Page 156 of If Looks Could Kill
His laughter shrills in his own ears. “Iama doctor,” he tells the man. “Get her out.”
“I just offered him peanuts,” she tells the man. “He knocked my tray out of my hands.”
The conductor sighs. “Well, clean it up, then, Louella.”
She bends to scoop peanuts off the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” Jack cries. “Leave me be! I’ve done nothing. I’m innocent!”
The man and woman exchange a look. Why isn’t the conductor slumped on the floor in a coma of her making? Even now, her serpents bare their fangs at Jack.
“Perhaps we’d best let this gentleman enjoy his privacy,” the conductor says.
The snake woman’s voice fades away as she leaves. “That rat owes me a dollar.”
Jack leans against the cold glass. This was a close one, but thank God, he got away.
When he opens his eyes from his next little doze, two well-dressedwomen sit opposite him. They smile invitingly. One is—no, she can’t be. The other—but all females look the same.
“Good morning,” says the dark-haired one. “I’m Giselle. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m in the entertainment business.”
“This is a private car,” he barks.
“And this,” she says, unpinning her hat and her hair, “is Nicolette, my French protégée. I believe you’ve already met?”
Down the corridor, the conductor and Louella share a they-don’t-pay-us-enough-for-this glance as the train’s whistle only partly drowns out the eccentric doctor’s screams.
The Bowery, Lower East Side, ManhattanTabitha—Epilogue: Slum Sisters(Tuesday, February 12, 1889)
“There’s an operetta Saturday night,” I told Pearl, “that Mike and I are planning to attend.”
Pearl slung her broom and mop over her shoulder. “Oh?”
“Freyda and her friend Ben are coming,” I told her, “and it sounds like Cora has a fellow who’ll join her too.” I hoisted up my box of supplies. “Would you like to come?”
She made a face. “And be the odd girl out?” she said. “No thanks.”
We climbed to the fourth floor. At noon, the windowless stairwell was as dark as night.
“I see what you mean,” I said. “What if we invited Paddy to come, to even things out?”
She pursed her lips. “You’re the world’s worst actor, you know that?”
“Actor?” I cried. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re still doing it,” she observed. “Lying through your teeth.”
“Paddy’s lonely, is all,” I said.
We reached the fourth floor. “Paddy’slonely,” she said. “That’s all you’re saying.”
A woman with disheveled hair answered my knock. Her skin was sickly pale, and ribs poked through her dress. She carried a tiny baby in one arm and had a little boy clinging to her ankles. A sodden diaper sagged around his bottom, and both nostrils streamed mucus. We heard the clamor of older children arguing and a man’s voice, between coughs, telling them to shut up.
She’s just a few years older than me, I realized. She looks like she’s lived three lifetimes.
The woman eyed us wearily. “I’m not buying anything,” she said, “and I don’t need any more religion.” She began to shut the door.
“I’m Pearl, and this is my friend, Tabitha,” Pearl said gently. “We’re not here to sell anything or to preach. We’re Slum Sisters with the Salvation Army. If we can be of any assistance, such as with cooking or cleaning or the children, we’d be very glad to help you.”
