habits, making it difficult to distinguish one from another until one was close and looking right at you. Sister Josephine might turn and become Sister Mary, or Sister Delores, who was young and pretty, but who also carried a wooden paddle. It was best to always follow the rules, and show respect at all times.
It was the New York Home for Friendless Girls. Mary Jane, who knew how to read, said the words were painted on a sign out front. This name made no sense to Cora. She wasn’t Friendless. Mary Jane was her friend, and so was Little Rose, and Patricia, and Betsy, all of the younger girls and even Imogene if Cora didn’t bother her too much. It means no parents, Mary Jane said. Orphans. But that didn’t make sense, either. Rose’s father came by almost every Sunday. Rose said he would be coming for her and her older sister soon. He would take them home. And Patricia’s mother was in the hospital, sick with tuberculosis, but alive.
Cora herself did not have parents, none that she knew. She had only a flash of a memory, or a memory of a memory, or maybe just a dream: a woman with dark hair, curly like her own, and wearing a red knit shawl. It was her voice Cora remembered, or imagined, most clearly, saying unknown words in a strange language, and also, clearly, Cora’s name.
“Am I an orphan?” Cora asked.
“You are,” said Mary Jane. The older girls called Mary Jane Irish, because of the way she talked. “We all are. That’s why we’re here.”
The nuns said grace before every meal. Because you rescued the poor who cried for help, and the fatherless who had none to assist them. The girls only had to wait and then cross themselves and say, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit and amen. They ate oatmeal for every breakfast and every dinner. The nuns ate oatmeal, too. They put raisins in when they had them, and when they did, Cora ate with an elbow on each side of her plate, because some of the older girls had long fingers. For supper, there was bean soup with vegetables, and if anyone was stupid enough to complain, what they got was a lecture about gratitude, and about how many thousands of children on the very streets of New York would give anything to get three meals a day, not to mention a roof over their heads. If the complainer wasn’t happy, a nun would suggest, she might leave, and make room for a truly hungry child who would be glad to take her bed and her place at the table. She could be sure there were plenty waiting in line.
That seemed to be true. Whenever a new girl came in, she was almost always bonier and far dirtier than Cora and the other girls. The nuns had to shave new girls’ hair off because so many of them came right from the slums or even the streets and lice were always a concern. New girls ate their oatmeal fast, spoons scraping the bowls, and the nuns would give them seconds and even thirds until they caught up and lost the dead look in their eyes, their hair finally starting to grow back. Only Patricia had come in plump, her pretty blond hair never shaved, and she was the one who sulked about the food, who made faces when the nuns weren’t looking. Patricia told Cora that even when she was awake, she dreamed of pie and cheese and smoked meat. Cora knew about smoked meat, because sometimes the air on the roof smelled so good she wanted to bite at it, and another girl said this was the smell of meat cooking on a stove. But she’d never tasted the other things Patricia said she dreamed of, at least not that she could remember, and so she, unlike Patricia, wasn’t tormented by their loss.
Cora didn’t remember being anywhere but the home. Big Bess, who was almost thirteen, said she remembered when Cora arrived, and that she hadn’t been a baby but a toddler, chubby, and already walking and looking up when she heard her name. But that was all she knew. Cora once asked Sister Josephine who had brought her, and where she had been before, and even Sister
It was the New York Home for Friendless Girls. Mary Jane, who knew how to read, said the words were painted on a sign out front. This name made no sense to Cora. She wasn’t Friendless. Mary Jane was her friend, and so was Little Rose, and Patricia, and Betsy, all of the younger girls and even Imogene if Cora didn’t bother her too much. It means no parents, Mary Jane said. Orphans. But that didn’t make sense, either. Rose’s father came by almost every Sunday. Rose said he would be coming for her and her older sister soon. He would take them home. And Patricia’s mother was in the hospital, sick with tuberculosis, but alive.
Cora herself did not have parents, none that she knew. She had only a flash of a memory, or a memory of a memory, or maybe just a dream: a woman with dark hair, curly like her own, and wearing a red knit shawl. It was her voice Cora remembered, or imagined, most clearly, saying unknown words in a strange language, and also, clearly, Cora’s name.
“Am I an orphan?” Cora asked.
“You are,” said Mary Jane. The older girls called Mary Jane Irish, because of the way she talked. “We all are. That’s why we’re here.”
The nuns said grace before every meal. Because you rescued the poor who cried for help, and the fatherless who had none to assist them. The girls only had to wait and then cross themselves and say, In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit and amen. They ate oatmeal for every breakfast and every dinner. The nuns ate oatmeal, too. They put raisins in when they had them, and when they did, Cora ate with an elbow on each side of her plate, because some of the older girls had long fingers. For supper, there was bean soup with vegetables, and if anyone was stupid enough to complain, what they got was a lecture about gratitude, and about how many thousands of children on the very streets of New York would give anything to get three meals a day, not to mention a roof over their heads. If the complainer wasn’t happy, a nun would suggest, she might leave, and make room for a truly hungry child who would be glad to take her bed and her place at the table. She could be sure there were plenty waiting in line.
That seemed to be true. Whenever a new girl came in, she was almost always bonier and far dirtier than Cora and the other girls. The nuns had to shave new girls’ hair off because so many of them came right from the slums or even the streets and lice were always a concern. New girls ate their oatmeal fast, spoons scraping the bowls, and the nuns would give them seconds and even thirds until they caught up and lost the dead look in their eyes, their hair finally starting to grow back. Only Patricia had come in plump, her pretty blond hair never shaved, and she was the one who sulked about the food, who made faces when the nuns weren’t looking. Patricia told Cora that even when she was awake, she dreamed of pie and cheese and smoked meat. Cora knew about smoked meat, because sometimes the air on the roof smelled so good she wanted to bite at it, and another girl said this was the smell of meat cooking on a stove. But she’d never tasted the other things Patricia said she dreamed of, at least not that she could remember, and so she, unlike Patricia, wasn’t tormented by their loss.
Cora didn’t remember being anywhere but the home. Big Bess, who was almost thirteen, said she remembered when Cora arrived, and that she hadn’t been a baby but a toddler, chubby, and already walking and looking up when she heard her name. But that was all she knew. Cora once asked Sister Josephine who had brought her, and where she had been before, and even Sister
Similar Books
