Wanderville (4 page)

“If someone puts their hand in
my
mouth, I'll bite them,” Harold said.

“I heard they pick the strong kids for hard work, and sometimes they even send you to a factory,” Frances added.

Jack's shoulders tensed at the word
factory.
A few months back it wouldn't have sounded like the worst thing. But that was only because of Daniel.

Jack lowered his voice to a whisper. “So do you think it's true about the work farm in Kansas? I overheard a kid in Quentin's bunch talking about it in the water line. Something about a cruel family who made kids sow rocks and eat dirt clods for dinner.”

Frances whispered back. “You mean the one with a hundred kids? I thought that was in Ohio.”

“No, Ohio is where they have the factory where they make kids paint tiny numbers on watches,” Jack said. “I heard that story back in the city from a kid who I used to play stickball with whose cousin was sent on an orphan train to Ohio—something about how kids do a better job because they have smaller hands.”

Harold spoke up again. “Those are just stories, right, Frances? Just like back at the home, when people used to say all kinds of crazy things and you'd tell me not to listen to them.” He looked at his sister for confirmation, then continued before she could say anything. “They gave us nice clothes to wear, so I think we are going to nice homes with people who can take care of us.”

Frances squeezed Harold's shoulder and looked over at Jack. She smiled a little, but not in her eyes.

“Sure,” Jack said. “Nice homes.”

It was dark now in the train. Just one of the lamps still flickered, and the only light outside was from a shard of the moon. Frances felt Harold's head loll on her shoulder. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.

Frances was just about to nod off herself when she heard a voice, faint but familiar.

“Frances . . . hey, Frances!”

Frances sat up with a start. Jack was leaning across the seat in her direction.

“What?” she whispered back.

“Don't tell anyone, but I'm not going to Kansas.” He sat back, but he kept his gaze steady.

Frances rubbed her eyes, certain that sleep must have dulled her senses. But when she glanced back up, Jack looked as determined as ever. “What? Of course you're going.”

Jack looked around to make sure nobody was listening. “Nope. I'm going to get off this train and go back to New York.” He folded his arms and nodded. “And if you know what's good for you and Harold, you won't stay on this train, either.”

H
arold had the window seat, and for most of the next two days, he kept his forehead pressed to the glass, gaping out at the fields they passed. Frances was pretty certain that he was daydreaming about a new home. Once he even pointed out a tiny clapboard farmhouse in the distance.

“Like that, Frances,” Harold said. “I bet some good people live in a house like that, and we'll meet them when we get off the train.”

Frances squeezed his hand and said only, “We'll see.” She was glad that he was too busy gazing out the window to notice the doubt in her smile.

While Harold watched the view, Frances and Jack watched everything else.

They'd both noticed that Miss DeHaven hardly ever came into their car, preferring to stay in the next car over. Frances had overheard Mrs. Routh explaining to one of the porters that that was where the four youngest children, aged five and under, were seated.

“I'm surprised that she'd want to ride with the younger kids,” Jack replied after Frances got finished telling him what she'd heard.

“She doesn't,” Frances answered automatically. “That other car is a first-class coach. I peeked in this morning. It's got cushioned seats and everything.”

“Hmm . . . Well, that makes more sense.”

“You didn't think she suddenly had a soft spot for the little kids, did you?”

“Good point.”

What Jack really wanted to talk about, though, was the plan to escape. But it was too risky to discuss during the daytime. The night before, he'd waited until most of the other kids, including Harold, were asleep, and he'd mentioned it to Frances again.

“But
how
are you going to escape?” she'd asked.

“I don't know yet,” he'd said. “I just know that I ought to.” His brother used to tell him he should mind whenever he “got a qualm.”
You know, a sense in your guts that something's not right
, Daniel would say. And for days he'd been having a qualm about where this train was headed. “And like I said, you and Harold should, too—”

“Right, ‘if we know what's good for us,'” Frances finished. “But how do
you
know what's good for us?”

Jack had wanted to say
because I'm just like you
.
But Harold woke up just then needing a drink of water. The way Frances was such a mother hen to that kid was sweet and all that, Jack thought, but he wished she'd see that the best thing she could do for him would be to work on a plan to get off that train.

As for Frances, she wondered what Jack's story was. When she first saw him on the platform back at Grand Central, he'd been saying goodbye to a man and a woman—were those his parents? She'd heard that some of the children here weren't truly orphans. She'd almost asked him about it, but she stopped herself. After all, Frances tried not to think about her own
situation, hers and her brother's. If she ever asked this Jack kid about his circumstances, she'd likely have to tell him about hers, and she didn't want Harold to overhear. Really, it was better to not say anything at all. And so Frances resolved to just stay quiet and keep an eye out for trouble.

Which is why, on the morning of the third day, as they traveled through Missouri, Frances straightened up and sat bolt upright the moment a stranger entered the car.

The stranger was a man.
Frances sized him up quickly: older, stocky, his clothes plain but respectable, a beard with some gray in it. Honest, maybe. Or maybe not. From across the aisle, Jack cocked his head toward him, obviously noticing him, too.

Mrs. Routh had followed the man in, her hands fluttering as she tried to keep up with his long strides. “Sir, this is a private car,” she told him.

“Yes,” he said. “I would like to see the children.” He was clutching a paper handbill. “You are showing them in Sheltonburg, yes? That is just past my stop. But I thought that as long as I was on the train, I might see if there was a suitable child.”

He held out the handbill for Mrs. Routh to look at. “Hmm,” she said. “I don't know if it's all right to—”

“Of
course
,
sir,” Miss DeHaven loudly interjected, having just appeared behind them. “All the ones here are
healthy
and intelligent.”

She was speaking in that tone again, Frances noticed, the one that sounded pretty and melodic. For the past two days she hadn't been wearing her ribboned badge, but now she had it on, pinned on her dress, neat and straight.

The bearded man was looking all around, up and down the rows. Miss DeHaven clapped her hands twice. “
Children!
This is an occasion to be
cheerful
,
is it not?” A few of the kids stood up straighter and smiled. Still others sat wide-eyed, watching the man.

“Sir
,
”
Mrs. Routh said, raising her voice a bit, “perhaps we should speak in private first, sir, about your circumstances, to make sure that you're—”

“Just the
right
kind of person to give one of these poor
children a home!” Miss DeHaven interrupted. “But I've
no doubt you're
perfect
,
and I don't see the need for formalities, do
you
,
Mrs. Routh? Or . . . do they know how to do things better in
Kansas
?”

Mrs. Routh was speechless for a moment. “It's not my place to object,” she said at last, nodding at Miss DeHaven's badge. “You're the authority here.” Her mouth was a tight line.

Miss DeHaven turned to the man again. “Are you seeking a boy or a girl?”

“Not sure about a girl,” the man told Miss DeHaven. “Maybe a sturdy boy who can do chores.” He was looking over at the older boys, including Quentin, who, Frances noticed, bowed his head to hide his bad lip.

“But the girls here are quite
capable
. Perhaps your wife might like one? They can be trained from a much younger age than boys,” Miss DeHaven insisted.

Trained.
Frances was fuming. Trained, like they were talking about terrier pups.

“Well . . . the missus does need some help,” the man admitted.

At that, Miss DeHaven tugged on the arm of one of the two Swedish girls, Nell, who dutifully stepped out into the aisle, but not before exchanging a panicked look with her sister seated next to her. “Sweetheart,” Miss DeHaven said, “please recite for this gentleman that lovely verse you know. The ladies at the orphanage tell me you won a prize for memorizing it.”

Nell looked terrified, but she took a deep breath and began, in a steady voice:

“
The little birds fly over,

And oh, how sweet they sing!

To tell the happy children

That once again 'tis Spring.

Here blows the warm red clover,

There peeps the violet blue;

Oh, happy little children!

God made them all for you.”

When she finished, she looked straight down at her feet.

“Why, that was awful nice,” the bearded man said, nodding abashedly at Nell. He turned to Miss DeHaven. “But I see she's got a sister, and I can't take them both.”

Frances felt her stomach flip over.
Can't take them both.
She looked over at her brother. She and Harold were a
both—
what if someone wanted just one of them? She wouldn't let that happen. She
couldn't.

“Very well, sir,” Miss DeHaven said to the man at last.

“But what about him?” the man said. He pointed to a boy of about nine who always sat by the back door of the car. Jack had spoken to him once or twice but knew only that his name was Colin.

“Ah, yes . . .” Miss DeHaven led the man over. Once the adults had moved up the aisle, Nell and her sister embraced with relief.

Jack looked down and noticed that his own fists were clenched. His whole body, in fact, had been tense as a drawn bow, as if he'd been waiting to leap out in the aisle. As if he could run all the way to the front of this train, to the huge black engine, and make it all stop.

He looked across the aisle at Harold. The little kid must have some idea what was happening, because he had slunk down in his seat. His sister leaned over just then and squeezed his shoulder. She leaned in close to talk to Harold, but Jack could still hear her words.

“Wherever we're going,” Frances told her brother, “you and I are going together.”

She looked up and met Jack's eyes.
Wherever we're going
, she repeated to herself, her voice hushed.

Jack wanted to say something just then. He wanted to say he finally had a plan. Except he didn't—not yet.

Miss DeHaven was coming back down the aisle. This time, she was leading the boy from the back of the car. He had his cardboard suitcase in hand, and he was followed by Mrs. Routh and the bearded man.

“Colin is our
first
placement on this journey,” Miss DeHaven announced. “And not our last.”

Jack watched as Colin walked past. He was holding the handle of his suitcase so tightly, Jack noticed, that his knuckles had gone bloodless and white.

When Colin got to the end of the train car, he turned back to wave goodbye, his expression grimly brave.
He's wondering if he's going to be someone's new son now
, Jack thought,
or someone's new servant.

The man was still walking up the aisle to the end of the car, and Jack reached out and tugged his sleeve.

“Mister?” he asked. “You need that piece of paper?” He pointed to the handbill the man was carrying and gave his most winning smile. “I could sure use it for practicing arithmetic.”

The bearded man shrugged and gave it to him, then followed the others out. Jack tucked the handbill in his sleeve and looked around to see if anyone had noticed him taking it. Nobody had. Well, except for Frances.

Frances turned to her little brother. “Harold? I bet you can't count twenty barns between here and the next stop.”