service. She always looked big for her age, “took after” her dad, everyone said. Her mother had died of cancer when she was seven, and her father worked long hours in the fields at the Ogle sugar estate to support himself and his only daughter. Mark Walton was not a religious man, but he was glad he had insisted earlier on that she attend Sunday school.
“Your mommy would be proud to see how you’ve become one saint, Joan. You’re doing double duty for your pappy and you. You taking me straight to heaven with you.”
She had a good singing voice and soon joined the choir. Her leading voice on Sunday mornings was well received by the entire congregation. Amens were appropriate. Recently, the pastor took a strong interest in her. At first, it was a gentle pat on the shoulder, which was accompanied by a smiling Reverend Turnbull.
“How pretty is my little sunshine today.” Later she noticed that immediately after service, he would gravitate to her side, smiling, holding both of her hands, which made her uncomfortable, and then she would pull them away.
“Don’t be shy, angel. The Lord’s preparing you for great things,” he once exhorted.
Joan was very surprised on her eighteenth birthday, on returning home after choir practice, to find Reverend Turnbull sitting with her father in their living room. The pastor had visited them just once before, after a particularly heavy rainstorm blew a portion of the roof off the house. He had come to give solace and offered to have the congregation donate a portion of the following Sunday’s collection to help defray the cost of replacing the roof. Mr. Walton had thankfully declined. As she entered, her father, a burly six footer, with a rusty-brown complexion that spoke of exposure to too much sun, shook the hands of Reverend Turnbull. They both shared a hearty laugh, patted each other on the back, and were soon parted.
“Joan, we need to talk. Come. Sit next to me here on the sofa,” Mr. Walton began. “Since your mother died, you have been my whole world, and every time I throw a bundle of cane on my back, I say to myself, ‘this is for you.’ You grow up nice and pretty, got your school leaving certificate, and doing your short-hand lessons. I proud. You is eighteen today, and I know you getting to the age when men would look at you differently. They must be starting already.” He smiled, hugging her affectionately.
Joan fidgeted, wondered where the monologue was going. Father and daughter were in the habit of speaking regularly about Joan’s chores and church, and her dad’s work in the cane field, cutting cane, but this was different.
“Dad, what is this all about?” she queried.
He cleared his throat and shifted closer to his daughter.
“Your pastor want to marry you.”
“What?”
“He say that his wife died about ten years ago, and he been looking for someone to fill she shoes. And since he’s put eyes on you, he’s come to realize you are the one and only. He waited until your eighteenth birthday. He thinks it’s the appropriate time.”
Joan jumped to her feet.
“I don’t know about that! I’m planning to get a job after my lessons finish and to help contribute to the home. You’re not getting any younger. How long do you think you could continue with that back-breaking work at Ogle? Besides, there is talk around about it closing down. Who’s going to look after you?”
He responded, hands clasped behind his head and with a wry smile, “I heard about it too. I’m not worried. Got plans. Me and some of the guys in the fields are thinking about forming a cooperative. We can lease some land and plant some cash crops for the new market soon to open at Turkeyen. We plan to have a stall in the market. Sweetheart, you don’t have to bother with me. I can take care of myself. I don’t want you to feel obligated to your old man. I want the best for you…you of age and any choice you make is good with me. I will always love you.”
Teary eyed, she sat again close to her dad and kissed him on the cheek.
“I am going to wait awhile before I get married or do anything like that. I don’t dislike Pastor, nor am I crazy about him. And besides, he is so much older than I am.”
Mark Walton looked adorningly at his daughter.
“You are so grown up now. Your mother must be smiling in her grave, seeing how you’ve turned out. I will tell Pastor you ain’t ready and it’s best he look elsewhere for the chosen one.”
*****
About two months later, after Sunday service, Reverend Turnbull stood at the entrance of the church to meet and greet the brethren.
“Joan, my angel, how sweeter and prettier you look every day. Can I have a word with you before you leave?”
Joan had a hesitant look on her face.
“Daddy is expecting me. I’ve got to get home in time to cook dinner.”
“Won’t take long, dear,” Pastor reassured her. “Help yourself to some lemonade in the study. You must be thirsty. I will be there shortly”.
“Okay, I will. But I need to be away quickly.”
“Fine.”
Joan poured a glass of lemonade from a pitcher that was cold and inviting. She drank the refreshing beverage. After two to three minutes, Reverend Turnbull entered the study.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I have got…” His voice trailed off.
Joan found herself alone in the study, lying on the desk. She was unsure of what had happened. One moment, she was sitting in a chair after partaking of the drink, and in another, everything was a blur. She felt a wetness under her dress and an uncomfortable soreness that gave way to an intermittent pain between her legs. It quickly dawned on her that she had been violated. The tears came in full flow. She struggled to her feet, causing the pastor’s Bible to fall off the desk. She left it there. She fixed her panties in place and, with an unsteady gait, left for home.
Mr. Walton greeted his daughter with a hug.
“You feel warm. Like you coming down with something? Church run late today.”
Joan quickly retorted, “Pastor’s sermon ran more than usual. The sun was hot. I need a shower.” She retreated to the shower, away from an inquiring father.
She did not tell anyone about the incident. She knew that Reverend Turnbull was considered by most people in the village to be without blemish, a holy man, and to some, even a prophet. To accuse him of fleshly failings would be a bitter pill to swallow, a bridge too far. No one would believe her. They probably would have said, “She’s in heat. She set out to trap the Lord’s anointed.” Joan felt ashamed and empty.
Three weeks passed, and her period did not come. She was never late. She panicked.
The next day, on her way home after her shorthand lessons, Joan stopped at the drugstore. She spoke to the pharmacist.
“Sir, my girlfriend asked me if I can buy for her a pregnancy test kit. She’s ashamed to ask herself.”
Sitting in the bathroom with a strip reading positive in her hand, she knew she had a problem. An abortion was out of the question. She was taught in church it was an unforgivable sin—if indeed she knew how and where to get one. Birthing a baby
