by John Saul
15
“You look like hell.”
Dr. Shields stared at Margo and motioned her into a chair.
“I feel like hell,” she admitted. “I was up all night”
The psychiatrist put the report he had been reading into the top drawer of the desk, and leaned back in his chair.
“Peter Balsam?” he asked.
Margo nodded mutely, then, reluctantly, began telling him about the discussion with Peter that had kept her up all night At first the psychiatrist listened in silence. Then, as she continued her story, he began interrupting her with questions. When she was finished, he sat with his hands folded in front of him, lost in thought
“Do you want some advice, or did you just want to talk it out?” he asked finally.
Margo shrugged helplessly. “I don’t really know. If you have any advice, I suppose I might as well hear it.”
The doctor nodded noncommittally, then looked sharply at Margo. “Just how much does Peter Balsam mean to you?”
“I don’t know,” Margo said dully. “A lot, I thought But after last night, I’m not so sure. The whole thing sounds so weird, I’m not sure I want to be involved at all.”
“Well, it’s not that bad,” Dr. Shields said gently. “After all, you aren’t involved with his problems. Yet.”
“Yet?” she repeated.
“Yet. I mean, so far, everything that’s happened to Balsam has only happened to him. Any time you get too uncomfortable with it, all you have to do is stop seeing him.”
“But I’m not sure I want to do that. I want to know what’s happening, before I make the decision. Does that make any sense?”
Dr. Shields nodded. “So how can I help? What’s bothering you most?”
She looked at him levelly. “The marks on his back. The welts. Dr. Shields, you have no idea what they look like. They’re awful!”
He leaned forward now, and stared at her intently. “Tell me about them.”
She closed her eyes, and as an image of the strange markings on Peter’s back came to her, she did her best to describe them. As she talked, a chill passed through her. When she was done, she looked at the doctor.
“Well?”
“You’re sure the skin wasn’t broken? Not even abraded?”
“I’m positive. And they didn’t hurt him, either.”
“That figures. It sounds to me like their origin is hysterical.”
“Hysterical?”
“It’s not an uncommon phenomenon. Although in this case it seems to me to be a rather bizarre manifestation. Essentially, it’s the same thing as psychosomatic illnesses. The wish becomes the reality.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Margo said. “Are you telling me Peter has a subconscious desire to be beaten?”
The psychiatrist shrugged eloquently, but when he saw the expression his gesture brought to Margo’s face, he tried to reassure her.
“It doesn’t necessarily indicate that at all,” he said. “The subconscious works in all kinds of strange ways. And don’t forget the circumstances of the manifestation. If what you say is true—and I don’t have any reason to doubt it—it sounds to me like Balsam’s got himself mixed up with a pretty crazy bunch of priests. Do you think they practice flagellation?”
“As far as I know, priests don’t do much of that anymore,” Margo said, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt. “Besides, even when they did do it, it was ritual. They never used the kind of force that would leave marks like Peter has.”
Dr. Shields’s brows arched in skepticism. “Under normal circumstances, of course, they don’t. But what about other circumstances? From what you’ve said, that society sounds like an odd group. And your Peter Balsam could fit in very well with them. Isn’t it true that he once studied for the priesthood?”
“That was years ago,” Margo said vehemently. “And he gave it up.”
“Right,” Dr. Shields pounced. “Gave it up to go into psychology. And you know what people say about us. No one’s as crazy as a psychologist”
“Including you?” Margo asked.
“Did I ever say I was sane?” Dr. Shields replied, the first traces of a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Let’s forget about it all for the time being. Well, not really forget about it, but I don’t really think any of us, including your friend Balsam, knows enough about what’s going on to make any reasonable judgments. So let’s just keep our eyes open, and see what happens next. And tell Balsam that if he’d like to talk to me, I’m willing.” Then he had an idea. “You know,” he mused, “it would sure help if we knew what really went on in those meetings of the—what do they call it?”
“The Society of St. Peter Martyr,” Margo said dully.
“Lovely name,” the psychiatrist said sarcastically. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Go home and get some sleep. And Margo,” he added as she opened the door to the outer office. She turned. “Be careful,” he said seriously. “You don’t really know very much about Balsam, do you? He might be very different from what you think he is. Granted, he seems like a nice guy. But he could be crazy, couldn’t he?” Margo stared at him wordlessly, then closed the door behind her. Dr. Shields sank back into the chair behind his desk, and stared thoughtfully at the closed door. He liked Margo, and didn’t want to see her hurt He hoped he was wrong. But inside, he didn’t feel he was. And if Peter Balsam was, indeed, as sick as Dr. Shields suspected, it could only mean trouble.
Then he remembered Judy Nelson, still a patient in the hospital And who had come to the hospital right after she had been admitted? Peter Balsam.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dr. Shields tried to convince himself that Balsam’s visit had been nothing more than the concern of a teacher for one of his students, that there was no connection between Peter Balsam and Judy Nelson’s attempt on her own life. But when he went home that afternoon, he was still unconvinced. There was a connection. He was sure of it
Geraldine Grane heard the front door slam, but went right on with her ironing. A moment later she glanced up to see her daughter come into the kitchen.
“You’re early,” she commented. Marilyn set her books down on tibe table and opened the refrigerator. “Don’t spoil your appetite” she heard her mother say.
She poked around the refrigerator, then decided that a carrot would do for a snack. She moved to the sink and began peeling the carrot into the disposai
“All the vitamins are in the peelings,” Geraldine said. “If you peel it, there isn’t any use in eating it”
Marilyn silently continued peeling the carrot, and wished her mother would leave her alone. Her wish was not granted.
“I was cleaning your room today,” Geraldine said tonelessly. Marilyn wondered if she was going to be criticized for not keeping it clean enough, or if it would be something else. It turned out to be something else.
“I found your history test,” Geraldine said in an accusing voice. “You might have shown it to me.”
“I didn’t want to,” Marilyn said.
“I can see why.” Her mother’s voice stabbed at Marilyn. “Since when do you get B-minuses?”
Marilyn threw the carrot into the sink. Suddenly she didn’t want it.
“It’s only one test, and not an important one,” she said defensively.
“One test?” Geraldine asked. “It may be only one test to you, but to me it says you aren’t trying hard enough.” She put down the iron, and turned to face her daughter. “I don’t know what to do with you, Marilyn. It seems like no matter what I want for you, it never works out.”
Marilyn was on the verge of tears. “It’s only one test, Mother,” she pleaded. “And it isn’t that bad a grade. Greta got worse grades than that all the time.”
Geraldine nodded. “Your sister didn’t go to college,” she said. “Greta got married.”
“Well, maybe I will too,” Marilyn blurted, regretting the words as soon as they’d been said. She had just open
ed a whole new can of worms, and she knew it
“You have to date before you get married,” Geraldine pointed out acidly. “And so far I don’t see you doing much in that department either.”
“All right,” Marilyn exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry, Mother! I’m sorry I’m not like Greta, I’m sorry I’m not popular, I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Geraldine Crane sank down into one of the chairs by the kitchen table, and pulled Marilyn down into another. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t spoken so sharply to her daughter, and now she tried to make up for it.
“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about” she said gently. “I’m really very proud of you. I just want you to be happy.” She paused a minute. “And you spend too much time in church,” she went on. “You’re too young to be spending all your time in church. Time enough for that when you’re older.”
“But I like it in church,” Marilyn said through the lump that was suddenly blocking her throat. She didn’t want to cry; she hoped she wasn’t going to. “Maybe I should go into a convent.”
“Don’t be silly,” her mother said. “That’s no kind of life for you. All you need to do is make some friends, and try to get out of yourself a bit. No wonder you’re not happy. If I spent as much time by myself as you do, I’d be miserable, too.”
Marilyn could no longer hold the sobs back, but neither could she let herself go in front of her mother. She felt too alone. Before her mother could stop her, she had fled from the kitchen. Geraldine Crane sat silently at the kitchen table and listened to her daughter pound up the stairs. Then, though there was no one to see it, she shrugged helplessly and went back to her ironing. Bringing up Greta was so easy, she thought Why is it so difficult with Marilyn?
She picked up another of her husband’s shirts, and began pressing the sleeves, her mind on her daughter. The iron went back and forth over the same spot It wasn’t until she saw the brown of the scorch mark that Geraldine realized she was drifting, and put her mind resolutely back on the task at hand. It didn’t occur to her that the same kind of preoccupation that had just caused her to ruin the shirt might also have caused her daughter to get a B-minus on the history test
She heard Marilyn coming down the stairs a few minutes later, and wondered if she ought to call her into the kitchen and try to talk to her. But before she could make up her mind, Marilyn appeared at the door.
“I’m going to the hospital,” Marilyn said in a voice that left no room for argument
“The hospital?” Geraldine asked. “Whatever for?”
“I’m going to visit Judy Nelson,” Marilyn said in a voice that was almost defiant “If you want me to have friends, I guess visiting Judy is a good enough way to start.”
“But I thought you didn’t like Judy,” her mother said curiously. “I thought you didn’t like that whole group.”
“Judy wasn’t at the party,” Marilyn said sullenly. Then, unexpectedly, she came over to her mother, and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I’m not what you always wanted for a daughter, but I’ll try to do better. I shouldn’t let myself get so upset”
Before Geraldine could make any response at all, Marilyn was gone. Geraldine looked out the window, and saw her daughter get on her bike and pedal off. She frowned a little, with a vague feeling that something important had just happened and she had missed it. Then she put it out of her mind and went back to her ironing.
Marilyn saw them before they saw her. She stood inside the door and looked out on the half-dead garden behind the hospital. Penny Anderson and Judy Nelson were chatting together while Karen Morton flirted with one of the orderlies. Marilyn’s first impulse was to leave, and either forget about the whole thing or come back another time. She fought the impulse down and stood inside the building, watching the group of girls and the orderly.
Then, after a couple of moments, Judy and Penny joined Karen. Marilyn could see their lips moving but couldn’t hear their voices. She wondered what they were talking about
“Don’t look now,” Penny was saying, “but I could swear that Marilyn Crane is standing just inside that door.” The other girls started to turn, but Penny spoke again. “I said don’t look now. What do you suppose she’s doing here?”
“If she’s watching us, she probably came to visit me,” Judy said acidly.
“After Saturday night?” Penny asked. “I wouldn’t think she’d want to see any of us, after what we did to her.” She began giggling to herself, remembering the expression on Marilyn’s face as she had realized why they had invited her to the party.
“She doesn’t know I had anything to do with it” Judy said. “I was right here in the hospital, remember?”
“I wonder what she wants?” Karen said. Then, feeling the pressure of the orderly’s leg against her own, she suddenly stood up. Things were going too far.
“Let’s get out of here,” Karen said nervously. “Marilyn isn’t going to come over as long as we’re here, and I don’t want to talk to her anyway. Her pimples might rob off.” She was pleased when the other girls laughed.
“Okay,” Judy grinned. “You two get out of here, and I’ll call you as soon as she leaves.”
“That should be good for a laugh,” Penny said. Then she and Karen wandered off, trying not to look at the door where Marilyn still hovered.
Marilyn watched them go, and reached out tentatively to push the door open. Then something told her to forget it, to leave the hospital without talking to Judy. Too late. Judy was waving at her.
“Hi,” Judy called. “What brings you out here?” Her voice sounded friendly, and Marilyn felt encouraged. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
“I—I thought you might want some company,” she said hesitantly. She offered Judy the stack of fan magazines she had picked up in the drugstore on her way to the hospital. “I brought these for you.”
Judy glanced idly at the covers. “Thanks,” she said laconically. She stared at Marilyn, waiting for the other girl to speak.
“When are you going home?” Marilyn eventually asked.
“Who knows? As far as Pm concerned, I could go home today. But they won’t let me out of here until I tell them why I did it—and I don’t want to tell them.”
The orderly looked sharply at Judy, and seemed about to say something. Judy didn’t give him time.
“Why don’t you leave us alone?” she said to him. “I mean, how can we talk with you sitting listening to every word?”
“Tm not supposed to leave you alone,” the orderly replied. “You know that”
“Oh, that’s stupid,” Judy snapped. “Cant you just go over there and sit by yourself? That way you can still see me, but at least I can talk to Marilyn.”
“Well …” the orderly began, on the edge of agreeing to Judy’s request. Judy pushed him a little harder.
“Then go on,” she urged. “Just for a few minutes.” She took on an appealing little-girl look, and before the orderly could decide if it was sincere, he had taken the bait.
“Okay,” he said, standing up. “But only for a few minutes. Then you have to go back to your room.”
Judy pouted a little, but the pout disappeared as soon as the young man’s back was turned. She grinned conspiratorially at Marilyn. “I have him wrapped around my little finger,” she whispered. But Marilyn wasn’t listening. She was thinking about something.
“What was it like?” she asked.
“What was what like?”
“What you did,” Marilyn said. “You know—” Her voice trailed off, and she was afraid she’d said the wrong thing. A dreamy expression had come over Judy’s face.
“It was weird,” she said. “You know what? I really don’t know why I did it. I was mad at my mother, but certainly not that mad.”
“You didn’t seem mad when I saw you in the hall that day,” Marilyn mused. “You seemed more—sad.”
Judy looked at her curiously.
“You? I don’t remember seeing you.”
“Don’t you remember?” Marilyn asked her. “It must have been just before you went to the gym and—and did it.”
Judy shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember anything like that at all,” she said. “All I remember about that day is talking to Mr. Balsam. Then it all gets kind of fuzzy. But I remember being in the locker room, and I remember cutting myself. It didn’t hurt at all. I just cut myself, and the blood started coming out. And I felt so peaceful. It was—well, it was almost like I feel sitting in church sometimes, listening to Monsignor celebrate Mass. A strange feeling comes over me, and I feel like I’m not in my body anymore. That’s how it felt when I cut myself. Like I was watching it happen to someone else. And then I suddenly realized what I’d done. I mean, I suddenly realized it was me it was happening to. And I got scared. That’s when I called the police. And then Mr. Jenkins found me.” Judy paused, eyeing the other girl. “The rest was horrible.”
“Horrible? What do you mean?” It seemed to Marilyn that the cutting would have been the hard part.
“They all wanted to know what happened. Why did I do it? How do I know why I did it? It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Now they’re all afraid I’m going to try it again.”
“Are you?” Marilyn asked, her voice serious. Judy shook her head emphatically.
“Not a chance. I suppose if I’d really wanted to kill myself, then I might try again. But I don’t think I wanted to die. I think I just wanted to see what it felt like. But it’s all over now.” She grinned suddenly. “I’ve got too much to do. Who has time to die?”
Then the orderly was back, and Judy was standing up.
“Nap time,” she said, with a hint of a sneer in her voice. “They treat you like a baby around here.”