Forgetting Tabitha: An Orphan Train Rider Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 City Life

  Chapter 2 The Five Points

  Chapter 3 Alone

  Chapter 4 Orphan Train

  Chapter 5 Binghamton, New York

  Chapter 6 Scotty in New York City

  Chapter 7 Edmund

  Chapter 8 Gert

  Chapter 9 Mary in Love

  Chapter 10 Scotty 1869

  Chapter 11 The Client List

  Chapter 12 Edmund

  Chapter 13 Mary

  Chapter 14 Bartholomew

  Chapter 15 Amnesia

  Chapter 16 Edmund

  Chapter 17 The Fight Circuit

  Chapter 18 Meeting Sonya

  Chapter 19 Scotty

  Chapter 20 Pauli

  Chapter 21 The Proposal

  Chapter 22 Gert

  Chapter 23 Edmund

  Chapter 24 Mary

  Chapter 25 Heaven Scents

  Chapter 26 Edmund

  Chapter 27 Wedding

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Forgetting Tabitha

  The Story of an Orphan Train Rider

  By Julie Dewey

  Dedicated to my beautiful mother

  Who never waivers in her support

  Who has taught me to be a better person

  Who has encouraged me to go after my dreams

  Who has loved me unconditionally,

  Thank you Mom!

  “Happiness is not a destination, it is a way of life”

  Copyright

  © 2013 Julie Dewey, all rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or uploaded to the Internet, or copied with out written permission from the author.

  Thank you for respecting and supporting authors.

  Prologue 1920

  In my reverie now, an old lady settled in a creaking wicker rocker, amongst a bounty of lush gardens, I recall Mama’s stories about my birth and our early years both on the farm and in the city. I hear the whispers from yesterday, creeping backwards through time reminding me of who I am, where I came from, and how I came to survive my plight. Certain moments flutter by like the seeds from a dandelion blowing wishes in the wind, but others stand out and bear the weight of my shaping.

  I close my eyes and remember our spread out farming days in the summertime, the gentle nuzzle of Oliver’s velvety nose as I fed him a juicy apple picked fresh from our very own tree. His soft mane and calm nature as he guided me through our pastures, always steady of foot. I ruminate over the harshness of many a winter, huddling together with Mama and Da by the fire to stay warm and sharing nettle tea to fill our trembling bellies in the lean months. But mostly I remember the spring, for that is when the daffodils and crocuses came to life, when the earth thawed and where Mama always began with my birth story.

  My story begins amidst the wild meadow, I can see the landscape of budding flowers in my mind’s eye and hear the comfort of my parents’ voices by my side filling me with the memories I hold dear once more and pass down to my children now.

  I was birthed just as the violet crocuses in the meadow nudged their dainty goblet shaped heads through the thawing soil announcing with them spring. It was a chilly but clear morning when my mother woke early feeling the strain of an over ripe bladder. Retracing her steps towards the outhouse she counted her paces and filled her lungs with the crisp morning air. She was not due for several weeks but the pressure on her pelvis had increased inconveniencing her by doubling her trips to the bathroom. Upon her return to the farmhouse she lit a fire and began to prepare her morning meal of oat groats. She stoked the embers and rearranged logs when she felt a syrupy substance stream down her thigh. Standing in a puddle of her own making she contemplated whether or not she emptied her bladder in its entirety. Looking down, she saw blood mixed with her waters and simultaneously felt pain pulse through her abdomen stealing her breath. She lowered herself into a crouch and alternated between cradling her immense belly and holding her ankle bones for balance. The contractions were hard and fast keeping her low to the ground.

  Da had finished the milking chores and quickened his pace back to the house to ease his wife’s burden with breakfast. He entered the kitchen with a fresh pail of the sudsy drink he craved and found his wife laboring on the wooden floor. Da jumped immediately into his rehearsed role of midwife, laying fresh towels down across the bed they shared and filling a basin with warm water. He hefted my mother from her crouch to a more comfortable position on her pallet, climbing in behind her massive naked body, massaging her cramping back and belly.

  Maura had not birthed before and without the advice of a midwife she followed her instinct. My da having witnessed many animal births helped prepare my mother by massaging oils around her perineal tissue hoping she wouldn’t tear. When she felt the pressure was at its greatest and begged to push, Da rearranged himself in front of my mother’s belly in between her legs, and together with four loving hands entwined they brought me gently into the world.

  “A girl!” Da exclaimed out of breath, worry etching itself across his brow in deep furrows.

  The seconds ticked by and I had not yet mustered a cry. My airways were clogged with birthing matter and mucus and my skin was turning grey. Da resuscitated me by putting his largemouth across my small nose and mouth and sucking deeply. Suck-spit-repeat, he did this several times to no avail, when finally he held me upside-down and whacked my back. On cue I wailed, no longer safe in the warm confines of my mother’s womb.

  The year was 1850 and I was blessed and named Tabitha Colleen Salt. Tabitha was my name alone but Colleen was a tribute to my paternal grandmother whose blessing and purse made it possible for us to be on American land farming our small plot of acreage in West Chester, New York. Salt, our sir name, was assumed and passed down by our great great grandfather who worked in the salt mine in Northern Ireland near Carrickfergus. The story goes that great great grandfather Salt lived to a ripe age of one hundred and seven; his longevity, he claimed, was due to the healing properties of the mineral.

  Chapter 1 City Life 1860

  My head was itchy, particularly on the base of my skull behind both ears, and my fingernails had dried blood under them from the scabs I scratched open sometime in the night. Mama was clawing at her skin too, not just on her head but also on her woman parts. One time I saw her woman parts when she climbed out from our wash basin and reached for a towel. I didn’t mean to look but I was curious and surprised to see a little puff full of hair there too. Now she was itching that place a lot.

  The school teacher called it “lice.”

  “Tabitha Salt,” Miss Marianne pulled me gently aside one day, “you may not be present in school until your head lice are gone, they are not only contagious but disrupting the other students when you itch so much. You can hardly sit still.” When I told my mama I was cast out from the classroom she cried softly into her open hands before pulling me in for a hug.

  “Well, okay then, we will get rid of it at once and get you back into school,” she said with a conquering nod of her head and faraway gleam in her eyes. If there was one thing my mama was determined about it was my education. She and my da didn’t risk their lives on board the Emma Prescott in 1847 only to die from starvation or stupidity once on solid ground. Together they sailed from their beloved Galway towards religious freedom and a brighter future in America where they believed education was the key for a better life.

  The lice came in on one of the shirts we laundered, which was not unusual given our clientele included manky sailors and dock hands.
The critters attached to our hair and got into our bed sheets. The scavengers bit us something fierce feasting on our dry scaly skin before laying eggs. The nits were barely visible so you couldn’t snatch them up or swat at them like a fly. We had to cut our hair and wash with lye soap, and scald our clothes and sheets. Our mattresses were stuffed with straw, horsehair and old rags to even the lumps, but now they would have to be burned and we would sleep on the floor until we could buy or make new ones. The thought of fresh plumped straw mattresses was pleasing; my back was getting sore from these old ones. Plus they smelled rank, but my mama said we had to make do and that’s what we did.

  We walked hand in hand to the barbershop on Bowery Street that offered shoe shines and dental work as well as haircuts and shaves, and asked how much to cut my hair. The barber was settling a customer into a reclining red leather chair, draping him with cloth and lathering his cheeks, chin and neck with white fluffy foam for a shave. Without looking up he said very curtly that he didn’t do girls hair and sent us to a salon house down the street.

  “We’ll we certainly don’t need up do’s, do we? If the barber can’t help us we will tend to it ourselves.” We left the barber shop and when we got home my mama used her sewing scissors on my curls instead. The shear’s ends weren’t sharp so it hurt badly, I cried when I saw my red curly tendrils of hair drop to the floor. All my pretty curls were lying around my feet and soon after all my mama’s pretty curls were laying around my feet too. We sobbed and then laughed when we swooshed our heads back and forth; they felt so light and airy. But we had to cut them closer to the scalp where the eggs were laid. We went back to the barber and asked if he would shave us now and after he dipped his razor into some bluish liquid he did, for a nickel.

  We each wore red handkerchiefs over our heads to cover our baldness, but I never thought my mama, Maura Salt, looked so pretty. Her blue eyes sparkled with flecks of gold and her freckled cheeks looked fuller, her right cheek looked rosier too.

  She had a toothache she said, but when I looked at it from underneath I didn’t see a hole or black spot among the grooves that would indicate a cavity. She could only eat tepid foods because anything cold or hot caused discomfort; she chewed on her left side and after a few days became sluggish and bedridden. After several more days of the pain rendering my mama immobile, she gave in and sent for a dentist. She could have had the barber look at it, but she preferred someone with only one specialty. The dentist told her the tooth would need to be pulled immediately, and it would cost two dollars.

  “Tabitha, open my top dresser drawer, behind the stockings that need mending you will find a pouch. Count out two dollars in change, then bring the coins to me please.” After I counted the money, I replaced the pouch and noted the light weight of it now, making me feel uneasy.

  Two burly men accompanied the dentist filling up all the space in the undersized two room dwelling we rented from our land lady, Mrs. Canter. They offered my mama a three finger full shot of Jim Beam whiskey that she threw down her throat quickly so they could get on with it. They offered one to me too so I would sleep through the bellowing but I said, “No thank you, I am much too young for whiskey and I wish to help my mother.” So I held my mama’s clammy hands tight and the big man with the black suspenders and greying white shirt that desperately needed laundering held her shoulders back and down. The smaller mustached man sat across her legs. The dentist put a large metal tooth puller that resembled a key into her delicate mouth, counted to three and twisted the instrument clockwise before pulling with all his might at the tooth. The tooth cracked in several places, blood poured down my mama’s chin, and the dentist wiped at the sweat running into his eyes and said he would have to charge more to get all the splinters out. By the looks of his grimace, he didn’t like causing his patient pain any more than she liked receiving it. Tears flowed from her eyes and I kissed her hands and squeezed them tight to give her courage.

  “It will be all right soon,” I said. Mama, frozen with fear, nodded at my encouragement and mustered the strength to withstand the increasing pangs in her mouth.

  “Sir, maybe you ought to have a shot of that whiskey,” I said to him without cynicism.

  He chuckled at me as if I were a comedian and wiped his sweaty brow again before looking deeper into his patient’s mouth.

  Mama was near passed out from the combination of agony and whiskey so I ran into the kitchen where Mrs. Canter was baking bread and staying close in case we needed her. I asked what I should do and she lent me a dollar bill for the extra fee. She wiped her hands and walked into our quarters with me, nearly fainting from the sight and metallic smell of the blood filling one of the two rooms we now inhabited in her apartment. The dentist gave my mama another three finger full shot of whiskey and wedged a piece of sanded wood wrapped in thick cotton in her mouth to help it stay open allowing him to work better. One of the strong men held a lantern closer so the dentist could discern the problem. Mrs. Canter filled our basin with warm water and held the fraying rag to her chest in preparation for cleaning up; all the while she was losing her color and swaying. The gore didn’t bother me but I thought my mama was dead because she wasn’t talking and her eyeballs were rolled backwards into her head so I started to cry hysterically.

  “She’s just passed out from the pain, now she won’t feel a thing,” the dentist told me.

  “What’s your name, little girl?” the man with the filthy shirt asked me.

  “Tabitha, sir, what’s yours?” I asked, wondering what kind of name belonged to this huge man.

  “I’m Big Joe, now look here at my teeth.” The burly man opened his mouth and showed me the three empty holes where his teeth had gone missing. “The good dentist took these teeth and I’m fine, just like your mama’s gonna be.”

  I didn’t feel much better since his gums were swollen and mouth horribly smelling. But I knew my mama would brush and at least she’d wake up after she slept off the booze.

  The dentist used long metal tweezers with razor sharp tips, his newest tool, and poked at my mama’s mouth until he said all the splinters of teeth were gone. He was befuddled because the tooth he pulled had three roots holding it in place, which was rather unusual. He said she would be swollen in the morning and probably for the next several days, but that she could drink and eat soft food when she felt up to it. He gave me a dozen whole cloves wrapped in a ramie cloth that she could put inside her cheek when she woke, it would help dull the pain. I thanked him for the cloves and fondled the ramie cloth that held them.

  After that episode, he put the bottle of whiskey to his lips and took a long swig.

  “She made me work for my money, Tabitha, you take care of her now.” He patted my back and left with all the big men.

  “Tabitha, quickly, gather an armful of rags from beneath the kitchen sink, we‘re going to need more to get your mama good and cleaned up,” Mrs. Canter said.

  I did as instructed, rummaging through the stacks of folded towels and shreds of cloth, thankful to have the help of this woman. Together we wiped the dried caked blood from the corners of my mama’s mouth, and the drips that ran all the way down her neck getting trapped in the folds of her skin before drenching her shirt collar.

  “Help me turn her over, she’ll sleep better that way.” Mrs. Canter ordered once the bathing was complete, so we laid her on her left side, propping her with pillows and I covered her with our patchwork quilt, tucking her in like a cocoon. Mrs. Canter went across the hall with the dirty rags and returned with clean strips of material for the morning and two warm oatmeal cookies.

  “Now get some sleep dear, your mama will be needing you in the morning.” She ran her hands across my fuzzy head and left me to tend to her own brood.

  Sure enough my mama woke up in agony, hollering in pain and swishing her tongue into the hole where the tooth used to be. She looked all crooked because one side of her face was swollen like a chipmunk and her eye was black and blue, which nagged at me since it was her mo
uth that had work done. I put a nice warm cloth on her cheek and she said it helped, but when she stood up she held tight to her stomach and swooned.

  “Lie back down, Mama, I will do the day’s laundry.” I was more than confident in my abilities to work.

  I had been my mama’s laundry helper for one year now and even though I was only ten years old, she said I did as good a job as she did at getting out wrinkles and spots. I set to work on the white collared shirts first and paid extra attention to scrubbing at the stains and underarm pit spots. We used lemon or vinegar on most stains, not too much though or the acid would wear through the fabric. After I laundered the shirts I had to let them air dry. In between washing I ironed. I was careful not to let the iron get too hot or else it would leave a burn mark on the cotton fabric and then we would have to buy a new shirt; we learned this the hard way.

  “I took care of everything, Mama, look,” I said as I held up a several stacks of neatly laundered, and folded shirts and trousers. I took my time especially in the folding so I didn’t leave any creases in the wrong spot.

  “Be a dear and ask Mrs. Canter to be sure they are delivered.” Mama held cloves to her cheek, and drifted in and out of sleep all day while I worked.

  Mrs. Canter rewarded me with a shiny penny for my hard work and I took it right down to the penny candy store on Orange Street and bought a sack worth of butterscotch balls that my mama could suck while her mouth was sore.

  “Here, Mama, your favorite butterscotch balls!” I unwrapped the sweet indulgence upon my return and she popped one in her mouth, careful to savor the salty flavor of it on her good side only.

  “I am so proud of you, Tabitha. If we stick together we will be just fine won’t we?” Mama asked. We may have managed to fail the farm but so far we had done well in New York.