Orphan Train(36)

“He don’t go to work no more. Lost his job at the feed store last week.” She glances around as if she’s lost something. Then she says, “C’mere, Mabel.” The little girl slinks over to her, watching us the whole time. “Go check and see that Gerald Junior’s okay in there. And where’s Harold?”

“Is that the boy outside?” Mr. Sorenson asks.

“He watching the baby? I told him to.”

“They’re both out there,” he says, and though his voice is neutral, I can tell he doesn’t approve.

Mrs. Grote chews her lip. She still hasn’t said a word to me. She’s barely looked in my direction. “I’m just so tired,” she says to no one in particular.

“Well, I’m sure you are, ma’am.” It’s clear Mr. Sorenson is itching to get out of here. “I’m guessing that’s why you asked for this here orphan girl. Dorothy. Her papers say she has experience with children. So that should be a help to you.”

She nods distractedly. “I got to sleep when they sleep,” she mumbles. “It’s the only time I get any rest.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Mrs. Grote covers her face with both hands. Then she pushes her stringy hair back behind her ears. She juts her chin at me. “This is the girl, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am. Name’s Dorothy. She’s here to be part of your family and be taken care of by you and help you in return.”

She focuses on my face, but her eyes are flat. “What’s her age?”

“Nine years old.”

“I have enough kids. What I need is somebody who can help me out.”

“It’s all part of the deal,” Mr. Sorenson says. “You feed and clothe Dorothy and make sure she gets to school, and she will earn her keep by doing chores around the house.” He pulls his glasses and the sheet of paper out of his various pockets, then puts his glasses on and tilts his head back to read it. “I see there’s a school four miles down. And there’s a ride she can catch at the post road, three-quarter mile from here.” He takes his glasses off. “It’s required that Dorothy attend school, Mrs. Grote. Do you agree to abide by that?”

She crosses her arms, and for a moment it looks as if she’s going to refuse. Maybe I won’t have to stay here, after all!

Then the front door creaks open. We turn to see a tall, thin, dark-haired man wearing a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves and grungy overalls. “The girl will go to school, whether she wants to or not,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Mr. Sorenson strides over and extends his hand. “You must be Gerald Grote. I’m Chester Sorenson. And this is Dorothy.”

“Nice to meet you.” Mr. Grote clasps his hand, nods over toward me. “She’ll do just fine.”

“All right, then,” Mr. Sorenson says, clearly relieved. “Let’s make it official.”

There’s paperwork, but not a lot. It’s only a few minutes before Mr. Sorenson has retrieved my bag from the truck and is driving away. I watch him through the cracked front window with the baby, Nettie, whimpering on my hip.





Hemingford County, Minnesota, 1930


“Where will I sleep?” I ask Mr. Grote when it gets dark.

He looks at me, hands on his hips, as if he hasn’t considered this question. He gestures toward the hallway. “There’s a bedroom yonder,” he says. “If you don’t want to sleep with the others, I guess you can sleep out here on the couch. We don’t stand on ceremony. I been known to doze off on it myself.”

In the bedroom, three old mattresses without sheets are laid across the floor, a carpet of bony springs. Mabel, Gerald Jr., and Harold sprawl across them, tugging a tattered wool blanket and three old quilts from each other. I don’t want to sleep here, but it’s better than sharing the couch with Mr. Grote. In the middle of the night one kid or another ends up under the crook of my arm or spooned against my back. They smell earthy and sour, like wild animals.


DESPAIR INHABITS THIS HOUSE. MRS. GROTE DOESN’T WANT ALL these kids, and neither she nor Mr. Grote really takes care of them. She sleeps all the time, and the children come and go from her bed. There’s brown paper tacked over the open window in that room, so it’s as dark as a hole in the ground. The children burrow in next to her, craving warmth. Sometimes she lets them crawl in and sometimes she pushes them out. When they’re denied a spot, their wails penetrate my skin like tiny needles.

There’s no running water, and no electricity or indoor plumbing here. The Grotes use gas lights and candles, and there’s a pump and an outhouse in the backyard, wood stacked on the porch. The damp logs in the fireplace make the house smoky and give off a tepid heat.

Mrs. Grote barely looks at me. She sends a child out to be fed or calls me to fix her a cup of coffee. She makes me nervous. I do what I’m told and make an effort to avoid her. The children sniff around, trying to get used to me, all except for two-year-old Gerald Jr., who takes to me right away, follows me like a puppy.

I ask Mr. Grote how they found me. He says he saw a flyer in town—homeless children for distribution. Wilma wouldn’t get out of bed, and he didn’t know what else to do.

I feel abandoned and forgotten, dropped into misery worse than my own.