Punish the Sinners

by John Saul

  There was a long silence from the other side of the grille. Then the Monsignor spoke again.

  “Exactly what do you mean when you say you let him touch you all over?”

  In the darkness of the confessional, Karen Morton flushed a deep scarlet, and wished for a moment that she could die.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she mumbled again.

  “I cannot forgive sins that have not been confessed,” the inexorable voice came out of the darkness. Karen squirmed in embarrassment.

  “He—I let him touch me on my chest. And between my legs,” she said miserably.

  “And did you touch him?” the priest continued relentlessly.

  “Yes.” The word was almost inaudible, and Karen wondered if she had been heard. But she couldn’t bring herself to repeat it Then the voice began talking to her.

  “Lust is a most grievous sin, my child. Your soul is in grave danger, and you must be on your guard against the evil that is within you.”

  “I am trying, Father,” Karen said miserably.

  “The Devil walks among us,” she heard the priest saying. “He is constantly with us, leading us out of the paths of righteousness. Guard yourself against him, my child, and be wary. He will appear as a friend, but he will lead you astray.” Then the voice fell silent, and Karen wondered about the words. What was the priest trying to tell her? Was he saying that Jim Mulvey was the Devil? It didn’t make sense. Then he spoke again.

  “Is there anything else?” he said.

  Karen searched her mind. It was almost over. Soon, she would be absolved of her sins, and free to go. She tried to remember if she had left anything out of the confession, but the strain of it had left her confused.

  “No, Father,” she said finally.

  “Your sins are many, child, and your penance must be heavy.”

  Karen felt her heart sink. Many times she had seen people come out of the confessional and walk down the aisle toward the altar. There they would kneel, and spend the rest of the day. Often, she had wondered what prayers they were saying. Now she was sure she was about to find out

  “You will leave the confessional on your knees, and approach the Holy Virgin. For your sins, say one hundred Rosaries, and between each Rosary, recite the Apostles’ Creed. Do you understand your penance?”

  “Yes, Father.” Karen wanted to cry. Leave the confessional on her knees? She didn’t remember anyone ever having done that before. People would stare at her. They would know that she must have done something terribly wicked. She wished she could die. Then she realized the priest was saying the words of absolution. Quickly, she repeated the Act of Contrition. “Oh my God,” she began, the words coming automatically through her confusion, “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid near occasions of sin.” As she finished, she heard the words of absolution.

  “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Go in peace, my child.” The shutter closed over the grille, and Karen Morton was alone in the confessional. She sat for a long time, wishing she had the courage, or the cowardice, to ignore the penance, to leave the confessional and walk out of the church into the sunlight But Karen Morton was in fear of her Lord, so she grasped her beads firmly, pushed the door of the confessional open, and, still on her knees, crept out into the church. She stared at the image of the Holy Virgin and kept her eyes firmly fixed on that peaceful face as she made her pitiful way down the aisle. By the time she reached the statue, and began telling her beads, the pain in her knees was almost as great as the agony in her mind. Her lips moving silently, she began the Apostles’ Creed.

  Peter Balsam stared out into the morning sunlight and wondered what he should do next His first impulse was to call Margo Henderson, and he had already reached for the phone when he realized what he must do instead. He must go to church. He must pray. He must make his decision for himself. He knew that, in the light of what he had read last night, it was not going to be easy to pray this morning, not going to be easy to sit below the glowering countenances of the Saints of the Inquisition—the Saints of Neilsville—and come to a decision that made sense. But this morning, not much made sense to Peter Balsam. His long night’s reading had shaken him to the core. Now, he had to find out if his faith had withstood the shaking or if it had crumbled.

  He left his apartment, carefully locked the door behind him, and began the climb up Cathedral Hill.

  He entered the church just as Karen Morton came, out of the confessional and looked on in horror as she slowly made her way down the aisle to the alcove dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. For a split second he had wanted to go to her. When he saw the rest of the parishioners ignoring her, he changed his mind. He was still staring at her when he heard the voice behind him.

  “I’d hoped you’d be here earlier,” Monsignor Vernon’s voice said softly into his ear. Peter Balsam jumped back, startled, then turned to stare at the priest

  “What on earth is going on here?” he demanded.

  Monsignor Vernon looked at him impassively, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  “Why did Karen Morton just go down the aisle on her knees?”

  The priest smiled calmly, a look of peace in his eyes. “That’s between her and her Lord, isn’t it?”

  “Is it supposed to be some kind of penance?” Balsam demanded.

  “It doesn’t concern you,” the priest countered. He turned, as if to move away, then turned back. “Will I see you at the next Mass?” he asked Balsam.

  Balsam glanced again at Karen Morton, who was now engrossed in prayer, before he answered, Then he turned to the priest, and shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I need to talk to you.”

  “To me?” Monsignor Vernon asked. “Very well Shall we go to the rectory?”

  “K you don’t mind, I’d rather we went somewhere else. How about my classroom?”

  The Monsignor shrugged indifferently and led Peter Balsam out of the church. A few minutes later he put his key in the door to Room 16, and stood aside to let Balsam enter first. Then he followed the teacher in, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Is something wrong?” The question was not so much an inquiry as a prod. Balsam decided not to allow himself to be prodded. Instead, he approached the statue of St. Peter Martyr, and stood silently staring at it for several minutes. Then he turned quickly and spoke.

  “He was a prize bastard, wasn’t he?” Balsam had intended the words to be shocking. He succeeded. The priest immediately made the sign of the cross. Then his eyes flashed angrily at Balsam.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been reading up on him,” Balsam said calmly. “On him, and on all the other saints you’ve got scattered around here. Almost all of them come straight out of the Inquisition, which I’ve also been reading up on.”

  The priest sat down on the edge of Peter Balsam’s desk, arms folded in an attitude of exaggerated patience.

  “I have a lot of Dominican saints here, yes,” he said pensively. “And I suppose you’re right—a lot of them do date from the period of the Inquisition. But I don’t get your point”

  Balsam felt his resolve beginning to crumble. “It’s just this,” he said, suddenly uncertain. “I got curious about the saints in the church and I decided to do some research. And then, the more I read, the more I realized that the kind of intolerance all these saints represented wasn’t much different from the sort of thing we were talking about the other day. The day we were discussing what I can, and what I cannot, teach in my class.”

  The priest smiled dryly. “You think the Inquisition’s being revived, right here in Neilsville?”

  “In a word, yes, that’s exactly what I think.”


  “Before I even argue the point with you,” Monsignor Vernon said wearily, “may I inquire what the purpose of this meeting is?”

  “Certainly,” Balsam retorted. “This is to tell you that I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I can stay in Neilsville. In fact, after the reading I did last night, I’m not even sure I can stay in the Church.”

  Suddenly the priest looked stricken.

  “You’re not serious,” he exclaimed. “You aren’t really considering leaving the Church?”

  Now that he’d said it, Balsam was suddenly no longer sure he meant it. He glanced nervously at the Monsignor, then back to the image of St. Peter Martyr.

  “I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “It’s just that I can’t stomach the sort of thing people like him stood for. And it seems to me that the Church hasn’t really progressed very far since his day.”

  “Of course it hasn’t,” the priest intoned. “Why should it? Faith is absolute, and the Truth of the Lord is absolute. There is room within the Faith for differences of opinion.”

  As Balsam stared, the Monsignor’s voice softened and he returned to himself. He smiled. “Peter, I know we’ve had differences of opinion. They are not at an end. We have always had our differences.” He paused, as if weighing the prudence of what he was about to reveal, then continued with a sigh, “I hadn’t intended to tell you this, but I selected you for the job here because of those differences.” He left the edge of the desk, and began pacing the room, speaking as he moved. ‘I’ve been following your career very closely, Peter, much more closely than you ever knew. And I’ve worried about you. Of all of us, you’ve seemed to me to have had the most trouble, not only within the Church, but within yourself. I suppose some of it has to do with your childhood—”

  “Forget that,” Balsam snapped. “It has nothing to do with all this.”

  “Doesn’t it?” the priest said quizzically. Then he smiled again. “Well, maybe it doesn’t. At any rate, it’s an academic. If you wish, I’ll take the matter of your resignation under consideration. I will do it reluctantly, but I will do it. In the meantime, I wish you’d do me a favor. I wish you’d examine your own conscience, and I wish you’d make a greater effort to understand what the Dominican saints were all about. Their methods may seem a bit harsh today, but don’t forget that some of the tales of that period have been grossly exaggerated. Primarily, they helped people to keep the Faith. And that, I think, is at the root of your problems right now. I think you’re having a crisis of faith.” He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It happens to us all,” he said gently. “It’s happened to me, since I’ve been here. But I’ve come through it. Of course I had the Society of St. Peter Martyr to help me. The Society could help you, too.”

  Balsam looked at the priest curiously. “Exactly what is the Society of St. Peter Martyr?” he asked.

  The priest smiled enigmatically. “Come and see,” he said. “We meet tomorrow night.” When Peter seemed hesitant, he added: “What harm can it do? It might even help. If nothing else, at least you’ll understand us better. Then, if yon stall want to leave, I’m sure well be able to arrange it.”

  Balsam sighed heavily. He had a feeling that something was wrong—that the talk had not gone as he had intended it to. He shrugged off the feeling and smiled at the Monsignor.

  “Okay,” he said. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Seven-thirty, at the rectory.”

  The two men left the classroom, and walked together out of the school. “Will I see you at Mass this evening!?” the priest asked.

  “I don’t know,” Balsam answered honestly. “But I suppose so. If I miss it, I can always confess.” He regretted the facetious remark as soon as he’d made it, but the Monsignor was not listening.

  “Then if not before, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He turned and disappeared into the rectory.

  Peter Balsam started down the hill. Then, as if remembering something, he went back to the church. There, still on her knees in front of the Holy Virgin, was Karen Morton, her fingers playing over the beads, her lips reciting the Rosary. As Balsam left the church and started again down the hill, he wondered how long she would be there.

  If he had known Karen Morton would be in the church, praying on her knees, for the next eight hours, he might have changed his mind once more, and left Neilsville that afternoon. But it was already too late; things had already gone too far, and Balsam was already too enmeshed in it The punishment was beginning.

  BOOK TWO

  The Society of St. Peter Martyr

  12

  Inez Nelson hurried up the steps, and through the main doors of St. Francis Xavier School. She was late, and she knew that Monsignor didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  She turned into the reception room and glanced nervously at the door that led to Monsignor’s private office, wondering if she should tap at the closed door. Just as she decided against it she heard the click of the latch and looked up, relieved to see the priest smiling at her.

  “Come in, come in,” he said expansively. “It’s a good thing you’re late—Mondays are always my busy day. The work seems to pile up over the weekend, even though there isn’t any school. Or maybe I just don’t work hard enough on Fridays.” He closed the door behind Inez, and offered her a chair. Then he moved behind his desk and sat down. His smile had disappeared.

  “I suppose you’ve been to the hospital?” he asked.

  Inez nodded. “I spent nearly an hour with that Dr. Shields—”

  “The psychiatrist?” Monsignor interrupted her.

  “Yes.” Inez paused, choking back a sob. “Oh, Monsignor, I’m so confused and it’s been worrying me all weekend. He says Judy is doing fine. But she won’t talk about why she did it All she’ll tell him is that she’s fine now, and that it won’t happen again.”

  “And what does she say to you?”

  Inez squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, that’s just it, Monsignor. That’s why I felt I had to talk to you. About so many things. But primarily about Judy. You see, she won’t see me.”

  Monsignor Vernon’s eyes opened in surprise. “Won’t see you? What do you mean, she won’t see you?”

  “Just that,” Inez said unhappily. “She absolutely refuses to see me.” She was fighting tears. “And it’s only me,” she went on, her voice beginning to quaver. “She sees everyone else. Her father. Her friends. But she won’t see me. And everyone says she’s fine.”

  “Do they?” The priest’s tone suggested to Inez that he didn’t believe Judy could possibly be fine. “If she won’t see you, I wonder how fine she could be?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought, too,” Inez said. Suddenly she felt much better. “But I don’t know what to do. If only I could talk to her, I know I could find out what’s the matter.”

  The priest shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t see what the problem is. Judy is only sixteen, and you are her mother. If you want to see her, I don’t see how anyone can stop you.”

  Inez nodded vigorously. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. But no one agrees with me. Oh, not that I can’t see her if I demand to. Everyone says I can do that. But they all think it would be unwise. Dr. Shields, and George—my husband—both seem to think I should just wait. They say eventually she’ll see me, and I suppose they’re right. But in the meantime nobody seems to be taking my feelings into consideration. I feel like—well, I feel like such a failure.” She looked guiltily at the priest. “Do you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve been going to the hospital every day at visiting hours, and visiting total strangers. Well, not total strangers, of course, but people I wouldn’t normally go see in the hospital. Then I tell them that I was there visiting Judy, and I just decided to drop in.” Now the tears came, and Inez stared miserably at the priest. “I just don’t know how long I can stand it, Father,” she said. “If it ever gets out that all this time Judy has been refusing to see me—well, you don’t know what an awful feeling it is.”

  Monsignor Vern
on offered her a Kleenex, and a smile. “It’s difficult, I know,” he said softly. “Sometimes I think everything is topsy-turvy these days, and we’re expected to give in to our children all the time.”

  “I know,” Inez said, sniffling into the tissue and trying to regain control of herself. “But I was beginning to think I was the only one who thought so.”

  “You aren’t,” the Monsignor replied, “although sometimes I think there are very few of us left who refuse to be manipulated by our children.”

  Inez looked sharply at the priest. Manipulated. The same word Dr. Shields had used. “That’s it exactly,” she said. “I feel like I’m being manipulated by Judy. As if she’s trying to punish me.”

  “And that’s undoubtedly exactly what’s going on,” Monsignor Vernon said emphatically. “You have no idea what it can be like here.” He turned his chair, gazing out the window as he talked. “I have to have my guard up all the time. They’re smart, you know. Brighter than we were, when we were young. But it isn’t a good kind of brightness. It’s a clever kind of brightness. They’re always testing me, pushing me, to see how far they can go before I crack down on them. It must be even worse in the public schools. They have so few controls anymore. Thank God the Church recognizes the function of discipline in the raising of children! But it gets harder each year. Every year, they strain me more. Every year, more of them try to corner me. Well, I don’t intend to tolerate it! This year, the children will find out who runs this school, and they’ll find out it isn’t them!” He suddenly spun the chair around again, and seemed almost surprised to see Inez Nelson sitting opposite his desk. He had almost forgotten she was in the office, and that it was to her that he was talking. Now she sat very still, unnerved by the intensity with which he had spoken. He broke the moment with a quick smile. ‘I’m sorry,” he said, chuckling a little. “Sometimes I get quite carried away. Well, what were we talking about?”

  “Judy—” Inez said distractedly. “We were talking about Judy. Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to discuss with you. Dr. Shields tells me that shell be fine by the end of the week, and that she can come back to school a week from today. Next Monday.”