Forgetting Tabitha: An Orphan Train Rider

by Julie Dewey

  She reached for him, bringing him toward the bed, making him forget all about me. Before long he was moaning and groaning and she was saying, “Yes, that’s right, ooooh you like that don’t you.” She disappeared under the covers for a moment and never wiped her mouth when she came back up. She stared into the man’s eyes and dared him to do anything but think of her. She let him think he was in control, but she and I both new she had him right where she wanted him.

  The man laughed as he dressed, whistling away, stumbling as he tried putting his pant legs on. He was a fool, a drunk, and the whole place needed laundering and scrubbing now.

  We didn’t mention the man the following day, but we stripped the sheets in unison and set about washing them, along with the coverlets and pillow casings. Soon enough the room smelled fresh again and we went out for our walk. We silently prayed he wouldn’t be back and he wasn’t for a long while.

  ***

  We carried on with our regulars, a few more having seen me because I was growing and it was harder to stay quiet when scrunched into a tiny closet. Many men liked having me watch and offered big money for me. Mother said no, she is not ready, I hadn’t yet had my monthlies and was not yet a woman.

  “Tomorrow is going to be your golden birthday, Gert!” My mother exclaimed one afternoon.

  “My golden birthday, what’s that mean?”

  “Well you are turning thirteen years old on the thirteenth of the month, the numbers coincide and that only happens once in a lifetime. Let’s do something special.” She bounced next to me on the bed.

  “Maybe we can get ice-cream?” I asked.

  “Surely we can get ice cream, with jimmies too! Maybe we can even shop for a new dress and shoes.”

  We settled ourselves in for the night and were woken at about nine in the morning, a quick impatient knock came at the door. Mother hushed me and I went in to the closet before she opened it. It was the rotten man. It had been nearly a year since our episode with him and we prayed he was too drunk to remember where we lived. Not so.

  He demanded to see me.

  “She is at school, sir. But as you can see I am available.” She reached for his drawers and tugged at his belt.

  “Get away you old hag!” He pushed my mother across the room, and she stifled a sob.

  I could hear him approach the closet and tried to nestle hidden under a coat, but he simply pulled it off me and grabbed my arm. He glared at me up and down before he began undressing. His pants were at his ankles in seconds and he had me in his grip while he kicked his pants the rest of the way off his feet.

  “Your turn, sweet-heart.” He demanded nuzzling my neck, and fondling my buds beneath my clothes, but mother was on her feet and begging him away with her body as payment.

  “She is a virgin; surely you don’t want someone who has no idea how to pleasure a man.” Mother used her sultry voice and again grabbed at his hairy balls and stiffening member.

  He pushed her away with one hand and grabbed me, pulling me to the bed and under him. Instead of fumbling with my dress he pulled up my skirts and began ripping at my underwear.

  I was sweating and couldn’t breathe under his weight, trying to slither out from under him but he was too strong and this time he wasn’t drunk and easily swayed.

  I scratched at his arms, and kicked with all my might.

  “I love a feisty one,” he laughed out loud, and started kissing my mouth.

  I bit his wandering tongue and drew blood, he was about to strike me but my mother hit him hard on the head with our iron pan and he went down.

  “Run Gert!”

  “Mother, no, I have to stay to help you!” I pleaded with her.

  “No, take the money and get away from here, far away, don’t come back.” She motioned toward our coffee jar that held our savings. I grabbed a few dollars and promised to be back, to hell with this man.

  Then I took one last look at my mom. She whacked the man on the head again with the pan and blood trickled out his mouth. I ran out of the building and past any section of the city that was familiar to me. I saw a church and ran for it. We had never gone but I thought it was a better place than any to go right now.

  Inside it was peaceful. I sat in a pew and stared at the figure of Jesus before me, dripping blood from his wrists. Still I wasn’t startled, rather I was in awe of my surroundings. The stained glassed windows were cut to form pictures, the beeswax candles and red velvet draperies were all so beautiful. I laid my head onto a cushioned pew and fell asleep, not waking until many hours later while being greeted by a woman in a black dress and funny white hat. Sister Agnes was her name.

  She reached towards me without question. She bathed me so gently it was if washing away my sorrows. She held up several dresses until she found one that fit properly and clothed me with stockings, shoes, and a shawl. She asked about my family, and then asked about my future. She talked of orphan trains and all the promise that lay ahead for someone like me. Word was sent to my mother that I was with the Sisters of Charity, I waited the appropriate ten days for her to come and lay claim to me, but when she didn’t I gave in.

  I sat on that train, staring out the window, sucking my hair until it became wadded together in nests, thinking of my mother. Whether or not it was true or imagined, I believed my mother was growing thinner. I had seen her skin flake and her hair falling out in clumps. I made up a disease, an awful disease that would take her in her sleep. The nameless disease ravaged her mind and body, causing tremors and delirium forcing her to forget she had a daughter, this became the only way I could bear the thought of her apart from me because it would mean a quick death followed by peace. I imagined her light shining above in the brightest star; one day we would meet again, of this I was sure.

  I wanted off at the first train stop. The whiny children were too much for me to handle. My thoughts were only on my survival; I had frozen the image and memory of my mother, the murderess, and put it in an imaginary box. I had to find work and I knew of only one way to make money. I ran from the platform and into the city of Binghamton in search of clients.

  I lied about my age, the dark charcoal around my eyes helped to make me look older than I really was. I took a job as a bar-maid at a tavern called the Ale House in Binghamton, New York, busing tables, cleaning dishes, making drinks when necessary, and refilling drinks always. I earned my keep with this work, and as far as the towns-folk knew this is how I earned a living. The job came with a room above the bar that had been outfitted with a bed and bath, plus small vanity. It was perfect. I would be very discreet about my real money maker, the only people who knew I was a prostitute were my clients, and given their place in society I doubted they would snitch. I used the mirror to practice my many provocative looks as well as to apply charcoal around my eyes and balm to my lips. I studied my gait and practiced swaying my hips when I walked until I felt certain it was sexy, I fluffed my hair to make it more voluminous and after acclimating to the city and earning some wages for rose oil, I began my business.

  I chose my clients, they did not choose me. If I saw someone dapper, or wealthy, I gave him his bill along with an invitation to join me later for a night cap. At first the men were surprised by my age, but soon enough they learned I was worth the money. Besides I always lied, telling them I was sixteen when in reality I was thirteen.

  My first client was young and drunk. He kept muttering something about a Mary sneaking out…. He might have been a virgin himself, he fumbled so much between the sheets I grew impatient and did the work, sticking him in me for the thirty seconds it took for him to finish. He apologized profusely before passing out atop me.

  “If they were all this quick it wouldn’t be so bad,” I thought to myself. Edmund became a regular. He was a pretty lad to look at, thick curly dark hair and eyelashes longer than my own. He was lithe, didn’t know a hard days work as was told by the smoothness of his hands and his nice dress shoes. He often showed up at odd hours and sometimes only wanted to be held. He n
ever asked about me but always left a large tip and therefore could use my time any way that pleased him.

  My clients varied much as my mother’s did. But I controlled whom I invited and I asked for complete anonymity. I also had my men make appointments. I wanted gentlemen, for they were less likely to talk about me to their business partners. By my fourteenth year I could pleasure a man and have him begging for more within the half hour. I loved this power, I knew I was pretty and was developing a following that would have me in riches soon enough. I dreamed of a house high on a hilltop with goats and chickens running wild through the long green grass. Among the animals were three or four curly haired children laughing and playing chase. I dreamed of a man who came home to embrace me, bringing me flowers and candy as my suitors already did now. But this man atop the hill loved me. Not only did I pleasure him but I allowed myself to be pleasured by him.

  Chapter 9 Mary

  Dozing on my rocker, I thought back to 1867, I was seventeen and had fallen in love for the first and only time. It was a year full of adventure and intrigue as well as disappointments and enlightenments.

  ***

  “Mary, the Ladies of the Literary Society would like to invite you to attend our monthly meetings,” my teacher and mentor Miss Kate informed me.

  “We think you will not only enhance our discussions but in turn you will learn a great deal from the orations and debates.” Kate continued.

  “I would enjoy that!” I proclaimed.

  I soaked up books such as Little Women, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and Emma, but it was The Scarlet Letter that left me with questions. I wished to discuss these books and others in detail with like-minded women, prompting my invitation to the club. Miss Kate suggested that because of my enthusiasm for learning I matriculate and become a teacher upon my graduation this year. She explained that reforms had taken place across the country during the war demanding the need for publicly funded schools, as more men were becoming soldiers or entering the labor force women were more prevalently seen and accepted in the classroom as both students and teachers. After the war ended the trend of female teachers continued. Miss Kate was independent and I admired her character greatly. She praised my work with the smaller children, telling me I had the patience of a saint, helping them as much with their shoe-laces as their penmanship and arithmetic. I truly enjoyed the spark in their eyes when something clicked! The dream of becoming a teacher was planted and I tended to it faithfully. I set my sights on teaching in a public school system rather than being a tutor or governess for the wealthy.

  Often the children I helped brought me gifts to say thank you. Sometimes I found a shiny red apple on my desk beside Miss Kate’s, other times I was given loaves of homemade banana nut bread, or slices of peach cobbler. I delighted when Samantha, a student I helped who was six years old, brought me a bright yellow ribbon for my hair. My hair was shoulder length and hung in soft waves around my face, it was auburn in color now and the ribbon would make the perfect bow. I thanked her with a giant hug and noted that Edmund was immediately by my side to see what happened.

  When my head wasn’t pouring over books I was most likely found outdoors studying foliage or fishing and swimming. I baited my own hook and often dissected my catch to learn more about the anatomy of a fish. I found sewing to be painstaking and my stitches were crooked and my finishes lazy, although like cooking, I recognized it was a necessary skill. That was why I de-scaled and de-boned the fish I caught and chopped off their heads for Edna to fry at night. I rarely, if ever, fussed over my hair. The other females lucky enough to attend school went to great lengths to brush and style their locks; it baffled me for their hair sat under a bonnet for the better part of the day. I thought Edna would keel over when I took her kitchen scissors one scorching afternoon and cut my curls right off to my chin. It was so relieving to be rid of its weight and much cooler, she walked in to the kitchen just as I was sweeping the tendrils and taking them out to spread across the garden as fertilizer. Edna was not cross; she only tried to understand why I would do such a thing. I had precious few female friends and when I wasn’t helping Miss Kate at recess I spent time playing marbles or stick-ball with lads. I was called a tomboy and wore the badge with honor.

  Unfortunately for me, Scotty was no longer enrolled in school so I had no one but Edmund to keep me company on my long walks home. His workload on the farm was increasing and the ruthless injustice he faced when he was accused of theft cemented the decision for him. It was the farm he chose. He enjoyed the work and never missed the scrutiny of his classmates.

  I was lucky enough to be alone with Scotty after the incident that placed him before the board of education years ago.

  “You have to believe me,” Scotty took my hands and pulled me off our path and behind a tree; he looked directly in to my eyes. “I didn’t do it, I would never do it. I wouldn’t risk getting kicked out of school or worse, losing my place on the farm. If they get wind someone thinks I am stealing I will be back on the streets again.” He dropped my hands and hung his head, kicking at pebbles and making scuff marks in the dirt.

  “I believe you, Scotty, I do.” I said with fierce loyalty to my friend, “but why Edmund would lie and claim to have seen you in the act, it’s so peculiar. We have to catch the real thief is all and then we’ll set everything right.” I smiled at Scotty and rubbed his back in a circle for encouragement, feeling the friction between his soft cotton shirt and my fingers. If Edna saw me doing this she would probably scold me for being improper, but I had spent countless nights with this lad under a stoop in New York City and felt that if he could keep me warm while we slept, surely there was no harm in patting his back, even if I did linger. I often saw my own ma and da touching one another in this comforting way and it felt right.

  “It’s going to be alright.” Here he was the one being treated unjustly and yet he was comforting me. The tears flowed freely down my cheeks now and he wiped at them.

  “When will I see you?” I said pathetically.

  I knew Edna and Pap wanted to put space between us until all the dust cleared.

  “I’ll sneak down to you at night, when you hear taps on your window, that’s me. You’ll have to be quiet when sneaking out or you’ll get in trouble for certain.” He had his hands on my shoulders.

  “I don’t like being deceitful, but if it’s the only way then I will do it,” I decided reluctantly.

  The first night I heard the ping pang as the tiny pebbles pelted the glass. I sat straight up in bed and smoothed my hair, which was peculiar since I never cared about my hair. I tightened my robe and took off my slippers, but before heading out I stuffed my bed with extra pillows to make it appear I was there. It was the ultimate betrayal to Edna and Pap but I could see no way around it. I carefully made my way past Edna’s room and avoided any stairs that squeaked, treading quietly through the kitchen and out the back door. We ran through the backyard and stopped in the fields behind our house. In the beginning our meetings were brief and never in the same place twice. Our fear of being caught consumed our time together. Later we grew more brazen and were willing to risk a slap on the hand in order to see one another.

  It was unfair that he had to decide between work and his education, and that he was accused unjustly. On the first night I snuck out it was our main topic of conversation. To our disappointment nothing we said or did rectified the situation. I tried reasoning with the teacher and with Edna and Pap, but it was all for naught. Scotty was resigned to the fact he wouldn’t matriculate and would instead continue his days working on the farm. This bewildered me because he was intelligent; he had more than street smarts. So math wasn’t his best subject and letters were often tricky for him, he had an uncanny ability to work puzzles and analyze problems logically that couldn’t be taught. He also had an innate sense of geography. I wanted him to learn along with me, so often at night I filled his mind with historical facts and scientific findings that I knew would interest him. I taught him astronomy an
d together we gazed at the sky making wishes on stars.

  More often we just enjoyed being together, running through the fields dodging cow patties, playing hide and seek, climbing trees or just talking. He was the one person I could relax with; because of our shared history there were no pretenses.

  On one occasion I asked Scotty about his memories of New York City, and I inquired about his family as well. It was a bone of contention for him, but I was unaware of this because he came across as being self-assured and content at all times. He carried no ill will towards the woman who was supposed to take care of him, but rather for the situation as a whole. His mother did nothing but lay around in bed all day. He was scraping for food for as long as he could remember. He had younger siblings that were taken or given away, he wasn’t sure which, but he did remember a brother named Eli. Eli was a blonde lad, just a toddler, always crying from hunger. Scotty did his best to provide for him but he was nothing but a child himself. When I asked how many siblings he had, I was surprised when he responded with six or seven. Hard to imagine being alone in the world, especially New York City when you had sisters and brothers. Apparently they had all been handed over or taken and placed in orphanages in the city limits. They were all separated and the little ones would be far too young to remember him.

  Scotty told me that his mother only spoke German and that she found it hard to get along in this country, but his father was also a mean bastard adding to her suffering. I asked if his father spoke English and he explained that his mother was an immigrant who lost her entire family during her passage to America. She married the first man who showed her any kindness when she landed, that man was his father. Scotty’s father would come home drunk and beat his mother regularly, always reaching out to whack a kid, too. Scotty did his best to shield and protect the younger ones, and often took the brunt of his father’s vengeance on himself. It was a sorry situation, he never felt love within this family, except for the affinity he felt for Eli. His sisters were dirty and whiny, clinging to their mother in her bed sheets, trying to coax her up. Scotty was more apt to fend for himself than rely on anyone else.