Punish the Sinners

by John Saul

  “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

  Judy shook her head negatively. “No,” she said shortly. “I—I’m fine, really.” She glanced at the clock. “I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.” She moved to her chair, and quickly began gathering her belongings. As she was about to leave the room, Balsam stopped her.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he said.

  She nodded quickly, and started for the door.

  “If something’s wrong, I wish you’d tell me what it is,” Balsam tried again. “Or maybe you should talk to Monsignor.”

  At the mention of the priest, Judy suddenly turned back, and stared at Balsam.

  “Monsignor?” she said blankly. “You must be kidding!” And then she was gone.

  Balsam stared after her, her words echoing in his ears. “You must be kidding!” And the look on her face, a mixture of resentment, bafflement, and, it seemed, contempt. And why not? Balsam reflected. Why had he suggested she talk to the Monsignor? Certainly the priest was the last person Balsam would go to if he had a problem; why should the students feel any differently? Perhaps he should have suggested one of the nuns. But which one? Sister Elizabeth? Hardly. What about Sister Kathleen? All Judy would have gotten was a lecture, a warning about her sins. And, if she had been sinning, a lecture wasn’t what she needed.

  Then he came, in his mind, to Sister Marie. Of course. Quickly, Balsam stepped into the hall and looked up and down. But Judy was gone. He went back into his room, fed the rat, and pulled his lunch bag from his desk. He took one bite and put his sandwich down. Maybe he could convince Sister Marie to talk to Judy and find out what was wrong. Because something was wrong. He was sure of it

  He found the nun in the library, deeply engrossed in a copy of Christian Century, which she quickly closed when she realized someone was approaching. Then, when she saw who it was, she smiled and waved. As Balsam drew nearer she laughed, and reopened the magazine. Inside was another magazine. Balsam saw that the nun had been engrossed in the theater column of The New Yorker.

  “Catching up on your religion?” he grinned, sitting down across from her.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I always feel so guilty about it, but I do love the theater, there’s no sense denying it.”

  Peter glanced once more at the magazine that was so neatly concealed inside the Christian Century. “Unlikely reading material for St. Francis Xavier’s,” he commented.

  Sister Marie nodded emphatically. “If you promise not to tell anyone—and I mean anyone—I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  “Who would I tell?” Balsam said.

  “Well, this is my own guilty secret. I’ve never told anyone until now. But I think it’ll be safe with you.” Her eyes were twinkling merrily, and Balsam decided he’d been right. If anyone should talk to Judy Nelson, it was Sister Marie. Her voice dropped conspiratorially.

  “The library gets The New Yorker every year as an anonymous gift,” she said.

  “From you?” Balsam said.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Sister Marie said, horrified at the suggestion. Then she went on, “My sister, however, could, and does. Every year, when Monsignor gets the notice of renewal, he talks about canceling it. But he’s afraid to, because he thinks it would get back to whoever donates it, and they might cut off any other donations they’re making to the Church.”

  “And would she?” Balsam asked.

  “Heavens; no,” Sister Marie said, laughing happily. “That’s the best part of it. My sister happens to be a Baptist She sends in the subscription each year as a favor to me. She doesn’t give a nickel to the Church. In fact, she says I’m the only Catholic she can put up with at all! Isn’t it wonderful?” The two of them laughed for a moment, then Peter grew serious. He decided he liked Sister Marie very much.

  “I wonder if you could do me a favor,” he said slowly.

  “Of course,” Sister Marie responded, “unless it’s something wicked. Then I’d have to confess afterward, but I’d probably do it anyway.”

  “You’re impossible,” Peter said, smiling at her.

  “I try.” Then, as his smile faded, she grew serious. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, really. But I thought you might be able to find out. It’s one of my students, Judy Nelson.” The nun nodded shortly, acknowledging that she knew Judy.

  “Something’s bothering her,” Balsam continued, “and I can’t get her to tell me what it is.” Briefly, he told Sister Marie what had transpired after his class and that he had suggested that Judy talk to Monsignor.

  “She wasn’t too receptive to that idea,” he finished.

  “No, I don’t imagine she was,” Sister Marie said briefly, and Peter Balsam thought he detected a bitterness in her voice. He thought she was about to say something about the priest, then appeared to change her mind. She smiled at him reassuringly.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Mind you, I’m not guaranteeing anything. Sometimes I think our habits get between us and the children. I think we scare them. But I’ll find her this afternoon, and see if I can find out what the trouble is. All right?”

  Suddenly Balsam felt better. He smiled at the nun, and stood up.

  “I’m sorry to dump this on you,” he began, but Sister Marie held up a hand.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Try to do what you think is right, and try not to worry too much about the consequences. If things go too far wrong, God will take care of them.”

  Balsam started to reply, then changed his mind. He smiled at her once more, then turned to go. Behind him, he heard her voice.

  “Mr. Balsam?” He turned around. The twinkle was back in her eye. “There’s something else you should know. One thing you can count on with Judy—if she can find a reason to be dramatic, shell be dramatic. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not serious.”

  Balsam nodded, then made his way back to Room 16. He finished his sandwich, sharing it with the rat, and prepared for his next class. Latin III. By the time the class convened, he was totally immersed in conjugating irregular verbs in the past perfect

  He had forgotten about Judy Nelson.

  At a quarter to four that afternoon, Marilyn Crane hurried down the hall toward the lockers. She was late and she still had to stop at church before she went home. As she began spinning the dial on the lock, hoping it would open on the first try, she was vaguely aware of someone leaning heavily against the wall a few feet away. She didn’t look up; not enough time. She turned to the last digit, and grasped the handle of the locker. It wouldn’t move. Quickly, she twirled the dial again, until she felt a slight click. She tried the handle once more, and this time it moved. Marilyn pulled the locker door, and started to put her books inside. Then she gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Inside was a crucifix, suspended upside down from one of the coathooks at the top of the locker. The face of Christ had been smashed. She looked frantically for a note, some explanation, but there was none. She stared vacantly at the dangling, obscenely defaced crucifix, then slammed the locker shut and dosed her eyes tightly, but the image stayed before her. Then, as she began silently praying, she felt the eyes on her. She opened her own, and looked around, recognizing the person of whom she had been vaguely aware a moment earlier. It was Judy Nelson, and she was leaning against the wall, staring at Marilyn. Marilyn looked quickly away.

  Judy Nelson! Would Judy have done something like this? She knew Judy didn’t like her. None of that group did. Marilyn remembered the frog yesterday. Was Judy in the biology class? She could feel the other girl’s eyes still on her.

  No, Marilyn told herself, don’t think that. Judy wouldn’t do something like that. It has to be someone else; someone I don’t even know. She wanted to believe it, believe that only a stranger could be so heartless. She forced herself to turn and look at Judy Nelson.

  It was then Marilyn realized that something was wrong. Judy hadn’t moved, nor had her expression changed. It came to
Marilyn that Judy wasn’t looking at her, but beyond her, at something off in the distance. She wondered if she ought to speak to Judy. Probably not. But she couldn’t just walk away, could she?

  Why not? Hadn’t Judy said mean things to her?

  So had everyone else. And Judy seemed to need help.

  Marilyn closed her eyes again, and silently begged the Sorrowful Mother to give her strength. And she thought she felt strength flowing into her. She moved down the hall until she was next to Judy.

  “Judy?” she asked. “Are you all right? Is something the matter?”

  Judy Nelson seemed to come out of her reverie. She looked coldly at Marilyn, as if she hadn’t noticed her before.

  Tm fine,” she said; her tone told Marilyn she wasn’t

  “Can I help?” Marilyn offered, determined not to be put off by Judy’s coldness.

  Judy stared at her again, and Marilyn thought she was going to walk away without saying anything. But then she seemed to change her mind. Her face went slack, and suddenly looked very tired.

  “Nobody can help me,” she said. Then she turned, and silently walked away, down the hall. For a moment, Marilyn was tempted to follow her, and try to find out what was wrong. She watched until Judy disappeared around the corner. Then, shrugging, Marilyn walked down the hall the other way, and left the school building to go into the church. As she sat in the pew, silently praying to the Blessed Virgin, she imagined she heard music in the background. It was a singsong sound, like Gregorian chants, and Marilyn wondered where it was coming from. When it stopped, she realized that it hadn’t been coming from anywhere. It must, she was sure, have been coming from inside her head. She left the church, and walked down the hill toward home.

  Inez Nelson heard the front door open and then close, and wiped her hands on her apron. “Judy?” she called. “Is that you?” She started toward the front of the house, glancing at the clock to determine how late Judy was. But before she had gotten halfway down the hall she heard her husband’s voice.

  “It’s me,” George Nelson called out He stepped into the hall, almost bumping into his wife. “Judy not home yet?”

  “No, she isn’t,” Inez said, suddenly worried. Why would she have been calling Judy, if Judy were already home? Didn’t he think?

  “Maybe she went over to Janet’s or Penny’s,” George suggested.

  “She should have called if she did,” Inez pointed out, when, as if on cue, the phone began to ring. George looked triumphant.

  “See?” he said, and picked up the receiver. “Nelson residence.”

  “Mr. Nelson?”

  “Yes,” George said, a little uncertainly. He didn’t recognize the voice.

  “This is Mrs. Williams, at the emergency room of the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” George repeated blankly.

  “Neilsville Hospital,” Mrs. Williams repeated. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to come down here. Your daughter’s here.” Then, when George failed to respond, she continued, “You are the father of Judy Nelson?”

  “Yes,” George said weakly, the color draining from his face. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  He listened, trembling, then quietly dropped the receiver back on the hook and turned to his wife.

  “What is it?” she said. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” George said slowly. “She says—” he faltered, then blurted out, “Judy tried to kill herself.”

  7

  Judy Nelson lay propped up in bed, glaring at the nurse who was adjusting the bandages on her wrists. In one corner of the room her bloodstained clothes lay in a pile: she had refused to allow them to be taken away, and rather than provoke a scene the nurses had decided the clothes could wait.

  “Your parents will be here any minute now,” one of the nurses said gently, patting Judy on the hand. “How are we feeling?”

  “I don’t want to see them,” Judy muttered, pulling her hand away.

  “Of course you do,” the nurse smiled. “We all want to see our parents, don’t we?”

  Judy glared at the nurse. “J don’t,” she snapped. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  The nurse didn’t answer her, merely moved to another chair, a little way from the bed. She ignored Judy’s sullen stare and occupied herself with several unnecessary readings of Judy’s chart.

  In the reception area of the emergency room, Mrs. Williams was trying to explain the situation to Inez and George Nelson. George seemed to be listening carefully, but Inez was tapping her foot nervously, as if waiting for all the “nonsense” to be over with, so she could see her daughter.

  “We don’t really know what happened,” Mrs. Williams was saying. “Or perhaps I should say we don’t know why. Judy won’t talk to anybody about it, and until she does, well …” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged eloquently.

  “Could you tell me exactly what you do know?” Inez asked sharply.

  Mrs. Willams sighed. These things were so difficult. Thank God they practically never happened. Brusquely she began telling the story to the Nelsons.

  “Apparently Judy didn’t leave the school this afternoon. Instead, she went to the girls’ locker room, off their gymnasium, and waited until she thought everyone had gone home. Then she found a razor blade, and cut her wrists.” When she saw the color draining from Inez’s face she hastened to explain. “It isn’t as bad as it sounds,” she rushed on. “As a matter of fact, it’s next to impossible to do enough damage to yourself with razor blades to die, except under certain circumstances. Mostly, it just hurts a bit, and causes a lot of mess. Anyway, Judy must have gotten scared as soon as she cut herself, because she called the police right away. Of course the police called us, but by the time our ambulance got there, it was all pretty much over with.”

  “Over with?” George asked. “What do you mean, over with?”

  “One of the janitors at the school found her,” Mrs. Williams said. “Fortunately, he wasn’t the kind to get upset at the sight of blood, and he had her wrists bandaged before anybody else could get there. It wasn’t the best bandaging job I ever saw, but it wasn’t the worst, either. Doctor put in a few stitches and rebandaged the wrists, and Judy should be fine in a day or so.” Mrs. Williams tried to smile brightly, as if the whole incident were no worse than a scraped knee.

  “I want to see her, “Inez said suddenly.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Williams began. “I … I’m sure you do. But I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to the doctor first.” Now she was showing definite signs of discomfort

  “The doctor?” George said. “Which doctor?”

  “Dr. Shields,” Mrs. Williams said nervously.

  “Shields?” George Nelson repeated. “He’s a psychiatrist, isn’t he?”

  “Yes—” She started to explain. Inez cut her off.

  “A psychiatrist? Just to bandage Judy’s wrists? I don’t understand.” Mrs. Williams was sure she did understand; she just didn’t want to face it.

  “I’m sure you do,” she said. Suddenly, since the issue was met, she felt on firmer ground. “With wounds like Judy’s, calling in a psychiatrist is standard procedure.”

  “Wounds like Judy’s?” Inez said vaguely.

  “I think she means self-inflicted wounds,” George said quietly. Inez’s face remained blank. Shock, George realized; she must have gone into shock and blocked out the details of what happened. He signaled Mrs. Williams aside.

  “Is Dr. Shields around?” he whispered. “I’d like to talk to him, and I think he should probably have a look at my wife, too.”

  Suddenly understanding his meaning, Mrs. Williams stole a glance in Inez’s direction. She was gone. Quickly she looked up and down the hall. Inez was striding purposefully toward Judy’s room.

  “Mrs. Nelson,” she called, but it was too late.

  Inez Nelson pushed open the door to the hospital room, and stepped in. She didn’t see Judy at first but she heard her.

  “Get her out of here,�
� Judy screamed. ‘I told you I didn’t want her in here!”

  Inez whirled, and saw her daughter propped up in bed. She could barely recognize her. Judy’s face was contorted with anger, and she was tearing at the bandages at her wrists. Inez started to move toward the bed. Before she could get there Judy had pulled the bandages off, and ripped at the stitches. Blood spurted from her wrists. She began screaming at her mother again.

  “I hate you,” she shouted. “Get out of here! Leave me alone!”

  Inez tried to put her arms around her daughter, but Judy wriggled away, leaving Inez’s blouse bloodied. She stared down at herself, and the horror of it washed over her. Inez, too, began screaming, and a moment later, after she’d pressed the emergency bell, the nurse began trying to separate mother and daughter. It took her only a second to realize that of the two, the mother was far worse off than the daughter. Inez was hysterical; Judy, screaming and struggling against her mother, seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Just as the nurse herself was beginning to panic, help arrived in the form of Mrs. Williams and George Nelson, followed by a press of orderlies and nurses, who crowded into the room, creating further confusion. Three burly orderlies were attempting to pull a shrieking Inez Nelson away from the bed when Dr. Shields arrived, sized up the situation in an instant, and began issuing orders. Within minutes, sedatives were administered to both Judy and Inez Nelson.

  Tm sorry, Doctor,” Mrs. Williams said when the room had been cleared, “I tried to keep her away but I couldn’t”

  “It’s all right,” Dr. Shields said calmly. “I don’t see that there’s much damage done.”

  “Keep her out of the room?” George Nelson repeated, “Keep her out? Why did you want to keep lnez—my wife—out of the room?” He looked from Mrs. Williams to the doctor, then back again.

  “It was my fault, really,” Dr. Shields said. “Judy said she didn’t want to see her mother right now, and I should have been here when you arrived to explain it to you. I’m sorry. The whole thing was really my fault”