The Waltz of Devil's Creek: A Novel

By J. A. Redmerski

"The Waltz of Devil's Creek is a poignant and memorable tale that outshines the standard conventions of its genre." – The Booklife Prize

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Judith Campbell is dying, and she cannot take the painful truth about where her son came from to the grave with her. While on her deathbed in Atlanta, Georgia in 1994, Judith tells him the tragic story of his conception, and which of two men his birth father could be: the young man who professed his love to her, or the pastor who assaulted her.

Set in the Deep South in 1947, The Waltz of Devil's Creek digs into the dark crevices of racism and women's rights during a heated political climate in an era of segregation. Combined with Judith's lack of social stature, and at a time when reporting sexual assault was unheard of, every injustice is stacked against her from the very beginning.

But there is a light in Judith's young life: her best friend, Joseph Bird, who has loved her since childhood. Joseph stands up for Judith when no one else will and proves that even in the darkest of times, a light is always burning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Redmerski
• Release date: Jun 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201103323

J. A. Redmerski

J.A. Redmerski, New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of THE EDGE OF NEVER lives in North Little Rock, Arkansas with her three children and a Maltese. She is a lover of television and books that push boundaries and is a huge fan of AMC’s The Walking Dead.

Book preview

1

—TRUTH BE TOLD—

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Atlanta, Georgia – Spring 1994

The music finally died down outside my window near Piedmont Park; two hundred thousand Black college students and their friends and their friends, after two long days, called it a weekend and went home. The nurses in the facility complained a lot; they had to leave an hour early to get to work on time because the streets were clogged with people and traffic day and night. Now, the only thing left of the event are littered sidewalks from Cascade to Collier, and posters plastered on telephone poles and slipped beneath windshield wipers. I’m not strong enough to walk to the window to witness the aftermath with my own eyes, but I smile thinking about it. A lot has changed since 1947. Though, not nearly enough.

My dear son, Thomas, has just arrived. I’d expected him last night, but his youngest daughter, Emily, broke her arm falling from the top bunk bed, and Thomas spent most of the night at the ER instead.

He leans over and hugs me carefully; always afraid he will break me.

Sorry I couldn’t get here earlier, he says, then pulls the chair by the wall over and sits beside me in the bed.

You probably wouldn’t have been able to get here last night anyway, I tell him. How’s Emily doin’?

Thomas grasps my hand and kisses it; his eyes glaze over with moisture, but he blinks back the tears like he always does. He is a strong man, my Thomas, and he had been a strong boy, too. Like genetic diseases, dirt poor runs in families, and it was one thing I wish I hadn’t passed on to my son. But now, at forty-six years old, Thomas has fared well with so little all his life, and I at least feel relief for that in my final days.

She’s a trooper, Thomas says. Didn’t seem to be in much pain, and insisted she get a look at her X-ray before the doctor. They let her, of course, but you should’ve seen the look on the tech’s face when she pointed out the break herself and started usin’ her big words to explain it.

I bet they weren’t expectin’ that. I laugh lightly, although it hurts. It always hurts to laugh.

Not from a six-year-old; she’s sure got a big personality in that little body.

She sure does... My voice trails.

Momma, are you all right? Thomas rests his hand on my bony wrist.

Oh, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me; I think it’s just the medicine messin’ with my head. I pat his hand. Where’s my girl now? You didn’t make her go to school, did you? A broken arm is an automatic get-out-of-school card.

Like daddy like daughter, he says, beaming. "I remember when I broke my arm. It was on a Friday, and I didn’t have to go to school on the weekend anyway, but you let me stay out Monday, too. Three full days of sweets and soup and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She’s with the sitter. School’s out next week for spring break, so it looks like she’ll have an extended vacation."

Too bad she’s gotta spend it with a broken arm, I say. After a moment, Do you still have it?

Have what?

"The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe."

Of course, Momma. I still have the same book you gave me.

Good, good. My gaze veers off toward the half-open curtain, where a light-gray sky stretches across the early-morning horizon.

Before Thomas can question my mood again, I shift with difficulty to sit upright; he hurries to prop the pillows behind my back to make me more comfortable.

Thomas... I say, winded.

Yes, Momma?

Finally, I work up the courage.

I asked you to come because I got somethin’ I need to tell you.

A flash of worry appears in his face.

What is it? He sits back down, slowly, as if having to use all his energy to prepare for the news he’s sure to be of the devastating variety.

I have spent the past eight weeks in hospice care contemplating, weighing the pros and cons, trying to find any excuse or reason to justify not telling my son the truth about where he came from—what he came from. But there was nothing. Sure, there’s the small possibility he will resent me for it; I could spend my last days lying in bed, alone, soiling my sheets and my dignity and with only the nurses to keep me company. But it all comes down to the truth, no matter how devastating, is what my son deserves. If our roles were reversed, I would want to know.

I reach out a weak hand, and Thomas interlaces his fingers through mine.

All I ask, Son, is that if you think less of me—

His fingers tighten around mine in response. "I could never think badly of you, he says, the look in his face, wounded. You’re the reason I’m here, the reason my two girls are here. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do—I could never think badly of you for anything."

My hand slips from his, and my gaze veers off again. I think on it more, how to begin as blurry now as the day I’d first pondered how to tell him: which part to start with, how I should word it, and if I should leave anything out. But if I’m going to tell him the truth, it has to be all of it.

I look at him, tired eyes unblinking; my mouth is cotton-dry; my palms sweat, and my sinuses sting. And then I speak, lifting and placing a weight on my shoulders simultaneously.

Your daddy was...not your real daddy. And your momma... I inhale deeply, both from the stress of the moment and the cancer in my lungs. ...Your momma ain’t the woman you always thought her to be, either. I’m ashamed of what happened to me. And that I kept it from you all your life. And since I ain’t Catholic, you’re the only one I got to confess my sins to before God takes me off to Heaven. If He takes me off to Heaven. I could’ve confessed my sins to God, but that’s like praying, and I’m afraid to pray anymore. For myself anyway. I stopped doing it a long time ago.

Oh, Momma—Thomas gets up and sits on the bed beside me—there’s no other place to put you, he jokes. The Devil sure don’t want ya, and God ain’t one to abandon nobody.

Thomas could always make me feel better, even in the darkest of moments. But the pain and confusion buried deep beneath his smile does not go unnoticed. And I know, too, the news of his parentage did not fall on deaf ears.

I’m sorry, Thomas. I’ll always be sorry for this day, but if I take the truth to the grave with me, I’ll never get a moment’s rest. I’ll toss and turn in my grave and keep your daddy awake beside me. I squeeze his hand. The daddy you know and love, who’ll always be your daddy no matter where you came from.

Did he know?

Yes, Son, he knew.

Thomas gets up from the bed, crosses his arms over his chest, and paces in front of the window, finally exposing some of the restlessness he feels.

Okay, he says, his back to me, I’m ready to hear whatever you have to tell me. He looks over his shoulder. And no matter what it is, I’ll still love you just the same.

Thank you, Son.

I inhale the deepest breath my lungs will allow and clench the bed sheet with restless, anxious hands.

No matter what it is...

Maybe God has kept me alive long enough for this moment because it sure feels like I should’ve died days ago. I have no strength left in my body, but just enough in my heart to tell my son the story of my life.

I gaze at the half-open window, and I long for a break in the dense clouds; for sunlight and the blue of the hidden sky; for the stars beyond it where the love of my life waits for me, and tears slip down blazing hot cheeks as I picture his face.

Thomas will forgive me; he will understand, because he is good, just like his daddy was.

No matter what it is...

2

—THE YELLOW DRESS—

Athens, Georgia – Summer – August 1947

Plenty of things separated the poor from the wealthy, but in the South, nothing could better than the little church on the hill. It was a tiny thing with only six pews, three on each side, and a few chairs scattered about that no one hardly ever sat in; and no podium at the top of the aisle. But Pastor Dorsey didn’t need one. He preached with his tattered bible in his hand and was so dramatic he’d probably knock a podium over anyway, so it was just as well. The ceilings were too high, too, and I thought it was such a waste of needed space. Once a week, I’d come here with my pa, crammed between him and the widow Mrs. Coleman like pigs in a slaughterhouse. If the church ever caught fire on a Sunday between the morning hours of eight-thirty and eleven-fifteen, sixty-something people would perish because a stampede would choke the only doorway.

It was the only reason I dreaded attending—especially in the summer. By the time church let out, I was drenched in sweat and stank of everybody’s body odor, including my own. But I loved the people. And Pastor Dorsey was a passionate and joyful Black man who could somehow make me laugh and cry at the same time. And Mrs. Coleman, even though her husband had been murdered by a man whose skin was the same color as mine, was the kindest and strongest woman I had ever known. Even stronger than my late momma, and that was saying something.

Mrs. Coleman raised her hands into the air and said, Praise the Lord! She glanced over, took my wrists into her leathery fingers, and pulled them toward the sky; I thought my arms were gonna pop out of the sockets. Praise the Lord Jesus! she said, and I immediately echoed her. Praise the Lord Jesus!

I was a God-fearing young woman and had been since He took my momma off to Heaven four years earlier when I was just thirteen years old—maybe a little even before that, because of Mrs. Coleman. I prayed day and night that God would make my momma better; I promised Him that if He let my momma live, that I’d forever be in His debt, that I’d spend my whole life telling people about Him and doing His work.

But then one day—on one of those sweltering Sunday mornings just like this one—I heard Pastor Dorsey say to the lively crowd in the church: "You cain’t jus’ ‘spect the Lord to do yo’ biddin’—you gotta do His! Ain’t nobody nothin’ without His love, and prayers ain’t gonna be answered jus’ ’cause you beg for somethin’! You gotta show Him you’s worthy of His good graces! Amen! Praise the Lord!"

My momma died the next day.

I figured all that prayin’ and promisin’ must’ve made God mad, because who was I to offer the Almighty a deal?

From that moment on, I decided I had better do right by God every day of my life and never ask or expect Him to answer my selfish prayers. And I figured if He ever wanted to do something for me, I’d weep and accept it and thank Him and pray some more, but I’d never ask for anything—I didn’t want my pa to be next. I still prayed every night before bed and before every meal, but it was only ever to thank God for the food on my plate and another day of air in my lungs.

The little church on the hill, which had no official name, was roughly three miles from Bethel Baptist Church and the rest of Athens’ white upper-class. I had asked my momma before she’d died, why we didn’t go to the church with the rest of the white folks, and my momma had told me: Because we’re poor, Judith. But I thought there was more to it than that because lots of poor folks went to the white church, so I pressed her like I always did.

Why else, Momma?

My momma’s womanly shoulders, silhouetted by daylight from the kitchen window where she stood washing dishes, rose and fell beneath a light-blue blouse. She wiped her hands on her apron, and even in that small gesture, I felt the significance of the moment.

I don’t like that church, she had said. And you wouldn’t like it, either. Now go finish your chores and then get cleaned up.

Much later, after my momma had died, my pa told me the same thing, except he’d answered with a clenched jaw and a look in his eyes that made me never want to ask him that question again.

My curiosity with Bethel Baptist Church came from it being off-limits, and the secrets my momma and my pa had kept from me regarding it. It had never been about me being white, even though I did wonder why my family attended a Black church.

They’re good people, my pa had told me. And we ain’t no better than them.

I had to agree, and not just because my pa said so; I just already knew.

But now, at seventeen, my curiosity with Bethel Baptist Church had everything to do with William Felder. William and I attended school together, and I had liked him the moment I set eyes on him when we were just children. I wasn’t ready to be in love with him yet, but I’d sworn my heart to him, nonetheless.

When I feel like I can’t live without you, William Felder, I had said just a week ago, then I’ll tell you all about how my love for you knows no bounds, and I’ll let you have your way with me in the shack—I propped my hands on my hips—but until then, you’ll just have to settle with a kiss or two.

William laughed. And then he hitched up my skirt and had his way with me right there in the woods at Devil’s Creek.

I had always been what my momma called a good girl, never even kissed a boy before William Felder. And I would not give myself to a boy I didn’t plan to marry. I wasn’t like Charlotte May, who let any boy with a cute enough face hitch her dress up anytime they wanted. Maybe I did already love William, I wasn’t sure, but all I did know was that when he was around, the butterflies in my belly morphed into a swarm of bees, and sometimes the Earth felt tilted when he’d touch me. But most of all, when we’d lie in the field together and stare up at the stars, and he would take hold of my hand, I felt safe. Like God had answered the prayers He had heard inside my heart but I’d never spoken aloud.

Since I could remember, I had always attended the little church on the hill, and William attended Bethel Baptist. But as we got older, I wanted to be with him wherever he was.

Just yesterday, I saw him and his father in town, and he’d acted like he was afraid to talk to me. So today, all during Pastor Dorsey’s sermon, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

After church let out, I rushed home to change my sweaty clothes, and I met up with William at Devil’s Creek. He apologized and kissed me on the cheek to make up for being so rude.

Was it because of your pa? I asked because I might’ve been poor, but I wasn’t dimwitted. He doesn’t like me, does he?

He likes you just fine, William said.

He don’t.

Sure he does.

You’re lyin’, William Felder. I poked him in the ribs playfully.

William had dark, silky hair, and deep-blue eyes, and the profile of a Roman god—hard-edged nose and robust, boxy chin—but, unfortunately, the too-skinny arms and legs of a girl, which kept him from being involved in sports like most of the boys at school. I didn’t care, but William had always been insecure about it. Probably because it hindered his ability to live up to his father’s expectations. William never cared much about the opinions of others, but when it came to his father’s, William broke his back, trying to please him.

We sat on a downed tree hanging over the creek; shoes kicked off, William’s pants rolled up to his knees. Water striders skittered across the top of the water. The sun was setting, bringing with the early evening, the song of the cicadas, and the Whippoorwill.

I don’t care that he don’t like me, I said. Just so you know how I feel about it. I know it’s because I’m poor. Probably because I go to the Black church, too.

William sat with his arms propped on bent knees, dirty hands dangling, his fingers twitching as if deep thoughts were short-circuiting his brain.

My father is a complicated man. He paused, then looked upward in thought. I have an idea.

Eager for him to get on with it, I raised out of a slouch and turned to him with anticipation.

Well, what is it?

I want you to come to my house for dinner, he said. Friday night.

I was delighted by the idea, but I didn’t like that the invitation seemed to loom with hidden agendas. Was he doing it for us, or to stand up to his father? Would he tell me in advance how I should dress and act and speak and eat? Probably, I’d decided. But I would do whatever he suggested because William knew his family better than I did, and if I had to tone down the poor enough to gain their acceptance, then that was what I would do. William would do it for me, I knew.

All right, I agreed, I’ll come to supper with you.

Dinner, he corrected, then when he saw the look on my face, he shrunk inside himself and said, Well, you know...because that’s what my folks call it.

Yep, he was gonna tell me how I should dress and act and speak and eat. My shoulders dropped like sandbags, and air sputtered through my lips.

Wear your prettiest dress, he began. Always keep your back straight, and never put your elbows on the table.

William went on and on about what not to do and suggested things I should do to impress them: Always answer questions with ‘yes ma’am and no ma’am, and yes sir and no sir’; don’t scratch at the table (he must’ve thought I was a barbarian!); wait until after you finish your meal before you drink your juice; don’t be too shy, but try not to be too gregarious, either. Gregarious. Words like that were what made William and I so different on the outside—on the inside, we were nearly the same—and it was the one thing I doubted I’d ever get the hang of. Not that I didn’t know the definition of the word; I knew more fancy words than William did, but weaving them into my usual way of speaking, how I grew up, would not be so easy. And, frankly, I didn’t want to change myself that much for anybody. So, I was glad William didn’t add that to the long list of dos and don’ts—he probably didn’t think I could pull it off.

Do you think it’ll work?

Sure it will, he insisted, though I wasn’t convinced he believed it himself. My father may be hard to impress, but I think with some persistence, he’ll come around.

But ain’t it your choice? I asked, swinging my legs back and forth over the water. I mean, why do we have to please anybody else, anyway?

Wouldn’t you want your pa to approve of me?

Well, sure I would, but my pa wouldn’t... I didn’t know where I was going with it. Or, maybe I did, and I just wanted to avoid sounding so critical of William’s father.

It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Once he sees how much I care for you, my father will approve.

And what if he doesn’t?

He will.

But just what if he doesn’t?

William jumped into the water, clothes, and all. He grabbed me by the ankle, and the next thing I know, I’m sliding off the tree, loose bark breaking free beneath my thighs. I shrieked, trying to hold on. William! I don’t want to get wet! He pulled even harder, and I hit the water with a splash.

I may have had real and true feelings for William Felder, but I was also my momma’s daughter, and while although I would happily adhere to William’s wishes for a one-time supper with the Felder family, I would have to draw the line somewhere. And he would have to buck up and tell his parents that I, Judith Campbell, was the girl he loved, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and that they would just have to accept me the way I was.

That’s what I told myself when I stood in front of the mirror Friday night, smoothing nervous hands down the soft fabric of the prettiest dress I owned. It had been my momma’s: yellow like sunflower petals with elastic around the waist to give me shape; the short cap sleeves showed off my freckled arms; there was a pocket on the front, sewn just below the waistline where my momma had always kept her favorite scarf when we would attend church. She never wore it around her neck, but used it to daintily wipe the sweat from her forehead when the church got hotter than the oven at home. Good Lawd in Heaven, it feels like the Devil’s breath in here! she would say, fanning herself with her hand.

I decided I would wear the same scarf the way it was supposed to be worn to have dinner with the Felder family tonight. I stuffed my feet into a pair of chestnut pumps I could barely walk in. If I’d had my way, I would’ve just gone in my worn-out saddle shoes, but, although fashionable with girls my age, I got the feeling they would not be suitable for supper with William’s blue-blooded parents.

I had never liked heeled shoes much—the few pair I owned had been my momma’s, and they were a tad small. I never cared much for dressing up or wearing makeup or fixing my hair into popular styles. But I might’ve enjoyed heeled shoes more if I could’ve walked in them. And I wouldn’t have shunned the thought of wearing makeup to be as pretty as the other girls if I had any to paint my face with. And I would’ve loved to waltz into school or church or a Felder family supper with a pretty updo if only I knew how to do one up.

All the girls at school, with their rouged cheeks and curled eyelashes, and their rag-curled hairstyles were the other reason I had taken such an interest in attending Bethel Baptist with William. School was tense enough, the one place I stood out like a blemish on a beauty queen’s face, and I knew one day William might lose interest in me for any of them. If I had to brave the turbulent waters of asking my pa if we could go to Bethel Baptist to be with William there, too, then that was just what I would have to do.

But I had to get through supper with William’s folks first

3

—AUTHORS & ASTRONAUTS—

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William picked me up in his blue 1941 Chrysler Highlander; it had been his father’s, passed on to him for his sixteenth birthday last year—and to make room for the new 1947 Cadillac, no doubt.

The Felders lived in the wealthy part of town, where no one needed cars to get from one place to the next, but they drove them anyway. The roads were paved rather than pebbled like they were near where I lived, and the houses lining the streets in neighborhood pockets were settled amid well-manicured lawns and white-paved driveways and sidewalks decorated by hedge bushes and birdbaths. I may have lived only a few miles from William, and I went into the same town to shop and attended school with everybody else, but it never failed to make me feel like I was stepping into another world. I was a country girl—Charlotte May from school called me hillbilly—who lived in a weather-worn house smaller than the church I’d attended, and who wore my mother’s hand-me-downs and had out-grown the few outfits I’d owned, a long time ago.

William Felder wasn’t rich and famous like Humphrey Bogart or the swoony Frank Sinatra or the late Henry Ford—he promised he would be someday—but in Athens social circles, anyone whose father owned a business and wore a different suit every day of the week was considered upper-class and respected among his peers. Mr. Felder inherited Felder Construction from his father before the war. And although he hadn’t picked up a hammer himself since the inheritance, he had enough employees to do it all for him, and enough business year-round to keep them busy, and Mr. Felder’s bank account full. I knew this because William knew this.

William got out of the car and came around to my side to open the door.

I’m so nervous, I told him as he took my hand and helped me out.

Don’t be, he insisted. You’ll do just fine.

How do I look? I struck a subtle pose and tried not to giggle.

Well, I do say, you’re a dish, Missus Judith Campbell.

My cheeks heated to an embarrassing temperature as he held my hands between us.

I’m in love with you, he said, and my heart skidded to halt. I know you don’t feel the same way about me yet, but one day you will, just like you said you would. He squeezed my hands. And I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes. So, I just want you to promise me somethin’, all right?

I’d wanted to tell him I loved him, too, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

All right. Whatever it is, I promise, Mista William Felder, I said, dramatically; my silver screen actress needed some work.

He chuckled. But you don’t even know what it is yet.

Well, I still promise. Now out with it, why don’t ya.

He smiled squeamishly and said, Promise me, that no matter what my father says to either of us tonight, that you’ll let it slide right off ya like water off a duck’s feathers. Because no matter what, you’re the girl for me, and always will be.

So, William had as much confidence about this dinner as I’d had—zero percent. It wasn’t something I’d expected, and it made my stomach swim uneasily beneath my yellow dress. But I supposed I’d just have to dive in and swim to the other side, holding my breath the whole way.

All right, I promise.

Swell, he said, and then led me up the walkway.

The Felder house was a fancy two-story with four white columns flanking the rock porch. Before we made it to the front door, I could hardly breathe. I’d almost changed my mind at the last minute, but reminded myself how brave I was because my momma had always told me so.

The door opened to the smell of cooked meat and baked rolls. I stepped into the foyer—more massive than my bedroom—and followed William underneath a chandelier dangling from a