Rodzina

by Karen Cushman

  After a while we halted at Sherman and got off to stretch our legs. The sun was bright overhead, but still the air was bitter and sharp with the smell of cold earth. The conductor pointed out the sights, which weren't much. Sherman was a bleak and wild place, just a settlement of maybe a dozen houses, a little brick hotel, and a saloon set among low hills and snow-covered red rocks. A mighty wind stung my face as I read aloud the wooden sign posted there: "You are standing 8235 feet above sea level."

  "Highest point on the route," said the conductor, pointing to the sign. "From here we'll go downhill fast as lightning through a gooseberry bush."

  Lacey kicked at the ground a few times and buried her face in Dumpling's dusty fur. "What's wrong?" I asked her.

  "This here highest peak. It's just more land. Why, I thought it would poke right through the clouds to Heaven."

  "Ain't quite that high, Lacey," I said. I myself wished it was. Papa was in Heaven. "Welcome to Heaven," he'd say to me. "It is a wondrous beautiful place. Reminds me of Poland. Mama is here too, cooking roast goose and dumplings for you and God."

  We walked around Sherman a bit, breathing the frigid air that burned my nose and chest and made my eyes water. There was a cliff with people's names carved in it. If Hermy the Knife was still here, I could borrow his knife and add my name: Rodzina Clara Jadwiga Anastazya Brodski, an orphan going west, April 1881. And it would be there forever and ever. I stood there at the highest point on the railroad line and looked east and west—saying goodbye and hello. The west sure was different from Chicago, and I didn't know if it would suit me.

  I was already back in my seat when Miss Doctor boarded the train, followed by Lacey, Joe, Sammy, and the other passengers. She looked out of place in her black suit amidst all the horse-blanket coats and gingham dresses. And the black suit wasn't crisp and sharp anymore, marked as it was with red jelly and gray fuzz and what looked mighty like tobacco juice. I was surprised she hadn't changed into clean clothes.

  Her face was so pale and unhappy that I found myself with a funny feeling. Pity. I pitied Miss Doctor. You got to be in a real bad fix to admire a rat and pity Miss Doctor.

  She sat in the seat behind me. I turned. "Miss Doctor?"

  She looked away from the window, her gray eyes more sad than sharp. "Miss Brodski?"

  "Joe said Mr. Szprot said you're going to California. That true?"

  "That's true."

  "Well, what I want to know is why? You don't seem like the kind of person to want to go west. Aren't you a good enough doctor for Chicago?"

  Her eyes sharpened right up at that. "I am a fine doctor, with excellent skills and training."

  "Then why?"

  "Because people in Chicago don't seem to take to a lady doctor, and I can't eat plans and dreams." She turned and looked again out the window. "I hoped it would be different in a new state like California."

  "Miss Doctor?"

  She made a little impatient motion with her hand, and I let her be.

  After Sherman we raced back down onto flat plains and then, after the chimneys and fences of Laramie, started to climb again into hills of wind and desert. The earth was red and the land was lifeless, littered with dead trees, ox bones, and abandoned wagons. A shabby, hand-lettered sign read "New York City: a million miles away." I knew just how that fellow felt.

  Here and there were lonely settlers' huts, which reminded me of the Clenches and my narrow escape. We stopped at stations with sad names like Bitter Creek and Point of Rocks. People got on and off, although I could not see where they were going to or coming from. The Indians at the front of our car left, and I breathed a breath of relief.

  At the supper stop we ate in one of the eating stations I had so long admired from the outside. For three dollars all five of us ate meat soup, pie, sweet potatoes, pickles, raisins, bread, and coffee. The coffee reminded me of Papa's Sunday smell—a little bit coffee, some hair tonic, and the clean fragrance of a starched shirt, so different from his sour, sweaty everyday odor.

  The land changed as we climbed again. There were rocks as big as buildings, and evergreen trees looking almost human as they waved their branches at us in the wind. Snow fell, the wind roared, and the train rattled and swayed west.

  9. A Thousand Miles from Omaha

  WASATCH STATION WAS our first stop in Utah Territory. Miss Merlene was the only passenger to get off the train. A man who had been leaning against the What Cheer Eating House walked over to her and tipped his hat. I wiped the steam from the window and pressed my nose against it, the better to see this mail-order husband of hers.

  He was not what I had imagined, no fairy-tale hero at all, being a spindly fellow and a mite shorter than she, with a lot of grizzled gray in his beard. His coat sleeves didn't reach his wrists, his pants were so short I could see his stockings bagging around his skinny ankles, and he carried a fistful of weeds or sagebrush or maybe just the ugliest flowers I ever saw. But the moony way he looked at his bride and took her arm made my heart twirl around. It was as if she was a treasure made of glass or spun sugar, and he the lucky man who won her at the fair. If you asked me, they would hit it off just fine. Lucky Miss Merlene. I waved to her, but she never took her eyes off him long enough to see me. As they walked off, the cherries on her hat bobbled cheerfully.

  "Echo Canyon," the conductor called, walking through the cars a while later, "now entering Echo Canyon." Enormous cliffs, red as the Polish flag, rose on both sides of the tracks. If I squinted my eyes, they looked almost like the brick mansions of the rich on Prairie Avenue.

  "What is this word 'canyon'?" I asked him, for I had never heard it before.

  "It's a Spanish word, missy. Means a deep ravine or narrow valley, like this here one we're riding in."

  Spanish. How far away from Chicago I was, here where they said things in Spanish. I took to watching out the window behind us at the scenery we had already passed so I could remember where I came from. That girl was me, that girl back in the room on Honore Street. Here, who was I? Was I anybody? And what was to become of whoever I was?

  I was still moody and broody when we stopped at the Thousand Mile Tree, marking that we had come a thousand miles from Omaha. A thousand miles. A thousand seemed like an awful lot of anything—a thousand potatoes, a thousand sausages, a thousand oranges or oilcans or orphans.

  We all got out and looked at this big old pine tree on the bank of a stream. Although it was midday, it was cold, with a wind that nipped and bit at my face. I pulled my too-small coat tighter around me. At least I had a coat. Joe and Sammy wore only shirts and sweaters and knickers, and they stomped and pounded their arms trying to keep warm.

  People were picking up twigs and stones—to remember the place by, I guessed—and some had newfangled box cameras that were supposed to make pictures, but I didn't think there was much worth remembering, just that old tree and red cliffs and silence. I stood there for a moment thinking about loneliness. How quiet and deserted it must be here, I thought, when the train is gone and the only sounds are wind and water. I wondered how that big old tree felt when the trains pulled out. Would it be happy to be left alone? Or would it droop with loneliness, remembering the folks who used to visit and daydreaming about those to come?

  We climbed back on the train. Miss Doctor sat alone in the seat behind Lacey and me. She began her usual sighing and clucking over her skirt. "Miss Doctor," I asked her, turning around, "why don't you just put on another skirt instead of fussing about this one?"

  She blew softly through her nose. "I would wear another skirt if I owned one, but this suit is my only suit."

  Her only suit? No wonder she had been so careful of it. "I thought doctors were rich," I said.

  "Some, perhaps. But I am a doctor without patients, without prospects, and far from rich."

  "Miss Doctor, if you can't get rich, why are you a doctor anyway? There aren't too many lady doctors around."

  "My father was a chemist," she said. "He used to let me help him in his labora
tory, teach me things. After he died, my world shrank to my mother's world—music lessons, china painting, and visits from other women with nothing to do. I wanted more." She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. "I wanted to know things. So I studied medicine. Now I want to use what I know."

  "Don't you want to get married and have babies? Mrs. Bergman, who lived beneath us on Honore Street, used to say that women need—"

  "What women need is more exercise, shorter skirts, and their own way once in a while." She closed her eyes.

  The train lurched suddenly. We were riding on the very edge of a cliff, stone walls hundreds of feet high on the right and, on the left, the wild river far below, rushing and splashing over the rocks.

  Joe and Sammy pressed their faces against the windows, gleefully shouting, "We're goin' over! We're goin' over!" and "That was a close call!" and "Look at that curve ahead. We'll never make it! We're goners for sure." Miss Doctor kept her eyes closed, while Lacey and I looked down at our laps.

  "Spooky," said Joe, pointing out the window.

  I looked. The huge rocks seemed like the turrets and spires of ruined castles, where wicked witches might live, or one-eyed monsters, or ghosts. "Yeah, spooky," I agreed.

  "Let's tell ghost stories," said Sammy. He pulled his sweater up over his head and stumbled up and down the aisle. "Where is my head? Booo! Where is my head?"

  "Don't be dumb," said Joe, kicking him in the shin.

  "Joe, don't kick your brother," I said.

  "Joe ain't my brother," said Sammy, kicking Joe back.

  I grabbed them and pulled them onto the seat with Lacey and me before the other folks in the car wearied of the racket and rumpus of orphans and threw us out the window.

  "Ro, you tell us one," Lacey said.

  I shook my head. "I don't know any ghost stories. Mama didn't like them. She liked happy stories."

  "Make one up, then."

  "Well, I could try, I suppose. Okay ... once there was a little boy. He—"

  "What was his name?" Lacey asked.

  "Frank. Let's say his name was Frank. He—"

  "How old was he?"

  "Gee whiz, Lacey. That stuff doesn't matter." She stuck out her lower lip and crossed her arms. "Ten, okay? Let's say he was ten."

  She nodded and I continued. "One night, one very rainy night, when the wind blew hard and lightning flashed and thunder rumbled through the land..."

  Lacey squealed and pulled her skirt over her head. Good. Maybe now she would let me get on with the story. This was fun, this making up a brand-new story. "...thunder rumbled through the land, his mama and papa called him down from his bedroom in the attic. 'Frank,' they said, 'we must go out for a while. There are ghosts and spooky things abroad tonight, so you'd best stay in your room and keep the door locked.'

  "Frank begged to go along, but his papa said, 'No, no, you must stay here.' So Frank locked the door behind them and crept up to his room in the dusty, spidery attic, where he sat down on his bed, all shivery and trembly from fear."

  "He had to sleep in a room all by himself?" Sammy asked. "No wonder he was so scared."

  "Quiet, you mug," I said. "Suddenly from downstairs came loud oo-ey noises."

  "What are oo-ey noises?" asked Joe.

  "You know, sounds like 'ohhhh' and 'oooo' and 'eeee' and such. Frank's face grew pale as a pork chop. The moaning got louder and louder. 'Fraaaaa-nk,' the spooky thing moaned. 'Where is Fraaaaa-nk?'

  "Frank could hear the thing walking around downstairs—ka-thud, ka-thud. And then those ka-thuds became louder and louder. The thing was coming up the stairs—"

  "Wait a minute," said Joe. "I just remembered. The door to the house was locked. How did it get in?"

  "Dummy," said Sammy. "Spooky things don't need no unlocked doors. Go on, Ro."

  "The thing was coming up the stairs, making more oo-ey noises and calling, 'Where is Fraaaaa-nk?' Louder and louder, ka-thud, ka-thud, until the door swung open with a bang, and there was..." I looked wildly around the car for inspiration, for I had gotten so caught up in my own story that I had failed to think just what it was, creeping up those stairs. "...and there was a woodstove clomping in, ka-thud, ka-thud, coming closer and closer..."

  "A woodstove asked Joe. "That's what was so scary? A woodstove stomping up the stairs?"

  "You better stick with potatoes and forget about stories," Sammy said. The boys laughed so hard, they fell right off the seat and rolled around the aisle of the train until Miss Doctor grabbed each one by an ear and sat them down next to her.

  "That was a mighty puny story to tell boys, Rodzina," said Lacey. "It didn't even scare me. Even I ain't afraid of a woodstove."

  Here I was taking care of those kids like I was ordered to, and all they did was complain. First they begged me to tell a story and then they grumbled because they didn't like it. You'd think since we orphans were all in the same boat, we could at least be polite to each other, but they weren't acting very polite. They could hurt someone's feelings if they weren't careful.

  Well, no matter. I was finished with them now. Let them tell each other stories and answer their own dumb questions and wash their own sticky faces.

  I stood up. Sticky faces reminded me: I ought to go wash mine before we reached Ogden. The water in the bucket had a layer of ice over it. I'll wash later, I thought. Like in July. So I just smoothed my hair and straightened my dress and sat down again. Maybe there was such a thing as hot water and soap in Utah Territory. I hadn't washed more than my hands and face since the orphan home and was starting to smell a bit like old cheese.

  We pulled into the depot. Here we go again, I thought. I felt like a ham in a butcher shop, all pink and juicy and waiting to be bought and paid for.

  It looked mighty cold and snowy outside. Miss Doctor had us gather our suitcases and follow her to the door.

  "Here, now, little lady," said the conductor to Lacey, who was hauling Dumpling as well as her suitcase. "We can't have you taking that cat away." He lifted it from her arms.

  "No, give him back to me." She stretched her arm up, but the conductor lifted Dumpling out of her reach.

  "We need this cat, missy," he said. "Why, without him, the mice would eat us up in no time."

  Lacey turned to me, face all red and scrunched up like a raisin. "Please, Ro, Dumpling wants to be with me. Tell the man to give me my cat."

  "Tell him yourself," I said, ignoring her sad face and her eyes swimming with tears. "I have more important things on my mind than you and that cat." Not only was I sore at her for siding with Joe and Sammy, here I was facing slavery again. I turned my back as Miss Doctor took her arm and steered her away from the cat and the conductor.

  The station was lonely and silent. We climbed down onto the platform, where an icy blast of wind near to blew us right back to Wyoming Territory. The cold made my teeth hurt, and the snow was blinding, sharp and hard. It encased my whole face in an ice blanket, and I had to keep slapping it to bits in order to breathe.

  Two people, bundled up like Christmas packages, hurried over. Miss Doctor shook their hands and turned to us. "This is my high school chum, Mrs. Rutherford Tuttle, and her husband." We shook their hands too, and stood there nodding at each other until I thought we'd turn into icicles right there on that platform in Ogden, Utah Territory.

  Finally Mr. Tuttle said, "It's much too cold for conversation out here. Let's get you and your bags and—"

  Suddenly there was a cry of "You'll never tell, ya stinkpot! I'll croak ya first!" from Joe.

  Sammy jumped onto Joe's back, shouting, "Oh, yeah? Well, I'll clobber ya, clonk ya, slug, sock, and conk ya!" And then a great splintering noise as Joe and Sammy crashed through the railing and fell six feet onto the frozen ground below.

  Miss Doctor and the Tuttles raced down to them, clucking and fussing like barnyard hens. "They are fine," Miss Doctor called up. "They might have a few bruises but no broken bones." I myself thought that a pity, for broken bones might have
slowed down the wrestling a bit.

  Juggling all our suitcases, I went into the waiting room, where I was joined by Miss Doctor, the Tuttles, Sammy, and Joe. I stomped my feet, broke the ice over my face, and breathed in the slightly warmer air as Miss Doctor examined the boys more closely. "We need sal ammoniac and tincture of arnica for those black eyes, but will have to do without. I am surprised that you don't have more serious injuries, the way you—" She suddenly stopped talking and looked around. "Where's Lacey?"

  Nowhere. Lacey was nowhere. We searched the waiting room and the platform, but she was not there. Mr. Tuttle flagged the train, which was preparing to pull out of the station. While Mrs. Tuttle stayed inside with Sammy and Joe and me, he and Miss Doctor helped the conductor search every car and the landings between. But no Lacey.

  Could she have lit out on her own? The Tuttles piled us into their wagon and headed toward town. We saw nobody, and the snow kept falling harder.

  10. Ogden, Utah Territory

  THE TUTTLES' HOTEL was a big, drafty barn of a place. The parlor, warmed by a huge stone fireplace, was crowded with stuffed sofas and chairs but, thankfully, no animal heads. Through an archway was a big wooden desk and a small wooden bar; opposite, stairs climbed to the rooms above. I had already been in a hotel before, so I wasn't too impressed.

  Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle unwrapped themselves and proved to be tall, pretty people. She had a hat made of feathers perched on her pompadour. He had a lot of frizzy brown hair and was kind enough to notice how scared I was about Lacey. Taking my arm, he said, "Don't worry. Big Earl's coming to lead the search. He knows this country as well as I know my dear Kathleen's face."

  Big Earl? Turned out he was the sheriff, a Rocky Mountain of a man with a turned-up nose and tobacco stains in his yellow mustache. "Wahl, now," he said, walking around a bit before sitting down and scratching his big belly. "Wahl, now, let's think."

  There was a long pause while he fingered his mustache. Radishes! Was there no way to make this sheriff fellow move?