Power in the Blood Read Free Page B

for several minutes more, then slid among the tempting array, sampling here, ingesting there, all dignity set aside in pursuit of sustenance. This was her third trip west with orphans, and the Society, despite its fifteen years’ experience, still had not properly victualed the party, obliging Mr. Canby and herself to abandon decency before an audience of strangers. It was an unforgivable oversight, and she was determined, as prune pie overwhelmed her soul, to insist on adequate provender should she and Mr. Canby be selected for a fourth sojourn. Next time it would be different, or she would know the reason why.
    Bellies filled, the children became aware of the scrutiny that had attended their meal. As the last of the food disappeared, self-consciousness took hold, and they began studying the ground. Some of the older boys glared at the surrounding faces, daring them, whether to select or ignore them the boys themselves could not have said. The business of the day was at hand, and everyone inside the town hall knew it.
    The process had no formal beginning; men and their wives simply began moving among the orphans, as wary of what needed to be done as were the children they sought.
    Often the topic of introduction was the food that had been consumed during the time of silent appraisal that now was ended. “That peach cobbler, my missus made it. You kin have more, you come home with us. Be good to you. Lost our own girl, and we need another’n for the family. There’s a sister an’ two brothers for you to be with.”
    Or it might be a dare: “You strong? Look purty strong to me. Got work for a strong back. Figure you’re up to that, boy? Welcome to climb in the wagon and come on home. Decent home. Christian.”
    Or cajolery: “There’s a swing in the chinaberry tree. My husband here made it special for a special someone. Could that be you? I been wanting a nice little girl since ours got took. The Lord taketh. Did he bring you? I suspect he did. You think he might’ve done that, brung you to us? We’re Sullivanses, from around here. Biggest chinaberry tree in the county. Mr. Sullivan’s grampa, he planted it. Got the swing all set, and there’s dresses, real pretty dresses. You’ll grow into ’em right soon. What’s your name?”
    Or painfully casual: “Plan on going further west, boy? It don’t get no better than around here, that’s a fact. That’s why they stopped here and give you a chance to stay. First choice is best choice, they say. Had my eye on you, me and my wife. She’s sayin’ she likes the look of you, and I won’t say no if that’s what you’d like, to come with us. You think about it and don’t rush or nothin’. We weren’t lookin’ at no one else, I’ll tell you. Whereabouts you from, son?”
    The answers came quickly, or not at all; a smile and nod were often enough for “yes,” a nervous sideways glance or lengthy boot-studying as good as “no.” There was little coercion, no real bribery other than the promise of good food and hand-me-down clothing kept like holy shrouds in the closets of the dead, awaiting resurrection. The smiles behind beards or hidden in the shadows of calico bonnets were genuine.
    Sometimes an orphan didn’t know for sure if the people stooping down for an answer were indeed the right ones, but agreed to go with them through instinct, or a calculated loathing of the railroad car’s harsh benches. Some thought Ohio must be pretty far west already, so why go further? Deals were struck with a look, a wink and a smile, an awkward handshake between man and boy, the placing of a woman’s hand on some girl’s narrow shoulder.
    Clay kept his family close by him, flanked himself with sister and brother. His knowledge of geography was scanty, but he knew Ohio was below Lake Erie, and that was nowhere near far enough west. He held Zoe and Drew beside himself and challenged them all, the farmers and townspeople in their Sunday best, with unmistakable