by E. F. Abbott
When the matron walked on, Nettie put her arm around her sister. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “We can’t cry here.”
Although there was no talking allowed, some of the other orphans looked curiously at Nellie and Nettie. One girl with tangled red hair pointed at the twins’ matching hair ribbons, and grinned. She pulled at her own red mop and crossed her eyes comically. They sat silently on the hard bench till everyone was finished.
* * *
In the dormitory that first night, Nellie and Nettie met some of the other girls and learned their stories. They were not the kind of stories Mama ever told.
“I was minding my own beeswax, asleep on a steam grate on the sidewalk, when they got me,” the girl with the tangled red hair told them. Her name was Brenda O’Hare. “My mum died, my dad was long gone, and I took to the street. Where else could I go? What else could I do?” Brenda said. “I sold matches, is what. I was good at it, too.”
“Not good enough,” said a sturdy girl known as Bucky. “If you was really good, you might have made it on your own, and not be stuck here in this prison.” Bucky glared at Nellie and Nettie. “Because that’s what it’s like, you know,” she said. “Prison. Walking in straight lines, doing what you’re told, and working, always working.”
“Are you orphans?” Nellie asked them.
“Yeah. Just like you.”
Nettie couldn’t let that go. “We aren’t orphans. We have a mother and a father, both,” she said.
“Not according to the state of New York,” Bucky said. “Your parents are as good as dead.”
Brenda O’Hare nodded, her red tangles bobbing. “They’ll even change your birthday on your records,” she said. “They changed mine, anyway.”
Bucky agreed. “So you can’t be traced. They don’t want you having nothing to do with your family now.”
“Don’t look back,” Brenda said. “That’s what they tell you. Don’t look back.”
Nellie and Nettie changed into nightgowns provided by the matron and lay down on their small cots. A few minutes later, Nellie crawled into Nettie’s bed with her.
“Tell me a story,” Nellie whispered. Her tears dampened the pillowcase.
“Once upon a time, there were two little twin princesses,” Nettie whispered, just the way Mama always began.
“And they were as fair as fairies, as gentle as lambs, and as strong and true as an oxen team,” said Nellie.
“Right,” said Nettie. She chewed her cheek, thinking a minute. “One day,” she went on, “an evil wizard came and stole them from their nice kitchen and their own mother, and took them to a dark stone castle in the woods. They had to stay put, or else the evil witch whose castle it was would boil them in her terrible soup, and use their bones to pick her teeth.”
Nellie sniffed. “This story isn’t helping me to sleep.”
“Well, listen,” Nettie whispered, “later on in the story, those twin princesses will figure out how to get away, so you can go ahead and dream about that.”
“They don’t sound as gentle as lambs,” Nellie murmured.
“No,” said Nettie. “They sure don’t.” She took Nellie’s hand and squeezed it, one-two-three.
CHAPTER 4
“How did you end up here?” Nettie asked the other girls one day. They were on their hands and knees in the entryway, scrubbing with rags. The harsh soapy water stung the cracks in Nettie’s fingers. Her sleeves hung below her wrists, and she paused to push them back above her elbows. The orphan children’s clothing was passed around—patched and mended till it wore too thin.
“Street rats,” said Brenda O’Hare, with a nod at Bucky. “That’s what the police called us.” She leaned back on her heels and pushed her bangs off her forehead with a damp wrist. Though it was cold in the orphanage, hard work made them sweat. “They trapped the street rats, and here we are.” She took up the rag and scrubbed more vigorously at the wood floor.
“How are orphans made, let me count the ways,” Brenda went on as she scrubbed. “Parents die of typhoid.” Scrub. “Or fever.” Scrub. “Or flu.” Scrub. “Parents come from Italy or Ireland, and don’t speak English, and don’t make enough dough to keep their kids in bread.” Scrub. “They don’t have gardens and chickens, like they did in the old country. They don’t have enough to eat.” Scrub-scrub.
“And don’t forget the bottle,” Bucky said. “My pap hit the bottle first thing in the morning, and by noon he’d be hitting me upside the head.” She squeezed out her sodden rag. “I found a hole under a staircase I could live in, nice and cozy.”
“Lots of us,” Brenda agreed. “Too many of us. Too many mouths to feed. Cramped apartments and houses, and not any bit of room for one more.”
“Specially not two more,” Nettie said with a glance at Nellie. She leaned into her rag but stopped when she heard the heavy ka-lump and lighter ka-lip of approaching footsteps.
With Matron came a tall woman with fair hair that softly curled. She wore a green coat, a hat with a feather, and shoes with two-inch heels. It wasn’t anybody Nettie remembered ever seeing before. The lady stopped and looked down at Nettie, and then at Nellie. She tilted her head and smiled.
“Hello,” said the lady. She looked straight at Nettie when she said it. Her cheeks were brushed with pink, and her lips were painted red. Nettie thought of her spoon doll, Min.
“Hello,” said Nettie.
The red lips parted, as if the lady might say something more, but the matron took her by the arm and hurried her away. Nettie stared after them. She was still staring when the lady looked back over her shoulder. “Come along, miss,” said the matron, jerking the lady’s arm so firmly that she stumbled. The feather in her hatband wobbled.
Nettie glanced at Nellie, a question in her eyes. Who was that? Nellie shrugged.
They were dumping the buckets of dirty water outside at the base of the big trees when the feather-hat lady came out the door and hurried down the steps, the matron close on her clippy heels.
“Matron’s sure giving that lady the bum’s rush,” Nettie muttered to Nellie.
The lady stopped and looked at the girls, gloved fingers pressed to her red lips. “I’m sorry,” she said. Then she turned away and climbed into the waiting buggy.
They stood and watched her go. Nettie and Nellie picked up their empty buckets and began walking toward the steps where Matron stood. “What’s she sorry about? Who was she?” Nettie asked.
“Your aunt,” said Matron.
The bucket handle slipped from Nellie’s grasp. “We have an aunt?”
Nettie threw her bucket down and started running as fast as she could. Maybe she could catch the buggy on the road. She could try. Faster and faster she ran, out to where the drive met the road. “Wait!” she hollered. “Wait!”
But the buggy didn’t stop. Soon it was gone from sight.
Nettie turned around and strode back to the orphanage, where Matron was still standing on the bottom step, arms crossed over her apron, and Nellie’s bucket was on its side at her feet, as if something important had all spilled out.
“You better say she’s coming back,” Nettie said, glowering at Matron.
“Is she?” Nellie smiled eagerly.
The look on Matron’s face told Nettie the answer before Matron even opened her mouth.
“She will not return,” the matron said. “Better to sever all ties with the past.”
This was too much. Nettie stomped her foot. “You old battle-ax! You didn’t even let us talk to her!”
The matron puffed up and glowered at Nettie. “Insolent girl!” Then she lowered her chin and seemed somehow to soften. “Have faith,” she said. “It is better to start fresh than to go back.”
* * *
If it had been one of Mama’s stories, the mysterious aunt would have taken them from the orphanage. She’d live in a pretty yellow house with a kitchen table painted white, and boxes bursting with blooming flowers on the front porch steps. But it wasn’t a story. Somethi
ng their family had done must have been very bad, Nettie thought, to make the matron keep them in the orphanage instead of letting their aunt take them away with her.
Was it better to know, or not to know?
CHAPTER 5
After the visit from the mysterious aunt, the days stretched longer and felt more hopeless. Work began for the children at five in the morning. Often Nettie and Nellie tried to pass the time by talking about Mama and Father and Leon and Sissy, but that only made them feel worse. Every day seemed mostly the same, except for the variety of work: chopping wood, scrubbing floors, and laundering linens.
One day was different from the others. The orphans woke to a snow-covered wonderland. To their surprise, the matron told the children to put on their coats and go outside. Every limb and branch and twig of the tall trees in front of the building was softened and gentled by puffs of white. And parked on the packed snow at the foot of the orphanage steps was a royal-blue automobile, with a black top and white wheels. Seated inside was a pleasant-looking man in a big woolly coat. He had a big mustache to match his furry coat-collar, and kind eyes behind round spectacles.
“Pops!” Bucky squealed.
The man hopped out of the automobile. “Hairy drive, I can tell you,” he boomed. “Had to have a horse team pull my Buick out of a snowbank! Tell Cook to heat up a pot of water, quick-quick!” he hollered to the matron, his mustache wiggling. “Got to fill my radiator with hot water, else it’ll freeze and pop at the seams! And a blanket! A blanket! Must protect my beloved engine from the cold, just like my beloved children!”
The matron addressed the orphan girls. “If it was up to me, we wouldn’t any of us be out here in the cold, not for a minute,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “You waifs can thank Mr. Everett Jansen Wendell for such frivolity.”
Brenda O’Hare stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a commanding whistle, the ends of her red hair poking out with enthusiasm below her bonnet. “Thanks, Pops!”
“You’re most welcome, my darling ragamuffins!” he bellowed. “Everyone! I’ve brought sleds for you to play with. Let’s not let all this good snow go to waste, shall we?” And with that, the big man tugged a couple of wooden toboggans from the back of the auto and put them on the snow. Then he crouched and began to pack snowballs in his gloved hands.
“Is he someone’s father?” Nellie wondered aloud.
“Probably, but none of ours,” Bucky said. “He’s filthy rich, but I don’t hold that against him. He acts regular, even though he gives buckets of money away, and lots to Mr. Brace’s Children’s Aid Society. Doesn’t act like some fuddy-duddy who knows better than poor, pitiful us, know what I mean? He’s only the best person around,” she said.
Laughter filled the air, at least for a couple of hours on one winter’s afternoon. They threw snowballs and made a tunnel to crawl through on hands and knees, and then they built a snowman so tall they couldn’t reach to put the head on top. The girls were struggling to lift the last round ball when Pops took it from them and placed it squarely on the snowman’s middle.
“A handsome specimen of a snowman as ever I’ve seen,” Pops said. He clapped the snow off his gloves. “Will you introduce me to your fine cold-weather friend?” he said to the twins, a merry glint in his eye.
“This is Leon,” Nettie said. The girls still hadn’t seen their brother, and Nettie wondered if they’d ever see him again.
“Pleased to meet you, Leon,” said Pops to the snowman, and stuck out his hand. “But you’ve no hand to shake. Most ungentlemanly.”
Nettie grabbed two twigs from the snow beneath the big old trees and stuck them in the body of the snowman.
“Fine, that’s fine,” said Pops, taking a twig in his fingertips. “And a fine day to you, Master Leon Snowman.” He winked at Nellie and Nettie. “Keep up the good work, my ladies. All will be well.”
Nettie wanted to believe Pops. But it was hard to imagine that all would be well. They’d lost their little sister, their father, and their mother, and now maybe even their big brother, all in such a short time.
That night, Nellie climbed again into bed with Nettie. Matron tried to stop Nellie from “wasting a good bed” by not sleeping in it, but the twins could not fall asleep unless they were close together, as they’d been from the time even before they were born.
“Nettie?” Nellie whispered.
“What?”
“Do you think this is going to be our forever home? An orphanage?”
Nettie stared up into the darkness. She couldn’t see the ceiling, high above them, only the dark. She thought of Mama, and the many “forever homes” they’d lived in. Now they were alone, in an orphanage. It sure looked like this was it. Forever.
“Go to sleep,” Nettie whispered. She clutched her spoon doll and lay awake a long time before she finally drifted off.
CHAPTER 6
Nellie and Nettie Crook lived at the orphanage for month upon month, while the world outside Kingston went on without them: 1910 became 1911, but they heard little of life beyond the tall trees out front. Their only knowledge came from snatches of conversation overheard between the matron and the cook or Mr. Fry, the old handyman.
“A nightmare,” said the matron one day. “Dreadful news.” She shook her head. “Dead. Every last one of them, dead.”
Nettie saw her own fear in Nellie’s eyes. Who had died?
Mr. Fry replaced his hat on his head, and when he turned to go, Nettie followed him out the kitchen door. She caught up with him and tugged on the hem of his jacket.
“Please, Mr. Fry,” she said, “who was it?”
Mr. Fry stopped. “Who was what?” he said.
Nettie swallowed hard. “Was it my mama and father who died? Tell me! Was it my brother, Leon?”
Mr. Fry rubbed a hand down his face. “No, Nettie, no. Poor lovie, it weren’t your mum or dad we spoke of. There was a terrible fire at a factory. The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. All the garment workers were locked in, so’s they wouldn’t take breaks or get out. So they’d stay and work—work their fingers to the bone. Most all of ’em girls and young ladies. So when the fire started up…” He sniffed and shook his head. “All that lint and them cloth cuttings. The fire roared to blazes, and the workers—they couldn’t get out.” Mr. Fry looked at Nettie. “Near a hundred-fifty, all dead, lovie. It’s terrible sad.”
“Did you know anybody who worked there?” Nettie asked.
Mr. Fry shook his head. “No,” he said. “But many a man did. Many a man’s daughter worked the shirtwaist factory, many a man’s young wife.” He removed his hat, ran his hand through his hair, then put his hat back on. “We can be thankful we’ve a roof over our heads this day, and loved ones by our side, eh?”
Later, Nettie burned her arm by accident on a steam pipe radiator. The cook treated the wound with raw egg, but the skin bubbled up, raw and blistered.
“Hurts like the dickens, does it?” Cook said, clucking. “That’ll scar, that one.”
Nettie cradled her burned, bandaged arm to her stomach and thought about the fire at the shirtwaist factory. She remembered the kindly grocer Mr. DiSopo, who cried beside Sissy’s coffin. His daughter, Nettie knew, went to work at the shirtwaist factory. She hoped Mr. DiSopo’s daughter had not been at the factory that terrible day.
* * *
Spring came, and at last the forsythia bloomed at the base of the great trees out in front of the orphanage, bringing a touch of yellow cheer. One morning in May, Nellie and Nettie were sent outside to beat the rugs, which the matron had hung out over a line behind the orphanage. Beating the rugs was a welcome chore. It was dirty and tiring, and the dust clouds choked, but it was good to be outside on a spring morning, and good to have a job the twins could do together.
“Let’s pretend it’s a jump-rope game,” said Nellie. They took turns beating the rug, in time to a counting rhyme.
“Not last night but the night before
Twenty-four robbers came to my door—
”
Something caught Nettie’s eye. “Did you see someone?” She peered in the bushes alongside the road.
Then they heard a noise, like a kitten mewling.
They dropped the rug beaters and followed the noise. It came louder as they rounded the front of the building. They hurried up the steps. There, beside the door, was a basket. Inside the basket was a bundle of brown blanket and a little tiny face, all screwed up and crying.
“It isn’t very loud, for a baby,” Nellie said.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Nettie wondered. “I hope it’s a baby girl, like Sissy.”
Nellie smiled. “I wish she could be our little sister.”
There was a square of brown paper tucked into the baby’s blanket. Nettie knelt beside the basket and studied the paper. “It says something, but I don’t know what,” she said, and stood up. “You take one handle and I’ll take the other, like on wash day,” she said to Nellie.
* * *
“‘My wife is dead, and I can’t care for this, our dear baby, by myself. Do what you can for my little one, and show her the love I cannot,’” Nettie reported to the other girls that night in their beds. “That’s what the note said. Matron read it out loud. Then she crumpled the paper up and burned it in the stove. All the baby had was that note, and Matron burned it.
“Just think,” Nettie went on, “that baby won’t remember anywhere but this place. She’ll grow up right here, and live here, always. It’ll be her forever home,” she said with a glance at Nellie.
“Nobody lives here forever,” said Bucky.
“Except Matron,” Brenda added, and hid her smirk behind her hand.
“If you don’t get a new family,” Bucky said, “you live here till you’re fourteen. Then it’s good-bye, good luck, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”
Brenda blinked fast. “I’m going on fourteen now,” she said. “My birthday’s in November, not that they let me mark the day.”
