Circle of Love

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  "A behavior problem?" FYances asked.

  Miss Hunter's forehead puckered as she thought. Finally, she said, "I really can't recall. Isn't that dreadful of me to forget? Me oh my! With all these children and their names and backgrounds to try to remember, it's a wonder my mind doesn't give out entirely."

  Frances smiled and patted Miss Hunter's hand.

  "You're doing an excellent job. Don't worry. Tve taught children with all kinds of problems. Lottie will be an interesting challenge."

  Miss Hunter smiled. "Good. Well, I can almost promise you won't have problems with the next few children. Frank William Fischer, at twelve, is a fine young man, eager to go west. Daisy Ann Gordon is only nine and says she wants to be loved by parents more than anything in the world. Jack Greer is seven. His big brown eyes will melt your heart. Whoever gets Jack will be lucky."

  Her eyes following her finger down the page. Miss Hunter said, "Now, here's Lucy Amanda Griggs, a ten-year-old waif from the streets. Landlord threw her out when her mother died. She's somewhat afraid of going west, but she's eager to have parents and a sister— s. little sister. When I interviewed her, all she could talk about was having a little sister."

  "I hope she gets her wish," Frances said.

  "I hope all of them do," Miss Hunter said with a sigh, but she perked up at the next name. "Alexander Hanna Eight years old and a real joy. And Virginia Hooper. She's ten." Miss Himter smiled. "Vii:ginia insists she's a princess and was switched with another child at birth."

  "Does she remember her parents?" Frances asked. "How young was she when she was orphaned?"

  "She was a foundling, left on the steps of a hospital Her date of birth and her mother's first name were printed on a scrap of paper pinned to her blanket. She was taken in by a foster family in New Jersey, then returned four years later when the foster mother died. Virginia has lived in an asylum ever since."

  "Dear little girl. She needed a family in her past, so she created one for herself," Frances said.

  "She created a family, all right," Miss Hunter said, "and you'll never talk her out of it She insists she remembers—names, places, everything."

  Again her fingertip returned to the list, sliding to the next line. "David Paul Howard, eleven. Very quiet boy. Used to doing what others tell him to do. David lived off the streets until a slightly older friend brought him to us. He wanted David to have a real home, he said." She shook her head. "It's amazing how David survived this long.

  "Here are some other recent arrivals: Mary Beth Lansdown, eleven; Jessie Kay Lester, nine; Edward Paul Marsh, eleven—ah, he's a caution; Marcus John Melo, twelve; Samuel Jacob Meyer, ten; Shane Howard Prescott, eleven; and Lizzie Ann Schultz, two. Lizzie is a darling. You can assign her to one of the older girls to care for on the trip. Most agents pair the little ones with the older girls. It's a great help with so many children to watch over."

  "What about the children you just named? Any problems?" Frances asked.

  "I can't promise you that there won't be problems. They're all old enough to get into trouble. Maybe some already have, maybe some are going to. I don't know. You'll just have to spot any potential troublemakers and keep them in line."

  Frances nodded. She'd found that a hug or even a friendly pat on the shoulder was often enough to reassure a child who just needed to know he or she was cared about. She wasn't worried about how the children would behave. She worried about how they would stand up to the terrifying ordeal of meeting

  strangers while wondering if they'd be chosen. She vividly remembered her own fears.

  "Will Scott is twelve," Miss Hunter said. "He was brought to us by his father, who works with a traveling circus. Mr. Scott explained why he was unable to care for Will, but Will is in mourning for his father. He can't believe his father would send him away."

  Frances gulped back the tightness in her throat. She knew what Will must be feeling.

  "Then there's Adam John Stowe, eight, and Harry James Stowe, ten," Miss Hunter said. *That little one clings to his brother night and day. How they're going to be separated, I can't imagine."

  She looked at the sheet of names and sighed. *The last two, now, may give you problems," she said. "Agatha Mae Vaughn, who's twelve, was banished from the orphanage she's lived in for years. She's a bom troublemaker. Wait till you meet her. Her mind gets set on something and there's no budging her. I don't envy the people who take her in."

  "Maybe, with a little love—" Frances began.

  Mrs. Hunter shook her head. "You're very young, and love may seem to be the answer to everything, but with Aggie—" She smiled and said, "All I can say is, good luck."

  Frances reached for the list. "That's all?"

  "One more," Mrs. Hunter said. "Seven-year-old Caroline Jane Whittaker. Her father beat her, and she's very much afraid of him. He disappeared four months ago, soon after Caroline's mother died. The aunt who took Caroline in brought her to us because she couldn't afford to care for her. Caroline wants to go west to a new home, but she's frightened."

  "Afraid she won't be chosen? Or afraid of finding the right family?" Frances asked.

  "Oh, no," Miss Hunter said. "She's afraid that her father will come looking for her. She's afraid that he'll find her."

  After supper Frances was introduced to the children. A plump, golden-haired little girl immediately raised her arms to Frances and said, "Mama"

  "Aren*t you a love," Frances said as she picked up the baby. "You must be Lizzie."

  "Lizzie," the little girl repeated.

  Miss Himter beckoned to a thin girl with dark hair. "Mary Beth," she asked, "how would you like to be paired with Lizzie on the trip?"

  Mary Beth smiled proudly and held out her arms. "She likes to have me hold her."

  Lizzie cheerfully went to Mary Beth and giggled as Mary Beth nuzzled her neck, murmuring, "Don't you, lizzie-lizzie? Don't you?"

  A tall, large-boned girl with a badly cropped fiizz

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  of red hair scowled at Miss Hunter. "You should have asked me to take care of her. Fm the oldest."

  Miss Hunter's hands fluttered in distress. "I know you are, Aggie, but I thought—"

  Frances interrupted, smiling at Aggie. "I'm sure you're very capable, Aggie. A three-year-old takes even more watching than a two-year-old. Suppose we assign Nelly Babcock to you?"

  "No!" A boy, who firmly held his baby sister's hand, stepped forward. "I'm George, Nelly's brother. No one takes care of her but m^!"

  "And me!" A younger boy, with the same pale hair and red cheeks as Nelly and George, squeezed close to the pair.

  This must be Earl Babcock, Frances thought.

  "A little girl takes special care—" Frances began, but George interrupted.

  "When she does, you can help me."

  "Yes, I can," Frances said. She put an arm around Aggie's shoulders, surprised when the girl stiffened. "Aggie," she said, "I hereby make you my official first assistant. I'll need you to help me with all the little ones."

  "She can't tell us what to do," someone said.

  "Of course not," Frances said reassuringly. "She won't even try. She'll be helping me feed everyone during the day, make them comfortable at night, count noses at depot stops. . . . There's a great deal Aggie and I will have to do together."

  Frances could feel Aggie relax, but the look the girl gave her was wary, as though she didn't know whether to trust what she had heard.

  "I was an orphan train rider," Frances told the children. "When I was Aggie's age I traveled to St.

  Joseph, Missouri, with my brothers, Mike, Danny, and Pete, and my sisters, Megan and Peg."

  George Babcock sucked in his breath and held his little sister so tightly that she squirmed to get free. His words were barely more than a whisper as he stared up at Frances and asked, "Did you stay together, miss? Were you all taken by the same family?"

  Seeing the raw hope in George's eyes, Frances desperately searched for the right answer. "No, we weren't," she said. "But
we all found good people to love us. And we loved them in return."

  Her answer hadn't been enough, she realized. Despair replaced the hope in George's eyes, and he stepped back.

  An insistent tug on Frances's skirt nearly pulled her off balance. She looked down to see Adam Stowe and snuled at him.

  But Adam didn't smile back. His face was pale as he said, "My brother, Harry, and I have to stay together, miss. Our father said Harry was to take care of me. Doesn't anybody ever take two children?"

  Frances squatted so that she could be at Adam's eye level. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes they do."

  As Adam snuled, the color returned to his cheeks. Frances looked up at Harry, Adam's older brother. "You have to understand that many of the people who take in the children from the orphan trains can't afford to feed and clothe more than one child. Raising even one child is costly."

  Harry nodded bleakly, but Adam said, "It's all right, Harry. She said sometimes people take two. We'll look for those people. We'll stick together."

  Frances slowly got to her feet. Her chest ached with the hurt of what she and her brothers and sisters had gone through and what these frightened children

  had in store for them. With all her heart she wished that Adam and Harry would be adopted together, and that the Babcocks wouldn't be separated, but she knew the chances of this wish's coming true would be very slim.

  Frances weftt firom child to child, getting acquainted. She could see fear in some of their eyes, a despairing acceptance in others. Three boys, however, had the jaunty, quick-witted good humor that had always been Mike's trademark, and she was drawn to them.

  Small, wiry, redheaded Ekldie Marsh—^witli a look of mischief on his face—grinned up at Frances. His arms rested on the shoulders of Marcus Melo and Samuel Meyer. "Me and my chums are all for this train ride to the West, miss," he said. "We heard those trains can go fast as a galloping horse."

  *That they can," Frances agreed.

  "Do the horses and trains ever race?" Marcus asked. "If I had a horse, I know I could beat any train, anywhere, anytime!"

  "Quit your braggin'!" Eddie said, artd elbowed his friend in the ribs. "You never rode a horse."

  "Yeah," Sam echoed. "You ain't got a horse, and you're not likely to ever get one."

  "Don't be so sure," Frances said. "Most of the people who take in the orphan train children live on farms, and there are always horses on farms."

  The boys stopped jostling each other and stared at Frances. "Real live horses?" Marcus asked.

  "Naw. Old dead horses," Eddie answered. He and Sam whooped with laughter.

  Frances smiled at Marcus. "My wonderful foster parents drove me to their home in a wagon pulled by

  two fine horses. It wasn't long before I learned how to groom the horses and harness them."

  "Did they let you ride them?" Eddie asked eagerly.

  "Yes. Sometimes with a saddle, sometimes bareback, and sometimes I took them out hitched to a wagon."

  "By yourself?" Sam asked.

  "Oh, yes. M by myself."

  For a moment she could almost see the thoughts churning inside the boys' heads. Then Eddie looked up and grinned again. *This goin' west . . . Tm thinkin' it won't be half bad," he said.

  Excited, the boys ran off, and Frances turned to see a small, solemn-faced little girl looking up at her. Frances grasped for her name. Meg . . . Margaret. That's what she was called. Margaret di Capo.

  Margaret crooked her finger at Frances, beckoning her to come closer. Frances squatted so that her face was level with Margaret's.

  Although Frances smiled and waited patiently, Margaret didn't speak, so Frances finally said, "What is it, dear? What do you want?"

  Tears spilled from Margaret's eyes, and her lower lip trembled. "I want ... I want someone to love me," she cried, and flung her arms around Frances's neck.

  Frances held Margaret until her sobs finally ended. "Someone wiU, little love. Someone will," Frances said.

  She was determined that every single one of these children was going to end up in a happy home with loving people. Mr. Friedrich, the man who had been so cruel to Mike, came to Frances's mind. She quickly shook the memory away. At least she could make

  sure that these children would be happy as long as they were in her care.

  As Frances settled Margaret into a chair with Jessie Lester, she saw that Margaret was clutching a tiny bundle of white. ".What is that?" Frances asked.

  "My rabbit/' Margaret said. She opened her tightly curled fingers and held up a very small, white stuffed rabbit with embroidered black eyes and a pink nose. "His name is Flops. My grandmother made him for me."

  Jessie looked solemn. "Her grandmother can't take care of her anymore. Her grandmother died."

  As tears rose again to Margaret's eyes, Frances quickly said, "Margaret, why don't you tell Jessie about Flops? Can he do tricks? Do you ever make clothes for him out of scraps of cloth?"

  Jessie spoke up again. *The butcher on our street kills rabbits for people to eat," she said.

  Margaret burst into wails, and Frances picked her up and carried her to a sofa at the far end of the room. She held Margaret on her lap, stroking back her hair and crooning to her until the little girl settled down and dropped heavily into sleep, tears still on her cheeks.

  A thin-faced girl of about ten came to Frances. Smiling, she held up a doll with a battered face. *This is Baby," she said. "I found her in a trash can, and now she's mine."

  "She's lovely, Lucy," Frances said.

  "Yes, she is, isn't she? That's because Mrs. Dolan washed and ironed her dress for me."

  Frances watched Lucy as she walked off, showing her doll to Lottie. Suddenly Frances became aware that someone was standing beside her. She looked up

  to see Aggie Mae Vaughn. "Hello, Aggie," she said. "There's plenty of room here. Why don't you sit with me?"

  Aggie slid onto the sofa and gave Margaret a critical look. "She's a crybaby," Aggie said.

  "She's afraid," Frances told her. "I've cried when I was afraid. Haven't you?"

  "No," Aggie answered. "I never cry." She hesitated a moment before she said, "And I'm never afraid."

  Frances waited for what would come next. When she didn't speak, Aggie said, "Even when I broke a rule and had to go without supper, even when Miss Marchlander beat my hands with a ruler and told me no one would ever want to adopt me, I was never afraid, and I never cried."

  "I'm sorry that someone hurt you," Frances said. She took one of Aggie's hands, sliding soothing fingers across her palm, but Aggie jerked her hand away.

  "No need to feel sorry for me," Aggie said. "I learned my lesson. Miss Marchlander taught me not to let people hurt me. I'U never, never let anyone hurt me again. That's what I told her, and that's why she sent me away."

  "Oh, Aggie," Frances began, and stretched out a hand again.

  But Aggie stiffened. "She said I was a waif—somebody no one wants. But someone wiU want me. I'm going to have a real family. I'm going to live with people who love me and are good to me, until ..."

  Frances waited a moment, then asked, "Until what?"

  Aggie shook her head, murmuring, "Never mind."

  "You'll make someone a fine daughter," Frances

  said, tiying to smile reassuringly. Aggie looked as though she had something to tell her. Maybe she could be encouraged to confide her problem later.

  In a small voice Aggie said, "Fm not a cute baby. And Tm not pretty like Mary Beth and Nicola But somecHie will want me, won't they?"

  '"Of course they will," Frances said firmly, but she unhappily remembered some of the farm wives who only wanted foster daughters strong enough to handle the household chores. Aggie deserv^ed a much better life than that

  Miss Hunter s voice carried throughout the roont "Bedtime, children. Well arise early, because well have to travel to New Jersey to get the train."

  There was a sudden hush, as if each child was afraid to breathe or even think. Frances knew what they w
ere feeling. Tomorrow they'd begin a very different kind of life. Frances had been in their shoes. And Frances remembered.

  "Come along now," Miss Hunter said. "Off to bed with you."

  As the children filed out of the room, Miss Hunter spoke quietly to Frances. "You got along with them nicely. I knew you would, you being a teacher."

  "I know how they feel," Frances said.

  *These poor little foundlings and waifs? Well, as best you can, I suppose."

  Frances didn't try to explain. She listened politely to Miss Hunter's advice about how to handle troublemakers, and how to arrange orderly visits to the small necessity in the railway car and to the privies at depot stops, and how to keep the boys from hanging out the train windows or climbing over the other passengers in the railway car.

  But Frances s mind went from child to child. No

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  matter whether there'd been tears or smiles, each of them was facing a difficxilt journey.

  "m be fine, and so will the children," Frances assured Miss Hunter. She meant what she said with all her heart and tried to push away the doubts that kept repeating, Don't be so sure. You know as well as you know your own name, Frances Mary Kellyy that on this trip anything can happen.

  The platform around the depot was bustling with travelers and well-wishers; salesmen lugging heavy cases; a few nicely dressed children—^two of whom stuck out their tongues at the orphan train riders, then hid behind their mother's skirts; gentlemen in stiff collars and tall hats; and uniformed policemen who roamed through the crowd, their eyes constantly searching faces. Here and there were a few ex-soldiers with shabby clothes, and a few beggars, who disappeared when they saw the policemen approaching.