Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

Ruth jostled her shoulder and winked out at the people. “Or the night. At any rate, let us ‘rejoice and be glad in it’!” She snuck a glance at Arthur. His arms were folded, and he was pouting.

  The girls smiled out over the crowd, giving the band a chance to catch up. They were dolled up—curled hair, bright lipstick, and matching slate-blue dresses with tulip-puffed sleeves and soft coral piping that Arthur had bought at Rogers Department Store. Earlier that day when they’d tried them on, Ruth had to keep straightening hers so it wouldn’t slip off one shoulder or the other. Arthur had gotten the smallest size they had, but it was apparent it was too big.

  “There’s no time to take it in.” Bruna pulled at Ruth’s collar, then the waist. The dress swam around her.

  “I’ll wear the green one,” Ruth said. “I like it better anyway.”

  Arthur put his hands in the trouser pockets of his new tweed suit and shot her a disdainful grin. “You won’t wear the green. You’ll wear the dress I bought you.”

  “With our money,” Ruth retorted.

  “What do you mean by that?” he shot back.

  “You know you’ve been cutting into our shares. I see how much goes into those plates, and the math don’t add up.”

  “Like you can add worth two toots,” Arthur sneered.

  “You two,” Bruna said.

  “Excuse me,” Ruth said. “I don’t remember the Hawthorn Sisters making you costume mistress of this production.”

  Arthur regarded Ruth for a few moments, then spoke in a measured tone. “Tonight, everything changes for us. Do you hear what I’m saying? Do you understand what I’m telling you, my dear, cheeky, impertinent Ruth? Tonight the Hawthorn Sisters are finally going to make a name for themselves. To prove to the people that they’re a bona fide professional outfit, even slicker than Billy Sunday and Aimee Semple McPherson.”

  Bruna cut her eyes at Ruth, then looked away.

  “No more pole barns and dirty old canvas tents full of mud puddles and rats,” Arthur went on. “We’re going to New York. To California and Boston and Chicago. They’ll build us our own tabernacles with real paneling and velvet curtains and a backdrop painted with real gold. Why, Charles Jarrod is a world-renowned evangelist and he came to Alabama to see you! I’m the one who did that! I made that happen for you!”

  A bead of sweat trickled down along Arthur’s hairline. Ruth and Bruna watched him, their mouths both pressed in grim lines.

  He leveled a cold stare at Ruth. “So you’ll wear the dress, and you’ll sing the songs I tell you. When I say preach, you’ll preach. And when I say prophesy . . .” His face twisted as he let out an almost animal snarl. “You goddamn better prophesy.”

  Ruth clenched her fists at her side. “I’ll do everything you say, Brother Holt. Sweet as you like, just as soon as I see every last bit of the money we’ve made.”

  He didn’t answer her, just walked to the sideboard and pulled a cigarette from a pack.

  “Is there a problem, Brother Holt?” Ruth asked. “You still got it, don’t you, Brother Holt? That little extra you skimmed off the top and didn’t give to us? Or did you spend it all on hooch and whores?”

  She laughed, and he swept in and issued a stinging slap across her cheek before she realized what was happening. She leapt forward, claws out, ready for battle.

  “Stop!” Bruna screamed. “Ruth, stop! There’s no need.”

  Ruth knew Bruna was right. There was no need; they were leaving tonight and she was just picking a fight. But she’d been angry at Arthur for a long time now. And she was in no mood to let this go. She snagged a fistful of his suit jacket, and then a fistful of curly hair, but he shook her off and grabbed her wrist. She swung with the other hand, a wide arc that he intercepted as well.

  She spit in his face. “Coward. You’re nothing but a lily-livered, corn pone–eating coward!”

  “Jezebel!” he growled at her.

  “Arthur, please, please!” Bruna wailed.

  He released Ruth, threw his cigarette on the floor, and stalked out of the room.

  “You’ll never hear me confess no sins!” Ruth screamed after him. “Not in your presence. Not like she does. You hear me? No man tells me when I’m sinning and when I ain’t!”

  The front door opened, then slammed shut.

  Bruna blinked rapidly, like she was on the verge of breaking down. “Leave him be. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “But it’s our money,” Ruth said. “We earned it.”

  Bruna’s face was pale. “He’s losing everything tonight, Ruth. Let him have his consolation prize. Let him have the money.”

  Bruna scurried back to her bedroom, and Ruth swallowed a scream. She was sick to death of keeping her and Arthur’s secret from Bruna. Sick with worry about prophesying tonight. If something went wrong tonight—anything at all—she could be blamed for Steadfast Coe’s murder.

  And so many things could go wrong. She could freeze up and not be able to speak. The crowd might think she was lying. And then it would just be a matter of calling the police and having her hauled into jail. They’d put her in handcuffs, force her to break down and confess everything . . .

  And then there was Dell. What had that old preacher done to him? If she and Bruna did successfully escape with Charles Jarrod after tonight’s big show, would she be able to contact him? Would she see him again?

  Her stomach heaved and even in the oversized dress, she felt unbearably hot. Everything was too far gone now. She had no other choice. She had to stick with the plan. She returned to the Coe house and in her room, jimmied the brass plate off the door. She dug out the Flowing Hair and hid it in her sock, then sat on her bed. She took one last look at the narrow room. She suspected she’d never see it again.

  “At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light . . .”

  Ruth snapped back to the present. To the tent, the music, the enthusiasm of the crowd before her. Lost in her thoughts, she’d stopped singing, and Bruna had elbowed her, sharp and pointed.

  Ruth caught up, harmonizing with Bruna. “And the burden of my heart rolled away . . .”

  They clasped hands as if the move had been choreographed.

  “It was there by faith I received my sight. And now I’m happy all the day!”

  Another lie. Another stone to add to the altar of untruths she was building.

  And then she saw him—well, them. They were both watching her, both slicked up and scrubbed down. Charles, in the middle section, three-quarters of the way back, and Dell, lounging at the very back like a pool hall cat. Her voice thinned to nothing.

  Again, Bruna dug her elbow into Ruth’s side. Ruth jumped and came in with her line, but she was fit to be tied. Between Dell and Charles, she didn’t know who to keep her eye on.

  Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn . . .

  Bruna poked her hard, and Ruth realized she’d cursed out loud, right into the microphone. A hush fell over the people. Children stopped squirming and the night air seemed to gather around. A few of the ladies in the front row had fixed her with dubious frowns.

  Arthur broke in between them, seizing the microphone. The thing shrieked in his grasp as he spread his arms toward the crowd.

  “I feel the heaviness of the Spirit in this place,” he said. “I feel it like the world must’ve felt it, the very moment before God sparked all things into being. ‘And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God brooded upon the face of the waters.’ The Spirit’s speaking tonight. I feel it in my bones.”

  He turned to Ruth and flashed his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. More like how an animal bared its teeth at an adversary. “The Spirit’s speaking to you, isn’t that right, Ruth?”

  She didn’t move. She just looked into his eyes, feet rooted to the stage.

  “Go.” Bruna gave her a gentle push.

  But Ruth shook her head. Bruna just thought it was like all the other times. That Arthur wanted Ruth to call out healing for some sic
kness. Bruna had no idea what he expected Ruth to do.

  “Come on up here, Ruth,” Arthur said.

  It was an order. One she had to obey.

  She did. In the glare of the lights, Arthur’s arm snaked around her waist. “Folks, Ruth hasn’t been right tonight. Have you, sweetheart? Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”

  She swallowed and glanced back at Bruna. She knew it was a bad idea, but she wanted her friend beside her, holding her hand. Helping her do this awful thing she’d promised to do.

  Arthur jostled Ruth. “Folks, she’s trembling. I can feel it. Trembling under the hand of God. Ruth, can you tell me what the Spirit’s saying to you? Why are you trembling?”

  She craned her neck, seeking Bruna out again, but was blinded by a light shining from someplace beyond the crowd. Someone had turned a spotlight on. The nausea returned, slamming into her with such force that she had to cling to Arthur for support. Arthur liked it, thought it was part of the show, she could tell. He held her even tighter.

  Ruth squinted against the light. She found Charles—he’d moved forward in his seat, back straight and lips parted in rapt attention—but Dell was nowhere in sight. Had he left? Or had Singley shown up and done something terrible to him? Had that man called the police, reported that he was wanted by the law? She felt a wild desperation cloud her mind. She couldn’t think for the fear.

  “Bruna?” she said. Her voice, which had started low and unsure, rose to a scream. “Bruna!”

  Bruna appeared on her other side, taking her arm. “Hush, Ruth. I’m here.”

  Arthur leaned to the microphone. “Folks, Ruth here is sore burdened with this word.” He put a hand on Ruth’s head. “It’s about a man in this town. A man we all know, Mr. Steadfast Coe. Isn’t that right, Ruth?”

  Ruth felt Bruna disconnect from her. Felt her friend’s gaze bore into her. Ruth kept her eyes on her feet. She couldn’t bring herself to look back.

  “Ruth, the Lord’s spoken to you about Mr. Coe, hasn’t he?” Arthur said. “He’s revealed to you where he wandered off to. Where he laid his head in his final rest. Where he came face-to-face with his Maker.”

  A gasp traveled through the crowd. A few souls cried out amens.

  “Ruth?” Bruna whispered.

  Arthur lifted an arm. “I say prophesy, Sister Ruth. Prophesy to the people.”

  But Ruth couldn’t. Not with Bruna staring at her like that. She lifted her eyes to meet Bruna’s, to see her friend’s were welling with tears. Ruth went to her.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Bruna, I’m so sorry . . .”

  Bruna grabbed Ruth’s wrist. Her tone was fierce. “What’s he talking about? You know where Grandy is?”

  “Bruna, listen,” Ruth said. “Toward the back. Did you see him? Charles Jarrod.”

  Bruna looked pale and distracted. A sheen of sweat along her temple glistened in the lights. “How long have you known?”

  Arthur cast an annoyed glance at the girls. “Bruna, let her go. Ruth . . .” He motioned impatiently.

  Ruth ignored him. “You have to trust me,” she whispered to Bruna. “Right after they leave to find Steadfast. That’s when we go. Okay?”

  “I don’t understand.” Bruna’s eyes were wild, her voice rising in volume. “How do you know? How’s Arthur know—”

  Arthur leaned to the microphone again. “Fear not, sayeth the Lord. Speak His word for the people and you will see your reward in the land of the living!” He turned to the girls. “Ruth!”

  Ruth touched her forehead to Bruna’s. She was trembling. “I’ll tell you later. When we’re gone. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

  Bruna pressed her lips together. Tears spilled down her face.

  “What is it?” Ruth wasn’t whispering anymore. She had the horrible, sinking feeling that something outside her realm of understanding had occurred. When she wasn’t paying attention, everything had changed.

  Bruna wiped her face with her sleeve. “I can’t go with you.”

  Ruth frowned. “What?”

  “Not here,” Bruna said. “I can’t tell you here.”

  “Tell me now,” Ruth said fiercely. “Or so help me, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Bruna said.

  Ruth told herself to breathe, told herself that she would faint if she didn’t, but her body would not comply. Somehow, she’d known this was how it was going to end. With Bruna staying behind, choosing Arthur over her. But she’d never imagined the emptiness she would feel, the certainty that a hole had been torn in her gut.

  “I was afraid to tell you before,” Bruna said. “And I thought I could still go away with you, that it didn’t matter . . .”

  The crowd was riled up, clapping and calling out, “Praise Jesus!” and “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” Arthur covered the microphone and yelled over the din. “Ruth! Get over here! Now!”

  “But it does,” Bruna said. “It changes everything. I can’t leave, Ruth. I just can’t.”

  She studied Bruna’s tearful face, her mind a blank, her body empty now of all warmth, of life and hope.

  Her best friend was going to marry Arthur Holt. And have his child.

  Ruth was alone. She wasn’t Little Orphan Annie—she wouldn’t even be a Hawthorn Sister for much longer. She was nothing.

  Finding Charles in the crowd, she cleared her throat.

  She inhaled, threw her head back, and let out a long guttural shriek. It sounded like it might have come from some small hunted animal . . . or, conversely, a human possessed by a thousand tormenting devils.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Florence, Alabama

  Present

  I sank down on the sofa beside Ember and she reached for my hand. Her pupils were large—the expression in her eyes fearful and disoriented. I realized I was scared for her, maybe more than for myself. Bobby didn’t appear to have a weapon, but he was built like a tank, and had made it abundantly clear that night at Pritchard that he wasn’t reluctant to use violence to get his way. I could try to make a break for it, but it would mean leaving Ember behind. No way was I doing that.

  Bobby walked to the piano, its bench now upended, legs severed, and dropped one finger on a key. The sound reverberated through the room.

  B-flat. Of course. The sound of a black hole singing.

  The note faded and he spoke in that twangy, fake-folksy voice. “Look at you two, like you just stepped out of a picture. So much like Bruna and Dove.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “The Hawthorn Sisters. Back for their final show.”

  “Motherfucker,” I whispered under my breath. “Lunatic.”

  Bobby sent me a patient look.

  Ember leaned back against the chaise. “I told you, she doesn’t believe.”

  “You still don’t see it, do you, Eve? Dove had the fire. The anointing of a prophet.”

  I snorted. “Just because she claimed to heal people doesn’t make it true. Just because people said they were healed doesn’t make it true.”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “That’s right, Bobby,” I said. “It was all a lie. Dove couldn’t perform miracles.”

  “Bullshit. I saw it.”

  “You saw a show. Smoke and mirrors. Here’s the truth. A long time ago, when I was just a kid, I asked her to heal my arm. But she couldn’t. Because she’d never healed anybody. Not one single person. She told me that.”

  Bobby struck another key. The note hung in the air. “Maybe she wouldn’t heal you because you didn’t deserve it. Maybe you were a spoiled little princess, and she thought you ought to earn your salvation, like the rest of us regular folk. Ever think about that?”

  I had thought about that—I’d thought about it all my life. I’d always been torn between a desire to believe in childhood fairy tales and cold, hard reality. But I’d rather throw myself into a flaming pit than admit it to Bobby Asshole Singley.

  “Play a song,” Ember said to Bobby in a dreamy tone. “And she�
��ll see.” Her eyes were still glassy, pupils dark and dilated. “It’s how the girls connected to the fire. Through the hymns.”

  “Ember, stop,” I said quietly. “You’re high.”

  She looked hurt. “I know you think I’m just a waste of space. That I use because Jason got all the money and I got nothing. But you don’t know anything about me. What I’ve had to deal with. They taught me this stuff was real. That Bruna, one half of the Hawthorn Sisters, my grandmother, had a connection to God, and if I was just holy enough, if I could just be nice and quiet and obedient enough, I would hear the voice of God too. And I do. I hear things. I know things. I tell people their futures—”

  “Ember—”

  “I may be high, but I’m not stupid!” she yelled.

  Bobby clapped out a loud, discordant applause. “She’s right, praise God. She’s a child of the Lord. And you are too, Eve, whether you want to admit it or not. Now I said we were gonna have church, and by God we’re gonna have church. Lead us in a hymn of worship, Eve.”

  “No.” I stood. “We’re not doing this.”

  She spoke in a plaintive voice from her chaise. “Come on, Eve. Just try.” She cleared her throat. “Savior come, abide with me . . .”

  “Ah, one of the old ones.” Bobby pushed me down on a chair and hurried back to the piano. “You don’t hear those much anymore.” He played the intro.

  Ember continued, her voice unsteady. Then a loud bang of discordant keys broke the spell.

  “Sing, you stubborn bitch!” Bobby yelled at me.

  I shot him a scowl.

  “Eve, please,” Ember said.

  I sat again and took her hand. My voice was thin and faltered on certain notes, but like last time, we harmonized perfectly, like we’d been singing together for years. “I am longing, I am praying, for a closer walk with Thee . . .”

  Bobby’s eyes lit with an otherworldly fire, and he played on as we sang the next lines. His face glowed above the ivory keys of the piano.

  “You feel it, don’t you?” he crowed. “My God, I do! I feel every hair on my body standing up!”

  I had begun to shake. This man was not well, and there was no predicting how far he would go to get what he wanted. So I did what he demanded. I sang, all the while frantically trying to make sense of what was happening.