Page 158 of If Looks Could Kill
I followed Becky into the kitchen and indicated her eye. “Are you all right?” I whispered.
Her expression fell. “Lem’s a good man,” she whispered back. “He’s just—he’s been sick, and out of work, and it frightens him. And when he gets frightened, he gets to drinking a bit too much.” She stood up straighter in a conspicuous show ofI’m fine and I don’t need your pity.
“I understand,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s a good husband,” she insisted.
Relief work, as I learned anew each day, is a complicated affair, and grinding poverty brings out the worst in many people. My job was not to pass judgment on her husband, though I had my own opinions. My job was to help this family thrive. None of them would thrive if Lemwere gone or in jail, that was certain. They would starve to death on the streets.
“The Salvation Army is holding a medical clinic on Saturday,” I told her. “Physicians will examine patients all morning.” I rested a hand on her arm. “Maybe they could do something about his cough? And that might help him return to work?”
Her eyes grew wide. “How much?”
“No charge,” I assured her. “Doctors are donating their time.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ll get him there. Where and when is it?”
I gave her the details, then followed her into the front room. Pearl still held the infant while the older children pored over my book and the diaper lad chewed on my wooden duck.
“Tabitha,” Pearl said, “why don’t you and Mrs. Palmer get some water for washing up?”
“Oh, yes,” Becky breathed. “I’ve been meaning to. The spout’s all the way in the backyard,” she said apologetically. “Right next to the outhouses.”
And down three flights of stairs. With four children, including two infants, and a sick husband to tend, it was no wonder Becky’s flat and its occupants were so grimy. She could never get away to fetch water and had no one to help her do it.
“That’s all right,” I told her. “A couple of trips will give us enough water to wash some diapers and laundry. We could heat some up for baths for the children too.”
“Take my guzunder when you go,” called Lem, helpfully offering me his chamber pot.
“Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and tidy up a bit,” Pearl announced. To the recumbent father, she said, “You wouldn’t mind holding this precious baby while I sweep, would you, sir?”
Lem, that prize specimen, frowned. “It always cries when I hold it.”
“Then you just need to get to know her better,” Pearl said sweetly,depositing the infant in his arms without waiting for permission and returning to the kitchen to collect her broom.
I brushed past Pearl on my way to the door. “Be careful,” I whispered.
She gave me a look of surprised innocence.Who, me?
Who’s the bad actor now, Pearl?
“Will you be all right in here, alone with him?” I asked her.
She winked at me. “Wrong question.”
Very funny.
“Pearl,”I warned.
“I’m only going to talk to him,” she assured me. “I promise.”
Suit yourself, and good luck to Lem. Pearl and I both knew what lay coiled beneath her angelic smile. She knew it well enough that, as far as I was aware, she never needed to show it.
I grabbed my bucket, and Lem’s putrid “guzunder,” and headed out and down the stairs.
Author’s Note
About Jack the Ripper
