Orphan Train Read Free Page A

with moths and dust mites and who knows
     what else? In juvie she’d be spending the same time in group therapy (always interesting)
     and watching The View (interesting enough). There’d be other girls to hang with. As it is she’ll have Dina
     at home and this old lady here watching her every move.
    Molly looks at her watch. They’re five minutes early, thanks to Jack, who hustled
     her out the door.
    “Remember: eye contact,” he says. “And be sure to smile.”
    “You are such a mom .”
    “You know what your problem is?”
    “That my boyfriend is acting like a mom?”
    “No. Your problem is you don’t seem to realize your ass is on the line here.”
    “What line? Where?” She looks around, wiggling her butt in the seat.
    “Listen.” He rubs his chin. “My ma didn’t tell Vivian about juvie and all that. As
     far as she knows, you’re doing a community service project for school.”
    “So she doesn’t know about my criminal past? Sucker.”
    “ Ay diablo, ” he says, opening the door and getting out.
    “Are you coming in with me?”
    He slams the door, then walks around the back of the car to the passenger side and
     opens the door. “No, I am escorting you to the front step.”
    “My, what a gentleman.” She slides out. “Or is it that you don’t trust me not to bolt?”
    “Truthfully, both,” he says.
    S TANDING BEFORE THE LARGE WALNUT DOOR , WITH ITS OVERSIZED brass knocker, Molly hesitates. She turns to look at Jack, who is already back in
     his car, headphones in his ears, flipping through what she knows is a dog-eared collection
     of Junot Díaz stories he keeps in the glove compartment. She stands straight, shoulders
     back, tucks her hair behind her ears, fiddles with the collar of her blouse (When’s
     the last time she wore a collar? A dog collar, maybe), and raps the knocker. No answer.
     She raps again, a little louder. Then she notices a buzzer to the left of the door
     and pushes it. Chimes gong loudly in the house, and within seconds she can see Jack’s
     mom, Terry, barreling toward her with a worried expression. It’s always startling
     to see Jack’s big brown eyes in his mother’s wide, soft-featured face.
    Though Jack has assured Molly that his mother is on board—“That damn attic project
     has been hanging over her head for so long, you have no idea”—Molly knows the reality
     is more complicated. Terry adores her only son, and would do just about anything to
     make him happy. However much Jack wants to believe that Terry’s fine and dandy with
     this plan, Molly knows that he steamrollered her into it.
    When Terry opens the door, she gives Molly a once-over. “Well, you clean up nice.”
    “Thanks. I guess,” Molly mutters. She can’t tell if Terry’s outfit is a uniform or
     if it’s just so boring that it looks like one: black pants, clunky black shoes with
     rubber soles, a matronly peach-colored T-shirt.
    Molly follows her down a long hallway lined with oil paintings and etchings in gold
     frames, the Oriental runner beneath their feet muting their footsteps. At the end
     of the hall is a closed door.
    Terry leans with her ear against it for a moment and knocks softly. “Vivian?” She
     opens the door a crack. “The girl is here. Molly Ayer. Yep, okay.”
    She opens the door wide onto a large, sunny living room with views of the water, filled
     with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and antique furniture. An old lady, wearing a black
     cashmere crewneck sweater, is sitting beside the bay window in a faded red wingback
     chair, her veiny hands folded in her lap, a wool tartan blanket draped over her knees.
    When they are standing in front of her, Terry says, “Molly, this is Mrs. Daly.”
    “Hello,” Molly says, holding out her hand as her father taught her to do.
    “Hello.” The old woman’s hand, when Molly grasps it, is dry and cool. She is a sprightly,
     spidery woman, with a narrow nose and piercing hazel eyes as bright and sharp as a