“Of course he did. What better way to avoid blame for your own behavior than to blame it on someone else?”

“But I responded to his kiss.”

“Only for a moment before you told him to stop. Jesus, you’re human, Dee! Human! We all have weaknesses and that son of a bitch was the most good-looking man I’d ever seen. It would have been impossible not to respond to him in some way. Our bodies betray us all the time, all the time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you wanted him to stop and you told him so.”

“I did.”

“He raped you. Please tell me you know that?”

And suddenly, for the very first time, I thought I did.

When we pulled up outside the farmhouse, Ruth unclipped her seat belt and turned to me. I saw then that she’d been crying steadily; her makeup was ruined and mascara trailed down her cheeks in inky rivulets. She leaned forward and clasped me toward her. We both cried until there were no tears left, and nothing to do but go inside, where Zodwa waited for us in the open doorway.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Ruth

10 October 1995

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

It’s been more than a week since Dee confided in me and I still can’t shake the rage I feel on her behalf. It boils my blood to think that bastard priest not only raped her but then told her that she’d seduced him and, naïve girl that she was, she believed him. It shouldn’t surprise me; I’ve seen the same thing play out in dozens of different scenarios over the years.

As women, we’re told our worth and our value, and the many ways in which we fall short of others’ expectations; we’re told why we’re whores and why society can’t tolerate whores. We’re reminded of the ways we dishonor the unwritten contract we didn’t know we signed on the day of our birth: a contract in which we agreed to toe the line and know our place simply because we are the fairer sex.

Shit, I think I’m becoming one of those hairy, bra-burning feminists in my old age.

I always wondered why the priest had paid so much attention to Dee while ignoring me and I finally understand why. He knew the world of women is split into two types: the ones like me who’ll kick a man like him in the nuts, and the ones like Dee who’ll swallow the poison he feeds them, allowing it to slowly kill them. Predators like that have a sixth sense for picking out the prey that will succumb most easily, which is not the same as the weakest; if anything, Dee has proven to be the stronger of the two of us.