Page 14 of If Looks Could Kill

On Wednesday of that week, Commander Maud Ballington Booth visited our Bowery base camp with a new vision for us.

“How can the good word of the gospel save people’s souls,” the young Mrs. Booth asked, in her cultured British accent, bouncing her bonny baby boy on her hip, “if they can’t hear the Spirit over their growling bellies? How shall they pray while their skin crawls with filth?”

We sat on unsteady chairs in Steve Brodie’s saloon basement while Commander Booth stood to address us.

In number, we were a dozen women, more or less, ranging from eighteen (Pearl and me) to nearly sixty years of age.

In Mrs. Booth’s honor, we’d served up what we hoped was a proper English tea, complete with little sandwiches and a poppyseed cake.

“In the work of salvation,” Mrs. Booth said earnestly, “we race not only against the devil, but against Father Time. These precious souls—their lives are dangerous; their sins, unhealthy. Once they die, their season of repentance has ended. If we hold body and soul together longer, we buy them time to find the Lord. We must tend to them all—the young, the old, the sick.”

“But how?” I asked.

Mrs. Booth handed me her baby, Charlie, who had been chewing upon the insignias of rank on her uniform. Charlie was a stout little fellow of about nine months. He got to work ingesting my hat ribbon until I twitched it out of his sticky fingers.

“I have a new motto for our work, sisters,” Mrs. Booth said, reddening with a shy smile. “I think we might call our initiative ‘Soup, Soap, and Salvation.’?”

Catchy.

“We’ll make soup and feed the hungry,” she continued. “We’ll provide access to bathing, sanitation, and basic health care. Then people might be in a position to receive the good word.”

“And if they’re not?” asked Sister Jerusha Bean.

“Then we will have fed them and healed them,” said Mrs. Booth. “As much as we can.”

Little Charlie scratched me with his razor-sharp fingernails. I made a little squeak of pain.

“Now, Charlie,” his mother said.

“He’s just having fun, ma’am.” I blushed. “I mean, Commander Booth.”

Our apartment-mate Carrie Lovett, a serious-minded Army soldier in her late twenties, spoke up. “Does this mean we’re abandoning the saloon ministry?”

Commander Booth shook her head. “Not at all, dear comrade,” she said. “There should still be time for evening saloon calls. By day, you’ll feed the hungry and help the sick.”

Our other apartment-mate, Emma Bown, who was Carrie’s roommate and around her age, said, “I think it’s a marvelous idea.” She set down her cup of tea. “I’ve long felt we could do more to help the poor here in the city with solid, practical assistance with basic needs, like food and sanitation.”

“But it’s the gospel they need,” protested Captain Jessop, between bites of cake. “A handout of food will only encourage them in their idleness.”

“That hardly seems fair,” I blurted. “When Jesus saw the hungry multitudes, he took pity on them and fed them. He didn’t judge them for why they were hungry.”

If you’ve never felt a dozen women gaping at your brazenness, I don’t recommend it.

The hush was broken and by, of all persons, Pearl.

“It’s not idleness,” she said. “Mostly it’s people with children to feed. People who got sick and lost their jobs. Employers who don’t pay. Landlords charging too much in rent.”

A prickly silence filled the room. Commander Booth relieved me of Charlie.

Captain Jessop calmed herself and regarded Pearl and me as one might difficult children.

“You’re young,” she said. “Idealistic. Bless you both; your sympathy does you credit. But when you’ve been engaged in charity work as long as I have”—she glanced at the nodding older women—“you’ll see that some people are incorrigible.

Working the system. Going from mission to mission and church to church, taking every handout.

Funds intended for the deserving poor. Spending every penny upon drink. ”

I smoldered in silence. “Bless you both” nothing.

“Hunger motivates the poor,” explained Mrs. Jessop. “Why should they work, unless they’re hungry? Feed them, and they’ll return to drink like the dog to its vomit.”

“I disagree,” I said, and eyebrows waggled. “I’m not saying there aren’t real problems. It may take miracles to help those whose lives are ruled by opium or drink.” My voice began to quaver. “Maybe we can’t save everyone.”

My face grew hot, and my eyes pricked with tears. Not this. Not now. May the good Lord dunk my head in a toilet rather than let me become pathetic and weepy in front of these ladies.

“But Jesus said,” I went on, “that at the final judgment, the blessed would be those who saw the hungry and fed them. Saw the sick, and those in prison, and visited them. Regardless of why. To him, all God’s children are deserving.”

A murmur moved about the room.

“Well said, Sister Tabitha,” Maud Booth said. “It’s interesting that you would use that example. I hope, soon, to expand our ministry to those in prison.”

“Prisoners get their meals right enough,” said Sister Olive Crandall. “Three a day.” A few voices clucked in tacit agreement. As if, somehow, that was three too many.

Pearl sat ramrod-straight in her chair with cheeks flushed pink. “Hunger doesn’t build character,” she cried. “The kind of hunger we see here wears you down to misery and despair.”

Captain Jessop dropped a lump of sugar in the cup of tea she’d poured for Lieutenant Amanda Dillinger. “You speak as though you know.” Her tone said otherwise.

Pearl swallowed hard. “Since my father and brother died,” she said, “and there’s been no one who can really work the farm, my mother and I have usually been able to afford only one meal a day. Sometimes not even that.”

Now the silence stretched out between us like saltwater taffy.

“But if you have a farm…,” a sister said gently.

“We sell the milk and eggs to pay the mortgage.” Pearl bit off each word crisply. “We sell vegetables to pay the taxman. There’s no grain, since there’s no one to operate the plow.”

Women began to glance from side to side, as if Pearl was sharing too much. She had committed the unpardonable sin of making them feel uncomfortable.

“And we’re the lucky ones,” she continued, “with our own roof over our heads. We still own our farm, by the skin of our teeth.”

“You’ve been very brave, my dear,” said Sister Fern McCallister softly.

But Pearl wasn’t done. “Maybe hunger motivates you to work, at first,” she said, “but eventually, you get sick.”

Baby Charlie began to fuss, and his mother whispered soothingly into his ear.

“But what’s worse,” Pearl went on, “is what it does to your sense of worth. Of whether you even deserve to be fed and cared for. Whether or not you deserve to live.”

“Goodness gracious,” sputtered Captain Jessop. “Nobody is suggesting that the poor ought not to live . We need not resort to such melodramatic language.” She took a dainty bite of an anchovy paste sandwich on thin rye bread.

“Have you ever been hungry, Captain Jessop?” Pearl asked quietly. “Have you ever not known how long ago you ate, nor when you’d eat again?”

This is not a question one wishes to be asked while chewing an anchovy paste sandwich.

“Sister Pearl,” said Emma Bown gently, “does the Army in your area know of your mother’s needs? Surely help could be arranged, with you giving such service to the cause.”

Pearl shook her head vehemently. “She’s—I send her—” She gulped. “She’s fine.”

I send her. Her tiny allotment, which was supposed to purchase things like toothpaste and postage stamps. No wonder Pearl couldn’t afford hair ribbons. My father sent me extra money each month, which I spent along with my Army stipend without a second thought.

“My dear.” Captain Jessop, who clearly felt some repentance was in order, addressed Pearl. “You remind us, rightly, that misfortune can befall anyone, and we ought not to judge.”

Murmurs of approval greeted this reply.

“But your courage supports my point,” she added. “Look at the good work you’re doing. Your courage in not allowing poverty to tempt you into a life of sin and degradation.”

Pearl flinched.

“The deserving poor are those like you and your mother,” continued Captain Jessop. “Widows and orphans. Noble souls fallen upon misfortune. You are the ones whom Christian charity should help to become productive members of society.”

And we ought not to judge….

“Every dollar spent to feed someone leeching the system,” said Captain Jessop, “is a dollar unavailable to minister to the needs of someone like you or your mother.”

Pearl rose quietly and left the room.

All eyes turned to Commander Booth. Except mine. I watched Captain Jessop squirm.

“Sister Pearl reminds us,” Mrs. Booth said, “that everyone has a story and a cross to bear. We must be careful not to see others as labels.” She rested a hand upon Captain Jessop’s shoulder.

“But take heart. I would rather we live and work together in a spirit of openness, trusting to our loving Creator to help us smooth over any disagreements that may arise.”

Pearl’s absence seemed to swallow up the room.

“What do you say, sisters?” asked Commander Booth. “Will you embark upon the experiment? Will you serve in this new ministry of Soup, Soap, and Salvation?”

None could object. Not even Captain Jessop, who sat subdued and brooding in her chair.

“I feel certain,” Mrs. Booth continued, “that the Savior would want us to keep seeking new ways to bless others. Even if our attempts don’t work, the Lord will know we tried.”

Lieutenant Dillinger raised a hand. “Where will the funds come from, Commander Booth?” Ever the pragmatic one. “How will we pay for the groceries and supplies?”

“The Lord will provide, Lieutenant,” Commander Booth replied.

“He has already done so. Many of the great ladies of the city, some of its wealthiest women, have large hearts indeed. Our Ladies’ Auxiliary has succeeded in raising thousands of dollars for this initiative, and we’ll begin it right here, on the Bowery.

I can think of no better place.” A mischievous smile spread across her face.

“Nor a more resolute corps of women to carry it out.”