Punish the Sinners (12 page)

“I just came from the hospital,” Balsam said tentatively.

The priest’s brow arched. “Did you?”

“No one knows what happened. Judy won’t talk aboutit”

“I don’t imagine she would,” Monsignor said in a disapproving tone. “But I imagine she’ll talk to me about it.”

“Oh?” Balsam inquired. The priest nodded, almost imperceptibly, but did not explain.

“I was wondering,” Balsam said carefully. “Did you happen to talk to her today?”

“I did,” the priest said, “but the conversation is confidential. I heard her confession this afternoon.” Then he looked sharply at the teacher. “What made you think I might have talked to her?”

“Because I suggested it,” Balsam said nervously. “I mean, I didn’t suggest she confess, but I told her I thought she ought to talk to you. Or to someone.”

“I see,” the priest said. He folded his hands carefully. “Was there a reason? For your suggesting she talk to me?”

“I—I thought she needed someone to talk to, and since she didn’t seem to want to talk to me, I suggested you.”

The priest considered this for a moment, then asked what had caused Peter’s concern.

“It was her manner, more than anything,” Balsam began, trying to recreate the scene in his mind. “She stayed after my class.” He recounted as best he could the conversation he had had with Judy. When he was finished, the priest seemed to think it over, then asked a question.

“Was there anything you said, anything at all, that might have caused this?”

Balsam thought He didn’t think there was. And then he remembered. It seemed so insignificant. He hadn’t
meant anything by it. But now, considering what had happened, he decided he’d better tell the Monsignor about it.

‘There was one thing,” he said carefully, trying not to attach any great importance to his words, and succeeding only in making them sound even more important. “We were talking about an experiment I conducted during the class today. It had to do with frustration, and I was demonstrating a point with a rat and a maze. Judy seemed a bit distracted during the lecture, but when I started the experiment she perked right up. Then, while we were talking, she asked me what I’d do, if I were the rat. And I told her, I think; that I’d probably do what I could to relieve my frustration, even if it killed me. Or die trying. Something like that. I can’t remember my exact words.”

The priest was staring at him coldly. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Am I to understand that, while talking to a student you knew was having a problem, you talked about dying as a solution to the problem?”

Balsam felt a knot form in his stomach, and his mind reeled. No, he told himself, that’s not what I did. Or, at least, that’s not what I intended.

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” he said aloud, but the priest cut him off.

“Then exactly how was it? Exactly what did you say?”

Balsam thought hard, and the words suddenly came back to him, as if they were written in front of his eyes. “I said: ‘If I were that rat, I’d be busy tearing that cage apart, or I’d kill myself trying.’ “ Suddenly the words sounded ominous.

“Kill yourself,” the priest said. Then he repeated it. “Kill yourself. Well, I suppose that tells us what put the notion into Judy’s head, doesn’t it?” The priest shook
his head sadly. “Well,” he said, “what’s done is done, isn’t it? And when it comes right down to it, the final responsibility rests with Judy herself, of course.” He smiled at Balsam, but Balsam felt no warmth from the smile. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about it,” the priest continued. “She may have already had the idea. Still, it was an unfortunate phrase to have used. If I were you, I’d be a lot more careful in the future. Children can be so—suggestible.” He stood up, and Peter was grateful for the signal that the conversation was over. He, too, rose from his chair.

“You know,” the Monsignor said as he walked Balsam to the rectory door, “you ought to think about a couple of things.” Balsam looked at him questioning. “You might be wise to try to find a little more faith within yourself. Faith in the Church.” When Peter looked puzzled, the priest continued, “The Devil works in strange ways, just as does the Lord. Granted, talking about how a rat might react, given a chance and some brains, certainly doesn’t seem particularly significant Talking about suicide is a different matter.”

“I wasn’t talking about suicide,” Balsam snapped, his anger rising. “I was only using a figure of speech.”

“So said many a heretic,” Monsignor Vernon said softly.

“Heretic? What are you talking about?” Balsam cried. He gazed at his old friend, but nothing in the priest’s eyes revealed what was going on in his mind. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see how any of this could possibly be construed as heresy—or anything even resembling heresy.”

“Don’t you?” the priest said. “Pray, Peter. Pray fear guidance. You might try praying to St Peter Martyr. I find he can be very helpful.” And then the door of the rectory closed, leaving a furious Peter Balsam standing
helplessly on the front porch. Fuming, he began the walk back to his apartment.

   Peter Balsam closed the book slowly, and put it back on the shelf. He had not taken Monsignor Vernon’s advice; had not prayed for guidance to St. Peter Martyr. Instead, he had looked the saint up, to see just who it was that Monsignor seemed to think could be so helpful. What he found was one of the old Italian Inquisitors. St. Peter Martyr, it seemed, had been one of the zealots who had dedicated a short thirteenth-century life to the eradication of sin and heresy from the Christian World. And, from what little Balsam had been able to find out, St. Peter Martyr had been personally responsible for the imprisonment, torture, and death of hundreds of heretics. In the end, though, he had lost: he had been assassinated by two heretics, thus earning for himself the title, Martyr.

Balsam sat for awhile, staring off into space and wondering what it was about St. Peter Martyr that appealed to Monsignor Vernon. What was it that had made the priest into a fanatic?

Then Balsam paused. Maybe the priest wasn’t a fanatic. Maybe he, Balsam, was being oversensitive. He didn’t know. Suddenly, he wasn’t at all sure there was any way of finding out

There was a tension in the air of St. Francis Xavier High School the next morning, the sort of tension that can only be brought about by a particular kind of shock. It was almost as if Judy Nelson were not coming back; as if she had been kidnaped, or murdered, or died in an accident. Perhaps, had Judy been a student at the public high school, the tension would not have been quite so great. There would have been a certain relief that she hadn’t died, mixed with the horror at what she had done. But at St. Francis Xavier’s the attempt was as shocking as the completion of the act would have been.

The Sisters sensed it immediately, and dealt with it in the only way they knew how—they ignored it. Judy’s absence was noted in the records of attendance, but was not commented about, at least not in the classrooms. Of all the Sisters, Elizabeth had the fewest problems in the classroom. Her students, accustomed to her strict discipline, contained their urge to talk; more conscious than ever of Sister Elizabeth’s sharp tongue and equally sharp ear, they saved their whispers for the breaks between classes, doing their best to vent their pent-up feelings in the five short minutes they had to move from one classroom to another.

Karen Morton was feeling the tension more strongly than anyone else that morning. She and Judy had most
of their classes together, and while Karen had often resented the slightly edged comments Judy had been in the habit of making about both her appearance and her boyfriend, Karen missed her friend. And she was also finding that she had become the object of the other students’ curiosity, as though her closeness with Judy made her privy to the answer to the question that was on everyone’s tongue that morning: Why? Why had Judy done it? And what was going to happen to her now?

Karen felt everyone watching her as she moved through the halls. She lowered her eyes and wished once more that she had dressed differently this morning. Suddenly her sweater felt too tight, and she was uncomfortably aware of the way her skirt hugged her hips. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, something was telling her that she should be in mourning. And then she realized that was ridiculous—Judy was in the hospital, not the mortuary. She turned the corner into the hall where all four of the girls had managed to be assigned lockers, and was relieved to see that Penny Anderson and Janet Connally were waiting for her. She tried to smile at them, but couldn’t.

“Karen?” Janet said as her friend approached. “Are you all right?”

Karen nodded mutely, and wondered for a minute if she really was all right. “People just keep staring at me,” she said. “I feel like Marilyn Crane.”

“They stare at you for different reasons, though,” Penny Anderson put in. Then she couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Why do you think she did it?” she said. “I mean, if anybody was going to try to kill herself, you wouldn’t think it would be Judy.” She shuddered a little. “It’s too weird.”

“I don’t know,” Karen said. “But everybody looks at me like it’s my fault. And Sister Elizabeth! She
glared
at me this morning! I wanted to crawl under my desk.”

“That’s just Sister Elizabeth,” Janet Connally said comfortingly. “She glares at everybody. You should have heard Sister Kathleen this morning. She spent the whole hour talking about sin. She wouldn’t mention Judy’s name at all. But she sure got her message across. The way she was talking, Judy might as well have—” She broke off, as she realized what she had been on the verge of saying. “I mean,” she went on lamely, “Sister Kathleen kept talking about how the intent is as sinful as the act, and all that stuff. But I don’t see how it can be.”

Karen Morton shrugged. “I don’t understand half of what they tell us. Sometimes I think they’re trying to scare us.”

“Well, they certainly succeeded with Judy,” Penny Anderson said. “My mother says they probably won’t let her come back to school.” It was a thought that hadn’t occurred to either of the two other girls, and they stared at Penny in dismay.

“Not let her come back?” Janet said softly. “Why?”

“Mother says what Judy did was even worse than getting pregnant,” Penny said. “And you know what happened to Sandy Taylor last year.”

The three girls looked at each other. Sandy Taylor had simply not been at school one day. They had all been told that Sandy had “gotten sick,” but it hadn’t taken much effort to figure out the truth, especially when Sandy’s boyfriend had left school a couple of days later. It seemed to them that there was, indeed, a strong possibility that Judy Nelson might not be allowed to return to school.

It was then that Marilyn Crane appeared at the end of the hall. Janet Connally started to wave to her, but felt a nudge from Penny. Immediately, her hand fell
back to her side. Behind Marilyn, the figure of Monsignor Vernon loomed, authoritarian and scowling.

Marilyn, unaware who was behind her, approached the group excitedly. She had something to say that they would want to hear; she was bursting with the story of seeing Judy the previous afternoon, just before she had—Marilyn couldn’t say the words, even to herself.
Before she did what she did
. She quickened her pace, but then, abruptly, the three girls turned away. The look of eagerness fell away from Marilyn’s face, and she stopped. She tried to pretend she hadn’t been about to approach them at all, that she had some other urgent business in this part of the school. She spun around, and nearly collided with Monsignor Vernon.

“Oh,” she said in surprise. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t know you were there.” She looked helplessly at the scowling priest, bracing herself for the scolding she was sure was about to fall upon her. But it didn’t come. The Monsignor seemed not to notice her. He merely stepped around her, and continued down the hall. A few feet away, the girls who had been clustered together scattered like leaves before a breeze. She had been so hopeful. Now, again, she was alone. Holding back her tears, Marilyn decided she would skip lunch that day, and spend the time in church, consoling herself under the comforting presence of the Sorrowful Mother.

   A few minutes later, Marilyn Crane slipped into the one empty seat in the back row of Room 16. She could see that there was also an empty seat in the front row: the seat Judy Nelson had occupied the day before. No one had sat in it today, and she didn’t think it was likely that anyone would sit in it tomorrow, either.

Peter Balsam surveyed the class. The same thing was on their minds that had been on the minds of his last
class, and the one before that But the psychology students didn’t stop buzzing among themselves when they came into the room, as the other classes had. And he had himself to thank—if “thank” was the word—for he had certainly done his best to let them know that they were not expected to behave here the same way they were expected to behave elsewhere at St. Francis Xavier, They had believed him. They were talking about Judy Nelson, and they weren’t making much of an attempt to keep him from knowing about it He decided, on an impulse, to face the issue squarely.

“Well,” he said, “I guess there isn’t much question what we’re going to be talking about today, is there?”

His words silenced them. They stared at him, consternation clouding their faces, a wariness passing over them, as though they weren’t sure what to expect

“I know it’s on all your minds,” he said calmly, “and I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to talk about it in any of your other classes. Since what happened to Judy Nelson is definitely of a psychological nature, let’s talk about it, get it all out in the open, and then maybe tomorrow we can get back down to business.”

When the class continued to stare at him mutely, Balsam was taken aback. He had expected a flood of questions. Instead he was getting nothing. Finally, almost tentatively, one hand rose. It was Janet Connally.

“Yes, Janet?”

“Did—did Monsignor tell you to talk to us about Judy?” Her voice quavered, and Balsam was aware that she was almost frightened of her own question. He shook his head, and smiled at them.