by E. F. Abbott
“Sever all ties,” Nettie said, quoting the matron.
“Don’t look back,” said Nellie.
But Nettie couldn’t help but look back. Every day, she wished for Mama and Father and Leon. Every day, she prayed for Sissy up in heaven. Every day, she could hardly tell anger from sadness.
And every day, though she tried very hard not to, she forgot them a little bit more. But just between themselves, she and Nellie called the basket-baby Sissy.
CHAPTER 7
September 11, 1911. The breakfast dishes were cleaned and put away, and Nellie and Nettie were taking off their aprons, when the matron bustled into the kitchen.
“Come along, step lively,” said the matron. She began to tap some of the girls on the head. “You, and you,” she said to two more of the girls on kitchen duty—Brenda O’Hare and Bucky. She tapped Nellie and Nettie. “Today’s the day.”
Nettie looked at Nellie. What day?
“Go to your room and change your clothes,” the matron said, “then line up at the front door. Hurry, now. The dray wagon’s already parked out front. I can hear Mr. Fry’s horse stamping and snorting from here. I’ll be glad to be rid of you, though more will surely come to take your place.…” Her voice faded as she marched out of the kitchen.
Nettie’s hands shook as she put on the new dress Matron had put out on her bed, but she pretended she wasn’t scared and confused. “She’s not half as glad to be rid of us as we are to go,” she said.
Nellie pulled Nettie aside. “But where are we going?” she whispered, her face pale. “Back to Mama, you think?”
“I don’t think so, else why would the others be leaving, too?” Nettie whispered back. “We’re going together, anyway.”
Nellie smiled weakly.
“How do I look?” said Brenda O’Hare. “A proper lady, right?” She blew out her cheeks, puffing her red bangs.
The girls fairly tumbled down the stairs to the front door, where they stuffed their arms into their coat sleeves and lined up in front of the matron. Nettie and Nellie slipped their twin spoon dolls into their coat pockets.
They followed the matron out the door in a line, eight children in all—four girls, three boys, and the baby. Matron held the new baby in her arms and uncharacteristically cooed, then handed her over to the oldest girl, red-haired Brenda. “Don’t bother anybody. Don’t ask any questions. Be good as gold, or they’ll send you straight back to me,” she warned.
Mr. Fry helped the girls up into the wagon. “Hep, hep, there you go, Nettie.”
Nettie grabbed Mr. Fry’s sleeve. “Where are we going? Where are you taking us?”
“Kingston depot,” he said. “I don’t know where you’re to go from there. Next stop, Kingston depot!”
The wagon pulled away. The big trees that had seemed like giants the day they came to the orphanage last winter were now full of leaves that were just beginning to turn colors. Their limbs seemed to wave good-bye.
Nettie waved to the big building before the wagon went around the corner. Good-bye, Leon, she thought. They had not seen him in nine months. She reckoned they’d never see him again.
* * *
The children from the Kingston orphanage were not the only ones gathered in front of the depot. There must have been near twenty children in all.
“Think we ought to make a run for it?” said Brenda. She bounced the baby on her shoulder, patting the blanketed bundle awkwardly.
Nettie hoped Brenda wouldn’t run. Whatever was going to happen, it had to be better than living in a box over a steam grate, the way Brenda had been doing before she came to live at the orphanage. Living in a box would be fun for a few days, like a bear in a cozy den, or a dog in a little doghouse. But not for very long.
“Children! Children, hello!” A woman approached along the walkway with purposeful strides that set her woolen cape swinging. She wore a matching navy-blue hat and carried a large leather handbag that looked sturdy enough to carry Father’s tools.
“My name is Anna Laura Hill.” Miss Hill smiled broadly. “And I am going to take you all on a trip. Would you like to take a ride on a train with me?”
Anna Laura Hill looked at the children standing before her. They were confused and frightened: some wore tough expressions; others shuffled their little feet and hugged themselves, as if no one else in the world cared enough to hug them. Anna Laura Hill had taken many such children on many such trains. She was an agent of the Children’s Aid Society.
“Twins!” Miss Hill said in the direction of Nellie and Nettie. “How wonderful. When I was a girl, I used to pretend I had a twin sister. Someone I could really talk to.”
Nettie had a hundred questions. Where would they go? How long would they be on the train? How long would they stay when they got wherever they were going? Did Mama know? She opened her mouth and took a big breath, but before she could speak, Nellie grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Her eyes were round as saucers and darting every which way. She was scared.
“I don’t want to go back to the orphanage,” Nellie whispered.
Nettie nodded. For her sister’s sake, she swallowed her questions.
Miss Hill handed a badge to each child. Nettie could recognize her name and Nellie’s, already printed in neat handwriting on their badges. They were also given a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and a comb. The clothes looked too large, but they were clean and fresh-smelling.
Miss Hill led them down the platform, where they boarded a train and sat where they were told, on a hard bench seat. It itched their legs where the horsehair stuffing poked out. Then they heard a shout—“Board! Alllllll aboard!”—and the train began to move. At first it seemed to leave their stomachs behind. It chugged and chuffed and picked up speed. Clouds of black smoke puffed past the windows. A whistle blew long and loud.
Miss Hill smiled at each and every one of the children in her care, and Nettie’s nervous stomach settled a bit. Wherever they were bound, it had to be better than the orphanage. But why wouldn’t Miss Hill tell them where they were going?
Out the window, scenes flew by. Cityscapes became rolling hills, with small towns every so often. Nettie saw a red-and-white-striped circus tent set up by the tracks. “Look at that!” she said. But they went by too fast to see anything interesting. For a while, though, they passed the time imagining what wonders might have been inside that tent. Elephants? Acrobats? Clowns?
After some time, they stopped and ate sandwiches in a little town, and Miss Hill got the children some cold fresh milk. She fed and changed the baby herself, much to Brenda O’Hare’s relief.
“Ugly little rotter,” Brenda said.
Miss Hill smiled and put the baby up on her shoulder, patting her little back. “There, there,” she murmured. Then she began to hum and, bending her knees, swayed gently side to side. “All children are beautiful, Brenda,” she said, “including you.”
Brenda flushed red but looked pleased.
Nettie thought of baby Sissy. “Do you have your own babies?” she said.
Miss Hill switched the baby to the other shoulder. “I’m not married,” she said, “but I have many children in my life. I can’t help but think of them all as a little bit my own.”
“Is this where we’re stopping, lady?” asked a boy who was about the twins’ age. He spoke in a tough voice and wore his newsboy cap pushed back on his head—a cap like the one Leon used to wear when he worked selling papers. He acted rough, but the way the boy stuffed his hands in his pockets and shifted side to side in his boots made Nettie think he was as scared as she was. He came up just to the shoulder of a bigger boy who stood solidly beside him. He wasn’t so tough that he minded holding his brother’s hand when the bigger boy reached for it.
Miss Hill shook her head. “Not here, dear.” She passed the baby back to Brenda, then looked at her papers. “Joe, is it?” The boy nodded. “Joe Wilson? And your big brother … let’s see”—she checked the paper again—“Robert. Two wonderful brothers.”
&n
bsp; Robert Wilson frowned. “We never been apart, not ever, miss,” he said.
“That’s good, Robert,” said Miss Hill. “People like to see siblings get along. Maybe someone will want two boys. Two nice brothers like you.” A hooded look crossed her face—a look that seemed to mean “fingers crossed.”
Miss Hill ushered the children back on board the railcar, and the train once more took off, west, and west, and still farther west, into the setting sun. Night fell. Everything was noisy, and dirty, and covered in black soot from the coal that the train engine burned. It was cold, too, and utterly dark. Nettie huddled beside Nellie under a blanket. A soft snore came from somewhere behind them, and Nettie thought of Father, and the times they’d all been together, all in one place. Mama, Father, Leon, Sissy. A family. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sadness, but the darkness was just the same.
“Are you awake?” Nettie felt more than heard her sister’s whisper in her ear.
Nettie nodded, their heads touching against the back of the hard seat. Nellie drew out her spoon doll. “We are six now. Maybe we’re too big for stories. But—I think Dolly would like to hear one,” she said softly.
“Okay.” Nettie didn’t even poke fun at Dolly’s dumb name. She pulled out her twin spoon doll, Min, and thought of Mama, making all the tiny stitches in the doll’s calico dress. Nettie felt a sob choking her. She cleared her throat. “Once upon a time,” she murmured, “there were twin princesses, as fair as fairies, maybe not really as gentle as lambs, but as strong and true as an oxen team.”
There was no answering bahhhh or moooo this time from Nellie, only a little sniffling. “Those twin princesses were locked up in the witch’s castle, but then they snuck out. And in the dark of night, they climbed up onto a dragon’s back. That dragon was asleep in the woods, and when he woke up, he couldn’t even feel them there on his scaly back. He huffed and chuffed and black smoke came out of his nose, but those two princesses just held on tight and rode far away from the castle and the witch and the woods.”
Nellie sniffled again, and Nettie could tell she was trying not to cry. “I’m scared,” Nellie said. “Where are they taking us? Why won’t they tell us?”
Nettie thought she could hear the newsboy, Joe, crying a few seats away, and she heard his big brother Robert’s soothing voice, though she couldn’t make out the words.
Nettie gripped Min tight in one hand and put her other arm around her sister. “Well, we’re on our way. Wherever they take us, we’ll stick together,” she said.
Nettie tucked the blanket under Nellie’s chin. Because everyone knows, twin princesses in stories always take care of each other. Nettie hoped Miss Hill knew that, too.
CHAPTER 8
In the morning, the train gave a great final chug and sigh, and stopped. All the children stepped out onto the platform. This was Union Station in Kansas City. Nettie had butterflies in her stomach. Big ones.
Another sign was posted beneath the station sign.
“‘Homes wanted,’” Robert read, looking hard at the sign. “‘For children.’”
Those butterflies flapped wildly now. The children all turned to Miss Hill.
“Are we gonna get new families?” Robert asked. He put his hands on his little brother’s shoulders.
Robert must not be afraid of being sent back to some matron for asking questions, Nettie thought, with a glance at Nellie.
“Children,” Miss Hill said, “I thought it best not to tell you. You’ve been through so much already, I didn’t want to upset you. The Children’s Aid Society is sponsoring your placing-out with new families.” She smiled brightly. “We know of families who want children just like you. Here in Missouri, and in other states, too.” She pointed to the sign. “People will come,” she said. “Farming families, good folks with enough room in their houses and their hearts.”
Miss Hill explained that the families promised to treat the orphans like family. They’d be expected to work, just as family members work. They’d go to school, and to church on Sundays. Catholic children would be placed with Catholic families, Protestant with Protestant, and so on, to make as close a match as possible.
“You’ll have mothers and fathers,” she went on. Her voice was tender. “Brothers and sisters, maybe. It’s a bright day, boys and girls,” she said. “A very bright day indeed.”
Nettie wanted to believe her. She elbowed Nellie with more enthusiasm than she felt. “See? It’ll be okay,” she said.
Before long, people came. There were shopkeepers and carpenters, blacksmiths and farmers. There was a lady with a green-sprigged bonnet and a cruel-looking walking stick. A tall, stooped man with a stern chin. Most of the faces were thin with hollow, weather-reddened cheeks and pale eyes peering from under brows bleached by the sun.
A friendly-looking couple stood close together with their shoulders touching. The lady blinked back tears, looking around at the children who’d come all this way on the train to find families to love. They would be good parents, Nettie thought, and she let herself hope, just a little.
The nice couple wasn’t there two minutes before they selected the baby and walked away. Nettie felt a sharp pang, watching their pretend baby sister go away with her pretend parents. She knew that the baby would never remember them. And the nice couple hadn’t even glanced at Nettie and Nellie.
The placing-out day wasn’t as “bright” as Miss Hill had said it would be. Not all of the people seemed like “good folks.”
“Pull up your skirts. Lemme see your legs ain’t crooked,” the green-bonnet lady said to Bucky.
Nettie held her breath. Bucky was likely to scowl and talk back at someone who spoke to her like that. But she was astonished when Bucky smiled wide and showed her knees. “Straight and strong,” Bucky said proudly. “I ain’t even knock-kneed!”
“Hmph,” went the lady in the bonnet. Then she nodded once, satisfied, and thumped her walking stick. “Spirited, this one,” she said to Miss Hill. “Looks good and strong, and I like a gal with some vinegar in her.”
“I got some vinegar in me,” said Nettie. Nellie frowned at her and shook her head.
Bucky went away with the woman, with only one little wave back at the rest of the children. Maybe she didn’t dare look back again, Nettie thought. Maybe she didn’t want to say good-bye.
The tall, stooped man was looking Robert Wilson up and down. He gripped Robert’s upper arm to measure his muscle. Robert stood straighter and elbowed his little brother in the ribs. “Take off your cap, Joe,” he whispered.
The stooped man hitched his belt and pointed at Robert. “That’s the one for us,” he told Miss Hill. “My wife and I lost six children, and we need a healthy one to work the farm.”
“Come on, Joe,” Robert said, and began to follow the man.
The man stopped and put up a hand. “Just you,” he said to Robert. “I don’t need the little one.”
Robert’s brow knotted. He looked at Miss Hill. “It’s the both of us,” he said. “We never have been apart, Joe and me, in all this time.”
But the man would not be moved to take Joe, and Robert had no choice but to go with him. It was better that one of them go to a new home than for both of them to risk having to return on the train to life in an orphanage.
“I’ll find you, Joe,” Robert said fiercely. “One day, I’ll find you.”
Miss Hill put her arm around Joe, who was crying as hard as anybody could cry, and trying just as hard not to. Nettie and Nellie knew what it was like not to be able to stop the tears from coming.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” said Miss Hill. She unsnapped her handbag and took out a clean white handkerchief. “I can’t promise to keep siblings together,” she said, pressing the handkerchief into Joe’s hand. “We do the best we can with the placing-out, but some folks only want one child.”
Joe blew his nose miserably. Nettie looked at Nellie. Would they be split up, too?
“Can’t we—can’t we wait a minute?” Joe could barely get
the words out. “Why does he have to go with that one?”
Miss Hill shook her head. “No, Joe. All the families are approved by the local people who help us find homes. That’s the most we can do. If we pick and choose, we’ll never find families for all the children who need them. We have so many children to place out.”
Joe looked around, at Nellie and Nettie, at Brenda and the rest. “So many children?” he said. His eyes were frantic, his face blotchy and streaked. “But there’s not that many of us,” he said, gulping back tears. “I don’t know what you mean!” He drew his coat sleeve under his dripping nose.
“This isn’t the only orphan train, Joe,” said Miss Hill. Again, she unsnapped her handbag and rooted around until she found what she was looking for. “Look at this picture,” she said, showing them. “This is Henry, and here is June, and Peter,” she said, pointing at the small faces in the photograph. “That one’s Bonny.” She smiled fondly, then tucked the picture back into her bag and snapped it shut. “You and Robert are two orphans,” Miss Hill went on, “two among thousands. That’s right, Joe. This train is but one of many such trains coming west.”
Orphan train. It was the first time Nettie had heard the words, but it would not be the last.
Miss Hill settled Joe on one end of a bench, where he sat crying, his cap pressed to his eyes. She told Nellie and Nettie to sit at the other end of the bench, and so they did.
“Sing something pretty,” she encouraged them. “People will come and see what wonderful children you are.”
Nettie didn’t want to sing in front of these strangers. She didn’t want the people looking at them, asking them to lift their skirts to see if their legs were crooked, like the lady who took Bucky.
“Sing ‘Jesus Loves Me,’” Miss Hill prompted. She hummed a little, to get the girls started.
“Jesus loves me, this I know
For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
