Girl Waits with Gun by Amy Stewart Page B

man, but I removed my glove and slid my palm into his. His hand was warm and dry and I gripped it rather tightly. He laughed a little as he released me. “Not to worry. Mr. Kaufman is no longer your concern. If he bothers you again, come tell me right away. You can telephone me at the Hackensack jail any time of the day or night. And tell that girl to come see me. Will you do that?”
    Before I could answer he was gone, trotting down the courthouse steps with his deputy. They spoke excitedly as they walked away from me, already caught up in some far more important matter. I watched them disappear into the side entrance to the jail, and the most inexplicable sorrow and longing settled in around me.
    A train rattled in the distance and its whistle announced the next stop. It was leaving for Paterson, where Lucy Blake was working her morning shift at the factory.
    I should have gone home. It was nearly time for lunch, and Norma didn’t like it when one of us was not present at a meal. I hesitated for just a minute, then I picked up my skirts and ran for the train.

13
    I ARRIVED IN PATERSON an hour before the noon whistle. Along Broadway a group of boys were taking down bunting left over from a parade to honor the mayor’s birthday. In their wake came a troupe of girls selling buttons to raise money to aid victims of the fire in Salem. Three of the girls took hold of me at once, spotting an easy mark. I couldn’t imagine what Fleurette would do with a set of white buttons that had been stamped with the words “ SALEM SUFFERERS, 1914 ” in red, but I handed over fifty cents anyway and put a few in my pocketbook. The girls wandered on and I lingered outside a druggist, accepting a sample of a digestive tonic that tasted suspiciously like sugar syrup and wine. I passed the rest of the time staring into shop windows, a little queasy over what I was about to do.
    Henry Kaufman’s factory was just a short walk away. I paced up and down Putnam, getting close to the address and then turning back again. I was standing across the street from the ramshackle brick building as every dyer in his employment emerged for lunch, all dressed in their gray smocks.
    The break was nearly over by the time Lucy Blake walked out and stood in the sun, her face turned upward and her eyes closed.
    â€œLucy?” I called, as quietly as possible. Still, three or four men turned around and watched me approach her. Lucy took a step back and shook her head very slightly to warn me away, but it was too late. I’d made up my mind.
    â€œLucy, I think I can help,” I said when I got closer. “About the matter we discussed.”
    She looked up at a row of windows at the opposite end of the building where the offices were housed. “Over here,” she said, leading me around the corner.
    Once we were out of sight, she said, “You shouldn’t be here. What is it?”
    The whistle blew and she jumped. “I’ve found someone who wants to talk to you,” I said quickly. “About your baby. I’ll go with you.”
    The whistle blew again. “I have to go before they lock us out,” she said. “Don’t come back here. You can meet me at home tonight.” She gave me her address, and then she was gone.
    Â 
    IF I’D RETURNED HOME, Norma would have tried to talk me out of visiting Lucy, and Fleurette would have insisted on coming with me. Being unable to face either possibility, I spent the afternoon in the library and left a little after six o’clock to go see her.
    Lucy lived in a neighborhood of narrow clapboard-covered row houses a few blocks off Broadway. I’d ridden past it but never had reason to stop there, as it was inhabited entirely by people who worked in the mills. Paterson was not a company town, but the factory owners had been buying boarding houses and corner markets around here for years. The people who lived there paid rent to their boss, bought