Masquerade
Page 28
“We’re almost at your house,” he protested.
“You’re gonna have an awful mess to clean up.”
He stopped as abruptly as he could on the slippery street. She leaned out of the car. Bucko was glad he’d stopped.
She said no more. She was using every ounce of her young and normally healthy constitution to regain self-possession.
With a determined effort Marie survived her mother’s concerned scrutiny. She made it upstairs to her room by putting one foot in front of the other and telling herself over and over, “It isn’t that far.” She was glad her stomach had emptied outside. There was no way she could have done that quietly in the bathroom. Without removing her clothing she fell into bed and was in a dreamless sleep immediately.
She woke abruptly about 10:00 a.m. She felt terrible. Her mouth felt as if it were coated for the winter. She tried to remember, but all she could recall was the dance, going to Freddy’s house with Bucko, the bedroom, and then, vaguely, coming home.
Something was missing. The bedroom. She tried harder to remember. Bucko brushing the coats off the bed. The beginning of a wrestling match. The drink. The drink. Why had she reacted so violently to a drink? She’d had alcohol before, in small measures of course. But she’d had only a couple of mouthfuls last night. Could the drink have been drugged? Buy why? Why would he do such a rotten thing? Unless . . .
Her mind was clearing. There was something peculiar about her clothing. It didn’t seem to fit her correctly—tight where it should have been loose and vice versa. She began removing it. Her gown was slightly off center. Ditto her bra. Someone had dressed her hurriedly. And where were her panties? She could not know that Bucko had won a ten-dollar bet by displaying those earlier this morning.
There were flecks of blood on the inside of her thighs. She checked herself more carefully with a small hand mirror. She found the sticky white matter. It had to be semen. She’d read about that.
She’d been raped. Drugged, then raped.
Marie was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions, all of them negative: anguish, shame, horror, humiliation, outrage, great fear—and guilt, guilt, guilt. For the first time she understood how one person could seriously contemplate murdering another person. She would know the feeling once again when, many years later, a televangelist/publisher would threaten to reveal something more than this secret.
Marie managed to get to confession before Christmas. She confessed that she’d had intercourse, which was probably not technically correct. Bucko had raped her. But she confessed it just to be on the safe side. She did not want to die and have God tell her, “You should have confessed the whole thing. You know what you were taught about being the near occasion of sin and all.” This time she didn’t get just a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys. For a penance she got five rosaries and the Stations of the Cross and a hellfire-and-brimstone lecture.
After much deliberation, she concluded there was no way to retaliate against Bucko Cassidy. There was nothing she could do except to act as if he didn’t exist. Which didn’t seem to bother him. Nothing bothered him as long as his athletic body stayed in one fit piece.
The real and deadly serious problem arose a month later when the normally regular Marie was two weeks overdue for her period. And she had begun to feel, not unwell, but peculiar. As if something deep inside her was changing.
She was pregnant. She’d never been before, of course, and she hadn’t passed or failed any pregnancy test, but she knew it. She knew she was pregnant. Her emotional response escalated to terror and panic. There was only one person in whom she could confide. Not her mother, father, a priest or nun. Alice. Outside of the priest in the confessional, which was protected by its anonymity, Alice was the only one who knew what had happened to Marie at Freddy’s. Now Alice alone knew about the pregnancy.
Alice’s eyes were wider than they had ever been. “What are you going to do, Marie?”
“Oh, Alice, I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything: keeping the baby, giving it out for adoption. But either way I’d have to tell my parents. I can’t, I just can’t do that. Which leads to thinking about the Ambassador Bridge and a short winter swim in the Detroit River.” Marie could speak calmly, almost dispassionately, because by now she was drained, physically, emotionally, and tearfully.
“Suicide! Marie, that’s impossible! I won’t let you do it. I’ll stay with you twenty-four hours a day!”
“Alice . . .” Marie would have laughed, had not laughter also been gone from her life. “Alice, don’t be silly.”
Neither of them spoke for quite a long while.
“There’s one other possibility.” Alice spoke softly, guardedly.
Marie studied her friend. “Alice! Abortion?”
“I know, I know; it’s out of the question,” Alice said. “I’ve heard everything in religion class you have. But, think about it. Just think about it.” Pause. “You can’t commit suicide. That’s worse than abortion. Not only would you kill the fetus, if there’s one there, but you’d kill yourself. You can’t tell your folks. I can understand. I couldn’t do that either. What’s left?
“It would be a blessing—don’t get me wrong now—but it would be a blessing if you miscarried. It could happen. I read that happens sometimes just because it’s a first pregnancy. Maybe we could look at an abortion like that—as a planned miscarriage.” Alice looked intently at Marie.
Marie twisted her handkerchief between restless hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Besides, how could I get one? Where would I go? Not only is it a sin, it’s against the law. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Alice, hesitantly, “I have a friend . . .”
“Alice!”
“. . . who has a friend who does this. Right out of her home.”
“Her home?”
“Uh-huh. How much money can you get hold of?”
“Babysitting, odd jobs, I’ve got about $50 in savings.”
“And I’ve got about $40.”
“Alice! I couldn’t let you—”
“My friend says this woman charges between $100 and $150. Maybe she’d do it for $90.”
“Alice!”
But the decision had been made. Both Marie and Alice—especially Marie—felt strongly conflicting emotions. Neither of them believed in or wanted abortion. But there seemed no alternative, no alternative whatever.
The abortionist, after considerable haggling, finally agreed to the $90 fee. Alice accompanied Marie to the modest neighborhood home. Marie accompanied the woman into the bedroom. It occurred to her that nothing seemed to be sterile or even very clean. But she was too frightened and defensive to complain or question.
The procedure was simplicity itself. A long plastic stirrer was inserted roughly through the vagina and planted firmly in the cervix. Marie screamed. Alice ran to the bedroom door, but it was locked. The woman instructed Marie to leave the stirrer in place. Over the next two or three days the stirrer—and the fetus—would be expelled. So—words that held no meaning—there was nothing to worry about.
Alice saw Marie home. She would have stayed with her, but Marie was too sick to tolerate company. Her mother bought the explanation that it was the flu. That gave Marie the opportunity to go to bed and stay there.
Inside Marie foreign things were happening. The mucous plug had been pierced and a serious infection had begun. The irritation had opened the cervix. It was only a matter of time, two days in fact, before the stirrer was expelled, followed by the ravaged fetus.
Marie was in misery such as she had never before known. She had a high temperature, fever, spasms, chills, and hemorrhaging. She was rushed to the hospital, where the doctor in emergency convinced her he’d be able to help much more efficiently if she told him all she could. He performed a D and C and administered massive doses of antibiotics.
She was lucky. The infection had been checked. Two things became certain: She would live, and she would feel more guilty than she ever had or ever would again.
All loose ends were now tied, except for the sorry state of her immortal soul. For the first time, she was deathly afraid of going to confession. But, as a Catholic, there was no alternative. Not if she wished to regain the state of Sanctifying Grace.
She confessed having an abortion. She was dumbfounded when the voice of the unseen priest asked if she knew there was a special penalty attached to this grave sin. She knew of no extra penalty; wasn’t one of the worst of all possible mortal sins enough? Since she had not known that the penalty of automatic excommunication was attached to those who have, procure, perform, or assist at abortions, she did not now incur the sanction. It was one of those rare cases when ignorance was a shield.
She had expected this confession to be torturous; the confessor did not disappoint her. After excoriating her, he imposed as penance that she recite the rosary every day for a month. Before absolving her, however, he had one more admonition. He said, and she would never forget his words: “Young lady, I cannot make this part of your penance, but if I could I would. You should go off to a convent and become a nun. You should give up forever every pleasure of the flesh, legitimate or not. You should expiate this terrible sin for the rest of your life.”
Only then did he absolve her. She was so shocked by his admonition, she didn’t even remember reciting the Act of Contrition.
She talked that one over with Alice. It was Alice’s opinion that, with all due reverence, her confessor was an ass.
But his words had touched something deep inside her, something she had never before consciously considered. It was difficult for her to understand, let alone explain. It was as if she were destined to be a concert artist but had never taken a piano lesson.
The priest had advised her to become a nun to do penance for her sin—a completely negative motivation. But seriously considering the vocation for the first time, she found herself more and more naturally called to it.
There was one special nun who had taught Marie in that particularly difficult senior year, to whom she felt very close. They talked frequently now and at great length. Alone among all the Sisters who had taught her, Sister Marian Joseph, IHM, had seen beneath and beyond the “wildness” that was so natural to Marie, the especial qualities, the potential for an intense spiritual life. Sister Marian Joseph deeply believed that Marie would make an excellent religious. In fact, Sister was convinced that if Marie did not become a nun, she would have completely missed her genuine life’s vehicle.
In one of their final conversations before Marie graduated, Sister Marian Joseph said, “Marie, this is the perfect time for you to enter. There’s a new breed postulant now who thinks, evaluates, and exercises more common sense than we dared to. And you’d fit right in.”
“New breed? I’m not sure . . .”
“Let me put it this way, Marie. When we entered, we wanted—most of us desperately wanted—to become nuns so badly, we’d do anything we were told or expected to do to reach the goal. So some odd things—odd now in retrospect—happened.”
“Odd?”
“I can remember, though it was a long time ago, lots of things that happened in the mother house in Monroe that were weird—by today’s lights.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, in the refectory—the dining hall—we had ‘virtue boxes.’”
“Huh? Boxes with virtues in them?”
“I told you this was odd. No, boxes that held small pieces of paper on which were written virtuous deeds or actions. When you entered the refectory, you took one of the slips from the box and carried out whatever virtuous action was written on it.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Oh, for instance, you might pull out a slip that said, ‘Abstain from meat during this meal.’”
“And you wouldn’t eat meat? But what if that were the only main course?”
“Then you went hungry—or ate a lot of potatoes. But we were young and some of us were mischievous—not unlike yourself, Marie. I remember one time some of us ‘loaded’ the virtue boxes so that all the slips read, ‘Take your supper on the floor.’”
Marie began to giggle. “And the refectory was filled with nuns sitting on the floor, eating?”
Sister Marian laughed at the memory. “Then we had responsibilities—we called them ‘charges.’ One time my charge was to clean the lower cloister with its tile floor and brick walls. And I was cleaning it, sweeping the floor, when an older nun was passing through. She took the broom from me and said, ‘Why are you sweeping it that way? You must sweep it this way.’ And so, without another word, I did it her way.
“I wanted to be a nun so badly that I didn’t want to make waves. It was easier, a more direct route to becoming a professed sister, to bury your intelligence, your common sense and go along than to challenge the system. And if you stepped out of line, exercised your own personality, you were likely to hear from a superior, ‘Did you come to join the convent or to change it?’
“Marie, we’re right on the verge of the Second Vatican Council. I feel certain there will be radical changes. I can’t foretell what they’ll be, but they’re coming. The Sisters of today and tomorrow are in the best position to react to these changes. I’ve watched you carefully, Marie. You are perfect for the changing religious life. That’s why I was so delighted when you came to me to talk about it.”
This was what she wanted to hear. Not the negative denunciation in the confessional, but the positive recognition and motivation from a nun she respected.
So Marie made application to the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. She mentioned to neither Sister Marian Joseph nor the screening board in Monroe the tragedy of her abortion. The hearty and undiluted recommendation of Sister Marian Joseph, a Sister well respected in the community, won Marie admission as a postulant.
She found convent life much as Sister Marian had described it, except for community life. No one could have adequately described that. It had to be experienced. As dear and complete as had been her friendship with Alice, that was now only a most pleasant memory. Her religious Sisters became her real sisters.
She went through her postulancy, her novitiate, took her interim vows, then final vows. Then came the various “missions,” one of which was to Marygrove, where she and Sister Janet, whom she had known at the mother house, were again classmates.
Sister Marian Joseph also proved to be a prophet. Yet even she could not have foreseen all the accomplishments of Vatican II. But she was correct in assuming the Council would shake things up in a virtually unprecedented way. And, of all groups in the Catholic Church, nuns were foremost in studying and making practical the documents of the Council. No sooner did the bishops assembled in Rome publish a document than it was devoured by the Sisters. And among the forefront of these was Sister Mary Ambrose, the former Marie Monahan. Mary Ambrose was the religious name Marie had chosen. However, a few years later and as one result of the Council, many of the nuns reverted to their original names. By the time she had entered the religious education field and written her book, she long had been known as Sister Marie Monahan, IHM.
After the considerable success of Behind the Veil, Marie received the first of a series of invitations to sign with P.G. Press. She was tempted neither by the promises of significantly more money nor wider exposure to readers. The mystery novel was an avocation to her. She was immensely pleased and proud of being a published author, but she had no inclination to capitalize on every potential gain. Besides, from the outset, the Reverend Krieg’s importunate o
vertures struck her as phony. And a little research into P.G.’s backlist put the proof to that impression. She had no intention whatever of writing the sort of book P.G. published.
From time to time, though less and less frequently as the years passed, she would relive the abortion. Whenever it came to mind, always unbidden, she would wince and reexperience her grief that it had ever happened, but also the guilt that would never completely leave her at peace despite having been absolved.
At least no one else—with the exception of Alice, Marie’s family, and those close to the investigation—knew about it.
Or so she thought until the Reverend Krieg made her the offer he was sure she could not refuse. After her initial shock, she wondered how Krieg had ever unearthed her secret. She never learned that one of Krieg’s private investigators, while talking with her former classmates, tripped upon the rumors that had circulated about what happened that night. Rumors begun by Cassidy’s bragging. Armed with that information, the operator checked a number of possibilities, including the possibility of pregnancy, and a subsequent adoption or abortion. Police records, for which the operator paid a nominal sum, revealed the abortion. Krieg had his weapon.
When Marie recovered from the shock of this discovery, she was as furious as she had been when Bucko Cassidy had raped her. But it was an impotent fury that she directed at Krieg. There was nothing she could do but sign with him or risk the chance that he would actually expose her secret. If he were to do that, she knew her shame and disgrace would be so great she would not feel comfortable again until she had shriveled into a cloistered place of hiding.
Once she received the invitation to participate in this writers’ workshop and realized that Klaus Krieg would be here too, she knew this was the time of decision. She had returned to Marygrove as guardedly despondent as she had ever been. Realistically, she felt that when push came to shove she would sign. Even after considerable prayer and thought, she had arrived at no viable alternative to giving in to Krieg.