“Now, Linnea, you go with this man to the city.” 

She watched the thick mustache that tickled her face with each good night's kiss wiggle like a fuzzy spring caterpillar on every word. “Yes, Papa.” 

“He will take you to the factory. You will learn a trade.” He looked at the man and tried his best at English, “What you call?”

“Bobbin carrier, sir.”

The man removed his hat to hold respectfully at his waist, revealing a slick of greasy hair. “She will have the important job of carrying bobbins in the textile.” Papa looked back to Linnea, his beloved daughter, and thought for a moment before his attempt at saying “bobbin carrier.”

“It is an important role.”

The flash of shame sending his beautiful daughter with this stranger took him for a moment. Difficult to meet her big blue eyes, he instead looked at the soil beneath his feet, the dirt of the farm he cursed after the toil these last years.

“Yes, Papa.” Her blonde braids, tight from Mama taking out her anger at Papa in each elegant weave, a perfection of intricacy dangling past her shoulders. His gaze moved from the ground to the house window, where Mama’s stony look hit him. Papa’s eyes darted back to the safety of the cursed soil.

“Mr. Slater’s textile will take very good care of your daughter,” the man said to break the uncomfortable silence. “She will earn twenty-three dollars each month, of which ten will be sent here to you as long as she’s in our employment.”

 Papa understood and nodded at the man’s promise for her future.

“There are classes each night she can take to expand her education and a society in the city where she can meet people she might never encounter on the farm.” The man reached into his jacket breast pocket to retrieve a billfold, “In fact, here are the first ten dollars, as a show of good faith.” 

Papa looked up from the ground, his eyes large at the ten-dollar bill. His stomach gave a gastronomic gurgle with the memory of the winter hunger. Mama and the four boys would be able to eat a real meal, but he would lose his only daughter. The horse would eat hay without mold, maybe a cup of oats to pull the plow deep, but Linnea would be absent from the table each night. Mostly, there would be no more kisses to the forehead before bed. The boys were too old for affection, and Mama distant. That warmth at night, knowing Linnea was safe, would be gone. This would be the smart move, the prudent choice, head over heart.

Papa took the ten-dollar bill. It was the largest single amount of money he had held at one time.

Papa’s voice broke. “Linnea, time to go. Go now.” He turned his back to go inside.

“Papa?” 

The man firmly took Linnea by the wrist to pull her gently to the road, “Let us go to the coach, Linnea. Time for the deed to begin.”

What Linnea did not see was the tears in Papa’s eyes, or the break in his spirit with the latch click as he went through the door, or the quiver of his lip beneath the big mustache. She heard neither the slap across his face from an angry Mama, nor the bad word she only used in the worst moments. 

Linnea could hear the man talk. She did not understand all the words. He was in a hurry. His large steps were three times her stride. She had to run to keep pace.

When they passed the hedge, the house out of sight, she began to enjoy the trip to town as she had on Saturdays with Papa. In the spring, she would listen for the male Red-winged Blackbird, which Papa said brought good luck, its song, “conk-la-ree, conk-la-ree,” a delight walking down the toe path. On this trip, it was absent. She did hear the “coooo-OOOOO-woo-woo-woo” of the Mourning Dove. Everyone knew a visit from the Mourning Dove was a visit from a past relative. But she only knew Papa and Mama. She didn’t have a Farfar. Perhaps this was good luck; it could be the Farfar she never knew was watching over her on this trip. Maybe Papa’s Farfar was following her to town, “coooo-OOOOO-woo-woo-woo.”

On reaching town, the man tightened his grip slightly. She wasn’t wrong to think it was so that he wouldn’t lose her, but for him, it was more to prevent her from running away. It had happened before. The money was exchanged, the agreement made, and the child would run home at the last moment, realizing what had transpired. This needed only happen once.

 Instead of traveling by coach as he told her father they would, the two arrived at the US Postal Station where the Pontiac to Detroit line ran. The coach would have been seventy-five cents and a three-day ride. Instead, the man bought a Penny Black stamp at the postal window and wrote down the address in care of R.F. Slater, Detroit. No one would be the wiser that he pocketed the difference in price. With a pin from his pocket, he attached the address to Linnea’s shoulder, the stamp stuck to the paper.

The two walked through the station to the passenger entrance. On the station platform several older boys her brother's age dressed in dark blue trousers, jackets, and “kepi” caps. Three of them were fascinated by the green uniform one wore, making him stand out amongst the rest. The man gave a slight tug on her arm drawing back her attention to the moment. On the far side of the platform they found the postal loading door where the white sacks of letters were ready to load.

Linnea found this site to be amazing. She had never been this close to a train before. Papa and her brothers spoke of when they had come to town to watch the trains when the station had opened in 1843. That was ten years before she was even born. There were fireworks and cider that day. Pontiac was filled with people. Today seemed less fun but nearly as busy, exciting.

She watched as the man spoke with another, this one in uniform. He was much younger, similar in age to her oldest brother, Abell. This man seemed confused. The two continued to look down at her, and back at each other in exchanging words. After more words she didn’t understand, the two shook hands. The man who gave Papa money took Linnea’s wrist and placed it into the hand of the one in uniform.

The white canvas bag Linnea sat on was comfortable. She had a view of the farms that looked much like her home through the bars of the train car door. The sway from side to side kept the oil lamp on the ceiling hook swinging like a pendulum, “plick-clink,” each time the metal connected to the wood roof. 

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the train continued to roll forward. The plume of smoke always by its side smelled like the hen house when eggs went unrecovered for a week mixed with the hot tar Papa put on the roof four summers back. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, plick-clink, plick-clink. Her favorite moments would arrive between the farms when children near her age would run to the train waving. She and the brothers had done the same. To see she wasn’t alone in this world made her smile. Standing on the white sack that was larger than she was, Linnea waved back with enthusiasm each time she saw the happy faces and waving hands of the children. It made her feel special as the train would pass and a moment of recognition changed the faces of some children from waving to pointing, as if to say, “There's a girl on that train. Look at her. Who is she?”

With the day's heat, the sulfur smell of rotten eggs and tar from the train became stronger. Linnea felt hot. She curled like a barn cat on the letter bag. Clickety-clack, plick-clink, became a soothing rhythm. The movement back and forth rocked her like a cradle into a deep, deep sleep.

Only oil lamp light from the roof hook reached her eyes as they opened. Gently the voice from the man in uniform stirred her from slumber. Linnea rubbed the crust from her eyes. She felt the need for a bath. Her white top was now gray and stiff from the smoke and dust of the day. The man in uniform encouraged her again to get up.

Something was different. The train had stopped. The door was open. She could only see his eyes looking up from outside. Both his hands extended from below to help her down to the ground as he softly encouraged Linnea to go to him with the motion to come. Standing and going to the door's edge, she could see a much larger world outside. This station was colossal compared to the one she had left that morning at home .

The man said something she understood, “End of the line.”

Her eyes grew in size from the recognition, and gave him a smile. As she stepped forward, the man in the uniform helped her down. Past the darkness, a series of lights left her bewildered. She had only seen oil lamps before, but these lights were high atop poles in the air. The flame burned bright and barely flickered in the cool evening breeze behind the glass. She turned to the man who said a new phrase for her, “Gas lamps.”

She tried to repeat the words aloud, which was returned by a chuckle from the man in the uniform. He reached into the train car, pulled the canvas bag to the edge of the door, and then, in one movement, got under the bag and placed it squarely on his shoulder. He offered his free hand to Linnea. She took it, and they walked together toward the street lined with gas lamps. His hand was rough but not hard. He did not pull her along like the man on the farm that morning. Instead, they walked together.

Where are the stars? she thought to herself. Some nights in summer she and the boys would chase fireflies across the yard. The sky had been so dark it was difficult to tell where the fireflies stopped and the stars began. So vast was the sky at home; she knew there was more than this world. With the brilliance of the gas lamps, all but the brightest of the stars were hiding. 

She continued two more steps before realizing he had stopped with his arm taut. He drew her closer. His face nearly in hers, Linnea watched his deep brown eyes move back and forth while reading the address pinned to her top. There were flakes of green and gold in his eyes you wouldn’t notice from a distance.

He added another new word to her vocabulary, “Woodward.” This new word came easier to her in repetition as it was similar to the new word Papa used for chopped timber. He pointed to the building they stood in front of. Stepping closer to the building, he pointed to the numbers which she recognized. This was the address of her destination. 

The man in the uniform took her hand again and led her up the four steps to the door. With a solid thumping, his knuckles rapped on the door in short succession. Knock-knock-knock. There was a shift in the weight on the shoulder from the bag, which caused his knees to bend as he shifted his body back under the canvas sack. He looked to Linnea with the slight sadness of a goodbye this time.

“Do you know what hour this is?” The stern voice screeched with the opening of the door.

“Special delivery,” the man in uniform indicated with a head-bob to the side. 

Linnea thought the woman's face was made from a series of “V’s.” The first was the shape of the pointed nose peeking past the door to look onto the stoop. The second was the sharply angled chin which looked like the wedged blade of Papa’s ax. Finally, her squinted eyes examined and judged Linnea, each wrinkle of the skin making smaller “V’s” bunched together. Her voice creaked, reminding Linnea of the rusted door on the toalett Papa always told Mama he would fix but never did. 

As she beckoned again, the woman’s icy fingers took Linnea by the wrist and pulled her inside. The kind man in the uniform shared another sad last smile as she was yanked past the door that slammed shut.