Page 23 of If Looks Could Kill
Catchy.
“We’ll make soup and feed the hungry,” she continued. “We’ll provide access to bathing, sanitation, and basic health care. Then people might be in a position to receive the good word.”
“And if they’re not?” asked Sister Jerusha Bean.
“Then we will have fed them and healed them,” said Mrs. Booth. “As much as we can.”
Little Charlie scratched me with his razor-sharp fingernails. I made a little squeak of pain.
“Now, Charlie,” his mother said.
“He’s just having fun, ma’am.” I blushed. “I mean, Commander Booth.”
Our apartment-mate Carrie Lovett, a serious-minded Army soldier in her late twenties, spoke up. “Does this mean we’re abandoning the saloon ministry?”
Commander Booth shook her head. “Not at all, dear comrade,” she said. “There should still be time for evening saloon calls. By day, you’ll feed the hungry and help the sick.”
Our other apartment-mate, Emma Bown, who was Carrie’s roommate and around her age, said, “I think it’s a marvelous idea.” She set down her cup of tea. “I’ve long felt we could do more to help the poor here in the city with solid, practical assistance with basic needs, like food and sanitation.”
“But it’s the gospel they need,” protested Captain Jessop, between bites of cake. “A handout of food will only encourage them in their idleness.”
“That hardly seems fair,” I blurted. “When Jesus saw the hungry multitudes, he took pity on them and fed them. He didn’t judge them for why they were hungry.”
If you’ve never felt a dozen women gaping at your brazenness, I don’t recommend it.
The hush was broken and by, of all persons, Pearl.
“It’s not idleness,” she said. “Mostly it’s people with children to feed. People who got sick and lost their jobs. Employers who don’t pay. Landlords charging too much in rent.”
A prickly silence filled the room. Commander Booth relieved me of Charlie.
Captain Jessop calmed herself and regarded Pearl and me as one might difficult children.
“You’re young,” she said. “Idealistic. Bless you both; your sympathy does you credit. But when you’ve been engaged in charity work as long as I have”—she glanced at the nodding older women—“you’ll see that some people are incorrigible. Working the system. Going from mission to mission and church to church, taking every handout. Funds intended for the deserving poor. Spending every penny upon drink.”
I smoldered in silence. “Bless you both” nothing.
“Hunger motivates the poor,” explained Mrs. Jessop. “Why should they work, unless they’re hungry? Feed them, and they’ll return to drink like the dog to its vomit.”
“I disagree,” I said, and eyebrows waggled. “I’m not saying there aren’t real problems. It may take miracles to help those whose lives are ruled by opium or drink.” My voice began to quaver. “Maybe we can’t save everyone.”
My face grew hot, and my eyes pricked with tears. Not this. Not now.May the good Lord dunk my head in a toilet rather than let me become pathetic and weepy in front of these ladies.
“But Jesus said,” I went on, “that at the final judgment, the blessed would be those who saw the hungry and fed them. Saw the sick, and those in prison, and visited them. Regardless of why. To him, all God’s children are deserving.”
A murmur moved about the room.
“Well said, Sister Tabitha,” Maud Booth said. “It’s interesting that you would use that example. I hope, soon, to expand our ministry to those in prison.”
“Prisoners get their meals right enough,” said Sister Olive Crandall. “Three a day.” A few voices clucked in tacit agreement. As if, somehow, that was three too many.
Pearl sat ramrod-straight in her chair with cheeks flushed pink. “Hunger doesn’t build character,” she cried. “The kind of hunger we see here wears you down to misery and despair.”
Captain Jessop dropped a lump of sugar in the cup of tea she’d poured for Lieutenant Amanda Dillinger. “You speak as though you know.” Her tone said otherwise.
Pearl swallowed hard. “Since my father and brother died,” she said, “and there’s been no one who can really work the farm, my mother and I have usually been able to afford only one meal a day. Sometimes not even that.”
Now the silence stretched out between us like saltwater taffy.
