Ashes by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

and cart, true enough, but mayhaps that was just a sign of the goodness of his heart; he’d not abandon us to starve. Mayhaps he’d been waiting for a place where I could find work and shelter before he went off on a journey of his own making. Was he already headed for Richmond or Baltimore or the wilderness mountains in the west?
    The answers did not present themselves. Nor did the laundry.
    On our third trip through town I began to worry that our presence was becoming conspicuous. As we passed the market, a short serving woman in a green and yellow striped bodice and green skirt motioned to me to follow her to a quiet spot under a linden tree, away from the hearing of others.
    â€œYou seem lost,” she said quietly as she set down a basket heavy with green beans. Her speech was flavored with the notes of an island. Jamaica, mayhaps.
    â€œKind of you to notice,” I said with relief. It went against all of my cautious habits to speak openly with a stranger, but the peril of our circumstance was quickly growing. “We’re to deliver that washing to Widow Hallahan’s, but I don’t know where it is.”
    â€œWhole town is topsy-turvy,” she said. “You’re wanting to go east a block, turn left at the brick shop with the red door. One street later you’ll see a tavern with the sign of a fat pig out front. Go along the alley behind the tavern, and you come to the laundry. Old Missus Hallahan runs the laundry, her son owns the tavern.”
    I studied the woman closer. Her hair was covered by a dark green kerchief and above that a straw hat. She wore a necklace of two pierced cowry shells around her neck, and her hands showed the strength that comes with constant labor.
    â€œIs she a good mistress, Widow Hallahan?” I asked.
    â€œBetter than some,” the woman answered. “You been hired out to her?”
    â€œMy sister and me, we’re looking to hire ourselves out,” I said. “We’ve been long on the road and need a safe place to work and restore ourselves.”
    Ruth watched us wordlessly.
    The woman picked up her basket, watching the folks passing by, and taking their measure with skill. She waited until we were again in relative solitude, then leaned close to me.
    â€œDo not linger here. The confusions of these days might seem in your favor, but they are not. With so many running for freedom, white people hereabouts are eager to steal the liberty of newcomers. Best take your chances with the British, if you can.”
    Without waiting for a reply, she quickly turned, her skirts flaring, and headed back to the market. I wanted to call out, to ask her name and to thank her.
    I dared not, and that left me heartsore.
    Â Â *  *  *  
    Once we’d been advised of the location, the laundry was easy enough to find. The one-story brick building with two windows on each side of the door was separated from the back of Gray Boar Tavern by a courtyard crisscrossed with ropes that were filled with drying clothes. I led Thomas Boon and Ruth under the flapping shirts and breeches and stopped in front of a pipe-smoking, wrinkle-faced white woman.
    She put down the torn gray shift she was mending and stood, drawing on the pipe and blowing smoke from her mouth and nose. She scowled as she examined the baskets in the back of the cart. A strong smell of lye came from the open laundry door behind her.
    â€œAre you Missus Hallahan?” I asked politely.
    â€œThat’s what folks call the daughter-in-law. I’m the Widow Hallahan.” Her nostrils quivered as she bent her face toward a basket. “Where’s this lot from?” she demanded.
    â€œThe old bedlam house.” I hefted a basket. “Where shall I set them, ma’am?”
    She sighed. “By the door, with the rest of them.”
    Through the open windows behind her I could see steaming cauldrons big enough to bathe a cow in. Along the wall stood