Page 42 of If Looks Could Kill
We left the busy artery and turned onto a quieter street of homes and respectable boardinghouses. No miserable tenement buildings here. No laundry dangling out windows.
I pointed Pearl’s gaze toward Grace Church looming over the rooftops a block away.
“I’m not so sure a church has any business being so grand and costly,” Pearl muttered. “Not when a hillside or a fishing boat was good enough for the Lord.”
“Yes, well, Jesus didn’t have New York winters to contend with,” I told her.
A cab pulled up ahead of us, and a man stumbled out, fussing with a voluminous ulster coat and the weight of a leather satchel. He paid the driver and turned about, colliding with Pearl.
“Watch yourself!” he snapped.
“Youwatch yourself,” I retorted. “We’re just walking here.”
Pearl looked at me wide-eyed. “You’re wearing your uniform, Tabitha,” she said in a low voice. “You can’t go around picking fights with people.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “These New Yorkers drive me crazy sometimes.”
“Does it ever occur to you,” Pearl asked, “that perhaps you’re turning into one?”
I looked at her sideways. Was Pearljoking?
“And, anyway, you are a New Yorker.” She was smiling. Pearl was smiling!
“I’m from New Yorkstate. That’s not the same as being a New Yorker. It would be like calling you a Philadelphian.”
“I’m from near Erie,” she protested. “The complete other end of Pennsylvania.”
“Exactly.”
We crossed Broadway, traveled one more block, and there was Grace Church in all its glory. Strains of organ music filled its front court. A placard proclaimed a Mendelssohn Magnificat organ and choir performance with an organist imported from London. Specially for Advent.PERFORMANCE FREE TO ALL (DONATION SUGGESTED).
Pearl’s struggle showed on her face. The pull of the glorious church, the heavenly music, and the congregants in winter finery versus Army disapproval of religious ostentation. Any hymn that didn’t sound fine played on an accordion plus a tambourine was too uppity for itself.
“Come on,” I coaxed her. “One little concert won’t hurt you.”
She heaved a martyr’s sigh and followed me in.
The magnificent church was full and bedecked for the season. The air was fragrant with pine boughs. Candles glittered throughout the nave, especially the great Advent candles on the chancel, though not, of course, the Christ candle. Not yet. A choir in the loft joined the organ, sounding like seraphim, which is a word that’s just fun to say, because I wouldn’t know if seraphs croaked like bullfrogs, but I’ll take the Bible’s word for it. Which is pretty much all we churchy types can do with the whole book anyway, from Genesis to Revelation. Take it on faith.
The chapel was full, but we climbed the steps and found seats on the edge of a balcony pew, and I lost myself in the beauty of it all. The organist, whose sweaty bald head shone in the candlelight, gave a performance from the heart, his hands manipulating the keys and registers, his feet treading the pedals as if there were three of him, while the choirmaster led his choir in a truly athletic feat of musicality.
The Mendelssohn drew to a close. The next piece, a leaflet said, was “Watchman, Tell Us of the Night.” Nearly fifteen minutes, and absolutely enchanting. The choir was sublime. Dad would’ve loved it. At its conclusion, applause thundered from the high-vaulted ceilings.
I turned to see how Pearl was enjoying herself. She wasn’t. Her face looked positively green. Her flesh seemed slack, and sweat beaded at the edges of her temples.
“What’s the matter?” I whispered. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t feel well,” she whispered back.
Had the sickness returned? “Come on,” I told her. “Let’s go.”
“Concert’s not over,” she murmured.
“Hang the concert,” I said. “We’re getting you home.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I can.”
“All the more reason,” I whispered, “why we’d better hurry.”
