Page 41 of If Looks Could Kill
He’s fallen for it. He opens his eyes against his will, against his better judgment.
Dozens of copper eyes.
Fear seizes his brain. A rabbit trapped in the glare of a viper in the grass.
He topples backward as the paralysis strikes, landing with his head hitting the mattress, but awkwardly; the rest of him crashes onto the floor. His tailbone stings, as does his neck. His mind, it seems, is slower to succumb.
Gorgons of legend could turn you to stone. Gorgons today aren’t what they used to be.
Or maybe he’s more than they knew how to handle.
He will keep his eyes closed next time.
She doesn’t know what he’s famous for. He can murder as well in the dark as in the light.
The Bowery, Lower East Side, ManhattanTabitha—Grace Church(Sunday, December 2, 1888)
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 broughtus 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.”
