by John Saul
One of the women glanced at Leona, then away.
“It is,” Leona insisted quietly. “They were all in his class, all of them. Judy and Karen, and Janet and—and—” she broke off, knowing that if she said her daughter’s name she would lose control. She must not cry. Not yet First, she must destroy Peter Balsam. “When I first met him I knew there was something wrong. And look what’s happened to us.” She looked desolately from one face to another.
“Leona, we don’t know what’s happening,” one of the women said soothingly. Leona Anderson turned to the woman who had spoken, and a hardness came into her eyes.
“Don’t we, Marie?” Then, remembering that only a few days ago Marie Connally had come close to going through what she was going through now, Leona spoke more softly: “But what if Janet had died? How would you feel then?”
Marie Connally smiled. “But she didn’t die, and she isn’t going to. She’s home, and she’s feeling fine. And that’s largely because of Peter Balsam. I’m sorry, Leona, but if you want to attack Mr. Balsam, please don’t do it in front of me.”
“Think what you like,” Leona said stiffly. “But mark my words. It isn’t over yet. As long as Peter Balsam is in this town, it won’t be over.”
The object of Leona’s bitterness emerged from the church into the darkness of night, and began making his way back down the hill.
Below him he watched the scattered lights of Neilsville glowing dimly in the night. It crossed his mind that the lights of Neilsville were as dim as his own faith. He had spent two hours in the church, seeking guidance and solace, and had found none. Instead, he had found himself.
A few minutes later he was on Main Street. But it was a different Main Street than the one he had walked up two hours earlier. Or he was different.
Now, as he felt the eyes of strangers on him, he met their glances, and smiled at them. They turned away, embarrassed. Once he heard a voice shouting at him from a doorway.
“Go away, teacher,” a woman shouted. “Leave us in peace!”
Peter turned around to confront the source of the shout, but the woman was gone, faded back into the cloak of the evening.
In the middle of town, music throbbed from the Praying Mantis, and Peter found himself drawn to it. He paused at the door, then made up his mind. He pulled the door open, and stepped into the shabby discotheque.
In the flickering light the faces seemed gaunt and hollow and there was a heavy silence behind the blaring music. It was a moment before Peter realized that there were no girls in the room: the girls seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. He knew why. None of them would be allowed to go out tonight They would all be home, their parents keeping a watchful eye on them.
Someone waved to Peter, and he started across the floor.
Sitting together at a table were Jim Mulvey, Lyle Crandall, and Jeff Bremmer. Without waiting for an invitation, Peter seated himself in the fourth chair at their table. All three boys looked at him. He could see fear in their eyes.
“It isn’t all that bad,” he said softly. “It’s almost over now.”
“What is?” Lyle Crandall asked. He looted curiously at the teacher, and thought the man looked different. It was the eyes. There was something about Mr. Balsam’s eyes that had changed.
“The dying,” Peter Balsam said. “It won’t go on much longer. It can’t”
Jeff Bremmer stared at him. “Mr. Balsam, what’s going on?”
Peter smiled at the boy, a warm smile. “I wish I could tell you, Jeff.”
“But you know, don’t you?” Jeff said, more as a statement than as a question.
Balsam shrugged. “As much as anybody knows, I guess.”
“It’s my fault,” Jim Mulvey said suddenly. Peter shifted in his chair to look squarely at the boy.
“Don’t believe that,” he said. “Don’t ever believe that. Whoever’s to blame, it isn’t you. It isn’t any of you. Children don’t do things like what’s being done here.”
“But they do,” Jeff Bremmer said softly. “My dad says it’s called a suicide contagion, and it happens all the time.”
“In mental hospitals,” Balsam said. “That only happens in mental hospitals.”
“Then what is it?” Lyle asked. All three boys were staring at Balsam.
“It’s a game,” Peter said, more to himself than to the boys. They looked at each other, puzzled.
“A game?” It was Jim Mulvey, and now he, too, saw that something had changed in their teacher. “What kind of agame?”
“A religious game, I suppose you might say.” He was about to say something else, but he was interrupted.
The sound tore through the room like a knife, cutting through the music, through what little conversation was going on, through each of the people who heard it
It was the siren, wailing through Neilsville.
“Oh, Jesus, not again.”
No one knew who had spoken, and no one cared. It was the thought that had come to all of them, and all of them knew it was too late.
Somewhere in Neilsville, “again” had happened. As if an order had been given, all the people in the Praying Mantis moved out into the street, where they were swallowed up by the crowd that had emerged as if from nowhere in response to the eerie cry of the speeding ambulance.
Peter Balsam spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. He made his way quickly through the crowd, and started once more up Cathedral Hill, moving faster as he climbed, until, by the time he reached the top, he was running.
He didn’t stop till he reached the rectory.
He looked up.
Smoke was curling from the chimney. The sound of chanting drifted through the night.
Marie Connally was trying to hurry her husband as they walked home from the Andersons’.
“Can’t you walk a little fasto?” Marie asked, increasing her pace.
Dick Connally’s arm tightened around his wife’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong. No need to hurry,” he said with a conviction he didn’t feel.
“But she’s only been out of the hospital a day. I just don’t like the idea of leaving her alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Dick reminded her. “Your mother’s with her.”
“Well, I just don’t like it. Janet should have us—”
She broke off as the sound of the siren reached them. They stopped on the sidewalk and stared at each other, listening. Then, as the siren grew steadily louder, they began running.
Lights blazed from their house.
The ambulance was parked in the driveway, its red lights still flashing.
“Stay back,” someone called to them. “Don’t go in!”
They ignored the warning.
Marie Connally’s mother stood numbly at the foot of the stairs, her face pale, her whole body shaking. She stared hollowly at her daughter and son-in-law, then one hand reached toward them, grasping at them.
“I fell asleep,” she muttered. “I was watching television, and I fell asleep.” No one heard her: Marie and Dick were already halfway up the stairs.
And so they saw her again. It was like a recurring nightmare. She looked exactly the same, her limp body suspended from the fixture in the ceiling, an extension cord knotted around her neck.
Only this time it was too late. Her skin was bluish, and her eyes bulged. Her face, which had always been so pretty, was no longer recognizable.
From her wrists, blood was still dripping to the floor.
Marie Connally began screaming.
Her husband put his arms around her, and tried to pull her from the room. But it was no use; she remained rooted to the spot, staring at Janet, screaming.
She stayed that way for almost five minutes, until one of the paramedics prepared a shot and administered it to her.
The shot could stop the crying, but it could never erase the image. For the rest of her life, Marie Connally would live with the vision of her daughter hanging dead from a light cord.
Just bef
ore she fell under the deadening influence of the sedative, Marie Connally decided that Leona Anderson had been right.
It was Peter Balsam. It must have been. There could be no other answer.
In Neilsville that night, no one slept
27
There was an uncomfortable stillness in the auditorium. It was as if they had been anesthetized and were waiting for the stimulant that would bring them awake again. When Monsignor Vernon moved to the lectern they looked at him expectantly; for years they had been trained to look to their religious superiors for guidance. Now, the teaching sisters of St. Francis Xavier’s rustled their habits; all over the room beads were suddenly released from tight grips.
Monsignor Vernon looked from face to face, trying to gauge the mood of the sisters. With a few exceptions, they looked confused. Concerned, and confused. Sister Elizabeth, however, looked angry, as did Sister Kathleen. And Sister Marie, back from retreat, seemed to be entirely closed down, her face impassive, a glaze in her eyes that gave no clue as to what might be going on in her mind.
“I wish I could say ‘good morning,’ “ Monsignor Vernon began gravely. “But there isn’t very much good about this morning.”
“Monsignor—” It was a hesitant voice from the back of the room, and the priest smiled at the elderly nun whose face seemed particularly drawn. She had been teaching at St. Francis Xavier’s for nearly forty years, and the parents of most of the students had been students of hers. Leona Anderson, in fact, had named her daughter for the nun.
“Yes, Sister Penelope?”
“I—I—” the old sister faltered, trying not to cry. “It’s just all so terrible. What’s happening to us?”
“We don’t know,” Monsignor Vernon said calmly. “That’s why I wanted all of you here this morning, to try to tell you what little we do know, and to decide what to do.”
“Penny,” Sister Penelope said, her voice breaking. “I need to know about Penny. She was always my favorite—always.”
One of the other sisters reached out to pat Sister Penelope gently on the hand, and whisper a word or two in her ear.
“I wish I could tell you what happened,” Monsignor said sorrowfully. “All we know is that she left her things in the quiet-room.”
“What about Janet?”
Now Monsignor Vernon frowned slightly. “Again, we don’t know exactly what happened. But Janet did leave anote.”
A ripple passed through the room as the sisters looked at each other, murmuring among themselves. At last, there was something.
“She said she didn’t know exactly why she was doing … what she did. She said she was having very strange feelings lately, feelings she didn’t understand. It was almost like—and I’m quoting her now—‘someone outside is making me want to kill myself.’ ”
The nuns looked at each other. None of it made any sense to them. They turned their attention back to the Monsignor.
“She went on to say that she was feeling more and more hopeless, and even though she really didn’t want to kill herself, she was being forced to anyway. She asked to be forgiven for what she did.”
“Forgiven?” Sister Elizabeth asked stiffly. “By whom?”
Monsignor Vernon’s eyes met those of the nun, and a look of understanding passed between them: The Church is a rock and cannot be bent “I don’t know,” the priest said softly. “Perhaps she forgot she would not be dying in a state of grace.” Another murmur buzzed through the room as the nuns considered the state of Janet’s soul. Monsignor Vernon let it go on for a moment, then cleared his throat to regain their attention.
“We don’t know, of course, what is going on here. I confess I’m as baffled as any of you. And I also find I’m forced to go outside the Church for help.”
“Outside the Church?” Sister Kathleen said in a manner that made her opinion clear: there could not possibly be any help outside the Church.
“I—we—are put in a very difficult situation,” the priest said with unease. “My faith, of course, lies in the Church, and the Church places full responsibility for suicide on the person who commits it And yet, we are faced with a unique situation. Three of our girls have died, and a fourth one has tried to kill herself. Can it be that each of these girls came to the same decision independently?” Though he had intended the question rhetorically, Sister Elizabeth had an answer.
“They were all friends,” she said emphatically. “Close friends. Ever since they were small, what one of those girls did, all of them did. That’s why we have always tried to keep them apart.”
“Tm aware of that, Sister,” Monsignor Vernon said. “And I’m afraid that closeness is part of the problem. Dr. Shields—”
“Who?” It was Sister Penelope again.
“Dr. Shields,” the priest repeated the name. “He’s a psychiatrist at the hospital. And he tells me that, despite what the Church teaches, there is a phenomenon called suicide contagion.”
Suddenly the nuns were frowning and staring at each other as Monsignor Vernon explained the term.
“But what can be done about it?” Sister Elizabeth demanded.
“I don’t know. When it happens in a mental institution, the solution is easy. They simply put the girls under physical restraint until the hysteria that causes the syndrome passes. That, of course, is impossible in this situation. It simply isn’t feasible to put all the girls in the school under physical restraint. Although,” he added, “there have been times when I wished I could do exactly that”
An appreciative chuckle passed over the room, and some of the tension seemed to ease. Then Sister Kathleen made a small gesture.
“Monsignor?”
“Yes, Sister?”
“You’ve only mentioned girls. What about the boys?”
“According to Dr. Shields this sort of hysteria only affects adolescent girls. Our boys are quite safe.”
“But what do we do?” one of the sisters asked.
Monsignor Vernon shrugged. “There isn’t too much we can do. But,” be warned, “we must stay calm. We must carry on as always. School will be in session tomorrow, and the parents of every child who isn’t there will be contacted, and urged very strongly to keep their children in school.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” It was Sister Marie, and it was the first time she had spoken that morning.
“It’s the only thing we can do,” Monsignor Vernon said. “If the children are here we can watch them. If they aren’t …” The Monsignor’s voice trailed off, as if the consequences he had been about to name were too dire to be articulated. “We must watch them,” he repeated, “we must watch the girls.” He paused, then added crisply, “If you notice anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, I want you to report it to me at once.”
The sisters digested this, and wondered just what was to be considered “out of the ordinary.” Lately, everything had begun to look out of the ordinary.
‘Monsignor,” Sister Marie asked suddenly, “why isn’t Peter Balsam here?”
“I asked him to stay home today, and perhaps tomorrow as well. This whole thing has been very difficult for him, and it seemed to me that he needed some rest”
It was as if a dam had burst in the room. The sisters were suddenly talking animatedly among themselves, glancing at Monsignor Vernon every now and then, then whispering to each other once more. Only Sister Marie remained aloof from the buzzing. She sat almost isolated in the hubbub, her eyes fixed on Monsignor Vernon. She still wore that slightly glazed, unfathomable look. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the nuns’ talk subsided. Sister Elizabeth stood. It was apparent she had become the spokesman for them all.
“Monsignor,” she said, “we have some questions about Mr. Balsam. Pm not sure how to begin,” she went on, though it was obvious that she certainly did know how to begin. “Pm afraid, though, that we all think there has to be some connection between Mr. Balsam and what’s happening to the girls. Particularly in light of what Janet Connally said in her note. About someone
putting thoughts into her head. Who else could it be but Mr. Balsam? Certainly, before he came, we never had any trouble like this. And before he came, those four girls were never in a class together. But now he’s here, and the four girls were all in his class, and of course we all know what kind of class he teaches—” She paused significantly as though the conclusion was inescapable; the psychology class was somehow responsible for the deaths of the girls. “—and it seems to us that the most obvious way to put a stop to all this … this madness is to put a stop to Mr. Balsam and his psychology class.”
She sat down again, her expression telling the world that as far as she was concerned, the matter was closed. She, and the rest of the sisters, had placed Peter Balsam in the center of the horror around them, and it was now up to Monsignor Vernon to expel the offender from their midst
“I can under your concerns,” he said carefully, trying to read the mood of the sisters as accurately as he could. He would have to tread lightly. “As a matter of fact I share some of them. It certainly does seem strange that all this is happening to girls in one class, particularly a psychology class. But I think we have to be very careful not to judge—not to make quick decisions based more on feelings than on facts. Of course, I realize it must seem a bit strange to all of you, asking a man with Peter Balsam’s background to instruct adolescent girls on the subject of psychology—”
“His background?” Sister Elizabeth was on her feet again. “What about his background?”
“Well, I just mean that all things considered, it strikes me as being a bit peculiar that Peter Balsam should be involved with so many girls killing themselves. Considering his history, I mean.”
“What history?” Sister Elizabeth demanded. “What about his background? Monsignor, what are you talking about?”
The priest stared at them. “You mean you didn’t know?” he said, as if genuinely puzzled. “But I thought I’d told you long ago.”
“Told us what?” Monsignor Vernon could see the swing of Sister Elizabeth’s habit as her foot tapped impatiently beneath the heavy skirts.