Page 4 of If Looks Could Kill
I marched on, avoiding her gaze.
“Or was it the barkeeper?”
“I was just doing my job.” I spared her none of my indignation. “Commander Booth says we should make friends with the barkeepers.”
“Friends?”
“I merely shook hands,” I said, “and politely introduced myself.”
A corseted older woman laden down with parcels paused to regard us curiously.
Once again, Pearl switched modes instantly. “Good evening, ma’am,” she told the startled woman. “We are soldiers in the Lord’s army of salvation. Would you buy a copy of our bulletin,The War Cry, for one penny, detailing our rescue labors on behalf of the working poor?”
“Ah.” The woman’s face melted like lard in a pan. “I’ve read about you dear girls,” she gushed. “You’re doing a necessary work for the poor, God love you. Yes, I’ll buy one.”
But her hands were too full of parcels. Soon I staggered under the weight of what felt like cast-iron pans for seventeen of her relations, so she could obtain the precious penny.
At last the woman and her penny, and Pearl and herWar Cry, were properly parted, and we continued our walk. Nighttime was now full. The Bowery’s lights flaunted their brilliance in defiance of the gathering dark.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Sister Tabitha,” Pearl said, “that we are counted worthy to suffer ridicule for the Lord’s name?”
I’m not making this up.
“No, it isn’t wonderful,” I said. “It’s awful, and miserable, and embarrassing. I hate it.”
She gave me a wide-eyed look of righteous horror.
“You just said it yourself,” I told her. “You hate it when they call us ‘Sallys.’?”
“If I didn’t hate it,” she said primly, “then it wouldn’t be persecution, and if it weren’t persecution, we wouldn’t receive the blessings promised to those who suffer for Christ.”
“Seems it would be a lot more efficient,” I told her, “for you and for Jesus, if you just admitted that you like it.”
That got in amongst her.More efficient for Jesus!What a sacrilege.
“Make up your mind,” I said. “Hate it or love it. Wonderful or persecution. You can’t have both.”
Words failed her. Her retort was pathetic. “Oh? And what doyouhave, Miss Wise One?”
“A blister on my little toe,” I said, “from tramping around in wet stockings in the rain.”
Pearl smiled sweetly. The thought of my blister must have delighted her rotten heart. “?‘Count it all joy,’ the Bible says,” she told me. “From the Epistle of James.”
“Stay home in bed,” I replied. “From the Epistle of Me.”
She shook her head. “I keep asking myself, why are you even here?”
I choked back a bitter laugh. “You and me both.”
Pearl was now jumping up and down, waving on tiptoe to a figure across the street.
“Yoo-hoo,” she shrilled. “Mr. Laurier!”
“Mister” Percival Laurier, aka “Purse,” was all of nineteen years old, a new soldier in the Army, fresh from Pittsburgh, the rising star of our rallies and nightly preaching. Unlike the farm and factory lads the Army usually attracts, Purse came to us with a passionate conversion story, a towering charisma, an athlete’s build, a Grecian profile, and, the absolute coup de grace, wavy dark curls. Young female attendance at rallies, thanks to this paragon, was soaring.
May heaven help us all.
Spitalfields, East LondonJack After Annie(Saturday, September 8, 1888)
