Page 90 of If Looks Could Kill
Pearl’s stomach clenches. To her surprise, hot tears of embarrassment spring to her eyes.
“Don’t cry, baby,” the handsome one says, slinging himself into the seat beside her and draping an arm around her. “I’ve got you. I’m going to take real good care of you.”
“Yeah,” barks the other one, kneeling on the seat before them and hovering over Pearl. “Nick takes real good care of all his girls, doncha, Nick?”
The scent of them overwhelms her. Beer and sweat and the mildewy tang of hair, of wool coats never properly dried. She coughs away the foulness of them.
Nick’s arm curls more tightly around Pearl’s neck, bending her face unwillingly toward his. He leans in close and fixes an intense gaze upon her.
“You better believe it, baby,” he tells her. “Tonight’s your lucky night.”
“Get off me,” Pearl hisses. “Not interested.” She tries to stand, but his arm pinions her shoulders to the seat, and she can’t rise. Nick and his toady laugh uproariously at this. Her cheeks are spattered with both their spittle.
The train begins to slow down.
Nick reaches a hand to slide it under her coat at the bosom. She slaps his hand away. His lip curls in anger until he is distracted by an accidental discovery. Under her coat, her uniform.
“What have we here?” says he. “Lou. This bundle’s in the Salvation Army! Hallelujah and praise the Lord!”
They roar with laughter.
The train jerks to a stop.
She prays for a door to open, for someone to step on this train so she won’t be alone. Someone who might respond if she screams. No one does. The train starts forward once again.
The two youths arrive at the same conclusion. No one will interrupt their fun.
Lou, the toady, pulls a long face. “Take my soul to Jesus, Li’l Bo Peep,” he mocks her. “I’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
“Give us a kiss, Peep.” Nick nuzzles closer to her. She turns away at his beery breath.
Another dancing girl flashes by in a window. Lou notices her and giggles. He pokes Nick. “Take apeepat her, eh?”
Nick makes a lusty growl to the hilarious amusement of Lou.
In that instant, a calm settles over Pearl.
She realizes she is not afraid. Angry, yes. But not afraid. Why not?
Who is she?
Pearl Davenport, daughter of poor farmers from outside Erie, who jumps from the train.
Pearl Davenport, daughter of Miss Stella, the Manslayer.
Pearl Davenport, daughter of God, glory-bound.
A string of Pearls. (Tabitha would like that.) None of them need be afraid.
But she is none of them. She is her own self. She will be her own Medusa. Perhaps she’ll die at her own hand or at the hand of the Devil of Tenth Street. But tonight, she’s unafraid.
“Boys,” she whispers, “want to play a game of secrets?”
“Now you’re talking.” Nick presses closer into her side. Lou isn’t sure where he fits in.
“We can all play,” she says. “I’ll tell you a secret, and then you can tell me one.”
“I bet a Sunday school miss like you’s got some good ones.” Lou is almost drooling.
