Page 2 of If Looks Could Kill
“Where to now?” I asked Pearl.
She hesitated. “Downtown,” she said. “Let’s take Chrystie down as far as Canal and see what we find, then make our way back to base for supper. Preaching all the way.”
I groaned inwardly but said nothing.
Pearl invited everyone we passed on the street.
She urged them to visit our Hallelujah Spree.
She offered them The War Cry . People laughed or ducked down and pretended not to see us.
Some heckled and jeered. She tried the ballyman stationed in front of one of our dozens of dime museums, this one promising a preserved mermaid, but he waved her away.
She even tried her luck on a teenage girl in pigtail braids who stopped to ask us for directions.
“Pardon me,” the girl said, “can you point me toward Spring Street?”
“We’re soldiers in the Lord’s army of salvation,” Pearl told her proudly. “Would you support our cause by buying a copy of The War Cry , our news bulletin? It’s only a penny.”
I cringed. Not now, Pearl!
The poor girl looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I used up my money to get here, and then the fare on the Elevated…”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “There’s no need to buy a paper.”
Pearl scowled.
The girl thought the scowl was for her. She backed away. “I… can find my own way.”
“No, don’t,” I told her. “We can help.” I couldn’t direct her myself, so I cast a pointed glance at Pearl, who rolled her eyes as though this were the absolute last straw.
“Back up to Delancey,” Pearl told her tersely, gesturing up Chrystie, the way we’d come. “Take a left, then a quick right onto Bowery, and Spring Street will be your next left.”
“Thank you.” The girl took off up Chrystie with her little suitcase swinging at her side.
Pearl chafed. “What a waste of time. Think of all the passersby we didn’t invite.”
I thought of them, all right. They were the lucky ones.
It was now the hour when the last waves of working men and women tramped home, when the odor of boiled cabbage rivaled the ever-present smell of beer.
A steely sky overhung the city, and not just from coal smoke.
Saloons blazed with electric light, while from their upper rooms, red lampshades cast a lurid glow down upon the pavement.
On side streets, kerosene lamps lit tenement windows.
Everywhere except on Hester Street, where candles gleamed.
This, Pearl had explained earlier, was a largely Jewish neighborhood.
The sun had not quite yet set, so the Jewish Sabbath was about to start. The sense of expectancy was tangible.
Some passerby made a crack about a “pair of Sallys.” This gave Pearl a new vent for her anger. Other than me, I mean.
“?‘Sallys,’?” she muttered. “I hate it when they call us that. We’re soldiers .”
“It’s not as bad,” I reminded her, “as ‘Hallelujah Lasses.’?”
She directed a sideways glance my way. “You know, for someone so reluctant to enter that pub,” she said, “you certainly had a hard time tearing yourself away from the bar.”
I marched on, avoiding her gaze.
“Or was it the bar keeper ?”
“I was just doing my job.” I spared her none of my indignation. “Commander Booth says we should make friends with the barkeepers.”
“Friends?”
“I merely shook hands,” I said, “and politely introduced myself.”
A corseted older woman laden down with parcels paused to regard us curiously.
Once again, Pearl switched modes instantly. “Good evening, ma’am,” she told the startled woman. “We are soldiers in the Lord’s army of salvation. Would you buy a copy of our bulletin, The War Cry , for one penny, detailing our rescue labors on behalf of the working poor?”
“Ah.” The woman’s face melted like lard in a pan. “I’ve read about you dear girls,” she gushed. “You’re doing a necessary work for the poor, God love you. Yes, I’ll buy one.”
But her hands were too full of parcels. Soon I staggered under the weight of what felt like cast-iron pans for seventeen of her relations, so she could obtain the precious penny.
At last the woman and her penny, and Pearl and her War Cry , were properly parted, and we continued our walk. Nighttime was now full. The Bowery’s lights flaunted their brilliance in defiance of the gathering dark.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Sister Tabitha,” Pearl said, “that we are counted worthy to suffer ridicule for the Lord’s name?”
I’m not making this up.
“No, it isn’t wonderful,” I said. “It’s awful, and miserable, and embarrassing. I hate it.”
She gave me a wide-eyed look of righteous horror.
“You just said it yourself,” I told her. “You hate it when they call us ‘Sallys.’?”
“If I didn’t hate it,” she said primly, “then it wouldn’t be persecution, and if it weren’t persecution, we wouldn’t receive the blessings promised to those who suffer for Christ.”
“Seems it would be a lot more efficient,” I told her, “for you and for Jesus, if you just admitted that you like it.”
That got in amongst her. More efficient for Jesus! What a sacrilege.
“Make up your mind,” I said. “Hate it or love it. Wonderful or persecution. You can’t have both.”
Words failed her. Her retort was pathetic. “Oh? And what do you have, Miss Wise One?”
“A blister on my little toe,” I said, “from tramping around in wet stockings in the rain.”
Pearl smiled sweetly. The thought of my blister must have delighted her rotten heart. “?‘Count it all joy,’ the Bible says,” she told me. “From the Epistle of James.”
“Stay home in bed,” I replied. “From the Epistle of Me.”
She shook her head. “I keep asking myself, why are you even here?”
I choked back a bitter laugh. “You and me both.”
Pearl was now jumping up and down, waving on tiptoe to a figure across the street.
“Yoo-hoo,” she shrilled. “Mr. Laurier!”
“Mister” Percival Laurier, aka “Purse,” was all of nineteen years old, a new soldier in the Army, fresh from Pittsburgh, the rising star of our rallies and nightly preaching.
Unlike the farm and factory lads the Army usually attracts, Purse came to us with a passionate conversion story, a towering charisma, an athlete’s build, a Grecian profile, and, the absolute coup de grace, wavy dark curls.
Young female attendance at rallies, thanks to this paragon, was soaring.
May heaven help us all.