by John Saul
“I see,” Monsignor Vernon said carefully, licking his lips nervously. Inez Nelson noticed the gesture immediately.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” she said quickly. “I mean, there isn’t going to be any problem, is there?”
“Actually, I don’t know,” Monsignor Vernon said hesitantly. “I mean, we’ve never before been faced with something like this, and I haven’t quite been able to find out what to do about it yet”
“Do about it?” Inez asked blankly. “What’s there to do? I don’t understand.”
“Well,” the priest said slowly, “it isn’t really the same as if she’d simply been sick, is it? What she did comes very close to sacrilege. Judy will have to confess and be absolved before she can return to school.”
“Before?” Inez asked. “Why before?”
“Because of the nature of her sin. You must be aware that suicide is one of the most grievous sins that a Catholic can commit. Only God can forgive it, not the Church.”
Inez was suddenly alarmed. Was Judy to be excommunicated?
“But she didn’t—” she began. “I mean, she didn’t actually do anything, did she?” she asked desperately. “I mean, yes, I suppose she tried, but Dr. Shields says he doesn’t think she really meant to kill herself, and in any case, she isn’t dead, is she?”
Monsignor gave the distraught woman his most tolerant look. “I’m afraid that isn’t the point. The point is that she did, indeed, intend the sin. That she didn’t succeed was only a matter of luck, not intent. And I’m sure you’re aware that a sin intended is every bit as offensive to God as a sin committed.”
Inez Nelson stared at him helplessly. “But what’s going to happen to her?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. There are grave philosophical and theological questions involved. I simply haven’t the answers yet But I intend to put the entire case before my study group tonight, and I’m sure that among the six of us we’ll be able to find the answer. The Lord, through St Peter Martyr, will guide me.”
He rose from behind his desk, and led Inez out of the office. As she was leaving, he called to her, and she turned back, her face pale and her eyes beseeching him. He raised his hand in the sign of the cross. “May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and give you peace.”
But as she walked out of the school, and slowly made her way to the parking lot, Inez Nelson knew there was going to be no peace for her. For her, or her daughter, or anyone else in Neilsville. As she got into the car, a cloud passed over the sun. Summer had come to an abrupt end in Neilsville.
The final bell had rung, and the students had poured out of the classroom into the halls. All but Marilyn Crane. She sat alone in the room, except for Sister Elizabeth, who was straightening up her desk.
It had not been an easy day for Marilyn; if she had had her way she would not have come to school at all. But her mother had insisted, and Marilyn had dragged herself up the hill. It had seemed steeper today than ever before, and when she had finally reached the school she had had to force herself to go in. All through the day she had heard the snickers, and the whispers, as the story of her humiliation on Saturday night spread through the halls. Everybody had heard. Suddenly it wasn’t just her own classmates who snubbed her and turned away at her approach. Now the younger children, the children who had always been at least a little respectful, were pointing at her and giggling together.
She tried to ignore it all, tried to do as Mr. Balsam had suggested, and pretend that nothing had happened. She had spent the entire day waiting for the final bell, and now it had rung. But she still didn’t leave her desk. Instead, she stared miserably down at the paper that lay accusingly in front of her. It was a test and it was marked B-minus.
The grade itself wasn’t really bad. What hurt most was the note penciled next to the grade. There, in Sister Elizabeth’s flowing script, was the real condemnation: “This is very disappointing. I know you can do better.”
Marilyn wanted to cry. What did they want from her? She tried, she knew she tried. But, once more, she had failed.
As she stared at the grade, and the note beside it, anger churned in her. She fought it back. After all, who was there to be angry at, besides herself? She was the one who had gotten the grade. She was the one who hadn’t lived up to Sister Elizabeth’s expectations. Her anger turned to frustration. What did they want, anyway? And even if she knew, why should she live up to their expectations? Why should she?
Why should she do anything at all?
And then, realizing the magnitude of the thought that had just gone through her mind, she quickly begged forgiveness. She decided to go to church. Things were always better in the church. The Blessed Virgin didn’t demand anything of her.
Marilyn gathered her things, and left the room. As she did, Sister Elizabeth glanced up, looked at her curiously, and decided something was wrong with Marilyn Crane. She made a mental note to discuss Marilyn with Monsignor Vernon. Monsignor would know what to do. Sister Elizabeth went back to her work and put Marilyn out of her mind.
Peter Balsam arrived at the rectory punctually at seven-thirty. He let himself in, picked up the small silver bell, and rang it. When there was no response, he walked down the hall and tapped lightly at the study door. It was opened immediately by a man he didn’t recognize, but who seemed to know who he was.
“Peter Balsam,” the man said, opening the door just wide enough for Peter to slip through. He held his finger to his lips. “Monsignor is saying the blessing.”
The study was dimly lit, and as Peter looked around he realized that of the six men gathered in the small room, the only one he recognized was Monsignor Vernon. All the others were strangers, but he had the distinct feeling that he was no stranger to them. They stared at him and he felt as if he were being measured—and found wanting. As he pondered the possible significance of this, Monsignor Vernon finished the blessing, and smiled at him.
“Peter,” he said expansively, “let me introduce you to the Society.” He took Peter by the elbow and introduced him to the members of the Society of St. Peter Martyr one by one. All were priests, and all were from parishes outside of Neilsville. But as the Monsignor introduced them Balsam realized that, though they were all considerably older than Vernon, they shared certain traits with him. There was a tightness to their faces, particularly to Father Bryant, whose expression seemed frozen in disapproval. Father Martinelli, the eldest of them all, peered out from deep-set eyes that were almost invisible under bushy brows. He grunted a greeting to Balsam, but there was a note of displeasure in it, as if he felt this introduction should not be taking place. Father Prine, gnarled with rheumatism, extended his hand, but pulled it painfully back before Peter could shake it The other two, whose names Peter didn’t catch, greeted him formally, but offered no particular welcomes.
When the introductions were completed, Monsignor Vernon invited Balsam to sit down. The chair near the fireplace, the one he had occupied every time he had been in the study, had been left vacant He wondered briefly whether this was by design or coincidence, deciding that either way he was grateful for the familiar touch.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said to the group in general. They stared. Just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, Father Prine spoke.
“And we’ve heard a lot about you.” There was something in the voice that told Peter that not all they heard had been good.
“All bad, I suppose,” he grinned. The humor was lost on the old priest, who turned dourly to Monsignor Vernon.
“You’ll have to forgive us,” the Monsignor said to Peter. “We are a closed group, and we observe strict rules about speaking. While you are among us, you will observe them, too. But you are not to consider yourself a member of the Society of St. Peter Martyr. Not yet, at any rate. Whether or not we decide to initiate you into our order will depend on many things.”
Peter was about to challenge the priest’s use of the word “order,” b
ut he remembered the sanction against questions. He felt his temper rising, and had to fight down an impulse to leave. He restrained himself. He had come to the rectory for a reason. Here, he might find out just exactly how it was that Monsignor Vernon had changed from the rather casual student Balsam remembered from the seminary into the rigid dogmatist he had become. And if Balsam was to make any kind of adjustment to St. Francis Xavier’s, he needed to understand his superior. He fought down his impulse to leave and sat quietly in the chair by the fireplace.
And the questioning began.
The questions seemed simple enough, at first, and Peter soon began to feel like a child being put through the Catechism.
He was asked to repeat the Apostles’ Creed.
He was examined about his knowledge of the Immaculate Conception.
But as the questioning continued, each of the priests taking his turn, Balsam realized that they wanted more of him than a simple statement of his knowledge of the beliefs of the Church. They were trying to determine if there were flaws in his faith; if there were areas in which he was not in agreement with the Doctrines.
“Do you accept the Church as the true vessel of the Word of God?”
“Do you accept the Infallibility of the Pope?”
“Did you leave the priesthood because of doubts as to the Faith, or only as to your vocation?”
The questions rang in his ears, and he began to find himself agreeing with everything they asked, telling them what he knew they wanted to hear, not because he wanted to please them, but because, as they droned on, the questions lost their meaning. He began to feel that they were not asking him for his own responses, which would have been too complicated and ambiguous to fit into the narrow structure of their questions. Instead, they were inundating him with their own beliefs, and taking reassurance as he reflected those beliefs back to them.
An hour went by. Peter began to realize that he was no longer hearing the questions, that they no longer made sense to him. He held up a hand.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier if I just talked?” he asked. “I know what you’re driving at, but at this rate well be here all night.”
Father Martinelli glared at him. “You know nothing,” the old priest quavered. “Answer the questions, please. If we wish your comments we will ask for them.”
The questioning continued.
And then it was over. As if an unseen signal had been passed among the priests, the questioning suddenly stopped. Peter searched the faces, one by one, trying to read in their expressions their reactions to his answers. The faces were impassive.
Then he heard Monsignor Vernon speaking.
“It’s time we took up the discussion for tonight,” he said softly. “Which is, of course, the problem of Judy Nelson.”
Balsam was baffled. Judy Nelson? Why was she to be discussed here? What possible concern was she to this group? The answer came soon enough. For the next ten minutes, as Peter listened in silence, the priests discussed what penance should be placed on Judy when she returned to school. The question of whether or not she should be allowed to return at all was disposed of very quickly; since she had not put herself beyond redemption, the was to be brought back into the fold. But the question of penance was not so easily resolved. Finally, as the discussion seemed to be getting nowhere, Peter interrupted.
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to talk to Judy before you decide on anything?” he suggested. Father Martinelli gazed at him with a detached curiosity.
“Not relevant,” the ancient voice crackled. “Of what possible interest could anything she might say be to us?”
Peter was astounded. “It seems to me that it might be wise to find out why she did it, before you began handing down penances,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Father Bryant snapped. “Her motivations are of no concern to us. She has sinned, and in the eyes of the Church, it is the sin that matters, not the motivations of the sinner.”
The five other priests nodded solemn agreement
Balsam started to get to his feet. “Then you really have no need for me, do you? I’m a psychologist, not a priest, and certainly not a judge.”
“Sit down,” Monsignor Vernon said. Peter sat. “You are here for a reason. We have found, over the years, that a strictly structured examination of our own faiths has often served to reinforce that faith. That is what we have provided you with. But you are also here to discuss a specific problem that we don’t feel qualified to handle.”
Six pairs of eyes bored into Peter’s. No one spoke until Peter broke the silence.
“What problem?” he asked.
Father Prine took over now.
“We are concerned for the safety of our children,” he said, his voice muted but steady. “We can see no reason why young Judy shouldn’t be allowed to return to school, yet we feel that somehow the other children must be protected from whatever—” He groped for the word, then found one he seemed reluctant to use. “—whatever evil is lurking in Judy.”
Balsam wanted to tell the old priest that he was certain there was no “evil” lurking in Judy, that she was simply the victim of some psychological problems. He knew it was useless. It was not what they wanted to hear. He addressed himself instead to the thrust of the question.
“I’m not sure what could be done,” he said slowly, “I mean, short of isolating Judy—and that would simply focus attention on the whole situation. It seems to me that the best thing to do is try to act as if nothing had happened, and hope things settle down of their own accord.”
The priests appeared to be pondering the wisdom of this course. Finally Monsignor Vernon broke the silence.
“I wonder,” he began. “I heard about something, or read about it. Relaxation therapy, I think it was called.”
Peter Balsam’s attention was suddenly riveted on the priest. Where had he ever heard of relaxation therapy? But the Monsignor didn’t notice the sudden tension in the teacher, and continued talking, softly, reasonably.
“I was just wondering if it could be of any possible use in this situation. The students have been pretty keyed up lately. Do you think there’s any way we could use this relaxation therapy to calm them down? Before Judy comes back next week, I mean?”
Balsam’s mind was suddenly racing. There was danger here, but he couldn’t define it All he could put his finger on was the incongruity of the priest’s suggestion. Of all people, Vernon was the last one Peter would have expected to suggest the use of what was, at best, an experimental process. His instincts told him to move carefully.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly enough. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the process, and from what I’ve read, I don’t think it would accomplish much.”
“But you don’t know?” Father Bryant pressed.
“No,” Peter said reluctantly. “I don’t”
“In fact,” Monsignor Vernon said, “it might indeed help them, mightn’t it?”
Peter felt suddenly trapped. “I suppose it might,” he admitted.
“Well, then,” the priest said affably. “Why don’t we leave it at this? You sleep on it, and do whatever you think best” He stood up, and Peter realized he was being dismissed. “I want to thank you for coming tonight I think it’s been good for all of us.”
It wasn’t until the door closed quietly behind him that Peter was sure his part in the meeting was over. Confused, he stood in the hallway for a moment, then, as he began to walk slowly toward the front door of the rectory, he heard the chanting begin. It was soft at first, then grew louder. Gregorian chanting, but somehow slightly wrong. As he left the rectory, Peter Balsam attributed the peculiar sound of the chanting to the fact that the participants were old, and their voices had weakened with age.
But as he walked slowly down Cathedral Hill, the sound of the chanting stayed with him, ringing in his head, imbedding itself in his mind.
He tried to figure out just what the Society of St Peter Martyr was all about He was sure it wasn’t
the simple “study group” Monsignor had claimed it to be. No, it was something else. He racked his memory. “Order.” They had called it an order. Surely, in this day and age, they weren’t attempting to begin a new order, one tied to the memory of a thirteenth-century inquisitor? That was absurd.
And there was something else that bothered him, something he thought about long after he got home that night As he was drifting off to sleep, it came to him. The Society of St. Peter Martyr had not acted like any “study group” he knew of. No, the Society of St Peter Martyr had acted like a tribunal.
Peter Balsam found it very disturbing. When he slept, his dreams were filled with the sound of chanting, and the strange, intolerant visages of the members of the Society of St Peter Martyr.
13
As his class began drifting into Room 16, Peter Balsam realized that he had been anticipating this hour all morning. His mind had been on his Latin classes even less than usual. The Latin students had sensed his distraction, and had taken advantage of it, spending the previous three hours mistranslating their lessons, winking at each other every time he failed to catch their deliberate errors, and passing the word, one class to the next, that today was a good day in Mr. Balsam’s class—anything went! By fourth period, the psychology students were looking forward even more than usual to their offbeat class, and they came into Room 16 carrying an air of anticipation. It was almost as if they knew that Balsam had been lax with the other classes because he had something special planned for them.
Now, as the classroom slowly filled, Balsam had a sudden feeling of trepidation, his first such feeling since the decision had come to him. What he was about to do was an experiment, and an experiment he was unfamiliar with. He had gotten up early this morning, filled with a sense of purpose, and reviewed what little material he could find on the subject of relaxation technique, quickly realizing it was little more than a very light form of hypnosis, a period of induced relaxation, using both music and the human voice to put the subjects—a word Balsam hated—into a state resembling light sleep. Almost light sleep, but not quite. The music would be important and he had made his selection carefully from his limited collection of records and tapes. Feeling inspired, he had chosen religious music, a recording of Gregorian chants made by a small order of nuns in France. If the chanting of the Society of St. Peter Martyr the previous evening had put the suggestion into his head, he was unconscious of it. He busied himself setting up the record player as the last of his students hurried into the room.
