Trudging forward like a sleepwalker in the bitter cold, I make my way down the driveway, then turn left and plod up the rutted dirt road to the falling-down bridge. In places I have to crunch through the top layer of snow, thick as piecrust. The sharp edges lacerate my ankles. As I gaze up at the crystal stars glittering overhead, cold steals the breath from my mouth.
Once I’m out of the woods and on the main road, a full moon bathes the fields around me in a shimmering, pearly light. Gravel crunches loudly under my boots; I can feel its pebbly roughness through my thin soles. I stroke the soft wool inside my gloves, so warm that not even my fingertips are cold. I’m not afraid—it was more frightening in that shack than it is on the road, with moonlight all around. My coat is thin, but I’m wearing what clothing I could salvage underneath, and as I hurry along I begin to warm up. I make a plan: I will walk to school. It’s only four miles.
The dark line of the horizon is far in the distance, the sky above it lighter, like layers of sediment in rock. The schoolhouse is fixed in my mind. I just have to get there. Walking at a steady pace, my boots scuffing the gravel, I count a hundred steps and start again. My da used to say it’s good to test your limits now and then, learn what the body is capable of, what you can endure. He said this when we were in the throes of sickness on the Agnes Pauline, and again in the bitter first winter in New York, when four of us, including Mam, came down with pneumonia.
Test your limits. Learn what you can endure. I am doing that.
As I walk along I feel as weightless and insubstantial as a slip of paper, lifted by the wind and gliding down the road. I think about the many ways I ignored what was in front of me—how blind I was, how foolish not to be on my guard. I think of Dutchy, who knew enough to fear the worst.
Ahead on the horizon, the first pink light of dawn begins to show. And just before it, the white clapboard building becomes visible halfway up a small ridge. Now that the schoolhouse is within sight my energy drains, and all I want to do is sink down by the side of the road. My feet are leaden and aching. My face is numb; my nose feels frozen. I don’t know how I make it to the school, but somehow I do. When I get to the front door, I find that the building is locked. I go around to the back, to the porch where they keep wood for the stove, and I open the door and fall onto the floor. An old horse blanket is folded by the woodpile, and I wrap myself in it and fall into a fitful sleep.
I AM RUNNING IN A YELLOW FIELD, THROUGH A MAZE OF HAY BALES, unable to find my way . . .
“DOROTHY?” I FEEL A HAND ON MY SHOULDER, AND SPRING AWAKE. It’s Mr. Post. “What in God’s name . . . ?”
For a moment I’m not sure myself. I look up at Mr. Post, at his round red cheeks and puzzled expression. I look around at the pile of rough-cut wood, the wide whitewashed planks of the porch walls. The door to the schoolroom is ajar, and it’s clear that Mr. Post has come to get wood to start the fire, as he must do every morning before heading out to pick us up.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, willing myself to be.
“Does your family know you’re here?”
“No, sir.”
“How’d you get to the school?”
“I walked.”
He stares at me for a moment, then says, “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
Mr. Post guides me to a chair in the schoolroom and puts my feet on another chair, then takes the dirty blanket from my shoulders and replaces it with a clean plaid one he finds in a cupboard. He unlaces each of my boots and sets them beside the chair, tsking over the holes in my socks. Then I watch him make a fire. The room is already getting warm when Miss Larsen arrives a few minutes later.
“What’s this?” she says. “Dorothy?” She unwraps her violet scarf and takes off her hat and gloves. In the window behind her I see a car pulling away. Miss Larsen’s long hair is coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her brown eyes are clear and bright. The pink wool skirt she’s wearing brings out the color in her cheeks.
Kneeling by my chair, she says, “Goodness, child. Have you been here long?”
Mr. Post, having completed his duties, is putting on his hat and coat to make the rounds in the truck. “She was asleep out there on the porch when I arrived.” He laughs. “Scared the bejeezus out of me.”
“I’m sure it did,” she says.
“Says she walked here. Four miles.” He shakes his head. “Lucky she didn’t freeze to death.”
“You seem to have warmed her up nicely.”
“She’s thawing out. Well, I’m off to get the others.” He pats the front of his coat. “See you in a jiff.”
As soon as he leaves, Miss Larsen says, “Now then. Tell me what happened.”
And I do. I wasn’t planning to, but she looks at me with such genuine concern that everything spills out. I tell her about Mrs. Grote lying in bed all day and Mr. Grote in the woods and the snow dust on my face in the morning and the stained mattresses. I tell her about the cold squirrel stew and the squalling children. And I tell her about Mr. Grote on the sofa, his hands on me, and pregnant Mrs. Grote in the hallway, yelling at me to get out. I tell her that I was afraid to stop walking, afraid that I would fall asleep. I tell her about the gloves Fanny knitted for me.
Miss Larsen puts her hand over mine and leaves it there, squeezing it every now and then. “Oh, Dorothy,” she says.
And then, “Thank goodness for the gloves. Fanny sounds like a good friend.”
“She was.”
She holds her chin, tapping it with two fingers. “Who brought you to the Grotes’?”
“Mr. Sorenson from the Children’s Aid Society.”
“All right. When Mr. Post gets back, I’ll send him out to find this Mr. Sorenson.” Opening her lunch pail, she pulls out a biscuit. “You must be hungry.”
Normally I would refuse—I know this is part of her lunch. But I am so ravenous that at the sight of the biscuit my mouth fills with water. I accept it shamefully and wolf it down. While I’m eating the biscuit Miss Larsen heats water on the stove for tea and cuts an apple into slices, arranging them on a chipped china plate from the shelf. I watch as she spoons loose tea into a strainer and pours the boiling water over it into two cups. I’ve never seen her offer tea to a child before, and certainly not to me.
“Miss Larsen,” I start. “Could you ever—would you ever—”
She seems to know what I’m asking. “Take you home to live with me?” She smiles, but her expression is pained. “I care about you, Dorothy. I think you know that. But I can’t—I’m in no position to take care of a girl. I live in a boardinghouse.”
I nod, a knob in my throat.
“I will help you find a home,” she says gently. “A place that is safe and clean, where you’ll be treated like a ten-year-old girl. I promise you that.”
When the other kids file in from the truck, they look at me curiously.
“What’s she doing here?” one boy, Robert, says.
“Dorothy came in a little early this morning.” Miss Larsen smooths the front of her pretty pink skirt. “Take your seats and pull out your workbooks, children.”
After Mr. Post has come in from the back with more wood and arranged the logs in the bin by the stove, Miss Larsen signals to him, and he follows her back to the entry vestibule. A few minutes later he heads outside again, still in his coat and cap. The engine roars to life and the brakes screech as he maneuvers his truck down the steep drive.
About an hour later, I hear the truck’s distinctive clatter and look out the window. I watch as it slowly makes its way up the steep drive, then comes to a stop. Mr. Post climbs out and comes in the porch door, and Miss Larsen excuses herself from the lesson and goes to the back. A few moments later she calls my name and I rise from my desk, all eyes on me, and make my way to the porch.
Miss Larsen seems worried. She keeps touching her hair in the bun. “Dorothy, Mr. Sorenson is not convinced . . .” She stops and touches her neck, glances beseechingly at Mr. Post.
“I think what Miss Larsen is trying to say,” he says slowly, “is that you will need to explain what happened in detail to Mr. Sorenson. Ideally, as you know, they want to make the placements work. Mr. Sorenson wonders if this might simply be a matter of—miscommunication.”
I feel light-headed as I realize what Mr. Post is saying. “He doesn’t believe me?”
A look passes between them. “It’s not a question of believing or not believing. He just needs to hear the story from you,” Miss Larsen says.
For the first time in my life, I feel the wildness of revolt. Tears spring to my eyes. “I’m not going back there. I can’t.”
Miss Larsen puts an arm around my shoulder. “Dorothy, don’t worry. You’ll tell Mr. Sorenson your story, and I’ll tell him what I know. I won’t let you go back there.”
The next few hours are a blur. I mimic Lucy’s movements, pulling out the spelling primer when she does, lining up behind her to write on the board, but I barely register what’s going on around me. When she whispers, “Are you all right?” I shrug. She squeezes my hand but doesn’t probe further—and I don’t know if it’s because she senses I don’t want to talk about it or if she’s afraid of what I might say.
After lunch, when we are back in our seats, I see a vehicle way off in the distance. The sound of the motor fills my head; the dark truck coming toward the school is the only thing I see. And here it is—puttering up the steep drive, screeching to a stop behind Mr. Post’s truck.
I see Mr. Sorenson in the driver’s seat. He sits there for a moment. Takes off his black felt hat, strokes his black mustache. Then he opens the car door.
“MY, MY, MY,” MR. SORENSON SAYS WHEN I’VE FINISHED MY STORY. We are sitting on hard chairs on the back porch, warmer now than it was earlier in the day from the sun and the heat of the stove. He reaches out to pat my leg, then seems to think better of it and rests his hand on his hip. With his other hand he strokes his mustache. “Such a long walk in the cold. You must have been very . . .” His voice trails off. “And yet. And yet. I wonder: the middle of the night. Might you perhaps have . . . ?”
I look at him steadily, my heart pounding in my chest.
“ . . . misconstrued?”
He looks at Miss Larsen. “A ten-year-old girl . . . don’t you find, Miss Larsen, that there can be a certain—excitability? A tendency to overdramatize?”
“It depends on the girl, Mr. Sorenson,” she says stiffly, lifting her chin. “I have never known Dorothy to lie.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Ah, Miss Larsen, that’s not at all what I’m saying, of course not! I merely meant that sometimes, particularly if one has been through distressing events in one’s young life, one might be inclined to jump to conclusions—to inadvertently blow things out of proportion. I saw with my own eyes that living conditions in the Grote household were, well, less than optimal. But we can’t all have storybook families, can we, Miss Larsen? The world is not a perfect place, and when we are dependent on the charity of others, we are not always in a position to complain.” He smiles at me. “My recommendation, Dorothy, is to give it another try. I can talk to the Grotes and impress upon them the need to improve conditions.”
Miss Larsen’s eyes are glittering strangely, and a red rash has crept up her neck. “Did you hear the girl, Mr. Sorenson?” she says in a strained voice. “There was an attempted . . . violation. And Mrs. Grote, coming upon the appalling scene, cast her out. Surely you don’t expect Dorothy to return to that situation, now, do you? Frankly, I wonder why you don’t ask the police to go out there and take a look. It doesn’t sound like a healthy place for the other children there, either.”
Mr. Sorenson is nodding slowly, as if to say Now, now, it was just a thought, don’t get shrill, let’s all calm down. But what he says is, “Well, then, you see, we’re in a bit of a pickle. There are no families that I know of at the moment seeking orphans. I could inquire farther afield, of course. Contact the Children’s Aid in New York. If it comes down to it, Dorothy could go back there, I suppose, on the next train that comes through.”
“Surely we won’t need to resort to that,” Miss Larsen says.
He gives a little shrug. “One would hope not. One doesn’t know.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Let’s explore our options then, Mr. Sorenson, shall we? And in the meantime—for a day or two—Dorothy can come home with me.”
I look up at her with surprise. “But I thought—”
“It can’t be permanent,” she says quickly. “I live in a boardinghouse, Mr. Sorenson, where no children are allowed. But my landlady has a kind heart, and she knows I am a schoolteacher and that not all of my children are”—she appears to pick her words carefully—“housed advantageously. I think she will be sympathetic—as I say, for a day or two.”
Mr. Sorenson strokes his mustache. “Very well, Miss Larsen. I will look into other possibilities, and leave you in charge of Dorothy for a few days. Young lady, I trust that you will be appropriately polite and well behaved.”
“Yes, sir,” I say solemnly, but my heart is swelling with joy. Miss Larsen is taking me home with her! I can’t believe my good fortune.