Rodzina (15 page)

There were no wanted posters for Big Nose George or anyone else. One notice, bigger than the others, said in fancy lettering:

S
PINSTERS'
P
ARADISE!
Miners and ranchers of all ages, sizes, and
conditions seek women to share their
prosperity. Genuine ladies preferred.
Offer marriage, home, and a generous monthly
allowance. Write to Mrs. F. Stifflebean,
Virginia Palace Hotel, Virginia City, Nevada.

Stifflebean? It seemed an all-fired funny name to me, but I did not laugh; those of us who have Czerwinskis and Kwasniewiczes and Stelmachoskas among their relatives know better than to laugh at Stifflebean.

I sat as Miss Doctor had instructed me but kicked my heels hard against the bench. Here I had crossed nearly the whole country, only to end up unwanted in four states and two territories.

Was I some puny, helpless girl who sat and waited for what happened to her? No. I was big, like a beautiful tree, and nearly grown up. I had gotten myself off the Chicago streets and away from Peony and Oleander and Mr. Clench; surely I could figure some way to get myself out of this.

Virginia City, Nevada!
I realized all of a sudden. That notice seeking brides for miners was from Virginia City, Nevada! That was where Miss Doctor had said this little train was going. I wondered if there were women here who were going to be brides.

A pretty woman in China-blue silk rustled by me. Was she going to wed a miner? I, too, could wear China-blue silk, have my hair up, and look pretty, if I were a bride and not an orphan.

Then like a thunderclap it hit me. Could this be the answer? Could
I
be a miner's bride? Why not? I looked older than twelve—Mrs. Clench had thought I was fifteen—and by marrying some lonely miner, I could get myself a home and a family and a monthly allowance. I would not touch the old coot Clench, but marriage to a nice man of my own choosing would be better than some training school where they would shave my head and boss me around. Miss Merlene had seemed happy enough.

I stood up and looked for the telegraph office so I could tell Miss Doctor about my idea. Then I stopped still. Miss Doctor would not think this a good plan. I knew that. I had to move quickly before she came back.

I pulled up my stockings, scratched my knees, straightened my shoulders, and approached the ticket clerk, a young man in spectacles and red suspenders. The window grille cast dark shadows across his face. "How much is a ticket to this here Virginia City?"

"Round trip or one way?"

"One way," I said confidently, for a new life awaited me at the end.

"That'll be a dollar seventy, miss," he said.

It might as well have been one million and seventy. I had no money at all. But I did have my belongings in a cardboard suitcase back in the other train. Mama said you could always call on the Virgin for help, so, in a way, I did. "Could I," I asked him, "trade a statue of the Virgin Mary, come all the way from Poland, for a one-way ticket?"

He shook his head. "Not a hundred statues. I have to deliver money to the railway, not bric-a-brac."

Psiakrew.
Now what? I walked outside onto the platform.

"All aboard!" called a jolly-faced conductor with white chin whiskers and a nose like a tomato. People came and went, climbing on and off the train. I joined a family-looking group, hoping to be taken for one of the children, but the conductor grabbed my arm. "Your ticket, miss?"

Taking a deep breath, I looked slowly and sadly up at him. "Oh, Mr. Conductor, sir," I said in a passable little-innocent-child voice. "My old granny has already boarded the train, and I did not get to embrace her and say goodbye, and it is sure to be the last time I see her, for she is ailing. And old. And going blind. And..."

People were crowding up behind me, wanting to board. "All right then, little miss, scamper on up and hug your old granny," he said. "But be quick, in and out, for we leave in"—he pulled a watch from his pocket and consulted it—"three and a half minutes."

So I scampered on up, but I stayed there, hiding in the toilet compartment in the back of the car.
Please,
I thought,
let the conductor forget about me, let no one need to use the toilet, and let the train start soon.

And then, with a rumble and a lurch, we were off. My heart did a cartwheel, something the rest of me could never do, although I had tried once when I was seven and suffered a twisted ankle and a broken finger that still hurt sometimes in the rain.

As the train gained speed, I felt fidgety and unsure. I mourned a bit for the cardboard suitcase left behind, with Mama's shawl and the Virgin and the other things to remind me of home, but there had been no time to fetch it from the California-bound train. And I had an uncomfortable feeling about leaving Miss Doctor like that. I supposed I should have left her a note or a message. How long would she wait, looking for me, before she gave up and just continued on west without me? But she never would have let me go, I told myself. And she didn't really care for me anyway. I was just her business. Maybe she would be relieved I was no longer around to annoy her.

Making myself as small as a tall person could, I came out from the toilet compartment and huddled in a seat near the back of the car. I watched the rugged hills, streams, and miles of evergreens drift past us out the window, but had to hide again whenever the conductor came in.

The other passengers settled in for the ride, unbuttoning coats, unpacking lunches, and unfolding newspapers. There were a few women—an older lady with her hair up in sausage curls, a young woman with pink cheeks and a sailor hat, a girl in a straw bonnet and ruffled shirtwaist, a black-haired girl with a parasol in her tiny hands. Were they going to be brides? They sure were pretty, I thought, and would have no trouble finding someone to marry them. Catching my reflection in the train window, I spit on my hand and smoothed down my hair a bit and crossed my legs carefully to hide the holes in the knees of my stockings.

In the seat in front of me sat a man and a woman, who stared smiling into each other's faces. She had on a walking suit of gray trimmed with fur, and he had a homburg, rich black and freshly brushed and fuzzy. Maybe that could be me and my husband-to-be, on our way to our new home and new life. At our wedding we would share bread and salt and wine, and I would never be hungry or lonely again. We would have a house and an apple tree, and Lacey could visit. And Sammy, Joe, and Mickey Dooley. And Miss Doctor. Maybe they would come at Easter and we would eat pork sausage and horseradish and decorated eggs....I sighed as the man in the homburg kissed his lady's hand.

The train began a winding, twisting track that led up and down, shut in the cold, dark heart of the snowy mountains. The clouds were thick and low. On the hillsides I could see the faint green of new grass, but also the scars of pits and tunnels and heaps of dirt, rocks, and refuse.

As we raced along, I counted fenceposts. Mama had told me that girls in Poland foretold the appearance of their future husbands by the shape of the fourteenth fencepost they passed. No matter how many times I started counting anew, the fourteenth post only predicted a short, stubby husband, worn and splintery, advertising tobacco and hog feed.

Then around another turn and we were in Virginia City. It was little for a city, even in the west. The town rose from the railroad tracks in a series of terraces hanging on the side of the mountain, each level crowded with houses and stores and saloons, churches and hotels, and some grand buildings with balconies and clock towers.

The depot was crowded with red-blanketed Indians, cowboys in big Stetson hats, flannel-clad miners, and even a few ordinary folk. But not one of them was a woman. All those people, and every one of them a man. No wonder this Mrs. Stifflebean had sent for women. No man could find a bride in this city of men. I felt a little jolt of fear. Were all those men waiting for me?

We were in Virginia City, but I did not get off the train right away. I watched the activity out the window for a bit. The lovey-dovey man and woman walked away together, her hand on his arm. I pressed my face against the glass so I could watch them as long as possible.

When I stood up to leave, the conductor blocked my way. His face was not so jolly anymore. "Here, missy, I remember you from Reno." He grabbed my shoulder. "You had no ticket. What are you doing on this train?"

I tried to twist out of his grasp. "Let me go!" I said. "You're hurting me. Let me go." I tried not to cry but could feel tears on my face and knew a blubber was coming on.

He shook me hard. "Riding without a ticket is stealing from the railroad. We put thieves in jail here."

Someone poked the conductor with her umbrella. "What are you doing to this child?" There next to us stood a tiny old lady, gray-haired and wrinkled but straight as a very short stick.

"This here girl has no ticket."

"And for that you threaten her with jail? Jail! Some men have no more sense than a chicken! Where are you from, child?"

The blubbering had started, and all I could say between gulps was, "Chicago."

"She got on in Reno. Said something about seeing her old granny," the conductor said.

"Well, and so she has. I will be her old granny and pay the few pennies for her fare from Reno and back." She held out her hand. "This is for you. I expect you to see her safely where she belongs."

The conductor took the money and tipped his hat. "Ma'am," he said.

"And you, child," the old woman said, looking up at me, "go on home. Face up to whatever it is sent you running away. Why, someone must be worried sick, a little thing like you all alone out here." She poked the conductor again and said, "Jail! And her a child. Ridiculous! Make yourself useful and help me off this train."

She was right—not about my being little, but I was a child. I knew that. I was not Miss Merlene or a lovely lady in a gray suit or a pink-cheeked woman in a sailor hat. There in the window was my reflection, a big, round twelve-year-old girl who looked like her papa, not pretty, with dirty hair and holes in her stockings. What was I thinking of? I couldn't find anyone to adopt me; who on earth would marry me?

I started to blubber again.

Quit acting like a child,
I said to myself.

I am a child,
I said right back.

I could not get off the train and marry a stranger. I had to grow up first.

What was I to do now? I would have to get to San Francisco on my own, for certainly Miss Doctor had gone on without me. Perhaps the station agent at Reno could telegraph the Boys' and Girls' Training School for ticket money. And if not, maybe I could just walk out into the mountains and starve to death. No one wanted me, no one would miss me.

"All aboard!" the conductor called, and the train began to fill up again for its return trip to Reno. I curled up in a seat and slept all the way.

In Reno the conductor pulled me off the train, holding tight to my arm as he marched me into the station agent's office. And there waiting was Miss Doctor, beautiful, dependable Miss Doctor!

"Rodzina!" she shouted, rushing at me and grabbing me. I had never noticed before how small she was, much shorter than I and not as big around as a walking stick, but I felt safe as I threw my arms around her and hung on.

After a moment she held me at arm's length and looked at me. "What happened to you? Where were you? Are you all right? We were just summoning the sheriff."

But I had started to cry again, and I could not answer. She led me to a bench where we just sat for a minute, me crying and her clucking.

When I finally looked up, she wiped my face with her own handkerchief. "You couldn't find me a suitable family," I said, hiccupping, "so I thought I'd go to Virginia City and marry a miner and we would
be
a family. But I'm too young to get married." I snuffled a bit more. "So I came back. Why are you still here?"

"I could not just leave without you."

"Why not? You left without Joe and Sammy and Lacey and all the others."

"That was different. They were placed with families. You were by yourself out in the wilds, lost or kidnapped or murdered by grizzly bears. How could I abandon a twelve-year-old orphan—even one as resourceful as you? I had to make sure you were all right. And it seems you were not."

"No," I said, "I guess I was not." I pressed up close to her. Tiny as she was, she felt strong and solid.

"You are but a child, Rodzina," she said in her cold, sharp voice, "and cannot just do whatever you take it in your mind to do." Laying her hand over mine, she added, "Promise me you will never do such a thing again."

"I promise," I snuffled. "Take me to the training school and leave me there until I die of unhappiness and bad food. I will not run away again. I promise." And I meant it. I had had enough of running. I wanted to be somewhere and stay there.

W
E WAITED IN
R
ENO
for hours until finally another Central Pacific pulled in, headed for California. The station agent brought out Miss Doctor's bags and my cardboard suitcase. I had not lost everything from my old life after all. I still had the Virgin wrapped in Mama's red-and-yellow shawl, the big blue marble with a heart of fire that had belonged to Jan or Toddy—I never knew which—and the handmade card from Hulda that said "Friends 4-ever." I looked at my reflection in the window of the train. And from my papa, I had my boots and my face.

I settled down in my seat. With every whistle and chug we moved farther from Virginia City and closer to San Francisco and the Boys' and Girls' Training School.

Somewhere west of Reno we entered California. We stopped there to add another engine to the front of the train. The conductor said we were going to climb sharply now, and one engine would not be sufficient to pull the entire train.

The ascent was so steep, we were pinned back in our seats. No one stood or walked around. We all just sat. I prayed those two engines would be enough to get us up the mountains and we would not fail and fall back all the way to Omaha. Or be stranded in the mountains with nothing to eat but bear paws, elk nostrils, and snow.