Borrowed Children by George Ella Lyon Page B

box. Then Daddy hands me the ticket, Mama straightens my coat, everybody gives me a kiss, and I climb into the train. After the long ride, this part happens too fast. I don’t even ask to hold Willie.
    When I find my seat I look out the window. There they stand: Daddy behind Mama, his hands on her shoulders; the boys straight and thin, trying not to kick stones; Anna lifting her dress to look at the lace on her petticoat, and Helen’s face wet as if she’d stood in the rain. She must have hurt herself, I think. But no, she’s waving and searching for me. And then I realize that they all look sad, like a field when the sun has just left it. I try to see if Willie is crying, but Mama has him on her shoulder.
    And here I am on board, the seat solid oak and red plush, the windows filmed with dust. Beside me is the supper that Mama has packed—fried chicken and a piece of jam cake; in my lap is a book and handkerchief and money Daddy gave me for the trip. I’m all set for an elegant journey. But a man sits across the aisle, his cheek pouched with tobacco, and every few minutes he spits into a can.

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    The train has a hard time leaving. It jerks and strains and shakes. I feel that way too. If anyone had told me a month ago that I’d be sad to leave home, I would have scorned them like Miss Snavely. But I am sad.
    I remember what I told Helen: the nailed-down track is connected—Goose Rock to Memphis—and will bring me back. I’m grateful for that.
    I wonder how Mr. Aden felt coming to Goose Rock, leaving behind the paved world he knew. But Mr. Aden is a grownup and a man: why should he worry? Men always know what to do. Turn some kind of labor into money. So he came to teach. And to live. Volunteered to eat fatback and breathe coal dust. I’ll never understand it.
    Mama let me walk to school Friday afternoon to tell him about my trip.
    â€œWhat a splendid chance for you!” he said. He always has these silky words like splendid. “What will you do?”
    â€œSee my kin, mostly,” I told him.
    â€œBut you must see Memphis, too. It’s the place to take the pulse of the Mississippi, to follow the Old Souths shadows.”
    â€œYes sir,” I answered, trying to sound like I knew what he was talking about.
    Later I asked Mama. She smiled her Mr. Aden smile. I felt silly.
    â€œWell, Memphis is on the river and that’s made it important in trade—cotton and lumber—that’s probably what he means. Opie can take you to his mill, if that would please you
    I nodded, but I knew Mr. Aden didn’t mean sawdust. I’ve seen plenty of that in Goose Rock. Maybe I’ll ask Aunt Laura.
    After a while I unpack a drumstick but can’t eat it. The train makes me woozy. Then I fall asleep and wake up starving. Mama says it’s lucky that I like dark meat, since you often have to leave the white pieces for guests. She means the men, though she doesn’t say it. I think about this, chewing chicken, watching the lights out the window.
    When the news butch comes through, I ask for a cream soda. What catches my eye on his tray, though, is clear glass bottles, shaped like train engines and filled with bits of candy. They’re small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
    At Chattanooga a woman gets on with a baby smaller than Willie, so swaddled you can’t see its face. She takes a seat somewhere behind me, and I hear the baby’s gurgle, her low response. They make me feel cold all at once and empty. I wrap up in my coat and try to count the stars.
    â€œCount all the stars,” Daddy says, “and you’ll never be forgotten.”
    One day I plan to ask him what that means.
    Sometime in the night I wake up and eat the jam cake. The heavy sweetness sets me to thinking about the day we picked the berries.
    It was late July. Anna and Helen and I went out early, hoping to beat both the bees and the heat. We did for a while; then Anna