Something in his expression shifted. “Hair tonic.” He rubbed his chin. “Lots of it, you say?”
“Cases and cases.”
“Do you remember anyone else who was there, besides Kurt?”
I named off a couple of other fellows I’d recognized. “But most of them I didn’t know.”
He leaned forward. “Who else have you told about this?”
“No one except Mrs. Cross. She said Field’s was just being generous to the needy.”
“I see.” He stood up and threw some money on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, Marjorie, I’m going to take your advice about talking to the shipping manager. With any luck I can catch him before he goes home. Can we postpone dinner? Say, tomorrow night instead?”
“Sure.”
“Aw, you’re swell. Pick you up at six.” Without warning, he bent down and kissed me soundly on the forehead, and was gone.
My hand shook as I lifted my coffee cup. I struggled to put two thoughts together. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell Peter how terrible I felt about that night at the speakeasy. Maybe he’d forgotten all about it, unlikely as that was. But what about that gorgeous redhead? And—oh, yeah—the bootlegging? But now the only thing that seemed to matter was the feel of his lips against my forehead. The man was poison and I knew it. And the worst thing was, I didn’t care.
On Sunday afternoon after church, I sat cross-legged on the apartment floor, surrounded by a sea of blue satin, carefully cutting around the stains on the skirt of what was to become Gabriella’s dress. After being wadded up in a drawer and forgotten, the garment had needed a thorough cleaning, and was still ruined in several places. Fortunately Gabriella had the petite figure of a fairy sprite and there would be plenty of fabric left to fit her.
The door-buzzer sounded. Dot tossed aside her magazine and stood to answer it.
“Oh, dear,” I said, glancing at my wristwatch. “That must be Peter. We’re supposed to have dinner together, but either I completely lost track of the time or he’s awfully early.”
But instead of Peter, the voice that floated up through the speaking tube was Charlie’s. Moments later he stood in the doorway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand.
Dot lit up like a firefly and kissed him on the cheek. “Charlie! This is a surprise. What are you doing in the city?” She blushed like a schoolgirl as he handed her the flowers.
“I guess you’re not here to see your old sister.” I rose stiffly on my cramped legs and gave my brother a hug.
“I’m here for several reasons, not the least of which is to make sure my old sister’s all right. The folks at home are a bit worried about how you’re making out.”
“I’m fine. Coming back here was the right thing to do.”
“That’s good.” He ruffled my hair as if I were ten, then smiled at Dot, who looked positively demure in a sweater and skirt. “I was also hoping to take my best girl out to dinner. You don’t have to work tonight, do you?”
“Nosiree. As I told you, I’m through with all of that. Louie, the club, everything. I really mean it this time. I’d love to go out with you.” She winked at me. “If we wait just a little while, you can meet the mysterious Peter Bachmann. Maybe we can double-date for dinner. What do you say, Marjie?”
“Who’s Peter Bachmann?” Charlie said.
“Richard’s replacement,” Dot said.
“Oh, yeah?” He grinned. Concerning my broken engagement, Charlie was every bit as relieved as Frances was appalled.
“He’s not replacing anybody,” I said. “Peter and I are just friends.”
“Special friends,” Dot said, making me regret I’d confided to her about the kiss in a moment of roommately weakness.
“We wouldn’t want to intrude on your evening.” I scooped up pieces of blue satin from the floor.
“You won’t be intruding. Right, Charlie?”
“Of course not. I should probably meet this guy, anyway, if he has designs on my sister.”
“Nobody has any designs on anybody,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Charlie countered, gazing meaningfully at Dot. She giggled. I rolled my eyes.
“Then I guess I’d better change.”
“You run along and get prettied up,” Dot said. “I’ll put these flowers in a vase, and we’ll just sit here and visit until you’re ready.”
Sensing they wanted some time alone, I took my time in the tub. The glorious hot water soothed my tired back after a long afternoon bent over my sewing. I smiled inside when I realized that remarkably little talking was taking place in the front room. I dawdled about fixing my hair and choosing an outfit.
When the buzzer sounded, I called, “I’ll be right out,” and wrestled with the hook and eye on the back of my dress. I heard Dot speak into the tube. “Peter, come on up. There’s somebody here who’s just dying to meet you.”
I emerged from the bedroom just as Peter appeared in the doorway. At the sight of him, Charlie’s face drained of all color, then flushed a deep red. The two men stared at each other for a long moment.
“Charlie, I’d like you to meet—”
But before Dot could say another word, Charlie hauled back his good arm and decked Peter straight across the jaw.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Jack Lund! You moron! We all thought you were dead,” Charlie shouted. Peter sat on the floor with a stunned look on his face and worked his jaw, apparently knocked speechless. “Ten years without a word to anybody? You don’t let anybody know you’re alive? You never heard of a telephone? Or Western Union?”
Dot gave a little yelp.
“Charlie, stop it,” I cried. “That’s not Jack.” I put a hand on his arm and he shook it off.
“Whaddya mean?” Charlie pointed a shaking finger at the hapless Peter. “That there is Jack Lund, as sure as I’m standing here.”
“No, it’s not. Look, I thought so too, but it’s not Jack. Really. It’s Peter Bachmann, from the store.”
Charlie rubbed his fist against his shirt, breathing hard. His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he stared at Peter.
“Charlie, it’s the fellow I told you I thought was Jack. Remember that?”
Charlie ran his hand roughly across his mouth. “You mean that time I said you had a screw loose?”
“Yes. But he’s not, I tell you.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . gosh, he sure had me fooled.” Sheepishly Charlie extended a hand to Peter, helped him up off the floor, and retrieved his hat from where it had fallen. “Sorry about that, fella. Gave me sort of a shock there. You look exactly like an old friend of mine.”
“I know. I’ve been told.” Peter rubbed his tender jaw. “Quite a hook you got there. If that’s how you treat your old friends, I’d hate to see what you do to your enemies.”
“I’m really sorry.” Charlie reached out for a handshake. “Gosh. Let’s start over. I’m Charlie Corrigan. Marjorie’s brother.”
“Peter Bachmann. Marjorie’s . . . friend.”
“Well, good thing that’s settled.” Dot eyed the three of us warily. After an awkward pause she said, “Peter, Charlie and I were just on our way out to dinner. Won’t you two join us?”
“I’m afraid not,” Peter said.
Charlie scrubbed a hand over his face. “Hey, buddy, it’ll be my treat. It’s the least I can do to make up for practically busting your jaw.”
“I appreciate the offer, Charlie, but it’s not that.” He turned to me. “Marjorie, I apologize. I just came by to tell you I have to break our plans this evening. Something—well, something’s come up.”
“Sure, Peter. That’s all right.” It didn’t really feel all right, but who could blame the man? I sure wouldn’t want to go out with someone whose brother had just socked me in the face.
“We’ll do it real soon,” Peter promised, and off he went.
“Gee, sis. I don’t know what to say.” Charlie shook his head. “I really thought he was Jack for a moment
there. I’m sorry I doubted you before. I thought you were just—you know, dreaming. Now I know why you thought—”
“I know.” I cut him off, weary of the topic. “I’m just relieved you now know I wasn’t crazy. Let’s just forget the whole thing, shall we?”
Dot linked her arm through mine. “You’ll still come out to dinner with us, even without Peter, right, Marjie? I’m starving. What do you say we drown our sorrows in sweet-and-sour sauce?”
We drove to the Orange Garden in Charlie’s car. Over chow mein and egg rolls, I told him everything I knew about Peter, which turned out to be not all that much. Charlie mostly listened, interjecting every so often with an incredulous, “It’s the darndest thing.”
As we waited for the check, Dot slid her arm through Charlie’s. “It’s so sweet of you to come all the way to the city to see us. Where should we go next?”
Charlie squirmed. “Well, to be honest, there is another reason I came here tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“Now don’t get steamed,” he warned. Dot shot him a wary glance. “I’m going to the revival meeting at the Coliseum tonight.” He checked his wristwatch. “In fact, I need to leave soon.” His voice turned pleading. “And I’m asking you one last time to come with me. But, with or without you, I’m going.”
“Oh, Charlie. No.” Dot’s eyes glittered. “I told you. Reverend Barker is nothing but a big con man. Why, he has no more healing powers than a magical toad in a fairy tale. Don’t be a fool.”
“What are you two talking about?” I said, mystified by Dot’s sudden fit of temper. “Who’s Reverend Barker?”
“He’s a healer. He’s helped lots of others, and he can help me. I know he can,” Charlie said firmly. “Dot doesn’t believe it.”
She lifted her chin. “Your brother thinks a traveling carnival man can perform healing miracles,” she spat. “Well, you can do as you like, Charlie Corrigan. But I want no part of it.” She stood up, grabbed her purse, and stormed out of the restaurant. Charlie tossed some money on the table and ran after her. I chased after Charlie. We reached the sidewalk just in time to watch Dot speed away in a taxi.
I still didn’t understand. “What just happened? Why is she so upset?”
Charlie shook his head, his face pale in the glow of the restaurant’s neon sign. “Haven’t you been reading the papers? This Reverend Barker has been healing all kinds of people—making the crippled walk again, that sort of thing. This is his last night in town.” He held up his limp arm. “Look at me, sis. My useless arm, my bum leg . . . the docs haven’t been able to help me. I’m at the end of my rope. What have I got to lose?”
My heart cracked wide open. “Oh, Charlie—”
He shook his head. “I’ve been telling Dot for weeks that I want to see this fellow, to see for myself if he can heal me. But every time I bring it up, she won’t even discuss it. She says he’s just a huckster.”
“Charlie. I don’t know,” I said, gently touching his shoulder. “Maybe she’s right. If this Reverend Barker really has healing powers, why doesn’t he just walk up and down the wards at Cook County Hospital, making people well? Why does he only do it in a stadium filled with thousands of people?”
“He wouldn’t have this reputation if there wasn’t some truth to it,” Charlie reasoned. “Maybe he can’t heal everybody, but even if he can help just a little—” He looked skyward as if speaking to the stars. “Look, sis, you don’t know what it’s like, being in pain all the time. Always having to ask for help. Never being able to dance with your girl, to show her a good time.” He walked to his roadster and opened the driver-side door. “I don’t care what you say, sis. I’m going.”
“Wait.” I reached for the passenger door. “You’re not going alone.”
When we got to the Coliseum, a line had already formed outside. Mixed into the crowd were many people with visible ailments: wheelchairs, crutches, canes. The air crackled with energy as we took our places in the queue.
In the shadows against the building, a woman in an orange dress spoke animatedly with her companion. I nudged Charlie.
“See that woman over there? In the orange dress?”
“Yeah? What about her?”
“She shops at Field’s. A regular. I see her all the time.”
“Big deal. Probably half the women here shop at Field’s.”
“Maybe I should go over and say hello.”
But Charlie wasn’t listening. He was straining to get inside the building.
A small army of sharply dressed ushers stood at various points. Some greeted people, making friendly inquiries about their health and well-being. Others directed foot traffic, funneling people to various sections of the vast stadium.
Finally Charlie and I entered the cavernous hall. Organ music warbled over the steady hum of voices. An usher approached us.
“Good evening, folks.” He reached out his right hand to shake Charlie’s. In response Charlie extended his left hand. “Bum arm.” He looked down. “Bum leg, too. War injuries.”
“Ah. War injuries,” the usher repeated. “On behalf of the Reverend Barker ministry, let me express our thanks for your service to our country.” As he motioned for us to follow him down an aisle, I noticed he discreetly observed Charlie’s limp. About halfway to the stage, he stopped. “Here are some seats, right here.”
Charlie nodded toward the stage. “I was hoping to sit up closer to the front, closer to Reverend Barker.”
“There’ll be a time to come forward,” the usher said. “You’ll have ample time. We need to reserve the front places for the severely impaired. Now please be seated.”
So we sat.
Before the great evangelist took the stage, there was about an hour of music—group singing of familiar hymns interspersed with solos by a warbling soprano and a deep, resonant baritone. Glancing around, I saw many faces glowing with anticipation and excitement, and others glazed over with fatigue, or maybe boredom.
When Reverend Barker finally took the stage, the crowd cheered. He acknowledged the cheers and then spread his arms and looked heavenward. As the audience settled down, music continued in the background, softly, enticingly.
“I have an anointing from God to heal people,” he shouted. “Jesus doesn’t want you to be sick.”
As he spoke, his voice modulated crazily, now rapidly, now loudly, now practically a whisper. He held a Bible in his hand, but I didn’t ever see him open it.
Next came a series of testimonies from people who claimed to have been healed at past meetings. A man spoke of being healed of severe headaches, another of back pain, another of an addiction to alcohol. One woman hobbled to the front, obviously in pain, but claimed to have been healed of needing a wheelchair.
After several such testimonies, Reverend Barker closed his eyes and extended his hands out toward the crowd, as if he were feeling something tangible hovering in the air.
“In the audience God is touching people right now, right here,” he declared. “The Lord has just told me a muscle spasm has been healed. Hallelujah, amen. Somewhere in the audience, a sinus condition has just been healed. A neck injury has been healed. The Lord is touching many of you in this audience right here in this auditorium. Those of you listening to me on the radio at home, many of you are being healed.”
I glanced over at Charlie. He stared at the stage as if hypnotized, his expression impossible to read. Was he buying this?
Reverend Barker lifted his arms. “I want you to reach into your pocket or your billfold and pull out the largest bill you have. If it’s a ten-dollar bill, I want you to get that out. If it’s a one-dollar bill, I want you to get that out. If it’s only a quarter or a dime, get that out, too. Give God the biggest offering you can.”
Ushers extended baskets on long poles down each row. Soon the baskets were filled with bills and coins, and an occasional scribbled note. When the basket came to our row, I kept my purse firmly shut, but Charlie tossed in a few bills.
&n
bsp; After the collection, at long last the preacher said, “Those of you in need of healing, come forward.”
People seated at the front began lining up near a set of stairs leading to a stage.
“I’m going up.” Charlie stepped out into the aisle. An usher moved quickly to block his path.
“Sir, you can’t go up there now.”
“Why not? Everyone else is. He said it’s time.” Charlie tried to move past the man, but he was bigger than a Green Bay Packer, and just as menacing in spite of his frozen smile.
“I’m afraid the stage is too crowded just now. For your own safety, please return to your seat.”
Charlie panicked. “But I need to get to the stage. I must see Reverend Barker. I’ve waited so long.”
“Sit down, sir, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
The usher stood firm, arms crossed. Charlie scanned the gigantic hall, desperate to find another way to approach the stage.
Just then a flash of orange caught my eye. A wheelchair-bound woman passed us, propelled down the aisle by another one of the ushers. Something wasn’t right. I clutched Charlie’s arm.
“Charlie, see that woman? The one in the wheelchair? It’s the woman in the orange dress. Look.”
Charlie stared in disbelief. “But—wait a minute. What’s she doing in a wheelchair? A few minutes ago, she was walking around, same as us.”
We watched in horrified fascination as the chair was wheeled up the ramp. When her turn came, Reverend Barker muttered some unintelligible words, waved his arms, and commanded her to stand up, which she did. The frenzied crowd burst into cheers, whistles, and “Amens.”
Charlie’s profile was stoic, but his jaw worked in frustration as he stared at the preacher onstage, eyes glistening with fury and disappointment.
My heart clenched. “Come on, Charlie.” I said, putting a hand on his arm. “Let’s go home.”
He didn’t protest. We pushed our way back through the crowd, through the lobby, and out into the cool autumn air. People were still streaming in.
To our surprise, leaning against a wall in the shadows near the entrance, Dot stood watching the crowd. She spotted us and walked over, soberly assessing the expression on Charlie’s face.
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