Punish the Sinners (16 page)

“I don’t want to go,” she insisted. But Geraldine was adamant She brushed Marilyn’s objections aside and packed her into the car.

Five minutes later, with a coat covering her bathrobe, and slippers on her feet, Marilyn Crane was deposited in front of the Morton house. Without giving her daughter time to voice any more objections, Geraldine Crane drove away. She was sure that finally her ugly-duckling daughter was going to be accepted by the flock. Marilyn, sure that the flock was playing a trick on her, moved slowly up the walk to the door. The house seemed dark, suspiciously quiet She reached out, and tentatively rang the bell.

   At ten-thirty Saturday night, Harriet Morton glanced around the diner where she and one other waitress had spent the evening with very little to do. Only two tables were occupied, and they were both in the other girl’s station. And something was nagging at her. She had a feeling that she should be at home. She glanced at the clock, then heard the voice of the other waitress behind her. “Why don’t you call it a night?” Millie was saying. “You’ve been jumpy as a cat all night, and it’s not as if I can’t handle it by myself.” It was a tempting offer, but Harriet thought about the tips she might miss. Millie read her mind. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll punch you out when I leave, and we’ll split any tips that come into your station between now and closing. Which, if we’re lucky, should come to about twelve and a half cents each. Go home, will you? I can tell you’re worried about something.”

“It’s probably silly,” Harriet replied. “It’s just that Karen’s having a party tonight, and it’s the first time I’ve ever let her have one when I wasn’t there.”

“Afraid it’s turned into an orgy?” Millie grinned.
“Go on, take off. I’ll handle the mob.” She looked sourly at the two lone diners who were poking unenthusiastically at the mess of potatoes and gravy that was billed as “real home cooking.”

Five minutes later Harriet was in her car, and ten minutes after that she was pulling into the driveway. From the outside, the party seemed to be over—the house was dark. And then, as she closed the car door, she heard the music. Soft music, not the loud rock she had expected. She tried the door. Unlocked. As she snapped on the lights, she heard the sounds of scuffling in the living room. And there they were.

Harriet surveyed the guilty-looking teen-agers who were scattered around the living room trying to look as though they hadn’t been caught—except that their clothes were mussed and the girls’ makeup had somehow transferred itself to the boys’ faces. Well, it was bound to happen someday, Harriet told herself. They
are
growing up. She steeled herself to give them the lecture she knew her husband would have given them, had he been alive. Of all the kids, it was her own daughter who was staring at her with the most resentment The others looked properly ashamed; Karen, however, looked mad. It didn’t occur to Harriet that Karen’s anger was not so much directed at Harriet for the lecture she was giving, as at the fact that Karen was afraid of what the other kids might say when it was over. Karen could see her stock slipping. Her mother, she had always said, let her do what she wanted. Now the truth was coming out. Harriet Morton was just as strict as all the rest of the mothers of Neilsville.

Karen whispered into Jim Mulvey’s ear. “Well sneak out when this is all over with,” she said softly. “Then maybe we can finish what we started.” Jim felt a sudden
tightness in his groin. Was it really finally going to happen? All of a sudden he was a little fait afraid.

   Peter Balsam steered Margo’s car into her driveway, and came to a stop. He turned and smiled at her.

“Are you coming in for a nightcap?” Margo asked.

Balsam shook his head. He wanted to accept, wanted to take her in his arms, but something held him back. “Not tonight,” he said, avoiding the hurt look in her eyes. I’ve got some reading to do.” Then: “You’re sure you don’t mind if I take the car?”

Margo smiled. “Not if you bring it back in the morning. And I figure the best way to guarantee my seeing you in the morning is to loan you the car. Somehow, you just don’t strike me as a car thief.” She kissed him quickly, then got out of tibe car. “See you in the morning. Shall I fix some breakfast?”

“That’d be great,” Peter said. “And Margo? Thanks for riding along with me.”

She grinned at him. “I was just looking out for my car. Next time you decide you have to drive to Seattle, you can do it alone. Trip’s too long for me.” She waved at him and disappeared into her house. A moment later she heard him put the car in gear and back out of the driveway. Five minutes later, Margo Henderson was in bed.

   Balsam made his way slowly through the back streets of Neilsville. He didn’t want to be seen driving Margo’s car. He suspected there was already a certain amount of gossip and he didn’t want to fuel that particular fire. He was only five blocks from home, and beginning to relax after the trip, when he saw the figure sitting forlornly on the curb. As he drew abreast of the odd apparition, a face peered up at him, and he recognized Marilyn
Crane. His foot hit the brakes, bringing the car to a fast enough stop to send the books piled neatly on the back seat tumbling to the floor. Peter Balsam backed the car up, and rolled down the window.

‘Marilyn?” he called. “Marilyn, is that you?”

She had been about to walk away, hoping to disappear into the shadows, when she recognized his voice. Uncertainly, she turned, and Peter could see that she had been crying. She peered at the car, as if unsure whether to come closer or run away. Peter opened the door and got out. He started around the car.

“Marilyn? It’s me, Mr. Balsam. What’s wrong? What are you doing wandering around in a bathrobe?”

“I—I’m all right,” she said, but it was obvious she wasn’t. And then she remembered the day they had walked from the church into town together, and how Mr. Balsam seemed to understand her. Suddenly her tears started flowing again. “No, I’m not all right I’m terrible, if you really want to know. Can I get in your car?”

“Of course you can.” Instinctively, he reached out and took her arm to guide her into the car. By the time he shut the door firmly behind her, she was sobbing uncontrollably. He hurried around to the driver’s side. Then, instead of driving away, he pulled the car closer to the curb, and turned off the engine. He reached out to touch the unhappy child, and she clutched at his hand.

“What is it, Marilyn?” he said softly. “Can’t you tell me?”

“It—it was awful,” she said. “They were all so mean.” She looked at him beseechingly. “Why are they all so mean?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said gently. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Marilyn nodded vigorously, and did her best to control the sudden fit of crying that had overtaken her, as she told Peter Balsam what had happened to her that evening.

“It was awful, Mr. Balsam,” she said, reliving the experience. “I stood there, and rang the bell, and I knew it was some kind of horrible joke, and I waited, but no one answered the door. And then, when I was about to leave, Mother drove away, so I didn’t have any choice. So I rang the bell again, and then I could hear them inside. They were all giggling, and I knew they were giggling at me. And finally Karen opened the door, and asked me to come in. I wanted to run away right then, but I hoped that maybe—well, maybe it wasn’t a joke at all, and that Karen had dressed up so that
everyone
would look as bad as I did, and she’d be the only one there that looked nice. So I went in. And they were all waiting for me. All of them—Penny and Janet, and Lyle and Jeff—all of them. And there I was. And they were laughing at me. I tried to tell Mother—I knew it was going to happen!” She began crying again, and Peter let her cry, knowing that nothing he could say could take away her humiliation. He let her cry it out. Then, when her sobbing eased off, he squeezed her hand.

“Would you like me to take you home?” he said softly. Marilyn seemed terrified.

“No,” she said. “Not yet I can’t go home yet Mother’d be furious with me. She’d tell me I was being too sensitive, and that I should have laughed right along with everyone else, then stayed and had a good time.”

“Maybe you should have,” Peter suggested gently.

“But I couldn’t have. Don’t you see? They didn’t invite me because they wanted me. They only invited me so they could laugh. Once the joke was over, they didn’t
want me to stay. Oh, God, I wanted to die! It was so awful!”

“I’ll tell you what,” Balsam said. “Why don’t we go somewhere, and I”ll buy you a Coke?”

Marilyn looked at him hopefully, then her face sagged in disappointment. “Like this? I can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

Balsam couldn’t help grinning at her now, but he was careful not to laugh.

“You managed to get here looking like that, didn’t you?”

“That was different. I just had to get away from Karen’s.”

“How long ago was that?”

She shrugged listlessly. “I don’t know. A half-hour. Maybe an hour.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been wandering around like that for an hour?” She nodded. “And you don’t want to go home yet?” She shook her head. “All right, then, well go to a drive-in, and you can stay in the car while I buy a couple of Cokes. How’s that sound?”

She looked at him gratefully. “Could we?” she implored him. “I just don’t want Mother to find out what happened. She wouldn’t understand at all, and she’d just get mad at me, and tell me I did everything wrong.”

“It’s all right,” Balsam assured her. He started the car, and a few minutes later he pulled it into the back corner of the parking lot at the A & W. He went inside, and felt curious eyes on him as he bought two Cokes. When he returned to the car, Marilyn had calmed down considerably.

“You don’t know what it was like,” she said, sipping on her Coke.

“How do you know?” Peter said. “You’re not the
only one who’s ever been caught in something like that.” Then he proceeded to make up a story about his own past, in which he was made to look as ridiculous as Marilyn had been made to look tonight. He told himself that it didn’t matter that the story wasn’t true. What mattered was that Marilyn realize that she wasn’t the only person who had ever been humiliated in public. She listened to him in silence. When he finished, there was just the tiniest trace of a smile at the comers of her mouth.

“That story wasn’t true, was it?” she said.

“No,” Balsam admitted. “But it could have been, and the stories that are true are still too painful to talk about.” He thought about his wife, Linda, and the other man. The man he had found her with. That, he thought, was humiliation. But he couldn’t tell Marilyn about it.

“What’ll I do now?” she suddenly asked him. “I mean, how can I face them at school on Monday?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Balsam said. “Just act as if nothing happened, and I’ll bet nobody will mention it at all. And listen carefully in my class on Monday. I think I’ll have a special lecture—a little talk about people who feel good by making other people feel bad. With no names mentioned, of course. And don’t be surprised if I act like you don’t exist I wouldn’t want anyone to think you and I had planned anything in advance.”

It worked. Marilyn smiled at him now, and the tears were gone.

“Thanks for finding me tonight,” she said softly. “I guess you’re the only person in the world I really needed to talk to tonight” She handed him her empty paper cup, and Peter Balsam got out of the car to throw it away, along with his own. Then he drove her home, in a comfortable silence.

“Marilyn?” her mother called from the living room as she closed the front door behind her. “How was the party?”

“Fine, Mother,” Marilyn responded. She saw no reason to let her good feelings be dissipated by a lecture from her mother.

“Who brought you home?”

Before she could think of anything else to say, Marilyn blurted out the truth.

“Mr. Balsam?” Geraldine Grane repeated. “How on earth did that happen?”

“He—he was just driving by, and saw me walking,” Marilyn said, stretching the truth only a little. “He offered me a ride, and since I felt silly walking dressed like this, I accepted.”

Geraldine Grane considered this for a moment. She wasn’t sure she approved. After all, the man was practically a stranger. “Well, I wish you wouldn’t do things like that,” she said. “If he ever offers you a ride again, turn him down.”

“Oh, Mother,” Marilyn said. “For heaven’s sake, he’s one of my teachers.”

“But we don’t really know him, do we?” Geraldine asked darkly. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

But Marilyn had already slipped up the stairs. She didn’t hear what her mother had said.

   Leona Anderson wondered if she should call Geraldine Grane that night, or the next morning, or at all. It had been quite shocking. It was a good thing her bridge game had run late, and that she had happened to drive by the A & W just when she had, or she wouldn’t have seen it at all. There they were, just as brazen as trash, that Mr. Balsam and Marilyn Grane. And her in her
bathrobe, no less! And in Margo Henderson’s car. It really was too much.

And then, on reflection, Leona Anderson decided not to call anyone that night. She would wait until morning, and then tell Inez Nelson at church. Between the two of them, she and Inez would be able to decide what should be done. Leona had no doubt that something should be done.

   Peter Balsam glanced at the clock as he entered the apartment. Nearly midnight. He was weary from the long drive, but he’d gone all the way to Seattle just for these books and they beckoned to him now. He picked up the most formidable of them, Henry Lea’s
The Inquisition of the Middle Ages
.

He opened the book to the index, and began running his fingers down the columns. Then he began leafing through the book, reading a paragraph here, a page there, consulting the index once again.

Peter Balsam did not sleep at all that night. By dawn he knew much more about the saints that adorned St. Francis Xavier church than he had at midnight What he had discovered wouldn’t have let him have much sleep even if he had gone to bed. As the sun rose above Neilsville, and the intense heat of the last days of summer baked the town, Peter Balsam continued his reading. And every now and then, as if it were winter, he shivered.