Rodzina Page 11

  "Joe's..." Sammy stopped and looked down at his feet.

  "Go on, Sammy. What about Joe?" Miss Doctor asked. I was glad she did, for I was mighty curious as to where this was going. There had been a lot of interesting talk from them lately about secrets.

  Sammy looked right at Joe and then at the rest of us. "Joe ain't my brother. Joe's my sister."

  There was sudden silence. Sister? We were all completely discombobberated. Sister?

  I looked at Joe. It could be, I supposed. Joe and Sammy had come late to the train and never did get washed up and buttoned into new clothes at the home like the rest of us.

  Joe stood stiff. She blushed red as Mama's beet soup, stuck out her jaw, and said, "Yeah, sister. Any of youse want to make somethin' of it?"

  None of us did.

  "You mean you've been lying to—" Miss Doctor began, but Sammy interrupted.

  "It wasn't no lie. I told the truth. Joe ain't my brother."

  The silence went on and on while we each tried to make sense of what Sammy had said. Finally the sheriff cleared his throat, rocked on his feet, and snapped his suspenders a few times. "Well, my home is awful quiet," he said. "Probably take both of you to liven it up." He opened his arms and gathered them in.

  Joe and Sammy smiled at each other. They actually smiled at each other. In fact, all three were grinning like Halloween pumpkins. Why, the world had not seen such a sight since Duke Ladislaus the Short united Great and Little Poland in 1314.

  Sister! Imagine that. I shook my head.

  So Sammy and Joe stayed in Ogden, Utah Territory, with the sheriff and the Boss. I sure would have liked to get a look at this mama who was even bigger than Sheriff Earl, but I never did.

  Right around dinnertime, we said goodbye to the sheriff and Sammy and Joe at the hotel. I shook Sammy's hand and wished him good luck and hot potatoes ever after. I tried to hug Joe, but she gave me a look that would wither a cornstalk at fifty paces, so I shook her hand too.

  Mr. Tuttle drove Miss Doctor and me to the station. Mrs. Tuttle and Lacey came along. On the platform, Lacey wound her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek over and over. Saying good-bye to her was as hard as I was afraid it would be. Lacey had squirreled her way into my heart. You couldn't not love someone just because you didn't want to love them.

  "I will write you letters, Lacey," I said, "and your new mama can read them to you until you learn to read for yourself."

  "I'm sorry we won't be sisters," she said, "but I ain't scared or sad anymore." I hugged her and hung on for a while, humming the song Mama and Papa used to sing on my birthday: "Sto lat, a hundred years, may you live a hundred years." Then all the Tuttles climbed back into their wagon and drove away.

  There were Indians at the depot. The men wore cotton shirts and breeches, with bright striped blankets tied around their waists; the women were so wrapped in their blankets of dark blue that all I could see of them were their moccasined feet. One boy, about the size of Mickey Dooley, had glossy black hair tied with a strip of red cloth and a tough, dangerous face. He passed close by me, and I took a good look at him.

  He stared right back. His eyes were so sad, afraid, and unsure. I was surprised, but then I wasn't. There was a lot going on in all of us beneath what people could see. You'd think that after Mickey Dooley, I would have known that.

  Even me. There was plenty going on inside me that no one could see. Yes, you'd think I would have learned.

  I gave the boy a little friendly wave, like I would Mickey Dooley. He did not wave back.

  The Indian boy and his family climbed onto the landing behind the last car on a train headed east. It would be mighty cold out there. I wished they were allowed to stay inside, where it would be a bit warmer. All they wanted was to get from one place to another, just like the rest of us, I'd wager. Miss Merlene had been right, I guessed; they'd been robbed.

  So Miss Doctor and I alone would board the train for California. Seemed like I was the most unwanted orphan of all. Seeing as I had planned it that way, it wasn't right that I felt so bad about it. But I did. I could see now that some people would take orphans to care for them and not turn them into slaves. Good people like the Tuttles. And the sheriff. There were families out there for orphans, and I wanted one. I wanted what Nellie and Spud and Chester, Mickey Dooley and Lacey, Joe and Sammy had—someplace where I would belong, with a real family, people of my own who cared about me.

  But it was too late. I wondered whether there were people like that in Grand Island or Cheyenne, people I didn't notice because I was too busy worrying about being sold. And now I was an orphan permanently and forever. Maybe I could ... what? What could I do?

  Miss Doctor bought our tickets from a pimply-faced boy in a bow tie who sat behind the window grille in the station waiting room.

  We found an empty bench outside and sat down to wait for the westbound train.

  Miss Doctor sighed a big sigh. And then another. And another. "Sister," she said. "Imagine that. A girl. You'd think I would have noticed, being a doctor, trained to observe people. I suppose I was just too caught up in my own problems to see what I should have seen."

  "You think Joe will turn out all right?" I asked her. "And Sammy, Lacey, Nellie, and the others?" And me, I wanted to add, what will happen to me? Will I be all right? But I couldn't ask that out loud. "Everyone says orphans come to no good end," I added. "Even Mr. Szprot said so."

  "I wouldn't pay too much attention to what Mr. Szprot said. He did his job, I suppose, but sometimes I thought his cigar knew more about children than he did."

  I stared at her. Miss Doctor was full of surprises. "But was he right? Do orphans mostly come to a bad end?"

  "Lots of people who start out as orphans do fine. Take Oliver Twist and David Copperfield in books by Mr. Dickens. Or Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer. And Jane Eyre, an orphan and a girl."

  "Those are all in stories. Do you know of one real orphan, one real live orphan, who turned out all right?"

  "I cannot think of an example at the moment."

  I knew it. Even the educated Miss Doctor could not think of one happy, successful orphan.

  "Don't worry so much," Miss Doctor said. "You will do well at the training school, be clothed and fed and learn a trade. The experience will be very ... uh, beneficial. Now, I am chilled to the bone. Shall we go inside and wait by the stove?"

  "No, you go. I'll stay here." Miss Doctor went inside while I walked onto the platform. I looked up the tracks and down. They stretched east and west, forward and backward, ahead and behind, like my life. Did the tracks end at the Boys' and Girls' Training School? Is that where my life would end? Where else could I go? And what would I do?

  I could hear the long, hollow sound of the train whistle before I could see it coming. Suddenly there was a light, like a giant star, rushing closer and closer, and the awful thrumping noise of the engine. The engine got bigger and bigger as it hurtled into the station and then, with a wheeze like it had the grippe, stopped, sparks shooting from the wheels.

  Miss Doctor came out of the waiting room, and we boarded and found seats. I sat by the window and watched as we left the snowy fields of Ogden behind. The car was noisy with the sounds of quarreling and crying and the fretting of babies, and smelly with packed lunches and cigars.

  At sunset we pulled into an eating station that was nothing but a shack with dirty tables and dirty waiters and dirty water. The diners were all frantic to get the waiters' attention and some of those big platters of food before the train moved on. Miss Doctor had turtle soup and tea for fifteen cents. I looked longingly at the steak others were eating, but it was fifty cents and I remembered what Miss Doctor had said about being far from rich. Instead I ordered rabbit stew and bread for ten cents, and worried as I was about my future, still I ate every bite of it.

  After supper we boarded the train again and settled in. The train roared and thundered as it crossed a gorge on a huge trestle, then burst into the mountains, clinging to a narrow ledge of
rock. Finally we entered the broad, dry, rugged highlands of Nevada. We had left the territories and were back in the United States.

  We rode through deserts of dirt and sagebrush. I didn't see a town or a tree or a river. Those of us on the train might have been the only living things in the whole world.

  All night and all the next day we roared through wide barren plains bordered by mountain slopes. The train tracks ran straight ahead, the road beside them marked with hand-lettered signs: Dead Horse Ravine—3 miles; Greasy Neck—10 miles. Skunk Gulch—5 miles; Squibbler—20 miles; Civilization—Too Blamed Close. I grew dirtier and achier, tired of riding but afraid to reach the end of the trip. Was this California still in this world or were we traveling to the moon?

  12. Virginia City

  IN THE DARK, the rattling and bouncing of the train was like the rhythm of a song. It soothed me but did not make me sleepy. I thought about Lacey and Joe and Sammy. They had been like my family for a while. Now they had families of their own, families who would not make them dig ditches or boil laundry. I missed them, but mostly I was worried about what would become of me.

  "Miss Doctor? I'm awful unhappy about being left at this training school because no one wants me."

  She was quiet for a moment. "I know how you feel," she said finally. "When I decided to become a doctor, I was discouraged by everyone. My family turned their backs on me. No physician would take me on as apprentice, and most medical schools were closed to women."

  I kicked the seat in front of me a few times. I doubted that she knew how I felt. After all, she had a mama, didn't she? I stopped kicking. Did she still have a mama? I didn't know. I didn't know anything about her. But I was curious. "Why didn't they want you?"

  "One dean said it was not fitting for women to know about themselves because it made them nervous." She frowned. "I was also told that too much education would leave women with monstrous brains, puny bodies, and abnormally weak digestion."

  "Is that true?"

  "Of course not. Do I look shrunken and sickly? The university in Michigan finally accepted me, but grudgingly. Not a day passed but somebody made me cringe, someone hurt me. I suffered frogs in my boots, blood on my chair, and laughter in the classroom whenever I sought to ask or answer a question. But I persevered."

  "And now you are a real doctor." I admired her stubbornness. Why, she was just as determined on her goal as that rat we saw at the Cheyenne station.

  "Yes, indeed, although most people call me Miss or Doctress, as if a woman could never be a true doctor. If I were an ax murderer or suffered from hydrophobia, I could not be more unwanted."

  Unwanted. Like a stubborn, too-big orphan girl in her father's boots. Like me, on my way to a training school with other unwanted orphans, with no plans and no hope, thrown away like garbage into Bubbly Creek. I turned my face from Miss Doctor and worried myself to sleep.

  The morning found us back in the clear, cold air of the mountains. At Reno station Miss Doctor and I climbed down and walked a bit to stretch our legs. "I am going in to send some telegrams," she said. "I must alert the training school that you are coming. Our train will not depart until after that one leaves for Virginia City, so you go sit on the bench by the ticket window and wait."

  This was it. Miss Doctor was actually taking me to the training school, and I had no better plan for myself. My chest grew tight, so I drew myself a cup of water. There were, of course, notices pinned to the wall of the depot, and I read them as I drank:

  WANTED TO GO INTO THE COUNTRY,

  a competent Protestant cook,

  understanding the care of milk and butter.

  Apply to H. James, 11 River Street, Reno.

  MADAME SOLANGA,,

  CELEBRATED MEDIUM AND FORTUNETELLER,

  is stopping at the Reno Queen Hotel,

  where she may be consulted in any

  language on matters pertaining to

  business or other troubles.

  MILLIONS OF ACRES OF LAND

  in California, the Cornucopia of the

  World, for sale on 10 years' credit.

  NO CYCLONES OR BLIZZARDS.

  HO FOR THE NEW EL DORADO!

  1400 secondhand Six Shooters

  and 1000 Winchester Rifles.

  As the routes to riches

  in Gold and Silver pass

  through dangerous territory,

  it is necessary that all parties

  go well Armed.

  Call on

  THE MARVIN FIREARM COMPANY.

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

  SPINSTERS' PARADISE!

  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. Cond
uctor, 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.