Punish the Sinners

by John Saul

  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 cu
p, 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.

  11

  Karen Morton was walking up Cathedral Hill, alone. Usually, on Sunday mornings, she waited at the foot of the hill, at the corner of First and Main, for Penny Anderson, Janet Connally, and Judy Nelson. But this morning Judy would not be coming. This morning Karen had no desire to see Penny or Janet Or anyone at all. She wished she were home, closed comfortably into the security of her bedroom.

  It had not been an easy morning for Karen, and it was not showing any promise of getting better.

  She had thought of staying in bed, pleading illness, but quickly decided that wouldn’t work. She had sensed, even before she saw her mother, that no excuse would be accepted today. She was going to have to get up, have to face her mother’s anger, have to go to church. She was going to have to confess her sins. That was what was frightening her, for Karen knew she had a lot to confess. And so, even earlier than usual, Karen had gotten up, dressed, and gone downstairs. There just hadn’t seemed any point in prolonging it.

  Her mother had been in the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken to her when Karen came down for breakfast She simply stared at her, then turned back to the stove where she was frying eggs. Finally, her back still to Karen, she had asked the question Karen hadn’t wanted to hear.

  “What time did you come in last night?” she said quietly.

  “I’m not sure,” Karen hedged.

  “Well, I am,” Harriet snapped. “It was after two o’clock. Where were you all that time?”

  “Jim and I went to—to the A & W,” Karen said. She knew immediately she had made a mistake.

  “Did you?” It was an accusation, not a question. “Did you, indeed? It must have been interesting, sitting there in the dark. The A & W closes at midnight”

  Karen sank into a chair next to the kitchen table, and waited in silence for the onslaught of her mother’s wrath. But it didn’t come. Instead, Harriet Morton silently continued fixing their breakfast, silently set the plates on the table, and silently sat down. For Karen, the silence was much worse than any lecture.

  “I’m sorry,” she had whispered finally. Again, her mother stared at her. Then, at last, Harriet Morton began to speak.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she began, and Karen had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Those were the words her mother always used when she was about to invoke Karen’s father. She waited.

  “If your father were alive,” Harriet had gone on, “I could leave this whole matter up to him. But he isn’t alive, and I have to deal with it. I suppose, when it comes down to it, that I shouldn’t blame you. I know it can’t be easier for you, not having your father around, than it is for me. But I’d hoped you were old enough to be trusted by now. Apparently I was wrong. Apparently all the things your father and I tried to teach you went in one ear and out the other. Well, there isn’t anything I can do about it now. But there are a few things I can do about the future. First, there won’t be any more parties. Since I won’t be able to supervise them, you won’t have them.”

  “For how long?” Karen asked softly. She had been expecting this.

  “How long?” Harriet had said, looking at her blankly. “Why, until you’re eighteen, of course. As long as you’re my responsibility.”

  Karen had gasped. “But Mother—”

  “And of course you won’t be seeing Jim Mulvey any more,” Harriet went on. She looked deeply into Karen’s eyes, and added, “Unless, of course, you have to get married. I’ve been praying all night that that won’t happen. But if it does, it’s a cross we’ll both have to bear.”

  Karen stared at her mother in dismay, and then burst into tears and fled the table. Her mother found her lying on her bed, crying.

  “It’s time for church, Karen,” she said softly.

  “I’m not going,” Karen sobbed into her pillow.

  “Of course you are,” Harriet said. “Isn’t it more important for you to go this morning than ever before? You need the church this morning, Karen. Now get off that bed, change your clothes, and go.”

  She was nearing the top of Cathedral Hill. Other worshipers were streaming toward the church of St. Francis Xavier. Karen did not join in their Sunday-morning chatter, and there was an air about her that kept people from calling a greeting to her. Karen Morton had something on her mind.

  She made her way up the steps, and through the foyer. Then she dipped her fingers in the font, genuflected, and started down the aisle to the pew she and her mother usually occupied. Behind her, someone whispered a quick greeting. Karen didn’t reply. She sank to her knees, and began the prayers she repeated every Sunday morning. Then she sat on the pew, and tried to pay attention to the Mass.

  An hour later, when the Mass was over, Karen stood up reluctantly. Now was going to be the worst time. Now she was going to have to go to the confessional. She knew it was supposed to make her feel better; she knew that her sins would be forgiven. Until thus morning, going to confession had always made her feel better. But this morning was a spedai morning. This morning she had a difficult confession to make. Karen steeled herself, almost lost her resolve, then slipped quickly into one of the confessionals that s
tood to the left of the doors. She clutched her beads, made the sign of the cross—”In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”—and knelt.x

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Karen began. “It has been a week since my last confession.” Then she paused, wondering where to start. “I am guilty of the sin of lust,” she said softly. She heard the slightest intake of breath from beyond the grille, and was immediately fearful.

  “What are your sins, my child?”

  Karen knew the voice. She had heard it in the halls of the school for too many years not to recognize it even when it was pitched to the low level of the confessional. It was Monsignor Vernon.

  “I—I—” Karen wanted to run from the tiny confessional, run out of the church and down the hill. She tried to get hold of herself. From the other side of the grille the Monsignor’s voice inveighed her to begin.

  “But it isn’t easy …” Karen faltered.

  “Nothing in this world is easy, my child,” the priest said softly. “But we must confess our sins. What have you done?”

  She told him. She began telling him all that had transpired during the week, and during the week preceding. She confessed to being deceitful, and told him first about helping Judy Nelson with the dress. Then she began telling him about the party the night before, and about being deceitful toward her mother. She told him about the trick she had pulled on Marilyn Crane, and the hurt she had caused Marilyn. And then she told him about the last hours of the night, when she and Jim Mulvey had sat in his car, hidden in the darkness.

  “I—I let him touch me, Father,” she whispered. She felt the heat between her legs once again, just as she had felt it last night, and a wave of guilt swept over her.

  “You let him touch you?” Monsignor asked. “Let him touch you where?”

  “I—I’m not—” Karen stammered. Then she blurted it out. “I let him touch me all over.”