“You are lying, Sister.”
“No.”
“You came to me and confessed to me six weeks ago. I told you that the Watchtower forbids such acts. I counseled you. I warned you to stay away from this boy, but you failed to listen.”
“No!” I looked at my mother. “It’s not true.”
“My daughter Bernie has confirmed it,” said Mr. Bowler. “You admitted it to her.”
I was shaking my head, trying to think clearly. Why would Bernie say I had a boyfriend?
“Do you know what a lie is, Agatha?” asked Mr. Bowler.
“Yes.”
“You told your parents you were going door-to-door with me, was that a lie?”
“Yes.”
“So you lie when it’s convenient for you?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“You told the judicial committee that I first had sex with you at Easter two years ago. I have my diary here, which shows that I was away at a trade fair for a week over Easter.”
My mouth opened and closed. “I couldn’t remember the date.”
“So were you lying about that?”
“No, I mean, I wasn’t sure.”
“So when you’re not sure about something, you tell a lie.”
“No.”
“Were you lying to the committee, or are you lying to me?”
“That’s enough!” yelled a voice from the back of the hall. My mother marched down the center aisle, gripping her handbag. Normally so meek and submissive, she fixed her gaze on the elders and declared, “Agatha has answered your questions. Make a decision so I can take her home.”
Nobody tried to argue, not even Mr. Bowler.
The committee retired to consider its verdict. I went to the bathroom and washed out my knickers, holding them under the hand-dryer.
An hour passed. The committee returned. I was told to stand but I didn’t think my legs could hold me. My mother and stepfather remained in their seats.
Brother Wendell had a Bible with him. He didn’t look at me.
“The scriptures say in Timothy 5:19, ‘Do not admit an accusation against an older man, except only on the evidence of two or three witnesses.’ In the case before us, Sister Agatha is the only witness against Brother Bowler. This is not to say that she is lying or that Brother Bowler is lying, but the Watchtower policy states that two witnesses or a confession are necessary to prove allegations of this nature. Since none of these rules of evidence have been met, the judicial committee will take no further action and the matter is left in Jehovah’s hands.”
Mr. Bowler stood and announced himself unsatisfied.
“I am an esteemed elder of this church and Sister Agatha has grievously wronged me. She is a false accuser who has had sexual relations outside of marriage with a worldly boy. She is unrepentant. I demand an apology and ask for Sister Agatha to be disfellowshipped.”
I heard the intake of breath and felt my mother’s body stiffen at the word. I knew what it meant. I had seen other Jehovah’s Witnesses thrown out for much lesser crimes than being a “false accuser.”
“Will you apologize to Brother Bowler?” asked Brother Wendell.
I shook my head.
“Will you repent?”
“No.”
My mother clutched my arm. “Do as they say, Agatha. Tell him you’re sorry.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll go to the police.”
“Then you will be condemned by God,” rumbled Brother Wendell. “And you will be lost to Satan forever.”
My stepfather put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel his fingers digging into the flesh on either side of my collarbone.
“Tell the man you’re sorry, Agatha.”
The pain shot down my arm and my fingers tingled.
“No.”
The judicial committee glanced at one another and nodded. The hearing was over. A week later I received a letter with my name, date of birth, and congregation number. It didn’t specify the precise offense but the meaning was clear. I had been ostracized from the church. I could no longer participate in Bible studies or group prayer or freely associate with other members. As a minor, I could remain living under the same roof as my parents, who would take care of my physical needs, but nothing more. My mother could not comfort me if I was crying, or offer guidance or emotional support.
My stepfather said to me, “I love you, Agatha, and I’ll be waiting for you on the day you come back. I will welcome you with open arms and I will say, just as the father said of his prodigal son, ‘This daughter of mine was dead, but now has returned to life. She was lost, but now is found.’ But until that day you are alone because you have chosen to turn your back on God.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Jack has taken the day off work because he thinks he’s coming down with something. He’s saying the flu, but I’m calling it a cold until proven otherwise. All morning I’ve been up and down the stairs.
“Megs?” he bawls from his sickbed.
“What is it?”
“Sorry to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother.”
“Can I have a cup of tea?”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
I retrace my steps, making him tea and adding a few biscuits, anticipating his next request.
“What are you doing?” he asks when I bring it upstairs.
“Vacuuming.”
“Have you seen the newspaper?”
“It didn’t get delivered.”
“You couldn’t pick one up for me, could you?”
“Sure.”
“And some throat lozenges—the lemon ones with cough suppressant, not the cherry-flavored ones that taste like medicine.”
“It is medicine.”
“You know what I mean. And can I have some soup for lunch?”
“What sort of soup?”
“Pea and ham . . . with croutons.”
Who was your slave yesterday?
The wind has an Arctic bite today, tugging at my coattails and sending fallen leaves skittering across the grass on Barnes Green. I pick up Lachlan from preschool because he does half days on Tuesdays. He runs ahead of me, his mittens dangling from the sleeves of his jacket and his sneakers lighting up at the heels with every stride.
The supermarket doors slide open and Lachlan stops to look at the coloring books at the far end of the aisle. I study the different cough medicines and lozenges. An employee wearing a brown smock appears at the end of the aisle. I talked to her a few weeks ago. She’s pregnant. I look at her name badge.
“Do you know anything about cough suppressants?”
Agatha glances at me nervously and looks away. “Is it for you?”
“No, my husband.”
“Does he have a temperature?”
“To be honest, I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Agatha moves products aside, looking at the back of the shelf.
“He wants the lemon flavor,” I say. “When are you due? You did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Early December.”
“We’re both having Sagittarians. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t know much about Sagittarians,” says Agatha.
“They’ve very strong-willed, highly sexed, and virile, according to my husband.”
“Let me guess, he’s a Sagittarian?”
“Exactly.”
We both laugh. She has a pretty smile.
“What does your husband do?” Agatha asks.
“He’s a TV journalist.”
“Would I know him?”