.“Getout.Getout!”

It takes me a moment tounderstandwhatshemeans—that she wants me to leave,now, in the cold, in themiddleofthenight.

“Easy, Wilma, calmdown,”Gerald—Mr.Grote—says.

“I want that girl—thatfilth—outofmyhouse.”

“Let’stalkaboutthis.”“Iwantherout!”“All right, all right.” He

looks at me with dull eyes,and I can see that as bad asthis situation is, it’s about toget worse. I don’t want tostay here, but how can I

surviveoutthere?Mrs. Grote disappears

down the hall. I hear a childcrying in the back. Shereturns a moment later withmy suitcase and heaves itacross the room. It crashesagainst the wall, spilling itscontentsacrossthefloor.

Mybootsandthemustardcoat, with Fanny’s preciouslinedglovesinthepocket,areon a nail by the front door,

andI’mwearingmyonlypairof threadbare socks. I makemy way to the suitcase andgrab what I can, open thedoor to a sharp blast of coldair and toss a few scatteredpieces of clothing onto theporch, my breath a puff ofsmoke in front of me. As Iput on my boots, fumblingwith the laces, I hear Mr.Grote say, “What ifsomething happens to her?”

and Mrs. Grote’s reply: “Ifthat stupid girl gets it in herhead to run away, there’snothingwecando,isthere?”

And run I do, leavingalmosteverythingIpossessinthe world behind me—mybrown suitcase, the threedressesImadeattheByrnes’,the fingerless gloves andchange of underwear and thenavy sweater, my school-books and pencil, the

composition book MissLarsen gave me to write in.The sewing packet Fannymadeforme,atleast,isintheinner pocket of my coat. Ileave four children I couldnot help and did not love. Ileave a place of degradationand squalor, the likes ofwhichIwillneverexperienceagain. And I leave any lastshredofmychildhoodontherough planks of that living

roomfloor.

HemingfordCounty,

Minnesota,1930

Trudging forward like asleepwalkerinthebittercold,I make my way down thedriveway, then turn left andploduptherutteddirtroadto

the falling-down bridge. Inplaces I have to crunchthroughthetoplayerofsnow,thick as piecrust. The sharpedges laceratemy ankles.AsI gaze up at the crystal starsglittering overhead, coldsteals the breath from mymouth.

Once I’m out of thewoodsandon themainroad,a fullmoon bathes the fieldsaround me in a shimmering,

pearly light.Gravel crunchesloudlyundermyboots; I canfeel its pebbly roughnessthrough my thin soles. Istrokethesoftwoolinsidemygloves,sowarmthatnotevenmy fingertips are cold. I’mnot afraid—it was morefrighteninginthatshackthanit is on the road, withmoonlight all around. Mycoat is thin, but I’mwearingwhatclothingIcouldsalvage

underneath, and as I hurryalong I begin to warm up. Imake a plan: I will walk toschool.It’sonlyfourmiles.

The dark line of thehorizonisfar inthedistance,the sky above it lighter, likelayers of sediment in rock.The schoolhouse is fixed inmy mind. I just have to getthere. Walking at a steadypace, my boots scuffing thegravel, I count a hundred

steps and start again. My daused to say it’s good to testyour limits now and then,learn what the body iscapable of, what you canendure.Hesaidthiswhenwewereinthethroesofsicknesson the Agnes Pauline, andagaininthebitterfirstwinterin New York, when four ofus, including Mam, camedownwithpneumonia.

Test your limits. Learn

what you can endure. I amdoingthat.

As Iwalk along I feel asweightless and insubstantialas a slip of paper, lifted bythe wind and gliding downthe road. I think about themany ways I ignored whatwas in front of me—howblind I was, how foolish nottobeonmyguard.I thinkofDutchy,whoknewenoughtofeartheworst.

Aheadonthehorizon,thefirstpinklightofdawnbeginsto show. And just before it,the white clapboard buildingbecomesvisiblehalfwayupasmall ridge. Now that theschoolhouse is within sightmy energy drains, and all Iwant to do is sink down bythe side of the road.My feetare leaden and aching. Myface is numb; my nose feelsfrozen. I don’t know how I

make it to the school, butsomehowIdo.WhenIgettothe frontdoor, I find that thebuilding is locked. I goaround to the back, to theporchwhere they keepwoodfor the stove, and I open thedoor and fall onto the floor.Anoldhorseblanketisfoldedby the woodpile, and I wrapmyself in it and fall into afitfulsleep.

I AM RUNNING IN A YELLOWFIELD,THROUGHAMAZEOFHAYBALES, unable to findmyway...

“DOROTHY?” I FEEL A HANDONMYSHOULDER,AND SPRINGAWAKE. It’sMr. Post. “WhatinGod’sname...?”

For a moment I’m notsuremyself. I lookupatMr.Post, at his round red cheeksand puzzled expression. I

look around at the pile ofrough-cut wood, the widewhitewashed planks of theporchwalls. The door to theschoolroom is ajar, and it’sclear thatMr. Post has cometo get wood to start the fire,ashemustdoeverymorningbeforeheadingout topickusup.

“Areyouallright?”I nod, willing myself to

be.

“Does your family knowyou’rehere?”

“No,sir.”“How’d you get to the

school?”“Iwalked.”He stares at me for a

moment,thensays,“Let’sgetyououtofthecold.”

Mr. Post guides me to achair in the schoolroom andputsmyfeetonanotherchair,then takes the dirty blanket

from my shoulders andreplaces itwith a clean plaidone he finds in a cupboard.Heunlaceseachofmybootsand sets them beside thechair,tskingovertheholesinmy socks. Then Iwatch himmake a fire. The room isalready getting warm whenMiss Larsen arrives a fewminuteslater.

“What’s this?” she says.“Dorothy?” She unwraps her

violet scarf and takes off herhatandgloves.InthewindowbehindherIseeacarpullingaway.MissLarsen’slonghairiscoiledinabunat thenapeof her neck, and her browneyesareclearandbright.Thepinkwoolskirtshe’swearingbrings out the color in hercheeks.

Kneelingbymychair,shesays, “Goodness, child.Haveyoubeenherelong?”

Mr. Post, havingcompleted his duties, isputtingonhishatandcoattomaketheroundsinthetruck.“Shewasasleepout thereontheporchwhenIarrived.”Helaughs. “Scared the bejeezusoutofme.”

“I’m sure it did,” shesays.

“Says she walked here.Four miles.” He shakes hishead. “Lucky she didn’t

freezetodeath.”“You seem to have

warmedherupnicely.”“She’sthawingout.Well,

I’mofftogettheothers.”Hepatsthefrontofhiscoat.“Seeyouinajiff.”

As soon as he leaves,MissLarsensays,“Nowthen.Tellmewhathappened.”

And I do. I wasn’tplanning to, but she looks atme with such genuine

concern thateverythingspillsout. I tell her about Mrs.GrotelyinginbedalldayandMr. Grote in the woods andthe snow dust onmy face inthe morning and the stainedmattresses.Itellheraboutthecold squirrel stew and thesqualling children.And I tellher about Mr. Grote on thesofa, his hands on me, andpregnant Mrs. Grote in thehallway, yelling atme to get

out.ItellherthatIwasafraidto stopwalking, afraid that Iwould fall asleep. I tell herabout the gloves Fannyknittedforme.

MissLarsenputsherhandovermineandleavesitthere,squeezing it every now andthen. “Oh, Dorothy,” shesays.

And then, “Thankgoodness for the gloves.Fanny sounds like a good

friend.”“Shewas.”She holds her chin,

tapping it with two fingers.“Who brought you to theGrotes’?”

“Mr. Sorenson from theChildren’sAidSociety.”

“Allright.WhenMr.Postgetsback,I’llsendhimouttofind this Mr. Sorenson.”Opening her lunch pail, shepullsoutabiscuit.“Youmust

behungry.”Normally I would refuse

—I know this is part of herlunch. But I am so ravenousthatatthesightofthebiscuitmymouth fills with water. Iacceptitshamefullyandwolfitdown.WhileI’meatingthebiscuit Miss Larsen heatswateronthestoveforteaandcuts an apple into slices,arranging them on a chippedchina plate from the shelf. I

watchasshespoonslooseteainto a strainer and pours theboilingwateroveritintotwocups. I’ve never seen herofferteatoachildbefore,andcertainlynottome.

“Miss Larsen,” I start.“Couldyouever—wouldyouever—”

She seems to know whatI’m asking. “Take you hometolivewithme?”Shesmiles,but her expression is pained.

“Icareaboutyou,Dorothy. Ithink you know that. But Ican’t—I’m in no position totakecareofagirl. I live inaboardinghouse.”

I nod, a knob in mythroat.

“I will help you find ahome,” she says gently. “Aplace that is safe and clean,whereyou’llbetreatedlikeaten-year-old girl. I promiseyouthat.”

When the other kids fileinfromthetruck,theylookatmecuriously.

“What’sshedoinghere?”oneboy,Robert,says.

“Dorothy came in a littleearly this morning.” MissLarsen smooths the front ofher pretty pink skirt. “Takeyour seats and pull out yourworkbooks,children.”

After Mr. Post has comein from the back with more

woodandarrangedthelogsinthe bin by the stove, MissLarsensignalstohim,andhefollowsherback to the entryvestibule.Afewminuteslaterheheadsoutsideagain,stillinhis coat and cap. The engineroars to life and the brakesscreech as he maneuvers histruckdownthesteepdrive.

About an hour later, Ihear the truck’s distinctiveclatter and look out the

window. Iwatch as it slowlymakes its way up the steepdrive, then comes to a stop.Mr. Post climbs out andcomesintheporchdoor,andMiss Larsen excuses herselffrom the lesson and goes tothe back. A few momentslatershecallsmynameandIrisefrommydesk,alleyesonme,andmakemywaytotheporch.

Miss Larsen seems

worried. She keeps touchingherhairinthebun.“Dorothy,Mr. Sorenson is notconvinced...”Shestopsandtouches her neck, glancesbeseechinglyatMr.Post.

“IthinkwhatMissLarsenis trying to say,” he saysslowly,“isthatyouwillneedto explain what happened indetail to Mr. Sorenson.Ideally, as you know, theywant tomake theplacements

work.Mr. Sorensonwondersif this might simply be amatter of—miscommunication.”

I feel light-headed as Irealize what Mr. Post issaying. “He doesn’t believeme?”

A look passes betweenthem. “It’s not a question ofbelievingornotbelieving.Hejust needs to hear the storyfromyou,”MissLarsensays.

For the first time in mylife, I feel the wildness ofrevolt. Tears spring to myeyes. “I’m not going backthere.Ican’t.”

Miss Larsen puts an armaround my shoulder.“Dorothy, don’t worry.You’lltellMr.Sorensonyourstory,andI’ll tellhimwhatIknow.Iwon’tletyougobackthere.”

The next fewhours are a

blur. I mimic Lucy’smovements, pulling out thespelling primer when shedoes, lining up behind her towrite on the board, but Ibarely register what’s goingon around me. When shewhispers,“Areyouallright?”I shrug. She squeezes myhand but doesn’t probefurther—and I don’t know ifit’sbecauseshesensesIdon’twant to talk about it or if

she’s afraid of what I mightsay.

After lunch,whenweareback in our seats, I see avehicle way off in thedistance. The sound of themotorfillsmyhead; thedarktruck coming toward theschoolistheonlythingIsee.And here it is—puttering upthe steepdrive, screeching toa stop behind Mr. Post’struck.

IseeMr.Sorenson in thedriver’sseat.Hesitstherefora moment. Takes off hisblack felt hat, strokes hisblack mustache. Then heopensthecardoor.

“MY, MY, MY,” MR.SORENSON SAYS WHEN I’VEFINISHED MY STORY. We aresitting on hard chairs on thebackporch,warmernowthan

itwasearlier in thedayfromthe sun and the heat of thestove. He reaches out to patmy leg, then seems to thinkbetterof itandrestshishandon his hip. With his otherhandhestrokeshismustache.“Suchalongwalkinthecold.You must have been very...”Hisvoicetrailsoff.“Andyet. And yet. I wonder: themiddle of the night. Mightyouperhapshave...?”

Ilookathimsteadily,myheartpoundinginmychest.

“...misconstrued?”He looks atMiss Larsen.

“Aten-year-oldgirl...don’tyou find, Miss Larsen, thatthere can be a certain—excitability? A tendency tooverdramatize?”

“It depends on the girl,Mr. Sorenson,” she saysstiffly, lifting her chin. “IhaveneverknownDorothyto

lie.”Chuckling, he shakes his

head. “Ah, Miss Larsen,that’s not at all what I’msaying, of course not! Imerelymeantthatsometimes,particularly if one has beenthrough distressing events inone’s young life, one mightbe inclined to jump toconclusions—toinadvertentlyblowthingsoutofproportion.I sawwithmyowneyes that

livingconditionsintheGrotehousehold were, well, lessthanoptimal.Butwecan’tallhave storybook families, canwe,Miss Larsen? The worldis not a perfect place, andwhen we are dependent onthe charity of others, we arenot always in a position tocomplain.” He smiles at me.“My recommendation,Dorothy, is togive it anothertry. I can talk to the Grotes

and impress upon them theneedtoimproveconditions.”

Miss Larsen’s eyes areglitteringstrangely,andaredrash has crept up her neck.“Did you hear the girl, Mr.Sorenson?” she says in astrainedvoice.“Therewasanattempted . . . violation.AndMrs.Grote, comingupon theappalling scene, cast her out.Surely you don’t expectDorothy to return to that

situation, now, do you?Frankly, I wonder why youdon’taskthepolicetogooutthere and take a look. Itdoesn’t sound like a healthyplace for the other childrenthere,either.”

Mr. Sorenson is noddingslowly,asiftosayNow,now,it was just a thought, don’tgetshrill,let’sallcalmdown.But what he says is, “Well,then, you see, we’re in a bit

of a pickle. There are nofamilies thatIknowofat themoment seeking orphans. Icouldinquirefartherafield,ofcourse. Contact theChildren’sAid inNewYork.If it comes down to it,Dorothycouldgoback there,I suppose, on the next trainthatcomesthrough.”

“Surelywewon’tneedtoresort to that,” Miss Larsensays.

He gives a little shrug.“One would hope not. Onedoesn’tknow.”

She puts her handonmyshoulder and gives it asqueeze. “Let’s explore ouroptions then, Mr. Sorenson,shall we? And in themeantime—for a day or two—Dorothy can come homewithme.”

I look up at her withsurprise.“ButIthought—”

“It can’t be permanent,”she says quickly. “I live in aboardinghouse,Mr.Sorenson,where no children areallowed.Butmylandladyhasakindheart,andsheknowsIam a schoolteacher and thatnotallofmychildrenare”—sheappearstopickherwordscarefully—“housedadvantageously. I think shewillbesympathetic—asIsay,foradayortwo.”

Mr. Sorenson strokes hismustache. “Very well, MissLarsen. Iwill look intootherpossibilities,andleaveyouincharge of Dorothy for a fewdays.Younglady,I trust thatyou will be appropriatelypoliteandwellbehaved.”

“Yes,sir,”Isaysolemnly,butmyheart isswellingwithjoy.MissLarsenistakingmehomewithher!Ican’tbelievemygoodfortune.

Hemingford,Minnesota,1930

The man who picks MissLarsen and me up afterschoolsignalssurpriseatmypresence with a lift of hiseyebrow,butsaysnothing.

“Mr. Yates, this isDorothy,” she tells him, and

henodsatmeintherearviewmirror. “Dorothy, Mr. Yatesworks formy landlady,Mrs.Murphy, and is kind enoughtotakemetotheschoolhouseeach day, since I don’t drivemyself.”

“It’sapleasure,miss,”hesays, and I can see by hispinkearsthathemeansit.

Hemingford is muchlargerthanAlbans.Mr.Yatesdrives slowly down Main

Street, and I gaze out at thesigns: the Imperial Theatre(whose marquee trumpetsNOW WITH THE TALKING,SINGING AND DANCING!); theHemingford Ledger; Walla’sRecreational Parlor,advertising BILLIARDS,FOUNTAIN,CANDY,TOBACCOinits plate-glass window;Farmer’s State Bank;Shindler’s Hardware; andNielsen’s General Store

—EVERYTHING TO EAT ANDWEAR.

AtthecornerofMainandPark,severalblocksfromthetown center,Mr. Yates pullsto a stop in front of a light-blue Victorian house with awraparound porch. An ovalplacard by the front doorannounces, HEMINGFORDHOMEFORYOUNGLADIES.

The bell tinkles whenMiss Larsen opens the door.

Sheushersme inbutholdsafinger to her lips andwhispers, “Wait here amoment,” before pulling offher gloves, unwrapping thescarf around her neck, anddisappearing through a doorattheendofthehall.

The foyer is formal,withflocked burgundy wallpaper,a large gilt-framed mirror,and a dark, ornately carvedchest of drawers. After

looking around a bit, I perchona slipperyhorsehair chair.In one corner an imposinggrandfather clock ticksloudly, and when it chimesthehour, Inearlyslideoff insurprise.

Afterafewminutes,MissLarsenreturns.“Mylandlady,Mrs. Murphy, would like tomeet you,” she says. “I toldheraboutyour—predicament.IfeltIneededtoexplainwhy

I brought you here. I hopethat’sallright.”

“Yes,ofcourse.”“Just be yourself,

Dorothy,” she says. “Allright,then.Thisway.”

Ifollowherdownthehalland through the door into aparlor, where a plump,bosomy woman with animbusofdownygrayhairissitting on a rose velvet sofanext to a glowing fire. She

haslonglinesbesidehernoselike a marionette and awatchful, alert expression.“Well,mygirl,itsoundsasifyou’vehadquiteatimeofit,”shesays,motioningformetosit across from her in one oftwofloralwingbackchairs.

I sit in one and MissLarsen takes the other,smiling at me a littleanxiously.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say to

Mrs.Murphy.“Oh—you’re Irish, are

you?”“Yes,ma’am.”Shebeams.“Ithoughtso!

ButIhadaPolishgirlhereafew years ago with hairredder than yours. And ofcourse there are the Scottish,though not as commonly inthese parts. Well, and I’mIrishtoo,ifyoucouldn’ttell,”she adds. “Came over like

youasaweelass.Mypeopleare from Enniscorthy. Andyours?”

“Kinvara. In CountyGalway.”

“Indeed, I know theplace! My cousin married aKinvaragirl.AreyoufamiliarwiththeSweeneyclan?”

I’ve never heard of theSweeney clan, but I nod justthesame.

“Well, then.” She looks

pleased.“What’syour familyname?”

“Power.”“Andyouwerechristened

...Dorothy?”“No, Niamh. My name

was changed by the firstfamily I came to.” My facereddens as I realize I’mconfessing to having beenthrownoutoftwohomes.

But she doesn’t seem tonotice, or care. “I guessedas

much! Dorothy is no Irishname.” Leaning toward me,sheinspectsmynecklace.“Acladdagh. I haven’t seen oneofthoseinanelephant’sage.Fromhome?”

I nod. “My gram gave ittome.”

“Yes, and see how sheguards it,” she comments toMissLarsen.

I’m not aware until shesays this that I’m holding it

betweenmyfingers.“Ididn’tmean—”

“Oh, lass, it’s all right,”she says, patting my knee.“It’s the only thing you’vegot to remind you of yourpeople,now,isn’tit?”

WhenMrs.Murphy turnsher attention to the cabbage-rose tea service on the tablein front of her, Miss Larsengives me a wink. I thinkwe’rebothsurprisedthatMrs.

Murphyseemstobewarmingtomesoquickly.

MISS LARSEN’S ROOM IS TIDYAND BRIGHT, AND ABOUT THESIZE OF a storage closet—barelybigenoughforasinglebed, a tall oakdresser, and anarrowpinedeskwithabrasslamp. The bedspread hasneatly tucked-in hospitalcorners; the pillowcase is

clean and white. Severalwatercolors of flowers hangfromhooksonthewalls,andablack-and-whitephotographofa stern-lookingcouple sitsonthedresserinagiltframe.

“Aretheseyourparents?”I ask, looking closely at thepicture. A bearded man in adarksuitstandsstifflybehinda thin woman seated in astraight-backed chair. Thewoman,wearingaplainblack

dress, looks like a sternerversionofMissLarsen.

“Yes.” She comes closerand gazes at the picture.“They’rebothdeadnow,soIsuppose that makes me anorphan, too,”shesaysafteramoment.

“I’m not really anorphan,”Itellher.

“Oh?”“At least I don’t know.

Therewasafire—mymother

went to the hospital. I neversawheragain.”

“But you think she maybealive?”

Inod.“Would you hope to find

her?”I think of what the

Schatzmans said about mymother after the fire—thatshe’d gone crazy, lost hermind after losing all thosechildren. “It was a mental

hospital. She wasn’t—well.Evenbeforethefire.”This isthe first time I’ve admittedthis toanyone.It’sarelief tospeakthewords.

“Oh, Dorothy.” MissLarsen sighs. “You’ve beenthrough a lot in your younglife,haven’tyou?”

Whenwegodown to theformal dining room at sixo’clock, I am stunned at thebounty: a ham in the middle

ofthetable,roastedpotatoes,brussels sprouts glisteningwithbutter, abasketof rolls.Thedishesarerealchinainapattern of purple forget-me-notswithsilvertrim.EveninIreland I never saw a tablelike this, excepton aholiday—and this is an ordinaryTuesday. Five boarders andMrs. Murphy are standingbehind chairs. I take theempty seat beside Miss

Larsen.“Ladies,” Mrs. Murphy

says, standing at the head ofthe table. “This is MissNiamh Power, from CountyGalway, by way of NewYork.ShecametoMinnesotaas a train rider—you mayhaveheardabout themin thepapers. She will be with usfor a few days. Let’s do ourbest to make her feelwelcome.”

The other women are allin their twenties. One worksas a counter girl atNielsen’sGeneral Store, one at abakery, another at theHemingford Ledger as areceptionist. Under thewatchfuleyeofMrs.Murphy,all of them are polite, evenrail-thin and sour-facedMissGrund,aclerkinashoestore.(“She’s not accustomed tochildren,” Miss Larsen

whispers to me after MissGrund shoots an icy lookdownthedinnertable.)Thesewomen are a little afraid ofMrs.Murphy,Icansee.Overthe course of dinner I noticethat she can be snappish andshort-tempered, and she likesto be the boss.When one ofthem expresses an opinionshedisagreeswith, she looksaround at the group andgathersalliesforherposition.

Butsheisnothingbutkindtome.

Last night I barely slepton the cold porch of theschool, andbefore that Iwasonasoiledmattressinafetidroom with three otherchildren. But tonight I havemyownroom,thebedneatlymade up with crisp whitesheets and two clean quilts.WhenMrs.Murphy bids megood night, she hands me a

gown and undergarments, atowel and hand cloth and abrush for my teeth. Sheshows me to the bathroomdown the hall, with runningwater in its sink and a WCthat flushes and a largeporcelaintub,andtellsmetodraw a bath and stay in it aslongasIwish;theotherscanuseadifferentpowderroom.

When she leaves, Iinspect my reflection in the

mirror—the first time sincearriving in Minnesota I’velooked in a whole piece ofmirror unclouded by spotsand damage. A girl I barelyrecognize stares back. She isthinandpale,dulleyed,withsharpcheekbonesandmatteddark red hair, wind-chappedcheeks, and a red-rimmednose. Her lips are scabbed,and her sweater is pilled andsoiledwith dirt. I swallow—

she swallows. My throathurts.Imustbegettingsick.

When I shut my eyes inthewarmbath,IfeelasifI’mfloatinginsideacloud.

Back in my room, warmand dry and dressed in mynew gown, I shut the doorand lock it. I stand with myback against it, savoring thefeeling. I’ve never had aroom of my own—not inIreland, on Elizabeth Street,

attheChildren’sAidSociety,inthehallwayattheByrnes’,attheGrotes’.Ipullbackthecovers, tucked tightly aroundthemattress,andslipbetweenthe sheets. Even the pillow,with its cotton casingsmellingofwashingsoap,isamarvel. Lying on my backwith the electric lamp on, Igazeatthesmallredandblueflowers in the off-whitewallpaper, the white ceiling

above, the oak dresser withits bacon pattern and smoothwhite knobs. I look down atthe coiled rag rug and theshinywoodfloorunderneath.I turn off the light and lie inthedark.Asmyeyesadjusttothe darkness, I canmake outthe shapes of each object inthe room. Electric lamp.Dresser. Bed frame. Myboots.ForthefirsttimesinceI stepped off the train in

Minnesota more than a yearago,Ifeelsafe.

FORTHENEXTWEEK,IBARELYLEAVE MY BED. THE WHITE-HAIRED doctor who comes toexaminemeputsacoldmetalstethoscope to my chest,listens thoughtfully fora fewmoments,andannouncesthatIhavepneumonia.FordaysIlive in a fever, with the

covers pulled up and theshadesdrawn,thedoortomybedroom open so that Mrs.Murphycanhearmecall.Sheputsasmallsilverbellonthedresser and instructs me toshake it if I need anything.“I’m just downstairs,” shesays. “I’ll come right up.”And though she bustlesaround, muttering about allthethingssheneedstodoandhowonegirloranother—she

calls them girls, though theyare all working women—didn’t make her bed or lefther dishes in the sink orneglected tobring the tea setto the kitchen when she leftthe parlor, she dropseverything when I ring thebell.

ThefirstfewdaysIslipinandoutofsleep,openingmyeyes to the soft glow ofsunlight throughmywindow

shade, and then the room isdark;Mrs.Murphyleansoverme with a cup of water, heryeastybreathonmyface,thewarm hennish bulk of heragainst my shoulder. MissLarsen,hours later,placingacool folded cloth on myforeheadwithcarefulfingers.Mrs.Murphynursingmewithchicken soup filled withcarrots and celery andpotatoes.

In my moments offeveredconsciousness I thinkIamdreaming.AmIreallyinthis warm bed in this cleanroom? Am I really beingtakencareof?

And then Iopenmyeyesinthelightofanewday,andfeel different. Mrs. Murphytakesmytemperatureanditisunder one hundred degrees.Raising the shade, she says,“Look at what you’ve

missed,”andIsitupandlookoutside at snow like swirlingcotton, blanketing everythingandstillfalling,theskywhiteand more white—trees, cars,the sidewalk, the house nextdoor, transformed. My ownawakening feels asmomentous. I too amblanketed, my harsh edgesobscuredandtransformed.

When Mrs. Murphylearns that I have comewith

almostnothing,shesetsaboutgathering clothes. In the hallis a large trunk filled withgarments that boarders haveleft behind, chemises andstockings and dresses,sweater sets and skirts, andevenafewpairsofshoes,andshe lays them out on thedouble bed in her own largeroomformetotryon.

Almost everything is toobig, but a few pieces will

work—a sky-blue cardiganembroidered with whiteflowers, a brown dress withpearl buttons, several sets ofstockings, a pair of shoes.“Jenny Early,” Mrs. Murphysighs, fingeringaparticularlyprettyyellowfloraldress.“Aslip of a girl, she was, andlovely too. But when shefound herself in the familyway . . .” She looks atMissLarsen,whoshakesherhead.

“Water under the bridge. Iheard that Jenny had a nicewedding and a healthy babyboy, so all’s well that endswell.”

As my health improves Ibegin to worry: this won’tlast. I will be sent away. Imade it through this yearbecause I had to, because Ihadnooptions.ButnowthatI’veexperiencedcomfortandsafety, how can I go back?

Thesethoughtstakemetotheedge of despair, so I willmyself—I force myself—nottohavethem.


Vivianiswaitingbythefrontdoor when Molly arrives.“Ready?”shesays,turningtohead up the stairs as soon asMollycrossesthethreshold.

“Hang on.”Molly shrugsoffherarmyjacketandhangs

it on the black iron coatrackin the corner. “What aboutthatcupoftea?”

“No time,” Vivian callsover her shoulder. “I’m old,you know. Could drop deadanyminute.We’vegottogetgoing!”

“Really? No tea?” Mollygrumbles, following behindher.

A curious thing ishappening. The stories that

Vivianbegantotellonlywithprodding,indutifulanswertospecific questions, arespilling forth unprompted,one after another, so manythat even Vivian seemssurprised.“‘Whowouldhavethought the old man to havehadsomuchbloodinhim?’”she said after one session.“Macbeth,dear.Lookitup.”

Vivian has never reallytalked about her experience

on the train with anyone. Itwas shameful, she says. Toomuch to explain, too hard tobelieve. All those childrensenton trains to theMidwest—collected off the streets ofNew York like refuse,garbageonabarge,tobesentasfarawayaspossible,outofsight.

Andanyway,howdoyoutalkaboutlosingeverything?

“But what about your

husband?”Molly asks. “Youmusthavetoldhim.”

“I toldhimsome things,”Viviansays.“Butsomuchofmy experience was painful,and I didn’t want to burdenhim.Sometimes it’s easier totrytoforget.”

Aspects of Vivian’smemory are triggered witheach box they open. Thesewing kit wrapped incheesecloth evokes the

Byrnes’ grim home. Themustard-colored coat withmilitarybuttons,thefelt-linedknit gloves, the brown dresswithpearlbuttons,acarefullypacked set of cabbage-rosechina. Soon enoughMolly isable to keep the cast ofcharacters straight in herhead: Niamh, Gram, Maisie,Mrs.Scatcherd,Dorothy,Mr.Sorenson, Miss Larsen. . . .One story circles back to

another.Uprightanddorightmake all right. As if joiningscraps of fabric to make aquilt,Molly puts them in theright sequence and stitchesthem together, creating apatternthatwasimpossibletosee when each piece wasseparate.

When Vivian describeshowitfelttobeatthemercyofstrangers,Mollynods.Sheknowsfullwellwhatit’slike

to tamp down your naturalinclinations, to force a smilewhenyou feelnumb.After awhile you don’t know whatyourownneedsareanymore.You’re grateful for theslightesthintofkindness,andthen, as you get older,suspicious. Why wouldanyone do anything for youwithout expecting somethingin return? And anyway—most of the time they don’t.

Moreoften thannot, you seethe worst of people. Youlearn that most adults lie.That most people only lookout for themselves. That youareonlyas interestingasyouareusefultosomeone.

Andsoyourpersonalityisshaped.Youknowtoomuch,and this knowledge makesyou wary. You grow fearfuland mistrustful. Theexpression of emotion does

not come naturally, so youlearn to fake it. To pretend.To display an empathy youdon’t actually feel.And so itisthatyoulearnhowtopass,if you’re lucky, to look likeeveryone else, even thoughyou’rebrokeninside.

“EH, I DON’T KNOW,” TYLERBALDWIN SAYS ONE DAY INAMERICAN History after they

watch a film about theWabanakis. “What’s thatsaying again—‘to the victorgo the spoils’?” I mean, ithappensall the time,alloverthe world, right? One groupwins,anotherloses.”

“Well, it’s true thathumans have beendominating and oppressingeachothersincetimebegan,”Mr.Reedsays.“Doyouthinkthe oppressed groups should

juststoptheircomplaining?”“Yeah.Youlost.Ikindof

feel like saying ‘Deal withit,’”Tylersays.

TherageMollyfeelsissooverwhelming she sees spotsbefore her eyes. For morethan four hundred yearsIndians were deceived,corralled, forced onto smallpieces of land anddiscriminated against, calleddirty Indians, injuns,

redskins, savages. Theycouldn’t get jobs or buyhomes.Woulditcompromiseher probationary status tostrangle this imbecile? Shetakes a deep breath and triesto calm down. Then sheraisesherhand.

Mr. Reed looks at herwith surprise. Molly rarelyraisesherhand.“Yes?”

“I’m an Indian.” She’snevertoldanyonethisexcept

Jack. To Tyler she knowsshe’s just . . . Goth, if hethinks of her at all.“Penobscot. I was born onIndianIsland.AndIjustwantto say thatwhat happened tothe Indians is exactly likewhat happened to the IrishunderBritishrule.Itwasn’tafair fight. Their land wasstolen, their religion wasforbidden, they were forcedto bend to foreign

domination. It wasn’t okayfortheIrish,andit’snotokayfortheIndians.”

“Jeez, soapbox much?”Tylermutters.

Megan McDonald, oneseat ahead of Molly, raisesherhand,andMr.Reednods.“She has a point,” she says.“My grandpa’s from Dublin.He’s always talking aboutwhattheBritsdid.”

“Well, my granddad’s

parents lost everything in theGreat Depression. You don’tsee me crying for handouts.Shit happens, excuse myFrench,”Tylersays.

“Tyler’s French aside,”Mr. Reed says, raising hiseyebrowsat theclassas if tosay he doesn’t approve butwilldealwithitlater,“isthatwhat they’re doing? Askingforhandouts?”

“They just want to be

treated fairly,” a kid in thebacksays.

“But what does thatmean? And where does itend?”anotherkidasks.

As others join theconversation,Megan turns inherseatandsquintsatMolly,as ifnoticingher for thefirsttime.“AnIndian,huh.That’scool,” she whispers. “LikeMollyMolasses,right?”

WEEKDAYS, NOW, MOLLYDOESN’T WAIT FOR JACK TOTAKE HER TO Vivian’s house.Outside of school she picksuptheIslandExplorer.

“Youhaveotherthingstodo,” she tells him. “I knowit’sapainforyou towaitonme.” But in truth, taking thebus gives her the freedom tostay as long as Vivian willhave her without Jack’squestions.

Molly hasn’t told Jackabouttheportageproject.Sheknowshe’dsayit’sabadidea—that she’s gettingoverinvolvedinVivian’slife,askingtoomuchofher.Evenso, Jack has had an edge inhis voice recently. “So hey,you’re getting to the end ofyour hours soon, huh?” hesays, and, “Making anyprogressupthere?”

These days Molly slips

into Vivian’s house, ducksherheadwithaquickhellotoTerry, sidles up the stairs. Itseems both too hard toexplain her growingrelationship with Vivian andbesidethepoint.Whatdoesitmatter what anyone elsethinks?

“Here’smy theory,” Jacksaysonedayasthey’resittingoutsideonthelawnatschoolduringlunchperiod.

It’s a beautiful morning,and theair is freshandmild.Dandelions dance likesparklersinthegrass.

“Vivian is like a motherfigure to you. Grandmother,great-grandmother—whatever. She listens to you,she tells you stories, letsyouhelp her out. Shemakes youfeelneeded.”

“No,” Molly says withirritation.“It’snot likethat.I

have hours to do; she haswork that needs to be done.Simple.”

“Not really so simple,Moll,” he says withexaggerated reasonableness.“Ma tells me there’s not ahelluva lot going on upthere.” He pops open a bigcan of iced tea and takes alongswallow.

“We’re making progress.It’sjusthardtosee.”

“Hardtosee?”Helaughs,unwrappingaSubway Italiansandwich. “I thought thewholepointwas toget ridofthe boxes. That seems fairlystraightforward.No?”

Mollysnapsacarrotstickin half. “We’re organizingthings.Sothey’llbeeasiertofind.”

“By who? Estate salepeople? Because that’s whoit’s going to be, you know.

Vivian will probably neversetfootupthereagain.”

Is this really any of hisbusiness? “Then we’remakingiteasierfortheestatesalepeople.” In truth, thoughshe hasn’t admitted it outloud until now, Molly hasvirtuallygivenupontheideaof disposing of anything.Afterall,whatdoesitmatter?Why shouldn’tVivian’s atticbe filled with things that are

meaningful to her?The starktruth is that she will diesooner than later. And thenprofessionalswilldescendonthe house, neatly andefficiently separating thevaluable from thesentimental, lingering onlyover items of indeterminateorigin or worth. So yes—Mollyhasbegun toviewherwork at Vivian’s in adifferent light. Maybe it

doesn’tmatterhowmuchgetsdone. Maybe the value is intheprocess—intouchingeachitem, in naming andidentifying,inacknowledgingthesignificanceofacardigan,apairofchildren’sboots.

“It’s her stuff,” Mollysays.“Shedoesn’twanttogetridofit.Ican’tforceher,canI?”

Taking a bite of hissandwich, its fillings spilling

out onto the waxy paperbelow his chin, Jack shrugs.“I don’t know. I think it’smore the”—he chews andswallows and Molly looksaway, annoyed at his passiveaggression—“appearance ofit,y’know?”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“To Ma it might look a

little like you’re takingadvantageofthesituation.”

Molly looks down at her

ownsandwich.“I justknowyou’ll likeit

ifyougiveitachance,”Dinasaid breezily when Mollyasked her to stop puttingbologna sandwiches in herlunch bag, adding, “or youcan make your own damnlunch.”SonowMollydoes—she swallowed her pride,asked Ralph for money, andbought almond butter,organic honey, and nutty

breadinthehealthfoodstoreinBarHarbor.And it’s fine,thoughherlittlestashisaboutaswelcomeinthepantryasafresh-killedmousebroughtinbythecat—orperhaps,beingvegetarian, less so—and isquarantined on a shelf in themudroom “so no one getsconfused,”asDinasays.

Molly feels anger risingin her chest—at Dina’sunwillingness to accept her

for who she is, at Terry’sjudgmentsandJack’sneedtoplacate her. At all of them.“The thing is—it’s not reallyyour mother’s business, isit?”

Themomentshesaysthissheregretsit.

Jack gives her a sharplook.“Areyoukiddingme?”

He balls up the Subwaywrapper and stuffs it in theplastic bag it came in.Molly

has never seen him like this,his jaw tight, his eyes hardand angry. “Mymotherwentout on a limb for you,” hesays. “She brought you intothat house.Anddo I need toremind you that she lied toVivian? If anything happens,she could lose her job. Likethat.” He snaps his fingershard.

“Jack, you’re right. I’msorry,” she says, but he is

already on his feet andwalkingaway.


“Spring at last!” Ralphbeams, pulling on workgloves in the kitchen whileMollypoursherselfabowlofcereal.Itdoesfeellikespringtoday—realspring,withleafytrees andbloomingdaffodils,

airsowarmyoudon’tneedasweater.“HereIgo,”hesays,heading outside to clearbrush.WorkingintheyardisRalph’s favorite activity; helikes to weed, to plant, tocultivate.Allwinterhe’sbeenlike a dog scratching thedoor,beggingtogoout.

Dina, meanwhile, iswatchingHGTVandpaintingher toenails on the livingroom couch. When Molly

comes into the living roomwithherraisinbran,shelooksup and frowns. “Something Icandoforyou?”Shejabsthetiny brush into the coralbottle,wipestheexcessunderthe rim, and expertly strokesit on her big toe, correctingthe linewithher thumb. “Nofood in the living room,remember.”

Good morning to you,too. Without a word, Molly

turns and heads back to thekitchen, where she speed-dialsJack.

“Hey.”Hisvoiceiscool.“What’reyouupto?”“Vivian’s paying me to

do a spring cleanup of herproperty—get rid of deadbranchesandallthat.You?”

“I’m heading over toBarHarbor, to the library. I havea research project due in afewdays.Iwashopingyou’d

comewithme.”“Sorry,can’t,”hesays.Ever since their

conversation at lunch lastweek, Jack’s been like this.Mollyknowsitistakinggreateffortonhispart tohold thisgrudge—itrunssocountertohis personality. And thoughshe wants to apologize, tomake things right betweenthem, she’s afraid thatanything she says now will

ring hollow. If Jack knowsshe’s been interviewingVivian—that cleaning theattic has morphed into thisongoing conversation—he’llbeevenmorepissedoff.

Shehearsawhisperinherhead: Leave well enoughalone.Finishyourhoursandbedonewithit.Butshecan’tleavewellenoughalone.Shedoesn’twantto.

The Island Explorer is

nearly empty. The fewpassengers greet each otherwith a nod as they get on.With her earbuds in, Mollyknowsshelookslikeatypicalteenager, but what she’sactually listening to isVivian’s voice. On the tapeMollyhearsthingsshedidn’twhen Vivian was sitting infrontofher...

Time constricts andflattens, you know. It’s not

evenly weighted. Certainmoments linger in the mindand others disappear. Thefirst twenty-threeyearsofmylife are the ones that shapedme, and the fact that I’velived almost seven decadessincethenisirrelevant.Thoseyearshavenothingtodowiththequestionsyouask.

Molly flips open hernotebook, runs her fingerdown the names and dates

she’s recorded.Sheplays thetape backward and forward,stops and starts, scribblesdown identifiers she missed.Kinvara, County Galway,Ireland. The Agnes Pauline.Ellis Island, The Irish Rose,Delancey Street. ElizabethStreet, Dominick, James,MaisiePower.TheChildren’sAid Society, Mrs. Scatcherd,Mr.Curran...

What did you choose to

takewith you?What did youleave behind? What insightsdidyougain?

Vivian’s life has beenquiet and ordinary. As theyears havepassed, her losseshavepiledoneonanotherlikelayers of shale: even if hermother lived, she would bedead now; the people whoadopted her are dead; herhusband is dead; she has nochildren. Except for the

company of the woman shepaystotakecareofher,sheisasaloneasapersoncanbe.

Shehasnevertriedtofindout what happened to herfamily—her mother or herrelatives in Ireland. But overand over, Molly begins tounderstand as she listens tothe tapes, Vivian has comeback to the idea that thepeople who matter in ourlives stay with us, haunting

our most ordinary moments.They’re with us in thegrocery store, as we turn acorner, chat with a friend.They rise up through thepavement; we absorb themthroughoursoles.

Vivian has givenMolly’scommunity service sentencemeaning. Now Molly wantsto give something back. Noone else knows Vivian’sstory.There’snoone to read

the documents of indenture,of adoption; no one toacknowledge the significanceof the things she values,things that would bemeaningful only to someonewho cares about her. ButMolly cares. The gaps inVivian’s stories seem to hermysteries shecanhelp solve.On TV once she heard arelationship expert say thatyoucan’tfindpeaceuntilyou

findallthepieces.ShewantstohelpVivianfindsomekindofpeace,elusiveandfleetingasitmaybe.

Afterbeingdroppedoffatthe Bar Harbor green,Mollywalks over to the library, abrick structure on MountDesert Street. In the mainreading room, she chatswiththe reference librarian, whohelps her find a cache ofbooks on Irish history and

immigrationinthe1920s.Shespends a few hours poringover them and jotting notes.Thenshepullsouther laptopand launches Google.Different words togetheryield different results, soMolly tries dozens ofcombinations: “1929 fireNYC,” “Lower East SideElizabeth St. fire 1929,”“Agnes Pauline,” “EllisIsland 1927.” On the Ellis

Island website she clicksPassenger Records Search.Searchbyship.Nowclickthename of a ship from the listbelow . . .Andhere it is, theAgnesPauline.

She finds Vivian’sparents’ full names in thepassenger records log—PatrickandMaryPowerfromCountyGalway,Ireland—andfeelsavertiginousthrill,asiffictional characters have

suddenly sprung to life.Searching the names,separately and together, shefindsasmallnoticeaboutthefire noting the deaths ofPatrick Power and his sons,DominickandJames.There’snomentionofMaisie.

She types“MaryPower.”Then “Maisie Power.”Nothing. She has an idea:Schatzman. “SchatzmanElizabeth Street.”

“Schatzman Elizabeth StreetNYC.”“SchatzmanElizabethStreetNYC1930.”Areunionblog pops up. A LizaSchatzman organized afamily reunion in 2010 inupstateNewYork.Underthe“family history” tab, Mollyfindsasepia-tonedpictureofAgneta and BernardSchatzman, who emigratedfrom Germany in 1915,residedat26ElizabethStreet.

He worked as a vendor andshetookinmending.BernardSchatzmanwas born in 1894and Agneta in 1897. Theyhad no children until 1929,when he was thirty-five andshewasthirty-two.

Thentheyadoptedababy,Margaret.

Maisie.Mollysitsbackinher chair. So Maisie didn’tdieinthefire.

Less than ten minutes

after beginning her search,Mollyislookingatayear-oldphotograph of awomanwhomust be Vivian’s white-haired baby sister, MargaretReynoldsnéeSchatzman,ageeighty-two, surrounded byher children, grandchildren,andgreat-grandchildrenatherhome in Rhinebeck, NewYork. Two and a half hoursfromNewYorkCityandjustovereighthoursfromSpruce

Harbor.She types in “Margaret

Reynolds, Rhinebeck, NY.”An obituary notice from thePoughkeepsie Journal popsup.It’sfivemonthsold.

Mrs. MargaretReynolds, age 83,died peacefully inher sleep onSaturday after ashort illness. She

was surrounded byher loving family...

Lost—and found—andlostagain.HowwillsheevertellVivian?


When I get better, I ride toschool with Miss Larsen inthe black car. Mrs. Murphygives me something newnearlyeveryday—askirtshesays she found in a closet, awoolen hat, a camel-colored

coat, a periwinkle scarf andmatching mittens. Some ofthe clothes have missingbuttons or small rips andtears, and others needhemming or taking in.WhenMrs. Murphy finds memending a dress with theneedleandthreadFannygaveme, she exclaims, “Why,you’re as handy as a pocketinashirt.”

The food she makes,

familiar to me from Ireland,evokes a flood of memories:sausages roasting withpotatoes in the oven, the tealeaves in Gram’s morningcuppa, laundry flapping onthelinebehindherhouse,thefaintclangof thechurchbellin thedistance.Gramsaying,“Now, that was the goat’stoe,”afterasatisfyingsupper.And other things: quarrelsbetweenMamandGram,my

da passed out drunk on thefloor. Mam’s cry: “Youspoiled him rotten, and nowhe’ll never be a man”—andGram’s retort: “You keeppecking at him and soon hewon’t come home at all.”Sometimes when I stayedovernight at Gram’s, I’doverhear my grandparentswhispering at the kitchentable. What are we to doabout it, then?Will we have

to feed that family forever? Iknew they were exasperatedwith Da, but they had littlepatience for Mam, either,whose people were fromLimerick and never lifted afingertohelp.

The day Gram gave methe claddagh Iwas sittingonher bed, tracing the nubbywhite bedspread like Brailleunder my fingers, watchinghergetreadyforchurch.She

sat at a small vanity tablewith an oval mirror, fluffingher hair lightly with a brushshe prized—the finestwhaleboneandhorsehair,shesaid, letting me touch thesmooth off-white handle, thestiff bristles—and kept in acasketlike case. She’d savedfor the brush by mendingclothes; it took four months,she told me, to earn themoney.

After replacing the brushin its case,Gram opened herjewelry box, an off-whitefaux-leatheronewithgilttrimand a gold clasp, plush redvelvet inside, revealing atrove of treasures—sparklingearrings, heavy necklaces inonyx and pearl, goldbracelets.(Mymamlatersaidspitefully that these werecheapcostumejewelryfromaGalwayfive-and-dime,butat

the time they seemedimpossibly luxurious to me.)She picked out a pair ofclustered pearl earrings withpadded back clasps, clippingfirstoneandthentheothertoherlow-hanginglobes.

In the bottom of the boxwas the claddagh cross. I’dnever seen her wear it. Shetoldmethatherda,nowlongdead, had given it to her forher First Holy Communion

whenshewas thirteen.She’dplanned to give it to herdaughter, my auntie Brigid,but Brigid wanted a goldbirthstoneringinstead.

“You are my onlygranddaughter, and I wantyou to have it,” Gramdeclared, fastening the chainaround my neck. “See theinterlaced strands?” Shetouched the raised patternwithaknobbyfinger.“These

trace a never-ending path,leadingawayfromhomeandcirclingback.Whenyouwearthis,you’llneverbe far fromtheplaceyoustarted.”

SeveralweeksafterGramgave me the claddagh, sheandMamgotintooneoftheirarguments. As their voicesrose I took the twins into abedroomdownthehall.

“You tricked him into it;he wasn’t ready,” I heard

Gramshout.AndthenMam’sretort, as clear as day: “Amanwhosemother won’t lethim lift a finger is ruined forawife.”

The front door banged; itwas Granddad, I knew,stompingout in disgust.AndthenIheardacrash,ashriek,a cry, and I ran to the parlorto find Gram’s whalebonebrush shattered in piecesagainst the hearth, andMam

withalookoftriumphonherface.

Not a month later, wefound ourselves bound forEllis Island on the AgnesPauline.

MRS. MURPHY’S HUSBANDDIED A DECADE AGO, I LEARN,LEAVINGherwiththisbigoldhouse and little money.Making the most of the

situation,shebegantotakeinboarders. Thewomen have aschedule that rotates once aweek: cooking, laundry,cleaning, washing the floors.Soon enough I am helpingtoo: I set the table forbreakfast, clear the plates,sweep the hall, wash thedishes after dinner. Mrs.Murphy is the hardestworking of all, up early tomakesconesandbiscuitsand

porridge,lasttobedwhensheshutsoffthelights.

At night, in the livingroom, the women gather totalk about the stockings theywear, whether the best oneshave a seam up the back oraresmooth,whichbrandslastlongest, which are scratchy;the most desirable shade oflipstick (by consensus, RitzBonfire Red); and theirfavorite brands of face

powder. I sit silently by thefireplace, listening. MissLarsenrarelyparticipates;sheis busy in the eveningscreating lesson plans andstudying. She wears smallgold glasseswhen she reads,which seems to bewhenevershe isn’t doing chores. Shealways has a book or adishrag in her hand, andsometimesboth.

I am beginning to feel at

homehere.But asmuchas Ihope that Mrs. Murphy hasforgotten I don’t belong, ofcourse she hasn’t. Oneafternoon, when I come infromthecarwithMissLarsenafter school,Mr. Sorenson isstandinginthefoyer,holdinghisblackfelthatinhishandslike a steering wheel. Mystomachflops.

“Ah, here she is!” Mrs.Murphy exclaims. “Come,

Niamh, into the parlor. Joinus,please,MissLarsen.Shutthat door, we’ll catch ourdeath of cold. Tea, Mr.Sorenson?”

“That would be lovely,Mrs.Murphy,”Mr.Sorensonsays, lumbering after herthroughthedoubledoors.

Mrs. Murphy gesturestoward the rose velvet sofaandhesitsdownheavily,likean elephant I once saw in a

picture book, his largestomach protruding fromrounded thighs. Miss Larsenand I sit in the wingbackchairs. When Mrs. Murphydisappears into the kitchen,he leans forward and smirks.“Niamhagain,areyou?”

“I don’t know.” I glanceout the window at the streetdusted with snow and Mr.Sorenson’s dark green truckthat I somehow hadn’t

noticedearlierparkedinfrontof the house. The vehicle,more than his presence,makes me shudder. It’s thesame one I rode in to theGrotes’, with Mr. Sorensongabbing cheerfully thewholeway.

“Let’s go back toDorothy, shall we?” he says.“Easier.”

MissLarsen looksasme,andIshrug.“Allright.”

He clears his throat.“Whydon’twegettoit.”Hepullshis small glassesoutofhis breast pocket, puts themon, and holds a paper out atarm’s length. “There havebeen two failed attempts atplacing out. The Byrnes andthe Grotes. Trouble with thewoman of the house in bothplaces.”He looks atmeoverthe top of his silver rims. “Imust tell you, Dorothy, it’s

beginning to appear thatthere’s some kind of . . .problemwithyou.”

“ButIdidn’t—”He waves his sausage

fingers at me. “Thepredicament, you mustunderstand,isthatyouareanorphan,andthatwhateverthereality, it looks as if theremay be an issue with . . .insubordination. Now, thereare several ways to proceed.

First, of course,we can sendyoubacktoNewYork.Orwecan attempt to find anotherhome.” He sighs heavily.“Which, to be frank, mayprovedifficult.”

Mrs. Murphy, who hasbeen in and out of the roomwith her cabbage-rose teaservice and is now pouringteaintodelicate,thin-rimmedcups, sets the teapot on atrivet in the middle of the

polished coffee table. Shehands Mr. Sorenson a cupand offers him the sugarbowl. “Marvelous, Mrs.Murphy,”hesays,anddumpsfour spoons of sugar into hiscup. He adds milk, stirs itnoisily, rests the small silverspoon on the rim of hissaucer,andtakesalongslurp.

“Mr. Sorenson,” Mrs.Murphysayswhenhiscupisback in its resting place. “A

thought occurs.May I speakwithyouinthefoyer?”

“Why certainly.” Hewipes hismouthwith a pinknapkin and gets up to followherintothehall.

When the door closesbehind them, Miss Larsentakes a sip of tea and placesher cup back on its saucerwith a little rattle. The brasslamp on the round tablebetween us emits an amber

glow.“I’msorryyouhavetogothroughthis.ButI’msureyou understand that Mrs.Murphy, generous hearted asshe is, can’t take you inindefinitely. You dounderstand,don’tyou?”

“Yes.”There’s a lump inmythroat.Idon’ttrustmyselftosaymore.

When Mrs. Murphy andMr.Sorensoncomebackintotheroom,shefixeshersteady

gazeonhimandsmiles.“Youarequiteafortunate

girl,” he tells me. “Thisextraordinary woman!” Hebeams at Mrs. Murphy, andshe lowers her eyes. “Mrs.Murphy has brought to myattentionthatacouplenamedthe Nielsens, friends of hers,own the general store onCenterStreet. Fiveyears agotheylosttheironlychild.”

“Diphtheria, I believe it

was, poor thing,” Mrs.Murphyadds.

“Yes, yes, tragedy,” Mr.Sorenson says. “Well,apparently they’ve beenlooking for help with theshop.Mrs.Nielsen contactedMrs. Murphy several weeksago, asking whether anyyoung woman in residencewas seeking employment.And then, when you washedup on her doorstep . . .”

Perhaps sensing that thischaracterization of how I gothere might be perceived asinsensitive, he chuckles.“Forgive me, Mrs. Murphy!Afigureofspeech!”

“Quite all right, Mr.Sorenson,weunderstandyoumeant no harm by it.” Mrs.Murphy pours more tea intohis cup and hands it to him,then turns to me. “Afterspeaking with Miss Larsen

about your situation, I toldMrs.Nielsenaboutyou.Isaidthat you are a sober-mindedand mature almost-eleven-year-old girl, that you haveimpressed me with yourability to sew and clean, andthat I have no doubt youcould be of use to her. Iexplainedthatwhileadoptionmay be the most desirouseventual result, it is notexpected.” She clasps her

hands together. “And soMr.andMrs.Nielsenhaveagreedtomeetwithyou.”

I know I am expected torespond, to expressgratitude,butittakesaconsciouseffortto smile, and severalmomentstoformthewords.Iamnotgrateful; Iambitterlydisappointed. I don’tunderstand why I need toleave, why Mrs. Murphycan’t keepme if she thinks I

amsowellmannered.Idon’twanttogointoanotherhomewhere I’m treated like aservant,toleratedonlyforthelaborIcanprovide.

“How kind of you, Mrs.Murphy!” Miss Larsenexclaims, plunging into thesilence. “That’s wonderfulnews,isn’tit,Dorothy?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mrs.Murphy,” I say, choking outthewords.

“You’re quite welcome,child. Quite welcome.” Shebeams proudly. “Now, Mr.Sorenson. Perhaps you and Ishouldattend thismeetingaswell?”

Mr. Sorenson drains histeacup and sets it in itssaucer. “Indeed, Mrs.Murphy. I am also thinkingthatthetwoofusshouldmeetseparately to discuss the . . .finer points of this

transaction.What would yousaytothat?”

Mrs.Murphyblushesandblinks;sheshiftsinherchair,picksupherteacup,andthenputsitdownwithouttakingasip. “Yes, that’s probablywise,” she says, and MissLarsen looks over and givesmeasmile.


Overthenextfewdays,everytime I see her Mrs. Murphyhas another suggestion forhowIshouldcomportmyselfon meeting the Nielsens. “Afirm handshake, but not asqueeze,” she says, passing

me on the stairs. “You mustbe ladylike. They need toknow thatyoucanbe trustedbehind the counter,” shelecturesatdinner.

The other women chimein.“Don’taskquestions,”oneadvises.

“Butanswerthemwithouthesitation,”anotheradds.

“Make sure yourfingernails are clipped andgroomed.”

“Clean your teeth justbeforewithbakingsoda.”

“Your hair must be”—Miss Grund grimaces andreaches up to her own head,as if patting down soapbubbles—“tamed. You neverknow how they might feelabout a redhead. Especiallythattinnyshade.”

“Now,now,”MissLarsensays. “We’re going to scarethe poor girl so much she

won’tknowhowtoact.”On the morning of the

meeting, a Saturday in mid-December, there is a lightknock on my bedroom door.It’s Mrs. Murphy, holding anavy blue velvet dress on ahanger.“Let’sseeifthisfits,”she says, handing it to me.I’mnotsurewhethertoinviteherinorclosethedoorwhileI change, but she solves thisdilemma by bustling in and

sittingonthebed.Mrs.Murphyissomatter-

of-factthatIamnotashamedto take my clothes off andstand there in my knickers.She removes the dress fromthe hanger, unzips a seam atthesidethatIhadn’trealizedwasazipper,andliftsitovermyhead,helpingmewiththelong sleeves, pulling downthe gathered skirt, zipping itup again. She steps back in

thesmallspacetoinspectme,yanksatonesideandthentheother.Tugsatasleeve.“Let’sseeaboutthathair,”shesays,instructingme to turnaroundso she can take a look.Fishing in her apron pocket,she pulls out bobbypins anda hair clip. For the next fewminutesshepokesandprods,pullingthehairbackfrommyface and smoothing it intosubmission. When she’s

finished to her satisfaction,she turns me around to lookatmyreflectionintheglass.

Despite my trepidationaboutmeeting theNielsens, Ican’t help smiling. For thefirst time since Mr. Grotebutchered my hair monthsago, I look almost pretty. Ihave never worn a velvetdressbefore.Itisheavyandalittlestiff,withafullskirtthatfalls in a lush drape to my

midcalf. It gives off a faintscentofmothballswheneverImove. I think it’s beautiful,but Mrs. Murphy isn’tsatisfied.Narrowingher eyesat me and clicking hertongue, she pinches thematerial. “Wait aminute, I’llbe right back,” she says,hurrying out and returning afew moments later with awide black ribbon. “Turnaround,” she instructs, and

whenIdo,sheloopsthesasharoundmywaistandtiesitinthe back with a wide bow.We both inspect herhandiworkinthemirror.

“There we are. You looklike a princess, my dear,”Mrs. Murphy declares. “Areyourblackstockingsclean?”

Inod.“Put them on, then. And

your black shoes will befine.” She laughs, her hands

on my waist. “A redheadedIrish princess you are, righthereinMinnesota!”

AT THREE O’CLOCK THATAFTERNOON, IN THE EARLYHOURS OF THE first heavysnowstorm of the season, IgreetMr.andMrs.NielseninMrs. Murphy’s parlor, withMr. Sorenson and MissLarsenstandingby.

Mr. Nielsen resembles alarge gray mouse, completewith twitching whiskers,pink-tinged ears, and a tinymouth.He iswearing a graythree-piece suit and a silkstripedbowtie,andhewalkswith a black cane. Mrs.Nielsen is thin, almost frail.Her dark head of hair,streakedwithsilver, ispulledback in a bun. She has darkeyebrows and eyelashes and

deep-setbrowneyes, andherlips are stained a dark red.She wears no powder orrougeonheroliveskin.

Mrs. Murphy puts theNielsensatease,plying themwith tea and biscuits andinquiring about their shorttrip across town in the snowand then remarkinggenerallyon the weather: how thetemperature dipped in thepast few days and snow

cloudsgatheredslowlytothewest, how the storm finallybegan today, as everyoneknew it would. Theyspeculate about how muchsnow we are bound to gettonight,how long itwill stayon the ground, when wemightexpectmoresnow,andwhatkindofwinteritwillbe.Surely it won’t rival thewinter of 1922, when icestorms were followed by

blizzards and nobody couldget any relief? Or the black-dust blizzard of 1923—remember that?—when dirtysnowblewdown fromNorthDakota,seven-footsnowdriftscoveredentiresectionsofthecity, and people didn’t leavetheir houses for weeks? Onthe other hand, there’s littlechance that itwillbeasmildas 1921, the warmestDecemberonrecord.

The Nielsens are politelycurious about me, and I domy best to answer theirquestions without soundingeither desperate or apathetic.The other three adults watchuswithaquivering intensity.Isensethemurgingmetodowell, to sit up straight andanswer in completesentences.

Finally, as oneconversational theme after

another runs its course, Mr.Sorenson says, “All rightthen. I believe we all knowwhy we are here—todetermine whether theNielsens might be willing toprovideDorothywithahome,and whether Dorothy issuitable to their needs. Tothat end, Dorothy—can youtell the Nielsens why youwish to become part of theirhousehold, and what you

mightbringtoityourself?”If I am honest—which is

not, of course, what Mr.Sorenson is asking of me—Iwill say that I simply need awarm, dry place to live. Iwant enough food to eat,clothes, and shoes that willprotect me from the cold. Iwant calmness and order.Morethananything,Iwanttofeelsafeinmybed.

“Icansew,andIamquite

neat. I’m good withnumbers,”Isay.

Mr. Nielsen, turning toMrs.Murphy,asks,“Andcanthe young lady cook andclean?Isshehardworking?”

“Is she a Protestant?”Mrs.Nielsenadds.

“She is a hardworkinggirl,Icanattesttothat,”Mrs.Murphysays.

“Icancooksomethings,”I tell them, “though at my

previous residence I wasexpectedtomakestewoutofsquirrels and raccoons, andI’drathernotdothatagain.”

“Mercy, no,” Mrs.Nielsen says. “And the otherquestion—?”

“Theotherquestion?”I’mbarelykeepingup.

“Do you go to church,dear?”Mrs.Murphyprompts.

“Oh, right. The family Ilived with were not

churchgoing people,” Ianswer honestly, though intruth I have not been tochurchsincethechapelattheChildren’s Aid Society, andbeforethatonlywithGram.Iremember clasping her handaswewalkedtoSt.Joseph’s,rightinthecenterofKinvara,asmallchurchmadeofstonewith jewel-toned stained-glass windows and dark oakpews. The smell of incense

and lilies, the candles lit forloved ones passed away, thethroaty intonations of thepriest, and the majestictrumpeting of the organ.Myda said he was allergic toreligion,itneverdidanybodyanygood;andwhenMamgotgrief from the neighbors onElizabeth Street about notgoing to services, she’d say,“YoutrypackingupaswarmofkidsonaSundaymorning

whenonehasafever,onehasthecolic,andyourhusband’spassed out in the bed.” Iremember watching otherCatholics, girls in theirCommuniondressesandboysin their spitshined shoes,walking down the streetbelow our apartment, theirmothers pushing prams andfathersstrollingalongbeside.

“She’sanIrishgirl,Viola,soIsuspectshe’saCatholic,”

Mr.Nielsensaystohiswife.Inod.“Youmay be a Catholic,

child,”Mr.Nielsensays—thefirst thing he has said to medirectly—“but we areProtestant. And we willexpectyou togo toLutheranserviceswithusonSundays.”

It’s been years since I’veattendedservicesofanykind,sowhatdoesitmatter?“Yes,ofcourse.”

“And you should knowthat we will send you toschool in town here, a shortwalkfromourhome—soyouwon’t attend Miss Larsen’sclassesanylonger.”

Miss Larsen says, “IbelieveDorothywasabouttooutgrow the school-house,anyway, she’s such a smartgirl.”

“And after school,” Mr.Nielsen says, “you will be

expected tohelp in the store.We’ll pay you an hourlywage, of course. You knowabout the store, Dorothy, doyounot?”

“It’s sort of a general-interest, all-purpose place,”Mrs.Nielsensays.

Inodandnodandnod.Sofar they’ve said nothing thatraises an alarm. But I don’tfeel the spark of connectionwiththem,either.Theydon’t

seemeagertolearnaboutme,but then again, few peopleare. I get the sense that myabandonment, and thecircumstances that broughtme to them, matter little tothem,comparedtotheneedImightfillintheirlives.

Thefollowingmorning,at9:00 A.M., Mr. Nielsen pullsup in a blue-and-whiteStudebaker with silver trimand raps on the front door.

Mrs. Murphy has been sogenerousthatInowhavetwosuitcases and a satchel filledwith clothes and books andshoes. As I’m closing mybags Miss Larsen comes tomyroomandpressesAnneofGreenGables intomyhands.“It’s my own book, not theschool’s, and I want you tohave it,” she says, huggingmegood-bye.

And then, for the fourth

time since I first set foot inMinnesota over a year ago,everythingIpossessisloadedintoavehicleandIamonmywaytosomewherenew.

Hemingford,Minnesota,1930–

1931

TheNielsens’home isa two-story colonial painted yellowwithblackshuttersandalongslate walkway leading to thefront door. It sits on a quiet

streetseveralblocksfromthecenter of town. Inside, thefloorplanisacircle:asunnylivingroomontherightleadsinto the kitchen in the back,which connects to a diningroomandbacktothefoyer.

Upstairs I have my ownlarge room, painted pink,with a window overlookingthe street, and evenmy ownbathroom, with a largeporcelain sink and pink tiles

and a cheerful white curtainwithpinkpiping.

Mr.andMrs.Nielsentakethings for granted that I’venever dared to dream of.Alltheroomshavesteelairventswith black-paintedscrollwork. Even when nooneishome,thewaterheaterison,sothatwhentheycomehome after work, they don’thave towait for thewater toheat up. A woman named

Bess cleans the house anddoes the washing once aweek. The refrigerator isstocked with milk and eggsand cheese and juice, andMrs. Nielsen notices what Iliketoeatandbuysmoreofit—oats for breakfast, forinstance, and fruits, evenexotic ones like oranges andbananas. I find aspirin andstore-boughttoothpasteinthemedicine cabinet and clean

towels in the hall closet.Everytwoyears,Mr.Nielsentellsme, he trades in his carforanewmodel.

On Sunday morning wegotochurch.GraceLutheranisdifferentfromanyplaceofworship I’ve ever seen: asimple white building with asteeple, Gothic archedwindows, oak pews, and aspare altar. I find the ritualscomforting—the tried-and-

true hymns, sermons by themild-mannered, slope-shouldered reverend thatemphasize decency and goodmanners. Mr. Nielsen andother parishioners grumbleabouttheorganist,whoeitherplays so fast that we jumblethewordsorsoslowthat thesongs become dirges, and hecan’tseemtotakehisfootoffthe pedal. But nobodyactually protests—they just

raise their eyebrows at eachothermidsongandshrug.

I like theassumption thateveryone is trying his best,andweshouldalljustbekindtoeachother.Ilikethecoffeehour with almond cake andsnickerdoodles in the vestry.And I like being associatedwith theNielsens,who seemto be generally regarded asfine, upstanding citizens. Forthe first time in my life, the

glow of other people’sapproval extends to, andenvelops,me.

LIFE WITH THE NIELSENS ISCALM AND ORDERLY. EACHMORNING AT five thirty, sixdays a week, Mrs. Nielsenmakes breakfast for herhusband, usually fried eggsand toast, and he leaves forthe store to open for the

farmersatsix.Igetreadyforschoolandleavethehouseatseven forty-five for the ten-minute walk to theschoolhouse,abrickbuildingthat holds sixty children,separatedintogrades.

On my first day in thisnew school, the fifth-gradeteacher, Miss Buschkowsky,asks the twelve of us in herclass to introduce ourselvesand list one or two of our

hobbies.I’ve never heard of a

“hobby.” But the boy beforeme says playing stick-ball,and the girl before him saysstampcollecting,sowhenthequestion comes to me, I saysewing.

“Lovely, Dorothy!” MissBuschkowskysays.“Whatdoyouliketosew?”

“Clothes, mostly,” I telltheclass.

Miss Buschkowskysmiles encouragingly. “Foryourdolls?”

“No,forladies.”“Well, isn’t that nice!”

shesaysinatoo-brightvoice,and in that way it becomesclear to me that most ten-year-olds probably don’t sewclothesforladies.

And so I begin to adjust.The kids know I’ve comefrom somewhere else, but as

timepasses, andwith carefuleffort, I lose any trace of anaccent. I note what the girlsmy age are wearing and thestyle of their hair and thesubjectoftheirconversations,andIworkhardtobanishmyforeignness, to make friends,tofitin.

After school, at threeo’clock,Iwalkdirectlytothestore. Nielsen’s is a largeopen space divided into

aisles,withapharmacyintheback, a candy section upfront, clothes, books, andmagazines, shampoo, milk,and produce. My job is tostack shelves and help withinventory. When it’s busy, Ihelpoutatthecashregister.

From my place at thecounter I see longing in thefacesofcertainchildren—theoneswho sidle into the storeand linger in the candyaisle,

eyeing thehardstripedstickswith a fierce hunger Irememberonlytoowell.IaskMr. Nielsen if I can use myownearningstogiveachildastickofpennycandynowandthen, and he laughs. “Useyour discretion, Dorothy. Iwon’t take it out of yourwages.”

Mrs. Nielsen leaves thestore at five to start dinner;sometimes I go home with

her,andsometimesIstayandhelpMr.Nielsencloseup.Healways leaves at six. Atdinner we talk about theweather and my homeworkandthestore.Mr.Nielsenisamember of the chamber ofcommerce,andconversationsoften include discussion ofinitiatives and plans forstimulating business in this“unruly”economy,ashecallsit. Late at night,Mr.Nielsen

sitsintheparlorathisrolltopdesk, going over the storeledgers, while Mrs. Nielsenprepares our lunches for thenext day, tidies the kitchen,takescareofhouseholdtasks.Ihelpwashthedishes,sweepthe floor. When chores aredone, we play checkers orheartsand listen to the radio.Mrs. Nielsen teaches me toneedlepoint; while she’smaking intricately detailed

pillows for the sofa, I workonthefloralcoverforastool.

One of my first tasks atthe store is to help decoratefor Christmas. Mrs. Nielsenand I bring boxes filledwithglass balls and chinaornaments and ribbon andstrings of sparkling beads upfrom the storage room in thecellar. Mr. Nielsen has histwodeliveryboys,AdamandThomas,drivetotheoutskirts

of town to cut a tree for thewindow, and we spend anafternoon putting swags ofgreenery with red velveteenbows over the store entranceand decorating the tree,wrappingemptyboxesinfoilpaper and tying them withflocked ribbon and silkcording.

As we work together,Mrs.Nielsentellsmebitsandpieces about her life. She is

Swedish, though youwouldn’tknowit—herpeoplewere dark-eyed gypsies whocame to Gothamberg fromcentral Europe. Her parentsare dead, her siblingsscattered. She and Mr.Nielsen have been marriedfor eighteen years, since shewas twenty-five and he wasin his early thirties. Theythought they couldn’t havechildren, but about eleven

years ago she got pregnant.On July 7, 1920, theirdaughter,Vivian,wasborn.

“What is your birth dateagain, Dorothy?” Mrs.Nielsenasks.

“Apriltwenty-first.”Carefully she threads

silver ribbon through the treebranchesintheback,duckingher head so I can’t see herface. Then she says, “Yougirls are almost the same

age.”“What happened to her?”

I venture. Mrs. Nielsen hasnevermentionedherdaughterbefore and I sense that if Idon’tasknow,Imaynotgetthechance.

Mrs. Nielsen ties theribbon toabranchandbendsdown to find another. Sheattaches the end of the newribbon to the samebranch tomake it look continuous, and

beginstheprocessofweavingitthrough.

“When she was six, shedeveloped a fever. Wethoughtitwasacold.Putherto bed, called the doctor. Hesaid we should let her rest,give her plenty of fluids, theusual advice. But she didn’tgetbetter.Andnextthingweknewitwasthemiddleofthenight and she was delirious,out of her mind, really, and

we called the doctor againand he looked down herthroat and saw the telltalespots.Wedidn’tknowwhatitwas,buthedid.

“We took her to St.Mary’sHospitalinRochester,and they quarantined her.When they told us therewasnothing they could do, wedidn’t believe them. But itwas just a matter of time.”She shakes her head, as if to

clearthethought.I think about howhard it

must have been for her,losingadaughter.AndIthinkof my brothers and Maisie.We have a lot of sadnessinsideus,Mrs.NielsenandI.Ifeelsorryforthebothofus.

ONCHRISTMASEVE,INASOFTSNOWFALL, THE THREE OF USWALK to church. We light

candles on the twenty-foottree to the right of the altar,all the fair-haired Lutheranchildren and parents andgrandparents singing withsongbooksopen,thereverendpreaching a sermon aselemental as a story in achild’spicturebook,a lessonabout charity and empathy.“People are indireneed,”hetellsthecongregation.“Ifyouhavesomethingtogive,give.

Risetoyourbestselves.”He talks about some

families in crisis: hog farmerJohn Slattery lost his rightarm in a threshing accident;they need canned goods andanymanpoweryoucansparewhile they try to salvage thefarm . . . Mrs. Abel, eighty-sevenyearsold,blindnowinbotheyesandallalone;ifyoucan see it in your heart tospare a few hours a week it

would be greatly appreciated. . . a family of seven, theGrotes, in dire straits; thefather out of work, fouryoung children and anotherborn prematurely a monthago, now sickly, the motherunabletogetoutofbed...

“How sad,”Mrs. Nielsenmurmurs. “Let’s put togethera package for that poorfamily.”

She doesn’t know my

history with them. They’rejustanotherdistantcalamity.

Aftertheservicewewalkback through quiet streets.Thesnowhasstoppedandit’sa clear, cold night; the gaslampscastcirclesoflight.Asthe three of us approach thehouseIseeitasifforthefirsttime—theporchlightshining,an evergreen wreath on thedoor, the black iron railingandneatlyshoveledwalkway.

Inside, behind a curtain, alamp in the living roomglows.It’sapleasantplacetoreturnto.Ahome.

EVERY OTHER THURSDAYAFTER SUPPER, MRS. NIELSENAND I JOINMrs.Murphy andsix other ladies at a quiltinggroup. We meet in thespacious parlor room of thewealthiest lady in the group,

who lives in a grandVictorian on the outskirts oftown.Iamtheonlychildinaroom full of women and amimmediately at ease. Wework togetherononequilt, apattern and fabric that amember of the group hasbrought in; as soon as thatoneisfinished,we’llmovetothe next. Each quilt takesabout four months to finish.Thisgroup, I learn,made the

quilt on my bed in the pinkbedroom. It’s called IrishWreath, four purple iriseswith green stems meeting inthe middle on a blackbackground. “We’ll make aquilt for you someday, too,Dorothy,” Mrs. Nielsen tellsme. She begins to savecuttings from the fabricstation in the store; everyscrap goes into a steamertrunkwithmynameonit.We

talk about it at dinner: “Alady bought ten and a halfyards of a beautiful bluecalico, and I saved the extrahalfyardforyou,”she’llsay.I’ve already decided on thepattern: a Double WeddingRing, a series of interlockingcircles made up of smallrectanglesoffabric.

Once a month, on aSunday afternoon, Mrs.Nielsen and I polish the

silver.Fromadeepdrawerinthecabinetinthediningroomshe takes out a heavymahogany box that containsthe cutlery shewas given byher mother as a weddingpresent—her onlyinheritance, she tells me.Removing the pieces one byone,shelinesthemuponteatowels on the table, while Igathertwosmallsilverbowlsfrom the living roommantel,

four candlesticks and aserving platter from thesideboard, and a hinged boxwith her name, Viola, inspidery script across the topfromher bedroom.Weuse aheavy,mud-coloredpasteinajar,afewsmall,stiffbrushes,water,andlotsofrags.

One day, as I ampolishing an ornatelydecoratedservingspoon,Mrs.Nielsenpointsatherclavicle

and says, without looking atme, “We could clean that upforyou,ifyoulike.”

I touch the chain aroundmy neck, following it withmy finger down to thecladdagh.Reachingbackwithboth hands, I unfasten theclasp.

“Use the brush. Begentle,”shesays.

“My gram gave this tome,”Itellher.

She looks at me andsmiles.“Warmwater,too.”

AsIworkthebrushalongthe chain, it is transformedfrom a dull gray to the colorof tinsel. The claddaghcharm,itsdetailsobscuredbytarnish, becomes three-dimensionalagain.

“There,” Mrs. Nielsensays when I’ve rinsed anddried the necklace and put iton again, “much better,” and

though she doesn’t askanythingaboutit,Iknowthisis herway of acknowledgingthat she knows it holdsmeaningforme.

ONENIGHTATDINNER,AFTERIHAVE BEEN LIVING IN THEIRHOUSE for several months,Mr. Nielsen says, “Dorothy,Mrs. Nielsen and I havesomething to discuss withyou.”

I think Mr. Nielsen isgoing to talk about the tripthey’ve been planning toMount Rushmore, but helooks at his wife, and shesmilesatme,andIrealizeit’ssomething else, somethingbigger.

“When you first came toMinnesota, you were giventhenameDorothy,”shesays.“Areyouparticularlyfondofthatname?”

“Not particularly,” I say,unsurewherethisisgoing.

“You know how muchourVivianmeanttous,don’tyou?”Mr.Nielsensays.

Inod.“Well.” Mr. Nielsen’s

handsareflatonthetable.“Itwouldmeanalottousifyouwould take Vivian’s name.We consider you ourdaughter—notlegallyyet,butwe are beginning to think of

you that way. And we hopethat you are beginning tothinkofusasyourparents.”

They look at meexpectantly. I don’t knowwhattothink.WhatIfeelforthe Nielsens—gratitude,respect, appreciation—isn’tthesameasachild’sloveforherparents,notquite; thoughwhatthatloveis,I’mnotsureI can say. I am glad to beliving with this kind couple,

whose quiet, self-effacingmanner I am coming tounderstand.Iamgratefulthatthey took me in. But I amalso aware everydayofhowdifferent I am from them.They are notmypeople, andneverwillbe.

I don’t know how I feel,either, about taking theirdaughter’s name. I don’tknowifIcanbeartheweightofthatburden.

“Let’s not pressure her,Hank.” Turning to me, Mrs.Nielsen says, “Take the timeyou need, and let us know.You have a place in ourhome,whateveryoudecide.”

Several days later, in thestore stocking shelves in thecanned food aisle, I hear aman’s voice I recognize butcan’t place. I stack theremaining cans of corn andpeas on the shelf in front of

me, pick up the emptycardboard box, and stand upslowly, hoping to determinewhoitiswithoutbeingseen.

“I got some finepieceworktobarter, ifyou’reamenable,” I hear aman sayto Mr. Nielsen, standingbehindthecounter.

Every day people comeinto the store with reasonswhy they can’t pay, askingfor credit or offering goods

for trade. Every evening, itseems, Mr. Nielsen bringssomething home from acustomer: a dozen eggs, softNorwegian flatbread calledlefse, a long knitted scarf.Mrs. Nielsen rolls her eyesand says, “Mercy,” but shedoesn’t complain. I thinkshe’s proud of him—forbeing kindhearted, and forhavingthemeanstobe.

“Dorothy?”

I turn around, andwith alittle shock I realize it’s Mr.Byrne.Hisauburnhairislankandunkempt,andhiseyesarebloodshot. I wonder if he’sbeen drinking. What is hedoing here, in the generalstore of a town thirty milesfromhisown?

“Well, this is a surprise,”hesays.“Youworkhere?”

I nod. “The owners—theNielsens—tookmein.”

Despite the Februarycold, sweat is trickling downMr. Byrne’s temple. Hewipes it away with the backof his hand. “So you happywiththem?”

“Yes, sir.” Iwonderwhyhe’s acting so odd. “How’sMrs.Byrne?” Iask, trying tosteer the conversation topleasantries.

He blinks several times.“Youhaven’theard.”

“Pardon?”Shakinghishead,hesays,

“She was not a strongwoman, Dorothy. Couldn’ttakethehumiliation.Couldn’tbear to beg for favors. Butwhat should I have donedifferent? I think about iteveryday.”Hisfacecontorts.“WhenFanny left, itwas the—”

“Fanny left?” I don’tknowwhy I’m surprised, but

Iam.“A few weeks after you

did. Came in one morningand said her daughter up inPark Rapids wanted her tolive with them, and she’ddecided to go. We’d losteveryoneelse,youknow,andIthinkLoisjustcouldn’tbearthethought...”Hewipeshishandacrosshiswholeface,asiftryingtoerasehisfeatures.“Remember the freak storm

thatblewthroughlastspring?LateApril itwas.Well,Loiswalked out into it and keptwalking. They found herfroze to death about fourmilesfromthehouse.”

I want to feel sympathyforMr.Byrne. Iwant to feelsomething.ButIcannot.“I’msorry,” I tell him, and IsupposeIamsorry—forhim,for his tattered life. But Icannotmusteranysorrowfor

Mrs. Byrne. I think of hercold eyes and perpetualscowl, her unwillingness toseemeasanythingmorethana pair of hands, fingersholdinganeedleandthread.Iamnotgladsheisdead,butIamnotsorrysheisgone.

At dinner that evening Itell the Nielsens I will taketheirdaughter’sname.Andinthatmoment,myoldlifeendsand a new one begins.

Though I find ithard to trustthat my good fortune willcontinue, I am under noillusions aboutwhat I’ve leftbehind. So when, afterseveral years, the Nielsenstell me that they want toadopt me, I readily agree. Iwill become their daughter,though I never can bringmyself to call them Motherand Father—our affiliationfeelstooformalforthat.Even

so, from now on it is clearthatIbelongtothem;theyareresponsible for me and willtakecareofme.

AS TIME PASSES, MY REALFAMILY BECOMES HARDER ANDHARDER to remember. I haveno photographs or letters oreven books from that formerlife,onlytheIrishcrossfrommygram.AndthoughIrarelytakethecladdaghoff,asIget

older I can’t escape therealization that the onlyremaining piece ofmy bloodfamily comes from awomanwhopushedheronlysonandhisfamilyouttoseainaboat,knowing full well she’dprobably never see themagain.


1939

I am fifteen when Mrs.Nielsen finds a pack ofcigarettesinmypurse.

It’sclearwhenIwalkintothe kitchen that I’ve done

something to displease her.Sheisquieterthanusual,withanairof injuredaggravation.Iwonder if I’m imagining it;I try toremember if Isaidordid anything to upset herbefore I left for school. Thepack of cigarettes,whichmyfriendJudySmith’sboyfriendbought for her at the Essostation outside of town, andwhich she passed along tome, doesn’t even register in

mymind.After Mr. Nielsen comes

inandwesitdowntosupper,Mrs. Nielsen slides the packof Lucky Strikes toward meacross the table. “I waslooking for my green glovesand thought you might haveborrowed them,” she says. “Ifoundthisinstead.”

I look at her, then atMr.Nielsen, who lifts his forkand knife and begins cutting

his pork chop into smallpieces.

“Ionlysmokedone,totryit,” I say, though they canclearly see that the pack ishalfempty.

“Where’d you get it?”Mrs.Nielsenasks.

Iamtempted to tell themit was Judy’s boyfriend,Douglas, but realize it willonly be worse to drag otherpeople in. “It was—an

experiment. I didn’t like it.Theymademecough.”

She raises her eyebrowsatMr.Nielsen,and Ican tellthey’ve already decided on apunishment. The only thingthey can really take away ismyweeklySunday-afternoontrip to the picture showwithJudy, so for the next twoweeks I stay home instead.And endure their silentreprobation.

After this, I decide thatthe cost of upsetting them istoo much. I don’t climb outmy bedroom window anddownthedrainpipelikeJudy;Igotoschoolandworkinthestore and help with dinneranddomyhomeworkandgoto bed. I go out with boysnow and then, always on adoubledateoringroups.Oneboy in particular, RonnieKing, is sweet on me and

givesmeapromise ring.ButI am so worried I might dosomething to disappoint theNielsens that I avoid anysituation that might lead toimpropriety. Once, after adate, Ronnie tries to kissmegood night. His lips brushmineandIpullbackquickly.SoonafterthatIgivebackhisring.

I never lose the fear thatany day Mr. Sorenson could

beonthedoorstep,tellingmethat the Nielsens havedecided I’m too expensive,toomuchtrouble,ormerelyadisappointment, and they’vedecided to let me go. In mynightmares I am alone on atrain, heading into thewilderness. Or in a maze ofhay bales. Or walking thestreetsofabigcity,gazingatlights in every window,seeing the families inside,

noneofthemmine.

ONE DAY I OVERHEAR A MANAT THE COUNTER TALKING TOMRS.Nielsen. “Mywife sentmeinheretogetsomethingsfor a basket our church isputting together for a boywho came on that orphantrain,” he says. “Rememberthose?Used tocomethrougha while ago with all thosehomelesswaifs?Iwenttothe

Grange Hall in Albans onceto see ’em. Pitiful lot.Anyhow, this kid had onemisfortune after another, gotbeat up pretty bad by thefarmerwho took him in, andnowtheelderly ladyhewenttoafterthathasdied,andhe’son his own again. It’s ascandal, sending those poorkids out here on their own,expectingfolkstotakecareof’em—asifwedon’thaveour

ownburdens.”“Ummhmm,” Mrs.

Nielsensaysnoncommittally.Imovecloser,wondering

if he might be talking aboutDutchy. But then I realizeDutchy is eighteen now.Oldenoughtobeonhisown.

IAM NEARLY SIXTEENWHEN ILOOK AROUND THE STORE ANDREALIZE that it has barelychanged in all the time I’ve

been here. And there arethings we can do to make itnicer. A lot of things. First,after consultingMr. Nielsen,I move the magazines to thefront, near the cash register.The shampoos and lotionsand balms that used to be atthebackofthestoreIshifttoshelvesnearthepharmacy,sothat people fillingprescriptions can also buyplasters and ointments. The

women’s section is woefullyunderstocked—understandable, given Mr.Nielsen’s general ignoranceand Mrs. Nielsen’s lack ofinterest (she does wear anoccasional coat of lipstick,though it always seems tohave been randomly chosenand hurriedly applied).Remembering the longdiscussions about stockingsand garters and makeup

rituals at Mrs. Murphy’s, Isuggest that we increase andexpand this section,purchasing, for example, ahosierycarouselwithseamedandunseamedstockingsfromone of the vendors, andadvertise it in the paper.TheNielsens are skeptical, but inthe firstweekwego throughour entire stock. Thefollowing week Mr. Nielsendoublestheorder.

Recalling what Fannysaid about ladies wanting tofeel pretty even when theydon’t have much money, IconvinceMr.Nielsentoordersmall inexpensive items,sparkling costume jewelryand gloves made of cottonvelvet,Bakelitewristbanglesand colorful printed scarves.There are several girls Iwatch avidly at school, agrade or two above me,

whosewell-to-doparentstakethem to the Twin Cities tobuy clothes. I notice whattheywear andwhat they eat,whatmusictheylistento,thecars they dream about, andthe movie stars they follow.And like a magpie I bringthesescrapsandtwigsbacktothe store. One of these girlswillwearanewcolororstyleof belt or a button-plate hattilted to one side, and that

afternoon I’ll pore throughour vendors’ catalogs to findsimilar designs. I choosemannequins out of a catalogthatlooklikethesegirls,withpencil-thin eyebrows androsebud lips and soft, wavyhairstyles, and dress them inthe latest styles and colors. Ifind out the perfumes theyfavor, like Blue Grass byElizabeth Arden, and westock those as well as

standard ladies’ favoritessuchasJoybyJeanPatouandVoldeNuitbyGuerlain.

As business grows, wepush the shelves closertogether, erect specialdisplays at the ends of theaisles, crowd the lotions.When the shop next door, ajeweler’s called Rich’s, goesout of business, I convinceMr. Nielsen to remodel andexpand. Inventory will be in

thebasementinsteadofintheback, and the store will beorganizedintodepartments.

We keep prices low, andlower them even more withsaleseveryweekandcouponsin the paper. We institute alayaway plan so people canbuymore expensive items ininstallments.Andweputinasoda fountain as a placepeople can linger. Beforelong the store is thriving. It

seems as though we are theonly business doing well inthisterribleeconomy.

“DID YOU KNOW YOUR EYESARE YOUR BEST FEATURE?”TOM PRICE tells me in mathclass senior year, leaningacross my desk to look atthem, first one and then theother. “Brown, green, even alittlegoldinthere.I’venever

seensomanycolorsinapairof eyes.” I squirm under hisgaze, but when I get homethatafternoon,Ileanincloseto the bathroom mirror andstare at my eyes for a longtime.

Myhairisn’tasbrassyasitusedtobe.Overtheyearsithas turned a deep russet, thecolorofdeadleaves.I’vehaditcut in the fashionable style—fashionableforourtown,at

least—right above myshoulders.Andwhen I beginto wear makeup, I have arevelation. I’ve viewed mylife until now as a series ofunrelated adaptations, fromIrish Niamh to AmericanDorothy to the reincarnatedVivian. Each identity hasbeen projected onto me andfits oddly at first, like a pairofshoesyouhavetobreakinbefore they’re comfortable.

But with red lipstick I canfashion a whole new—andtemporary—persona. I candetermine my own nextincarnation.

I attend the homecomingdance with Tom. He showsup at the door with a wristcorsage,afatwhitecarnationandtwotinyroses;I’vesewnmyowndress,apinkchiffonversionofoneGingerRogersworeinSwingTime,andMrs.

Nielsen loans me her pearlnecklace and matchingearrings. Tom is affable andgood-natured right up untilthemomentthewhiskeyhe’stippling from a flask in thepocketofhis father’s too-bigsuit coat makes him drunk.Then he gets into a scufflewith another senior on thedance floor and manages toget himself, and me, ejectedfromthedance.

The next Monday, mytwelfth-gradeEnglishteacher,Mrs.Fry,takesmeasideafterclass. “Why are youwastingtime with a boy like that?”she scolds. She urges me toapply to collegesoutof state—Smith College inMassachusetts, for one, heralma mater. “You’ll have abigger life,”shesays.“Don’tyou want that, Vivian?” Butthough I’m flattered by her

interest, I know I’ll never gothat far. I can’t leave theNielsens, who’ve come todepend on me for so much.Besides, Tom Pricenotwithstanding, the life I’mlivingisbigenoughforme.

AS SOON AS I GRADUATE, IBEGINTOMANAGETHESTORE.IFIND that I am suited to thetask,and that Ienjoy it. (I’m

taking a class in accountingandbusinessadministrationatSt. Olaf College, but myclassesmeetintheevenings.)I hire the workers—nine inall, now—andordermuchofthe merchandise. At night,with Mr. Nielsen, I go overthe ledgers. Together wemanage employees’problems, placate customers,massage vendors. I’mconstantly angling for the

bestprice, themostattractivebundle of goods, the newestoption. Nielsen’s is the firstplace in the county to carryupright electric vacuumcleaners, blenders, freeze-dried coffee. We’ve neverbeenbusier.

Girls frommygraduatingclass come into the storebrandishing solitairediamonds like Legion ofHonor medals, as if they’ve

accomplished somethingsignificant—which I guessthey think they have, thoughall I can see is a future ofwashing some man’s clothesstretching ahead of them. Iwant nothing to do withmarriage. Mrs. Nielsenagrees. “You’re young.There’llbetimeforthat,”shesays.


“Buying all these fancyvegetables is eating up mywhole salary,” Dinagrumbles. “I don’t know ifwecankeepdoingthis.”

Dina’s talking about astir-frythatMollyhasthrown

togetherforthethreeofthemafter returning from thelibrary in Bar Harbor: tofu,red and green peppers, blackbeans, and zucchini. Mollyhas been cooking quite a bitlately, reasoning that if Dinatries some dishes that don’thaveanimalproteinfrontandcenter, she’ll see how manymore options are available.SointhepastweekMollyhasmade cheese and mushroom

quesadillas, vegetarian chili,and eggplant lasagna. StillDina complains: it’s notfilling enough, it’s weird.(She’dnevertriedeggplantinher life beforeMolly roastedone in the oven.) And nowshecomplainsthatitcoststoomuch.

“I don’t think it’s thatmuchmore,”Ralphsays.

“Plus the extra cost ingeneral,”Dinasaysunderher

breath.Let it go, Molly tells

herself,but...fuckit.“Waita minute. You get paid forhavingme,right?”

Dinalooksupinsurprise,her fork in midair. Ralphraises his eyebrows. “I don’tknowwhatthathastodowithanything,”Dinasays.

“Doesn’t that moneycover the cost of having anextra person?” Molly asks.

“More than covers it, right?Honestly,isn’tthatthereasonyoutakeinfosterkidsatall?”

Dina stands abruptly.“Are you kidding me?” Sheturns toRalph. “Is she reallytalkingtomelikethis?”

“Now,you two—”Ralphbegins with a tremuloussmile.

“It’s not us two. Don’tyoudaregroupmewithher,”Dinasays.

“Well,okay,let’sjust—”“No, Ralph, I’ve had it.

Community service, my ass.Ifyouaskme,thisgirlshouldbeinjuvierightnow.She’sathief, plain and simple. Shesteals from the library, whoknows what she steals fromus. Or from that old lady.”DinamarchesovertoMolly’sbedroom,opensthedoor,anddisappearsinside.

“Hey,” Molly says,

gettingup.A moment later Dina

emerges with a book in herhand. She holds it up like aprotest sign. Anne of GreenGables. “Where’d you getthis?”shedemands.

“Youcan’tjust—”“Where’d you get this

book?”Molly sits back in her

chair.“Viviangaveittome.”“Like hell.” Dina flips it

open, jabs her finger at theinsidecover.“Saysrighthereit belongs toDorothyPower.Who’sthat?”

Molly turns toRalph andsays slowly, “I did not stealthatbook.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she just‘borrowed’ it.”Dinapoints along pink talon at her.“Listen,younglady.Wehavehadnothingbut troublesinceyoucameintothishouse,and

I am so over it. I mean it. Iam so. Over. It.” She standswithher legsapart,breathingshallowly, tossing her blondfrosted mane like a nervouspony.

“Okay,okay,Dina,look.”Ralph has his hands out,patting the air like aconductor. “I think this hasgone a little far.Canwe justtake a deep breath and calmdown?”

“Areyou fuckingkiddingme?”Dinapracticallyspits.

RalphlooksatMolly,andin his expression she seessomething new. He looksweary.Helooksoverit.

“I want her out,” Dinasays.

“Deen—”“OUT.”Later that evening Ralph

knocks on Molly’s bedroomdoor. “Hey, what’re you

doing?” he says, lookingaround. The L.L.Bean duffelbags are splayed wide, andMolly’s small collection ofbooks, including Anne ofGreenGables,ispiledonthefloor.

Stuffing socks into aplasticFoodMartbag,Mollysays, “Whatdoes it look likeI’mdoing?”She’snotusuallyrude to Ralph, but now shefigures,whocares?Hewasn’t

exactlywatchingherbackoutthere.

“Youcan’t leaveyet.Wehave to contact SocialServicesandallthat.It’llbeacoupleofdays,probably.”

Molly crams the bag o’socksintooneendofaduffel,rounding it nicely. Then shestartsliningupshoes:theDocMartens she picked up at aSalvation Army store, blackflip-flops, a dog-chewed pair

of Birkenstocks that apreviousfostermother tossedin the trash and Mollyrescued, black Walmartsneakers.

“They’ll find yousomeplace better suited,”Ralphsays.

She looks up at him,brushes the bangs out of hereyes.“Ohyeah?Iwon’tholdmybreath.”

“Comeon,Moll.Giveme

abreak.”“You give me a break.

Anddon’tcallmeMoll.”It’sall she can do to restrainherselffromflyingathisfacewithherclawsoutlikeaferalcat.Fuckhim.Fuckhimandthebitchherodeinon.

She’s too old for this—too old to wait around to beplaced with another fosterfamily. Too old to switchschools,movetoanewtown,

submit herself to yet anotherfoster parent’swhims.She isso white-hot furious she canbarelysee.Shestokesthefireof her hatred, feeding ittidbits about bigoted idiotDina and spinelessmushmouth Ralph, becauseshe knows that just beyondthe rage is a sorrow soenervatingitcouldrenderherimmobile. She needs to keepmoving,flickeringaroundthe

room. She needs to fill herbags and get the hell out ofhere.

Ralph hovers, uncertain.As always. She knows he’scaughtbetweenherandDina,and utterly unequipped tohandle either of them. Shealmostfeelssorryforhim,thepusillanimouswretch.

“Ihavesomewheretogo,so don’tworry about it,” shesays.

“ToJack’s,youmean?”“Maybe.”Actually, no. She could

nomoregotoJack’sthanshecould get a room at the BarHarborInn.(Yes,I’dpreferawater view. And send up amango smoothie, thanks!)Thingsbetweenthemarestillstrained. But even if thingswerefine,Terrywouldneverallowhertostayovernight.

Ralph sighs. “Well, I get

why you don’t want to stayhere.”

Shegiveshimalook.Noshit,Sherlock.

“Let me know if I candriveyouanyplace.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says,dropping a pile of black T-shirtsinthebagandstandingthere with folded arms untilheslinksout.

Sowherethehellcanshego?

There’s $213 left inMolly’ssavingsaccountfromthe minimum-wage job shehadlastsummerscoopingicecream in Bar Harbor. ShecouldtakeabustoBangororPortland, or maybe evenBoston.Butwhatthen?

She wonders, not for thefirst time, about her mother.Maybe she’s better. Maybeshe’s clean and sober now,withsomekindofsteadyjob.

Molly’s always resisted theurgetolookforher,dreadingwhat she might find. Butdesperate times . . . andwhoknows? The state loves itwhen biological parents gettheirshittogether.Thiscouldbeanopportunity forbothofthem.

Beforeshecanchangehermind, she crawls over to hersleepinglaptop,proppedopenon her bed, and taps the

keyboard to nudge it awake.She googles “Donna AyerMaine.”

The first listing is aninvitation to view DonnaAyer’sprofessionalprofileonLinkedIn. (Unlikely.)Next isa PDF of Yarmouth citycouncil members thatincludesaDonnaAyer.(Evenmoreunlikely.)Thirddownisa wedding announcement: aDonna Halsey married Rob

Ayer, an air force pilot, inMattawamkeag in March.(Um, no.) And finally, yep,here she is—Molly’smother,inasmallitemintheBangorDailyNews.Clickingthroughto the article, Molly findsherselfstaringathermother’smug shot. There’s noquestionit’sher,thoughshe’swan, squinty, and decidedlyworse for wear. Arrestedthreemonthsagoforstealing

OxyContin from a pharmacyin Old Town with a guynamed Dwayne Bordick,twenty-three, Ayer is beingheld in lieu of bond, thearticle says, at the PenobscotCountyJailinBangor.

Well, that was easyenough.

Can’tgothere.What now? Looking up

homeless shelters online,MollyfindsoneinEllsworth,

but it says that patrons haveto be eighteen or older“unless with a parent.” TheSea Coast Mission in BarHarbor has a food pantry,though no overnightaccommodations.

So what about . . .Vivian? That house hasfourteen rooms. Vivian livesinabout threeof them.She’salmost certainly home—afterall,shenevergoesanywhere.

Molly glances at the time onher phone: 6:45 P.M. That’snot too late to call her, is it?But . . . now that she thinksabout it, she’s never actuallyseen Vivian talking on thephone. Maybe it would bebetter to take the IslandExplorer over there to talkwithherinperson.Andifshesays no, well, maybe Mollycouldjustsleepinhergaragetonight. Tomorrow, with a

clear head, she’ll figure outwhattodo.


Molly trudges up the roadtowardVivian’s fromthebusstop, her laptop in herbackpack, red Braden slungover one shoulder andHawaiian Ashley on theother. The duffels are

knocking intoeachother likerowdy patrons at a bar, withMolly stuck between. It’sslowgoing.

Before the blowup withDina, Molly had planned togo to Vivian’s tomorrow, totellherwhatshefoundatthelibrary.Well,planschange.

Leaving wasanticlimactic. Dina stayedbehindhershutbedroomdoorwith the TV blaring while

Ralph lamely offered to helpMollywithherbags,loanhera twenty, drive hersomewhere. Molly almostsaid thank you, almost gavehimahug,butintheendshejust barked, “No, I’m fine,seeya,”andpropelledherselfforward by thinking: This isalready over, I am alreadygone...

Occasionally a carlumbers past—this being the

off-season, most cars on theroad are sensible Subarus,ten-ton trucks, or clunkers.Molly is wearing her heavywinter coat because, thoughit’s May, this is, after all,Maine.(Andwhoknows,shemight end up sleeping in it.)Sheleftbehindheapsofstufffor Ralph and Dina to dealwith,includingafewhideoussynthetic sweaters Dina hadtossed herway at Christmas.

Goodriddance.Molly counts her steps:

left, right, left, right. Leftright. Left right. Her leftshoulder hurts, strap diggingintobone.Shejumpsinplace,shifting the straps. Now it’ssliding down. Shit. Jumpagain. She’s a turtle carryingits shell. Jane Eyre,staggeringacrosstheheath.APenobscot under the weightofacanoe.Ofcourseherload

is heavy; these bags containeverything she possesses intheworld.

What do you carry withyou? What do you leavebehind?

Gazing ahead at the darkblueskystriatedwithclouds,Mollyreachesupandtouchesthe charms around her neck.Raven.Bear.Fish.

Theturtleonherhip.Shedoesn’tneedmuch.

Andeven if she loses thecharms, she thinks, they’llalways be a part of her. Thethings that matter stay withyou, seep into your skin.People get tattoos to have apermanentreminderofthingsthey love or believe or fear,butthoughshe’llneverregretthe turtle, shehasnoneed toink her flesh again torememberthepast.

She had not known the

markingswouldbeetchedsodeep.

APPROACHING VIVIAN’SHOUSE,MOLLY LOOKS AT HERPHONE. IT’S later than shethoughtitwouldbe—8:54.

The fluorescent overheadbulbon theporchgivesoffadimpinklight.Therestofthehouse is dark. Molly heavesherbagsontotheporch,rubs

her shoulders for a minute,then walks around to theback,thebayside,peeringupat the windows for any signoflife.Andthereitis:onthesecond floor of the far rightside, two windows glow.Vivian’sbedroom.

Molly isn’t sure what todo.Shedoesn’twanttoscareVivian, and now that she’shere she realizes that evenringing the doorbell would

startleheratthishour.So she decides to call.

Gazing up at Vivian’swindow, she dials hernumber.

“Hello? Who is it?”Vivian answers after fourrings in a strained, too-loudvoice, as if communicatingwithsomeonefaroutatsea.

“Hi,Vivian,it’sMolly.”“Molly?Isthatyou?”“Yes,”shesays,hervoice

cracking. She takes a deepbreath. Steady, stay calm.“I’msorrytobotheryou.”

Viviancomesintoviewinthe window, pulling aburgundy robe over hernightgown. “What’s thematter?Areyouallright?”

“Yes,I—”“Goodness, do you know

whathouritis?”Viviansays,fussingwiththecord.

“I’m so sorry to call this

late. I just—I didn’t knowwhatelsetodo.”

There’s silence on theother end as Vivian absorbsthis. “Where are you?” shesays finally, perching on thearmofachair.

“I’mdownstairs.Outside,Imean.IwasafraiditwouldalarmyouifIrangthebell.”

“You’rewhere?”“Here. I’m here. At your

house.”

“Here? Now?” Vivianstandsup.

“I’m sorry.” And thenMollycan’thelpit,shestartsto cry. It’s cold on the grassand her shoulders ache andVivian is freakedoutand theIsland Explorer is done forthe night and the garage isdark and creepy and there’snowhereelseintheworldshecanthinkoftogo.

“Don’t cry, dear. Don’t

cry.I’llberightdown.”“Okay.” Molly heaves in

a breath. Pull yourselftogether!

“I’mhangingupnow.”“Okay.” Through her

tears, Molly watches Vivianreplace the receiver on thehook, wrap her robe tighterandtieit,patthesilverhairatthe nape of her neck. AsVivian leaves the bedroomMolly runs back to the front

porch.Sheshakesherheadtoclear it, pulls her bags into aneatheap,wipeshereyesandnosewith a corner of her T-shirt.

A moment later Vivianopens the door. She lookswith alarm fromMolly (whorealizes that, despite wipingher eyes, she must havemascarasmearedalloverherface)tothebulkyduffelbagsto the overstuffed backpack.

“For goodness’ sake, comein!” she says, holding thedoor wide. “Come in thisminute and tell me whathappened.”

DESPITE MOLLY’S PROTESTS,VIVIAN INSISTS ON MAKINGTEA. SHE takes down acabbage-rose teapot andcups—a wedding gift from Mrs.Murphy that’s been in a box

for decades—along withsome recently recoveredspoons from Mrs. Nielsen’ssilver service. They wait inthe kitchen for the water toboil, and then Molly pourswaterintheteapotandcarriesthe tea service to the livingroom on a tray, with somecheese and crackers Vivianhasfoundinthepantry.

Vivian turns on twolamps and settlesMolly in a

redwingback.Thenshegoesover to the closet and takesoutaquilt.

“The wedding ring!”Mollysays.

Vivian holds the quilt bytwocornersandshakesitout,thencarriesitoveranddrapesit across Molly’s lap. It isstained and ripped in places,thinned from use. Many ofthe small rectanglesof fabricsewn by hand into

interlocking circles havedissolved altogether, theghostly remains of stitchesholding snippets of coloredcloth.“If Ican’tbear togivethis stuff away, I might aswelluseit.”

AsVivian tucks the quiltaround her legs, Molly says,“Sorry for barging in likethis.”

Vivian flaps her hand.“Don’t be silly. I could use

theexcitement.Getsmyheartrateup.”

“I’m not sure that’s agoodthing.”

The news about MaisiesitsinMolly’sstomachlikeastone. She doesn’t want tospringitonVivianjustyet—toomanysurprisesatonce.

After Vivian has pouredtea in two cups, handed oneto Molly, taken one forherself, added and stirred in

two lumps of sugar, andarranged the cheese andcrackers on the plate, shesettlesintotheotherchairandfolds her hands on her lap.“All right,” she says. “Nowtellme.”

SoMolly talks. She tellsVivian about living in thetrailer on Indian Island, thecar crash that killed herfather, her mother’s strugglewith drugs. She shows her

Shellytheturtle.Shetellsheraboutthedozenfosterhomesand the nose ring and theargument with Dina andfinding out on the Internetthathermother’sinjail.

The teagrows tepid, thencold,intheircups.

And then, because she isdetermined to be completelyhonest, Molly takes a deepbreath and says, “There’ssomething I should’ve told

you a long time ago. Thecommunity servicerequirementwasn’tforschool—it was because I stole abookfromtheSpruceHarborlibrary.”

Vivianpullsherburgundyfleecerobetighteraroundher.“Isee.”

“It was a stupid thing todo.”

“Whatbookwasit?”“JaneEyre.”

“Whydidyoustealit?”Molly thinksback to that

moment:pullingeachcopyofthe novel off the shelf,turning them over in herhands, returning thehardcover and the newerpaperback, tucking the otherone under her shirt. “Well,it’s my favorite book. Andthere were three copies. Ithought nobody would missthe crappiest one.” She

shrugs. “I just—wanted toownit.”

Viviantapsherbottomlipwith her thumb. “Terryknew?”

Mollyshrugs.Shedoesn’twant to get Terry in trouble.“Jack vouched for me, andyou know how she feelsaboutJack.”

“ThatIdo.”The night is still, quiet

except for their voices. The

drapes are shut against thedark. “I’m sorry I came intoyour house this way. Underfalsepretenses,”Mollysays.

“Ah, well,” Vivian says.“Isupposeweallcomeunderfalse pretenses one way oranother,don’twe?Itwasbestnot to tell me. I probablywouldn’t have let you in.”Clasping her hands together,she says, “If you’re going tosteal a book, though, you

shouldatleasttakethenicestone. Otherwise what’s thepoint?”

Molly is so nervous shebarelysmiles.

But Vivian does.“Stealing Jane Eyre!” Shelaughs. “They should’vegiven you a gold star.Bumpedyouupagrade.”

“You’re not disappointedinme?”

Vivianliftshershoulders.

“Eh.”“Really?” Relief washes

overher.“You’ve certainly paid

your dues, in any case,puttinginallthesehourswithme.”

“It hasn’t felt likepunishment.” Once upon atime—fairly recently, in fact—Molly would’ve gaggedover these words, bothbecause they’re blatantly

sycophantic and cringinglysentimental. But not today.For one thing, she meansthem. For another, she’s sofocused on the next part ofthe story that she can barelythink of anything else. Sheplunges ahead. “Listen,Vivian,” she says. “There’ssomething else I need to tellyou.”

“OhLord.”Viviantakesasip of cold tea and sets her

cup down. “What have youdonenow?”

Mollytakesadeepbreath.“It’snotaboutme. It’saboutMaisie.”

Vivian gazes at hersteadily, her hazel eyes clearandunblinking.

“I went online. I justwanted to see if I could findanything, and it wassurprisingly easy; I foundrecordsfromEllisIsland—”

“TheAgnesPauline?”“Yeah, exactly. I found

your parents’ names on theroster—and from there I gotthe death notices of yourfather and brothers. But nothers,notMaisie’s.AndthenIhadtheideatotrytofindtheSchatzmans. Well, therehappened to be a familyreunion blog . . . and . . .anyway, it said that theyadopted a baby,Margaret, in

1929.”Vivian is perfectly still.

“Margaret.”Mollynods.“Maisie.”“Ithastobe,right?”“But—he told me she

didn’tmakeit.”“Iknow.”Vivian seems to gather

herself up, to grow taller inher chair. “He lied to me.”Foramomentshelooksoffin

the middle distance,somewhere above thebookcase. Then she says,“Andtheyadoptedher?”

“Apparently so. I don’tknow anything else aboutthem, though I’m sure thereareways to findout.Butshelived a long time. In upstateNewYork.Sheonlydiedsixmonths ago. There’s a photo. . .Sheseemedreallyhappy—children and grandchildren

and all that.” God, I’m anidiot,Mollythinks.WhydidIsaythat?

“How do you know shedied?”

“There’s an obituary. I’llshowyou.And—doyouwantto see the photo?” Withoutwaiting forananswer,Mollygets up and retrieves herlaptop from her backpack.She turns it on and brings itover to where Vivian is

sitting. She opens the familyreunion photos and theobituary, saved on herdesktop,andplacesthelaptopinVivian’slap.

Vivianpeersatthepictureon the screen. “That’s her.”Looking up at Molly, shesays, “I can tell by the eyes.They’reexactlythesame.”

“She looks like you,”Molly says, and they bothstaresilentlyforamomentat

the beaming elderly womanwith sharp blue eyes,surroundedbyherfamily.

Vivian reaches out andtouches the screen. “Look athowwhiteherhairis.Itusedto be blond. Ringlets.” Shetwirlsherindexfingernexttoher own silver head. “Allthese years . . . she wasalive,” shemurmurs. “Maisiewas alive. All these years,thereweretwoofthem.”

Minneapolis,Minnesota,1939

It is late September of mynineteenth year and two newfriends, Lillian Bart andEmilyReece,wantme to gowith them to see a newpicture that’s playing at theOrpheum Theatre in

Minneapolis, The Wizard ofOz. It’s so long it has anintermission,andwe’vemadeplans to stay the night.Lillian’s fiancé lives there,and she goes almost everyweekend, staying in a hotelforwomen. It’s a safe, cleanplace, she assures us, thatdoesn’t cost much money,and she has booked threesingle rooms. I’ve only beento the Twin Cities on day

tripswiththeNielsens—foraspecial birthday dinner, ashopping expedition, oneafternoon at the art museum—butneverwithfriends,andneverovernight.

I’mnotsureIwanttogo.For one thing, I haven’tknown these girls for long—they’rebothinmynightclassatSt.Olaf.Theylivetogetherin an apartment near thecollege.Whentheytalkabout

drinks parties, I’m not evensurewhat theymean. Partieswhere you have only drinks?The only party the Nielsenshost is an annual open-housebuffet lunch on New Year’sDayfortheirvendors.

Lillian, with her friendlyexpression and golden blondhair, iseasier to likethanthearch and circumspect Emily,who has a funny half smileand severedarkbangs and is

always making jokes I don’tget. Their racy humor,raucous laughter, andbreezy,unearned intimacy with memakemealittlenervous.

For another thing, a bigshipment of fall fashions iscomingintothestoretodayortomorrow,andIdon’twanttoreturn to find all of it in thewrong places. Mr. Nielsenhas arthritis, and though hestill comes in early every

morning, he usually leavesaround two to take anafternoon nap. Mrs. Nielsenis in and out; much of hertime these days is taken upwith bridge club andvolunteeringatthechurch.

Butsheencouragesmetogo with Lillian and Emily,saying, “A girl your ageshouldgetoutnowand then.There’smore to life than thestore and your studies,

Vivian. Sometimes I worryyouforgetthat.”

When I graduated fromhigh school, Mr. Nielsenbought me a car, a whiteBuick convertible, which Imainlydrive to the store andSt.Olaf in the evenings, andMr.Nielsensaysit’llbegoodfor the car to run it a little.“I’ll pay for parking,” hesays.

Aswedrive out of town,

theskyisthesaccharineblueofababyblanket, filledwithpuffy cottonball clouds. It’sclear before we’re ten milesdowntheroadthatEmilyandLillian’s plans are moreambitiousthanthey’veleton.Yes, we’ll go toTheWizardof Oz, but not the eveningshow thatwas theexcuse forstaying over. There’s amatinee at three o’clock thatwill leave plenty of time to

returntoourroomsanddresstogoout.

“Wait a minute,” I say.“Whatdoyoumean,goout?”

Lillian, sitting beside mein the passenger seat, givesmy knee a squeeze. “Comeon, you didn’t think we’ddriveallthiswayjusttogotoa silly picture show, didyou?”

Fromthebackseat,whereshe’sthumbingthroughSilver

Screenmagazine,Emilysays,“Soserious,Viv.Youneedtolighten up. Hey, d’you girlsknow that Judy Garland wasborn in Grand Rapids?NamedFrancesEthelGumm.Guessthatwasn’tHollywoodenough.”

Lilliansmilesoveratme.“You’ve never been to anightclub,haveyou?”

I don’t answer, but ofcourseshe’sright.

She tilts the rearviewmirror away from me andstarts to apply lipstick.“That’s what I thought. Weare going to have some realfun for a change.” Then shesmiles, her glossy pink lipsframing small white teeth.“Startingwithcocktails.”

The women’s hotel on aMinneapolissidestreetisjustasLilliandescribedit,withaclean but sparsely furnished

lobby and a bored clerkwhobarely looks up when hehands us our keys. Standingat theelevatorwithourbags,we plan to meet for thepicture show in fifteenminutes. “Don’t be late,”Emilyadmonishes.“Wehaveto get popcorn. There’salwaysaline.”

Afterdroppingmybagintheclosetofmynarrowroomon the fourth floor, I sit on

the bed and bounce a fewtimes. The mattress is thin,with creaky springs. But Ifeel a thrill of pleasure. Mytrips with the Nielsens arecontrolled, unambitiousoutings—a silent car ride, aspecific destination, a sleepyride home in the dark, Mr.Nielsen sitting erect in thefront seat, Mrs. Nielsenbeside him keeping awatchful eye on the center

line.Emilyisstandingalonein

the lobby when I comedownstairs.WhenIaskwhereLillian is, she gives me awink. “She’s not feeling sowell.She’llmeetusafter.”

As we make our way tothetheater,fiveblocksaway,it occurs to me that Lilliannever had any intention ofgoingtothepicturewithus.

The Wizard of Oz is

magical and strange. Black-and-white farmland givesway to a Technicolordreamscape, as vivid andunpredictable as DorothyGale’s real life is ordinaryand familiar. When shereturns to Kansas—herheartfelt wish granted—theworld is black and whiteagain.“It’sgoodtobehome,”she says. Back on the farm,herlifestretchesaheadtothe

flat horizon line, alreadypopulated with the onlycharactersshe’lleverknow.

When Emily and I leavethetheater,itisearlyevening.I was so absorbed in themovie that real life feelsslightly unreal; I have theuncanny sense of havingsteppedoutof thescreenandonto the street. The eveninglight is soft and pink, the airasmildasbathwater.

Emily yawns. “Well, thatwaslong.”

I don’t want to ask, butmanners compel me. “Whatdidyouthink?”

Sheshrugs.“Thoseflyingmonkeys were creepy. Butotherthanthat,Idon’tknow,I thought it was kind ofboring.”

Wewalkalonginsilence,past darkened departmentstore windows. “What about

you?” she says after a fewminutes.“Didyoulikeit?”

I loved the movie somuchthatIdon’ttrustmyselfto respond without soundingfoolish. “Yes,” I say, unableto translate into speech theemotions swirling throughme.

Back in my room, Ichangeintomyotheroutfit,achiffonskirtandfloralblousewithbutterflysleeves.Ibrush

my hair over my head andtossitback,thenshapeitwithmy fingers and spray it withlacquer.Standingonmytoes,I look at my reflection in asmall mirror above the bed.In the late afternoon light Ilook scrubbed and serious.Every freckle on my nose isvisible. Taking out a smallzipperedbag,Ispreadbutter-soft moisturizer on my face,then foundation. A smear of

rouge,apatofpowder.Islidea brown pencil along myuppereyelidsand feathermylashes, apply Terra Corallipstick, then blot my lips,apply it again, and tuck thegold vial in my purse. Iscrutinize myself in themirror.I’mstillme,butIfeelbraversomehow.

Down in the lobby,Lillian is holding handswitha guy I recognize as her

fiancé, Richard, from thephotograph she keeps in herpurse. He’s shorter than Iexpected,shorterthanLillian.Acne scars pock his cheeks.Lillian’swearingasleevelessemerald shift dress, hemmedjustabovetheknee(whichisthree inches shorter thananyone wears inHemingford), and blackkittenheels.

Richard yanks her close,

whispers in her ear, and hereyesgowide.Shecovershermouth and giggles, then seesme.“Vivie!”shesays,tearingherselfaway.“Lookatyou!Idon’tthinkI’veeverseenyouwith makeup. You clean upnice.”

“You too,” I say, thoughactually I’ve never seen herwithout.

“Howwasthemovie?”“Itwasgood.Wherewere

you?”SheglancesatRichard.“I

gotwaylaid.”Theybothstarttogiggleagain.

“That’s one way to putit,”hesays.

“YoumustbeRichard,”Isay.

“How’d you guess?” Heclaps me on the shoulder toshow he’s kidding around.“You ready for some funtonight,Vivie?”

“Well, I sure am!”Emily’s voice comes fromovermyshoulder,andIsmelljasmine and roses—Joy, Irecognize from the perfumecounter atNielsen’s.Turningto greet her, I’m startled byher low-cutwhiteblouseandtight striped skirt, herteetering heels and crimsonnailpolish.

“Hello, Em.” Richardgrins. “The fellas are sure

going to be happy to seeyou.”

I am suddenly self-conscious inmy prim blouseandmodestskirt,mysensibleshoesandchurchyearrings. IfeellikeexactlywhatIam:asmall-town girl in the bigcity.

Richard has his armsaround both girls now,pinching them on the waist,laughing as they squirm. I

glance at the desk clerk, thesameonewhowasherewhenwe checked in. It’s been along day for him, I think.He’s leafing through anewspaperandonly looksupwhen there’s a raucous burstof laughter. I can see theheadline from here:“GermansandSovietsParadeinPoland.”

“I’mgetting thirsty,girls.Let’s find a watering hole,”

Richardsays.My stomach is rumbling.

“Shouldwegetdinnerfirst?”“Ifyouinsist,MissVivie.

Though bar nutswould do itfor me. What about yougirls?”heaskstheothertwo.

“Now, Richard, this isViv’s first time in the city.She’s not used to yourdecadent ways. Let’s getsome food,” Lillian says.“Besides,itmightberiskyfor

us lightweights to startdrinking on an emptystomach.”

“Risky how?” He pullshercloserandLilliansmirks,then pushes him away,making her point. “All right,all right,” he says, making ashowofhisacquiescence.“Atthe Grand Hotel there’s apianobar that serves chow. Iseem to remember a prettygood T-bone. And I know

theygotanicemartini.”We make our way out

ontothestreet,nowhummingwith people. It’s a perfectevening; the air iswarm, thetrees along the avenue areswathedindeepgreenleaves.Flowers spill out of planters,slightly overgrown and a bitwild,hereatthefurthestedgeof summer. As we strollalongmyspiritslift.Minglingin this wide swath of

strangers shifts my attentionfrom myself, that tedioussubject, to the world aroundme. I might as well be in aforeign country for all itssimilarities to my sober reallife, with its predictableroutines and rhythms—a dayin the store, supper at six, aquiet evening of studying orquilting or bridge. Richard,with his carnival-barkerslickness, seems to have

given up on even trying toincludeme.ButIdon’tmind.It is marvelous to be youngonabig-citystreet.

AS WE APPROACH THE HEAVYGLASS-AND-BRASSFRONTDOOROFtheGrandHotel,aliverieddoorman opens it wide.Richard sails inwithLil andEm, as he calls them, on hisarms, and I scurry behind in

theirwake.ThedoormantipshiscapasIthankhim.“Bar’son the left just through thefoyer,” he says, making itclear he knows we’re nothotel guests. I’ve never beenin a space this majestic—except maybe the Chicagotrain station all those yearsago—andit’sallIcandonotto gape at the starburstchandelier glittering over ourheads, the glossy mahogany

table with an oversizedceramicurnfilledwithexoticflowers in the center of theroom.

The people in the foyerare equally striking. Awoman wearing a flat blackhatwithanetthatcovershalfher face stands at thereception deskwith a pile ofred leather suitcases, pullingoffonelongblacksatingloveand then the other. A white-

hairedmatroncarriesafluffywhite dog with black buttoneyes. A man in a morningcoat talksonthetelephoneatthe front desk; an oldergentleman wearing amonocle, sitting alone on agreenloveseat,holdsasmallbrown book open in front ofhis nose. These people lookbored, amused, impatient,self-satisfied—but most ofall, theylookrich.NowIam

glad not to be wearing thegaudy, provocative clothingthat seems to be drawingstaresandwhisperstoLilandEm.

Aheadofme,thethreeofthem saunter across thelobby, shrieking withlaughter, one of Richard’sarms around Lil’s shoulderand the other cinching Em’swaist.“Hey,Vivie,”Lilcalls,glancing back as if suddenly

remembering I’m here, “thisway!”Richardpullsopenthedouble doors to the bar,throws his hands into the airwithaflourish,andushersLiland Em, giggling andwhispering, inside. Hefollows, and the doors closeslowlybehindhim.

Islowtoastopinfrontofthe green couches. I’m in nohurry to go in there to be afifth wheel, treated like I’m

hopelessly out of it, old-fashioned and humorless, bythe freewheeling Richard.Maybe, I think, I should justwalk around for a while andthen go back to the roominghouse. Since the matineenothing has felt quite realanyway;it’sbeenenoughofaday for me—much more,certainly,thanI’musedto.

I perch on one of thecouches, watching people

come and go. At the door,now, is awoman in a purplesatin dress with cascadingbrown hair, elegantlynonchalant, waving at theporterwithabejeweledhandas she glides into the foyer.Absorbed in watching her asshefloatspastmetowardtheconciergedesk,Idon’tnoticethe tall, thinmanwith blondhair until he is standing infrontofme.

His eyes are a piercingblue. “Excuse me, miss,” hesays.IwonderifmaybeheisgoingtosaysomethingabouthowIamsoobviouslyoutofplace, or ask if I need help.“Do I know you fromsomewhere?”

Ilookathisgolden-blondhair, short in the back butlonger in front—nothing likethesmall-townboysI’musedto, with their hair shorn like

sheep. He’s wearing graypants,acrispwhiteshirt,andablacktieandcarryingaslimattaché case. His fingers arelongandtapered.

“Idon’tthinkso.”“Something about you is

. . . very familiar.” He’sstaring atme so intently thatitmakesmeblush.

“I—”Istammer.“Ireallydon’tknow.”

And then, with a smile

playing around his lips, hesays, “Forgive me if I’mwrong. But are you—wereyou—didyoucomehereonatrain from New York abouttenyearsago?”

What? My heart jumps.Howdoesheknowthat?

“Are you—Niamh?” heasks.

AndthenIknow.“OhmyGod—Dutchy,it’syou.”

Minneapolis,Minnesota,1939

Dutchy drops the attachécase as I stand up, andsweepsme into a hug. I feeltheropyhardnessofhisarms,the warmth of his slightlyconcavechest,asheholdsmetight, tighter thananyonehas

everheldme.Alongembracein the middle of this fancylobby is probablyinappropriate; people arestaring. But for once in mylifeIdon’tcare.

He pushes me away tolook atmy face, touchesmycheek, and pulls me closeagain.Throughhis chambrayshirtIfeelhisheartracingasfastasmine.

“When you blushed, I

knew. You looked just thesame.” He runs his handdownmyhair,strokingitlikea pelt. “Your hair . . . it’sdarker. I can’t tell you howmany times I’ve looked foryou in a crowd, or thought Isawyoufromtheback.”

“You told me you’d findme,” I say. “Remember? Itwasthelastthingyousaid.”

“Iwantedto—Itried.ButI didn’t knowwhere to look.

And then so much happened. . .” He shakes his head indisbelief. “Is it really you,Niamh?”

“Well, yes—but I’m notNiamh anymore,” I tell him.“I’mVivian.”

“I’mnotDutchy,either—orHans, for thatmatter. I’mLuke.”

We both start laughing—attheabsurdityofoursharedexperience, the relief of

recognition.Weclingtoeachother like survivors of ashipwreck, astonished thatneitherofusdrowned.

The many questions Iwant to ask rendermemute.Before I can even formulatewords,Dutchy—Luke—says,“This is crazy, but I have toleave.Ihaveagig.”

“A‘gig’?”“I play piano in the bar

here.It’snota terrible job, if

nobodygetstoodrunk.”“Iwas justonmyway in

there,”Itellhim.“Myfriendsare waiting for me. They’reprobablydrunkaswespeak.”

He picks up his case. “Iwish we could just blow outof here,” he says. “Gosomewhereandtalk.”

Idotoo—butIdon’twanthim to risk his job for me.“I’llstaytillyou’redone.Wecantalklater.”

“It’ll kill me to wait thatlong.”

WhenIenterthebarwithhim, Lil and Em look up,curiosity on their faces. Theroomisdarkandsmoky,withplush purple carpetingpatterned with flowers andpurple leather banquettesfilledwithpeople.

“That’s the way to do it,girl!” Richard says. “Yousuredidn’twasteanytime.”

Isinkintoachairat theirtable, order a gin fizz at thewaiter’s suggestion, andconcentrate on Dutchy’sfingers,whichIcanseefromwhere I’m sitting, deftlyskimming the piano keys.Duckinghisheadandclosinghis eyes, he sings in a clear,low voice. He plays GlennMiller and Artie Shaw andGlen Gray, music thateverybody knows—songs

like “Little Brown Jug” and“Heaven Can Wait,”rearranged to draw outdifferent meanings—andsome old standards for thegray-haired men on barstools.Everynowandthenhepulls sheet music from hiscase, butmostly he seems toplay frommemoryorbyear.Asmallclusterofolderladiesclutching pocketbooks, theirhair carefully coiffed,

probably on a shoppingexpedition from someprovinceorsuburb,smileandcoo when he tinkles theopening of “MoonlightSerenade.”

Conversationwashesoverme, slips around me,snaggingnowand thenwhenI’m expected to answer aquestion or laugh at a joke.I’m not paying attention.HowcanI?Dutchyistalking

tomethroughthepiano,and,as in a dream, I understandhis meaning. I have been soaloneon this journey,cutofffrommy past.However hardI try, Iwill always feel alienand strange. And now I’vestumbled on a fellowoutsider, onewho speaksmylanguage without saying aword.

The more people drink,themorerequests theymake,

andthefullerDutchy’stipjargrows. Richard’s head isburied inLil’s neck, andEmispracticallysittinginthelapof agrayhairwhowanderedover from the bar. “Over theRainbow!” she calls out,severalginfizzestothewind.“You know that one? Fromthatmovie?”

Dutchy nods, smiles,spreadshis fingersacross thekeys.Bythewayheplaysthe

chords I can tell he’s beenaskedtosingitbefore.

He has half an hour lefton the clock when Richardmakes a show of looking athiswatch.“Holyshit,excusemy French,” he says. “It’slate and I got churchtomorrow.”

Everyonelaughs.“I’m ready to turn in,

too,”Lilsays.Em smirks. “Turn into

what?”“Let’s blow this joint. I

gotta get that thing I left inyour room,” Richard says toLil,standingup.

“Whatthing?”sheasks.“You know. The thing,”

hesays,winkingatEm.“He’s gotta get the thing,

Lil,” Em says drunkenly.“Thething!”

“I didn’t knowmenwereallowedintherooms,”Isay.

Richard rubs his thumband forefinger together. “Alittle grease for the wheelkeeps the car running, if yougetmygist.”

“Thedeskclerkiseasytobribe,”Liltranslates.“Justsoyou know, in case you wantto spend some quality timewith dreamboat over there.”She and Em collapse ingiggles.

We make a plan to meet

in the lobby of the women’shotel tomorrow at noon, andthe four of them stand toleave. And then there’s achange of plans: Richardknowsabar that’sopenuntiltwoandtheygooffinsearchofit,thetwogirlstotteringontheir heels and swayingagainstthemen,whoseemalltoohappytosupportthem.

JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, THESTREET OUTSIDE THE HOTEL ISLITUPbutempty, likeastagesetbeforetheactorsappear.Itdoesn’t matter that I barelyknow the man Dutchy hasbecome, know nothing abouthis family,hisadolescence. Idon’tcareabouthowitmightlook to take him back tomyroom. I just want to spendmoretimewithhim.

“Areyousure?”heasks.

“Morethansure.”Heslipssomebills inmy

hand. “Here, for the clerk.Fromthetipjar.”

It’s cool enough thatDutchyputshisjacketaroundmy shoulders. His hand inmineaswewalkfeelslikethemost natural thing in theworld. Through the lowbuildings, chips of starsglitterinavelvetsky.

At the front desk, the

clerk—an older man, now,witha tweedcap tippedoverhis face—says, “What can Idoforyou?”

Oddly, I am not at allnervous. “My cousin lives intown.Allrighttotakehimupforavisit?”

The clerk looks throughthe glass door at Dutchy,standing on the sidewalk.“Cousin,huh?”

I slide two dollar bills

across thedesk.“Iappreciateit.”

With his fingertips theclerkpulls themoney towardhim.

I wave at Dutchy and heopens the door, salutes theclerk,andfollowsmeintotheelevator.

IN THE STRANGE, SHADOWEDLIGHTING OF MY SMALL ROOMDUTCHYtakesoffhisbeltand

dress shirt and hangs themover the only chair. Hestretchesoutonthebedinhisundershirt and trousers, hisback against the wall, and Ilean against him, feeling hisbodycurvearoundmine.Hiswarm breath is on my neck,his arm on my waist. Iwonder foramoment ifhe’llkissme.Iwanthimto.

“How can this be?” hemurmurs. “It isn’t possible.

And yet I’ve dreamed of it.Haveyou?”

Idon’tknowwhattosay.Ineverdared to imagine thatI’d see him again. In myexperience, when you losesomebody you care about,theystaygone.

“What’s the best thingthat happened to you in thepasttenyears?”Iask.

“Seeingyouagain.”Smiling, I push back

against his chest. “Besidesthat.”

“Meeting you the firsttime.”

We both laugh. “Besidesthat.”

“Hmm, besides that,” hemuses, his lips on myshoulder. “Is there anythingbesides that?” He pulls meclose, his hand cupping myhip bone. And though I’veneverdoneanything like this

before—have barely everbeen alone with a man,certainly not a man in hisundershirt—I’m not nervous.When he kisses me, mywholebodyhums.

A few minutes later, hesays, “I guess the best thingwas finding out that I wasgood at something—atplayingthepiano.Iwassucha shell of a person. I had noconfidence.Playingthepiano

gavemeaplaceintheworld.And . . . it was something IcoulddowhenIwasangryorupset,orevenhappy.Itwasaway to express my feelingswhen I didn’t even knowwhattheywere.”Helaughsalittle. “Sounds ridiculous,doesn’tit?”

“No.”“Whataboutyou?What’s

yourbestthing?”Idon’tknowwhyIasked

him this question, since Idon’thaveananswermyself.I slide up so I am sitting atthe head of the narrow bedwith my feet tucked underme. As Dutchy rearrangeshimselfwithhisbackagainstthe wall on the other end,words tumble from mymouth. I tell him about myloneliness and hunger at theByrnes’, the abjectmiseryofthe Grotes’. I tell him about

how grateful I am to theNielsens, and also howtamped down I sometimesfeelwiththem.

Dutchy tells me whathappened tohimafterhe lefttheGrangeHall.Lifewiththefarmer and his wife was asbad as he’d feared. Theymadehimsleeponhaybalesinthebarnandbeathimifhecomplained. His ribs werefracturedinahayingaccident

and they never called adoctor. He lived with themfor three months, finallyrunning away when thefarmer woke him with abeating onemorning becausearaccoongotintothechickencoop. In pain, half starved,with a tapeworm and an eyeinfection,hecollapsedontheroadtotownandwastakentothe infirmary by a kindlywidow.

But the farmer convincedthe authorities that Dutchywas a juvenile delinquentwhoneededafirmhand,andDutchywas returned to him.Heranawaytwicemore—thesecond time in a blizzard,when it was a miracle hedidn’t freeze to death.Running into a neighbor’sclotheslinesavedhislife.Theneighbor found him in hisbarn the following morning

and made a deal with thefarmer to trade Dutchy for apig.

“Apig?”Isay.“I’m sure he thought it a

worthy trade. That pig wasmassive.”

This farmer, a widowernamed Karl Maynard whosesonanddaughterweregrown,gave him chores to do, butalso sent him to school.Andwhen Dutchy showed an

interest in the dusty uprightpiano the widower’s wifeused to play, he got it tunedand found a teacher to cometo the farm to give himlessons.

When he was eighteen,Dutchy moved toMinneapolis, where he tookany work he could findplaying piano in bands andbars.“Maynardwantedmetotakeoverthefarm,butIknew

I wasn’t cut out for it,” hesays. “Honestly, I wasgratefultohaveaskillIcoulduse.And to liveonmyown.It’sarelieftobeanadult.”

I hadn’t thought about itlike this, buthe’s right—it isarelief.

He reaches over andtouches my necklace. “Youstill have it. That gives mefaith.”

“Faithinwhat?”

“God, I suppose. No, Idon’tknow.Survival.”

As light begins to seepthrough the darkness outsidethe window, around 5:00A.M., he tells me that he’splaying the organ in theEpiscopal Church on BannerStreet at the eight o’clockservice.

“Do youwant to stay tillthen?”Iask.

“Doyouwantmeto?”

“Whatdoyouthink?”He stretches out beside

thewallandpullsme towardhim,curvinghisbodyaroundmine again, his arm tuckedunder my waist. As I liethere,matchingmybreathingto his, I can tell themomentwhen he lapses into sleep. Iinhale the musk of hisaftershave,awhiffofhairoil.Ireachforhishandandgrasphislongfingersandlacethem

throughmine, thinking aboutthefatefulstepsthatledmetohim. If Ihadn’tcomeon thistrip. If I’d had something toeat.IfRichardhadtakenustoadifferentbar. . . .Thereareso many ways to play thisgame. Still, I can’t help butthink that everything I’vebeen through has led to this.IfIhadn’tbeenchosenbytheByrnes, I wouldn’t haveendedupwiththeGrotesand

met Miss Larsen. If MissLarsen hadn’t brought me toMrs. Murphy, I neverwould’ve met the Nielsens.And if I weren’t living withthe Nielsens and attendingcollege with Lil and Em, Iwould never have come toMinneapolis for the night—and probably never wouldhaveseenDutchyagain.

Myentirelifehasfeltlikechance.Randommoments of

loss and connection. This isthe first one that feels,instead,likefate.

“SO?” LIL DEMANDS. “WHATHAPPENED?”

We’reonourwaybacktoHemingford, with Emstretchedoutandgroaningonthe backseat, wearing darkglasses. Her face has agreenishtint.

I am determined not togiveanythingaway.“Nothinghappened. What happenedwithyou?”

“Don’t change thesubject, missy,” Lil says.“How’d you know that guy,anyway?”

I’vealreadythoughtaboutan answer. “He’s come intothestoreafewtimes.”

Lil is skeptical. “Whatwould he be doing in

Hemingford?”“Hesellspianos.”“Humph,” she says,

clearly unconvinced. “Well,youtwoseemedtohititoff.”

I shrug. “He’s niceenough.”

“How much money dopiano players make,anyway?” Em says from theback.

I want to tell her to shutup. Instead I take a deep

breath and say, breezily,“Who knows? It’s not likeI’m going to marry him oranything.”

Ten months later, afterrecounting this exchange totwodozenweddingguests inthe basement of GraceLutheran Church, Lil raisesher glass in a toast. “ToVivian and Luke Maynard,”she says. “May they alwaysmake beautiful music

together.”


1943

InfrontofotherpeopleIcallhimLuke,buthe’llalwaysbeDutchy to me. He calls meViv—it sounds a bit likeNiamh,hesays.

Wedecide thatwe’ll livein Hemingford so I can runthe store. We’ll rent a smallbungalow on a side streetseveral blocks from theNielsens, four roomsdownstairs and one up.As ithappens—with, perhaps, alittle help from Mr. Nielsen,who may have mentionedsomething to thesuperintendent at a Rotarymeeting—the Hemingford

Schoolislookingforamusicteacher. Dutchy also keepshisweekendgigattheGrandin Minneapolis, and I go inwith him on Friday andSaturday nights to havedinnerandhearhimplay.OnSundays, now, he plays theorgan at Grace Lutheran,replacing the lead-footedorganist who was persuadeditwastimetoretire.

WhenI toldMrs.Nielsen

thatDutchyhad askedme tomarry him, she frowned. “Ithought you saidyouwantednothingtodowithmarriage,”she said. “You’re onlytwenty. What about yourdegree?”

“What about it?” I said.“It’saringonmyfinger,notapairofhandcuffs.”

“Most men want theirwivestostayhome.”

When I related this

conversation to Dutchy, helaughed. “Of course you’llget your degree. Those taxlawsarecomplicated!”

DutchyandIareaboutasopposite as two people canbe. I am practical andcircumspect; he is impulsiveanddirect.I’maccustomedtogetting up before the sunrises;hepullsmebacktobed.He has no head at all formath, so in addition to

keeping the books at thestore, I balance our accountsat home and pay our taxes.Before I met him, I couldcount on one hand the timesI’d had a drink; he likes acocktail every night, says itrelaxes him and will relaxme, too. He is handy with ahammer and nail from hisexperience on the farms, buthe often leaves projects halffinished—storm windows

stacked in a corner whilesnow rages outside, a leakyfaucet disemboweled, itspartsalloverthefloor.

“I can’t believe I foundyou,” he tells me over andover, and I can’t believe iteither.It’sasifapieceofmypast has come to life, andwith it all the feelings Ifought to keep down—mygrief at losing so much, athaving no one to tell, at

keeping so much hidden.Dutchywas there.He knowswho I was. I don’t have topretend.

Welie inbedlonger thanI am used to on Saturdaymornings—the store doesn’topen until ten, and there’snowhere Dutchy has to be. Imake coffee in the kitchenandbringtwosteamingmugsback to bed, and we spendhours together in the soft

early light. I am deliriouswith longing and thefulfillment of that longing,the desire to touch his warmskin, trace the sinew andmusclejustunderthesurface,pulsing with life. I nestle inhis arms, in the nooks of hisknees, his body bowedaround mine, his breath onmy neck, fingers tracing myoutline. Ihavenever felt likethis—slow-witted and

languorous, dreamy,absentminded, forgetful,focusedonlyoneachmomentasitcomes.

WhenDutchylivedonthestreets,heneverfeltasalone,hetellsme,ashedidgrowingup in Minnesota. In NewYork the boys were alwaysplaying practical jokes oneach other and pooling theirfood and clothes. He missesthepressofpeople, thenoise

and chaos, black Model Tsrattling along thecobblestones, the treaclysmell of street vendors’peanutsroastinginsugar.

“Whataboutyou—doyouever wish you could goback?”heasks.

I shake my head. “Ourlifewassohard.Idon’thavemanyhappymemoriesofthatplace.”

He pulls me close, runs

his fingers along the softwhite underbelly of myforearm. “Were your parentseverhappy,doyouthink?”

“Maybe.Idon’tknow.”Pushing the hair back

frommyfaceand tracing theline of my jaw with hisfinger,hesays,“WithyouI’dbehappyanywhere.”

Though it’s just the kindofthinghesays,Ibelievethatit’s true. And I know, with

thenewfoundclarityofbeingin a relationshipmyself, thatmy own parents were neverhappy together, andprobablynever would have been,whateverthecircumstance.

ON A MILD AFTERNOON INEARLYDECEMBERIAMATTHESTORE going over inventoryorders with Margaret, thesharp-eyedaccountsmanager.

Packing receipts and formsare all over the floor; I’mtrying to decide whether toorder more ladies’ trousersthan lastyear, and lookingatthe popular styles in thecatalogaswell asVogueandHarper’sBazaar.Theradioison low; swing music isplaying, and then Margaretholds her hand up and says,“Wait. Did you hear that?”She hurries over to the radio

andadjuststhedial.“Repeat: this is a special

report. President Rooseveltsaidinastatementtodaythatthe Japanese have attackedPearl Harbor, Hawaii, fromthe air. The attack of theJapanese has also beenmadeon all naval and military‘activities’ on the island ofOahu. Casualty numbers areunknown.”

And like that, everything

changes.A few weeks later, Lil

comes into the store to seeme, her eyes red-rimmed,tears staining her cheeks.“Richard shipped outyesterday, and I don’t evenknowwherehe’sgoing.Theyjust gave him a numberedmailing address that doesn’ttell me anything.” Sobbinginto a crumpled whitehandkerchief, she says, “I

thought this stupid war wassupposed to be over by now.Why doesmy fiancé have togo?” When I hug her, sheclingstomyshoulder.

Wherever you look areposters encouraging sacrificeandsupportforthewareffort.Many items are rationed—meat, cheese, butter, lard,coffee, sugar, silk, nylon,shoes; our entire way ofbusinesschangesaswework

with those flimsy bluebooklets. We learn to makechange for ration stamps,giving red point tokens aschange for red stamps (formeat and butter) and bluepoint tokens for blue stamps(processedfoods).Thetokensare made of compressedwoodfiber,thesizeofdimes.

In the store we collectladies’ lightly used stockingsfor use in parachutes and

ropes, and tin and steel forscrap and metal drives.“BoogieWoogieBugleBoy”is constantly on the radio. Ishiftourpurchasingtoreflectthemood,orderinggift cardsand blue onionskin airmailletter forms by the gross,dozens of American flags inall sizes, beef jerky, warmsocks,decksofplayingcardstogoincarepackagestoshipoverseas. Our stock boys

shovel driveways and delivergroceriesandpackages.

Boysfrommygraduatingclass are signing up andshippingout,andeveryweekthere’s a farewell potluckdinner in a church basementorthelobbyoftheRoxyorinsomeone’s home. JudySmith’s boyfriend, Douglas,isoneofthefirst.Thedayheturns eighteen he goes downto the recuiter’s office and

presents himself for service.HotheadedTomPriceisnext.When I run into him on thestreet before he leaves, hetells me that there’s nodownside—thewar’sanopendoor to travel and adventure,withagoodbunchofguystomess around with and asalary. We don’t talk aboutthe danger—but what Iimagine is a cartoon version,bullets flyingandeachboya

superhero, running,invincible,throughasprayofgunfire.

Fullyaquarteroftheboysfrommyclassvolunteer.Andwhen the draft begins, moreandmorepackup to leave. Ifeel sorry for the boys withflat feet or severe asthma orpartial deafnesswho I see inthe store after their buddiesare gone, aimlesslywandering the aisles. They

seem lost in their ordinarycivilianclothes.

But Dutchy doesn’t jointhe bandwagon. “Let themcome for me,” he says. Idon’twanttobelievehe’llgetcalledup—afterall,Dutchyisa teacher; he’s needed in theclassroom. But soon enoughitbecomesclearthatit’sonlyamatteroftime.

THEDAYDUTCHYLEAVESFORFORT SNELLING IN HENNEPINCounty for basic training, Itake the claddagh off thechain around my neck andwrap it in a piece of felt.Tucking it in his breastpocket, I tell him, “Now apartofmewillbewithyou.”

“I’ll guard it with mylife,”hesays.

The letters we exchangeare filled with hope and

longingandavaguesenseoftheimportanceofthemissionof theAmerican troops.Andthemilestonesofhistraining:Dutchy passes his physicaland scores high on themechanical aptitude test.Based on these results he’sinductedintothenavytohelpreplace those lost at PearlHarbor.Soonenough,he’sona train to San Diego fortechnicaltraining.

And when, six weeksafterhe leaves, Iwrite to tellhim that I’m pregnant,Dutchy says that he is overthe moon. “The thought ofmy child growing inside youwill keep me going throughtheroughestdays,”hewrites.“Just knowing that finally Ihavea familywaitingformemakes me more determinedthan ever to domy duty andfindmywayhome.”

Iamtiredallthetimeandsick to my stomach. I’d liketostayinbed,butIknowit’sbetter to stay busy. Mrs.Nielsen suggests that Imoveback in with them. She saysthey’ll take care of me andfeedme; they’reworried thatI’m getting too thin. But Iprefer to be onmyown. I’mtwenty-two years old now,andI’vegottenusedtolivinglikeanadult.

As the weeks pass I ambusier than ever, workinglong days in the store andvolunteering in the evenings,running themetal drives andorganizing shipments for theRed Cross. But behindeverythingIdo isa lowhumof fear. Where is he now,whatishedoing?

In the letters I write toDutchy I try not to dwell onmy sickness, the constant

queasyfeelingthatthedoctortells me means the baby isthriving insideme. I tell himinstead about the quilt I’mmaking for the baby, how Icut the pattern out ofnewspaper and then finesandpaper,whichstickstothematerial. I chose a patternwith a woven look at thecorners that resembles theweaving of a basket, fivestrips of fabric around the

border. It’s cheerful—yellowandblue and peach and pinkcalico, with off-whitetriangles in the middle ofeach square. The women inMrs.Murphy’squiltinggroup—ofwhichIamtheyoungestmember and honorarydaughter;they’vecheeredmyevery milestone—are takingextra care with it, handsewing in precise smallstitchesapatternontopofthe

design.Dutchy completes his

technical trainingandaircraftcarrier flight deck training,and after he’s been in SanDiego for amonth, he learnsthat soon he’ll be shippingout. Given his training andthe desperate situation withthe Japanese, he figures he’llbe heading to the CentralPacific toassistAlliedforcesin that region, but nobody

knowsforsure.Surprise, skill, andpower

—this, the navy tells itssailors, iswhat itwill taketowinthewar.

The Central Pacific.Burma.China.Theseareonlynamesonaglobe. I takeoneof theworldmapswe sell inthe store, rolled tightly andstored inavertical container,and spread it on the counter.Myfinger skims thecitiesof

Yangon, near the coast, andMandalay, the darkermountainous region farthernorth. I was prepared forEurope, even its far reaches,Russia or Siberia—but theCentral Pacific? It’s so faraway—on the other side oftheworld—thatIhaveahardtime imagining it. Igo to thelibrary and stack books on atable: geographical studies,histories of the Far East,

travelers’journals.IlearnthatBurma is the largest countryin Southeast Asia, that itborders India and China andSiam. It’s in the monsoonregion; annual rainfall in thecoastal areas is about twohundred inches, and theaverage temperature of thoseareas is close to ninetydegrees. A third of itsperimeter is coastline. Thewriter George Orwell

published a novel, BurmeseDays, and several essaysabout life there. What I getfrom reading them is thatBurma is about as far fromMinnesota as it’s possible tobe.

Over thenext fewweeks,as one day grinds into thenext, life isquietandtense.Ilisten to the radio, scour theTribune, wait anxiously forthe mail drop, and devour

Dutchy’s letters when theycome, scanning quickly fornews—is he okay? Eatingwell, healthy?—and parsingevery word for tone andnuance,asifhissentencesarea code I can crack. I holdeach blue-tinted, tissue-thinletter tomy nose and inhale.He,too,heldthispaper.Irunmyfingeroverthewords.Heformedeachone.

Dutchyandhisshipmates

are waiting for orders. Last-minute flight-deck drills inthe dark, the preparations ofsea bags, every corner filledand every piece in place,from rations to ammunition.It’s hot in San Diego, butthey’re warned that wherethey’re going will be worse,almostunbearable.“I’llneverget used to the heat,” hewrites. “I miss the coolevenings, walking along the

street holding your hand. Ieven miss the damn snow.Never thought I’d say that.”But most of all, he says, hemissesme.Myredhairinthesun.Thefrecklesonmynose.My hazel eyes. The childgrowing in my stomach.“Youmustbegettingbig,”hesays.“Icanonlyimaginethesight.”

Now they’re on theaircraft carrier in Virginia.

Thisisthelastnotehe’llsendbefore they embark; he’sgiving it to a chaplain whocame on board to see themoff. “The flight deck is 862feet long,” he writes. “Wewear seven different colors,to designate our jobs. As amaintenance technician, mydeck jersey, float coat, andhelmetareanuglygreen, thecolor of overcooked peas.” Ipicture him standing on that

floating runway, his lovelyblond hair hidden under adrabhelmet.

Over the next threemonths I receive severaldozen letters, weeks after hewrites them, sometimes twoin the same day, dependingon where they were mailedfrom. Dutchy tells me aboutthetediumoflifeonboard—howhisbestfriendfromtheirbasic training days, another

MinnesotannamedJimDaly,hastaughthimtoplaypoker,and they spend long hoursbelowdecks with a revolvingcast of servicemen in anendless ongoing game. Hetalks about his work, howimportant it is to followprotocol and how heavy anduncomfortable his helmet is,how he’s beginning to getused to the roar of the planeengines as they take off and

land. He talks about beingseasick, and the heat. Hedoesn’t mention combat orplanes being shot down. Idon’tknowifheisn’tallowedto or if he doesn’t want tofrightenme.

“I love you,” he writesagainandagain.“Ican’tbearto live without you. I’mcounting the minutes until Iseeyou.”

Thewordsheusesarethe

idioms of popular songs andpoemsinthenewspaper.Andmine to him are no lessclichéd. I puzzle over theonionskin, trying to spill myheartontothepage.ButIcanonly come up with the samewords,inthesameorder,andhope the depth of feelingbeneath them gives themweight and substance. I loveyou. I miss you. Be careful.Besafe.


It is ten o’clock on aWednesdaymorningand I’vebeeninthestoreforanhour,first going over accounts inthe back room and nowwalkingdowneachaisle,asIdo every day, to make sure

that the shelves are tidy andthe sale displays are set upcorrectly. I’m in the backaisle, rebuilding a smallpyramid of Jergens facecream thathas toppled intoastack of Ivory soap, when IhearMr.Nielsen say, “Can Ihelp you?” in a strange stiffvoice.

Then he says, sharply,“Viola.”

I don’t stop what I’m

doing, thoughmyheart racesin my chest. Mr. Nielsenrarely calls his wife by hername.Icontinuebuildingthepyramid of Jergens jars, fiveon the bottom, then four,three,two,oneontop.Istackthe leftover jars on the shelfbehind the display. I replacethe Ivory soap that wasknocked off the pile. WhenI’mdone,Istandintheaisle,waiting. I hear whispering.

Afteramoment,Mrs.Nielsencalls, “Vivian? Are youhere?”

AWestern Unionman isstanding at the cash registerinhisblueuniformandblack-brimmedcap.Thetelegramisshort. “TheSecretaryofWarregrets to inform you thatLuke Maynard was killed inactiononFebruary16, 1943.Further details will beforwarded to you as they

becomeavailable.”I don’t hear what the

Western Union man says.Mrs. Nielsen has started tocry.Itouchmystomach—thebaby.Ourbaby.

In the coming months, Iwill get more information.Dutchyandthreeotherswerekilled when a plane crashedonto the fleet carrier. Therewasnothinganyonecoulddo;the plane came apart on top

ofhim.“Ihopeyouwill findcomfort in the fact thatLukediedinstantly.Heneverfeltathing,”hisshipmateJimDalywrites. Later I receive a boxof his personal effects—hiswristwatch, letters Iwrote tohim, some clothes. Thecladdagh cross. I open theboxandtoucheachitem,thenclose it and put it away. Itwill be years before I wearthenecklaceagain.

Dutchy hadn’t wanted totell anyone on base that hiswife was pregnant. He wassuperstitious, he said; hedidn’t want to jinx it. I’mglad of that, glad that JimDaly’sletterofcondolenceisonetoawife,notamother.

Thenext fewweeksIgetup early in the morning,before it’s light, and go towork. I reorganize entiresections of merchandise. I

haveabignewsignmadefortheentranceandhireadesignstudent to work on ourwindows. Despite my size, Idrive to Minneapolis andwalk around the largedepartment stores, takingnotes about how they createtheirwindowdisplays, trendsin colors and styles thathaven’tfiltereduptousyet.Iorder inner tubes, sunglasses,andbeachtowelsforsummer.

LilandEmtakemetothecinema, to a play, out todinner. Mrs. Murphy invitesmeregularlyfortea.Andonenight I am woken by asearing pain and know it’stime to go to the hospital. Icall Mrs. Nielsen, as we’veplanned, and pack my smallbag,andshepicksmeupanddrivesmethere.Iaminlaborforsevenhours,theagonysogreat in the last stretch that I

wonderifit’spossibletosplitinhalf.Istarttocryfromthepain, and all the tears Ihaven’t shed for Dutchycome flooding out. I amovercome with grief, withloss,with the starkmiseryofbeingalone.

I learned long ago thatloss is not only probable butinevitable. I know what itmeans to lose everything, tolet go of one life and find

another.AndnowIfeel,withastrange,deepcertainty, thatitmustbemylotinlifetobetaught that lesson over andoveragain.

LyinginthathospitalbedI feel all of it: the terribleweight of sorrow, thecrumbling of my dreams. IsobuncontrollablyforallthatI’velost—theloveofmylife,myfamily,afutureI’ddaredto envision. And in that

moment Imake a decision. Ican’tgo through thisagain. Ican’tgivemyselftosomeoneso completely only to losethem. I don’t want, everagain, to experience the lossof someone I love beyondreason.

“There, there,” Mrs.Nielsensays,hervoicerisinginalarm.“Ifyoukeeponlikethis you’ll”—she says “godry,”butwhatIhearis“die.”

“Iwant todie,”I tellher.“Ihavenothingleft.”

“Youhavethisbaby,”shesays. “You’ll go on for thisbaby.”

I turn away. I push, andafteratimethebabycomes.

Thelittlegirlisaslightasaheninmyarms.Herhairiswispy and blond. Her eyesare as bright as underwaterstones. Dizzy with fatigue, Ihold her close and shut my

eyes.I have told no one, not

evenMrs.Nielsen,whatIamabouttodo.Iwhisperanamein my baby’s ear: May.Maisie. Like me, she is thereincarnationofadeadgirl.

And then I do it. I giveheraway.


“Oh, Vivian. You gave heraway,” Molly says, leaningforwardinherchair.

The two of them havebeen sitting for hours in thewingbacksinthelivingroom.The antique lamp between

them casts a planetary glow.On the floor, a stack of blueonionskin airmail lettersbound with string, a man’sgold watch, a steel helmet,and a pair of military-issuesocks spill out of a blacksteamer trunk stamped withthewordsU.S.NAVY.

Vivian smooths theblanketonherlapandshakesherheadasifdeepinthought.

“I’m so sorry.” Molly

fingers the never-used babyblanket, its basket-weavedesign stillvivid, the stitchesintricatelypristine.SoVivianhadababyandgaveheraway. . . and then married JimDaly, Dutchy’s best friend.Wasshein lovewithhim,orwas he merely consolation?Did she tell him about thebaby?

Vivian leans over andshuts off the tape recorder.

“That’s really the end ofmystory.”

Molly looks at her,puzzled. “But that’s only thefirsttwentyyears.”

Vivian shrugs lightly.“The rest has been relativelyuneventful. I married Jim,andendeduphere.”

“Butallthoseyears...”“Goodyears,forthemost

part. But not particularlydramatic.”

“Did you . . .” Mollyhesitates. “Were you in lovewithhim?”

Vivian looks out the baywindow. Molly follows hergazetotheRorschachshapesof the apple trees, barelyvisible in the light from thehouse. “I can honestly saythat I never regrettedmarryinghim.Butyouknowtherest,soIwilltellyouthis.I did lovehim.But I didnot

lovehimlikeIlovedDutchy:beyond reason. Maybe youonly get one of those in alifetime, Idon’tknow.But itwasallright.Itwasenough.”

It was all right. It wasenough.Molly’sheartclampsas if squeezed in a fist. Thedepth of emotion beneaththosewords!It’shardforhertofathom.Feelinganacheinherthroat,sheswallowshard.Vivian’s resolute

unsentimentality is a stanceMolly understands only toowell. So she just nods andasks, “So how did you andJimenduptogether?”

Vivian purses her lips,thinking. “About a year afterDutchy died, Jim returnedfromthewarandgotintouchwithme—hehadafewsmallthingsofDutchy’s,apackofcardsandhisharmonica, thatthearmyhadn’t alreadysent.

And so it started, you know.It was a comfort to havesomeonetotalkto,Ithinkforboth of us—another personwhoknewDutchy.”

“Didheknowyou’dhadababy?”

“No,Idon’tthinkso.Wenever talked about it. Itseemed like too much toburden him with. The warhadtakenatollonhim;therewerea lotof thingshedidn’t

wanttotalkabouteither.“Jimwasgoodwith facts

and figures. Very organizedanddisciplined,farmorethanDutchy was. Honestly, Idoubt the store would’vedone half as well if Dutchyhad lived. Is that terrible tosay?Well,evenso.Hedidn’tcare a whit about the store,didn’twant to run it.Hewasa musician, you know. Nohead for business. But Jim

and I were good partners.Worked well together. I didthe ordering and theinventory and he upgradedthe accounting system,brought in new electric cashregisters, streamlined thevendors—modernizedit.

“I’ll tell you something:marrying Jim was likestepping intowater the exactsametemperatureastheair.Ibarely had to adjust to the

change. He was a quiet,decent, hardworking man, agoodman.Weweren’toneofthosecoupleswhofinisheachother’s sentences; I’m notevensureIcould’vetoldyouwhat was going on in hisheadmostofthetime.Butwewererespectfulofeachother.Kind to eachother.Whenhegot irritable, I steered clear,and when I was in what hecalled one of my ‘black

moods’—sometimes I’d godays without saying morethanafewwords—heleftmealone. The only problembetween us was that hewantedachild,andIcouldn’tgive him that. I just couldn’tdo it. I told him how I feltfrom the beginning, but IthinkhehopedI’dchangemymind.”

Vivian rises from herchairandgoes to the tallbay

windows.Molly is struck byhow frail she is, hownarrowher silhouette. Vivianunfastens the silk loops fromtheirhooksateachsideofthecasing, letting the heavypaisleycurtainsfallacrosstheglass.

“I wonder if . . .”Mollyventures cautiously. “Haveyou ever wondered whatbecameofyourdaughter?”

“I think about it

sometimes.”“You might be able to

find her. She would be”—Molly calculates in her head—“in her late sixties, right?Shecouldverywellbealive.”

Adjustingthedrapeofthecurtains, Vivian says, “It’stoolateforthat.”

“But—why?” Thequestion feels like a dare.Molly holds her breath, herheart thumping, aware that

she’s being presumptuous, ifnot downright rude. But thismay be her only chance toask.

“Imadeadecision.Ihavetolivewithit.”

“Youwere inadesperatesituation.”

Vivian is still in shadow,standingbytheheavydrapes.“That’snotquitetrue.Icouldhave kept the baby. Mrs.Nielsenwould’vehelped.The

truthis,Iwasacoward.Iwasselfishandafraid.”

“Your husband had justdied.Icanunderstandthat.”

“Really?Idon’tknowifIcan.Andnow—knowingthatMaisie was alive all theseyears...”

“Oh,Vivian,”Mollysays.Vivian shakes her head.

She looksat theclockon themantel. “Goodness, look atthe time—it’saftermidnight!

Youmustbeexhausted.Let’sfindyouabed.”


Mollyisinacanoe,paddlinghardagainstthecurrent.Hershoulders ache as she digsintothewaterononesideandthen the other. Her feet aresoaking;thecanoeissinking,filling with water. Glancing

down,sheseesherruinedcellphone, the sodden backpackthatholdsherlaptop.Herredduffeltopplesoutoftheboat.She watches it bob for amoment in the waves andthen, slowly, descend belowthe surface. Water roars inherears,thesoundofitlikeadistant faucet. But why doesitseemsofaraway?

She opens her eyes.Blinks.It’sbright—sobright.

The sound of water . . . Sheturns her head and there,through a casement window,isthebay.Thetideisrushingin.

Thehouseisquiet.Vivianmuststillbeasleep.

In the kitchen, the clocksays8:00A.M.Mollyputsthekettle on for tea andrummages through thecupboards, finding steel-cutoats and dried cranberries,

walnuts, and honey.Following the directions onthe cylindrical container, shemakes slow-cooked oats (sodifferent from the sugarypacketsDinabuys),choppingand adding the berries andnuts, drizzling it with a littlehoney. She turns off theoatmeal, rinses the teapotthey used the night before,and washes the cups andsaucers. Then she sits in a

rockerby the tableandwaitsforVivian.

It’s a beautiful, postcard-from-Mainemorning,asJackcalls days like this. The baysparkles in the sun like troutscales. In the distance, nearthe harbor, Molly can see afleetoftinysailboats.

Herphonevibrates.AtextfromJack.What’sup?Thisisthe first weekend in monthsthat theyhaven’tmadeplans.

Herphonebrrsagain.CanIculater?

Tons of home work, shetypes.

Study2gether?Maybe.Callulater.When?She changes the subject:

MEpostcardday.Let’s hike Flying Mtn.

Fuckhw.FlyingMountainisoneof

Molly’s favorites—a steep

five-hundred-foot ascentalong a piney trail, apanoramic view of SomesSound, ameanderingdescentthat ends at Valley Cove, apebbledbeachwhereyoucanlinger on large flat rocks,gazing at the sea, beforecircling back to your car orbike on a fire road carpetedwithpineneedles.

Ok. Shepresses send andimmediatelyregretsit.Shit.

Within seconds, herphone rings. “Hola, chica,”Jack says. “What time do Ipickyouup?”

“Umm, can I get back toyou?”

“Let’s do it now. Ralphand Dina are holy rolling,right? I miss you, girl. Thatstupid fight—what was itabout, anyway? I forgotalready.”

Molly gets up from the

rocker,goesoverandstirstheoatmeal for no reason, putsher palm on the teakettle.Lukewarm. Listens forfootsteps, but the house isquiet. “Hey,” she says, “Idon’t know how to tell youthis.”

“Tellmewhat?” he says,and then, “Whoa, wait aminute, are you breaking upwithme?”

“What? No. It’s nothing

likethat.Dinathrewmeout.”“You’rekidding.”“Nope.”“She threw you . . .

When?”“Lastnight.”“Last night? So . . .”

Mollycanpracticallyhearthewheels turning. “Where areyounow?”

Takingadeepbreath,shesays,“I’matVivian’s.”

Silence.Didhehangup?

Molly bites her lip.“Jack?”

“You went to Vivian’slast night? You stayed atVivian’s?”

“Yes,I—”“Why didn’t you call

me?” His voice is brisk andaccusatory.

“I didn’t want to burdenyou.”

“You didn’t want toburdenme?”

“IjustmeanI’vereliedonyou toomuch.Andafter thatfight—”

“So you thought, ‘I’ll goburden that ninety-year-oldlady instead. Much betterthan burdening myboyfriend.’”

“Honestly, I was out ofmy mind,” Molly says. “Ididn’t know what I wasdoing.”

“Soyouhikedoverthere,

didyou?Somebodygiveyouaride?”

“I took the IslandExplorer.”

“Whattimewasit?”“Around seven,” she

fudges.“Around seven. And you

just marched up to her frontdoorandrangthebell?Ordidyoucallfirst?”

All right, that’s enough.“I don’t like your tone,”

Mollysays.Jacksighs.“Look,”shesays.“Iknow

thisishardforyoutobelieve,butVivianandIarefriends.”

There’sapause,and thenJacksays,“Uh-huh.”

“We have a lot incommon,actually.”

He laughsa little. “Comeon,Moll.”

“Youcanaskher.”“Listen. You know how

much I care about you. Butlet’s get real. You’re aseventeen-year-old foster kidwho’sonprobation.You justgot kicked out of anotherhome. And now you’vemovedinwitharicholdladywholivesinamansion.Alotin common? And my mom—”

“I know. Your mom.”Mollysighsloudly.Howlongisshegoingtobebeholdento

Terry,forGod’ssake?“It’scomplicatedforme,”

hesays.“Well . . .” Molly says.

Heregoes. “Idon’t think it’sso complicated now. I toldVivian about stealing thebook.”

There’sapause.“Didyoutellherthatmymomknew?”

“Yeah. I told her youvouched for me. And thatyourmomtrustedyou.”

“What’dshesay?”“Shetotallyunderstood.”He doesn’t say anything,

but she senses a shift, asoftening.

“Look, Jack—I’m sorry.I’m sorry for putting you inthatpositioninthefirstplace.That’s why I didn’t call youlast night; I didn’t want youto feel like you had to savemy butt once again. It sucksfor you, always doing me a

favor, and it sucks for me,always feeling like I have tobe grateful. I don’t want tohavethatkindofrelationshipwith you. It’s not fair toexpectyoutotakecareofme.And I honestly think yourmom and I might get alongbetterifshedoesn’tthinkI’mtryingtoworkalltheangles.”

“Shedoesn’tthinkthat.”“She does, Jack. And I

don’t blame her.” Molly

glancesoverattheteaservicedrying in the rack. “And Ihave to say one more thing.Vivian said she wanted tocleanoutherattic.ButIthinkwhatshereallywantedwastosee what was in those boxesone last time.And rememberthosepartsofherlife.SoI’mglad,actually,thatIwasabletohelpherfindthesethings.Ifeel like I did somethingimportant.”

Shehearsfootstepsintheupstairshall—Vivianmustbeonherwaydownstairs.“Hey,I’ve gotta go. I’m makingbreakfast.” She flicks on thegas burner to warm theoatmeal,pouringalittleskimmilkintoitandstirring.

Jack sighs. “You’re amajorpainintheass,didyouknowthat?”

“I keep telling you that,butyoudon’twanttobelieve

me.”“I believe you now,” he

says.

A FEW DAYS AFTER MOLLYARRIVES AT VIVIAN’S, SHETEXTSRALPHtolethimknowwheresheis.

Hetextsback:Callme.So she calls. “What’s

up?”“You need to come back

sowecandealwiththis.”“Nah,that’sokay.”“You can’t just run

away,”hesays.“We’llallbeinapileofshitifyoudo.”

“I didn’t run away. Youkickedmeout.”

“No, we didn’t.” Hesighs. “There are protocols.Child Protective Services aregoingtobealloveryourass.Sowillthepolice,ifthisgetsout. You have to go through

thesystem.”“IthinkI’mdonewiththe

system.”“You’re seventeen.

You’re not done with thesystemtillthesystemisdonewithyou.”

“Sodon’ttellthem.”“Youmeanlie?”“No. Just . . . don’t tell

them.”He’ssilent foramoment.

Then he says, “You doing

okay?”“Yup.”“That lady is okay with

youbeingthere?”“Uh-huh.”He grunts. “I’m guessing

she’s not a certified fostercareprovider.”

“Not...technically.”“Not technically.” He

laughs drily. “Shit. Well,maybe you’re right.No needto do anything drastic.

When’re you eighteen,again?”

“Soon.”“So if it’s not hurting us

. . . and it’s not hurting you

...”“That money comes in

handy,huh?”He’s silent again, and for

a moment Molly thinks he’shunguponher.Thenhesays,“Rich old lady. Big house.You’ve done pretty well for

yourself.You probably don’twant us to report youmissing.”

“So . . . I still live withyou,then?”

“Technically,” he says.“Okaywithyou?”

“Okay with me. GiveDinamybest.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,”hesays.

TERRY IS NOT PARTICULARLYHAPPY TO FINDMOLLY IN THEHOUSE on Monday morning.“What’s this?” she says, hervoice a sharp exclamation.Jack hasn’t told her aboutMolly’s new livingarrangements; apparently hewas hoping the situationwould somehow magicallyresolve itself before hismotherfoundout.

“I’ve invited Molly to

stay,” Vivian announces.“And she has graciouslyaccepted.”

“So she’s not . . .” Terrystarts, lookingbackandforthbetween them. “Why aren’tyouat theThibodeaus’?”sheasksMolly.

“It’s a little complicatedthererightnow,”Mollysays.

“Whatdoesthatmean?”“Things are—unsettled,”

Vivian says. “And I’m

perfectly happy to let herbunk in a spare room for themoment.”

“Whataboutschool?”“Of course she’ll go to

school.Whywouldn’tshe?”“This is very . . .

charitable of you,Vivi, but Iimaginetheauthorities—”

“It’sallworkedout.She’sstayingwithme,”Viviansaysfirmly.“WhatelseamIgoingto do with all these rooms?

Openabed-and-breakfast?”Molly’s room is on the

second floor, facing theocean,downalonghallattheopposite side of the housefromVivian’s.InthewindowinMolly’sbathroom,alsoonthe ocean side, a light cottoncurtain dances constantly inthebreeze,suckedtowardthescreen and out again,billowing toward thesink,anamiableghostlypresence.

How long has it beensince anyone slept in thisroom?Mollywonders.Yearsandyearsandyears.

Her belongings, all thatshebroughtwithherfromtheThibodeaus’,fillascantthreeshelves in the closet. Vivianinsists that she take anantique rolltopdesk from theparlor and set it up in thebedroomacrossthehallfromhers so she can study for

finals.No sense in confiningyourself to one room whenthere are all these options, isthere?

Options. She can sleepwith the door open, wanderaround freely, come and gowithout someone watchingher every move. She hadn’trealized how much of a tollthe years of judgment andcriticism, implied andexpressed,havetakenonher.

It’s as if she’s been walkingon awire, trying to keep herbalance,andnow,forthefirsttime,sheisonsolidground.


“You’re looking remarkablynormal,” Lori the socialworker says when Mollyshowsupatthechemistrylabfor their usual biweeklymeeting. “First the nose ringdisappears. Now you’ve lost

theskunkstripe.What’snext,anAbercrombiehoodie?”

“Ugh, I’d kill myselffirst.”

Lori smiles her ferretysmile.

“Don’t get too excited,”Molly says. “You haven’tseenmynewtrampstamp.”

“Youdidn’t.”It’s kind of fun to keep

Lori guessing, so Molly justliftshershoulders inashrug.

Maybe,maybenot.Lori shakes her head.

“Let’s have a look at thosepapers.”

Molly hands over thecommunity service forms,dutifully filledoutanddated,along with the spreadsheetwith the record of her hoursandtherequiredsignatures.

Scanning the forms, Lorisays, “Impressive. Who didthespreadsheet?”

“Whodoyouthink?”“Huh.” Lori juts out her

bottom lip and scribblessomething at the top of theform.“Sodidyoufinish?”

“Finishwhat?”Lorigivesheraquizzical

smile.“Cleaningouttheattic.Isn’t that what you weresupposedtobedoing?”

Right. Cleaning out theattic.

The attic actually is

cleaned out. Every singleitem has been removed fromevery single box anddiscussed. Some things havebeenbroughtdownstairs,andsome unsalvageable piecesthrown away. True, most ofthe stuff got put back in theboxesand is still in theattic.Butnowthelinensareneatlyfolded; breakables arecarefullywrapped.Mollygotrid of boxes that were oddly

sized ormisshapen or in badshapeandreplacedthemwithnew thick cardboard boxes,uniformly rectangular.Everything is clearly labeledby place and date with ablack Sharpie and neatlystacked in chronologicalsequence under the eaves.Youcanevenwalkaroundupthere.

“Yeah,it’sfinished.”“Youcangetalotdonein

fiftyhours,huh?”Mollynods.Youhaveno

idea,shethinks.Loriopens thefileon the

tableinfrontofher.“Solookat this—a teacher put a noteinhere.”

Suddenlyalert,Mollysitsforward.Ohshit—whatnow?

Lori lifts the paperslightly, reading it. “A Mr.Reed. Social studies. Saysyoudidanassignmentforhis

class . . . a ‘portaging’project.What’sthat?”

“Just a paper,” she sayscautiously.

“Hmm . . . youinterviewed a ninety-one-year-oldwidow...that’stheladyyoudidyourhourswith,right?”

“She just told me somestuff. It wasn’t that big adeal.”

“Well,Mr.Reed thinks it

is. Says youwent above andbeyond.He’snominatingyouforsomekindofprize.”

“What?”“Anational history prize.

Youdidn’tknowaboutthis?”No, she didn’t know

about this. Mr. Reed hasn’teven handed the paper backyet.Sheshakesherhead.

“Well,nowyoudo.”Lorifoldsherarmsandleansbackon her stool. “That’s pretty

exciting,huh?”Molly feels like her skin

is glowing, like she’s beenslathered in some kind ofwarm honeylike substance.She feels a grin growing onher face and has to fight tostaycool.Shemakesaneffortto shrug. “I probably won’tgetitoranything.”

“You probably won’t,”Loriagrees. “Butas theysayattheOscars,it’sanhonorto

benominated.”“Loadofcrap.”Lori smiles, and Molly

can’thelpit,shesmilesback.“I’mproudofyou,Molly.

You’redoingwell.”“You’re justgladI’mnot

injuvie.Thatwouldcountasafailforyou,right?”

“Right. I’d lose myholidaybonus.”

“You’d have to sell yourLexus.”

“Exactly. So stay out oftrouble,okay?”

“I’lltry,”Mollysays.“Nopromises. You don’t wantyourjobtogettooboring,doyou?”

“Nodangerof that,”Lorisays.

THEHOUSEHOLDHUMSALONG.TERRYKEEPSTOHERROUTINE,AND Molly pitches in whereshe can—throwing in a load

of laundry and hanging it ontheline,makingstir-friesandother veggie-heavy dinnersforVivian,whodoesn’tseemtomindtheextracostandthelackoflivingcreaturesonthemenu.

After some adjustment,Jack has warmed to the ideaofMollylivinghere.Foronething,hecanvisitherwithoutDina’s disapproving glare.For another, it’s a nice place

to hang out. In the eveningsthey sit on the porch inVivian’soldwickerchairsasthe sky turns pink andlavender and red, the colorsseeping toward them acrossthe bay, amagnificent livingwatercolor.

One day, to everyone’sshock and amazement exceptMolly’s, Vivian announcesthat she wants to get acomputer. Jack calls the

phone company to find outhow to install Wi-Fi in thehouse,thensetsaboutgettingamodemandwirelessrouter.After talking through thevariousoptions,Vivian—whoas far as anyone knows hasnever so much as nudgedawakeanelectronickeyboard—decides to order the samematte silver thirteeninchlaptopMollyhas.Shedoesn’treallyknowwhatshe’lluseit

for, she says—just to lookthingsupandmaybereadtheNewYorkTimes.

With Vivian hovering ather shoulder, Molly goes tothe site and signs in on herown account: click, click,credit card number, address,click...okay,freeshipping?

“How longwill it take toarrive?”

“Let’s see . . . five to tenbusiness days. Or maybe a

littlelonger.”“CouldIgetitsooner?”“Sure.It justcostsa little

more.”“Howmuchmore?”“Well, for twenty-three

dollarsitcanbehereinadayortwo.”

“I suppose at my agethere’snopointinwaiting,isthere?”

As soon as the laptoparrives, a sleek little

rectangular spaceship with aglowing screen, Molly helpsVivian set it up. Shebookmarks the New YorkTimes andAARP(whynot?)andsetsupane-mailaccount([email protected]),though it’s hard to imagineVivian using it. She showsVivian how to access thetutorial, which she dutifullyfollows,exclaimingtoherselfasshegoes:“Ah, that’swhat

that is. You just push thatbutton—oh! I see. Touchpad. . . where’s the touchpad?Sillyme,ofcourse.”

Vivian is a fast study.Andsoonenough,withafewquickstrokes,shediscoversawhole community of trainriders and their descendants.Nearly a hundred of the twohundred thousand childrenwho rode the trains are stillalive. There are books and

newspaper articles,plays andevents. There’s a NationalOrphanTrainComplexbasedinConcordia,Kansas,with awebsite that includes riders’testimonies and photographsand a link to FAQs.(“Frequently askedquestions?” Vivian marvels.“By whom?”) There’s agroup called the New YorkTrain Riders; the fewremainingsurvivorsand their

many descendants meetannuallyinaconventinLittleFalls, Minnesota. TheChildren’s Aid Society andthe New York FoundlingHospital have websites withlinks to resources andinformation about historicalrecords and archives. Andthere is a whole subgenre ofancestor research—sons anddaughtersflyingtoNewYorkclutching scrapbooks,

tracking down letters ofindenture, photographs, birthcertificates.

With help from Molly,Vivian sets up an Amazonaccount and orders books.There are dozens ofchildren’s stories about thetrains, but what she’sinterested in is thedocuments, the artifacts, theself-published train-riderstories,eachoneatestimony,

atelling.Manyofthestories,she finds, follow a similartrajectory: This bad thinghappened, and this—and Ifoundmyselfona train—andthisbad thinghappened,andthis—butIgrewuptobecomea respectable, law-abidingcitizen; I fell in love, I hadchildren and grandchildren;in short, I’ve had a happylife, a life that could onlyhavebeenpossiblebecause I

was orphaned or abandonedand sent to Kansas orMinnesotaorOklahomaonatrain. I wouldn’t trade it fortheworld.

“So is it just humannature to believe that thingshappen for a reason—to findsome shred ofmeaning evenin the worst experiences?”Molly asks when Vivianreads some of these storiesaloud.

“It certainly helps,”Vivian says. She is sitting inone wingback with a laptop,scrollingthroughstoriesfromthe Kansas archives, andMolly in the other, readingactual books from Vivian’slibrary.She’salreadyplowedthrough Oliver Twist and isdeep into David CopperfieldwhenViviansqueaks.

Molly looks up, startled.She’s never heard Vivian

make that sound. “What isit?”

“I think . . .” Vivianmurmurs, her face glowingbluish in the skim-milk tintfromthescreenasshemovestwo fingers down across thetrackpad,“IthinkImayhavejust foundCarmine. The boyfrom the train.” She lifts thecomputer from her lap andhandsittoMolly.

The page is titled

CarmineLuten—Minnesota—1929.

“They didn’t change hisname?”

“Apparently not,” Viviansays. “Look—here’s thewomanwho took him out ofmyarmsthatday.”Shepointsat the screen with a curvedfinger,urgingMolly toscrolldown. “An idyllic childhood,the piece says. They calledhimCarm.”

Molly reads on: Carm, itappears,was lucky.He grewup in Park Rapids. Marriedhis high school sweetheart,became a salesman like hisfather. She lingers over thephotographs: one taken ofhimwithhisnewparents,justas Vivian described them—hismother, slight and pretty,his father tall and thin,chubby Carmine with hisdark curly hair and crossed

eyes nestled between them.There’s a picture of him onhis wedding day, eyes fixed,wearing glasses, beamingbeside a round-cheeked,chestnut-haired girl as theycut amany-tieredwhite cake—and then one of him baldand smiling, an arm aroundhis plumper but stillrecognizable wife, with acaption noting their fiftiethweddinganniversary.

Carmine’s story has beenwritten by his son, whoclearly did lots of research,even making the pilgrimageto New York to scour therecordsoftheChildren’sAidSociety. The son discoveredthatCarmine’sbirthmother,anewarrivalfromItaly,diedinchildbirth, and his destitutefathergavehimup.Carmine,it says in a postscript, diedpeacefully at the age of

seventy-fourinParkRapids.“I like knowing that

Carmine had a good life,”Viviansays.“Thatmakesmehappy.”

Molly goes to Facebookand types in the name ofCarmine’s son, CarmineLuten Jr. There’s only one.She clicks on the photo tabandhands the laptop back toVivian. “I can set up anaccount foryou, ifyouwant.

You could send his son afriend request or a Facebookmessage.”

Vivian peers at thepictures of Carmine’s sonwith his wife andgrandchildren on a recentvacation—at Harry Potter’scastle, on a roller coaster,standing next to MickeyMouse. “GoodLord. I’mnotready for that. But . . .” ShelooksatMolly.“You’regood

atthis,aren’tyou?”“Atwhat?”“Finding people. You

found your mother. AndMaisie.Andnowthis.”

“Oh. Well, not really, Ijusttypeinsomewords—”

“I’vebeen thinkingaboutwhatyousaidtheotherday,”shebreaksin.“Aboutlookingfor the child I gave away. Inever told anybody this, butall those years I lived in

Hemingford,anytimeIsawagirl with blond hair aroundher age, my heart jumped. Iwas desperate to know whatbecameofher.ButIthoughtIhad no right. Now I wonder. . . I wonder if maybe weshould try to find her.” Shelooks directly at Molly. Herface is unguarded, full oflonging.“If Idecide that I’mready,willyouhelpme?”


Thephoneringsandrings inthe cavernous house, severalreceivers in different roomstrillingindifferentkeys.

“Terry?” Vivian’s voicerises shrilly. “Terry, can yougetthat?”

Molly,sittingacrossfromVivian in the living room,putsherbookdownandstartsto rise. “Sounds like it’s inhere.”

“I’mlookingforit,Vivi,”Terry calls from anotherroom.“Isaphoneinthere?”

“It might be,” Viviansays, craning to look around.“Ican’ttell.”

Vivian is sitting in herfavorite chair, the faded red

wingback closest to thewindow,laptopopen,nursinga cup of tea. It’s anotherteacher-enrichment day atschool,andMollyisstudyingfor finals. Though it’smidmorning,theyhaven’tyetopened the curtains; Vivianfinds the glare on her screentoostronguntilabouteleven.

Terry bustles in, halfmuttering to herself and halfto the room. “Jeez Louise,

this iswhy I like landlines. Inever should’ve let Jack talkusintocordless.Iswear—oh,here it is.” She pulls areceiver out from behind apillowonthecouch.“Hello?”She pauses, hand on her hip.“Yes, this is Mrs. Daly’sresidence. Can I ask who’scalling?”

Shenestlesthereceiverinher chest. “The adoptionregistry,”shestage-whispers.

Vivian motions her overand takes the phone. Sheclears her throat. “This isVivianDaly.”

Molly and Terry lean incloser.

“Yes,Idid.Uh-huh.Yes.Oh—really?” She covers thereceiver with her hand.“Someone matching thedetails I submitted hadalready filled out a form.”Molly can hear the voice of

the woman on the other endof the line, a tinny melody.“What’s that you say?”Vivian puts the phone to herearagainandcocksherhead,listening to the answer.“Fourteen years ago,” shetellsMollyandTerry.

“Fourteen years ago!”Terryexclaims.

Ameretendaysago,afterrootingaroundontheInternetfor a little while, Molly

located a cache of adoptionregistry services, narrowingher search to the one ratedhighest among users. Thesite,describedasasystemformatchingpeoplewhowanttoestablish contact with their“next-of-kin by birth,”seemed reputable andaboveboard—nonprofit, nofee required. Molly e-mailedthe link for the applicationform to herself at school,

where she printed it off forVivian to fill in, a scant twopages,with the names of thetown, the hospital, theadoption agency.At the postoffice Molly made aphotocopy of the birthcertificate, which Vivian haskeptinasmallboxunderherbed for all these years, withthe original name—May—she gave her daughter. Thenshe put the forms and the

photocopy in a manilaenvelope addressed to theagency andmailed them off,fully expecting to hearnothingforweeksormonths,orpossiblyever.

“Do I have a pen?”Vivian mutters, lookingaround.“DoIhaveapen?”

Molly hurries into thekitchen and rummagesthrough the junk drawer,pulling out a handful of

writing implements, thenscribbling on the closestpaper at hand, the MountDesert Islander, to find onethat actually has ink. Shebrings a blue ballpoint andthe newspaper back toVivian.

“Yes, yes.All right.Yes,that’sfine,”Vivianissaying.“Nowhowdoyouspellthat?D-u-n-n . . .” Setting thenewspaperontheroundtable

nexttoherchair,shewritesaname, phone number, and e-mail address above theheadline, laboring over the“@.”“Thankyou.Yes,thankyou.” Squinting at thereceiver, she clicks the offbutton.

Terry goes to the tallwindows and pulls back thedrapes,fasteningtheloopsoneach side. The light thatfloodsinishardandbright.

“Forheaven’ssake,nowIcan’t see a thing,” Vivianscolds, shading her screenwithherhand.

“Oh, sorry!Do youwantmetoclosethem?”

“It’s all right.” Vivianshutsherlaptop.Shepeersatthenewspaperas if thedigitsshe printed on it are somekindofcode.

“So what did you findout?”Mollyasks.

“Her name is SarahDunnell.” Vivian looks up.“She lives in Fargo, NorthDakota.”

“North Dakota? Are theysureyou’rerelated?”

“They say they’re sure.They’ve checked and cross-checked birth records. Shewasbornonthesameday,inthe same hospital.” Vivian’svoice quavers. “Her originalnamewasMay.”

“Oh my God.” Mollytouches Vivian’s knee. “It isher.”

Vivianclaspsherhandsinherlap.“It’sher.”

“Thisisreallyexciting!”“It’s terrifying,” Vivian

says.“Sowhathappensnext?”“Well, a phone call, I

suppose.Orane-mail.Ihaveher e-mail address.” Sheholdsupthenewspaper.

Molly leans forward.“Whichdoyouwanttodo?”

“I’mnotsure.”“A call would be more

immediate.”“Itmightstartleher.”“She’s been waiting for

thisforalongtime.”“That’s true.” Vivian

seems to hesitate. “I don’tknow. Everything is movingsofast.”

“After seventy years.”

Mollysmiles.“Ihaveanidea.Let’sgoogleherfirstandseewhatwefind.”

Vivian makes an“abracadabra” motion withher hand over the silverlaptop.“Fast.”

SARAH DUNNELL, IT TURNSOUT, IS A MUSICIAN. SHEPLAYEDVIOLINwiththeFargoSymphony Orchestra and

taught at North Dakota StateUniversity until herretirement several years ago.She’samemberoftheRotaryClub and has been marriedtwice—for many years to alawyer, and now to a dentistwho is on the symphonyboard. She has a son and adaughterwhoappeartobeintheirearlyforties,andatleastthreegrandchildren.

In thedozenorsophotos

in Google images, mostlyhead shots of Sarahwith herviolin and Rotary awardceremony groupings, she isslim, like Vivian, with analert, guarded expression.Andblondhair.

“I suppose she dyes it,”Viviansays.

“Don’t we all,” Mollysays.

“Ineverdid.”“We can’t all have

gorgeous silver hair likeyours,”Mollysays.

Things happen quicklynow. Vivian sends Sarah ane-mail. Sarah calls. Withindays, she and her dentisthusbandhavebookedaflightto Maine for early June.They’ll bring their eleven-year-old granddaughter,Becca, who grew up readingBlueberries for Sal and is,Sarah says, always up for an

adventure.Vivian reads some of the

e-mailsoutloudtoMolly.I always wondered about

you, Sarah writes. I’d givenup hope of ever finding outwho you are and why yougavemeaway.

It’s exciting, this getting-ready business. A troupe ofworkersmarches through thehouse, painting trim, fixingbroken baluster shafts on the

porchfacingthebay,cleaningthe Oriental rugs, andpatching the cracks in thewall that appearevery springwhen the ground thaws andthehouseresettles.

“It’s time to open up allthe rooms, don’t you think?”Viviansaysonemorningoverbreakfast.“Lettheairin.”Tokeepthebedroomdoorsfromslamming shut in the windfromthebay,theypropthem

open with old hand ironsMolly found in one of theboxes in the attic.Havingallthose doors and windowsopen on the second floorcreates a breeze that blowsthrough the house.Everything seems lighter,somehow. Open to theelements.

Without asking Molly’sassistance, Vivian orderssome new clothes for herself

from Talbots on her laptopwith a credit card. “VivianorderedclothesfromTalbots.On her laptop.With a creditcard. Can you believe thosewords just came out of mymouth?”MollytellsJack.

“Beforeweknowit,frogswillbefallingfromthesky,”hesays.

Other signs of theapocalypse proliferate. Aftera pop-up ad appears on her

screen,Vivianannouncesthatshe plans to sign up forNetflix. She buys a digitalcamera onAmazonwith oneclick.SheasksMollyifshe’sever seen the sneezing babypanda video on YouTube.SheevenjoinsFacebook.

“She sent her daughter afriend request,” Molly tellsJack.

“Didsheaccept?”“Rightaway.”

Theyshaketheirheads.Twosetsofcotton sheets

are taken from the linenclosetandwashed,thenhungtodryonthelongclotheslinebeside the house. WhenMolly plucks them off theline, the sheets are stiff andsweet-smelling. She helpsTerry make the beds,stretching the clean whitesheets over mattresses thathaveneverbeenused.

Whenis thelast timeanyof them felt this kind ofanticipation? Even Terry hasgotten into the spirit. “Iwonderwhatkindofcereal Ishould get for Becca,” Terrymusesas theydrape theIrishWreathquiltonthegirl’sbed,across the hall from hergrandparents’suite.

“HoneyNut Cheerios arealways a safe bet,” Mollysays.

“I think she’d preferpancakes.Doyouthinkshe’dlikeblueberrypancakes?”

“Who doesn’t likeblueberrypancakes?”

In the kitchen, whileMollycleansoutcabinetsandJack tightens the latches onthe screen door, they discusswhat Sarah and her familymight want to do on theisland. Stroll around BarHarbor, get ice creamatBen

&Bill’s, eat steamed lobsterat Thurston’s, maybe tryNonna’s, the new SouthernItalianplaceinSpruceHarborthatgota rave inDownEast...

“She’s not here to dotouristy things. She’s here tomeetherbirthmother,”Terryremindsthem.

They look at each otherandstart laughing.“Ohyeah,that’sright,”Jacksays.

Molly is followingSarah’s son, Stephen, onTwitter.Thedayoftheflight,Stephen writes, “Mom’s offto meet her ninety-one-year-oldbirthmother.Gofigure.Awhole new life at the age ofsixty-eight!”

Awholenewlife.It’saMainepostcardday.

Alltheroomsinthehouseareready. A large pot of fishchowder, Terry’s specialty,

simmerson the stove (withasmaller pot of corn chowder,a nod to Molly, beside it).Corn bread cools on thecounter. Molly has made abig salad and balsamicdressing.

Molly and Vivian havebeen roaming around allafternoon, pretending not towatch the clock. Jack calledat 2:00 P.M. to say that theflight fromMinnesota landed

inBostonafewminuteslate,but thepuddle-jumper toBarHarbor airport had taken offandwasscheduled to land inhalf an hour, and he was onhisway.He’d takenVivian’scar, a navy blue Subaruwagon,topickthemup(aftervacuumingitoutandgivingita good wash withdishwashingliquidandahoseinhisdriveway).

Sittingintherockerinthe

kitchen, looking out at thewater, Molly feels oddly atpeace.Forthefirsttimesinceshecan remember,her life isbeginning to make sense.What up until this momenthas felt like a random,disconnected series ofunhappy events she nowviewsasnecessary steps inajourney toward . . .enlightenment is perhaps toostrong a word, but there are

others, less lofty, like self-acceptance and perspective.She has never believed infate; it would’ve beendispiriting to accept that herlife so far unfolded as it didaccording to somepreordainedpattern.Butnowshe wonders. If she hadn’tbeenbouncedfromonefosterhome to the next, shewouldn’t have ended up onthis island—and met Jack,

andthroughhim,Vivian.Shewould never have heardVivian’s story, with all itsresonancetoherown.

When the car pulls intothedriveway,Mollyhearsthecrunch of gravel from thekitchen,attheoppositeendofthe house. She’s beenlistening for it. “Vivian,they’rehere!”shecalls.

“I hear,” Vivian callsback.

Meeting in the foyer,Molly reaches for Vivian’shand. This is it, she thinks,the culmination ofeverything. But all she saysis,“Ready?”

“Ready,”Viviansays.AssoonasJackshutsoff

theengine,agirlspringsfromthebackseat,wearingablue-striped dress and whitesneakers. Becca—it must be.Shehasredhair.Long,wavy

red hair and a smattering offreckles.

Vivian, gripping theporchrailwithonehand,putsher other over her mouth.“Oh.”

“Oh,” Molly breathesbehindher.

The girl waves. “Vivian,we’rehere!”

Theblondwomangettingoutof the car—Sarah—lookstoward them with an

expression Molly’s neverseen before. Her eyes arewide open, searching, andwhen her gaze alights onVivian’sface,itisstartlinginits intensity, stripped of anypretense or convention.Yearning and wariness andhopefulnessandlove...doesMolly really see all this onSarah’s face, or is sheprojecting?ShelooksatJack,lifting the bags out of the

trunk, and he nods and givesheraslowwink.Igetit.Ifeelittoo.

Molly touches Vivian’sshoulder,frailandbonyunderher thin silk cardigan. Shehalf turns, half smiles, hereyes brimming with tears.Her hand flutters to herclavicle, to the silver chainaroundherneck,thecladdaghcharm—those tiny handsclasping a crowned heart:

love, loyalty, friendship—anever-ending path that leadsaway from home and circlesback.What a journeyVivianand thisnecklacehave taken,Molly thinks: from acobblestoned village on thecoastofIrelandtoatenementinNewYork to a train filledwith children, steamingwestward through farmland,to a lifetime in Minnesota.And now to this moment,

nearlyahundredyearsafteritallbegan,on theporchofanoldhouseinMaine.

Vivian puts her foot onthe first step and stumblesslightly, and each personmoves toward her, as if inslow motion—Molly, justbehind her, Becca, nearingthe bottom step, Jack at thecar,Sarahcrossingthegravel,even Terry, coming aroundthesideofthehouse.

“I’m all right!” Viviansays,graspingtherail.

Mollyslipsanarmaroundher waist. “Of course youare,”shewhispers.Hervoiceis steady, thoughher heart isso full it aches. “And I’mrightherebehindyou.”

Vivian smiles. She looksdownatBecca,whoisgazingup at her with large hazeleyes.“Nowthen.Whereshallwebegin?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The strands of this novel—Minnesota, Maine, andIreland—have been woventogether with the help of anumber of people. Visitingmyhusband’smother,CaroleKline, at her home in Fargo,North Dakota, a number ofyearsago,Ireadastoryabouther father, Frank Robertson,

that appeared in a volumecalled Century of Stories:Jamestown, North Dakota,1883–1983 edited by JamesSmorada and Lois Forrest.The piece, “They Called It‘Orphan Train’: And ItProved There Was a Homefor Many Children on thePrairie,” featured Frank andhis four orphaned siblingswho were placed in fostercare in Jamestown and

eventually all adopted by thesame family. Though theywere not, as it turned out,“orphan train” orphans, mycuriosity was piqued. I wasstunned to learn about thebreadth and scope of theorphan train movement,which transported a reportedtwo hundred thousandchildren from the East CoasttotheMidwestbetween1854and1929.

In the course of myresearch, I spoke to JillSmolowe, a writer andreporter for People, whothought there might beenough material on thesurviving “train riders,” asthey call themselves, for aPeople magazine feature.Though the story nevermaterialized, the folder ofmaterial and contacts Jillcompiled proved

tremendously useful. Mostsignificant,Jillintroducedmeto Renee Wendinger,president of the MidwestOrphan Train Riders fromNew York organization,whose mother, SophiaHillesheim,wasa train rider.AttheOrphanTrainRidersofNew York’s forty-ninthreunion in 2009 in LittleFalls, Minnesota, Reneeintroducedmetohalfadozen

train riders, all now in theirnineties, including PatThiessen, a train rider fromIreland whose experienceuncannilyresembledtheoneIhad sketched for mycharacter. Throughout thewriting of this novel Reneehas patiently and generouslyoffered her wise counsel inways large and small, fromcorrectingegregiouserrors toproviding historical nuance

and shading. Her book,Extra! Extra! The OrphanTrainsandNewsboysofNewYork, has been an invaluableresource. The novel wouldnot have been the samewithouther.

Other resources I reliedon during my orphan trainresearch were the Children’sAid Society; the New YorkFoundling (I attended their140th homecoming in 2009

and met a number of trainriders there); the New YorkTenementMuseum; the EllisIsland ImmigrationMuseum;and the National OrphanTrainComplex inConcordia,Kansas, a museum andresearchcenterwithavibrantonline presence that includesmany train rider stories. Inthe Irma and Paul MilsteinDivision of U.S. History,LocalHistoryandGenealogy

at the New York PublicLibrary, I foundnoncirculating lists oforphaned and indigentchildren from the Children’sAid Society and the NewYork Foundling, first-persontestimonials from train ridersand their families,handwritten records, notesfrom desperate mothersexplaining why they hadabandoned their children,

reports on Irish immigrants,and many other documentsthataren’tavailableanywhereelse. Books I foundparticularly helpful includeOrphan Train Rider: OneBoy’s True Story by AndreaWarren; Children of theOrphan Trains, 1854–1929by Holly Littlefield; andRachel Calof’s Story: JewishHomesteaderontheNorthernPlains edited by J. Sanford

Rikoon (which I found atBonanzaville, a pioneerprairie village and museumcomplexinWestFargo).

During my years asWriter-in-Residence atFordham University, I wasprivileged to receive aFaculty Fellowship and aFordham Research Grant,whichenabledmetoconductresearch in Minnesota andIreland. A fellowship from

the Virginia Center for theCreative Arts gaveme spaceandtimetowrite.IrishnativeBrian Nolan took me on aninsider’s tour of CountyGalway.HisstoriesabouthischildhoodhousekeeperBirdieSheridanprovided inspirationfor Vivian’s grandmother’slife.InthevillageofKinvara,RobynRichardsonferriedmefrom pubs to Phantom Streetand handed me an important

resource:Kinvara:ASeaportTown on Galway Bay byCaoilte Breatnach and AnneKorff. Among other books,An Irish Country Childhoodby Marrie Walsh helped mewithperiodandplacedetails.

At the same time that Iwas writing this book, mymother, Tina Baker, beganteaching a course on MountDesertIslandinMainecalled“NativeAmericanWomen in

Literature andMyth.”At theend of the course, she askedstudents to use the Indianconcept of portaging todescribe“theirjourneysalonguncharted waters and whattheychosetocarryforwardinportages to come,” as shewrites in the compilation oftheir narratives, VoicesYearning to be Heard:Acadia Senior CollegeStudents Pay Tribute to the

Missing Voices of History.The concept of portaging, Irealized, was the missingstrand I needed toweavemybook together. Additionaltitles shapedmy perspective:Women of the Dawn byBunny McBride, In theShadow of the Eagle: ATribal Representative inMaine by Donna Loring (amember of the PenobscotIndian Nation and a former

state legislator), andWabanakis ofMaine and theMaritimes by the WabanakiProgram of the AmericanFriends Services Committee.The websites of the AbbeMuseum in Bar Harbor,Maine, and the PenobscotIndian Nation providedvaluablematerialaswell.

I relied on good friendsand family for support,counsel, and advice: Cynthia

Baker, William Baker,CatherineBaker-Pitts,MarinaBudhos, Anne Burt, DebEllis, Alice Elliott Dark,Louise DeSalvo, BonnieFriedman, Clara BakerLester, Pamela RedmondSatran,andJohnVeague.Myhusband, David, read themanuscript with a keen eyeand a generous heart. PennyWindle Kline briefed me onadoption protocols and

provided crucial resources.Master Sergeant JeffreyBinghamandhisuncleBruceBingham, a retired brigadiergeneral in the U.S. Army,offered fact checking for theWorldWar II sectionsof thenovel. Bunny McBride,Donna Loring, RobynRichardson, andBrianNolanreadsectionsrelevanttotheirexpertise. Hayden, Will, andEli,mysons,gentlycorrected

any errant teen-speak. Myagent,BethVesel,wasinherremarkable way both mentorand friend.Andmy editor atMorrow,KatherineNintzel—inaddition toherusualgoodsenseandintelligentadvice—suggesteda structural changeat the eleventh hour thattransformedthenarrative.

Thisbookwouldnotexistwithout the train ridersthemselves. Having been

privilegedtomeetsixofthem(all between the ages ofninety and one hundred) andread hundreds of their first-person narratives, I am filledwith admiration for theircourage, fortitude, andperspective on this strangeand little-known episode inournation’shistory.

P.S.Insights,Interviews&More...

AbouttheauthorMeetChristinaBakerKline

AboutthebookChristinaBakerKlineTalkswithRoxanaRobinson

AShortHistoryoftheRealOrphanTrains

ReadingGroupGuide

Abouttheauthor

MeetChristinaBakerKline

KarinDiana

CHRISTINA BAKERKLINE is a novelist,nonfiction writer, and editor.In addition toOrphan Train,her novels include Bird inHand, The Way Life ShouldBe, Desire Lines, and SweetWater.

Kline also commissionedandeditedtwowidelypraisedcollections of original essayson the first year ofparenthoodandraisingyoung

children, Child of Mine andRoom to Grow. Shecoauthored a book onfeminist mothers anddaughters, The ConversationBegins, with her mother,Christina L. Baker, and shecoeditedAboutFace:WomenWrite About What They SeeWhen They Look in theMirrorwithAnneBurt.

Kline grew up in Maine,England, and Tennessee, and

has spent a lot of time inMinnesotaandNorthDakota,where her husband grew up.She is a graduate of Yale,Cambridge, and theUniversityofVirginia,whereshe was a Hoyns Fellow inFiction Writing. She hastaught creative writing andliterature at Fordham andYale, among other places,and is a recent recipient of aGeraldine R. Dodge

Foundation fellowship. Shelives in Montclair, NewJersey,withherfamily.

Aboutthebook

ChristinaBakerKlineTalkswithRoxanaRobinson

ROXANAROBINSONistheauthorofCost—namedbytheWashington Post as one ofthe fivebest fictionbooksof2008—aswellasthreeearliernovels, three short story

collections,andthebiographyGeorgia O’Keeffe: A Life.Four of these publicationswere New York TimesNotable Books. Robinson’swork has appeared in TheNew Yorker, The Atlantic,Harper’s, Best AmericanShort Stories, the New YorkTimes, and elsewhere. ShewasnamedaLiteraryLionbytheNewYorkPublicLibraryand has received fellowships

from the NationalEndowment for the Arts, theMacDowell Colony, and theJohn Simon GuggenheimFoundation.HernovelSpartaisforthcoming.

RR: Could you talk abouthowthisbookstarted?Whatgaveyoutheideaforit?

CBK: About a decade ago,while visiting my in-laws in

North Dakota, I came acrossa nonfiction book printed bythe Fort Seward HistoricalSociety called Century ofStories: Jamestown andStutsmanCounty,1883–1983.In it was an article titled“They called it ‘OrphanTrain’—and it proved therewas a home for manychildren on the prairie.” Myhusband’s grandfather FrankRobertson and his siblings

featured prominently in thestory.Thiswasnewstome—I’dneverheardoftheorphantrains. In the course ofresearchingthisfamilylore,Ifound out that althoughorphantrainsdid,infact,stopin Jamestown,NorthDakota,andorphansfromthosetrainswere adopted there, theRobertson clan came fromMissouri.Butmyinterestwaspiqued, and I knew Iwanted

tolearnmoreaboutthislittle-known period in Americanhistory.

RR: What was it that wasmost compelling to youabout the ideaofanorphantrain?

CBK: I thinkIwasdrawntothe orphan train story in partbecause two of my owngrandparents were orphans

who spoke little about theirearlylives.Asanovelist,I’vealways been fascinated withhowpeople tell thestoriesoftheir lives and what thosestories reveal—intentionallyor not—about who they are.I’m intrigued by the spacesbetween words, the silencesthat conceal long-keptsecrets, theelisions thatbeliesurfaceappearance.

My own background is

partly Irish, and so I decidedthat I wanted to write aboutan Irish girl who has keptsilentaboutthecircumstancesthat led her to the orphantrain.Iwantedtowriteabouthow traumatic eventsbeyondour control can shape anddefineourlives.“Peoplewhocross the threshold betweenthe known world and thatplace where the impossibledoes happen discover the

problem of how to conveythat experience,” KathrynHarrison writes. Over thecourse of this novel, mycentral character, Vivian,moves fromshameaboutherpasttoacceptance,eventuallycoming to terms with whatshe’s been through. In theprocess, she learns about theregenerative power ofreclaiming—and telling—herownlifestory.

Like my four previousnovels, Orphan Trainwrestles with questions ofcultural identity and familyhistory. But I knew rightaway that this was a biggerstory and would requireextensive research. The vastcanvas appealed to meimmensely. I was eager tobroadenmyscope.

RR: Did you go to the

Midwest to see any of thesitesyoudescribehere?

CBK: I’ve been going toMinnesota andNorthDakotafor decades. I knowMinneapolis fairly well andfeel a great affinity for theregion.My husband’s familyhas a lake home near ParkRapids, Minnesota, and I’vespent a lot of time there.Several of the small towns I

describe in this novel areinvented,asisSpruceHarbor,Maine, the setting for thepresent-day story. (SpruceHarbor is also the setting foranother of my novels, TheWayLifeShouldBe.)Plantingan imaginary town in a reallandscape gives me freedomasawritertoinventasIgo.

RR:What sort of researchdidyoudoforthebook,and

didyouinterviewpeoplewhowereconnected to the train?Whatwasthatlike?

CBK: After finding articlesonline from the New YorkTimes and other newspapers,I read hundreds of first-persontestimonialsfromtrainriders, orphan-train reuniongroups, and historicalarchives. That research ledme to the New York Public

Library, where I found atrove of originalcontemporaneousmaterials. Idevourednonfictionhistories,children’snovels,andpicturebooks, and conductedresearch at the New YorkTenement Museum and EllisIsland. I also traveled toCounty Galway in Ireland toresearchmy character’s Irishbackground.

In the course of writing

this book I attended trainriders’reunionsinNewYorkand Minnesota, andinterviewed train riders andtheir descendants. Therearen’t many train riders left;thosewhoremainarealloverninetyyearsold.Iwasstruckby how eager they were totelltheirstories,toeachotherandtome.Intalkingtothemand reading their oralhistories, I found that they

tended not to dwell on theconsiderablehardshipsthey’dfaced; instead, they focusedonhowgratefultheywerefortheir children, grandchildren,and communities—for livesthat wouldn’t have beenpossible if they hadn’t beenonthosetrains.Irealizedthatin fiction I could dosomething that is difficult todo in real life: I could dwellon the stark details of the

experiencewithoutneedingtocreate a narrative ofredemption.

RR: What was the mostsurprising thing that cameout of the research? Whatwas it that you hadn’texpected?

CBK: For decades, manytrain riders believed that thetrain they rode on was the

only one. They didn’t knowthat they were part of amassive seventy-five-yearsocial experiment. It wasn’tuntil their own children andgrandchildren got involvedand started asking questions(there are more than twomillion descendants,according to some estimates)that they met other trainridersandbegansharingtheirstories.

RR: You have two teenagegirlsasmaincharacters,andthough they are widelyseparated by time andcircumstances, they sharesome things. Could you talkaboutthat?

CBK: When you writenovels, you go on instinctmuchofthetime.AsIbeganwriting about Molly, aseventeen-year-oldPenobscot

Indian foster child, believe itor not, I didn’t immediatelynotice parallels to Vivian, awealthy ninety-one-year-oldwidow. But as I wrote mywayintothenarrativeIcouldsee that in addition to somebiographical parallels—bothcharacters have dead fathersand institutionalizedmothers,bothwere passed fromhometo home and encounteredprejudice because of cultural

stereotypes, both held on totalismanic keepsakes fromfamily members—they arepsychologically similar. Forboth of them, change hasbeen a defining principle;from a young age, they bothhad to learn to adapt, toinhabit new identities.They’ve spent much of theirlives minimizing risk,avoiding complicatedentanglements, and keeping

silent about the past. It’s notuntil Vivian—in answer toMolly’s pointed questions—beginstofacethetruthaboutwhat happened long ago thatboth of them have thecourage to make changes intheirlives.

RR:Canyoutalkaboutyourown feelings of connectionto Maine, a place you useofteninyourwork?

CBK: Though both of myparents are Southern, wemoved toMainewhen Iwassix years old and neverlooked back. I’m not naïveenough to consider myself aMainer—though two of myyoungersistersmightbeableto, having been born in-state(Mainers tend to beinconsistent on this subject)—but I did spend myformative years in Bangor, a

mid-Mainetownofthirty-fivethousand on the PenobscotRiver. About a decade agomy parents retired to BassHarbor, a tiny coastal villageonMount Desert Island.Mythree sisters have houseswithin two miles of myparents’ home, and one livesthere with her family year-round. I am lucky enough tospend summers and othervacations on the island; my

three boys consider it theirhomeland. For me, it’s assimpleasthis:MaineisapartofwhoIam.

RR:Can you talk about thepresenceoftimeinthisbook,theway you use it to defineandexpand?

CBK: The present-day storyinOrphanTrainunfoldsoverseveral months and the

historical section spanstwenty-three years, from1929 to 1943. It took sometime to figure out how tobalance the sections so thatthey complemented andenhancedeachother.

Too often, when I’mreading novels with separatestorylines, I find that Ipreferone over the other and amimpatient toreturntotheoneI like. I tried to avoid this

with Orphan Train byweaving the stories togethersothat theycontainedechoesof, and references to, eachother—for example,Vivian’sgrandmother gives her aCladdagh necklace in onesection, and then pages laterMolly comments on thenecklace in the present-daystory. But I didn’t want thereferences tobe too literalorovert. It was complicated! I

also wanted the historicalsectiontoendabruptlywithasurprisingrevelation(whichIwon’t give away here), andfor the present-day story topick up where it left off,laying bare themechanics ofthestorytelling:thatVivianistellingMollyher story in thepresent day. Sometimes Igave myself a headachetryingtofigureouthowitallfit together.More than once,

my editor, thank goodness,came in and saved the day.

AShortHistoryoftheRealOrphanTrains

ORPHANTRAINisaspecificallyAmerican story of mobilityandrootlessness,highlightingalittle-knownbuthistoricallysignificant moment in ourcountry’spast.Between1854

and 1929, so-called orphantrains transported more thantwo hundred thousandorphaned, abandoned, andhomeless children—many ofwhom, like the character inthis book, were first-generation Irish Catholicimmigrants—fromthecoastalcities of the eastern UnitedStates to the Midwest for“adoption,” which oftenturned out to be indentured

servitude. Charles LoringBrace, who founded theprogram, believed that hardwork,education,andfirmbutcompassionatechildrearing—not to mention midwesternChristian family values—were the only way to savethese children from a life ofdepravity and poverty. Untilthe1930s,therewasnosocialsafetynet;itisestimatedthatmore than ten thousand

children were living on thestreets of New York City atanygiventime.

PhotographcourtesyoftheLibraryofCongressPrints&PhotographsOnline

Catalog,LewisWickesHinesCollectionoftheNationalChildLaborCommittee.

ElizabethStreetinNewYorkCity,whereNiamhlived,intheearly

twentiethcentury.

PhotographcourtesyoftheLibraryofCongressPrints&PhotographsOnlineCatalog,LewisWickesHinesCollectionoftheNationalChildLaborCommittee.

AbootblacklikeDutchy,nearCityHallPark,NewYorkCity,1924.

PhotographcourtesyoftheChildren’sAidSocietyArchive,NewYorkCity.

Agroupofearly-twentieth-centuryorphan-trainriderswiththeir

chaperones.


Noticeslikethisonewerepostedinthedaysandweeksbeforeatrainarrived

intown.

Manyof thechildrenhadexperienced great trauma intheirshort livesand theyhadno idea where there weregoing. The train would pullinto a station and the localtownspeople would assemble

to inspect them—oftenliterally scrutinizing teeth,eyes, and limbs to determinewhether a child was sturdyenough for field work, orintelligentandmild-temperedenough to cook and clean.Babiesandhealthyolderboyswere typically chosen first;older girls were chosen last.After a brief trial period, thechildren became indenturedto their host families. If a

childwasn’tchosen,heorshewouldgetbackonthetraintotryagainatthenexttown.


ArarephotographofanentiretrainfulofchildrenonitswaytoKansas.

PhotographcourtesyoftheLibraryofCongressPrints&PhotographsOnlineCatalog,LewisWickesHinesCollectionoftheNationalChildLaborCommittee.

AyounggirllikeNiamh/Dorothy,sewingtoearnmoney.

Some children werewarmly welcomed by newfamilies and towns. Otherswere beaten, mistreated,taunted,orignored.Theylostany sense of their cultural

identities and backgrounds;siblingswereoftenseparated,and contact between themwas discouraged. Citychildren were expected toperform hard farm labor forwhich they were neitheremotionally nor physicallyprepared.Manyofthemwerefirst-generation immigrantsfrom Italy, Poland, andIreland and were teased fortheir strange accents; some

barely spoke English.Jealousy and competition inthenewfamiliescreatedrifts,and many children ended upfeeling that they didn’tbelong anywhere. Somedriftedfromhometohometofind someone who wantedthem. Many ran away. TheChildren’s Aid Society didattempttokeeptrackofthesechildren, but the reality ofgreat distances and spotty

record keeping made thisdifficult.

Many train riders neverspoke about their early lives.Butastheyearspassed,sometrain riders and theirdescendantsbegantodemandthattheybeallowedaccesstorecords that until that timehadbeenclosedtothem.Onetrain rider I spoke with,ninety-four-year-old PatThiessen, toldme thatwhen,

in her fifties, she finally gother birth certificate with herparents’ names on it, sheshouted with joy. “I was sohappy toknowaboutmyself,just a little,” she said. “It[still]feelsincomplete.Ikeepwondering: What were mygrandparents like? What didtheyhaveinmyfamilythatIcould’ve enjoyed? Whowould I be? I think of all ofthesethings,youknow.Ihad

a good home; I don’t meanthat. But I always felt theywere not my people. Andtheyweren’t.”

PhotographcourtesyoftheThiessenfamily.

TrainriderPatThiessenin1920,dressedupforherfirstEasterwithher

newfamilyinMinnesota.

ReadingGroupGuide

1.Onthesurface,Vivian’sand Molly’s livescouldn’t be moredifferent, but in whatways are their storiessimilar?

2. In the prologue,Vivian

mentions that her “truelove”diedwhenshewastwenty-three, but shedoesn’t mention theother big secret in thebook.Whynot?

3. Whyhasn’tVivianevershared her story withanyone? Why does shetellitnow?

4.WhatroledoesVivian’sgrandmother play in her

life? How does thereader’s perception ofher shift as the storyunfolds?

5. Why doesVivian seemunable to get rid of theboxesinherattic?

6.InWomenoftheDawn,anonfiction book aboutthe lives of fourWabanakiIndiansthatisexcerpted in the

epigraph, BunnyMcBride writes: “Inportagingfromoneriverto another, Wabanakishadtocarrytheircanoesand all otherpossessions. Everyoneknew the value oftraveling light andunderstood that itrequired leaving somethings behind. Nothingencumbered movement

more than fear, whichwas often the mostdifficult burden tosurrender.” How doestheconceptofportagingreverberate throughoutthis novel? What fearshamper Vivian’sprogress?Molly’s?

7. Vivian’s name changesseveral times over thecourse of the novel—from Niamh Power to

Dorothy Nielsen toVivian Daly. How arethesechangessignificantfor her?How does eachname represent adifferent phase of herlife?

8. What significance, ifany, does Molly Ayer’snamehave?

9. HowdidVivian’s first-person account of her

youth and the present-day story from Molly’sthird-person-limitedperspective worktogether?Didyoupreferone story to the other?Did the juxtapositionreveal things that mightnot have emerged in atraditionalnarrative?

10. In what ways, large orsmall, does Molly havean impact on Vivian’s

life? How does Vivianhave an impact onMolly’s?

11. WhatdoesVivianmeanwhen she says, “Ibelieveinghosts”?

12. When Vivian finallysharesthetruthaboutthebirthofherdaughterandher decision to putMayupforadoption,shetellsMolly that she was

“selfish” and “afraid.”But Molly defends herand affirms Vivian’schoice. How did youperceive Vivian’sdecision? Were yousurprised she sent herchildtobeadoptedafterher own experienceswith the Children’s AidSociety?

13. When the children arepresented to audiences

of potential caretakers,the Children’s AidSociety explains thatadoptive families areresponsible for thechild’s religiousupbringing. What roledoesreligionplayinthisnovel? How do Mollyand Vivian each viewGod?

14. When Vivian andDutchy are reunited,

Vivian remarks,“However hard I try, Iwill always feel alienand strange. And nowI’ve stumbled on afellowoutsider,onewhospeaks my languagewithout saying aword.”Howis thisalsotrueforher friendship withMolly?

15. When Vivian goes tolive with the Byrnes,

Fanny offers her foodandadvises,“Yougottolearntotakewhatpeopleare willing to give.” Inwhat ways is this goodadvice for both Vivianand Molly? And incontrast, what are someinstances when theirindependence helpedthem?

16. Molly is enthusiasticabout Vivian’s reunion

with her daughter butmakes no further effortsto see her own mother.Whyissheunwilling(orunable) to effect areunion in her ownfamily? Do you thinkshewillsomeday?

17. Vivian’s claddagh crossis mentioned oftenthroughout the story.What is itssignificance?How does its meaning

change or deepen overthe course of Vivian’slife?

Visitwww.AuthorTracker.com forexclusiveinformationonyourfavorite HarperCollinsauthors.

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ALSOBYCHRISTINABAKER

KLINE

FICTION

SweetWater

DesireLines

TheWayLifeShouldBe

BirdinHand

NONFICTION

TheConversationBegins:MothersandDaughtersTalkAboutLivingFeminism

(coauthoredwithChristinaLooperBaker)

ChildofMine:OriginalEssaysonBecominga

Mother(editor)

RoomtoGrow:22WritersEncounterthePleasuresandParadoxesofRaisingYoung

Children(editor)

AboutFace:WomenWriteAboutWhatTheySeeWhenTheyLookintheMirror(editedwithAnneBurt)

CREDITS

Coverphotographs:younggirl©byYolandedeKort/ArcangelImages;traindoor

©byMarcusAppelt/ArcangelImages

AuthorphotographbyKarinDiana

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Thecharacters, incidents, and dialogue aredrawn from the author’s imaginationandarenottobeconstruedasreal.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

ORPHANTRAIN.Copyright©2013 byChristina Baker Kline. All rightsreserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Bypaymentof therequiredfees,youhavebeen granted the nonexclusive,

nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthe text of this e-book on-screen. Nopart of this text may be reproduced,transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,reverse-engineered, or stored in orintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyany means, whether electronic ormechanical, now known or hereinafterinvented, without the express writtenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

FIRSTEDITION

EPub Edition April 2013 ISBN9780062101204

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationData

Kline,ChristinaBaker,1964–Orphantrain:anovel/ChristinaBakerKline.—1sted.p.cm.ISBN978-0-06-195072-8 1. Women—Fiction. 2. Orphantrains—Fiction.3.Femalefriendship—Fiction.I.Title.PS3561.L478O772012

813'.54—dc23 2012027409

1314151617OV/RRD10987654321

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