by John Saul
“You mean censor my material?” Balsam asked warily, feeling his resolution weakening and resenting it.
Monsignor Vernon sighed. “Yes, if that’s the way you want to put it.”
“So much for freedom of thought,” said Balsam.
“I didn’t tell you to stop thinking,” Monsignor said. “All I’ve done is suggest you put some limitations on what you say to your students.”
“Isn’t it the same thing? How can my students think, if they’re given nothing to think about?”
“Is it really so important? Frankly, what our students need is a lot more faith, not a lot more to think about”
“Ignorance is bliss?” Balsam remarked.
“In some cases, yes,” the priest replied, his voice taking on a softness Peter hadn’t heard before. “I know it sounds strange to you, but it’s quite true. Living here for twelve years has opened my eyes to a lot. There was a time when I would have agreed with you—I wanted to know the truth about everything. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered that the truth, or what we try to tell ourselves is the truth, is a very difficult thing to live with. And I’ve discovered that Truth—God’s Truth, as taught by the Church—is a much better thing. It gives me peace, and it gives peace to my flock. If it all strikes you as a restriction on your freedom, let me remind you that God puts many restrictions on all our freedoms.”
Listening to him, Balsam thought it all sounded quite reasonable, put in those terms. But the bottom line still read “repression.” Repression of thought, of ideas.
“Well,” he said, standing up again, “I still have the feeling I’m not the right man for the job here. I’m sorry, but you’d better start looking for a replacement. If there’s one thing I’ve always valued, it’s freedom. Not only my own freedom, but the freedom of those around me. People have to be exposed to all kinds of ideas, and have the freedom to choose among them.”
“That’s nonsense,” Monsignor snapped. “And, frankly, you surprise me. You were raised to be a good Catholic, and I would have thought your faith would be stronger.” His eyes were flashing again, and Peter once more wanted to draw away from the force of the priest’s faith. But there was no place to go. “It is faith and belief in the word of the Lord that brings salvation, not any kind of self-serving ‘science’ that does nothing but provide excuses for the worst kinds of immoral behavior,” Vernon was saying now, “and as for your resigning your post here, it I were you Pd think twice about that, and then twice more.” He paused, a weariness coming into his voice. “It wasn’t easy for me to bring you here, Peter, and one more failure on your record is not going to help you. You have a history of not finishing things, and Pm beginning to understand why. You hide from reality. You refuse to face things as they really are, and prefer to find what you call evidence to back up your own weaknesses. If I were you, Peter, I’d think about it, and pray about it, before I made up my mind to leave Neilsville. God had a purpose when He sent you here. You have no right to turn your back on that purpose, and on the Lord, until you have completed whatever task He sent you here to perform. And I think I know what that task is.”
“Direct line?” Peter said, but Vernon went on, ignoring the sarcasm, his voice building as he spoke.
“I think He sent you here to help me. This is not an easy time to live in, and the Faith of the Church is under attack from every direction. I think He sent you here to me, not to turn and run again, but to be shown the powers of the Faith, and be restored to the Church.” Balsam stared at the priest. “Yes,” the Monsignor intoned, as if he were no longer aware of the other man’s presence, “that is it. He sent you to me to help me carry on the work of St. Peter Martyr. To help me bring the heretics back to the fold. To punish the sinners.” And suddenly he looked directly at Peter Balsam, his eyes glowing. “Pray Peter,” he said urgently. “Pray for guidance, and stay here with me. Together we will finish what was begun so long ago.”
Monsignor Vernon fell to his knees, and began to pray. For a moment Peter Balsam wondered if he was expected to join in the prayers. But the priest seemed to have fallen into a reverie, and Balsam suspected he was no longer aware of his surroundings. He looked at Vernon with concern, and pity. He would pray, and try to find some guidance. And he would think.
Peter Balsam walked slowly down the hall, and left the rectory. A minute later, he stepped into the cool freshness of the church.
He sat quietly in the gloom for a while, trying to gather his thoughts together, and make some sense out of the confusion. What had the Monsignor been talking about when he asked Balsam to stay and help him finish what had been begun “so long ago”? And all the talk of ‘bringing the heretics back to the flock” and “punishing the sinners.” It reeked of the Inquisition. Had Peter Vernon, somewhere on the way to becoming a monsignor, also become a fanatic? It certainly seemed so. Still, some of what the priest had said had made sense. Balsam had run away from things, and did like to find what the priest had called “excuses” for his failures. Except, Balsam noted to himself with wry amusement, he preferred to call them “rationalizations.”
A figure suddenly brushed past Balsam. Marilyn Crane. He glanced quickly in the direction from which she had come. Yes, she had been praying to the Blessed Virgin. Balsam hoped the girl had found more comfort in the saint than he had been able to give her in class. He glanced around the church, wondering if others had sought sanctuary from the sun and their problems. But the church was empty now. Peter Balsam began wandering through the side aisles, looking at the statues of the various saints.
It wasn’t until he had paced almost to the altar that he noticed it. Then, quickly, he crossed the nave and examined the statues in the opposite alcoves. It was the same. Except for the obligatory statues of the Blessed Virgin and St. Francis Xavier, for whom the church was named, all the other saints, at least the ones he was familiar with, were Dominicans of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. There was St. Dominic himself, and St. Peter Martyr, and a statue of the Blessed James the Venetian. And the Portuguese St. Sanchia, who had originally welcomed the Dominicans into Portugal There were others, some of whom Peter Balsam vaguely recalled. There was one who was totally unfamiliar. Saint Acerinus. Balsam searched his memory and couldn’t remember the saint at all. That was no surprise: there were so many saints, and he had never been particularly interested in keeping track of them. In fact, he was rather pleased with himself for recognizing as many as he did. What disturbed him was that they were all Dominicans, all of the period of the Inquisition. And it had been the Dominicans who had been primarily charged with carrying out the Inquisition. Hadn’t it crossed his mind, just minutes ago, that Monsignor’s ramblings had “reeked of the Inquisition”? Balsam stared around at the statues of the saints. Suddenly he had an urge to get out of the church, to get away from the sanctified visages that seemed to be glowering down at him, accusing him.
He hurried out of the church, and back to his classroom. A few moments later, at exactly one o’clock, the bell rang. The afternoon was about to begin. Peter Balsam was sure it was going to be a long afternoon.
When the doorbell rang Peter Balsam glanced up from the book he had been reading, but didn’t leave his chair. He looked at the clock: it couldn’t be Margo—she was just getting off work. The doorbell rang again.
“Peter?” Margo’s voice came through the door, a bit muffled, but definitely Margo’s. “Are you in there?”
Now he jumped out of the chair and threw the door open.
“You’re early,” he said. Then he reached out to take the bag that seemed about to spill from her arms. “Let me take that.”
He peered into the bag. “Good Lord, are we expected to drink all this?”
“That depends,” Margo grinned. “It depends on how serious your problem is, and how long it’s going to take to solve it. If there’s any left over, I’ll think up a problem of my own for another night.” She winked at him, making the wink seductive. “Besides, it might be a long
night.”
She had closed the door, and was taking off her jacket. Peter watched her, watched the sensuousness of her movements, and enjoyed the manner in which she managed to be sexy without being lewd. He felt desire growing in him. As Margo hung her jacket in the closet, Peter’s eyes never left her.
“I took off early,” he heard her saying. “Whatever’s wrong, you made it sound so serious when you called that I decided Dr. Shields’s reports could wait” She looked around as if she expected to see his problem lurking in a corner somewhere. Then she surveyed Peter carefully.
“Well, the apartment’s in one piece, and so are you, so it can’t be nearly as awful as you made it sound on the phone. Maybe I should reclaim those bottles immediately.”
Suddenly, now that she was in the room with him, the problems didn’t seem nearly so heavy. In fact, the entire afternoon was already fading into a haze, like a half-remembered nightmare. But it wasn’t, it was real. He had a decision to make, and he wanted Margo’s input before he made it
‘Tm thinking about quitting,” he announced. He moved into the kitchen and opened the wine she’d brought while Margo digested this bit of information. When he came back into the living room and handed her a glass, she looked at him speculatively.
“Aw, heck,” she said cheerfully. “And you just got here, too.” Then she turned serious. “I don’t understand, Peter. What happened today?”
He told her about his talk with the Monsignor, and about the class session that had preceded it, and when he was finished she looked at him blankly.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Margo. You’re bright Can’t you see? The man’s crazy. He’s a fanatic.”
Margo considered his statement. When she spoke, she seemed to be making a very conscious choice of words.
“Peto,” she began, “I don’t know if Monsignor Vernon is crazy, or a fanatic, or what But I do know that while what he said to you this afternoon may have sounded fanatic, or crazy, or whatever, it isn’t Not here. Now, whether the town get its ideas from Monsignor Vernon, or he gets his ideas from the town, I can’t say. The kind of thinking that goes on around here actually gets scary sometimes. Do you know, there were several times after my divorce when I actually thought I should leave town? Really, it’s trae! All the people I thought were my friends—Inez Nelson for example. I saw her today, at the hospital. She’d hardly even speak to me, even when I was working. She thinks I’m a sinner. Can you imagine that? In this day and age? A sinner. But that’s the way things are around here.” Then she flashed him a smile. “Maybe you can help change things.”
Peter shook his head sadly. “Not me. Either I fit in, or I run away. That’s the kind of person I am.”
“You can change.” Margo shrugged. “If I can change, you can change. And let me tell you, I’ve had to change a lot in order to survive the last couple of years. Every time I hear Leona Anderson make a crack loud enough for me to hear, I just turn around and wink at her. I used to cry, though.” She stared into her drink, and swirled the liquid around. Then she looked up at Peter. “Winking is better,” she said softly. “It doesn’t hurt so much when you wink. For me, it was either wink or run. Learn to wink, Peter.”
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “I’m just not sure what to do. I don’t like what Monsignor’s doing, and I don’t like what his kind of religion is going to do to the kids. But what can I do? There’s a little matter of obedience, you know. It’s not like I have a union to complain to. All I have is the Church, and I’m sure you know they don’t take kindly to underlings griping about their superiors.”
“But what if you’re right?” Margo asked. “What if Monsignor is crazy, or a fanatic? Shouldn’t something be done about it?”
“Sure, but how do you prove that someone who professes total faith in the Church has too much faith? It’s self-contradictory.”
Margo thought about it, and wasn’t sure she grasped his idea. So she changed the subject. They made small talk, the kind of talk people make when they’re consciously avoiding something, and ate dinner. It wasn’t until they’d finished washing the dishes and opened the second bottle of wine, that the subject of the Church came up again.
“Have you ever looked at all the saints in the church?” he said suddenly. Margo looked at him questioningly, then shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know one saint from another,” she said. “Why? Is something wrong with them, too?”
Peter chose to ignore the hint that he was reaching a bit far to find fault with St. Francis Xavier. Instead, he tried to explain his misgivings.
“They’re all right out of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries,” he said. “Dominicans. Which is odd right there, when you consider that the church was named for St. Francis Xavier, who happens to have been one of the original Jesuits.”
Margo frowned, as if she was trying to remember something. “You know,” she said finally, “it seems to me that I remember a time, about five years ago, when I noticed one day that we had different saints in the church. As though the ones I was used to had suddenly been replaced. But I didn’t pay much attention to it. At the time I told myself I just hadn’t really noticed them before. But maybe he changed them.”
“Changed them? Who?”
“Monsignor Vernon. Five years ago, when he became Monsignor. Maybe he changed them. Didn’t you tell me he’s big on the Dominicans? Which ones are they? The ones there now?”
“Mostly Italians,” Balsam said. “St. Dominic, and Monsignor’s special favorite, St. Peter Martyr, who also graces my classroom, and a few others. Then there’s St Sanchia, who wasn’t Italian, but helped the Dominicans establish themselves in Portugal. And one I’ve never even heard of, someone named St. Acerinus. I haven’t any idea who he was, but he probably fits right in with the rest of them.”
“You don’t sound like you approve of them,” Margo grinned. “Aren’t all the saints supposed to be wonderful, lovable people?”
Balsam chuckled. “That depends. For instance, take St. Peter Martyr. I looked him up the other day. If you check him out in The Lives of the Saints, he seems to be a wonderful fellow. Teacher, priest; spent a lot of time convincing heretics that they should come back to the fold. Spent hours and hours, arguing with them, showing them the error of their ways.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Margo asked.
“Nothing. Except it turns out that Peter Martyr’s idea of arguing with someone often involved torture, imprisonment, or burning at the stake.”
“Good God,” Margo breathed. “That’s horrible.”
Balsam nodded. “They were all like that. Most of the saints in St. Francis Xavier Church were part of the Inquisition. I haven’t read much about it, but what I have read chills my spine.”
“The Inquisition,” Margo said with a shudder. “And ‘heretics.’ What a word! It sounds archaic.”
“It didn’t when Monsignor used it today,” Peter said. “You know,” he went on, “I get the strangest feeling when I talk to Monsignor. He doesn’t seem the least bit worried about the Inquisition. In fact, I get the feeling he wishes it had never come to an end.”
“Maybe it hasn’t come to an end for him,” Margo mused. Then she brightened. “That saint you’ve never heard of. Can’t you look him up?”
“I already tried,” Balsam said, smiling. “Apparently I’m not the only one who never heard of him.”
“What do you mean?”
“See those books over there?” He pointed to four thick volumes on his desk. Margo glanced at them, and nodded. “Those are The Lives of the Saints. The nuns used to give them to us for Christmas. And as far as I can tell, they’ve never heard of St. Acerinus, either.”
“You’re kidding,” Margo said.
“Look for yourself. The complete index is in the fourth volume.”
Margo picked up the book, and flipped through the pages. When she couldn’t find the saint she was looking for, and was convin
ced that St. Acerinus, indeed, was not listed in the index, her eye ran up and down a couple of columns. Then she paused, startled. “Hey!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, God,” Peter groaned. “You found it.”
“You’re a saint!” Margo cried. “Here’s your name, right here. Saint Peter Balsam. What does it say about you?”
“Never mind,” Peter said. “He’s an early one. Third century.” But she hadn’t heard him. She was busy picking up one of the other volumes, searching for the entry headed “Peter Balsam.” He fell silent and watched her read the page devoted to the saint whose namesake he was. When she finished, she closed the book and grinned at him.
“Well,” she said mischievously, “that settles it.”
“Settles what?”
“Your problem. You aren’t going anywhere, Peter Balsam. You’re going to stay right here in Neilsville.” Her voice suddenly turned serious. “Saint Peter Balsam didn’t knuckle under, and he didn’t run away. He stuck to his guns, and stood up for what was right.”
Balsam smiled wryly. “And look what happened to him.”
‘Well, of course he died, but that was a long time ago.”
“Was it?” Peter said. “When I talk to Monsignor, nothing seems long ago.”
But he knew she was right. He would stay in Neilsville, as long as he could. He had a feeling his students needed him. And of course there was Margo. She needed him too. Or did he need her? He decided not to worry about it. Instead, he opened another bottle of wine.
