“You’re upset, Sister. That’s understandable. But I guess I can wing it with some hints about getting the cooperation of the police-even if it’s for a novel. They really are very helpful to writers by and large.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate it.” Marie pinched her forehead.
The headache was pronounced. She slowly descended the stairs to the main floor, and worked her way through the crowded corridor. She entered the now empty chapel and knelt in the rear pew.
The Gothic interior of the chapel was so traditional, even with the altar placed just inside the sanctuary instead of at the rear wall. Religious statues and paintings abounded. It put her in mind of her home parish in Detroit. She had spent a lot of time there, too.
She was eighteen again, in church, and feeling guilty.
21
Thursday before First Friday. How often had she done this? Marie Monahan had plenty of time before it was her turn to go to confession. Let’s see, approximately eight times each scholastic year for, since she’d begun going to confession in the second grade, eleven years. So, eighty-eight times.
As far as she could recollect, it was Saint Margaret Mary who had the vision during which Jesus promised grand spiritual rewards to those who “made” the first Fridays.
The idea was to go to Communion on nine consecutive first Fridays and all the promises Jesus made to Saint Margaret Mary were yours. Somehow, someone must have dismissed the magical number nine, for she, Marie Monahan, and her classmates had completed nine consecutives long ago. Like so many Catholic devotions, the first Fridays had become a quasi superstition. If nine first Fridays were good, a limitless number of first Fridays was infinitely better.
The confessions, of course, were necessitated by the Communions. No one in the world could have foretold then, in 1960, what would be accomplished by the Second Vatican Council, to begin the following year. One of Vatican II’s achievements would be the divorcing of confession from Communion. Catholics would be advised that they could go to Communion without first going to confession practically forever as long as they did not commit a mortal sin. Just when they got used to going to confession only infrequently, if ever, a later Pope would emphasize the necessity of individual frequent confession, and put confession and Communion back together again. After Vatican II, the casual Catholic was frequently confused.
The eighty-eight confessions Marie had just carefully computed by no means approached the total number of times she’d been to confession to date. Sometimes she would confess every week or every other week. And always, always, the same thing: disobedience, angry thoughts, inattentiveness in school, gossip. Venial sins, imperfections.
There were times when she suspected she might find some other sins if she examined her conscience differently. But she had been taught by the nuns how to examine her conscience when she was in the second grade. Never having been given an update, she retained a child’s approach to confession. In this she was not unlike many, if not most, adult Catholics.
The inside joke to all this was that by her peers she was considered to be “wild.”
“Wildness” meant something considerably different in a parochial school of 1960 and prior than it would some thirty years later. Marie was a starter on the girls’ basketball and softball teams. She was a cheerleader. She was a tomboy. Her tight-knit circle of girlfriends tended to be boisterous. Worse, they were forever testing the dress code limits of “Marylike” modesty. As often as they could get away with it, they’d be mischievous and roll their waistbands until their school uniform skirts hung well above the knee. Or they’d “forget” to fasten the top buttons on their blouses, leaving a fraction of a bra exposed. Around them at all times the vigilance of the nuns was ever required.
Marie Monahan was never in the running as the sodalist selected to crown the Blessed Mother’s statue on May Day.
And yet, with all of that, to her knowledge, she had never in her life committed a mortal sin.
Probably the simplest mortal sin possible to a Catholic would be the deliberate missing of Sunday Mass. The next most commonplace would be a grand dinner of meat on a Friday. After that, things got complicated. Stealing an article of significant value or lots of money would do it. Or killing someone, of course.
Possibly the classic mortal sin-and this was far more the venue of males-was almost any sexual sin anyone could imagine.
The gravity of sin, in those days, was measured by three criteria: the matter, the intention, and the circumstances. Matter: the difference, say, between ten cents and ten dollars. Intention: inadvertence, force, or fear could limit responsibility. Circumstances: participation in a “just war” justified killing. Sexual sins did not admit parvity of matter. Thus whatever the intention or circumstance, one embarked on a sin of sexual nature with serious, grave, mortal matter.
But Marie Monahan had never committed a sexual sin.
That fact was not a commentary on her natural attractiveness. She had neither a good nor an accurate self-image. She considered herself quite plain. Actually, she had a natural beauty that came close to perfection. The boys in her school were well aware that Marie Monahan was amply endowed and that, under that bulky school uniform, there were sensuous adult curves just begging to be fondled. All such male thoughts and vulgar references were confessed with religious regularity.
It was her turn. She’d been waiting to go to confession for more than half an hour, inching forward as each student ahead of her was shriven. All this time wasted, when she should have been examining her conscience. All she’d done was to entertain distractions.
She knelt on the unpadded bench, rested her folded hands on the little shelf. Directly in front of her was a dark and seldom-if-ever-cleaned cloth behind which was a wooden door that made a terrible racket when the priest slid it open or shut. It was dark in there. Neither priest nor penitent could see each other even when the little door was open. The cloth and darkness saw to that.
Slide. . Bang!
“Oh,” she whispered, “bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was about two weeks ago.”
Snort, cough, growl. The priest cleared his respiratory passages.
“Since then,” she whispered, “I disobeyed my mother four times and my father twice. I gossiped a bit, nothing very serious. And,” rememberinga few minutes ago, “I had distractions in church. And that’s about it.
“I’m sorry for these and all the sins of my past life, especially for disobedience.”
She thought that a representative confession. It had been serving her, with slight variations, for the past eleven years.
“For your penance,” the priest’s voice sounded tired and bored, “say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. And now, make a good Act of Contrition.” She could not have guessed how bored-almost terminally-he was. He’d been hearing practically the same humdrum story for the past six hours, beginning with the third graders and marching upward through the classes. The sole salvation of his sanity was that the present-final-penitents were high schools seniors. Purgatory was about to end.
Marie mumbled the Act of Contrition while the priest mumbled an absolution in Latin. That they were speaking in different languages simultaneously, neither paying any attention whatsoever to the other, did not bother them.
It did not take Marie long to forget that confession and, indeed, school in general. Christmas vacation was about to begin and that was on everybody’s front burner.
Marie had been invited to the seasonal teen club dance by none other than the captain of the football team. It was such a natural: a three-year letter man in football, basketball, and baseball-and team captain in football-dating the school’s outstanding female athlete and captain of the cheerleaders. The wonder was that it had taken them so long to get together.
It took so long because, on the one hand, with her poor self-image it never occurred to Marie that the school’s prime catch knew she was alive. While, on the other hand, she was regarded as the u
napproachable-the virgin queen, above and beyond accepting casual dates, and probably frigid to boot.
She shared her excitement, as she shared everything, with Alice, her best friend in all the world. Together, they began planning and preparing for the magic evening. Alice, too, had a date. And not a loser by any means, but not the captain of the football team and an all-state pick in three sports.
At long last, December 21 arrived, and it was perfect. The evening was brisk and clear. A dusting of snow made it seem as if clusters of tiny diamonds had fallen on earth.
When Marie walked into the decorated gym on the arm of Bucko Cassidy there was almost a collective gasp from the assembled crowd. They were perfect together. Young, brimming with good health, tight skin perfectly formed, a blooming couple who easily could have stepped out of the advertisement pages of any popular magazine.
Bucko and Marie felt everyone’s gaze on them. It was exhilarating.
The evening went as well as could be expected. Marie and Alice were able to steal a little time together to compare notes. By and large, Alice was having the better time of the two. Her date had interests that transcended sports. Bucko Cassidy, on the other hand, was limited conversationally not only to the sports world but more parochially to his own considerable athletic accomplishments and his bright professional future.
Bucko’s only departure from his totally egocentric monologue was when he turned to Marie and said, “But what about you, Marie: Which sport do you think I should pick for a pro career?”
It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. “I don’t know, Bucko,” she said in restrained self-control. “You’re so good in all of them. But don’t you think you’d last longer in baseball?”
“Last longer?”
“Yes. What’s the average football career? Less than ten years-twelve if you’re lucky. Basketball? All that constant running takes it out of your legs. But baseball, now there’s a career that could bring you a big paycheck for lots of years. . don’t you think?”
“Geez, Marie, I think you’re right.”
“But all that has to wait until the scouts make their offers and you see the whites of their contracts.”
“Neat, Marie, neat!”
Marie could scarcely wait to closet with Alice and bring her up to date on Bucko’s greatest problem in all the world.
It was toward the end of a pleasant evening with no surprises that Bucko popped his surprise: the postparty party.
Marie begged off. She had a curfew. Bucko protested she could phone her parents and tell them she’d be a little late. Besides, they wouldn’t stay long.
They argued. They discussed. Marie weakened. She talked it over with Alice, who advised against it. Marie talked it over with herself. She thought of all those deadly dull confessions. She’d never even had necking or petting to confess. If her confidantes were truthful, she must be the only senior who never did anything even vaguely naughty.
She agreed to go.
Bucko was happier about her decision than he had any right to be. She remembered that later.
At first, all went well. Her parents agreed, reluctantly, but they agreed. Her mother would wait up for her. There was an abundant crowd of seniors at the party-another reassuring sign.
But there were no adults. The owners of the house had gone on a skiing holiday in Northern Michigan and their son had opened their bountiful liquor supply.
About half an hour after they arrived, Bucko suggested they go upstairs. The downstairs was already too crowded and getting more so by the minute. Marie knew what he had in mind. Finally she was going to find out what it was like to engage in some serious necking.
They found an empty bedroom. There were several layers of coats on the bed. A sweep of Bucko’s athletic arm solved that problem. The coats were on the floor and he and she were on the bed.
Things began happening too fast. Bucko was all over her. She pushed him away and sat up. “Bucko! I’m not a baseball. You don’t have to rub the cover off me!”
Bucko considered the situation. “You’re right,” he admitted. “We’re too keyed up from the dance and all. Let’s go back with the gang.”
It was Bucko’s finest thespian moment. He had no intention of calling off this carnal intimacy.
Back to the dull confessions. After a moment’s thought, “We don’t need to do that, Bucko. Just go slower, can’t you?”
“Sure. Wait a minute.” He located his coat on the floor and drew a flask from a pocket. “Let’s have a shot of this. It’ll relax us.”
“I don’t know. . what’s in it?”
“It’s just a little booze. It’ll help. Come on. . here.”
She looked doubtful. But, she had to admit, she could use something to relax. She was tighter than a drum. Well, one doesn’t commit one’s first deliberate mortal sin lightly. “You first,” she said.
“Okay.” He took a sip and handed the flask to her.
She sampled one mouthful, then another. Then, straightway, she collapsed on the bed. Bucko stepped into the bathroom and emptied his mouth. Even so, he was somewhat affected by the knockout drops he’d put in the liquor.
When Marie regained consciousness, she was in Bucko’s car. She did not feel at all well. She looked at Bucko behind the wheel, but saw him in a confused haze. “What time is it?”
He checked his watch as they passed a street light. “One-thirty.”
Half an hour past her extended curfew. Not good, but not tragic. What was definitely not good was how she felt. “Stop the car, Bucko!”
“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 sh
e’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.
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