Girl Waits with Gun Read Free Page A

slicked and combed hair and a mustache that turned up neatly at the ends.
    â€œHe’s a silk man? Are you sure?”
    â€œOne can hardly picture him running a factory, but that’s the address he gave. He’s on Putnam with all the others.”
    He shook his head and squinted at Norma, who had heard us coming and backed out of her pigeon loft. She took her time locking it behind her. Norma had cut her hair short this spring, insisting on doing it herself and chopping at it until her brown curls framed her face unevenly. In the last few years, she’d taken to wearing riding boots and a split skirt that fell to just above her ankles. In this costume she would climb ladders to repair a gutter or traipse down to the creek to trap a rabbit. Fleurette used to sing a little song to her that went, “Pants are made for men and not for women. Women are made for men and not for pants.” Norma took offense at the song but nonetheless insisted that what she wore could not be considered pants in the least.
    â€œYou aren’t hurt,” I said, as she walked up. At least one of us could still move.
    â€œMy head aches terribly,” she said, “from listening to Fleurette go on about how she was nearly killed yesterday. She talks too much for a girl who is almost dead.”
    â€œI wondered why she was up so early. She’s been rehearsing her story for Francis.”
    â€œListen to me, both of you,” Francis said. He put a hand on each of us and led us down the drive to his wagon. “This man Kaufman. What exactly did he say?”
    â€œAs little as he could before roaring off in that machine with all his hoodlum friends,” I said, as I reached up with my good arm to help Francis pull the tarpaulin off the back of his wagon. “But I let him know that he should expect—Oh.”
    The buggy was a horror of splintered wood and twisted metal. Until now I hadn’t thought about exactly how it had looked when we left it in Paterson, but here it was, this fragile veneer of wood panels and leather and brass fittings that had done so little to shelter us from the force of Henry Kaufman’s automobile.
    Norma and I stared at it. It was a wonder we’d survived.
    Francis removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t be out here all the time looking after you girls.”
    â€œWe haven’t asked you to look after us,” I said. “We only needed our buggy brought here, and that wasn’t too much of a bother, was it?”
    â€œNo, but without a man around the place—”
    â€œWe haven’t had a man around the place since you married!” I interrupted. “And what difference would it have made? He hit us broadside with his automobile. There was nothing you could have done.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be out here by yourselves,” Francis said, “especially now that you’ve lost your buggy. Wouldn’t you rather stay in town with us?”
    â€œI prefer not to live in a town,” Norma said. “Going to town nearly got us killed yesterday, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re much safer here.”
    Francis looked down at his feet again—this had been our father’s way of stopping himself from saying something he didn’t want to say—and worked his jaw back and forth for a minute before giving in. “All right. I’ll take care of the repairs. I know a man in Hackensack who can do it. It looks bad, but I think it can be rebuilt. The gears are fine, and most of the panels came apart at their seams.”
    â€œWe can arrange for the repairs,” I said, “and Henry Kaufman will pay for it.”
    â€œYou can’t make him pay, and you shouldn’t have anything to do with him,” Francis said. “You know what these men are like. Didn’t you see what they did to the strikers last year?”
    Francis didn’t have to remind me.