Page 16 of If Looks Could Kill
This, I find, is especially true of good intentions.
With a night’s sleep and a clamorous city between us and the girl in the window, the idea of mounting some daring rescue now felt naïve and silly. To me, at least. Why just that one girl, and not the whole wicked industry? Why us, and not police or social reformers? What could we even do? What if we were wrong about her situation? What if I was wrong about who she was?
Yesterday, I felt sure I was right. Yesterday, it felt bold and heroic to assure Pearl that we would right this wrong. We would correct my oversight.
Today, I wanted to hide from all of it. I was no activist. No vigilante. Today, sellingThe War Cry(instead of raiding bordellos) sounded like marvelous fun. As we rose and dressed for the day, Pearl said nothing about it. I wondered if her fervor was cooling off too. Part of me wished we could just move on with our lives, and it would all go away.
But she’d been the girl asking us for directions.
It was Sunday. We’d held our morning knee drill (that’s a prayer meeting), and now, in the afternoon, it was time to throw open the doors for a Sunday rally. About twenty of us soldiers, plus a handful of officers, had swept off the platform stage and straightened the chairs, and now we were in various stages of tuning guitars, warming up on a pianoforte, and humming our salvation songs, set to the tunes of rowdy barroom ballads. Bring Christ to the people where they are, was Maud Booth’s constant plea. And fire up your preaching red-hot. You’ve got to grab souls by the collar and give them a good shake.
As for me, all I could find to do was to fuss over the great urn of coffee we’d brewed and fiddle with the cups. The hot, damp scent of coffee overcame the odor of blue serge Salvation Army uniforms, many of which were overdue for a good washing.
More notes (if you could call them that) began emerging from the various musical instruments (if you could call them that). Sister Jerusha Bean staggered around under the weight of a tuba and gave it an enthusiastic oompah. Pearl, behind me somewhere, warmed up her voice with running little trills up and down the scale. The show-off.
“Come on, soldier.” Captain Jessop tugged me on the sleeve. “It’s time.”
We flung the doors open.
If she’d expected to find a crowd queueing up, she was disappointed. A pair of pigeons were waited on the landing, and they flapped off at first sight of us. But a true Salvation Army sister-soldier doesn’t stay disappointed for long.
“Sing them in, then, Sister Tabitha,” she ordered, and began singing in her booming voice. I joined in, but I did not boom. I do not boom. Behind us came the whole throng of our comrades, instruments in hand, triangles and tambourines for many, and stentorian voices for the men. Officer Purse’s tenor soared over the rest, Pearl’s soprano wove around his, andSister Bean oompahed, and people did drift closer, stop, and listen. Gawk, to be precise.
“Come hear a story that will change your life,” cried Captain Jessop. “A Sunday sermon livelier than a Saturday-night show.”
“You a boxer, fella?” a man asked Captain Paddy Campbell.
“Ready to box a round with the devil, and no cover charge to watch!”
Officer Purse lured females with his golden voice and wavy hair. He sang them in off the streets and down to our basement corps and our rickety folding chairs. The band stayed outside to attract more flies to honey while Officer Rugger, once an organist, got to work on the tinkly piano, even though its terrible tuning pained his soul. I hid behind the coffee urn. Purse Laurier took the stand, and Sunday afternoon’s salvation work began.
“Before God woke me from my spiritual stupor,” he cried, “I was a vile sinner, steeped in the world’s wicked ways. My parents had raised me honorably, but my mother’s wish to see me at a university was my undoing. I partook there, not of the fruits of the tree of knowledge, but of the fruits of sin, and there I would be still, had not Jesus in his mercy come to save me….”
It was a stirring story, in its way, though possibly not the best fit for our impoverished and working-class audiences. Purse Laurier had packed a whole baccalaureate’s worth of debauchery into his freshman year. His eventual conversion to the Salvation Army led his father and mother to cut him off from their financial support. If our preaching is supposed to be red-hot, I’d say Officer Purse’s is more of a violet-mauve. The charm rubs off a bit after the fifth telling.
More audience members trickled in. One form looked younger, more upright than some. I took a second look and felt my face grow hot.
Twice in two days: Mike, the barkeep from O’Flynn’s. What washedoing here?
His gaze swept back and forth around the room until he caught mepeeping out from behind the coffee. He winked and tipped his hat. I gave him a weak, tiny wave back before rigormortificationset in and I hid from sight.
Why was he here? For salvation?
For Pearl.
It had to be for Pearl. Nothing about him fit the type of our usual recruits.
There wasn’t really a type. But if there were one, he would not be it.
I cursed myself for that silly, silly little wave. What was I, eight years old?
“Pardon me,” said an Irish voice. “Might I have a coffee?”
I couldn’t look at him. “You’re supposed to wait till after the sermon for the coffee.”
“Ah,” said he. “I wanted to beat the rush.”
Finally, I dared look up. “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.”
