I smiled. “Looks like we have a true-blue fan here.”
Margaret Luster shook her head, impatient. “What I’d really like to get my hands on are the other tapes. Dove’s earlier tapes.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” I glanced over her shoulder. Her husband had vanished, and suddenly I fiercely wished for his return. The hand holding the champagne flute had started to tremble just the slightest bit.
“Good afternoon, staff, friends, and honored guests.”
On the makeshift stage behind me, a young woman in an elegant white pantsuit stood at a podium. She wore black-framed glasses, nearly obscured by a curtain of neat twists, and gave the microphone a few taps.
“Are we on? Welcome to the official dedication ceremony for Pritchard Hospital’s new Dove Jarrod Building.”
A polite smattering of applause rippled through the crowd.
“And thank you to Bryant’s Catering for the refreshments.”
Margaret was still focused on me, her nostrils flaring determinedly. “The missing ones from the early days. When Dove was ministering with that other young girl. They called themselves the Hawthorn Sisters. They preached right here in Alabama.”
The moniker—Hawthorn Sisters—sent a strange electric thrill through me. I was used to hearing the groupies tell me about their encounters with Charles and Dove, but I’d never heard anything about any duo called the Hawthorn Sisters. Margaret must be mistaken. Or thinking of someone else. Dove had always been very clear about how, after escaping Pritchard, she’d come straight to California where she’d met my grandfather.
Up at the podium, the woman in the white pantsuit was still talking. “My name is Beth Barnes. I’m director of operations for our newest program, the Bridge. It’s a groundbreaking modality we designed to address women’s issues in a safe and therapeutic environment. Thanks to Dove Jarrod’s personal contribution, we’ll have the honor of operating out of this spectacular, historic facility.”
More applause and now the clinking of glasses.
Margaret Luster gave my free hand a squeeze. Her eyes glowed with a strange light. “The other girl was from a prominent family up in Florence. Lumber, I think. Anyway, the story is that back in the mid-1930s the Hawthorn Sisters held revivals and performed all sorts of miracles.”
She whispered this last word, and I gritted my teeth. Hyperbole was part of the deal with these people, and she’d obviously mistaken Dove for some other female itinerant Southern preacher.
“There’s so much power in the old ways, you know?” she said. “Those folks preached with such fervor and conviction. Such unwavering faith. Not like the watered-down, feel-good stuff you see on TV now. No, no, no. I tell you, these people had the real fire.”
I spotted a server across the reception room holding a full tray of drinks, downed the remainder of my champagne and snagged another.
“In fact, I’ll kick myself if I pass up the opportunity while I have you . . .” She pulled me even closer, so close I could see the web of fuchsia lipstick that had bled into the creases above her thin upper lip. “Will you pray for me . . . right now? I have a condition. Myocardial ischemia. It’s a blockage in the arteries and can cause all sorts of problems. Heart attack, blood clots, strokes—”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I stammered. “But I’m not—”
“Just real quick like.” Her hands were tiny, warm claws on mine. “We could go to the ladies’ room.” Tears filmed her bright eyes. “I just feel like the Lord brought you to me, here in the place where Dove’s life began. I think He brought you here to bless me in a way I’ve never been blessed before.”
I started to feel lightheaded, the churn of resentment and empathy making me feel sick to my stomach. This woman was facing a potentially deadly diagnosis; she was scared and desperate, and because of who she believed my grandmother to be, she was asking me for help. But what could I do? Nothing. And now my right hand was shaking violently, the full flute of champagne sloshing.
I pulled loose and stepped back, bumping directly into Danny. “I’m sorry. I just can’t . . .” I clutched frantically at his arm. “Margaret, would you excuse me? I need to sort out a few logistical issues with the film with my brother.”
She extended her hand to Danny. “Margaret Luster. So pleased to meet another grandchild of the great Dove Jarrod.”
“Likewise.” Danny took my arm.
“We’ll catch up later,” I assured her as Danny hustled me away. We ended up at the foot of the red-carpeted staircase and, relieved, I put the flute on a small table.
“Who was that?” he asked, eyes wide.
“Our newest donor.”
“Are you okay?”
I was sweating, I realized. Trembling all over now. “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but I waved him off and he nodded up at Dove’s portrait. “I keep expecting her to step out of that painting and tell us what she saw here, back in the day.” He sighed. “I’m going to go look for coffee. Find me after the fun’s over.”
He left and I climbed a couple of steps toward the second-floor landing. Beth Barnes was now well into her speech.
“Dove Jarrod and her husband, Charles, were perhaps the most well-known traveling evangelists in the thirties and forties, and she continued the work of their ministry even into the eighties. They led revivals in every state in the US and traveled to dozens of foreign countries as well.”
Someone in the crowd murmured a soft “amen.”
“They met with presidents and kings, dignitaries and even a dictator or two. But they ministered to the common folks as well and were honored with all kinds of awards from religious and charitable organizations.”
I climbed a few more steps. Thick carpeting sank under my feet and I ran my fingers along the glossy railing. I looked out over the crowd, then up toward the windows that lined the gallery.
“—but before Dove Jarrod was Dove Jarrod, she was Ruth Davidson, and before that, Ruth Lurie. She had many trials, but she never forgot where she came from. She never forgot the injustices she witnessed here at Pritchard. The abuse and death of her mother. The torture of so many innocent people . . .”
I felt a chill work its cold fingers up my spine. I could see it now. The reason Dove had willed the bulk of her estate to restore this part of Pritchard. It was because the place had been a nightmare—for her and so many others. And Dove knew, maybe better than anybody, that only money, not some miracle from above, could turn it into a force for good.
Poking around online archives while prepping for the documentary, I had come across some pictures of Pritchard in the twenties and early thirties. The photos, even in black and white, had made my stomach roll. Filthy, peeling walls, cornices laced with rot and mold. And then there were the patients. Ragged, dirty. Gaunt and grim. I expect, at one point or another, they had all begged God to save them from the horror. But He hadn’t, had He? And Dove had saved herself.
I’m not the one who can give you your miracle. All I can do is tell you the truth . . .
Beth continued. “The Pritchard legacy encompasses so much, good and bad, fine and ugly. Noble and debased. It is a shame to our state, a blot in our history books. And yet, at the same time, in a strange way, it is a triumph . . .”
I turned my gaze from Dove’s portrait to the wide hallway and closed my eyes. I could almost see her. A girl, twelve years old, thin from the lack of food, pale, probably, with short burnished red hair. Standing barefoot on that second-floor landing. Smiling.
Smiling. Like she had a secret. A plan . . .
“. . . a beacon for all those who struggle with mental health issues and for those who advocate for them,” Beth was saying. “As they embark on a journey toward wellness . . .”
I turned to the screen beside the dais where they’d started rolling Griff’s footage—a three-minute sizzle reel he’d roughed together back in LA. Stills of Charles and Dove over piano music, a sepia reenactment of
an old-fashioned tent meeting. Slo-mo shots of the Jarrods’ house, their home church, a few recipients who’d benefitted from the foundation’s gifts.
My phone buzzed.
I’m outside getting some exteriors. Can you pop out for a sec?
The reel was still going, everyone watching in rapt silence. No one would notice if I slipped out for a few minutes. I headed down the stairs and threaded my way through the crowd.
Outside, the sky had gone a soft dark blue, the heat finally starting to settle. Cicadas buzzed in a deafening chorus in the dark beyond, but closer to the edges of the gravel parking lot, fireflies circled. And the dove. He was still going at it too, which seemed strange. I thought they only sang during the day.
I stopped at the end of the stone walk. To my right, in the middle of the expansive lawn, the thorny, blooming tree glowed in the moonlight. I scanned the opposite side of the lawn but saw nothing. The parking lot was deserted too, from the looks of it, and beyond that, a field and a line of shadowy woods in the distance.
I walked to the lot thinking I’d take a look in the rusted old iron fountain. Maybe there were still coins in there, thrown by long-ago patients or visitors. Wishing for things beyond their control. Wishing for freedom.
And then a thought occurred to me. Griff had lost his phone and planned to get a burner in the morning. He couldn’t have texted me.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain on my scalp, and someone yanked me backward by my hair. I gasped and clawed the air, trying to keep myself upright. The person tightened their grip, tilting my head back. I cried out, just as a hand closed over my mouth.
“Hello, Eve,” a low voice hissed in my ear. “Welcome to Alabama.”
Chapter Six
Tuscaloosa, Alabama
1930
Ruth woke to the sound of a bolt sliding back from the heavy door. She sat up, promptly banging her head against the wooden slats of the crib. She winced and rubbed the spot.
Watery moonlight spilled between the bars of the lone window set high in the wall. The nursery. That’s where she was. After supper, Singley had made a fuss about how she didn’t clean her table properly, dragged her down here and locked her in one of the wooden cribs. Now she realized the bolt she’d heard belonged to another door, one far down the long hall. She might have to wait an hour before Jimmy came.
The nursery smelled of old baby piss and doo. She’d lived there until she was about three years old. After that they let her stay in a dorm, chained by her leg to her mother’s narrow cot. Then her mother hanged herself. That was when she was six or seven; she couldn’t quite remember. Memories were strange here at Pritchard. They tended to fade, leaving a gray blank in their place.
The nighttime sounds of the ward floated around her from down the hall. Shouts. Sobs. The muffled thump-thump-thump of human bodies hitting walls and floorboards and straw pallets. The last was a sound that had become like a part of her, the music of the inmates as they lulled themselves to sleep by beating their heads.
At long last, Singley slid back the bolt on her door and unlocked the crib. He led her down the hall, and she told herself to keep calm. She didn’t know when her chance would come, but when it did, she’d know. If she jumped the gun, she’d end up Mrs. Jimmy Singley, and she’d be good gravy goddamned if she was going to let that happen.
Jimmy looked down at her, his face as red as a tomato. “Let’s step lively. Don’t want to keep the preacher waiting.”
When they pushed open the double doors of the auditorium, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the center of the stage. He wore a black felt hat with a rolled brim. It was tilted jauntily to one side. His black suit jacket, vest, and pants had a sheen to them, like they were very old. When Singley deposited her at the man’s feet, he swept off his hat and eyed her. His hair was black as coal and gray around the edges, his skin thick and pocked with scars.
His face wasn’t badly shaped, and he may have been handsome at one time, dashing even, but his eyes flashed with something dangerous. He smelled like oranges and clove and it nauseated her. The sight of her seemed to take him by surprise.
Singley ducked his head. “Evening, Uncle Robert. This here’s Ruthie.”
“Evening, miss.”
He replaced his hat, but his dangerous eyes never strayed from Ruth. He cracked a large set of knuckles, held out his massive hand, and Singley slapped a wad of bills into it. Ruth’s eyes widened. How much money had Singley paid for the man to say a few quick words? That must be some racket.
“James,” the man said in a sonorous preacher’s voice. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” He was still gazing at Ruth.
Ruth stayed stiff as a board. She had a bad feeling about this black-vested, behatted beast, with his glittering eyes, rough face, and hands the size of frying pans.
Singley looked slightly confused. “Yessir, I do. But ain’t you gonna say a few words before—”
“And Ruth, do you take this man to be your husband?” The preacher’s lip curled into a barely discernible smirk, but he didn’t say what he might have found amusing.
Singley’s mouth unhinged in shock, and he looked from his uncle to Ruth, then back again. “Hey, now. You can’t—”
“It’s my turn to talk,” Ruth said to Singley, then locked her gaze on the reverend’s eyes. “I can’t marry this man, sir. Not without telling the truth first. So he knows what he’s getting.”
The reverend Robert T. Singley reared back the slightest bit, like a horse that had encountered a rabbit. “You don’t say?”
“You see, sir, I’ve been used poorly. By another man.”
Singley gasped, a wet, desperate sound. “Ruth! You didn’t tell me.”
“You never asked,” Ruth snapped.
“My goodness.” The reverend’s eyes burned into her. “What a little spitfire you are.”
“And a slut, no two ways about it,” Ruth said matter-of-factly. “So I figure we better postpone this ceremony until another day. Until we can settle things with the other party. I expect he’ll have something to say about who’s marrying who.”
The younger Singley sputtered and flapped and rubbed his double chin. “She’s my girl. Mine.”
“And that other fella’s,” Ruth said.
The reverend’s lip curled into a smile. He seemed to be enjoying his nephew’s anguish. He eyed Ruth, as if a new idea had occurred to him.
“Well, what do you want to do?” the reverend asked in his deep, growling voice.
Singley looked from him to Ruth in confusion. “I can’t marry her now.”
“Sure, you can, you idiot.”
“I can’t! She ain’t no virgin!”
The reverend laughed, then looked at Ruth, his face gone grave. “Oh, you can, nephew, and you must. She’s been soiled and it’s up to you to salvage her. It’s a man’s duty to protect the woman, you know that.” He extended a finger and lifted a strand of her hair off her cheek. He then ran it along the slope of her jaw.
That’s when Ruth knew it was time.
She turned and ran—up the aisle of the auditorium, through the double doors, and all the way to the stairwell. Three flights down to the laundry, she pushed open the glass-paned door she had rigged earlier that day. She scurried across the room and slipped behind the big sinks, letting herself into the underground passageway that the attendants and nurses used to deliver the dirty linens to the back building. It ran all the way past the fields at the back end of the property.
She ran as fast as she could, barefoot over the packed dirt, her blue-and-white dress rippling as she went. Halfway down, she came to a small crevice between two rocks. She squeezed into it and shimmied her way up a couple of feet, coming to a rotted board. She punched at it until the outside latch sprung open and she could push the trapdoor up. It was just wide enough for her to wriggle through.
She’d done this before, on a few rare starry nights in the summer when she needed to see the sky. Those times
, she’d never realized she could’ve run. Or that she even wanted to.
But oh, how she wanted to run now.
She was only a couple of yards from the blackberry bushes, still heavy with unpicked fruit. She stood for a half second, sniffing the air for the scent of the Warrior River. The bluffs were due south of her. The trusty Alabama sky enveloped her like a blanket. She started running again, the Major’s marching song keeping time in her head.
Just before the battle, the general heard a row.
He said, “The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now.”
He turned around in wonder and what do you think he sees?
The Georgia militia eating goober peas . . .
Chapter Seven
Tuscaloosa, Alabama
Present
Every inch of my skin tingled with adrenaline. I could hear my breath in my ears, shallow and staccato, a counterpoint to the melodic whir of crickets in the trees. I felt sure if I tried to run, my legs wouldn’t cooperate. The only parts of me that seemed to be working were my racing heart, lungs, and fast-constricting throat.
And my nose. I smelled cloying aftershave, not like anything I’d smelled on Griff. It was the kind old men wore.
The man chuckled, a wheezy, phlegmy expectoration that sounded more like a cough. “Get up.”
He shoved me toward the parking lot, away from the hospital’s floodlights and deeper into the shadows. I stumbled toward the line of parked cars, guided by the fist twisted in my hair. He stopped me between my rental and the silver BMW. The BMW’s back window was smashed, the glass webbed but still holding together. On the seat was an upended cardboard box. Dove’s things.
I must’ve shivered, because he assured me, “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not as long as you give me what I want.”
I still couldn’t see him, so I tried to focus on his voice. Had I heard it before? He didn’t sound like the people I’d just been mingling with inside, no slow drawl that dripped like honey. This guy’s accent was nasally, with a distinct Southern twang. He was from the country maybe. The mountains.
Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters Page 4