Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  Bruna’s words hit Ruth like an arrow in the chest.

  The truth.

  There was so much of it she hadn’t told Bruna. About Steadfast and Arthur, Charles Jarrod and her plan. Already, she’d lied more to Bruna than she’d ever lied to anyone. If her friend found out now, before Ruth was ready to tell her, Bruna might never forgive her.

  “Don’t be sore,” Bruna said. “It’s just that you have this way . . .” She struck a pose, chest out, hip cocked coquettishly. “The Spirit says someone in this room has a splinter in their spleen.” Bruna raised her hands in the air, inhaling theatrically. “That there is Satan’s splinter, the Lord God Jehovah says.”

  Ruth flushed. She did put on a bit of a show. And she liked to get a jump on the audience and call out her own infirmities. She felt there was less room for error that way.

  Bruna broke into song, winking seductively at Ruth and shimmying her shoulders. “Satan’s splinter, Satan’s splinter, Satan done put a splinter in your spleen . . .”

  Ruth shook her head, but she snorted with laughter in spite of herself. “Stop it!”

  “Admit it. That’s you to a tee!”

  Ruth slapped her shoulder. “Well, you’re just as bad!”

  “You girls cut out that racket or I’m gonna call the cops!” a man shouted from the other side of the pens.

  They smothered their giggles with their hands and walked on, past the fat, snuffling hogs and the assortment of goats and calves.

  “Didn’t you believe just a little bit, though?” Bruna said. “When the woman over in Nauvoo with the bent leg got it straightened out? Or what about that little boy in Leighton whose spots cleared right up?”

  Ruth pressed her lips together. She’d seen those things a few times. She called them “lightnings,” the strange electrifying bolt that came from nowhere and hit her—but she’d also seen the shams, like Bug’s shell games and Dr. Asloo’s flea circus. Did it make a difference whether the miracles were real or lies? The important thing was the money kept coming in.

  Bruna persisted. “You don’t believe that God works miracles through the touch of your hands?”

  “You know as well as I do,” Ruth said. “That we got our cappers, same as every fellow out there on the midway. We’re not that different from them, in a way.”

  “We are, though. We’re selling the Gospel of Jesus Christ, which is better than a celluloid doll.” Bruna had a look of such earnest confidence that Ruth had to look away, but Bruna grabbed Ruth’s hand. “Oh, come on, Ruth. You don’t really think we’re hornswoggling all of them, do you? You have to believe at least some of it. There are accounts of real signs and wonders out there. Maybe we don’t have enough faith to do them, but I’ve read about them.”

  “John G. Lake’s disappearing bullet? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Bruna lifted her chin. “Well, good golly, Ruth. If God is God, making one thing disappear or move to another place would be nothing for him. Just a wiggle of His pinky finger.”

  Ruth didn’t answer.

  Bruna pulled her to a stop. “You’re telling me you don’t ever feel it? That thing that goes through your body when you sing or prophesy or pray? When you put your hands on them? Don’t you feel them trembling? Don’t you tremble too? Feel it like a fire all over, just under your skin?”

  Ruth wanted to say yes. Because she had felt it. But even when that lightning feeling coursed through her, a part of her wasn’t sure if that wasn’t anything more than her mind playing tricks. Hadn’t she cried herself into a headache plenty of times? Drunk herself to sickness? Felt a boy’s touch lift her to euphoria? If the things she felt when she laid hands on people and prayed for them were miracles, then maybe everything was. She just didn’t know.

  Ruth gently loosened Bruna’s grip. “Don’t be mad at me. I can’t help it that I don’t have the faith that you do.”

  “You think I’m a dip, don’t you? A real dumb Dora?”

  “No—”

  “I suppose you’ll have a good laugh when I tell you I’m marrying Arthur, too.”

  Ruth stared at her friend, her eyes wounded.

  Bruna’s cheeks went pink and she plucked at the neck of her dress nervously. “I just couldn’t tell you, Ruth. I knew you wouldn’t like it. I haven’t told my parents either.”

  Bruna looked so lost, so sad, Ruth almost couldn’t bear it. “Oh, Bruna.”

  Bruna burst into tears.

  Ruth took her by the shoulders, then pulled her close. “You don’t have to do it, you know.”

  “But he’s done so much for me. For us.”

  “That may be true, and I appreciate it all. But you don’t belong to him. You belong to yourself.” She inhaled. “You know, if you marry him, he’ll never stop thinking he owns you. Is that what you want?”

  Bruna just wept.

  Ruth cleared her throat and spoke carefully. “Bruna, tell me. Do you want to be his wife?”

  Bruna paused for a very long time. “I don’t believe I do,” she finally answered and gasped out a small, ragged sob.

  Ruth gathered her friend in a fierce hug. “Then you don’t have to be.”

  She considered telling Bruna, then and there, about what Arthur had planned for the final night of the fair—about the revelation she was to have concerning Steadfast—but she was too scared. Bruna would be angry, understandably so. But then she might fly off the handle and confront Arthur, which would ruin absolutely everything. This whole operation demanded delicacy and care. Ruth couldn’t afford to make a mistake now.

  But what she could do was tell Bruna about the letter she’d sent to California.

  Ruth released Bruna. “I have a plan to keep the Hawthorn Sisters in business without Arthur.”

  Bruna’s eyes widened. “You do?”

  Ruth nodded. “I do. And it’s a doozy.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  Bobby Singley stood in the doorway of the maid’s room, tall and broad, lit from behind by the kitchen light like some modern-day angel in disguise. My heart slammed against my chest. What was Griff’s father doing standing in the middle of Jason Faulk’s house?

  I took an involuntary step backward, my brain ticking through explanations. Griff had asked Bobby to follow me from the restaurant for some reason. He’d been passing by, seen the lights, and I had forgotten to lock the front door behind me, so he wandered in to check if I was safe.

  But none of those reasons made sense, and I knew it. Fear crawled up my throat. My mouth had gone so dry I couldn’t swallow.

  He leaned casually against the cased opening, his arms folded over the War Eagle lanyard, and shot me that blinding smile again—so much like Griff’s and yet, somehow, not. “Fancy house, ain’t it? I always wondered what it was like to grow up in a mansion like this. Admired and respected . . . envied by everybody you know.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Oh, just saving myself a phone call.”

  I shook my head, not understanding.

  “Don’t worry,” Bobby said. “I told Helena and Griffin that I needed to take care of some business and to finish up without me. They’re having a high old time, mother and son. Without Dad, the old buzzkill, around.”

  He’d said it in a pleasant enough tone, but there was a barb there, buried beneath his words. “I . . . I’m sorry I had to leave,” I said. “There’s some stuff going on with my family. Business stuff.”

  “Dove’s business?” He flashed the smile again, blinding white with a dedicated golfer’s sun-cracked lips. “And you’re taking care of it here, at the future governor of Alabama’s house?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I love long stories.”

  I smiled uncertainly at him.

  He produced a photograph from his vest pocket. “That’s for you. A little visual aid for the lesson I’m about to impart.”

  It was a sepia-faded picture of th
ree people posed in the yard of a wood house. A boy, a dark-headed toddler in short pants. A man beside him, bearded, a stocky bull in overalls and a bandanna tied around his neck. A few feet away stood an older man, tall and thin in a full suit, a dusty black hat pulled low over his face. None of them were smiling.

  With a calloused finger, Bobby pointed at the man in the middle. “That’s my father, Robert Singley Jr. His father, Robert Sr., the one in the hat. The baby’s me.” He chuckled. “Bobby the third. What do you think of that, Eve? Three generations of Singleys, just fellowshipping on the farm. Ain’t that nice?”

  I couldn’t speak. My mind was reeling with too many pieces of disparate information. Griff’s father . . . that country accent . . . the zealous gleam in his eye at the restaurant when he talked about Dove. I’d mistaken him for a super-groupie, rather than a man who’d been nursing a grudge for decades. A man who’d waited a lifetime, planned carefully, thoughtfully, how he would rain vengeance down on those he held responsible for his misery . . .

  But I’d known. Somewhere in my deepest consciousness I’d known it the minute I’d seen him. I’d just ignored it. Ignored that little warning bell inside me. And now . . . now I was going to pay the consequences.

  Bobby continued. “My grandmama Anna—she ain’t in the picture, but let me tell you what. That woman was a saint. She sure was. Because, Lord, did Robert Sr. beat the stew outta her.”

  I still couldn’t make a sound. The words were stuck in my throat, blocked by fear. My brain wasn’t functioning correctly either. Not to make sense of what he was telling me. Not to formulate any plan of escape.

  I was Bobby Singley’s captive audience. Which was exactly what he wanted.

  “Well, now that wasn’t his fault,” Bobby was saying. “They say he was heartbroke over a woman. Sick in his soul, from way back, over a lying, thieving, murdering whore named Ruth Davidson.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Muscle Shoals, Alabama

  1934

  Somebody had arranged for a Salvation Army band to play with the Hawthorn Sisters, and when the girls lit into their first song—“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine”—the sound of the cornet, piano, and trombone nearly made Ruth shoot right out of her skin. That and the big slatted microphone in the center of the grandstand platform that shrieked and hummed and sent their voices bouncing through the crowd, then back home to their ears, was enough to send her reeling back into the canvas backdrop.

  It was strange, too, to be set up on the grandstand. She could only see the tops of people’s heads, their straw panamas and jaunty white berets, sedate cloches above tweed and serge suits, silky dresses, and overalls. But it was all too clear—everyone, even the farm folk, had donned their best for the Hawthorn Sisters show.

  The girls sang the new songs they’d practiced: “In the Sweet By-and-By,” “It Is Well with My Soul,” and “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” The crowd clapped and swayed and sang along. Ruth even saw a few ladies dabbing at the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs.

  During the songs, Ruth scanned the crowd for that shock of light-brown hair, film star face, and broad set of shoulders. But Charles Jarrod was nowhere in sight. Had his secretary really sent her letter to South Africa? Would he have even read it? And would he travel all the way to Alabama just to help a couple of girls out of a jam?

  There was no reason for him to do such a thing. The Hawthorn Sisters might be popular in one tiny corner of the world, but when you got down to it, they were small potatoes. If Jarrod agreed to take them on, it would only be out of his generosity of spirit. But there was a chance.

  During Arthur’s preaching, there were the regular sightings of angel wing feathers and smears of holy oil appearing out of nowhere on people’s foreheads at Wednesday night’s meeting. A few folks spoke in tongues and one fainted, then several shouted that they saw glints of gold dust appearing on their fingertips. Afterward, Bruna called out ailments, inviting the crowd to come to the stage for healing. Migraines, diabetes, cancer, palsy, neurasthenia, and lungs burned by chlorine gas. Crooked spines and necks and legs and arms. Drunkards who wanted off the drink and smokers looking to quit.

  It was overwhelming. People clawed at the girls’ dresses and sobbed into their chests, as Bruna and Ruth prayed and laid hands, declaring the healing of the Lord until they were hoarse. At last, thankfully, they got pushed off the stage so the next performers, an acrobat troupe from Memphis, could go on.

  “We’ll be the last show on Friday,” Arthur assured them backstage. “We’ll rake in the dough then. You wait.”

  Ruth collapsed on a wood crate and gulped cold lemonade from a thermos. Elation buzzed through her. She had felt what Bruna had been talking about earlier—the fire. She’d felt it pass between her and every single person she’d touched. Was that the Holy Ghost? That spark of divine connection between a mere human and the Most High? Or was she just hysterical with nerves because of what lay ahead?

  She couldn’t tell.

  She glanced over at Bruna. Her friend was pulling at the knuckles of each finger, cracking them slowly, one right after another. If only Ruth had seen Charles Jarrod in the crowd, why then she could give Bruna some reassurance. But all she could do was keep hoping.

  “Be right back.” She leapt up and headed down the alley, intending to hit the outhouse. Just beyond the row of animal pens, she hit an immovable wall of musty-smelling black wool. She backed up a few steps.

  “Sorry, mister.”

  But large, strong hands gripped her and held her still. It was a tall man dressed in a scratchy wool coat and vest, and for a moment—one terrible, electrifying moment in time—she thought it might be the ghost of Old Steadfast come to swallow her soul.

  “Ruth,” he said in a deep, melodious voice that made her insides quake and her blood chill. The smell that clung to him, oranges and cloves, made her feel sick to her stomach. She pulled away, but he held her fast and leaned closer. He was thin, angled, sallow. If the devil had a face, she thought, this would be it.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” The man’s voice shook. “Reverend Robert Singley, at your service. At your pleasure. We first made our acquaintance at the asylum, although I’ve followed your career since.”

  She turned away, searching frantically for Bruna and Arthur. But they were nowhere in sight. No one was. The area behind the grandstand was now deserted and barely lit.

  “I have to go, mister.” Ruth tried to wrench free, but Singley locked her arms in his grip.

  He pulled her so close his face pressed against hers. He let out a moan—a horrible combination of craving and loathing that raised goose bumps on every inch of her skin. She remembered him. The preacher. Jimmy Singley’s uncle.

  “I really do have to go,” she said again, twisting this way and that.

  But he shook her, then closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Ah, yes. My Ruth. My harlot.”

  Fear engulfed her—a burning, all-encompassing sensation she’d never felt before, not even when she’d been locked in the cage with the lion. This was the glitter of a lion’s eye and the gleam of his teeth. A predator sizing up his prey, but with the prudence and cunning of a man.

  “I’ve seen the boy,” he said. “Your young man. I told his friends that the police had their sights on him, and I expect by now he’s somewhere in Kentucky. Now it’s just me and you, nobody else between us.” He leaned his face closer. “I’ll find him later, don’t you worry. Maybe gut him like a fresh-killed deer. Let him cry for his mama and die with his innards spillin’ out every which-a-way.”

  She let out a gasp, so strangled with fear that it was barely audible.

  He warmed to the sound, his eyes burning with fervor. “I tell you, Ruth, nobody will come between the two of us. We’re bound to each other for life with the ties of duty and affection and blood.”

  She felt faint. God had sent the man here, to punish her. She’d played with fire. She’d pretended to be the voice of God and now He was demand
ing retribution.

  “Hey, look-a-there!” came a voice a few yards off. “Look at them turtledoves.”

  Singley startled and loosened his grip the slightest bit, but Ruth was too lost in horror and panic to notice who the voices had come from. She could only see the Reverend Robert Singley. As she looked into his gaunt face and black eyes, a fragment of an old memory drifted into her mind.

  “Sittin’ by the roadside,” she said faintly to herself, “on a summer’s day . . .”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “How’s that?”

  She didn’t quite know why the song had come to mind, but it had and now it was bolstering her courage.

  “Talkin’ with my comrades to pass the time away . . .”

  The reverend looked down at her, nostrils flared, lip curled. “Well, now. What are you—”

  Her head lolled to one side, then the other, and her hips swayed. She felt her voice grow stronger. She offered him a little wink. “Lyin’ in the shade underneath the trees. Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas.”

  He darkened, then gripped her arm again and shook her. “I said hush! Hush up, you nasty whore!”

  She moved closer to him, whispering the last words, slowly and seductively, relishing each word. “Peas, peas—” Ruth hit him hard, a savage elbow jab to his belly. “Peas, peas . . .” Another shot with her knee, swift and sharp to the softest part of his groin. “Eatin’ goober peas!”

  He doubled over, wheezing and whimpering. Ruth slipped out from under his arms, losing him in the crowded midway. She didn’t slow or look behind her until she was all the way past the animal pavilion. And by then, he’d vanished.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  “My grandpa was in love with Ruth Davidson, your beloved grandmother. What do you think about that?”

  I glared at Bobby Singley, focusing the weight of all my disdain on him. “I don’t think anything about it.”