“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” I whisper.
“If he lays a hand on me . . .”
“You can get placed somewhere else.”
“I’m labor,” he says. “That’s what I am.”
“They have to send you to school.”
He laughs. “And what’ll happen if they don’t?”
“You’ll make them send you. And then, in a few years—”
“I’ll come and find you,” he says.
I have to fight to control my voice. “Nobody wants me. I have to get back on the train.”
“Hey, boy! Stop yer dallying,” the man calls, clapping his hands so loudly that everyone turns to look.
Dutchy walks across the stage and down the steps. Mr. Curran pumps the man’s hand, pats him on the shoulder. Mrs. Scatcherd escorts the couple out the door, Dutchy trailing behind. In the doorway he turns and finds my face. And then he’s gone.
It’s hard to believe, but it’s not yet noon. Two hours have passed since we pulled into the station. There are about ten adults milling around, and a half-dozen train riders left—me, a few sickly looking teenage boys, and some homely children—undernourished, walleyed, beetle browed. It’s obvious why we weren’t chosen.
Mrs. Scatcherd mounts the stage. “All right, children. The journey continues,” she says. “It is impossible to know what combination of factors makes a child suitable for a certain family, but to be perfectly frank, you would not want to be with a family that doesn’t welcome you wholeheartedly. So—though this may not seem like the desired outcome, I tell you that it is for the best. And if, after several more attempts, it becomes clear that . . .” Her voice wavers. “For now, let’s just worry about our next destination. The good people of Albans, Minnesota, are waiting.”
Albans, Minnesota, 1929
It’s early afternoon when we arrive in Albans, which, I can see as we pull up to the depot, is barely a town at all. The mayor is standing on the open-air platform, and as soon as we disembark we are herded in a ragtag line to a Grange Hall a block from the station. The brilliant blue of the morning sky has faded, as if left out too long in the sun. The air has cooled. I am no longer nervous or worried. I just want to get this over with.
There are fewer people here, about fifty, but they fill the small brick building. There’s no stage, so we walk to the front and turn to face the crowd. Mr. Curran gives a less florid version of the speech he gave in Minneapolis and people begin to inch forward. They generally appear both poorer and kindlier; the women are wearing country dresses and the men seem uncomfortable in their Sunday clothes.
Expecting nothing makes the whole experience easier to bear. I fully believe that I will end up on the train again, to be unloaded at the next town, paraded with the remaining children, and shuttled back on the train. Those of us who aren’t chosen will likely return to New York to grow up in an orphanage. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. At least I know what to expect—hard mattresses, rough sheets, strict matrons. But also friendship with other girls, three meals a day, school. I can go back to that life. I don’t need to find a family here, and perhaps it will be for the best if I don’t.
As I am thinking this, I become aware of a woman looking at me closely. She is about my mother’s age, with wavy brown hair cropped close to her head and plain, strong features. She wears a high-necked white blouse with vertical pleats, a dark paisley scarf, and a plain gray skirt. Heavy black shoes are on her feet. A large oval locket hangs on a gold chain around her neck. The man standing behind her is stout and florid, with shaggy auburn hair. The buttons of his waistcoat strain to confine his drumlike girth.
The woman comes close to me. “What’s your name?”
“Niamh.”
“Eve?”
“No, Niamh. It’s Irish,” I say.
“How do you spell it?”
“N-I-A-M-H.”
She looks back at the man, who breaks into a grin. “Fresh off the boat,” he says. “Ain’t that right, missy?”
“Well, not—” I begin, but the man interrupts me.
“Where you from?”
“County Galway.”
“Ah, right.” He nods, and my heart jumps. He knows it!
“My people’re from County Cork. Came over long ago, during the famine.”
These two are a peculiar pair—she circumspect and reserved, he bouncing on his toes, humming with energy.
“The name would have to change,” she says to her husband.
“Whatever you want, m’dear.”
She cocks her head at me. “How old are you?”