Rodzina

by Karen Cushman

  I was worried about getting back to the train, so after ten minutes or so we wrapped the rest of the popcorn in a newspaper cone, said hasty goodbyes, and hurried off.

  Miss Doctor and Mr. Szprot were already on the train. The car was hectic and noisy. I heard Mr. Szprot say, "Where in tarnation is that Polish girl?"

  "I'm here, I'm here," I said as we clambered up the steps. "Just stepped out for a breath of air."

  I passed by the boys in their seats and gave them an if-you-say-anything-I'll-clobber-you look.

  "You, Polish girl," said Mr. Szprot, grabbing my arm and twisting me around, "are useless. You will be leaving us at the next stop; I don't care if you're taken by grizzly bears or men from the moon. You are gone!"

  Tarnation! He might as well throw me off the train right here to be picked up by whatever wretch-on-horseback happened along. My stomach wobbled. I could have used some of Stonebreaker's Indian Gum Syrup for the Gut right about then.

  Once the train started up, the boys came over, giggling and poking at Lacey. "Did ya see the circus, Lacey?" Spud asked. "Were there animals and clowns and acrobats?"

  Lacey's eyes shone in the reflected gaslight. "Oh, yes. And a magician and a dancing dog. It was wonderful. I never thought to see such a thing as a circus." She unwrapped the newspaper bundle of popcorn, put a few kernels in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "But I wish we could have stayed to see the elephant."

  The boys all turned toward me. "What is she talking about?" asked Spud. "That was no circus."

  I smiled sweetly. "I think I liked the juggler the best," I said as I settled down next to Lacey. "And the pie."

  At that the boys all ran to the end of the train and, pushing and shoving each other for a better view, looked out as we pulled away, leaving the wagons far behind.

  The train rushed through the night. After a long time a warm red star twinkled near the tracks, and we came upon a tiny wayside station with gray windows and people waiting outside. Some people got off the train. Where were they going? What did they want? What were they looking for? In a flash the train was off again and they were left behind. All was darkness again. Did those people have any notion how almighty lonely they were going to be?

  6. Cheyenne

  NEXT MORNING I BUMPED into Mickey Dooley at the water bucket. "Know what kind of fish live in a water bucket?" he asked, his eyes as usual looking here and there at the same time. He didn't wait for an answer but waved the dipper at me and said, "Wet fish. Get it? Wet fish."

  I wanted to keep on thinking my dreary thoughts and not be interrupted with fish jokes. "Why do you keep joking about nothing all the time?" I asked him. "We're coming up to Cheyenne, where we'll be sold like chicken feed to farmers. Aren't you worried?"

  "Water you mean?" he asked.

  "Why—" I began, and then stopped my questions. His left eye had managed to quit its wandering and look right at me. I could see sadness there. Why, I reckoned he was just as worried as I was. He just couldn't say so. I figured the least I could do was pretend right along with him. "Wet fish! You sure are one funny fellow, Mickey Dooley," I said as I took the dipper he handed me. "Wet fish."

  Back at my seat I watched out the window again. The flat, stubbly prairie looked like Papa's face when he needed a shave. Here and there were herds of animals Chester thought were antelope. Or moose. Or elk. Sure weren't buffalo, he said.

  Luncheon? Apples and jelly sandwiches, of course, but by now the bread was dry except where the jelly had soaked in and made it soggy, and the jelly was mostly crusty sugar crystals, which crunched between my teeth. We also had milk and hard-boiled eggs that Szprot had bought at our last stop, but my mouth longed for something sour—a dill pickle or sauerkraut or Mama's headcheese with vinegar.

  Nellie came and leaned against my legs. "I don't want to go west," she said. "Spud said the west is full of murderers and guns and wildfires. I'm plumb scared of the west." She was little and pale, and I was still worried that Miss Doctor would get rid of her, like she did Gertie, so I put aside my own thoughts for a moment.

  "No. He's wrong. West is a good place to go," I told her. I lifted her up and settled her between Lacey and me. "My mama used to tell me a story about the west, when we first came from Poland, heading west to a whole new country. Seems there was a—"

  "Once upon a time," said Nellie, nose dripping on my sleeve. "That's how stories start."

  "Okay, then. Once upon a time in a town far away in Poland lived a tailor named Matuschanski. He was a very tall man with a very long nose and a very long beard. And he was so thin, he could pass through the eye of his own needle, so thin he fell through the cracks in the sidewalk, so thin he could eat only noodles, one at a time. But he was a kind man and a very good tailor."

  Lacey snuggled closer to Nellie so that she could listen, until all three of us were pressed right up against the window of the train.

  I went on. "One day a Gypsy passing through town cut her foot on a stone. She came to see the tailor, who darned it so neatly there was no scar. As payment, she read his fortune in his palm: 'If you leave this town on a Sunday,' she said, 'and walk always westward, you will reach a place where you will be king.'"

  Chester and Mickey Dooley came and sat on the floor by my feet. "'Well,' said the tailor, 'I will never know whether or not she was right unless I go.' And so Pan Matuschanski packed up a bundle with a needle, a thousand miles of thread, and a pair of scissors."

  "A thousand miles of thread?" asked Chester. "Im-possible."

  "Possible in this story. Just listen. All the tailor knew of west is that it was where the sun set, and so he walked that way. After seven days he reached the kingdom of Splatt.

  "Now Splatt had troubles. The king had died, and it was raining. It was pouring. Everywhere else it was sunny, but over Splatt it was raining and had been ever since the king died.

  "The townspeople moaned, 'Oh, who will stop the rain? It comes in our windows and chimneys, floods our roads, washes away our flowers, drowns our fish.'"

  "Drowned fish!" Spud and Joe, who had joined the bunch at my feet, laughed so hard at that they fell over in a heap, kicking and punching each other. Sammy jumped up and separated the two, made Joe sit down next to him, and motioned for me to go on. I never before saw Sammy stop anyone from fighting. A small miracle.

  "The princess of Splatt said, 'I promise my hand in marriage to the person who can stop the rain.'

  "The tailor liked the idea of marrying a princess and becoming king. He thought and thought. Hmm. Rain. From the sky. Ever since the king died. Hmm. 'I know!' he shouted finally. 'Your king was so great and mighty that when he died and went to Heaven, he made a great and mighty hole in the sky. It will rain forever unless that hole is sewn up.'"

  "Never happen," said Spud, who was sitting next to Lacey now.

  "Happened here," I said. "So Pan Matuschanski had the townspeople take all the ladders in town, tie them together, and lean them against the sky. Then he took his needle and his thousand miles of thread and climbed up and up and up. When he got to the sky, sure enough, there was a huge hole in it. He went to work and sewed and sewed. Two days later, fingers stiff and back sore, he climbed down the ladder.

  'The sun was shining in Splatt. 'Long live the king,' said the mayor, handing him a golden crown while the townsfolk all cheered.

  "'And,' said the princess, handing him a jeweled scepter, 'long live my husband.' And he did."

  When I finished, Nellie was asleep against my shoulder. Lacey was sleeping too. And Mickey Dooley, Spud, Chester, and Joe. "May we all be kings in the west," I said with a great sigh, as I leaned back in my seat. "Or at least safe and happy." And I slept too.

  When I awoke, the other children had scattered back to their own seats. Suppertime and Cheyenne, the last stop for the orphan train, drew near. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for a few minutes. Out the window I could read wooden grave markers lining the road: "Called Home August 12, 1880," one said. And "Ma Dyed 7 October 1869."
And "Lillian Bruxton, mother of 12, grandmother of 32, greatly loved and greatly missed, dwelling now with God." The ground was littered with iron stoves, sofas and chairs, tables, and wagon wheels. What awful thing had happened here?

  I walked back to the lady doctor's seat. She was smoothing her skirt and examining little holes made by the blowing sparks and cinders.

  "Miss Doctor?" I asked. She picked up her book from the seat beside her, and I sat down. "Why is all this stuff out here?"

  "The railroad tracks appear to follow a wagon road," she said. "I imagine that as the road gets harder, people lighten their loads. And the markers note the resting places of those too old or too sick or too tired to travel anymore."

  Why, can you imagine those poor souls throwing Mama's piano out the back of the wagon because it was too heavy? Or burying a grandma in the dry, hard ground, marked only with an old buckboard seat, and leaving her behind? It made me so awfully sad, my eyes burned for that imaginary grandma buried out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Between these sad reminders were hundreds of tiny mounds like fairy hills. Plump little animals, looking like fat-cheeked squirrels with no tails, bounced and scolded as the train started up again. "Prairie dogs," said Miss Doctor.

  Watching them took my mind off the world's sadness for a time.

  Their furry bodies popped in and out of doorways in those mounds like they were passages to some underground world. I could imagine tunnels under the land leading to prairie dog cities, prairie dog rivers and lakes, prairie dog castles with a prairie dog princess with jewels in her hair and tiny pink slippers on her furry feet. When I started thinking about her prairie dog mama and papa, I could see this imagining was leading me somewhere I didn't want to go, so I took a deep breath and sat up straight. All the tears still uncried inside me, I figured, would make an underground lake at least as deep as anything those old prairie dogs ever saw.

  "Miss Doctor?" I asked again, looking over at her.

  "Here," she said, handing me her book. "You might find that this answers your questions." Where to Emigrate and Why, it was called. Miss Doctor was heading west to live, just like us orphans, just like those people in the covered wagons, just like the Polish tailor. Seems like everybody thought west was a good place to go. I wondered just why she was going. Had she really answered an ad for a wife, like I imagined in Grand Island? Or would she sew up a hole in the sky and marry a prince?

  I knew Miss Doctor would likely not answer those questions, so I turned to the book to see what it could tell me. Cheyenne, the book said, was named for the Cheyenne Indians, who used to live and hunt all through these plains, but of whom there were not many left because the white folks, after calling their town after them, killed them. Magic City of the Plains, some folks called it, but more often, according to the book, the town was called Hell on Wheels, on account of its being lawless and rough. In fact, it was said, only one man had ever died there with his boots off since the town began.

  We pulled into the station just at suppertime. The vast sky was growing dark, but I could see tepees, cabins, tents, and a few wooden houses strung along the bank of a creek. A muddy street led to the hotel. By the looks of the rest of the town, folk must have been awful proud of that hotel, it having three whole stories. Cheyenne sure was no Chicago. Guess it took only a handful of houses, a brick church or two, and a lot of saloons to make a city in Wyoming Territory.

  The Western Hotel, Saloon, and Billiard Parlor sagged a bit, but there were red plush sofas in a lobby that smelled of floor wax and cigars. On one wall were hung the stuffed heads of poor dead animals, their glass eyes staring straight at me. It was almost enough to put me right off my supper.

  Fortunately there were no dead heads in the dining room. Folks had set out a covered-dish supper, mighty welcome after jelly sandwiches. Some of the people of Cheyenne appeared to be bankers or farmers or ranchers, but most were dressed in leather and fringe, looking like they'd just come in from the wilderness. I fully expected Dan'l Boone to walk up and ask to take someone home.

  We orphans circled the tables where food was set out: platters of meat, bowls of turnips and potatoes, cakes and pies and hot, steamy cornbread. There were plates and forks but no chairs. I guessed we were expected to stand around and eat. And I was right.

  Ladies in long dresses and aprons dished the food out onto our plates. I ate until I thought I'd bust right out of my dress. Afterward a pudding-faced lady in a hat with dead birds on it sang "The Last Rose of Summer." The winners of the school spelling bee spelled their prize words for us: forlorn, impoverished, destitute, uncertain, outcast. Those are the ones I remember, most likely because such things were heavy on my mind.

  Some big bug in a black suit made a speech. I didn't listen, as I was occupied examining the room. These folks seemed friendly enough. Maybe Miss Doctor was right and not everyone was looking for a slave to wash the dishes or hoe the cornfield. Maybe there would be a family with father, mother, and kids, just some folk with a house to share, who wanted another child, not a hog butcher. Maybe...

  When the picking and choosing of orphans began, Mickey Dooley got taken right away, by a youngish man and woman who looked nice enough to want a son and not a servant, but awful gloomy and sad of heart. I thought Mickey Dooley was just the boy to put a twinkle in their eyes and a dance in their steps.

  "They look like fine folks," I said to him as they passed by.

  "They promised me a room full of snew," Mickey whispered.

  "What's snew?" I asked him as a goodbye present.

  "I got me a family," he said. "What's new with you?" He winked at me and went off wearing a big smile and his new father's cowboy hat. I was sorry to see him go. All his jokes and cheeriness got on my nerves sometimes, but still it had been nice to know where I could find a smile if I needed one.

  Evelyn and several of the babies were taken next. Nellie went with a gray-haired man and woman who looked like they wanted her very much and would never give her up. She gave me a tiny wave and a watery smile as she walked out with them.

  A spindly-looking farmer and his wife took both Chester and Spud. Their new papa puffed out his chest with pride, as if those boys were just born to him right there that minute.

  Lacey was standing next to me. "Now, remember, don't go telling people you're slow," I said to her, wiping a spot of applesauce off her chin. "You'll never find a proper home if you tell people right out like that before they get to know you."

  "I told you, I don't want them to find out later and then not like me. Or send me back. I want them to know right off," she said. She turned and pulled on a woman's red wool sleeve. "Hello, lady," she said. "My name is Lacey, and I'm slow. Can I go home with you and be your little girl?"

  The woman jerked away, looking at Lacey as if the girl had bird droppings on her head. "Will someone get this half-wit out of here?" she said. "No one will take her and she is making the others look bad."

  I walked right up to the lady with my fists clenched. Lacey might be slow and a pest, but no stranger was going to call her names in my presence, no matter if she had brought gold and diamonds and fresh oranges in her covered dish. "Lacey may be a bit slow," I said to her, "but she is bright enough to know that it is rude to call people names. Unlike some others I see before me."

  Miss Doctor marched toward me. It appeared I was in deep trouble. But it was the woman she grabbed by the arm and hustled away, saying, "Rodzina may be too plainspoken, but on the whole I agree with her. Let me show you to the door. We have no child for you." Well, I thought, maybe that lady doctor had a bit of a heart under those clothes we were not allowed to touch.

  She returned with a bald, bony old man trailing about a hundred kids dressed in clothes much too big, too small, or just too darned ugly. "Here is the young lady I mentioned," she said to him.

  "She good with young'uns?" asked the father.

  Miss Doctor nodded. "She does what she is told well enough."

  The man walked arou
nd all sides of me, looking me up and down. He stuck his hand out for me to shake. "The name's Clench," he said. "Myrna's the wife—she's at home watchin' over the place—and this here is Weasel. And Lennard. Emmett. Myra Jane. Purly. Sarah Dew. Lily. Buck. Fred. Loretta. Big Bob. Concertina. And Grace." The children pulled at my hands and skirt, all talking at the same time, except for the biggest boy, who just hung back and glared. He had a pinched, unfriendly face, big ears, and a mouth overcrowded with long brown teeth. He looked to me like he should be Weasel, but seems he was Lennard.

  "We need a right hearty girl to help with the young'uns," Mr. Clench continued, "and be another daughter to Myrna and me. And you'll do. Yessir, you'll do fine." It was done.

  I felt like a sack of potatoes, weighed and measured and purchased. But he had said he wanted a daughter. Maybe this would work out.

  While Mr. Clench signed a paper, I turned to Miss Doctor. "A family, with a mother and father and children," she said. "Give them a chance." She patted me awkwardly on my arm.

  I nodded. "Find a good place for Lacey too, will you?" I asked her.

  "We'll be here until Wednesday," she said. "Plenty of time to get all you children settled."

  Mr. Szprot himself walked me to their wagon and helped Mr. Clench hoist me and my suitcase in among the bags of beans and flour. The children all piled in after, and off we went.

  I was squeezed against the front of the wagon, boxed in by Clench food, Clench backs, and big, dirty Clench feet. At first I tried to keep as far away as possible, but as the night grew colder, I welcomed the warmth of even these skinny bodies. We plodded on mile after mile in that wagon behind a poor mule who looked like he needed a ride more than we did. The farther we got from the lights of Cheyenne, the stranger I felt. Where on earth were we headed? What would happen to me there?