Tabitha (6 page)

Rose and Tabitha seated themselves in the same places they
had occupied the day prior.

Breona, her black eyes dancing with intrigue, placed a tea
tray between Rose and Tabitha.

“Thank you, my dear Breona!” Rose exclaimed. “How very
thoughtful.”

“Ye was both bein’ as parched as th’ ground in July
yisterday.” Breona wiped her hands on her apron. “Will ye be talkin’ fer hours
agin t’day?”

Rose glanced at Tabitha. “Perhaps. We shall see how it
goes.”

“Shall ye be needin’ onything from me?”

“No, dear one, but thank you for asking.”

Having received no word or hint to assuage her curiosity,
Breona shrugged and left the great room, closing the door behind her.

“Did you sleep well last night, Tabitha?” Rose inquired. Her
own sleep had been restless and her dreams uneasy, disturbed by the details
Tabitha had shared with her.

“Yes. I am surprised at how well I slept, actually,” Tabitha
responded. “To be truthful, the sharing of my past with you is causing me to
appreciate God’s grace toward me so much more than I had.”

She glanced up at Rose from under downcast lashes. “I think
I had not realized that I still felt a great deal of shame about my past. And
yet, as I spoke of the things I had done, the woman I used to be, the shame
seemed to
 . . .
slip
away. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes sense to me, Tabitha,” Rose replied. “I believe
that God’s children cannot testify to his gracious forgiveness in our lives
without first acknowledging that for which he has forgiven us.”

Rose tapped her pen on the notebook already filled with so
many lines and mused, “I wonder if those individuals who have lived ‘good’
lives do not sometimes struggle to see their need for God’s grace and
forgiveness.”

“Well,
I
certainly do not struggle to see that need,”
Tabitha sniffed.

She and Rose laughed a little.

“Shall we begin again?” Rose asked. “Perhaps at this point
you might move your story ahead, closer to when Jesus met you.”

“That is a good proposal, Miss Rose. I do not wish to dwell
overmuch on those evil years.” Tabitha’s brows drew together. “I will take up
my tale not long before I was moved to Denver.”

I stared from my second-floor room to the busy street below.
I was not really taking in the sights; rather, I was allowing my thoughts to
wander . . . allowing them to fret and grow anxious about the
future.

Eleven years had worn their way through my life. For eleven
years I had performed, complied, and obeyed as Opal required. I was now
twenty-six years old, a well-practiced prostitute, utterly dead in my heart.
Yet somehow, I had managed to maintain a “lively” enough pretense on the
outside to suit Opal’s purposes these many years.

But now Opal was ill. Her skin, once beautiful in its
porcelain clarity, hung from fragile bones in paper-thin folds. She looked
every year of her life—and more.

She is dying
, I made myself acknowledge
.
I
have seen the signs before; I recognize them
.

Indeed, over the last decade, I had watched two of Opal’s
girls march toward death in similar fashion. Opal was dying of consumption
.

The harbingers of death by the dread disease were clear
enough: A cough that would not abate, that sent the older woman into spasms
where she could not catch her breath; coughing spells that more and more
frequently ended in blood-soaked handkerchiefs; a persistent fever. And Opal
had lost a great deal of weight. Far too much weight.

She would not be coming back from this sickness.

What will become of us girls when she dies?

In a deep corner of my heart I clutched at and gripped a
tiny, brittle hope, a hope that when Opal passed, I might be free again and
make my way home to my parents.

My folks. Are they still living?
Neither of them
would be old yet, but life on a farm was arduous, and disease and injury were
ever-present in the world, threatening even the hardiest of bodies.

Like Opal’s.

Opal’s ever-present shadow, Big Jim, was also older by eleven
years. He was just as massive, just as strong as when I had first laid eyes
upon him, but he was not as light on his feet as he had been in his younger
days.

Big Jim was, like the rest of us, preoccupied with Opal’s
condition. I could see from the concern glinting in his simple-minded eyes that
he, too, knew Opal would not rally. As I watched him, I probed for the right
opportunity to flee. I would have to be quick and have a good plan.

I left off staring out the window and came to the table when
called.

In the years following my surrender to her, Opal had built
on to her house. Twelve girls now sat down to the morning meal. Usually Opal
presided at the table, but she had sent word that she would be taking her
breakfast in her room.

For the third morning in a row.

Instead, Big Jim and two other hired men like him kept watch
over the table. Their sole job was to keep us girls in line.

While I ate, I covertly studied the three men. I was not
sure if Big Jim had thought ahead, had thought about what would become of
Opal’s “business” when she died. His eyes shifted uncomfortably from watching
us girls to watching Marco, a younger, smarter version of himself. Marco, in my
estimation, was an ambitious type, the kind of man who would make a move to
take over Opal’s business the moment she was no longer able to give orders.

But Opal was not at quite that point yet; no, she was not
about to allow a
coup
to topple her rule. Not over her own house!

Tensions in the house were rising, however. I would have to
time my escape to dovetail with the power struggle I could feel looming
near—when Opal’s attention was elsewhere.

My timing did not foresee Opal’s preemptive move.

Only two days later, she called all of us—working girls and
hired muscle—into the parlor. She looked . . . somewhat better,
stronger, than she had for a while. Certainly she had taken pains with her
toilet and dress, even though her clothes sagged upon her exceedingly thin
frame.

As I studied her, I wondered what it was that I sensed about
her. I was mildly disconcerted when the word “relieved” came to mind.

Relieved?

“Ladies,” she nodded at the dozen women who worked for her,
“and gentlemen.” Her last word held a degree of sarcasm, and she fixed on
Marcos, in particular, as she addressed us. She drew herself up in her chair.

“I have an announcement to make.” She again surveyed us,
considering each of us for a moment. Then she sighed, and a bit of vitality
seemed to seep from her.

“But first, Big Jim, would you kindly show our guests in?”

Big Jim ushered three men into the room, two of them
impressive in their stature and girth. The third smiled at Opal and swapped a
wad of chaw from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Miz Opal. Right good t’ see ya lookin’ s’fine t’day,” he
grinned.

Opal, a tight smile frozen upon her face, nodded like a
queen to an inferior subject. “Mr. Jacobs. Thank you for your prompt arrival.”

She inclined her head and Jacobs took a seat. His men stood
behind him, hands clasped in front of their bodies, expressions inscrutable.

“Ladies,” Opal began again, “and gentlemen,” (this time
there was no mistaking that she had fixed her gaze upon Marcos) “I wish to
announce that Mr. Jacobs has made me an agreeable offer for my business. I have
accepted his offer. As of this afternoon, Mr. Jacobs is the new owner of this
house.”

The tension in the parlor could not have been thicker. We
girls, discomfited, stared from Opal to Jacobs and back while Jacobs leered at
us, looking us up and down like so much meat on the hoof.

Marcos clamped his lips together in anger and evaluated
Jacob’s muscle. They, in turn, dropped their hands to their sides and held them
in readiness, hinting at the guns that had to be hiding beneath their
suitcoats.

“Marcos.” Opal’s voice broke through the crackling
hostility. “Mr. Jacobs will not be retaining your services as he steps into his
management of this house.” She lifted an envelope with a weak, trembling hand.
“Your pay. Please take it and excuse yourself with
my thanks
.” Her
address to Marcos, again, was laced with sarcasm.

Big Jim took the envelope from Opal’s hand and held it out
to Marcos. The man looked from the envelope toward Jacobs and his men and back.
Finally, snatching his pay from Big Jim, he stormed from the room and out the
front entrance.

“As I mentioned during our negotiations, Mr. Jacobs, you
would do well to watch out for that one,” Opal drawled.

She struggled to her feet and Big Jim assisted her. “And
now, ladies,” Opal wheezed, “I bid you farewell. Big Jim and I are departing for
a warmer, drier climate, one better suited to my health.”

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.