Read Online Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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consists of a finished
section—two bedrooms tucked under the slope of the roof and an old-fashioned bathroom
with a claw-foot tub—and a large, open attic part with a rough-planked floor half
covered in patches of ancient linoleum. It has visible rafters with insulation packed
between the beams. Though the rafters and floor are dark, the space is surprisingly
light. Levered windows nestle in each dormer, providing a clear view of the bay and
the marina beyond.
The attic is filled with boxes and furniture packed so tightly it’s hard to move around.
In one corner is a long clothes rack covered with a plastic zippered case. Several
cedar chests, so large that Molly wonders how they got up here in the first place,
are lined up against a wall next to a stack of steamer trunks. Overhead, several bare
bulbs glow like tiny moons.
Wandering among the cardboard boxes, Vivian trails her fingertips across the tops
of them, peering at their cryptic labels: The store, 1960–. The Nielsens. Valuables . “I suppose this is why people have children, isn’t it?” she muses. “So somebody
will care about the stuff they leave behind.”
Molly looks over at Terry, who is shaking her head with grim resignation. It occurs
to her that maybe Terry’s reluctance to take on this project has as much to do with
avoiding this kind of maudlin moment as avoiding the work itself.
Glancing surreptitiously at her phone, Molly sees it’s 4:15—only fifteen minutes since
she arrived. She’s supposed to stay until six today, and then come for two hours four
days a week, and four hours every weekend until—well, until she finishes her time
or Vivian drops dead, whichever comes first. According to her calculations, it should
take about a month. To finish the hours, not to kill Vivian.
Though if the next forty-nine hours and forty-five minutes are this tedious, she doesn’t
know if she’ll be able to stand it.
In American History they’ve been studying how the United States was founded on indentured
servitude. The teacher, Mr. Reed, said that in the seventeenth century nearly two-thirds
of English settlers came over that way, selling years of their freedom for the promise
of an eventual better life. Most of them were under the age of twenty-one.
Molly has decided to think of this job as indentured servitude: each hour she works
is another hour closer to freedom.
“It’ll be good to clear out this stuff, Vivi,” Terry is saying. “Well, I’m going to
get started on the laundry. Call if you need me!” She nods to Molly as if to say All yours! and retreats down the stairs.
Molly knows all about Terry’s work routine. “You’re like me at the gym, hey, Ma?”
Jack says, teasing her about it. “One day biceps, next day quads.” Terry rarely deviates
from her self-imposed schedule; with a house this size, she says, you have to tackle
a different section every day: bedrooms and laundry on Monday, bathrooms and plants
on Tuesday, kitchen and shopping on Wednesday, other main rooms on Thursday, cooking
for the weekend on Friday.
Molly wades through stacks of boxes sealed with shiny beige tape to get to the window,
which she opens a crack. Even up here, at the top of this big old house, she can smell
the salty air. “They’re not in any particular order, are they?” she asks Vivian, turning
back around. “How long have they been here?”
“I haven’t touched them since we moved in. So that must be—”
“Twenty years.”
Vivian gives her a flinty smile. “You were listening.”
“Were you ever tempted to just toss it all in a Dumpster?”
Vivian purses her lips.
“I didn’t mean—sorry.” Molly winces, realizing she’s pushed a little far.
All right, it’s official, she needs an attitude adjustment. Why is she so hostile?
Vivian hasn’t done anything to her. She should be grateful. Without Vivian she’d be
sliding down a dark path toward nowhere
section—two bedrooms tucked under the slope of the roof and an old-fashioned bathroom
with a claw-foot tub—and a large, open attic part with a rough-planked floor half
covered in patches of ancient linoleum. It has visible rafters with insulation packed
between the beams. Though the rafters and floor are dark, the space is surprisingly
light. Levered windows nestle in each dormer, providing a clear view of the bay and
the marina beyond.
The attic is filled with boxes and furniture packed so tightly it’s hard to move around.
In one corner is a long clothes rack covered with a plastic zippered case. Several
cedar chests, so large that Molly wonders how they got up here in the first place,
are lined up against a wall next to a stack of steamer trunks. Overhead, several bare
bulbs glow like tiny moons.
Wandering among the cardboard boxes, Vivian trails her fingertips across the tops
of them, peering at their cryptic labels: The store, 1960–. The Nielsens. Valuables . “I suppose this is why people have children, isn’t it?” she muses. “So somebody
will care about the stuff they leave behind.”
Molly looks over at Terry, who is shaking her head with grim resignation. It occurs
to her that maybe Terry’s reluctance to take on this project has as much to do with
avoiding this kind of maudlin moment as avoiding the work itself.
Glancing surreptitiously at her phone, Molly sees it’s 4:15—only fifteen minutes since
she arrived. She’s supposed to stay until six today, and then come for two hours four
days a week, and four hours every weekend until—well, until she finishes her time
or Vivian drops dead, whichever comes first. According to her calculations, it should
take about a month. To finish the hours, not to kill Vivian.
Though if the next forty-nine hours and forty-five minutes are this tedious, she doesn’t
know if she’ll be able to stand it.
In American History they’ve been studying how the United States was founded on indentured
servitude. The teacher, Mr. Reed, said that in the seventeenth century nearly two-thirds
of English settlers came over that way, selling years of their freedom for the promise
of an eventual better life. Most of them were under the age of twenty-one.
Molly has decided to think of this job as indentured servitude: each hour she works
is another hour closer to freedom.
“It’ll be good to clear out this stuff, Vivi,” Terry is saying. “Well, I’m going to
get started on the laundry. Call if you need me!” She nods to Molly as if to say All yours! and retreats down the stairs.
Molly knows all about Terry’s work routine. “You’re like me at the gym, hey, Ma?”
Jack says, teasing her about it. “One day biceps, next day quads.” Terry rarely deviates
from her self-imposed schedule; with a house this size, she says, you have to tackle
a different section every day: bedrooms and laundry on Monday, bathrooms and plants
on Tuesday, kitchen and shopping on Wednesday, other main rooms on Thursday, cooking
for the weekend on Friday.
Molly wades through stacks of boxes sealed with shiny beige tape to get to the window,
which she opens a crack. Even up here, at the top of this big old house, she can smell
the salty air. “They’re not in any particular order, are they?” she asks Vivian, turning
back around. “How long have they been here?”
“I haven’t touched them since we moved in. So that must be—”
“Twenty years.”
Vivian gives her a flinty smile. “You were listening.”
“Were you ever tempted to just toss it all in a Dumpster?”
Vivian purses her lips.
“I didn’t mean—sorry.” Molly winces, realizing she’s pushed a little far.
All right, it’s official, she needs an attitude adjustment. Why is she so hostile?
Vivian hasn’t done anything to her. She should be grateful. Without Vivian she’d be
sliding down a dark path toward nowhere
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