Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page A

hall, and down to the kitchen. Nellie was kneading dough, punching it hard.
    “Men! Strangers outside, Nellie!”
    Nellie stopped cold. “Mm hm,” she said, and calmly walked to a wooden enclosure at the corner of the kitchen where the slops buckets were stored. She hefted a full one and dragged it to the door leading to the alley. She opened it and sure enough, the men still lurked there.
    Without a word, Nellie emptied the bucket of waste, and the slime of it flooded the doorway. The men backed away.“Watch your slops, mammy!” one said.
    “I’m dreadful sorry, suh,” Nellie answered, head bowed. She backed away muttering her sorrys until she’d closed the door.
    Without a word, Nellie returned to her task of kneading, only now her punches grew harder as she slammed both fists into the mass of dough. I watched as Nellie rolled the bread makings into a large ball and dropped it into a pan. She poured water over her hands, wiped them off on a towel, and picked up a quilt from under the wooden counter. It was the same one she’d hung in the window to the alley after she’d caught me alone outside. It was of rough, heavy texture with red zigzag stripes embroidered across it. At the bottom were two half-moon shapes.
    Nellie hung the quilt in the window from a large, brass hook.
    “Ain’t nobody in the cellar,” she said to me. “Ain’t gonna be for a time.”
    With that, she touched my face gently.
    I left her there.
    There was no sign of my father. I felt beyond relieved that he was safe, and really, really guilty about the ungrateful way I’d behaved.
    I was so caught up in these thoughts I didn’t see Mr. Webster pacing in the parlor when I walked in.
    He motioned for me to come closer. “Do you know how to use a gun?” he whispered.
    “Oh, yes, sir.” Yes I did, and why was I feeling so excited by his question? Did this mean he trusted me?
    Mr. Webster looked around to make sure we were alone. He opened a travel bag and pulled out a long, brown shawl. “It has a pocket, here, where it would drape over your arm,” he said.
    He pressed a small pistol into my hand.
    “I have my own, sir.”
    “You amaze me, Miss,” he said. “Keep yours hidden in case of trouble. Use the one I’m giving you now.”
    I put the weapon in the shawl pocket, my hand just over it.
    “It’s loaded,” he said.

Thirteen
     
    We had walked a few long blocks into a part of the city I’d never seen before. I smelled wood smoke, horse dung, and heavy, cheap perfume. Some women were draped in doorways wearing nothing more than a chemise and petticoats. Others were beckoning from windows, with curtains half drawn. A few scantily dressed, boldly painted women with bright red lips and rouged cheeks clustered about some soldiers, laughing and pocketing money. Others looked gaunt and hungry, with ragged children at their skirts. Most watched us as we passed.
    “Keep your hand on the weapon,” Mr. Webster said, walking close beside me. “This place is known as Swampoodle. It is dangerous, always.” He guided me through a maze of narrow walkways past Negro shanties, old men puffing corncob pipes and women with brightly colored bandanas wringing out wash. A group of corralled cattle—their calves nearly buried beneath them—were packed tight, mooing and lowing.
    “They’re on their way to the slaughterhouse,” Mr. Webster said, as one of the cows with long lashes and soft, sad eyes stared at me. “It is a hungry army, hungry to kill and hungry for food.”
    I reached through the slats of wood that held the animals and stroked the soft, black nose of a little calf.
    “No time for sentiment, Miss Bradford,” Mr. Webster said. “Watch where we are going.”
    We wound through those foul-smelling streets at least five times, never stopping. Was Mr. Webster trying to confuse me? I was a bit nervous, but mostly I was wrapped up in storing what I was seeing in my head. Perhaps Mr. Webster wanted me to remember every turn, every