Tommy woke extra early and completed his chores for Mama and Miss Violet before the winter sun hinted at its rising. He spent the rest of the morning selling prayers. He managed to get two housewives and a farmer to buy, but his sentiments lacked verve. His pay reflected it. Perhaps he’d been fooling himself thinking he had a special way with soothing words.
On the way home he stopped at the post office. He was shocked to discover that Pearl no longer worked there. She’d quit without mentioning it. And the next shock came with the news that there was a postcard from Leon. The card said: All’s well so far. That was it. It wasn’t much, but he gave the information to Mama, who was as relieved as he.
He returned to the shed, hoping to be able to apologize to Pearl, to swear he’d shape up and prove that he was worth her initial trust, her constant belief in him until he caused that to waver. But she wasn’t there. He wasn’t unburdened with her absence, he was unmoored. He went to Miss Violet’s to see if Katherine might know where Pearl went and to give her the prayer he’d written for her. But when he entered, instead of Katherine he found Pearl.
She stood with a wooden spoon in one hand, her other balled on her hip. “Katherine’s still having tired spells. I took over the kitchen. I’m fully employed with Miss Violet.” She tapped a book on the table. “And yer name ain’t listed there as allowed to enter.”
“I do half the chores in the house, Pearl.”
“Well, Miss Violet’s sick as a dog. And you ain’t listed as allowed access other than first light and last light of the day. So go on. I won’t be fired for your stubbornness. Out.”
He sighed and left.
He needed to prove himself, and part of that was paying his debts. Though it unnerved him, he did it. He went to Churchill’s Saloon barely registering new posters in the window, ads for a “Sophisticated Soiree.”
He offered the few coins he’d earned from prayers that day and convinced the barkeep to let him work off his debt. He even threw in a prayer for the man’s dying mother to clinch the deal. Tommy spent the rest of the day tending bar, resisting the urge to sneak shots, ignoring the lure of using booze to ease the tangle of nerves that kept up a steady surge of pain at having lost Pearl on top of everything else.
He erased five of the ten hashmarks next to his name when he was done working at the saloon and shuffled home, grateful not to have gotten lured into playing faro or poker, thankful Hank and Bayard hadn’t shown up, that the reverend hadn’t caught word he’d freelanced selling prayers earlier that day.
The shed was empty. No Pearl. No Fern. No Frank. This was the last thing he thought of when he fell into a dark sleep, the silence, his own breath, little reassurance that the next day could be better at all.
He woke with the evening having fallen, dark and thick. The fire illuminated the space enough for him to light the lantern and decide he needed to find something to eat for dinner. Thinking of Pearl, of Frank the crow, of everything that pained him, part of him would have been fine never getting out of bed.
The only thing that kept him from worrying Miss Violet might encourage Pearl to put those lambskins to use was that she wouldn’t put up with such an idea. She would leave if it came to that—wouldn’t she? He told himself she would.
His head pounded with indefatigable anxiety. He looked to his left and saw a glass of water. Pearl must have put it there. He leaned over the edge of the loft. Fern laid by the fire with a full bowl of water. Frank had his own little dish on the mantel.
“Pearl,” Tommy said aloud.
Frank took off from the mantel and landed on Tommy’s shoulder, rubbing his feathered head against Tommy’s cheek.
“Angel,” Frank purred the word.
Tommy startled then stared at Frank. “She is.” He stroked Frank’s back, marveling at him.
Angel. Frank flew away, settling between Fern’s paws, under her chin. Tommy’s guilt at how he treated Pearl deepened. He was devastated that he’d been mean, that he formed such awful thoughts, harbored the deep resentment, that he allowed the words out of his mouth.
He chugged the glass of water and saw there was a note half tucked under her side of the mattress. His hands shook as he read.
Dearest Tommy,
A few days past sinse we spoke. I wont speak to ya anymor. Ya muddeed my afecshun with yer unwarented anger.
Tommy ran his hand through his hair.
Stop gamblin and stop swipin things wile sellin prayers if ya still ar. I dont wanna speek, but I don’t wanna see ya in jail, beat to all hek. I took werk at the saloon in addishun to kitchen duties. If I see ya there, I’ll tell em toss ya out on yer tale. For ya I’ll do that.
Yer welcum.
Pearl
The letter tore at him. He was angry with her but tickled at the sight of her pretty writing, even if her spelling was worse than ever. He was so confused. Part of him wanted to tell her what he felt for her. Part of him wanted to yell at her for being so high and mighty. Leaving him water like he was one of the animals. Telling him what to do in her gently, but directly written letter.
But the saloon? Had she been hired before he was given the chance to barkeep or after?
Tommy got dressed, fed the pets, then started toward Churchill’s. A newspaper boy caught his attention, shouting about Dreama and mobs forming to get to the bottom of her dealings.
He cut across the street and told the boy to hold the paper up so he could look at the front page without buying it.
“My boss’ll have my head if’n he catches me lettin’ ya do this.”
Tommy nodded. “I just need to see this one story.”
The paper indicated that questions were accumulating around Miss Violet’s business practices. Judge Calder and the reverend were quoted, giving their full voices to supporting her.
He cocked his head to get a better view of a second article. The boy shifted it away. Tommy gave him two pennies for the glimpse. Another article indicated a shift in Dreama’s readings. A chill ran through Tommy. Katherine was still weak, too weak even to work in Miss Violet’s kitchen. Surely she wouldn’t try to hold readings as Dreama again. Katherine might have been intuitive—something clearly informed her ability to comfort others and connect in a way that was otherworldly—but five articles on page one of the Register indicated groups were swirling with anger, questions, demands that Dreama prove her ability, maybe even in front of the courts. One article intimated there were powerful forces at work with Dreama, but not the kindly, celestial type. Powerful men and wealthy women held answers to Miss Violet’s success, and one reporter would not let go of that idea. He listed establishments that he deemed associated with the unnamed power brokers, and one of them was Churchill’s Saloon.
Tommy checked the date on the paper again since he was so used to reading old papers.
“Hot off the presses,” the newsboy said.
Tommy got a strange feeling in his gut about Pearl. He didn’t like the idea of her working at the saloon at all, but seeing Colt Churchill’s name listed in the paper made him wonder if it would soon be part of one of the judge’s phony “clean up the town” campaigns. Phony or not, time in jail was as real as his beating heart.
He ran to the saloon and peered into the windows, dimly lit from the inside. He searched for a flash of red hair or a girl pumping her arms as she moved across the room to wipe down tables or something. Just a couple of blondes. He scooted to the next window. It gave a better view through widely parted drapes. He saw Judge Calder and drew back. Tommy forced himself to look again. Calder was often at Miss Violet’s meetings, but something seemed different. Yes, it was a social gathering, not business. Judge Calder pulled one of the blondes into his lap and kissed her hard. She straddled him and ground into him, arching her back, hair washing back and forth.
Tommy was surprised he could still be stunned by that man. He shifted and peered through the curtains at another angle, straining to catch sight of Pearl.
A cellist, violinist, and pianist played, and more women dressed in gowns mingled with men. A new atmosphere for the saloon. There had been signs this event would be happening when he worked there the day before. It looked as though they had taken a gathering intended for the sophisticated group that normally met at Miss Violet’s and moved it to the saloon.
The reverend stepped into view. He was looking all the ladies over. A flash of red caught his eye. Pearl. She held a tray of fluted glasses toward the reverend. Her face appeared nervous, as Tommy would have expected. She was new at serving. The reverend pushed the tray aside, and another woman took it from Pearl.
The world seemed to slow down as Tommy watched the reverend take Pearl around the waist with one arm and pull her into him. She jerked back, knocking the drink tray out of the woman’s hands. Reverend Shaw hiked up Pearl’s dress, his hand clawing up her leg.
Pearl struggled, turning her face away from him. Tommy burst into the saloon and stormed toward the reverend. The older man straightened, looking at Tommy, eyes wide. Judge Calder stepped in between them.
Pearl pulled and twisted against the reverend’s grip.
“Leave, Arthur. This is a private event.”
“I belong to this club,” Tommy said.
“Well, your debt puts you on probation.”
Tommy eyed the board. The hashmarks he’d erased the day before were back. “Let her go, Reverend.”
The reverend leaned into Pearl, holding her tighter, his fingers caressing Pearl’s leg, moving higher. Tommy jerked to the side to get around the judge who reacted quickly, blocking him.
Anger swelled, and Tommy balled his fist and swung at the judge, connecting with his jaw. The large man stumbled back, and Tommy leapt. The reverend’s eyes went wide again and his grip on Pearl loosened as Tommy charged. He grabbed Pearl’s hand and pushed the reverend onto his ass as they barreled past him.
They were out the door, running, their breath loud in the quiet evening. It didn’t take long before the judge was close behind, exceptionally fast for his large size. Tommy and Pearl bolted past closed storefronts and swerved between wagons.
But as they were taking one corner close, hoping he’d run right by them, Pearl tripped. She flew face-first into the muddy street, knocking the wind out of herself.
She looked up at Tommy and formed the word “Go” without any air to carry it to his ears. Tommy shook his head. He reached for her as she reached for him, their hands clasped.
Tommy was grabbed from behind. He held tight to Pearl as he was wrenched and yanked. She rose to her knees, holding his hand tight. But the judge tugged Tommy hard, and he lost his grip on Pearl, his fingers slipping over hers, their fingertips the last thing to separate before the judge called to two policemen from across the street.
As the policemen pulled Tommy away, he saw Pearl on her knees, the fancy dress covered in filth as she stared after him, her outstretched hand reaching, her face pleading, as he was dragged around a corner and out of sight.