up into her face. I imagine it makes quite a tableau.
âTell me.â
She shudders, starts to cry again. I lean forward and put my arms around her. Her body feels warm.
âThatâs right. Cry it out.â
I hold her, smelling her hair, the faint damp odor of her nose as it runs sticky onto my shoulder.
âDo you feel better now?â
Shaking her head, she pulls herself slowly away.
âI just want to help you,â I say. âYou have to trust me.â
She nods.
âIs it hard to talk about?â
She nods again, her face contorting, a red-blotched and twisting creature pushing through to the surface of her skin, her young beauty sloughed momentarily off.
âDo you trust me?â
âYes,â she says. âI guess so.â
âWhatever you did, I am not going to think any less of you for it. We all make mistakes. Itâs only when we donât repent of our mistakes that we end up in trouble.â
âI canât say it!â she bawls. âI canât talk about it!â
I am losing patience. She is not proving herself the girl her figure promises each night in the way she walks past my house.
âShall I try to guess?â
She nods.
âYou sinned alone?â
She shakes her head.
âWith another person?â
Nods.
âWas there a third person involved? Just the two of you? Stole something?â
She doesnât answer.
âKilled someone?â
She shakes her head.
âFornicated?â
She hesitates, nods, keeps nodding, starts weeping. My mouth goes dry, my tongue cleaving to the roof of it. The surface of my skin comes everywhere alive.
âIt is not the end of the world,â I say. âThere are worse things you could have done.â I draw myself a little closer to her, put my hand delicately on her arm. âGod needs to know all the details. That is his way. I want to know everything.â
I wait but she wonât speak.
âYou fornicated with someone your own age?â
âYes,â she says, her voice barely audible.
âHe forced you, didnât he?â
She hesitates. Then shakes her head no.
âHe must have forced you. I know boys. He was probably smooth enough to make you think otherwise, but he forced you.â
She barely nods, just willing to acquiesce.
âHow many times? Two or three?â
âMore,â she says.
âMore? How often? Hundreds? Did you use birth control?â I let my hand stroke her arm. âDid he?â
She shakes her head.
âDid you think it would be less of a sin if you didnât?â
âI donât know,â she says, and starts crying again.
âYou donât know?â
She closes her eyes, covers her face with her hands.
âYouâre pregnant.â
She says nothing, just stays with her face covered. So I figure I am right.
âGod is telling me you are,â I say.
She nods her head slowly.
âThatâs hard, very hard, but there are worse things that could have happened to you. It isnât the end of the world.â I move my hand to touch her neck. âSome punk kid did it, I guess.â
âNo,â she says. âNot just someone.â
âYou met him at high school?â
She doesnât say anything, doesnât move.
âDonât tell me you met him at church?â
I look around slowly, then back to her. It is nearly dark now, difficult to see.
âHow long have you known him?â
In a low, quavery voice she manages, âA long time.â
âOld family friend, is he?â
She shakes her head.
âDo you think this is some sort of game?â I say. âCanât you just tell me the truth?â
She doesnât say, just sits with her head cupped in her hands. I stroke her hair.
âYou canât run from it. You need to turn and face it.â
Then suddenly I figure it out. I withdraw my hand.
âYour brother?â I say.
âIs
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