Mail-Order Kid: An Orphan Train Rider's Story

by Marilyn June Coffey

  “We keep our things here,” she said. “Each of us has a trunk.”

  Sister Nolaska wrestled her trunk out, used a tiny key on a chain to open its lock, and flung open the lid.

  “I keep a few civilian clothes down here.”

  She pulled up the top tray to reveal neatly folded clothes, some flowered.

  “But what I want to show you is up here.”

  She lifted a pile of photographs, some in paper folders, and sifted through them.

  “Family, you know.” She showed Teresa a group of people waiting stiffly for the photographer to shoot.

  “Oh, here, here he is!” She handed Teresa a picture of a nicely groomed young man, well dressed. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Your brother?”

  “No, Teresa. This is the man I almost married before I became a nun. My Gilbert.”

  Teresa gasped. “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Just my age.” She watched Sister Nolaska dust off the photo with the sleeve of her habit and place it in the trunk.

  So I’m not the only one who likes the boys. If she could be a nun, then so could I.

  The idea of living in the Concordia Motherhouse where Sister Rosina and Sister Gertrude spent their summers seemed more appealing than before, but now she couldn’t go. The nuns had already promised her to Mrs. Geist in Salina.

  •

  The Geist house resembled a palace. Brand-new modern furniture on loan from the Geist Furniture Store, nothing nicked or marred, filled the rooms. Such luxury made Teresa feel small.

  Mrs. Geist, an energetic woman, swept Teresa through the rooms, explaining her duties. They rushed from the master bedroom with its huge canopied bed into a small dark adjacent room. Mrs. Geist touched the wall and light filled the room. Teresa gasped. How did she do that?

  “I want these fixtures spotless, especially the commode.” Mrs. Geist touched the wall again and plunged the room into darkness. She wheeled out before Teresa knew which fixture was the commode, whatever that was. The girl reached out and touched the wall, but nothing happened. It must be magic. She shivered.

  The two barreled down the curving staircase.

  “Here’s the kitchen—obviously!” Mrs. Geist laughed. “You must watch out for that stove.” She pointed to a square metal box totally unlike any stove Teresa knew. “Be sure to shut it off properly. If you don’t, the fumes could kill us all.”

  Later, alone, Teresa returned to the shiny kitchen and examined the ogre stove. She opened the big door in the front, but found no wood or ashes inside. She looked outdoors, but wood was stacked nowhere. She might never have figured out how to light the stove if she hadn’t seen a friend of Mrs. Geist turn it on with a match. When the fire started with a whoosh, she jumped and stared at the flames.

  What made the fire burn? Mrs. Geist had said, “Gas,” but Teresa didn’t see any gas. More magic.

  Later, Teresa tried lighting the burner but nothing happened. When she tried again, fire flared and frightened her, so she dropped the match and fled. When she returned, flames burned merrily in a circle. Was that right? The stove hadn’t boomed when Mrs. Geist’s friend lit it. Teresa agonized. What if she killed somebody? Her anxiety escalated.

  The next day, she entered Salina High School, an activity she anticipated, but the school was huge—five times bigger than Schoenchen High was.

  Inside, Teresa stood uneasily by the door until a teacher led her to the school office. Then she trudged to her classes. Each new class meant a new teacher and new bunch of student faces. How would she ever remember where to go?

  In her last class, the teacher discussed rivals, defining the word, and reading examples of usage. Unexpectedly the boy in front of her turned, grinned, and said: “You have rivals.”

  What does he mean, I have rivals? For his favors? He doesn’t even know me.

  At the end of class, she waited until the boy moved away in a cluster of students. Then she picked up her books, only to watch them cascade to the floor. She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt and longed to be back in Schoenchen High, where she knew everyone, where life wasn’t so complicated.

  The Geist children, aged three and five, were so cute Teresa expected to like them, but she didn’t. They had more toys than she had ever seen, but each wanted the toy that the other one held. The children fought like little animals, leaving scratch marks on Teresa’s arm when she broke them up. And she found washing diapers repugnant. She longed for the familiarity of the Bieker home, a place she’d once scorned, but at least there she knew how to behave.

  Two days later, Teresa stood at the stove again. She had to light it to heat water to warm the baby’s milk, but after she turned on the gas, she took too long to light the match, and the stove lit with a frightening whooooom. Her heart was still pounding when she sensed that someone was watching her. She turned. There in the kitchen doorway stood Bappa, his shoulders stooped, his Sunday-go-to-church jacket sleeves long on his wrists.

  “Goodness!” She felt more relieved than frightened at seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to take you back to Schoenchen,” he said. “The young people in your class want you back.”

  Teresa had to laugh at the idea that her classmates wanted her back, but she didn’t hesitate at this opportunity to leave Salina. Quickly she gathered her few belongings. Bappa won’t hurt me again. Ripping my hair off was an accident, like his shooting at me. He didn’t mean it. Shortly, without goodbyes, she walked out of the Geist home, leaving the children alone and gas burning on the stove.

  To Teresa’s surprise, Sheriff Loreditch met her and Bappa on the train platform in Hays and took her away again. In his office, the sheriff barked, “Why did you come back after we took all that trouble to take you to Abilene and after others found you a good home in Salina?”

  Teresa cringed. She knew the sheriff must think her behavior deplorable. How could she have come back indeed? She had no ready reply. When she glanced up, the sheriff seemed menacingly large, and she didn’t think he’d understand how frightened she was of Mrs. Geist’s modern house or how relieved she’d been to see Bappa and know she could go home. No matter what Bappa had done to her, she had never known any home but the Biekers.

  The sheriff brought Teresa before Judge John B. Gross, probate judge in Hays, who declared her a ward of the court. As a ward of the court, Teresa had to report to Judge Gross, Sheriff Loreditch, and Father Bernadine. Until she turned eighteen, she had to report to the Foundling. When she attended Girls’ Catholic High, she also would report to Sister Remigia there, but primarily she reported to Judge Gross. Unfortunately.

  •

  Mrs. Spallen of the Foundling arranged for Teresa to live at Judge Gross’s home until she could find a domestic job that paid room and board. Mrs. Gross showed Teresa to the second-floor guest room, and, after his wife left the house, the judge, his stern face softened, led Teresa to his bedroom. She watched him turn back the patchwork quilt, revealing clean white sheets.

  “Here, you don’t need so many clothes on.”

  After the judge disrobed Teresa, he took her to bed, fondling her and kissing her all over. She lay petrified. Here I am in his care, and he’s doing worse to me than was done before. At least Bappa never undressed me and took me to his bed.

  So frightened that she scarcely breathed, Teresa found herself high in the corner of the bedroom, caught like a spider clinging to a gossamer web, gazing down on what the judge was doing to her, and to himself, as though she were a spectator in the top row of a large stadium looking at a strange game.

  When the judge finished, Teresa grabbed her clothes and scampered down the hall to the guest room. Thank God his wife didn’t come back! If she had, he’d say it’s all my fault.

  Who could she tell? No one. Not even Mrs. Spallen would believe her. Teresa could scarcely believe it herself, but what could she do? She didn’t dare cry out, not knowing who might hear her. She couldn
’t protest to the judge. He wasn’t cruel like Bappa; he hadn’t struck her, but he didn’t have to. One word from him would send her to reform school.

  Judge Gross’s caresses coupled with Teresa’s fear propelled the girl to find a domestic job that paid room and board so she could leave. Every day after school, she visited prospective homes, but her diminutive size worked against her. Although full grown, Teresa stood only four feet, eleven inches tall and weighed just ninety pounds. Many potential employers didn’t believe she could handle domestic work. She looked too “English.”

  As days passed and the judge’s passion persisted, Teresa feared she’d never find work. Why didn’t I stay in Salina? The work was okay, and I would have learned how to light the stove by now. Why oh why did I let Bappa bring me to Hays?

  Then Dr. A.D. Herman’s family hired her as a part-time housekeeper, leaving her mornings free to attend Girls’ Catholic High. She tossed her clothes into a bundle and raced to the doctor’s house, determined to work diligently for Mrs. Herman, even though Teresa knew that she was clumsy.

  “Remember,” brusque Mrs. Herman said, “this is the home of a doctor. It must be more than clean; it must be immaculate.”

  During that first week, Mrs. Herman repeatedly explained what she wanted, especially how to clean the bathroom, and particularly the commode. By now, Teresa knew what a commode was, but no matter how she scoured, she never got it “immaculate.” She marveled when Mrs. Herman inspected the bathroom and found dirty spots on white porcelain that Teresa had just cleaned.

  By the end of ten days, Teresa hated getting on her hands and knees to clean the floors or standing on a stool to polish the tops of furniture that no one would see, but she especially hated cleaning the commode. On Saturday, the day before her first day off, she hurried through her hateful tasks, hoping her efforts would be good enough.

  What a relief it was on Sunday to leave the Herman’s house! Just stepping outdoors made her giddy. The autumn day was glorious, a crisp pungent sunny day.

  After she strolled around downtown, Teresa attended morning services at St. Joseph’s, an enormous cathedral. There she met Euphersine Staab, a new friend from school. Euphersine, a tall gangling girl, seemed spinsterish except for her sharp sense of humor. Her intense devotion to Catholicism made her kind-hearted; a senior, she didn’t mind that Teresa was only a freshman.

  That afternoon, they walked the streets, kicking brown leaves heaped in gutters. Then they sat side-by-side on Euphersine’s front steps and laughed a lot, until Teresa finally tore herself away to return to the Hermans’ house.

  As she climbed the front steps, she noticed her cloth satchel sitting next to the front door. That’s strange. Inside her clothes lay neatly folded. What does this mean? Gingerly she opened the front door.

  Mrs. Herman seemed to be waiting for her. “I don’t want you.” She waved Teresa away. “I want someone who can wash and shine the bathroom until it’s immaculate.”

  Shattered, Teresa sat on Mrs. Herman’s front steps. She had expected to eat supper with the Hermans, but she could skip a meal. She wished she didn’t have to return to Judge Gross’s house, but she had nowhere else to go. Eventually she picked up her satchel and started down the street, walking randomly. When the evening turned chilly, she pulled a shawl from her bag and wrapped it around her shoulders. She wished she could stay out all night, but she dared not arrive at the judge’s house too late.

  The Grosses’ petulance at Teresa’s return matched her reluctance at being there. How she wished that she’d gone to Concordia and become a nun! No one would touch her there. How foolish of her not to go, even if it meant losing her curly locks. And Gilbert. Where was Gilbert now?

  The next day Teresa searched out Euphersine and described her bad luck.

  “I know just the person,” Euphersine said. “She has seven kids; she’ll need help.”

  When classes ended, Euphersine took Teresa to visit Mrs. Denning. As they approached the Denning house, they heard spirited singing. Soon Teresa saw a corpulent woman dancing on the Dennings’ front porch with a broom. As she danced, she sang, with a good deal of verve, “If only I’d died in my cradle.”

  Dancing in broad daylight instead of scrubbing floors? Teresa didn’t know what to think of such behavior, so unlike Volga German ways, but her hopes skyrocketed. Wouldn’t she love to work for a woman who sang and danced?

  Mrs. Denning listened to Euphersine’s plea, but she hesitated to hire Teresa. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

  After the girls left, Teresa said, “That’s what they all say. She won’t hire me. I’m too English.”

  However, the next day, Mrs. Denning offered Teresa a part-time job in exchange for room and board. “You can wash socks, diapers, and dishes,” she said, “help with meals, and go to Girls’ Catholic High in the mornings.” So Teresa moved in with the Dennings, their seven children and their big black dog.

  Mrs. Denning’s home seemed like utopia after Mrs. Herman’s immaculate commode. Her new employer did not keep a spotless house. Teresa expected she’d have to clean the children’s dirty hand prints that smeared the Dennings’ walls, but Mrs. Denning never asked her to scrub walls or polish furniture or do any house cleaning chores. Even the dishes didn’t have to be washed immaculately. The worst chore was cleaning dozens of odious diapers.

  Mrs. Denning amused Teresa with tales of pranks she’d pulled and sometimes they danced. However, the two Denning boys near Teresa’s age were ornery. They bullied her into standing on a chair so the smaller boy could stand on her shoulders and snitch their father’s tobacco hidden high on a pantry shelf.

  Sometimes Judge Gross telephoned for Teresa to visit. Usually she grit her teeth and went, but once she didn’t.

  “You’d better go,” Mrs. Denning said. “You could get into trouble if you don’t do what he says.”

  However, Teresa knew that going to the judge’s house would result in trouble of another kind.

  The next day, Teresa told Euphersine that going to Judge Gross’s house scared her.

  “Tell me the next time he calls,” Euphersine said. “I’ll go with you.”

  So when Judge Gross called in late November, Teresa stopped by Euphersine’s house and the two picked their way through freshly fallen snow to the judge’s porch. The judge seemed surprised to see Euphersine, but he invited the two girls inside. They diligently wiped their shoes. As Teresa expected, Mrs. Gross was nowhere to be seen.

  “So who is this?” the judge said.

  “My friend, Euphersine Staab. We’re on our way to a movie.” That was a lie, but only a white one.

  The judge asked a few routine questions, and then dismissed them.

  “That didn’t seem so scary,” Euphersine said as they left.

  “He’s not so polite when we’re alone.” Teresa slid on a sheet of ice, her arms wobbling to keep her balance.

  “Oh.” Euphersine slid, too.

  Judge Gross didn’t call again until January, when she went to his office and answered a few questions for his annual Foundling report. Euphersine went with her. The judge commended Teresa on her excellent first-semester high school grades. Then his calls ceased.

  6

  “Little Orphan Annie”

  When school ended that spring, Mrs. Denning said, “The kids can help me during the summer,” and she let Teresa go. But she told her Volga German friends, the Dreilings, about Teresa, and that June she moved to the Dreiling farm north of Hays. There she milked seven Holstein cows, mornings and nights, helped Mrs. Dreiling with housework and cared for their seven children. Constantly busy, Teresa didn’t mind the work except for the mountains of nasty diapers.

  The Dreilings loved to party. “You don’t mind watching the children, do you?” Mrs. Dreiling said. “You’ll be staying home anyway.” Teresa agreed, and night after night, especially on weekends, she watched Mr. and Mrs. Dreiling gulp their supper and leave, often returning after midnight.

 
; On one of these nights, Teresa heard two older boys playing with the Victrola in the gloomy parlor. Before she could go keep the boys from scratching a record, she heard an awful crash. She ran to the parlor door to see Richie and Bill picking records up off the carpeted floor and piling them on a table. The boys were too busy to notice Teresa.

  “Oh, no, we broke one.” Bill held two shiny black pieces.

  “Here, put it in the middle. Maybe they won’t notice it.”

  Bill laid the pieces together so they looked like a single record. “But what if they find it?”

  Richie laughed, “We’ll tell them Teresa broke it.”

  Teresa slipped away from the door. She had to nip this, but how? She was folding diapers when she decided what to do.

  After Richie and Bill went to bed, Teresa grabbed a sheet and sneaked out of the house. The night was cool and a three-quarters moon illuminated the road that ran near the boys’ bedroom. Perfect. She draped the sheet over her body and danced, moving so the sheet seemed alive.

  “Oooooh, oooooh,” she called louder and louder, until the boys’ screams burst through the window. Then she ran, still calling, to the back door where she threw the sheet under the porch. She rushed into the boys’ bedroom, pretending to be irritated, and said, “What’s wrong with you?”

  The boys stood squished together in a corner by their bed. “We saw a ghost,” Richie said.

  “Oh posh and bother,” Teresa said. “You saw no such thing.”

  “No, really,” Bill said. “It ran down the road and disappeared.”

  “Come, now, get back in bed.” Teresa pulled the blanket over the boys. “Maybe that ghost came looking for you because of the lie you plan to tell.”

  “What lie?” Richie sat upright, his tousled hair a crown of fur.

  “That I broke those records.”