Page 104 of If Looks Could Kill
“Er, can you think of any places,” I ventured, “where Pearl might have gone?”
Purse shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind.”
Captain Paddy tapped his chin. “I wonder…,” he mused. “Sister Pearl loves music. Might she be, perhaps, at a music store?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think she could buy much at present.”
Purse Laurier looked away.
“Or listening to a recital somewhere?”
“There aren’t many of those,” I told him, “on Monday mornings.”
“I suppose not.” This boxer wasn’t about to give up on the fight. “She’s fond of the little ones, isn’t she?” The idea grew on him. “Have you tried checking the Foundling Asylum?”
“I haven’t,” I told him gratefully. “I’ll do that.” Maybe, the comfort of babies…
“We’d better go,” Purse told Paddy. “Lunch lines will be around the block by now.”
The boxer ignored this. “Sister Tabitha,” he said, “are you afraid Pearl is in some danger?” He produced a clean handkerchief and handed it to me. “Isn’t it more likely that she’s just gone home?”
“I believe she left of her own accord,” I said miserably.
“That’s a mercy, then,” Paddy said gently. “We’ll pray for her. And we’ll pray that she just went home for the rest she needs.” He thrust out a huge hand for me to shake. “We’re at your service. If we can be of any help, you have only to ask.”
At my service. One of them was, anyway. I sniffled and cried all the way to the Foundling Asylum, where, as I knew would be the case, nobody had seen or heard tell of Pearl. But thank God for Paddy Campbell. Thank God, in a time of need, for a friendly face and a sympathetic heart that cared.
Tabitha—At Ben Feldman’s(Monday, December 3, 1888)
I walked in a daze through the neighborhood, hearing little and seeing less.
What if Pearl was a prisoner somewhere? Trapped? Being tortured? What if, even now, she was in mortal danger?
Or maybe she was fine. The not knowing was enough to drive you to despair.
Some rescuer I was. It occurred to me that this was my entire Salvation Army experience in a nutshell. A flop of a rescue mission. All the urgency to address undeniable danger and suffering. No effective way to do it. Impotence, heartache, futility; giving up at last in defeat.
I wasn’t ready to give up yet, but I needed new ideas. I entered Freyda’s friend’s tenement building, climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor, and knocked on the door I took to be his.
Voices that had been murmuring inside stilled. I knocked again.
The door opened slowly, and a young man peered out at me. He wore a black fisherman’s knit jumper and a baggy worsted wool coat. The apartment was freezing. No coal in the stove to speak of. He admitted me into the barren, dingy flat. A spread of papers and a cold lamp sat upon a ricketytable with two chairs beside it. A shelf held a few metal dishes, and another held some old books. A small grimy window was the room’s only source of light. A door suggested another room beyond, probably a bedroom.
“I’m Tabitha,” I said. “Is Freyda here?”
He extended a hand. “I’m Ben Feldman.” He turned toward the door to the other room. “It’s all right.”
Freyda and Cora emerged, both dressed in men’s trousers and sweaters, with hair in loose braids down their backs. They looked exhausted and, curiously, smudged with ink.
“You look great,” I told them. “And you look terrible.”
“What happened to you?” demanded Freyda. “You’re a mess. Where’s Pearl?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I haven’t found her yet.”
Freyda’s expression made it seem like Pearl would turn up floating in the river.
“What do you mean, you haven’t found her?” Freyda demanded. “She has to turn up somewhere eventually. She’s as poor as a church mouse, isn’t she?”
