With no further word, Opal, leaning heavily upon Big Jim’s arm, walked from the house to a waiting carriage and drove away.
Tabitha’s laugh broke Rose’s rapt attention. “Well, of course, Opal had planned ahead! We should have known she would. At least, I should have known. Apparently, Big Jim had already packed her clothing and personal belongings and removed them from the house.”
Tabitha leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “As soon as the door closed behind Opal, we became acquainted with our new ‘master’: Jock Jacobs.”
“Well, ladies! I’m right proud t’ be yer new boss man,” Jacobs grinned. He looked around for a spittoon. When he spied one, he spat toward it—missing it completely—and grinned again. “Y’all kin jes’ call me Jock.”
I do not need to say much about this period. Jock Jacobs was a pompous, vulgar man who lived to make money and spend it on debauchery. He had won a large cash pot in a poker game and, out of his winnings, he paid Opal a small fortune for her house and clientele.
However, his business practices drove off Opal’s more discriminating customers in short order. In only six months the house had eroded to the level of a common bordello, a brawling, riotous whorehouse.
As keenly as I had hated Opal, I had also, on some level, respected her business acumen. But Jock? I not only despised Jock Jacobs; I loathed him for the crude, lowlife creature he was.
The house immediately began losing money—what with Jock drinking heavily every night and the loss of the “standards” upon which Opal had built her flourishing business. I watched Jock fritter away Opal’s “good reputation” with growing concern.
Within a year, Jock had racked up serious outstanding bills with the house’s creditors. The other girls in the house did not perceive how precarious the situation was, but I had an inkling.
One evening in the fall of that year, Jock closed the house for a private party. He lectured us on how important this party was and how he wished us to be on our best behavior, catering to his guests’ every desire.
As it turned out, Jock had invited his guests to examine “his girls” and make offers for them. Of course, he did not say as much in front of us, but I caught on to his ploy. While the other women were doing their best to flatter the men and display themselves to their best advantage, I did the opposite.
My old tricks—my serpent’s tongue and acid wit—were just as sharp and biting as they had been eleven years ago. In less than an hour, I had insulted and ridiculed Jock’s every guest. Of course, I paid a price for my rebellion.
When morning dawned and I awoke to lick the wounds of my beating, I was the only woman left in the house—and Jock was packing furiously to flee his creditors.
“Pack all yer things, Red,” he hissed. “Put all yer whorin’ clothes in thet trunk.” He pointed to a small case.
When I hesitated, Jock grabbed me by the arm. “I would do ya in right now, Red,” he snarled, “fer th’ damage ya done me las’ night, but I need th’ cash you’ll bring too much. I’ll take ya with me t’ Denver and sell ya off there. Nobody knows ya there.”
He leaned into my aching, battered face, his boozy breath hot on my cheek. “An’ if’n ya pull them same tricks in Denver? I’ll wring yer neck fer certain, an’ I ain’t foolin’ none.”
Tabitha swallowed. “Jock had me put on a faded cotton dress and told me to hide my red hair under a bonnet. He loaded our things into a wagon and made me sit beside him on the wagon’s bench. Then he locked a chain about my ankle—the kind used in jails—and I was too weak to fight him. He had bolted the other end of the chain under the seat of his wagon.
“We traveled a circuitous route to Denver. Jock was agitated and fearful that his creditors were chasing after him, so we took little-used back roads. He often pulled off the track into dense trees or brush. We would spend hours in hiding until Jock felt assured that no one was following close behind us.
“To the casual eye, he and I probably appeared to be a poor married couple hauling all of our worldly goods from one place to another. No one could see the shackle upon my ankle.”
She shook her head. “These sordid details are not necessary, and I could have skipped them. I only bring them out because of what happened on the fourth afternoon of our journey.”
We were far out into the country when we came upon a gathering of mostly colored folk. They were huddled up close to a tall black man dressed in a shiny black suit. He was a fine looking gentleman. He stood upon a packing crate, but he would have towered over the crowd without standing upon anything!
As it was, with the added height of the crate and the resplendent figure he cut, he reminded me of a war hero’s statue rising up from the center of a city square.
The man was speaking and gesturing. We could not hear him yet—but the crowd was attentive. More people were coming. They drew near and then pressed in closer as he spoke.
I so wanted to stop to listen to what the man was saying. I even asked Jock if we could pull aside for a few minutes to hear the man. Jock, however, cursed under his breath and kept the horses moving.
The dusty trace our wagon followed ran directly behind the man in the black suit. No one in the crowd paid us any mind as we trundled by, but I began to hear the man’s words.
“The Bible say God so loved that he give his one an’ only Son. God so loved! YAY-ess! I say it again, God so loved!”
He broke for a second to wipe his face with a handkerchief. “Well, sir, what did God love? The Bible say he loved the world. The world, folks! YAY-ess! The whole, wide world! The world—it mean’ peoples. The world—it mean’ all peoples. All peoples mean’ ever’ kind o’ people!” he thundered.
The crowd was riveted—and I was, too. The preacher’s voice was deep and melodic, rhythmic and enthralling. After each sentence he paused, just a bit. Each pause made me want to beg him, Please do not stop! And he did not.
He shouted,
“God give his Son fo’ the rich, and God give his Son fo’ the poor.
“God give his Son fo’ the high, and God give his Son fo’ the low.
“God give his Son fo’ the black man, and God give his Son fo’ the white.
“God give his Son fo’ all men—we’s all equal in his sight!
“Yea, an’ I say!
“God give his Son fo’ the drunks. God give his Son fo’ the thieves.
“God give his Son fo’ you, and God give his Son fo’ me.”
Jock swore and urged the horses to go faster. We were almost beyond the scene now.
Every part of my being, though, was captivated by that giant of a man preaching to the crush of eager people. As our wagon passed him by, my head and hips swiveled to keep him in view. I twisted as far as the chain around my ankle would allow me to. I could not take my eyes off him as his voice boomed over the heads of the throng facing him.
And then the preacher slowly turned. That black man in the black suit rotated away from the crowd and toward us. And as he was still turning he pointed. He kept turning until he was facing away from the crowd and his finger was pointing at me. And that man shouted,
“God give his Son fo’ the prostitute, God give his Son fo’ the whore!
“God give his Son fo’ the vilest of women—don’ you run from God no more!” And he pointed at me. At me.
The sudden change and intensity in Tabitha’s tale stunned Rose. Her mouth hung agape, her pen stilled.
“Miss Rose, his finger did not merely wag in my direction. No, he lifted his finger toward heaven and when he brought it down, it was extended directly at me.”
Tabitha pointed at Rose and repeated, “God give his Son fo’ the vilest of women—don’ you run from God no more!
“I did not know what he meant, Miss Rose. I heard the words and they resounded within me. No, resounded is not the right word. When he pointed his finger straight toward me, his words landed like a thunderclap upon my soul! I knew what he said was important, that he had spoken something mom
entous, but I could make neither head nor tails of his words: God give his Son fo’ the vilest woman—don’ you run from God no more.”
Tabitha shook herself. “Even after we were out of earshot, Jock was still turning the air blue with curses. While he railed against the roadside preacher, I shut him out, closed myself up inside, and repeated the preacher’s words,
“God gave his Son for the rich, and God gave his Son for the poor. God gave his Son for the high, and God gave his Son for the low. God gave his Son for the drunks. God gave his Son for the thieves. God gave his Son for you. God gave his Son for me.
“I pondered those words within myself until I had them memorized, but I kept wondering, If what the preacher says is true, if God gave his Son for me, what does that mean? You see, Miss Rose, I had no religious training. I had never been to church. I did not know the Bible. I could not fathom what the preacher man had shouted. I could not understand it.
“But a tiny flicker of, I suppose it was curiosity, ignited in my heart. And I asked, Who are you, God? Who are you, the God of whom the preacher spoke? Are you real? Where can you be found?
“I did not expect an answer, really, so it was with some surprise that I thought I heard—or rather I felt—a single word land in my belly. It landed in what felt like the deepest part of me.”
Tabitha lapsed into a quiet contemplation and gave no indication that she intended to finish her narrative.
When Rose could bear the silence no more, she touched Tabitha’s hand. “Tabitha? Which word?”
Tabitha started and looked slightly confused. “I beg your pardon, Miss Rose?”
Rose leaned farther across the little table and the stone-cold tea things. “You said that you felt a single word land in your belly. Which word, Tabitha?”
“Oh! Yes.” Tabitha swept a wisp of hair behind her ear and her eyes lit. “The word I heard down deep inside of me was wait.”
~~**~~
Chapter 6
When Mei-Xing brought Shan-Rose home that evening, the toddler was whimpering and running a slight fever. Tabitha immediately became engrossed in helping Mei-Xing care for the little girl.
“Perhaps we should put off our sessions. I would like to give my time to Shan-Rose while she is ill,” Tabitha suggested. Breona, Mei-Xing’s closest friend, demanded that she be allowed to help, too.
“Yes, I concur,” Rose answered. “We are making splendid progress on your testimony. I have many notes to review and write up, but my other responsibilities must be feeling a bit neglected. This interlude will allow me to catch up with my household duties and, perhaps, begin to write out some of my notes.”
In the face of Tabitha and Breona’s unified assurances, Mei-Xing returned to her work as Mrs. Palmer’s assistant the following morning.
And as it happened, Rose and Tabitha did not resume Tabitha’s recitation of her story for nearly two weeks.
That afternoon their Pinkerton friend, O’Dell, returned from his travels to report on his search for Joy and Grant’s infant son, Edmund. He spent an hour closeted in the parlor with Joy and Rose, sharing what little news he had.
Balancing his ever-present bowler hat on his knee, he faced the two women, bereft mother and grandmother. To Rose’s eyes, O’Dell appeared weary and discouraged. Joy was composed as O’Dell gave his report.
“I am sorry that I do not have much new information to convey to you, Joy,” he began. Our assumptions—such as they were—led us to believe that Dean Morgan left Denver by motorcar, taking Edmund with him. We also believed that Morgan had a companion, the wet nurse Fang Hua Chen hired to care for her grandson.
“Since our initial findings, two of Fang-Hua’s co-conspirators have provided us with the identity of the wet nurse; however, we were unable to uncover any family connections other than her deceased husband and infant in the Seattle area.”
“She had lost a baby?” Joy blinked as she tried to envision the woman who, most likely, was caring for Edmund.
O’Dell nodded. “A few weeks prior to Edmund’s abduction.”
“Then . . . she would be more likely to be . . . kind to my baby boy?”
O’Dell and Rose both understood where Joy’s questions were heading. Rose looked at O’Dell and nodded.
O’Dell, speaking carefully, answered Joy’s question. “Joy, my understanding is that the woman was suffering from her losses and took the job Fang Hua offered her so she could care for another baby. Yes, I believe she is being kind to Edmund. I cannot believe otherwise.”
He ran a finger around the inside of his collar as if it felt too tight. “We received a report of one sighting that seems to confirm those assumptions. Morgan required gasoline for his motorcar. Since facilities where he might purchase gasoline are not numerous, Pinkerton focused its attention on a two-hundred-mile radius around Denver—in all possible directions—and all facilities within that radius where Morgan could have refueled.
“The difficulty in that approach is that the sale of gasoline is a new kind of business not confined to specific locations. Gasoline is sold at coal yards, factories, or out of an enterprising businessman’s back door. Where to buy gasoline is frequently communicated by word of mouth—which works for us, by the way.
“Once Morgan was out of his familiar surroundings, he would have to look for signs advertising the sale of gasoline or ask locals where he might purchase it. An attendant at a general store in Pueblo, Colorado, recalls a man with a woman and infant asking for directions to purchase gasoline for their motorcar.”
O’Dell turned his hat around on his knee. “The southeast direction of Pueblo from Denver gave us a general direction to go on. We refocused our radius.”
Joy leaned forward, eager to hear more.
There was no more.
O’Dell looked down. “We have been unable to find any further witnesses who remember Morgan buying or asking about gasoline. I am sorry, Joy.”
“But what does that mean?” Joy clutched her mother’s hand and tried to remain calm.
Unable to remain seated, O’Dell stood to pace—but the parlor gave him no space to do so. He rounded his chair and held on to its back. “It does not mean that we give up, Joy.”
“Give up? Who said anything about giving up?” Joy was strangling Rose’s hand in her effort to stay composed.
O’Dell stared at the floor. “You asked what it means that we have found no further witnesses to Morgan’s route.”
His voice softened, “It means we have no leads to follow at present. From Pueblo, Morgan could have gone in any direction. It is unlikely that he turned north, of course, but he could have gone in any other direction.”
The small room lapsed into silence for a time.
Finally Joy murmured. “I see.”
“I would like us to pray,” Rose’s suggestion was too strongly worded to be ignored.
O’Dell again took his seat and the three of them bowed their heads together.
“Lord, we can do nothing apart from you,” Rose prayed. “This task, this mission to find Edmund, is beyond our abilities—but O Lord, nothing is too difficult for you. We confess that we trust you, Lord, and we commit Edmund into your care.”
After three days, everyone in the house knew that Shan-Rose had recovered from her illness when her energy returned and she refused to stay still. The next day the child, as was her custom, accompanied Mei-Xing to Mrs. Palmer’s house, where the housekeeper generally watched her.
However, that same morning, Joy came down with a severe cold. Tabitha confined her to her bed in the cottage out back of Palmer House.
“You likely caught this cold from Shan-Rose, Joy, but you must understand that you are more susceptible to illness at this time, while you are still grieving,” Tabitha admonished her friend. “Sarah, Corrine, and Billy have the shop in hand, so do not worry. Only rest.”
“It is hard to rest,” Joy murmured, “when my mind refuses to let me.”
Tabitha placed her hand on Joy’s forehead and m
ade light, soothing circles on it with her fingers. “I can only imagine that is so. Still, you are running a fever, Joy. You must rest—and you must not expose the remainder of the house to your illness, particularly Marit.”
Palmer House’s beloved cook was very pregnant with her second child.
“Oh! You are right, of course.”
Joy sighed and turned on her side. Tabitha pulled the covers up around Joy’s shoulders. She sat beside Joy, stroking her back until Joy’s even breathing and relaxed muscles told Tabitha that her friend had slipped into slumber.
“She is sleeping now,” Tabitha whispered as Rose peeked through the doorway. They tiptoed from Joy’s little cottage together.
A week later when Joy returned to work, Rose and Tabitha again convened in the great room.
Rose perused her notes. “I have managed, stealing little bits of time here and there and staying up a little late at night, to write a draft from my notes up to when Opal moved her ‘business’ to Silver City. But please, continue with your story.”
Tabitha nodded. “Yes. Time is moving toward the new school term more quickly than I imagined it could. I do want you to have all you need to write my complete testimony.”
Rose turned to the last used page in her notebook. “Let me see. You left off at such an important place—on the road to Denver with this Jock Jacobs person. Just after you heard the roadside preacher.”
Tabitha smiled. “With the word ‘wait’ warming my insides, the rest of the long journey to Denver was a little easier. When we arrived in the city, Jock installed us in a cheap boarding house. Then he went on the prowl for a “buyer” for me. He left me chained to the bed with strict instructions to the landlord that ‘his wife was ill and was not to be disturbed.’ He made sure that I did not call out for help by forcing laudanum on me before he went out.”
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