by Rae Meadows
Handbills skidded by their feet and flapped against the posts of the depot:
HOMES WANTED FOR CHILDREN
A Mercy Train of Orphan Children will arrive at Sheridan, Indiana, Friday, June 15, 1900.
The Distribution will take place at the Opera House at 1:00 pm. The object of the coming of these children is to find homes in your midst, especially among farmers, where they may enjoy a happy and wholesome family life, where kind care, good example and moral training will fit them for a life of self-support and usefulness. They come under the auspices of the New York Children’s Aid Society, by whom they have been tested and found to be well-meaning and willing boys and girls.
Remember the time and place. All are invited.
The children held hands as they were told and followed Mrs. Comstock and Mr. Drummond, who carried the trunk—Miss Bodean followed behind the group—across the mostly empty town square. A man in a wagon stopped to watch. A woman on the courthouse steps held the hand of a young girl and pointed. Violet wondered if this was to be where she would call home. She looked around for things to make her feel better about it. It was quiet. It didn’t smell bad. There wasn’t manure all over the street. She told herself these things, but it only made her feel more out of place.
At the Sheridan Hotel, the boys were shuttled into one room, the girls into another, where their hands and faces were wiped and their hair brushed. They were each given a glass of fresh milk.
“Smile for the people,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Answer their questions. Act ladylike and proper. Do as you’re told.”
The girls twittered and licked their lips, readying themselves for the audition. Miss Bodean dabbed the noses of the babies with a damp rag and dug at their crusty eyes.
“What if we don’t like where we go?” Violet asked.
The other girls sat up, quiet, and turned their heads toward her, fear taking hold of their features.
Mrs. Comstock inhaled and exhaled through her nose and narrowed stern eyes at Violet.
“Be grateful for this opportunity, young lady. If there is a problem, you can write to the Aid Society. The address is in your Bible. But it must be serious, mind you. Try to make the best of your situation. Say your prayers at night.”
Violet stopped listening. She smoothed the paper pinned to her chest and watched the raggedy clouds skitter by through the slit in the curtains. She had always known in some sense, even back in Aberdeen, that she was on her own. She slipped down a little further into herself, and touched the dark core no one could reach.
“Girls, let scripture be your guide,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Repeat after me: I will sing of loyalty and of justice; to Thee, O Lord, I will sing.”
The girls repeated the words in a grave monotone.
“I will give heed to the way that is blameless. Oh, when wilt Thou come to me?”
Elsie, Elmer’s little sister, started to cry and held her hands over her eyes.
“Quiet now, little one,” Miss Bodean shushed.
“I will walk with integrity of heart within my house.”
“I will walk with integrity of heart within my house,” Violet mumbled, not caring about the words.
She tried to remember what the moment she’d been baptized in the Barren River had felt like, the tips of the willow branches dipping in and out of the water, the July sun beaming down on her wet head, the white gown her mother had kept in her carved cedar chest floating around her legs. She had not felt reborn. But she had felt hopeful.
“Line up for the toilet, girls. We leave in one half hour.”
* * *
One long row of chairs was set up on the stage. The curtain, a heavy green velvet, was drawn so they could not see who had gathered, but they could hear the rustling of an audience on the other side.
“Boys first, oldest to youngest, then girls, then Miss Bodean and the babies.”
Violet sat next to Eileen, a skinny Irish girl who was missing a front tooth, and Maryanne, a half-orphan who said her mother would come for her in a couple of months. No one spoke. Elsie clung to Elmer’s hand and cried as Mrs. Comstock pulled her away to a chair near the end. Elmer held his trembling chin up and looked straight ahead.
“Let us say together the Twenty-third Psalm,” Mrs. Comstock said, facing them and bowing her head. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Some of the children joined in, others halfheartedly mouthed the words. Violet closed her eyes and thought, Pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen.”
The older orphan boy, number twelve, coughed into his fist, trying to clear his throat. Eileen, next to Violet, tapped her foot. The infant hiccuped.
Mr. Drummond peeked his head through the curtain. “Mrs. Comstock? We have quite a crowd gathered. I think it’s going to be a very good day.”
Mrs. Comstock clapped her hands together and held them in front of her chest, smiling from face to face. “Children,” she said, “it is time.”
When the curtains swept apart, all Violet could see were eyes shining back at her, reflecting the electric lights of the windowless opera house. The floor had been cleared of chairs, and curious sightseers and potential applicants milled about, gawking at the children, waving, smiling. Some of the little ones waved back. Violet didn’t know what to do with her hands or where to look, if she should seek out a friendly face or if she should wait to be noticed.
The first group approached the stage, pencils and paper in hand. A woman ran to the end, to Miss Bodean, and swept the infant up into her arms.
“Andrew, look,” she said to her husband, a large farmer who was trying to scoot around the others. “We’ll take this one,” she said to Miss Bodean. “Can we take him now?”
“Fill out an application over here with me, madam” Mr. Drummond said. “It’s number twenty-three you want?” He checked his list. “Edward Leperdoff, aged six months.”
“We will call him Thomas,” the woman said quickly into the baby’s face. “He will be Thomas Pugh. Fill out the paperwork, Andrew. I’ll hold our son.”
Another couple eyed the woman with envy and anger. They moved to one of the toddlers.
“How old is he?” the husband asked.
Violet felt her chances slip. The younger ones will run out eventually, she told herself, straightening in her chair. Her smile tightened.
“Almost three years,” Miss Bodean said. “Very agreeable and docile. Not a mischief maker.”
The woman sighed but knelt down in front of the boy. “Hello, little fellow,” she said. “Do you want to come home with us?”
The child seemed to weigh her words, eyes squinting, head atilt. “Ice cream?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not,” she said, patting his head. He took hold of her hand and hopped down from the chair.
“Sally, can we talk about this?” the husband asked. He called to Mr. Drummond. “Sir, can we bring him back if change our minds?”
Mr. Drummond jogged over, glancing at the boy, who looked up in fright.
“Should the child prove unsatisfactory, he will be taken back by the Society,” Mr. Drummond said quietly.
“Eighty-seven percent of the children we place do well and grow up to be useful men and women,” Mrs. Comstock added.
The little boy pulled his hand from the woman and backed away.
“Now, now,” the woman said.
“Frederick,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Go with your new mother now.”
It was not as Violet had imagined. People weren’t nicer in the country, and they didn’t want her here anymore than they had in the city.
Down at the other end, men inspected the older boys like horses.
“Weak hands.”
“Fine leg muscles.”
“Let me see your arms.”
“Ever done farm work?”
“You won’t do me any good.”
“Too short.”
“I’ll take him.”
It had become clear to Violet that the little ones would be adopted and the older ones would be put to work. She hovered somewhere in the middle. She felt the slow burn of shame bloom under her skin for thinking that she would be chosen as a daughter, for skidding past all this to the part where she was laughing and eating custard in a warm dining room with her new family.
When she looked up there was an old man in front of her smelling of beer and manure.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven,” she said.
He looked her up and down and sniffed. “I need a girl to do the washing and cooking. For your keep.”
Violet took quick shallow breaths, unable to get enough air, unable to accept that this might be it.
“Well, speak up, girl.”
She wobbled her head. The man moved on to Irish Eileen. Down the row, Elsie screamed and kicked the man who’d chosen her.
“I can’t feed two,” he explained to Mrs. Comstock. “I would if I could, but I just come to replace what I lost.”
The German boy, Joseph, did a handstand on his chair to the delight of his potential adopters and the remaining crowd, who waited for the next spectacle, the next hug and happy ending.
A late-arriving middle-aged couple stopped and smiled at Violet.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked, her face soft like rising dough.
“Violet.”
“You have lovely eyes, Violet,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Violet said, her palms sweating against her knees.
“Our children are grown,” the husband said. “We would like to take in a needy child.”
Violet’s hope gurgled up to the surface. She sat up, ready to go.
“How old are you?” the man asked.
“Eleven,” she said, smiling. Relief washed through her, swift and sweet.
“I’m afraid we were wanting a boy,” the woman said. “We need someone to do some work around the place.”
“I can work,” Violet said, confused by the sudden shift.
“I don’t doubt it,” the man said, “but it’s a boy we’re after.”
“It was nice to meet you. Good luck, dear,” the woman said. “I’m sure you will get a nice family.”
Violet looked away, unable to let them see her face fall, tears of anger pushing at her eyes. She had let herself be fooled. She had thought she deserved it and then had been justly rewarded. She felt like a sucker, but underneath she felt something worse. Her father had been right all along. She was not worth what it cost to feed her.
At the end of the showing, sixteen of them were taken. Fourteen were getting back on the train.
* * *
Since the young ones all found homes, Miss Bodean was taking a train back to New York. Violet saw it as a chance. The Fourth Ward was better than an orphanage. As the group ate their peanut butter sandwiches on the lawn of the courthouse, she found Mrs. Comstock shining an apple with a handkerchief.
“Can I go with the nurse?” Violet asked. “I can work to pay you back for the ticket.”
Mrs. Comstock busied herself with her apple, her hair in a crooked bun.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible,” Mrs. Comstock said, in a weary but not unkind voice.
“I don’t want to go on.” She felt a new helplessness, and she could barely get the words out.
“It’s not up to you now, is it? Besides, the eastbound train has already left,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Violet, it’s best not to look backward.”
“What happens if no one takes us?”
“We’ll talk about that when the time comes.”
Violet stood, her feet rooted. But she didn’t protest because, she realized, she didn’t really want to go back to New York anyway. That would be giving up, and she knew, without yet knowing, that returning was impossible.
“Here,” Mrs. Comstock said, handing Violet the apple. “You have it.”
* * *
After a night with the other four girls who were left—one Violet thought meek and not worth the effort, another ugly and irksome, one older girl who turned away when Violet asked her name, and one Polish girl who didn’t speak English—she was on a train heading farther west to Illinois, Elmer back beside her, kicking the seat in front of them.
“I thought I saw you with the man in the muddy boots,” Violet said.
“He stank and I said so. He said I was incorrigible and handed me back over,” Elmer said.
“I thought it would be different, too.”
“I hope they’s nice to Elsie,” he said. “She don’t like to sleep by herself.”
“She can tell them that,” Violet said. “She’s not yours to worry about anymore.”
From the window she watched a blur of fields in every direction, the land cleared of trees, a patchwork of squares and lines, new cornstalks like green fountains. She wished Nino could see how much space there was, how much bigger the sky looked out here. She wished her mother had never met Reginald Smith. She wished her brother hadn’t been stillborn.
Mrs. Comstock stood in the aisle. Now that her little Joseph had been adopted away, she had to face the dreary rest of them.
“Children,” she said hoarsely. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Children. Your attention.”
The Polish girl mouthed words to her lap and crossed herself. One of the rough older boys laughed like a donkey and said something to his friend—Violet could only make out old biddy. The older girl turned around and shushed them, which only inspired them to make faces behind her head.
“William. Patrick,” Mrs. Comstock said. “Enough.”
Violet felt sorry for her, for her droopy face and her wrinkled dress slightly askew. Mrs. Comstock looked bewildered, as if she’d awakened to find herself on the train without any idea of how to shepherd this ragtag bunch. Violet reached over to quiet Elmer’s kicks.
“Do not feel dispirited,” Mrs. Comstock said, chin held high, not meeting their eyes. She wasn’t a good bluffer. Even the younger ones looked at the floor, embarrassed by her poor acting and their dim chances. “There will be plenty of opportunities for you yet.”
One of the older boys elbowed his friend and nodded toward the ugly girl, Nettie, her face coarse and red, her eyes too far apart.
“Plenty of opportunities for you, mate,” he said.
“Fuck all, Patrick,” the friend said, ramming him with his shoulder. He got up and threw himself into a different seat.
Nettie shoved out her bottom lip and turned fully to face the window. Violet refused to feel sorry for her because she’d hogged the bedcovers the previous night and smelled like turnips. Mrs. Comstock stood with her lips apart as if waiting to answer a question.
“Dignity, children,” she said, finally, wagging her head. “You are in control of your dignity.”
A boy named Frank who sat alone started to cry. The sun glowed through his large translucent ears. Elmer’s lip trembled at the sight of the other boy’s tears.
“Hey, cut it out,” Violet said. She pinched Elmer’s pudgy leg until he hit her hand away, angry, and the tears had passed.
“Ma’am?” A young boy in back of the car raised his hand. He had a spray of freckles across his nose that matched his chestnut hair.
Mrs. Comstock walked down the aisle toward him, her skirt swishing against the benches.
“Yes, Herbert.”
“Is it true we got to pick cotton like we’s slaves?”
“Who told you that?”
“The boys have been saying.”
Mrs. Comstock flicked her gaze to each of the boys in the seats around his. They kept their eyes on their laps.
“Boys should not be talking of what they do not know,” she said, regaining some composure, a sternness returning to her voice. “You will have a chance to have a normal life. Remember you are in God’s hands.”
Herbert smiled in
relief, too young to know better. “Ma’am?”
“Yes, Herbert.”
“Can I come up and sit next to you?”
Mrs. Comstock’s shoulders softened, and her mouth turned up in a dolorous smile.
“Yes, Herbert,” she said. “Bring your Bible and come along.”
The boy scampered up to the front, and Mrs. Comstock made her way behind him, jostled as the train lurched.
“Illinois is next,” she said to them. “Your new home.”
Violet turned back to face forward in her seat and balled her hands into fists. She closed her eyes and said to herself, I am ready.
IRIS
A palm frond tapped against the kitchen window. Iris knew she should take a walk. It would do her good to move around, to breathe in the fresh ocean air. But the phone rang, and she picked it up. Theo.
“Don’t drive all the way to Fort Myers to pick up Samantha tomorrow. She can take a cab.”
Theo had always criticized his sister—a tree isn’t blue, that’s not how you throw a baseball, you can’t major in anthropology—but becoming a lawyer had made it worse, solidified the tendency into habit.
“Yes, she can. But I insisted,” Iris said.
“Mom, you have cancer.”
“Ha,” Iris laughed. “Honey.” She knew it irritated him when she called him this, reminding him that she was his mother, that she knew him, was in essence saying, You came out of me. “It may shock you to learn that I am still of sound mind.”
For the first time Iris admitted to herself that her allegiance had shifted, that she favored Samantha now. Could she even say she loved her more? It was different from when they were children. As adults they were no longer blameless. Was it fair, then, to end her life with Samantha here? It was not fair, maybe, but she had not asked a lot of her children.
“I know, I know,” Theo said.
“At least that means you and Samantha have talked. That’s something.”
That her children were not close wasn’t surprising, given their ten-year age separation, but it was still a disappointment.
