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Mrs. Gurley Flynn was asking for everyone's attention, so Rosa turned hers to the union lady who had helped think up this idea of sending her away. All the children who were leaving were surrounded by their parents and any brothers or sisters who were being left behind. As far as Rosa could see, she was one of the few children not practically dancing with excitement. The huge crowd of children going to New York were grouped together. They left first for the station. Then Mrs. Gurley Flynn gathered the Vermont-bound children and introduced them to their escorts—two men from Barre, a Mr. Broggi and a Mr. Rossi, and a man and a woman from Lawrence, neither of whom Rosa knew. The man was a Mr. Savinelli, but the woman said her name so softly that Rosa didn't hear it. Everything was taking so long, she was almost sick from waiting.
As they started for the door, Rosa heard one of the Barre men ask Mrs. Gurley Flynn where the children's coats and luggage were.
"They're wearing everything they own," she said.
"Oh," he said. "Poor children. They must be very cold." Rosa flushed with shame. She hated it, this pity from a stranger.
Mamma and Anna and little Ricci went with her all the way to the station, but none of them said much. Little Ricci walked a few steps before begging to be carried. Mamma sighed and picked him up. "It will be good, Rosa, you see. Nice Italian people, lotsa good food, warm house. You'll like, you see." Rosa nodded numbly. Only her sister seemed to sense how very miserable Rosa was. Anna took Rosa's hand and held it tightly, squeezing it a little whenever Mamma tried to say something encouraging.
Rosa almost wished the wretched boy would show up. At least then she'd have someone to travel with. None of the children she knew seemed to be headed for Barre, Vermont. Their parents had heard all about how wonderfully the first group of children were being treated in New York City and clamored for the chance to send their own children there.
At the station, she put her face up for Mamma's kiss, then turned quickly to hide her tears.
"Alla families in Vermont is Italian, Rosa. You feel right at home, right away."
She was so tired of hearing about the good Italians of Barre, Vermont, that it was almost a relief to get on the train. Someone counted heads as they boarded the car. Rosa was number twenty-nine—twenty-nine out of thirty-five headed for the wilds of Vermont. One hundred fifty children were going to New York today. Not that she wanted to go to New York—she didn't want to go anywhere—but when they counted the New York group, she had seen Celina Cosa, not a friend exactly, but at least someone she knew from school.
By the time she got aboard, there were no more places at the windows on the station side. Mamma and Anna would be waving and waving, she knew, but she'd never see them, never get to wave back. She was shuffling toward the rear of the car, her head down, trying to stop the tears, when she spied something. It was a person, somebody curled up under the seat. No one was paying attention. Everyone else was too busy trying to find family and friends on the platform to wave to, so she leaned down. "What are you doing there?" she whispered. She knew, even from the humped back, who it was.
He could hardly turn around in the narrow space. "I got to go to New York," he said hoarsely. "I got to get out of this town."
She slid over him into the seat. She didn't have the heart to tell him that he was on the wrong train. "Why didn't you come to the hall this morning?"
"I couldn't," he croaked. "Pa didn't sign."
"Then get out from under there and get off this train. Now. Before it starts."
"I can't," he said. "You gotta help me. I can't go back there."
She took "back there" to mean Lawrence, the mill, the trash heap.
"You don't have any father," she said accusingly.
"No," he said in a choked voice, "no."
"I thought so. Well, get up and get off the train."
"I can't—really I can't. You got to believe me."
She gave a snort. When had he ever been believable?
"Besides," he said in a wheedling voice, "didn't I promise your ma I'd look after you? Like a brother, I said, remember?"
"Well, thank heavens you're not my brother."
"C'mon, shoe girl, just for today." He was pleading, begging. She didn't know what to make of it. "C'mon. I won't never bother you again. Just don't tell on me till after we get there."
The train gave a whistle and then a tremendous jerk.
"Hurry," she said. "Get off—it's starting."
"I can't," he said.
The train began a slow puffing. It was moving. There was nothing to be done. The wretched boy was headed for Vermont, like it or not.
The children who had been jammed against the windows were beginning to look around for seats. "Quick—get out from under there. Sit up here by me. They already took the count. They may not notice you."
He gave a muffled refusal.
