The Waltz of Devil's Creek by Justine Carver

Author:Justine Carver
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lonely Raven Studios
Published: 2021-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

21

NEWSWORTHY

Seven days went by, seven days of nothing. I had yet to further my case against Pastor Allman because my pa was conflicted about it all. I had told him everything that happened that day, and it took all he had not to serve his own justice. “How dare that man come to my home!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen table, rattling the tea glasses.

“We need to move away from here, Judith,” he had told me later that evening after he’d had time to think. “This is a dangerous game you’re playin’, and as much as I want to agree with you and go through with tryin’ to put that man away where he belongs, I’m not confident it’ll go in your favor.”

“But Pa, you said so yourself, if nobody ever does anything, people will just keep gettin’ away with it.”

“I know I said that, and I still mean it. But I’m worried about you, Judith. Pastor Allman has too much support.” He dropped his head between his shoulders. He was sitting in his favorite living room chair, elbows propped on his thighs, arms dangling between them; he looked like a tired man in his sixties when he was only thirty-three years old. His hair was still graying at a rapid rate, and extra lines had appeared in his face over the past few weeks.

“But we have to try...”

My pa knew I was right; he knew the only “right” thing to do was go through with it, refuse to be intimidated, and set an example for everybody else. How many women had Pastor Allman attacked before me? Maybe none, maybe a dozen—but there didn’t have to be any more after me, that was for sure. I had the power to stop it, and to teach any other sexual predator—no matter how rich or influential or white—that if they attacked a woman, they too could spend half their lives in jail.

Yes, I had the power, but Pastor Allman had more. And no matter how hard I tried to convince my pa, he kept reminding me of the fact. And that sometimes “right” was wrong.

The only other card I had to play was the most dangerous one of all.

“I’m pregnant, Pa.”

We were sitting outside on the porch, just before sundown. It had taken me ten minutes to work up the courage to push those three words past my lips. I had pondered for days about how to tell him—if I should tell him—but there was no other way than bluntly.

My pa stood and walked back inside the house; the screen door snapped lightly against the frame.

He couldn’t talk for hours. He wasn’t angry with me; he was mad at himself for not protecting me. And I hated myself because I hadn’t even told him the worst part yet—as if being pregnant wasn’t enough.

But maybe I wouldn’t need to tell him the part about William.

“Pa, please just listen.” I sat with him at the kitchen table; he couldn’t bear to look at me, and it stung.

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