Page 34 of If Looks Could Kill
They’re only women, after all.
The Bowery, Lower East Side, ManhattanTabitha—Divide and Conquer(Sunday, November 18, 1888)
Pearl and I were prevented from keeping our promise to look for the girl in the window the next day by a surprise visit to our Army base by Commander Ballington Booth, who filled our ordinarily free time slot with a motivating sermon. One that, bless him, kept us glued to our seats for two hours plus. But the following Sunday, we took up the quest once more.
“We have two places we can look,” Pearl said that afternoon, back in our barracks room. “The crib above the Lion’s Den and the brothel.”
“Which one shall we try?”
Pearl’s jaw had a set look. “Both.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s start with the brothel, and next we can—”
“At the same time,” she said. “Let’s split up. Divide and conquer.”
Once again, Little Miss Rule Follower unveiled her devious side. So long as she considered the cause to be righteous.
“Incognito, I take it?” I said. “Dressing in normal clothes?”
She nodded.
“Which do you want?” I said. “The saloon or the brothel?”
“Said one Salvation Army girl to another,” said Pearl in an unexpected spasm of comedy.
“How about I take the brothel?” I said. “It’s… trickier.”
“Meaning only you can handle it?”
“Meaning,” I said, thinking fast, “an empty alleyway is harder to disappear into than a busy street. And I’m less… noticeable than you.”
She tilted her head. “Why do you say such harsh things about your appearance?”
Perhaps she meant to be kind, but was she really going to ask me to explain to her, toher, that I’d spent my life reminded by a chorus of helpful others of how unremarkable my looks were compared to more fortunate girls? That schoolmarms and church ladies and shopgirls commented on beauty so glibly that they didn’t realize how routinely they trod upon the feelings of girls like me—us fair-to-middling types? That I’d made my peace with it through finding other outlets in life more interesting than, say, hair, dresses, or hats? That I consoled and entertained myself with a running inner monologue lampooning the Beautiful Ones?
In short: that I was jealous and insecure?
No, thank you.
“I don’t know,” I said weakly.
“It’s uncomfortable for those around you.”
The poor dears. As though I should care about the beautiful others who’d never spared a thought for me.
“There’s nothing wrong with how you look,” she continued.
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
And there, exactly, is my point, I wanted to scream, the point I will not stoop to make aloud to you. Nothing wrong with how I look? Thank heavens. Here I was, thinking I shouldn’t go outdoors without a sack over my head.
“You needn’t be so sarcastic,” Pearl sniffed. “I was only trying to be helpful.”
I took a deep breath. “Thanks.” I tried to mean it. “But…”
She unbuttoned her jacket and hung it in our wardrobe. “But what?”
Breathe. “But,” I said, “when Purse Laurier—”
