When Teresa confessed to Pastor John that she was pregnant, he proclaimed it immaculate, called her up to the altar on Sunday so that the congregation could bask in the glow of her blessing, her blonde hair tinged red in the light filtering through the stained glass window behind her, her belly just starting to press against the cloth of her white dress, her parents in the front row, brows creased, hands raised to God, their daughter, barely over the crest of high school, learner’s permit but no license, never mentioned boys, went with friends to the movies, the dances, home by nine p.m., went to teen Bible study at the Pastor’s house after school on Wednesdays. Some nights the teens stayed for dinner with the Pastor and his wife, Sue. She cooked casseroles, fish, filled them up with cream sauces and buttered rolls. The girls loved Sue, wanted to be Sue when they grew up, hands strong from kneading dough on Mondays for the week’s bread, lips sealed with tight mauve lines of lipstick, ever slim figure just a whisper, just a suggestion. A husband like Pastor John, so kind, so gentle, so full of compliments, You read that passage with such feeling, Teresa. You remind me of a young Eve, Teresa. So handsome, with that thick dark hair, green eyes, high school basketball player’s build. When Pastor John dropped Teresa off at her house after Bible study, she was often so spent she went straight to bed, lethargic from stuffed chicken breast and bread pudding. Her parents were pleased to see her under the influence of such a kind man, such a pillar of the community, such a firm handshake, such a penetrating gaze. And when the other girls in the Bible study fell pregnant, one by one, he called it a miracle, a sign of their virtue, their piety, their devotion, a gift from God. And when Teresa’s baby was born, announced by a wave of dark hair, his gaze accusing the parishioners on Sunday mornings, Pastor John said, “We are blessed. He is the son of God. We are blessed.” And next to him, Sue stood ever slim, just a whisper, just a suggestion, kneading the knuckles of her strong hands. 

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Originally from Minneapolis, Nicole Desjardins Gowdy now lives in the foothills outside Los Angeles. She studied creative writing at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where she received a University Book Store Award for Academic Excellence for her senior thesis, a collection of short stories. Her writing has been shortlisted for the WestWord Micro Fiction Prize and has appeared in Black Fox Literary Magazine, West Trade Review, MoonPark Review, Literary Mama, and more. Connect with her on Instagram @nicoledesjardinsgowdy.