The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

squared my shoulders. “People in the community think you set your house on fire.”

      “I heard that.” David continued to study me.

      What is his problem? He was making me angry now. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been suspected of firebombing a building, is it Mr. Jordan?” My voice was steady now, even hard.

      He looked hurt. “Are you considering me a suspect?” he asked Will.

      Will glared at me. “No, we’re not.”

      After David left I offered to bring the car around. I needed a few minutes alone to collect myself. When I’d calmed down I drove to the front door and waited for Will. Our next stop was an appointment with David Jordan’s wife who was staying with the children at the Baptist parsonage in Cornwallis Cove.

      I checked my watch again. What’s keeping him? A few moments later Will burst through the front door, barrelled down the short flight of stone steps, and heaved his large body into the passenger seat.

      He twisted his torso to face me, baring his teeth in a wide crooked smile that didn’t match the cold look in his eyes. “I thought we agreed the abortion clinic bombing was irrelevant.” He pulled the door shut.

      I shrugged and flicked on the turn signal. “I don’t recall agreeing.” Looking straight ahead I inhaled slowly, and released my jaw when I realized I was clenching my teeth.

      Will was still facing me. “Don’t you think you were a little hostile back there?”

      “Hostile?” I adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Maybe I was compensating for how nice you were. He a friend of yours?”

      “David Jordan did not firebomb his own house.” His knees scraped the dashboard, even though he’d pushed the seat back. He sprawled, his shoulders almost touching mine.

      I kept my mouth shut. No point arguing.

      Cornwallis Cove Baptist Church was built into a steep hill that fell to a narrow tidal inlet. The parsonage, a huge three-storey red house, loomed over the sidewalk just up the hill from the church. The parsonage’s small laneway, just big enough for two cars side by side, was empty so I parked there. We climbed out. Without saying anything to me Will bounded up a steep flight of wooden stairs to a door on the second level.

      My muscles were tense, so I stretched my arms over my head and brought them slowly to my sides. The snow melted into a rushing, rattling torrent along the gutter and gurgled into a big storm drain. I tried to imagine my anxiety going down with the water, being carried out to sea with the tide. The village below was laid out like a scene from an old-fashioned Christmas card.

      Wooden houses clustered on the hillsides. Main Street cut sharply down the hill, crossed a causeway and a narrow bridge over a creek that emptied into the cove, then climbed the steep hill on the other side. Old wooden buildings perched on pilings lined the causeway, housing the Cove pharmacy, the Co-op that sold groceries and hardware, the Cornwallis Craft Association gift store, the Royal Bank, and the Crow’s Nest bookstore. Since it was now high tide blue-grey water almost licked the bottoms of the buildings.

      When a matronly white-haired woman answered Will’s knock I sprinted up the wooden stairs to meet Ruth Harwood, wife of the senior pastor at Cornwallis Cove Baptist.

      We stepped onto a plastic boot tray inside the orderly kitchen. Years of scrubbing had faded the green and white counters. A portable dishwasher hooked up to the sink whirred and hummed, sending the abrasive odour of detergent through its vent. The smell competed with the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread baking. Will surprised me by unlacing his boots, stepping onto the kitchen floor in sock feet, and heading for the living room. Why hadn’t he asked for Anne to come to us in the kitchen? What if there was an emergency call and we had to make a quick exit? But I was the newbie here, so I reluctantly stepped out of my boots too and followed Ruth and Will into the living room, where Anne sat in a green upholstered rocker.

      Her narrow face was blotchy, her eyes red from crying. She wore a black turtleneck under a long brown corduroy jumper. Will asked her many of the same questions I’d already gone over with her the previous day.

      “You’ve been through a rough time.” I sat across from her on a wooden chair.

      Her trembling hand reached for a tissue. She blew her nose. “We really believed God called us there.” She sounded like her husband’s parrot. “Then something like this happens.”

      Will shifted in his seat on the couch. He flung his arm across the back.

      Anne sniffled. “Before this happened I thought I was afraid because my faith wasn’t strong like David’s.”

      “Maybe your fears were trying to tell you something.” I tried to sound kind.

      Anne burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you. I don’t know who started the fire. My husband might know.”

      “Why is that?” I asked.

      Anne reached for another tissue and wiped her nose and eyes. “People confide in him. But he won’t tell me or anyone else what they say. I don’t know anything.”

      “Could your husband have set the fire himself, Mrs. Jordan?”

      Will groaned and shook his head.

      Anne set her shoulders. “Absolutely not!”

      Ruth stood in the doorway, twisting her hands in her apron. “You couldn’t possibly think that David…”

      “These are just routine questions, ma’am.” I turned back to Anne. “Do you have insurance?” I felt sorry for her, so I made my tone as gentle as I could.

      I had to ask. Maybe he had a policy she didn’t know about.

      “No, we don’t. We lost everything.” She sounded defensive.

      Will cleared his throat. “David says you’ll be moving temporarily into the church in South Dare.” His voice sounded syrupy with concern. “Is that where we can contact you?” He stood to indicate the interview was over.

      Anne shook her head. “David is. The children and I will be staying here until we find an apartment in Sterling.” The little girl with the high round forehead peeked around the door. Ruth shooed her upstairs. So, I was right. There was big trouble between Anne and David. Will was eyeing me, so I slipped my notebook into my pocket and stood up.

      Ruth brushed past us and wrapped her arms around Anne who had started sobbing.

      “We’ll show ourselves out,” Will said.

      He clomped out the back door and down the outside stairs, making the old wooden building vibrate. Still inside, I laced my boots, collecting my thoughts. I could hear Ruth trying to soothe Anne.

      “Where is God right now?” Anne sobbed. “Why didn’t God protect us? What are we going to do?”

      Ruth murmured something.

      “I have no home for my children. We have no money, unless I can get more work at the hospital. I’ve been providing. Not God. I’m the one carrying all the weight of this family, while David tries to save the world. I’m sick to death of it.”

      As I closed the back door behind me with a gentle click I remembered the Infant of Prague replica in my childhood bedroom. The doll-like figure had a crown and royal robes, with his little hand raised in blessing. It was supposed to represent the Baby Jesus. The Holy Child. The Infant of Prague sure didn’t protect me when Ron pinned me to the motel bed and tore my panties. Neither did the Virgin Mary.

      And God didn’t protect me from getting pregnant either.

      Chapter 4: The Molester

      On the way to South Dare Will gave me the silent treatment, speaking to me only when giving me directions. I wasn’t sure which I preferred because he had been way too chirpy and talkative earlier that morning. He had me on a seesaw – overly friendly one