Page 27 of If Looks Could Kill

On Thanksgiving Day, we fed a feast to hundreds of the Bowery’s poor, in revolving waves, all day long.

We feasted ’em and preached ’em and prayed ’em.

Many accepted the Word that day, stumbling forward with uplifted arms, falling down upon their knees to accept salvation and swear off sin and drink.

It may have been the Spirit that moved them. Or the mashed potatoes.

Between preparing the feast and then cleaning up the mess, we’d hardly slept the night before or the night after.

When all was done, my feet ached and my head throbbed.

The war for souls never takes a holiday, but even Captain Jessop agreed that we should all take Friday to rest. Pearl and I fell into bed in the wee hours of Friday morning grateful for the prospect of a full day off.

We woke around noon with scratchy throats, fevers, and headaches. So much for our holiday.

Some people grow softer, gentler, and humbler when illness brings them low.

Pearl Davenport is not one of those people.

It wasn’t until Sunday that we felt ready to rejoin the land of the living. We stayed home from any worship services, but by early afternoon, we felt ready to venture out.

“Let’s go see some of the sights of the city,” I told Pearl. “I’ll bet the shops are all decked out now for Christmas.”

“We should look for Cora,” Pearl said darkly. “Why do you suppose we haven’t heard back from Freyda? It’s been over a week.”

I shrugged. “A week was probably an estimate,” I said. “We’ll hear from her soon.”

“All the more reason to go look for Cora,” Pearl insisted.

“At this hour of the day, Cora’s probably sleeping,” I said. “Let’s do some strolling about, and later on we’ll head back toward the brothel.”

“All right,” Pearl said listlessly.

After a weekend trapped in our small room with Pearl, I would’ve enjoyed watching the sewers in operation, but I thought it might be especially fun to head uptown somewhat and look to see what the city’s grand churches had done to decorate for Advent.

“Let’s go see Grace Church,” I proposed. “Then we can go get a look at St. Mark’s Church in-the-Bowery.”

Pearl favored me with a bored look. “Why?”

“St. Mark’s was Peter Stuyvesant’s church,” I told her. “People say they see his ghost.”

She rolled her eyes at this.

“Come on,” I told her. “We can see all the shop windows. It’ll be fun.”

The weekend had brought December in its wake.

Now the air smelled of winter—a fresh and welcome scent compared to the usual odors of the city, but with a blade of cold that sliced its way through past your petticoats and underneath your stockings.

I led us on a zigzagging route to avoid the elevated trains running up the Bowery.

They blocked the light and dripped grease and cinders, making the city feel like the tunnels of hell, but on Elizabeth Street, blue skies appeared through the clouds.

I brought us out where East Fourth rejoined Bowery, where the Elevated left the old thoroughfare and turned north with Third Avenue.

I loved this feeling of freedom. For a few hours, we didn’t need to be Hallelujah Lassies, and we didn’t need to be pelted with peanut shells. We could enjoy ourselves. Appropriately.

“What’s so special about this church?” Pearl asked.

“My guidebook said it’s like a European cathedral,” was my reply. “Cross here.”

We left the busy artery and turned onto a quieter street of homes and respectable boardinghouses. No miserable tenement buildings here. No laundry dangling out windows.

I pointed Pearl’s gaze toward Grace Church looming over the rooftops a block away.

“I’m not so sure a church has any business being so grand and costly,” Pearl muttered. “Not when a hillside or a fishing boat was good enough for the Lord.”

“Yes, well, Jesus didn’t have New York winters to contend with,” I told her.

A cab pulled up ahead of us, and a man stumbled out, fussing with a voluminous ulster coat and the weight of a leather satchel. He paid the driver and turned about, colliding with Pearl.

“Watch yourself!” he snapped.

“ You watch yourself,” I retorted. “We’re just walking here.”

Pearl looked at me wide-eyed. “You’re wearing your uniform, Tabitha,” she said in a low voice. “You can’t go around picking fights with people.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “These New Yorkers drive me crazy sometimes.”

“Does it ever occur to you,” Pearl asked, “that perhaps you’re turning into one?”

I looked at her sideways. Was Pearl joking ?

“And, anyway, you are a New Yorker.” She was smiling. Pearl was smiling!

“I’m from New York state . That’s not the same as being a New Yorker. It would be like calling you a Philadelphian.”

“I’m from near Erie,” she protested. “The complete other end of Pennsylvania.”

“Exactly.”

We crossed Broadway, traveled one more block, and there was Grace Church in all its glory.

Strains of organ music filled its front court.

A placard proclaimed a Mendelssohn Magnificat organ and choir performance with an organist imported from London.

Specially for Advent. PERFORMANCE FREE TO ALL (DONATION SUGGESTED).

Pearl’s struggle showed on her face. The pull of the glorious church, the heavenly music, and the congregants in winter finery versus Army disapproval of religious ostentation. Any hymn that didn’t sound fine played on an accordion plus a tambourine was too uppity for itself.

“Come on,” I coaxed her. “One little concert won’t hurt you.”

She heaved a martyr’s sigh and followed me in.

The magnificent church was full and bedecked for the season.

The air was fragrant with pine boughs. Candles glittered throughout the nave, especially the great Advent candles on the chancel, though not, of course, the Christ candle.

Not yet. A choir in the loft joined the organ, sounding like seraphim, which is a word that’s just fun to say, because I wouldn’t know if seraphs croaked like bullfrogs, but I’ll take the Bible’s word for it.

Which is pretty much all we churchy types can do with the whole book anyway, from Genesis to Revelation. Take it on faith.

The chapel was full, but we climbed the steps and found seats on the edge of a balcony pew, and I lost myself in the beauty of it all.

The organist, whose sweaty bald head shone in the candlelight, gave a performance from the heart, his hands manipulating the keys and registers, his feet treading the pedals as if there were three of him, while the choirmaster led his choir in a truly athletic feat of musicality.

The Mendelssohn drew to a close. The next piece, a leaflet said, was “Watchman, Tell Us of the Night.” Nearly fifteen minutes, and absolutely enchanting. The choir was sublime. Dad would’ve loved it. At its conclusion, applause thundered from the high-vaulted ceilings.

I turned to see how Pearl was enjoying herself. She wasn’t. Her face looked positively green. Her flesh seemed slack, and sweat beaded at the edges of her temples.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t feel well,” she whispered back.

Had the sickness returned? “Come on,” I told her. “Let’s go.”

“Concert’s not over,” she murmured.

“Hang the concert,” I said. “We’re getting you home.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I can.”

“All the more reason,” I whispered, “why we’d better hurry.”

I slid my arm underneath her and hoisted her onto her feet. Her head flopped against my shoulder, her bonnet lolling down her back. The crown of her head burned hot against my cheek.

I began to be truly frightened. Pearl’s temperature felt unearthly. Fevers could be deadly. Could this be the onset of influenza? Cholera? Typhus? Smallpox?

We made our way downstairs to the exit. Ushers gave us vague looks of disapproval. I got her outside, set her upon the stone steps of the church, then went to the street to hail a cab.

One soon stopped, and I hurried back to pull Pearl up and steer her into the carriage. The driver, seeing my struggle, jumped off his perch and came to my assistance, but Pearl recoiled from him, almost with a snarl.

“She’s ill,” I apologized. “I’m sorry.”

It took all my strength to boost her up the steps and onto the cracked leather seat.

She lay down and tucked her legs up beside her, and threw an arm over her face. While the cab rattled over stone and brick streets, she lay as limp as a rag doll.

My mind raced. I would send a message to Captain Jessop to summon a doctor immediately. I would mobilize Emma and Carrie to fetch wet facecloths to keep Pearl cool.

Was Pearl dying ?

Don’t be so dramatic, I scolded myself.

“Pearl?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”

She groaned, I thought. I hoped.

Traffic was slow, slower than it ought to have been on a Sunday afternoon. When we finally reached our barracks, the streets were dark. I tried to lift Pearl gently.

“We’re home, Pearl,” I told her. “Let’s go inside so you can rest.”

She sat up, stronger than I would have guessed, and pulled her arm away from her face.

I could not see myself, so I can’t say whose face showed more horror, or more despair.

The image still haunts me, even now.

She wasn’t Pearl. She wasn’t herself. She wasn’t even human.

She was a fanged woman, a hissing face with blazing eyes, a lizard’s tongue, and instead of yellow curls, a writhing nest of golden snakes.