“What’d you say?” The man goes over and plants himself in front of Dutchy.
“Your wife’s got no call to talk like that.” Dutchy’s voice is low, but I can hear every word.
“You stay out of it,” the man says, lifting Dutchy’s chin with his index finger. “My wife can talk about you orphans any way she goddamn wants.”
There’s a rustling, a flash of black cape, and like a snake through the underbrush Mrs. Scatcherd is upon us. “What is the problem here?” Her voice is hushed and forceful.
“This boy talked back to my husband,” the wife says.
Mrs. Scatcherd looks at Dutchy and then at the couple. “Hans is—spirited,” she says. “He doesn’t always think before he speaks. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name—”
“Barney McCallum. And this here’s my wife, Eva.”
Mrs. Scatcherd nods. “What do you have to say to Mr. McCallum, then, Hans?”
Dutchy looks down at his feet. I know what he wants to say. I think we all do. “Apologize,” he mumbles without looking up.
While this is unfolding, the slim blond woman in front of me has been stroking Carmine’s arm with her finger, and now, still nestled against me, he is looking through his lashes at her. “Sweet thing, aren’t you?” She pokes him gently in his soft middle, and he gives her a tentative smile.
The woman looks at her husband. “I think he’s the one.”
I can feel Mrs. Scatcherd’s eyes on us. “Nice lady,” I whisper in Carmine’s ear. “She wants to be your mam.”
“Mam,” he says, his warm breath on my face. His eyes are round and shining.
“His name is Carmine.” Reaching up, I pry his monkey arms from around my neck, clasping them in my hand.
The woman smells of roses—like the lush white blooms along the lane at my gram’s house. She is as finely boned as a bird. She puts her hand on Carmine’s back and he clings to me tighter. “It’s all right,” I start, but the words crumble in my mouth.
“No, no, no,” Carmine says. I think I may faint.
“Do you need a girl to help with him?” I blurt. “I could”—I think wildly, trying to remember what I am good at—“mend clothes. And cook.”
The woman gives me a pitying look. “Oh, child,” she says. “I am sorry. We can’t afford two. We just—we came here for a baby. I’m sure you’ll find . . .” Her voice trails off. “We just want a baby to complete our family.”
I push back tears. Carmine feels the change in me and starts to whimper. “You must go to your new mam,” I tell him and peel him off me.
The woman takes him awkwardly, jostling him in her arms. She isn’t used to holding a baby. I reach out and tuck his leg under her arm. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she says.
Mrs. Scatcherd herds the three of them off the stage toward a table covered with forms, Carmine’s dark head on the woman’s shoulder.
ONE BY ONE, THE CHILDREN AROUND ME ARE CHOSEN. THE BOY beside me wanders away with a short, round woman who tells him it’s high time she has a man around the house. The dog-whine girl goes off with a stylish couple in hats. Dutchy and I are standing together talking quietly when a man approaches with skin as tanned and scuffed as old shoe leather, trailed by a sour-looking woman. The man stands in front of us for a minute, then reaches out and squeezes Dutchy’s arm.
“What’re you doing?” Dutchy says with surprise.
“Open your mouth.”
I can see that Dutchy wants to haul off and hit him, but Mr. Curran is watching us closely, and he doesn’t dare. The man sticks a dirty-looking finger in his mouth. Dutchy jerks his head around.
“Ever work as a hay baler?” the man asks.
Dutchy stares straight ahead.
“You hear me?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t hear me?”
Dutchy looks at him. “Never worked as a hay baler. Don’t even know what that is.”
“Whaddaya think?” the man says to the woman. “He’s a tough one, but we could use a kid this size.”
“I reckon he’ll fall in line.” Stepping up to Dutchy, she says, “We break horses. Boys aren’t that different.”
“Let’s load ’im up,” the man says. “We got a drive ahead of us.”
“You’re all set?” Mr. Curran says, coming toward us with a nervous laugh.
“Yep. This is the one.”
“Well, all right! If you’ll just follow me over here, we can sign those papers.”
It’s just as Dutchy predicted. Coarse country people looking for a field hand. They don’t even walk him down off the stage.