Free Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline Page B

to lift his head. I jiggle him.
    The woman turns to the man and says softly, “The eyes can be fixed, don’t you think?” and he says, “I don’t know. I would reckon so.”
    Another man and woman are watching us. She’s heavyset, with a furrowed brow and a soiled apron, and he’s got thin strips of hair across his bony head.
    “What about that one?” the man says, pointing at me.
    “Don’t like the look of her,” the woman says with a grimace.
    “She don’t like the look of you, neither,” Dutchy says, and all of us turn toward him in surprise. The boy between us shrinks back.
    “What’d you say?” The man goes over and plants himself in front of Dutchy.
    “Your wife’s got no call to talk like that.” Dutchy’s voice is low, but I can hear every word.
    “You stay out of it,” the man says, lifting Dutchy’s chin with his index finger. “My wife can talk about you orphans any way she goddamn wants.”
    There’s a rustling, a flash of black cape, and like a snake through the underbrush Mrs. Scatcherd is upon us. “What is the problem here?” Her voice is hushed and forceful.
    “This boy talked back to my husband,” the wife says.
    Mrs. Scatcherd looks at Dutchy and then at the couple. “Hans is—spirited,” she says. “He doesn’t always think before he speaks. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name—”
    “Barney McCallum. And this here’s my wife, Eva.”
    Mrs. Scatcherd nods. “What do you have to say to Mr. McCallum, then, Hans?”
    Dutchy looks down at his feet. I know what he wants to say. I think we all do. “Apologize,” he mumbles without looking up.
    While this is unfolding, the slim blond woman in front of me has been stroking Carmine’s arm with her finger, and now, still nestled against me, he is looking through his lashes at her. “Sweet thing, aren’t you?” She pokes him gently in his soft middle, and he gives her a tentative smile.
    The woman looks at her husband. “I think he’s the one.”
    I can feel Mrs. Scatcherd’s eyes on us. “Nice lady,” I whisper in Carmine’s ear. “She wants to be your mam.”
    “Mam,” he says, his warm breath on my face. His eyes are round and shining.
    “His name is Carmine.” Reaching up, I pry his monkey arms from around my neck, clasping them in my hand.
    The woman smells of roses—like the lush white blooms along the lane at my gram’s house. She is as finely boned as a bird. She puts her hand on Carmine’s back and he clings to me tighter. “It’s all right,” I start, but the words crumble in my mouth.
    “No, no, no, ” Carmine says. I think I may faint.
    “Do you need a girl to help with him?” I blurt. “I could”—I think wildly, trying to remember what I am good at—“mend clothes. And cook.”
    The woman gives me a pitying look. “Oh, child,” she says. “I am sorry. We can’t afford two. We just—we came here for a baby. I’m sure you’ll find . . .” Her voice trails off. “We just want a baby to complete our family.”
    I push back tears. Carmine feels the change in me and starts to whimper. “You must go to your new mam,” I tell him and peel him off me.
    The woman takes him awkwardly, jostling him in her arms. She isn’t used to holding a baby. I reach out and tuck his leg under her arm. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she says.
    Mrs. Scatcherd herds the three of them off the stage toward a table covered with forms, Carmine’s dark head on the woman’s shoulder.
    O NE BY ONE , THE CHILDREN AROUND ME ARE CHOSEN . T HE BOY beside me wanders away with a short, round woman who tells him it’s high time she has a man around the house. The dog-whine girl goes off with a stylish couple in hats. Dutchy and I are standing together talking quietly when a man approaches with skin as tanned and scuffed as old shoe leather, trailed by a sour-looking woman. The man stands in front of us for a minute, then reaches out and squeezes Dutchy’s arm.
    “What’re you doing?” Dutchy