Circle of Love (3 page)

She searched the horizon for signs of a rider. Surely Johnny would come to say goodbye. Wouldn't

he? Cold fingers clutched her stomach as she wondered over and over whether she had made the wrong decision. She had hoped for so long that Johnny would listen to her and let go of the bitterness he felt toward his Confederate captors. But the bitterness was spreading like a sickness, affecting every part of his life and his future— their future together.

Together? No. The angry words she had spoken had brought their togetherness to an end. If only Johnny had stopped her and promised to put away the past and think about the future. If only he*d said . . .

"What do you hear from Megan?" Andrew asked, jolting Frances away from her thoughts.

"Megan writes about little else than the son of one of the Browders' near neighbors," Frances said. "His name is Stuart Wallace, and everything about him is perfect—^according to Megan." Frances couldn't help smiling with joy for her sister as she said, "I imagine a wedding date will be set within the year."

"And how is little Petey? He must be growing up fast"

"He's no longer little Petey. He's twelve now, and he insists on being called Pete. He's tall and strong and has a real love of farming. From the time we first came to live with the Cummingses, he followed Mr. Cummings around like a puppy. If only he applied himself that well in school." Frances sighed. "It's hard to be Pete's sister and teacher at the same time."

As they reached the outskirts of Maxville, Andrew said, "We see Peg often, since she lives in St Joe. She mentioned a few months ago that Mike had gone west, looking for gold. Has he had any success?"

"No," Frances answered, "but that doesn't discourage Mike. He tried Colorado and he's in California now." She paused. "Sometimes I think that if Mike were a bird, he'd be an eagle. He soars high, ranges wide, and isn't afraid to tackle anything. Each day of life seemS to excite him—even more than the possibility of finding gold."

"At least he's had no more misadventures," Andrew said.

"Oh, I didn't say that!" Frances shook her head. "In Colorado Mike had a run-in with claim jumpers who nearly cost him his life, and in California—"

"There's the train!" Stefan bounced up and down on the buggy seat and shouted in Andrew's ear. "Hurry! We don't want to miss it!"

Andrew hitched the buggy to a post near the depot and carried Frances's carpetbag and Stefan's box to one of the coach cars.

Frances hopefully searched the platform for Johnny, sick at heart that he hadn't come. Delaying until the conductor shouted, "All aboard!", she mounted the steps to the railway car ind hurried to the seats Andrew and Stefan had picked out. She shook hands with Andrew and thanked him for the money he'd given her for traveling expenses.

Andrew said, "I'll wait on the platform until the train leaves. Is there anything else you need?"

/ need Johnny, Frances thought, but she shook her head and answered, "I can't think of anything."

She made sure that Stefan was comfortable next to the window, then sat beside him, twisting to see out of the windows on both sides of the car. To her dismay, there was still no sign of Johnny.

It wasn't until the engineer blasted the air with his horn and the chugging engine picked up steam, tug-

ging the string of railway cars faster and faster out of Maxville, that Frances admitted to herself that Johnny wovildn't come to say goodbye.

Fm going to New York, she told herself. The memories and anticipation welled up in her, mingling with her loneliness for Johnny and making it hard to breathe.

The train jerked and swayed. She struggled to put Johnny out of her mind so that she could concentrate on giving Stefan a pleasant trip. She told him stories, explored the train with him, soothed him to sleep with his head on her lap, and fed him fresh milk and apples, meat, bread, and cheese at some of the depot stops along the way.

On the platforms around these depots, she often saw men wearing tattered remnants of army uniforms—^both blue and gray.

"They're late in making their way home," she said to the conductor.

He shook his head sadly as he answered, "Some of them no longer have homes, so they're goin' to wander and keep wanderin', I suppose."

"But the war has been over for more than a year."

"Depends on where you live," he said. "I heard that down in Texas they're still fightin'."

Frances shuddered. It was impossible to believe the hatred and cruelty caused by war. But she knew it existed. She'd seen its dark reflection in Mike's and Johnny's eyes.

She had brought her journal, the one Johnny had given her; it helped to record her thoughts and feelings and the descriptions of what she saw and wanted to remember. Putting the story on paper softened the words that burned in her heart and made her separation from Johnny easier to bear.

On the day they were sdieduled to arrive in New Jersey, Stefan was so excited that Frances could hardly keep him in hand. He ran from one end of the car to the other, staring out the windows, searching for the tightly clustered buildings that would mean he would soon be greeting his aunt and uncle. FYances was excited, too, and a little feaifid. The Kelly family's life in New York City was far in the past Would returning to the people and places she'd known be too painful?

The train pulled into a large shed, which was crowded with travelers, peddlers, and people who eagerly searched the windows of each car for the faces of those they had come to meet Now and then someone would spot a loved one and begin shrieking and waving.

FYances wrote in her journal:

TTiere seem to be more former soldiers at this station than at any of the others. Remnants of blue mingle with tattered gray without incident. Eyes are dxrwncast or exhausted, no longer sparking vrith the battlefield's fear and anger. I hope and pray that these weary men are able to forgive and forget and will soon begin to build new lives for themselves.

One of the men glanced up at Frances. Their eyes met, and he smiled. Remembering the drawn expression on Johnny's face when he returned from the prison camp, Frances gave no thought to proper behavior and smiled back.

Stefan tugged on her arm. *There are my aunt and

uncle! See? They're waving at me! I was afraid I wouldn't remember them, but I do! I do!"

Frances leaned over Stefan's shoulder and looked where he was pointing. A short, slender couple had spotted Stefan. The woman was crying and smiling at the same time. The man looked very much like Stefan—^with the exception of a bushy mustache. With the couple was a plump, red-cheeked woman who had brown hair that escaped in litfle flyaway wisps from under her black straw hat. She waved at Frances and smiled.

The train gave a final jolt as it pulled to a stop. Frances managed to collect her carpetbag, hang on to Stefan, and climb down the steps to the wooden platform. Stefan, dropping his cardboard box, ran into his uncle's arms.

The plump woman made her way to Frances and held out a hand. 'Tm Claudine Hunter, Miss Kelly. Thank you for escorting Stefan."

"It was my pleasure," Frances said. "He's a dear boy."

Miss Hunter's smile widened. "You'll be lodging with me in rooms at the Children's Aid Society. Perhaps you remember our offices on Amity Street. Andrew MacNair mentioned in his wire that you had been an orphan train child yourself."

"Yes, six years ago."

Stefan rushed over, tugging along his aunt and uncle, eager for Frances to meet them. The Gromeches spoke litfle English, but their joy at being reunited with Stefan was obvious.

Frances hugged Stefan and said goodbye. Mr. and Mrs. Gromeche had found employment at a hotel in New Jersey, and they were ready to take Stefan to his new home.

Miss Hunter led Frances to a buggy that was waiting for them. "It's a good thing the Gromeches arrived so soon after Stefan was sent out to be placed," Miss Hunter said. As the driver helped her climb into the back seat after Frances, she added, "If they had come a year or two from now, it might have been impossible to locate Stefan."

"Don't you keep records?" Frances asked.

"Such as we can," Miss Himter answered. "We try to keep track of the children, but there are so many, so very many of them. Also, sometimes the foster parents move and don't tell us. Sometimes the placement doesn't work out, and instead of informing us, the foster parents will give the child to friends or relatives, and we'll lose contact. Sometimes there are deaths. Sometimes a child's name will be changed, even without official adoption. And the war, of course, caused great confusion." She shook her head and sighed. *This placing-out program is a very difficult task."

Not as difficult as it is for the children, Frances thought, remembering the strangers she had had to face at their stop in St. Joseph. She shivered with the same chill she had felt six years before when she had wondered if anyone would want the Kellys and prayed that those who did would be kind and loving. Frances and her brothers and sisters had always been close, and they'd clung together desperately after Ma had sent them west to new homes. It had been unbearably painful to be parted. And yet, she had to admit, Reverend Brace's placing-out program seemed to be the only way to keep so many children alive.

Miss Himter had continued to chatter as though unaware of Frances's silence. She'd apparently changed the subject, because she cocked her head

like a large robin and looked at Frances as though she'd just asked a question.

Frances blushed and said, "Fm sorry. I'm afraid I wasn't listening. I was thinking about my own orphan train ride."

"Of course, dear," Miss Hunter said. She patted Frances's arm. "Mil you visit your former home while you're here?"

"Yes," Frances said. "And there are other places I remember that I'd Uke to see again."

"Good. You'll have this afternoon and most of tomorrow," Miss Hunter said, looking as pleased as if she'd arranged the timing herself.

It was early afternoon by the time Frances had stowed her carpetbag in one of the small bedrooms in the building.

"Perhaps you'll want to rest," Miss Hunter suggested, but Frances shook her head.

"I want to visit my old neighborhood," she said.

"And where is that?"

"West Sixteenth Street," Frances answered, remembering the row of crowded, soot-stained buildings, the constant smell of grease, boiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies.

Miss Hunter bit her lower lip and frowned. After a pause, she said, "Please be careful. There has been an epidemic of cholera in New York, and the authorities believe it festers in the slimis."

Frances was offended. "Where our family lived was a poor area, no doubt about that," she said. "But slums? That's an ugly word. Are they now calling the neighborhood a slum?"

Even though she was embarrassed, Miss Hunter didn't give up. "Oh, dear Miss Kelly, what Fm tiying

to say is, it's not just the cholera I'm concerned about. Please, please arrange to return well before dark."

"I will," Frances said, and smiled. "Don't worry about me, Miss IJimter. IVe long been able to take care of myself."

But Miss Himter didn't smile back. "In the past few years your old neighborhood has been taken over by criminals. Things are different now."

Frances paid uttle attention to Miss Hunter's fears. Hadn't there always been bullies and copper stealers on the streets near her home? And hadn't Mike taught her at an early age how to defend herself? She smiled as she left the Society's ofQces, walking past tidy rows of narrow brownstone houses with steep front steps. Some of them were decorated with pots of red salvia and pink geraniums, the blooms of summer.

She passed dry goods shops, which sold buttons and thread and bolts of cloth, greengrocers' with bins of shiny apples and hard, green pears, and small cubbyholes for dressmakers, confectioners, and barbers.

As she neared West Sixteenth Street, the shops became fewer as tenements crowded together. Here and there Frances saw open doorways and knew that

the people who lived in the small, cramped rooms were trying to catch a bit of fresh air. Occasionally she saw someone sunning in a doorway. She smiled at an elderly man in a threadbare gray suit who chewed on an unlit pipe, and at a woman whose shawl had fallen back from her dark hair.

The man nodded, but the woman threw Frances a look of dark suspicion.

Frances was suddenly self-conscious about her own brown gabardine skirt; high-collared, white cotton blouse; high-buttoned shoes; and dark straw hat Once she had dressed as this woman did, in homespun skirt and shawl, and—unless the weather was cold—her feet had been bare. Memories of her childhood came forth in a jarring jumble of sadness and joy. Frances took deep breaths and walked a little faster.

As her steps led her down West Sixteenth Street toward Ninth Avenue, Frances began to understand what Miss Hunter had been worried about Small knots of children hung around doorsteps or jostled and pushed one another. They darted at some of the adults going past, snatched fist-size chunks of bread from the basket of a helpless old woman, and taunted a bent, arthritic man who walked with a cane. The man struck out in fear, connecting with the nose of one of his tormentors, who ran down the street bawling and bleeding.

Frances hurried to the aid of the elderly man, but he suddenly ducked into one of the tenements. She blinked in surprise as she stared at the poorly constructed building. The wood showed signs of being fairly new, but it was badly stained. Here and there were cracks in the siding that would surely let the cold winter winds blow through, and the windows

were small and grimy. This was the address at which she had lived, but the familiar tenement had disappeared, replaced by an even uglier, more ramshackle building. Frances clutched her reticule with trembling fingers. Where was her home? The people she had known?

A woman stretched out of a lower window and yelled to a group of children, "Go away! Get out of here! Bad boys, the lot of you!"

"Ma'am?" Frances called to her. "Pardon me, ma'am. Do you know what happened to the building that used to be here?"