Tabitha (5 page)

Opal laid great store by manners, elegance, and
sophistication. She invested money in the house’s furnishings and the girls’
clothing.

She drilled us relentlessly in conversation and diction. She
strove extra hard to eliminate my crude, illiterate, west Texas dialect,
slapping or pinching me if I lapsed into countrified speech.

She also trained us in “charm,” but what I am referring to
is the art of wit and guile—all aimed at flattering our customers and
encouraging them to spend more money.

At every turn, Opal sought to raise the standards of her
house and so attract a wealthier clientele—men to whom money presented no
impediment.

Opal graced her parlor with the best looking and best
“turned out” of her girls, those who could converse in an intelligent, clever
manner. She was always on the lookout for new girls who, with a little
training, would be an asset to her house.

At the same time, Opal could not abide a girl who, after
many lessons, continued to use incorrect grammar and whose speech or accent
remained coarse. Opal could not ask top dollar for
those
women, so any
woman who could not—or would not—be improved, she sold off to cheaper, less
discriminating brothels.

We heard whispers about the “working conditions” in those
places, rumors about the squalid cribs and the customers who were allowed to
mistreat the girls.

I was not obtuse: I watched Opal sell off girls who did not
comply with her standards, and I did not want to be one of them. I also had no
desire for Big Jim to repeat the last beating he’d given me back in Arizona.

So I learned what Opal demanded of me and I performed as she
required. In fact, because of my flaming hair, I became one of Opal’s “first”
girls, the ones who were in demand, the girls men reserved ahead of time and
paid a premium to do so.

How did I survive? How did I bear the horror of that first
year? Bereft of hope, I shut my feelings away. I denied the cries of my heart
until I was numb. It was not long before I learned how liquor, too, had the
power to temporarily deaden my pain.

You see, every drink a man bought for me (watered down, of
course) was money in Opal’s pocket. You can imagine then, how she encouraged
her girls to drink. Besides, Opal knew that a drink-addicted prostitute was
easier to control. Like the other girls, I gave in to alcohol. I was able to
face each evening by looking forward to the drinks with which eager men plied
me.

I stayed out of trouble for a while, but the self-preserving
restraint I exercised over my unruly temper started to shred, to unravel. One
morning I awoke and realized that my birthday had passed. I was now fifteen
years old—and had been for an entire month.

The fact that I’d forgotten my own birthday, that no one
else had remembered it, that no one cared that my birthday had passed
unnoticed—or ever would care—struck deep into my heart. I peered ahead into my
future and all I could see was another fifteen years, perhaps twenty, of the
same corrupting life.

Soon after we arrived in Kansas City, a new girl, a lovely,
delicate brunette with milky white skin, joined the house. Her real name was
Pauline, but Opal, in keeping with her theme, bestowed the illustrative name of
Pearl upon her.

Pearl was, perhaps, nearer the age of thirty than twenty.
She had been raised as a gentlewoman, a spinster who had never been required to
work. Apparently, Pearl had fallen upon hard times and had no family to help
her. Opal had glimpsed Pearl’s manners and beauty and had swooped in to
“rescue” her.

From her first day in Opal’s house, I knew Pearl would not
survive long. She’d been beaten into compliance like the rest of us, but she
had no inner reserves upon which to draw. The crushing blow of being forced
into prostitution had broken her spirit, and she succumbed to the snare of
alcohol almost immediately.

I do not know how she managed it, but within three months of
joining Opal’s house, Pearl was drunk nearly all the time. She no longer cared
for her clothes as Opal demanded. Her face was chronically swollen, her eyes
bleary from drink, her pearly white skin a sallow, sickly yellow.

The rest of us edged away from her, knowing one morning she
would be missing, sold away. The morning I awoke and realized that I had missed
my own birthday, Pearl was gone.

That was the morning I stopped drinking. That was the
morning my temper’s tamped-down embers again glowed hot deep in my breast. It
was not long before my smoldering anger showed itself.

As I related earlier, I despised the name Opal had foisted
upon me and the many “gentlemen” who asked specifically for “Red.” Out of my
anger, I invented many small ways to rebel against those men. My favorite game
was to (carefully, of course) denigrate those who denigrated me.

During the clever banter of the parlor or bedroom, I
delivered subtle jabs to the men who used me. I enjoyed watching my barbs
strike their mark, all while maintaining an innocent or come-hither expression.

Some customers were not quick or astute enough to see
through my sweet, guileless façade; others smarted under my verbal gibes. If
they reddened or grew cross, I soothed them with smiling platitudes—but it was
a dangerous game I played, baiting these men.

And then, of course, I made a mistake: I leveled my stinging
wit at the wrong man.

He was small in stature and carried a chip on his shoulder
because of it. He was a mean, vindictive little man, but he was intelligent.

He grasped my veiled insult to his size. The scene he caused
in Opal’s parlor—and my subsequent punishment—are still etched on my mind, but
I do not care to rehash the details.

Suffice it to say that it was a very bad night for me.

~~**~~

Early the next morning, while the other girls still slept,
Opal woke me. She bid me to rise and pointed at what I was to wear—my old
dress, the one I had been wearing when I came to her.

“Come down to the parlor when you are presentable,” was all
she said.

When I stepped into the parlor, Big Jim stood ready at
Opal’s elbow.

A large, vulgar-looking woman, all the more slovenly in
appearance for her soiled skirt and shirtwaist, looked me up and down. “Aye.
She’ll do.” She latched on to my arm with a hand like a manacle.

I clawed at the hand—until Big Jim flexed his fingers.

“What are you doing?” I stared at Opal. I was bruised and in
a great deal of pain from the beating I’d received the night before. But I was
still defiant.

“Meet Ethyl Moyer,” Opal muttered through thinned lips. “I
have loaned you to her for a time—time enough, I hope, for you to learn
gratitude
.
You are one of my best moneymakers, Red, but your attitude creates more
difficulties than benefits for me. Your attitude must, therefore, be corrected.
When you have learned to be
grateful
, and when you beg me to take you
back, I will
consider
doing so.”

Big Jim walked with us to Ethyl’s wagon and waited until I
was seated next to Ethyl. The woman did not release my arm until she’d clamped
a chain about my wrist. I screamed and pulled at the chain until Ethyl
backhanded me across the mouth. Still I screamed and struggled. She used her
fist then. When I stopped struggling, she released the brake and picked up the
reins while I cradled my bleeding mouth.

An hour later we arrived at a building every bit as slovenly
as Ethyl herself, and I began to understand what Opal meant by “learning to be
grateful.”

I had been with Ethyl two months when I began to feel
unwell. I was tired all the time, even in the morning, and parts of my body
were tender and sore. A customer complained to Ethyl about me. He told her that
I whined that certain things hurt me. Ethyl stripped me down, examined my body.
She said I was pregnant.

Tabitha looked away. “You and I have spoken of this, Miss
Rose. Ethyl brought in a woman to-to ‘take care’ of the baby. Is it all right
if I do not speak of it again?”

Rose nodded. “It is not necessary. I will pray about how to write
this part. Surely some of the girls who read your account
will . . . relate?”

“Yes, that is likely. I-I , well, after the abortion, I
became sick—so sick! For a long while I ran a fever and tossed in pain upon a
cot in a back room. The sweat poured from my body for days. I think Ethyl
figured I would die, and she stopped feeding and caring for me. But I did not
die.”

“No,” Rose whispered. “God preserved you.”

Tabitha sighed and took a sip of water. “Yes, he preserved
me. But, as you know, because of the infection I contracted, I will never have
children.”

She rolled her shoulders to ease the tension in them and
continued.

During the long weeks while the fever festered in my belly,
anger and hatred had festered in my heart. After my body healed, Ethyl put me
back to work, but I was not the same girl. I would never be again. Within a
week I was causing trouble—insulting customers, provoking other girls, defying
Ethyl. Anywhere and in any manner I might vent my anger, I did.

I did not care if Ethyl starved me. I no longer worried
about the beatings—I simply went elsewhere in my mind.

I just did not care anymore.

“Yer not worth m’ time, Red,” Ethyl snarled at me. “You hev
cost me more money’n you’ll ever make up t’me.”

She dragged me back to Opal and shoved me through the front
door into Big Jim’s arms. It was a triumph on my part. A small victory that
reinforced my resolve.

“I’m shut of ’er, Opal,” Ethyl declared. “A worse bargain I
ain’t ever made.”

No sooner had I been reinstalled in Opal’s house than I
rebelled against her rules. It was as though the old Tabitha had been
asleep—and had revived. I stared at the world with wide-open eyes, and
everything I saw,
I hated
.

Every outburst and disobedience earned a punishment. Opal
starved me. Big Jim beat me. Opal allowed customers free reign with me. Nothing
mattered and nothing changed. I may have feigned defeat more than once after a
punishment, but only until the bruises faded.

As soon as the pain eased, my resentment flared back to
life, and I invented a myriad of ways to express my fury. The customers
complained to Opal that I was not “accommodating” enough.

Indeed, I hated the men who expected me to smile and please
them. Customers who were drawn to my bright hair were as quickly driven off by
my caustic tongue. My behavior and reputation caused nothing but problems for
Opal, and no matter the punishments, I celebrated the few little victories I
managed.

Opal’s other girls steered clear of me—they had all learned
the hard way. However, I hated them just as much as I hated Opal. In fact, I
hated everyone.

But most of all, I hated Cray Bishoff.

Someday I will find you
, I vowed to him in raging
thoughts.
Someday I will find you and make you pay.
I fantasized meeting
him again, of surprising him. And I planned in detail how I would kill him. The
time I spent thinking and plotting filled my waking hours and haunted my sleep.
It was all I lived for.

Of course, Opal wearied of my surly disposition and the
problems I caused. At one point, she managed to sell me to an unwitting
customer, a man who had admired me from afar but who knew nothing of my, er,
disposition. He was a man Opal felt “would suit” my temperament.

Yes, he was strong and determined, but I did not care. I made
his life miserable. Two weeks later he dumped me back in Opal’s arms and
demanded his money back.

“Glad to be rid of you, you red-haired hellion,” he breathed
in my ear as he turned me over to Big Jim.

Opal stared at me, her hands fisting and unfisting at her
sides. “Lock her in the attic, Big Jim,” her words grated through clenched
teeth. “No water. No food. She will stay there until she capitulates. Or until
she dies. I do not care which.”

Big Jim hauled me up the three flights of stairs until we
reached the attic. He pushed me inside and I heard the rattle of the lock on
the door as he fastened it. I took a deep breath, confident that I had scored
another victory, and looked around.

The attic was empty except for the trunks we had used on our
trip from Silver City. Dust motes floated in the air, in cracks of light coming
from a vent at the front of the house.

When the sun set, the attic settled into darkness. I hauled
a trunk to the vent, stood upon it, and tried to peer between the slats. All I
could see were rooftops across the street, but even they were shrouded in
darkness.

I heard muffled voices from the floor below and lay flat on
the dirty floorboards, my ear to them. I could not make out any words, only a
little laughter and movement. Then doors closed and sounds faded.

They have gone downstairs,
I thought,
to begin the
night’s work
. Soon they would be bringing customers to their rooms. I did
not want to hear any of that activity.

Unexpectedly, the door to the attic opened and Big Jim lumbered
over the threshold. He placed a chamber pot on the floor.

Nothing else. No blankets. No water. Nothing.

I was left in the attic, without
food or drink, for four days before Opal appeared at the door. I was as near
death as a person deprived of water can be. I lay curled upon the bare floor,
my muscles contracted in spasms from lack of water. I had not given Opal the
pleasure of hearing me beg and scream for something to drink—but then again, by
the time I was ready to scream, my throat had been too dry to utter more than
croaking sounds.

Opal nudged me with the toe of her finely polished shoe. I
moved my mouth and tried to blink, but the lids scraped painfully across my dry
eyes. I gave up and kept them closed.

Opal squatted near me. “This must be your choice, Tabitha,”
she whispered.

I was, in some withered part of my mind, surprised to hear
my name, my real name, but I could not respond.

“This must be your choice,” Opal repeated. “You must choose
now if you wish to live or die. If you choose to die, very well. You will not
suffer much longer. Another day. Perhaps two, at the most.”

I turned her words over in my head. It was hard to think, to
string the thoughts together and make them stay put.
Another day. Perhaps
two.
I was past the frantic pain of thirsting. It would not be too hard
to . . . let go.

“However, if you choose to live, you must decide
now
that things will be different.” Opal’s voice cut through my confused thoughts.
“If you choose to live, you must change your mind and do all I expect of you.
No more rebellions. No more problems. Do you understand?”

As best as my distressed mind could, I weighed the two
options. Slipping farther away would be easier. The worst was over.

Except for the sudden niggle, a
frisson of fear that quivered its way through my chest.

“If you choose to live, Tabitha, you must capitulate to me.
Now
.
Choose, Tabitha. If you agree to surrender to me, open your eyes.”

She waited for my answer.

That fear,
the fear of death
, trembled in my breast.
The door to eternity loomed before me, and what lay beyond it terrified me. I
could not let go. I wanted to! Oh, I wanted to! I wanted to slip into oblivion,
to float far away from all pain and sorrow.

But the fear in my heart was not convinced that painless
bliss awaited me if I let go. I was scared of what lay on the other side. I was
not ready to die, and I knew it.

Opal urged me to surrender to her and live. She urged me to
choose.

Choose? Did I have any choices left? No, choice for me was
dead.

And so I was beaten. I had fought long and hard, but I was
defeated.

As real, as vivid as the
unmistakable rending of a length of fabric, I heard—
I felt
—my
will and my heart tear apart. My broken will
fluttered downward, into the abyss. What remained of my heart lay
bleeding and mortally wounded in my breast.

I opened my eyes and surrendered.

Tabitha dropped into a silent preoccupation with her own
thoughts. Rose turned from her scribbled notes to watch her.

“What are you thinking now, Tabitha?” she asked gently.

Surprised from her reverie, the red-haired woman smiled.
“Actually, I was thinking of how, at what could be deemed the second-lowest
point in my life, God reached out to me.”

Intrigued, Rose leaned forward. “Tell me what you mean.”

“I could not have known it then, but the fear I felt, the
fear that kept me from choosing death, kept me alive for the next thirteen
years. And even though I thought that I had come to the end of myself, I still
had not reached out to God, had not called out to him.”

“And?”

“And I think he placed that fear in me so that I would
choose to live. He kept me going, kept me alive, all those years that followed
after, so that when just the right time came, my heart would be ready.”

“
In the fullness of time, God sent his Son
,” Rose whispered.

“Yes. In the fullness of time
.
” Tabitha’s mouth
quirked in wry humor, “I thought I was at the bottom, but I had not yet reached
the end of myself, the place where I would, finally, cry out to God, and ask
for his help. I had not yet met Cal Judd.”

Rose shuddered at the mention of Cal Judd. She could absorb
no more of Tabitha’s revelations today, so she glanced at the clock on the
fireplace mantelpiece. “Goodness. We have been here for hours. Shall we break
off for the day, Tabitha?”

Tabitha nodded her agreement. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” Rose replied. “As soon as the girls leave for their
work and the house quiets.”

~~**~~