Rodzina (3 page)

The boys began to laugh and stomp their feet.

"And you are dumb enough to believe him?" I asked her.

Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm not dumb. Just slow. Them folks at the Infant Hospital said I was just slow and plumb fine to go west and work for my keep."

Spud shouted, "Yeah, she's so slow, she makes molasses look fast."

"Slow as a broken clock," said Sammy.

"Slower than a dead turtle," added Joe.

They stomped their feet again and hooted with laughter.

"What exactly do you mean, slow?" I asked Sammy.

"You know. Feebleminded."

I drew back. It was bad enough to share my seat with Lacey and wash her sticky face, but now she turned out to be feebleminded. Did they expect someone would want a feebleminded orphan?

The only feebleminded person I had ever known was Noodlehead Weber, who swept the floor at the candy store. Some of the kids threw rocks at him, but Mama wouldn't let me. She was always nice to him and made me call him Clarence and never Noodlehead.

I reckoned Mama would want me to be nice to this little girl and not call her Noodlehead or laugh at her.
I promise, Mama
,
but don't expect we're going to be friends or anything.

"I ain't feebleminded!" Lacey shouted, her little face turning from pink to bright red. "Just slow."

I said, "Seems to me some people are feeble-minded and some are plain ugly. Like them." I pointed to the boys. "Just be grateful you ain't them."

"I ain't ugly," said Joe, standing up and waving clenched fists in my face.

"Sammy," I said, "make your brother behave."

"Joe ain't my brother," Sammy said.

"I don't care. Just keep him quiet."

Lacey and I sat back, lost in our own thoughts. The boys jostled and snickered for a while longer and then got bored with that. They sat down on the floor, warming their backs by the stove, and Spud pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket. They started up a poker game, betting peach pits and marbles instead of money. Also James A. Garfield campaign ribbons, empty thread spools, broken spectacle parts, and anything else they found in their pockets. I guess the betting was more fun than the poker, for soon I heard Sammy call out, "Reckon I kin hold my breath longer than any fella on this here train."

And Joe said, "Bet you there are at least fifty flies stuck on that flypaper."

"I could count to a hundred before we see another tree, I wager," Chester shouted, coming to join the others, and more marbles and junk changed hands. I think someone could have been found to bet on whether or not the sun would set that night.

The gamblers shouted and squealed, their ruckus accompanying the squealing, jangling, and tooting of the train in an awful sort of music that sounded like a brass band played by monkeys.

A skinny old conductor came in to check the stove, his big, fuzzy ears sticking way out from under his peaked cap. He whistled while he worked. I got up and went over to him. "How long," I asked, "will it take to get to Grand Island?" Miss Hoolihan had said that would be the first orphan stop.

"Oh, three or some days," he said, scratching one of his huge ears, "depending on how often we got to pull over to let an express train go by. A little longer if we run into train robbers or a blizzard or a prairie fire, if we run off the rails or a bridge is washed out, or some such."

Train robbers? Washed-out bridges? Blizzards and prairie fires? Was he pulling my leg or were we really facing such dangers? He tipped his cap to me and whistled himself off.

What was I doing here? Was it a punishment for being an orphan? There were days and days of this misery ahead—noise and swaying and rattling and worrying. I would not survive.
I will lie right down here in this aisle
, I thought,
and die of swaying and rattling and washing up. And there will be no one to mourn for me.
I was almighty blue.

I rocked and stumbled back to my seat. Lacey was eating an apple. She gave me a scared smile.

"Are we almost there?" she asked.

"Where?"

"Wherever we're going."

"We're going lots of places, but we ain't at any of them yet," I said.

As I watched the land rush by, the skies grew darker and darker. A flash of light preceded the sound of thunder. Mickey Dooley shouted, "Put the frog out, Bill. I think it's gonna rain!" And it did. It rained cats and dogs. Walking sticks and flowered hats. Plum cake and sausages, fishbowls and fur-lined caps. Washed-out bridges and prairie fires and who knows what else.

Thunder rolled in once more, and lightning danced in the sky. Screaming and trembling, Lacey pulled her skirt up over her head. I turned away from her. Being scared, like having lice, was something one was supposed to keep to oneself.

The gamblers turned to racing raindrops, cheering them on, betting on which would be first to reach the bottom of the window. Marbles and peach pits changed hands again.

"Hey, Potato Nose, want to get in on this?" Sammy asked. "Try your luck?"

I shook my head. I had plenty of luck—all of it bad. If I wagered with them, I'd no doubt lose my boots, my hair, and my seat on the train and end up bald and barefoot, lost on the prairie. No sir. Not me. I would not bet on anything good happening for me.

When the rain finally eased, I could see only flat fields and scattered black patches of plowed earth. Late in the afternoon, we passed the first house we had seen in some hours. Leaning on the fence was a boy who looked like he had been waiting for us. The engine tooted; he waved and then hung there until the train passed, even longer maybe. Maybe he's still there, waiting for us to come back.

They should send some orphans to that kid, I
thought. Never had I seen a face so lonely. I bet he'd be good to them and not make them work too hard, so grateful he'd be for their company. And at night they could pop corn and tell stories, and when the train passed by, they could all go wave to it together and then talk about it after supper.

As the light failed outside, the conductor lit the gas lamps. Mr. Szprot passed out jelly sandwiches again. And apples. And sticks of celery. I wondered what he and Miss Doctor ate. Did they have to be satisfied with jelly sandwiches like we did? I looked behind me to check. Mr. Szprot was snoring in his seat. Miss Doctor was occupied with the littlest kids, cutting up apples for them to share. Maybe she didn't eat at all. I wondered what had happened to her sandwich.

I stretched my feet out toward the stove, letting the heat defrost my toes. "I hurt," said a little voice in front of me. Gertie, of course.

"You ain't going to vomit, are you?" I asked, pulling away.

She shook her head. "But I hurt all over."

"Maybe you're just cold. Sit here by the stove a minute." She tried to climb into my lap, but I crossed my legs and settled her between Lacey and me.

The big boy who had called me Cabbage Eater swaggered over to warm his hands. "Hey, Herman," Sammy said from his seat across the aisle, "I remember you from Chicago."

"Call me Hermy the Knife," the boy said, fingering something in his pocket that might or might not have been a knife. He was one scary-looking fellow—what my mama would call a
chuligan
—with his greasy hair, crooked nose, and a shadow above his lip that just might be the beginnings of a mustache. "Yeah, I remember you. You and your brother."

"Joe ain't my brother," Sammy said.

"I thought you was happy in Chicago," said Joe. "How come you're on this train?"

Hermy shrugged. "I'm here, but I ain't sticking around. Taking off as soon as I get the chance. Don't want nothin' to do with no hicks, hayseeds, rubes, clodhoppers, yokels, or bumpkins."

"Don't you want a family?" Gertie asked Hermy.

"Don't need no family," said Hermy. "I got my gang, the Plug Uglies, and we don't let nobody push us around—especially some yokel from Yokelsville." At that Hermy the Knife stopped and noticed who was speaking to him. "Hey, it's Gertie the Whiner. And Cabbage Eater, and looky here, they're sittin' with Cabbage Head, who don't know how many beans make five. You three are just right for Yokelsville."

"Cabbage Eater! That how you got so big, eatin' cabbage?" asked Sammy.

"And don't forget potatoes—we seen her eat plenty of potatoes," Joe added.

"Yeah,
our
potatoes."

I turned and looked out the window again. Could
I
just take off like Hermy? I was old enough and big enough to take care of myself, but we weren't in Chicago anymore. Where were we? And where would I go from here?

I fell asleep but was awakened sometime later by the sounds of crying. That wasn't unusual in this car full of orphans, but this crying was right in my ear. Gertie. Of course.

"Shh, Gertie. Cuddle up with Lacey and go back to sleep."

But she kept crying, and the other kids began to stir. "Come with me," I said, pulling her by her hand to the back of the car.

The lady doctor was looking out the window. I couldn't see why—it was just darkness out there. Black darkness.

Gertie blubbered again and pushed her face into my skirt. "Miss," I said.

"Doctor," she said.

"Gertie here won't stop crying. And she's waking up all the other kids."

The lady doctor turned to us. "Leave her with me. I'll take care of her." The gaslight flickered on her glasses, shooting off sparks in my direction. I shivered, glad it was Gertie and not me left with old Miss Don't Touch.

I
T WAS STILL DARK NIGHT
when we all had to wake, trudge off the train from Chicago with our suitcases, walk through the sleety Omaha railroad yard, and climb aboard the Union Pacific train that would take us the rest of the way to Grand Island. I stumbled as I walked, having gotten used to the rocking and swaying of the train. Our car looked just the same as the last, except that all the windows closed, so we were soon settled down again, I by the stove, Lacey next to me once more.

The night was quiet after that, except for the
rackety-rack
of the wheels and an occasional whistle, but I could not go back to sleep. I could see Mama's face there outside the window. And Papa's. And the boys, and Auntie Manya, and Hulda. Lacey reminded me a little of Hulda—she had the same thick braid of hair and rosy cheeks—but Hulda's hair was black as night and she wasn't feeble-minded. Hulda and I sat next to each other in school and took turns with a roller skate we found in the street until it broke in two. She swore we would be friends forever, but when her new stepmother began beating on her, Hulda ran away and I never saw her again. I had to leave school when I turned nine to help Mama with the little boys and the house and the sewing, and I never had another friend.

I felt a wave of loneliness, like I was all alone on this train. Just me and the dark night outside. I looked around. Everyone else was asleep. Everyone but grouchy old Miss Don't Touch in the back, who was watching out the window again. Was she better than no one? I sighed. I supposed she was. I walked back to her seat.

"Miss Don't—er, Doctor," I said, catching myself just in time.

"Go to sleep, Rodzina."

"I can't sleep. I thought I could talk to you."

"I am busy."

"You aren't doing anything but looking out the window."

She looked at me. "And that is enough. You can wait until morning."

"It's now I can't sleep, Miss Doctor. Let me talk with you awhile, and then I will leave you to your looking."

She moved over and I sat down. "I been wondering," I said. "Do you go back and forth, back and forth, on this here train with orphans like Mr. Szprot does?"

"
This
is what could not wait until morning?"

"Miss Doctor, I am just trying to ease into a conversation." I scratched my knee and sighed.

She sighed too, and said, "Miss Brodski, I am not your mother or your friend. And having conversations with orphans in the middle of the night is not among my duties."

I could feel my face grow hot, but before I could respond, she continued, "I am employed by the Orphan Asylum to look after you orphans only as far as Wyoming Territory. Then I am free."

"And then?"

"Then I will join a circus and ride bareback. Or pilot a balloon around the world. Or marry a Vanderbilt. I have not yet decided. Now are you ready to sleep?"

Miss Doctor joking? Strange. But then strange things happened in the middle of the night. Maybe she would really listen to me. It was worth a try. "Miss Doctor, I didn't want to come on this old train. I don't want to go live with strangers. Couldn't I just go back with Mr. Szprot to the orphanage and—"

"It is our job to find you a place to live."

"But I don't want—"

"It does not matter what you want. Do you think
I
want to be here? I am a doctor, not a nursemaid. But here I am. And here you are. Now go back to your seat."

Jeepers, she was no better at listening than a fruitcake. Why had I thought she would help me anyway? She was probably in cahoots with all those folks out there who took orphans to be slaves and beat them and starved them because no one cared whether they lived or died.

And where was Gertie? She was not with Miss Doctor, where I had left her before Omaha. So where was she? The stiff and starchy doctor lady had probably stuffed poor Gertie into a suitcase and left her by the tracks.

I slumped into my seat. Lacey was awake, looking at me with her big eyes glowing in the light from the gas lamps. "Where were you? I was plumb scared, and I don't like to be scared." Snuffling, she leaned up against my side.

Radishes! I pulled away. "Why are you bothering me? I don't want to be your friend or anything, but still you're always hanging on me."

Lacey pushed herself against me again. "I feel safer when you're here. You're so big and sturdy, like a beautiful tree I can lean on and not knock over."

A tree? What an odd thing to say. I figured she couldn't help it, being feebleminded, and I let her lean for a minute.

A beautiful tree. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I wondered.