by John Saul
But George Nelson hadn’t heard the last “Didn’t want to see her mother? Why? I don’t understand.”
Dr. Shields looked at him sympathetically, seeing the man’s confusion and helplessness. “Could you wait a couple of minutes?” he asked George. When George nodded mutely, Dr. Shields patted him on the back. “Fine,” he said. “Mrs. Williams will get you a cup of coffee, and by the time it’s cool enough to drink, I’ll be back. Then I’ll try to tell you what’s happening, and what’s going to happen next” When a look of fear came over George’s face, the doctor felt compelled to add: “It isn’t as bad as it looks.” Then he smiled reassuringly, and disappeared down the hall. George Nelson sank into a chair, prepared to wait He wondered why he suddenly felt that this was just the beginning. He was sure that it was as bad as it looked—and probably much worse.
Peter Balsam heard about Judy Nelson from a very agitated Sister Marie, who called him as soon as she heard about it from Sister Elizabeth—who had gotten all the details from the janitor. Sister Marie seemed to think the whole thing was her fault—she had been unable to find Judy during the afternoon. And now this had happened. Sister Marie felt terribly guilty. Balsam assured her that no matter what had happened, there was no reason for the nun to blame herself. He did not add, since he could see no reason to increase her worries, that he, too, felt responsible for Judy. Perhaps if he had tried a little harder to talk to her, if he had spent a little more time with her … On an impulse, Balsam decided to go to the hospital.
Mrs. Williams looked up at the man who hovered uncertainly over her desk, and put on her best professional smile.
“Yes?” she said. The young man in front of her looked very uncomfortable. “Do you need to see a doctor?” she added solicitously.
“Me?” Balsam said in surprise. “Oh, no … no, Tm fine. I was just wondering if I’m in the right place.”
“That depends on the problem,” Mrs. Williams smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to find out about Judy Nelson,” Balsam said. He was vaguely aware that the two men who sat huddled together a few feet away had stopped talking and were staring at him. “Is she still here?”
Mrs. Williams nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid she isn’t allowed any visitors yet.” She paused, then continued, “Are you a friend of the family?” Dumb question, she admonished herself. If he knew the family, he’d be talking to Mr. Nelson, not to me. In front of her, the young man was shaking his head.
“Not exactly,” he was saying. “I’m one of her teachers. My name is Peter Balsam. Why don’t you just tell Judy I was here—”
He started to turn away, then stopped. The two men who had been seated were now standing.
“Mr. Balsam?” one of them was saying now. “The psychology teacher?”
Balsam nodded.
Tm George Nelson,” the man said, offering his hand. “Judy’s father. This is Dr. Shields.”
Balsam took the proffered hand, and smiled an acknowledgment to the doctor.
“Hello,” he said. “How is she? Is she all right?”
“She’s going to be fine.” The doctor answered for George Nelson. “We were just talking about the whole situation. Why don’t you join us?” He indicated the chairs, but Balsam waited until the other two were seated before he sank into the third chair.
“What happened?” Balsam asked. The two men looked uncomfortably at each other.
“That’s just what we were trying to figure out,” Dr. Shields said. “I’m afraid we don’t really know.”
“I heard the janitor found her in the gym,” Balsam said softly. “With her wrists—cut.” He had almost said “slashed,” but the word seemed too graphic.
“It was in the locker room,” Dr. Shields corrected him, “and fortunately it isn’t serious. Now we’re trying to figure out why.”
“Why?” Balsam repeated the word bluntly.
“Why she cut herself,” George Nelson said miserably. “She just never seemed like the kind of girl who would do something like that.”
The word “dramatic” popped into Peter Balsam’s mind. Sister Marie had used it, at lunch time. She had said Judy tended to be dramatic. He wondered if he should mention it to the two men. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak.
“Has she talked about it?” Balsam asked.
The doctor shook his head. “No. All she’s said is that she doesn’t want to see her mother. Frankly, I don’t think the situation is all that serious. In my experience, which I admit is very limited, someone who really wants to commit suicide doesn’t call the police immediately after the attempt.”
“She called the police?” Balsam asked.
George Nelson nodded. “That’s right. And the cuts aren’t deep. But we still think there must be a reason for it. I mean, a sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t just do something like that, does she?” He looked from the doctor to Balsam, then back to the doctor.
“Did you see her today?” the doctor asked Balsam, ignoring Nelson’s question.
“Yes, of course,” Peter said. “She’s in my psychology course.”
“Did anything seem to be bothering her?” the doctor pressed.
“I’m not sure,” Balsam began uncertainly. He didn’t want to raise any false alarms. “I mean, I think something was on her mind, but I haven’t the slightest idea what it was. She stayed for a minute or two after class, but when I tried to draw her out, she wouldn’t talk about it. So I suggested she talk to Monsignor.”
“Monsignor?” the doctor asked.
“Monsignor Vernon,” George Nelson filled in. “The priest who runs the school. Did she talk to him?”
“I don’t know. Frankly, I’d pretty much forgotten about it until Sister Marie called me.”
Dr. Shields looked at Balsam questioningly, and Peter felt compelled to continue.
“After I suggested Judy talk to Monsignor, I got to thinking maybe she’d be better off talking to a woman. I tried to catch up to her, and suggest that she talk to Sister Marie, instead. But she was gone, so I found Sister Marie, and asked her to try to talk to Judy.”
“And did she?” the doctor prompted him.
“I wish she had,” Balsam said unhappily. “But she didn’t. She said she looked for Judy after school, but couldn’t find her.”
“She must not have looked very hard,” George Nelson said bitterly. “Judy was there all afternoon.”
“What happens now?” Peter asked, deciding not to pursue the question of whether or not Sister Marie had made a proper search for the girl.
The doctor shrugged helplessly. “Pm keeping her here for observation,” he said. “Standard procedure. But whether she’ll start talking about what happened is anyone’s guess. With kids, sometimes it’s hard to get through.”
Suddenly there seemed very little left to say, and Peter Balsam began to feel uncomfortable—there must be things the doctor would want to talk about with the patient’s father. He stood up uncertainly, grateful when the two men also rose from their chairs. The doctor extended his hand.
“Pm glad to have met you,” he said with a smile. “I hope we see each other again.”
“But in happier circumstances,” Peter replied, accepting the doctor’s hand. He turned to George Nelson.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this,” he said softly.
Nelson tried to smile at him, but found it difficult “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’ll tell Judy you were here. Or someone will.”
A few minutes later Peter Balsam was walking slowly back through, the streets of Neilsville. As he approached his apartment, he had a feeling of something left undone, as if there were someone he should talk to. He glanced up toward Cathedral Hill, and saw the short spire of St Francis Xavier Church, Monsignor. He should talk to Monsignor. Peter Balsam didn’t stop at his apartment. Instead, he increased his pace, and hurried up the hill.
He let himself into the rectory, and rang the silver bell. He waited. When
there was no response, he rang the bell again. Still no response. He was about to leave when he noticed a thin band of light gleaming from beneath the door to the den. Balsam made his way down the hall. He stood quietly for a moment, listening.
At first there was silence, but a second later he heard the sounds of praying. An odd sort of praying: not the steady rhythms of the rosary, but short, staccato bursts of religious ejaculations. He listened for a moment, and had started to move away from the door when he heard another sound, a sound he hadn’t heard since his childhood days in the convent He stared at the door, wondering if he was really hearing what he seemed to be hearing. It was then that he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he had pushed the door partway open.
In the cento of the room, kneeling on the floor, Monsignor Vernon was praying. He was staring heavenward, but from where Balsam stood, it almost seemed as though the priest was praying to the chandelier that glowed dimly above.
He was stripped to the waist, and sweating profusely, whether from the heat of the fire that flickered on the hearth, or from religious fervor, Balsam was unsure. In one hand the priest held a rosary; in the other was clutched the flagellum. With each ejaculation, Monsignor Vernon was beating his naked back with the whip. It was not the soft, symbolic flagellation the nuns Balsam had grown up with indulged in. Monsignor Vernon was punishing himself, and the welts on his shoulders showed vividly against the pale white of his skin. Embarrassed, Peter Balsam quickly pulled the door closed and backed away, wishing he hadn’t seen the strange ceremony within.
Then the praying stopped, and a strange silence fell over the rectory. Balsam picked up the small silver bell and rang it once more. He thought he heard a movement in the den, but he wasn’t sure. He turned away, about to leave the rectory, when he heard Monsignor Vernon’s voice.
“Hello?” The voice sounded muffled, and uncertain.
“It’s me,” Balsam called. “Peter. I can come back …”
“No,” the voice came again. “I’ll be right with you. Just give me a moment.”
Balsam wondered how the priest would look, if his fervor and exertions would show in his face. But when Vernon appeared a moment later, he seemed relaxed, as if he had been doing nothing more strenuous than reading a book. Looking at him, Peter wondered if he could possibly have imagined the strange scene of a few minutes earlier.
“Peter,” Monsignor Vernon greeted him with a joviality that Balsam had not heard since their college days. “Come in, come in. I was just praying, and didn’t hear the bell.”
In the den, the lights had been turned up, and the fire, with another log thrown on it, was dancing brightly.
“A little warm for that, isn’t it?” Balsam asked. The priest grinned self-consciously.
“I guess so,” he said. “But every now and then I want a fire, and it doesn’t seem to matter how hot it is outside.” Then the brief flash of joviality faded, and Monsignor Vernon’s face took on a serious expression. “I suppose you want to talk about Judy Nelson?” he asked in a tone that told Balsam that despite what he might wish, the priest did not want to discuss the matter.
“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 anyth
ing 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
8
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.