Ten Thousand Charms

by Allison K. Pittman

  “Gloria, dear, would you like to pray now?”

  “I can't.”

  Maureen opened her eyes and met Gloria's gaze. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I've never…1 just don't feel it. When 1 listen to you, I know I should feel something,shouldn't I? And it just seems that if I don't feel anything, He doesn't hear anything.”

  “I think He hears more than you can ever imagine.”

  Gloria took her hands from Maureen's grasp and began twisting a lock of her hair. “Go to bed, Maureen,” she said, smiling softly “I think your prayers would be more powerful without me.”

  “Oh, child. I'll go to pray alone, but I leave you in here to do the same.”

  She kissed Gloria softly on one cheek, then the other, and took herself off to the bedroom.

  Gloria saw the dim line of candlelight coming from under the door for a few minutes, and by the time the clock struck again, she heard little snores coming from Maureen's room.

  The rest of the righteous.

  She put another log on the fire and stood beside it, watching the flames take hold.

  Pray, pray, pray, she willed herself, but the words would not come. She tried them in her head—Dear Father, Heavenly Father—but the concept was still out of reach. She wrapped her mouth around the words, “Dear God, Dear Heavenly Jesus,” but the use of His name in reverence was still too tainted by the years of coupling it with curses hurled through filthy streets.

  She sat back on the sofa and tried to access memories of her innocence. Surely she had prayed as a child. She remembered kind women talking to her and her mother about Jesus Christ before her mother brusquely sent them away She remembered the mission churches in California—their imposing crucifixes and the tragic figure of a dying Jesus—and wondering who was that man and why did He have to die like that.

  Now she knew. He did it for her. He died for this miserable prostitute. For Gloria. For her sins. Confess them, Maureen had said. Confess them and be made clean. Be made new.

  But where to begin? Perhaps it was the night the thirteen-year-old girl—under her mother's watchful eye—felt her body seared in pain, felt her own blood drip through her torn flesh. Had she sinned that night?

  Gloria slid off Maureen's sofa, falling to her knees beside it. She clutched at her body, feeling anew the pain of that night, the shame of it all. How, she thought, could she face the God who would allow that to happen? Why should she ask forgiveness for something that had caused her such pain? In her mind and in her heart she was back on that filthy mattress on the floor, back with the landlord who raped his rent, wishing she could scream and kick and send him flying straight to hell.

  Here, this night, on her knees in Maureen's home, her body contorted in the pain from that first night, from every night, from the men who beat her, from the ones that held her throat, bound her wrists, cut her flesh. Her skin crawled with their filthy touches. Her mind filled with their faces, their breath hot and rotten on her face. For a moment she thought that if Maureen were to walk into this room right now, she would see them—ghosts all—and she felt a need to beg forgiveness for allowing them into this house.

  But then, no.

  God, she prayed. Holy Father God. Forgive me for allowing them into myself. Into your creation.

  In her mind she saw her outstretched hand, covered in silver, the wealth derived from peddling her charms. Then, one by one, the coins were taken away, dissolved and scattered like sifted sand, leaving only her palm, tainted with the stain of them.

  I give it all to you, Father. Wash me. Make me clean.

  She saw her hand disappear within another. This hand, covered in blood, held her own—tightly as if for dear life. And just when she felt she could endure the exquisite pain of this embrace no longer, it released its grip, leaving her skin soft and without stain.

  Thank you, Father, for the blood of Christ Your Son.

  So this was peace. This was the comfort she'd heard about. This was the reason John William had said that Kate was safe, and now Gloria believed it, too, because for the first time in her life God was real and heaven existed and Gloria knew with a certainty that she would see the baby girl again. The power of her love for that child while she lived was just a hint of the powerful love a Father in heaven had for her now, and would have for an eternity

  The grip of her own mothers indifference, the blame and resentment Gloria had carried for so many years, melted, replaced with a brief and gentle mourning for the woman's own wretched life.

  Tears, like she had never felt before, streamed unchecked down her face as Gloria released the despised life she had lived, making way for new visions, new direction and desire. Her hands clenched and unclenched, clutching the fabric of her skirt; her forehead rested on the cushion of the sofa.

  So engrossed in her prayer was she that she didn't hear the creak of the door opening in the kitchen. Didn't hear the heavy footsteps cross the room. Was unaware that the strong arms that embraced her weren't the arms of Christ Himself, holding her tight and keeping her safe as she leaned against those strong shoulders, saying, “Father. My Father.”

  Later, she would open her eyes and turn to look at him, and he would know, they would know, that she wasn't the same woman.

  Reader's Guide

  Ten Thousand Charms contains the stories of three very different courtships: Gloria and John William; Josephine and David Logan; and Maureen and Ed Brewster. Which courtship most closely matches your idea of true love and romance? What aspects of each lay the foundations for a life-lasting relationship?

  One of the aspects of God that draws Gloria to Him is the, concept of Him as a Father. How is that relationship—that of a father to his child—important in the life of a Christian?

  Both John William and Gloria have an unsavory past. How does his life as a boxer parallel hers as a prostitute? What can both of these stories tell us about the sacredness of our bodies and ourselves?

  The idea of the importance of home is a recurring theme in the book. What does “home” mean to Gloria? What does “home” mean to you?

  Gloria interacts with and reacts to many different women throughout the course of the story: Jewell, Sadie, Maureen, Josephine Logan, and Adele Fuller just to name a few. With which of these women do you most identify? Which one is most likely to be a friend of yours?

  Coming to the knowledge of God and an acceptance of Christ is a process. What were some of the points in the story where you saw Gloria's heart beginning to open? Where does it seem that she is being touched by God?

  Imagine you were giving Christian counseling to someone like Gloria—someone who felt unloved and unworthy of God's love. What passage of Scripture would you be most likely to share with that person?

  First John 3:2 (niv) says, “Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known.” The story leaves Gloria at the moment of becoming a child of God. What predictions can you make about her eventual walk with the Lord?

  What influence do you think Gloria's leaving Silver Peak will have on the friends she made there? What will become of Biddy? What will be the impact of leaving Sadie the $1,000?

  The title Ten Thousand Charms comes from the lyrics of the hymn “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy,"several stanzas of which head the different sections of the book. What is your favorite hymn or praise song? What do the lyrics inspire in you? What memories or feelings does it invoke?

  An excerpt from Give to the Wind,

  Book 2 in Allison Pittman's Crossroads of Grace series:

  (Available March 2007)

  Five Points, New York City

  very Sunday Mr. Maroni built up a fire right on the corner of Mulberry and Bayard. After hauling out the big black cauldron from the back corner of his grocery he tossed in the odds and ends of unwanted food—potatoes with black spots, limp carrots, turnips gone soft, greenish meat. To this, he added water and whatever broth could be salvaged from the meat boiled for his own Saturda
y night supper. All this he set simmering in the predawn hours of the city's day of rest. By the time the first church bells rang, a perfectly respectable soup (or stew, or hash, depending on the ingredients and consistency) was available to the public. Mr. Maroni stood at the pot with a ladle the width and depth of a blacksmith's fist, ready to serve anyone who came with a bowl and a penny.

  On chilly autumn mornings like this one, the line formed early—sometimes before Mr. Maroni even had a chance to settle the pot over the flames. The drunks showed up first, reeling from a night full of rotten whiskey

  Then came the rowdy street boys, arriving in line as they moved through life, together. They whiled away their time in line knocking each other upside the head with battered and rusted tin cups. They taunted Mr. Maroni with threats of violence to his wife and his children if their serving was watery or thin, detailing just how they would torch his entire grocery if they found another cockroach at the bottom of a cup.

  Sometimes a mother would show up with her entire brood and a handful of pennies—one for every ladleful dropped into her bucket. Later she would gather her children and divide the contents according to each child's age and hunger, until, as it happened every week, there was only the barest broth left for herself.

  Then there was Kassandra. Small and slight, she lingered at the edge of the crowd clutching a blue porcelain bowl. It had a tiny chip at its rim and a picture of a sparrow perched on a branch painted in its center. The bowl was deep enough to hold two servings of Mr. Maroni's soup, a fact not lost on the rowdy boys who elbowed each other in front of her in line.

  “Better have yourself two pennies for that,” one said, his beady eyes staring hungrily at Kassandra's bowl as he patted his own piece of broken pottery nervously against his leg.

  “Aw, leave ‘er alone,” said another boy. Taller than the rest, his red hair sprang from his head like tiny curled flames. “She's so scrawny, looks like she needs an extra bit.”

  Kassandra herself said nothing, but clutched her bowl to her body and shuffled her bare feet closer to the bubbling cauldron. It would be the first meal she'd had in days, and the endurance of a few boys’ teasing seemed a small price to pay She kept her attention focused on Mr. Maroni's ladle as it sloshed its contents into the cups and bowls and jars of the men and women and children in front of her. Kassandra felt today would be a lucky one, that her place in line was just perfect. Too close to the front or too far back and you might get nothing but broth.

  Soon, only the redheaded boy stood in front of her. He held his bowl out, dug a penny from his pocket, and dropped it into the grocer's outstretched hand. Two heartbeats later, Kassandra stood in front of that same outstretched hand, holding her bowl up until it was just level with her chin, focusing her large gray eyes on Mr. Maroni's deep brown ones.

  “Penny?” said Mr. Maroni.

  Kassandra shook her head from side to side, then held her bowl a little higher.

  “No got a penny?”

  Kassandra shook her head, no.

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Maroni. He balanced his ladle across the top of the soup pot and crouched down until he was eye-level with Kassandra. He brought one long brown finger and tapped his right cheek. On command, Kassandra leaned forward and planted a tiny kiss, feeling the edges of his moustache tickle her lip.

  “And again,” said Mr. Maroni, tapping the opposite cheek. Again Kassandra leaned in to give a little kiss.

  “And here.” Kassandra had to go a bit to her toes to land a kiss on Mr. Maroni's forehead, just between the bushy eyebrows almost equal in density to his moustache.

  “Now, you want soup?” he said, flashing a smile.

  Kassandra nodded her head and tightened her grip on the blue porcelain bowl. She closed her eyes and leaned forward one more time, placing her own lips on Mr. Maronis. He ‘tasted, as always, of olives, and she called on all her strength not to shudder against the bitterness.

  “Now, beiia,” he said, “give this to me.”

  He reached for her bowl, hooking one dirty thumb over the rim and cupping it from the bottom in his large hand. Within seconds, the bowl was full of two steaming helpings—plus a delightful little piece of fat floating on the top—and she offered a small curtsy as the prostitutes behind her in the line laughed and tried to negotiate their own price for a free meal.

  Kassandra gathered up her skirt using the thin material as a shield against the hot bowl. She brought the bowl to her lips and allowed herself one tiny sip of the broth—-just enough to burn the taste of Mr. Maroni from her mouth—before heading through the streets to find a quiet corner to savor her meal. Her body had grown dull to its hunger, but that little taste brought it to ravenous life again.

  Lately she'd been sleeping in a large building up the street where the peddlers parked their carts for the night. Now, as she looked around, she saw them singing their songs and hawking their wares. The warehouse would be abandoned and quiet, perfect for a leisurely meal and a good sleep to follow.

  When the heat of the soup began to seep through the fabric of her skirt, Kassandra quickened her pace slightly, careful not to let one precious drop slosh over the side. The anticipation was often more delicious than the soup itself, and she smiled thinking of the little sparrow on its branch waiting for her at the bottom of the bowl. Somewhere in her blanket at the warehouse was half a sourdough roll she'd found just yesterday. Left alone it was a flour-crusted stone, but Kassandra intended to plop it into this broth, then mash great moist bits of it into her mouth.

  Without breaking stride, she brought the bowl to her lips. Had she not been so engrossed, so hungry, she probably would have seen the carriage careening down the street toward her. If nothing else, she would have heard the terrified cry of the horse as its driver pulled desperately on the reins to avoid running over the little blond girl with the blue bowl of soup in the middle of the street. Instead, her first knowledge of the carriage or the horse came as something hit the bottom of her bowl. She felt the porcelain rim clink into her teeth and bump against her forehead. She got one quick glimpse of the sparrow sitting on its branch before two ladlefuls of Mr. Maroni's Sunday soup flew into her wide eyes.

  She was surprised to hear herself scream. She thought her voice had completely closed up within her, it had been so long since she'd uttered a single sound. Yet here she was, her face alive with pain, as she fell to her knees, then straight to the ground. Some of the broth had gone up her nose and now choked in her throat. She writhed on the street, calling “Muter/ Muter!” although the memory of when such a call would bring her mother to her side was a memory all but lost.

  She felt a hand take both of hers in its grip and another cradle the back of her neck. Kassandra had been touched enough to know it was a man, and she stiffened against his ministrations.

  “Hush now," a gentle voice said. “Hush little one. It's going to be all right.”

  Kassandra let her body go limp. Tears welled up in her closed eyes as new waves of pain throbbed inside her head. She sensed a crowd had gathered, heard muttered conversations and a few hurled, angry words. The gentle hand that held her own released its grip, and the voice that had been so gentle in her ear now spoke loudly above her.

  “She's calling for her mother! Does anyone know where her mother is?”

  Kassandra wanted to tell him that she had no mother, but when she opened her mouth to say so, she could only whimper.

  “Well, then,” said the voice, “where does she live? What is her name?”

  She knew nobody could answer him. Nobody knew her name, and she didn't live anywhere. She wanted to tell the voice all of this, but before she could she was weightless, lifted by one strong arm under her legs and another around her shoulders. Then she was flying through the air until she finally felt soft solidity beneath her. She tried to open her eyes, but the effort seemed too great and an onslaught of pain a promise, so she contented herself to enjoy the comfort of what must be a cushion.

  She felt her bo
dy shutting down, felt uncontrollable drowsiness take over. She thought to herself that maybe she was dying—she'd never felt quite so comfortable and tired ever in her life. Maybe the arms she'd felt were the arms of God Himself, lifting her to this upholstered heaven. Her mind filled with a sense of relief. What perfect timing this death would be. After nine (or ten? eleven?) years on this earth, how convenient to be taken at her hungriest. Before the winter came to find her without shoes.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the voice speaking softly just to her. “Haben Sie nicht Angst,” it said, telling her not to be afraid.

  And strangely enough, she wasn't, even as her body lurched forward into what was surely a journey into the next world.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents,

  and dialogues are products of the authors imagination and are

  not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TEN THOUSAND CHARMS

  published by Multnomah Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  © 2006 by Allison Pittman

  www.shootpw.com

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from:

  The Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV)

  Other Scripture quotations are from:

  The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV)

  © 1973, 1984 by International Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House

  Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers,

  and is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers.

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