Page 8 of If Looks Could Kill
“We’re nothing but paperboys,” I grumbled to Pearl the next Saturday afternoon. We’d been following our desultory route from tavern to tavern ever since lunch, accompanied by a depressing drizzle that fit my mood precisely.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pearl said tersely.
“I left my home and my life todosomething,” I said. “Something important. Instead, I’m selling papers no one wants. To the poorest people in America.”
“Not the poorest,” Pearl said flatly. “You’re helping to fund the work.”
“There’s got to be a better way,” I told her. “What we sell doesn’t even feedus.”
“Have faith,” Pearl said. “This is what we’ve been asked to do.”
“Wouldn’t you rather help people?” I asked her. “There’s so much need all around.”
She was silent for a moment. It seemed she planned to ignore me.
“I know.”
Her tone stopped me in my tracks. It was soun-unpleasant. Just matter-of-fact.
“We are helping people,” she added, “but only those who come to our meetings. And they’re often the ones with no hope left at all.”
“It would be nice,” I said, “if we could help people before they hit rock bottom.”
“Oh, Sister Tabitha. If only we could lead them to the Lord.”
There she was, the Pearl I knew.
“Or have any kind of an impact at all,” I added, by way of keeping conversation going. This was practically the closest we’d come to a civil exchange.
“You’re so pessimistic,” she said.
Never mind.
The rain, after hours of indecision, made up its mind to pour. We crossed a street, leaping over the river of brown water coursing through the gutters, washing away manure and cigarette butts and sodden bits of pretzel. I wished I’d brought an umbrella.
Pearl paused for a moment under an awning to admire a display of red and blue hair ribbons in a women’s dress shop. I ducked under the awning to brush water droplets off me.
The wistful expression on Pearl’s face took me by surprise. It was plain: she wanted those ribbons. Suddenly, I wanted her to have them too. Not because she was my friend, for if anything, she was my nemesis from hell, but I wanted them for her anyway. Even the tiny allowance the Salvation Army gave us for necessities had room in the budget for a hair ribbon or two.
But Pearl had moved on. I hurried to catch up with her.
“You’d look pretty in those ribbons,” I told her. “Let’s go back and get them for you.”
She looked caught for a moment, then annoyed. “No, thank you.”
“It’s just a trifle,” I said. “I saw how you admired them.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Tell you what,” I coaxed, “we’ll both get some. You get the blue, and I’ll get the red.”
“It’s vanity,” she said flatly.
“Hardly,” I said. “They’re Salvation Army colors.” I thought that would get a smile.
“Sister Tabitha,” she said dully, “I don’t want the ribbons.”
“But you do,” I protested. “I know you do. You lit up at the sight of them.”
