by John Saul
“Sorry about last night,” Vernon was saying. “Pm afraid time just slips away from us sometimes. I hadn’t intended for the service to go nearly that late.”
“Well, it was Friday night,” Peter said, forcing his voice to remain neutral. “Pm afraid I slept in a bit this morning, though.” He waited for the priest to respond, then became aware that the Monsignor was no longer looking at him, but seemed to be concentrating on something behind Peter. Peter turned, and saw Karen Morton and Jim Mulvey coming in the door. He smiled a greeting to his students, but they hurried by, studiously ignoring him. It wasn’t until they had disappeared into the gym that he realized it hadn’t been he they were avoiding; it had been Monsignor. The priest was glaring after them.
“Karen seems like a nice girl,” Peter said, trying to keep his voice easy.
“Do you think so?” the priest said icily. “Then you aren’t as perceptive as I thought you were. Excuse me, I’d better have a word with Sister Elizabeth.”
Puzzled, Peter made his way to the door of the gym, and let his eyes wander over the crowd. Eventually he saw the Monsignor bending down to whisper into Sister Elizabeth’s ear, and pointing toward a spot where Jim Mulvey and Karen Morton were dancing. A moment later, Sister Elizabeth was striding toward the couple, a ruler in her hand.
He watched curiously, wondering what the ruler was for. Then, as he looked on, Sister Elizabeth put the ruler between Karen and Jim. She looked at them severely when the ruler wouldn’t quite fit, and pushed them slightly apart. When they were a foot apart, and the ruler could be passed between them without touching either of them, Sister Elizabeth was satisfied. She glared at each of them once more, then moved on to another couple.
Balsam almost laughed at the performance. The fact that Sister Elizabeth had not been kidding with her measurements made him stop. He looked around and saw that all the nuns were carrying rulers, and that they were all circulating through the room, meticulously making certain that the boys and girls were maintaining a foot of open space between them. All, that is, except Sister Marie, who was standing at the refreshment table chatting with Penny Anderson and Jeff Bremmer. Peter Balsam decided to have a cup of punch.
The nun saw Peter approaching, and had an impulse to hurry away. But then she changed her mind, and made herself smile at him.
“Some punch, Peter?”
Balsam’s brows rose. “No more Mr. Balsam?” he said. The look of hurt in her eyes, and a sudden flicker of what he thought was fear, made him wish he hadn’t said it. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic. I’m just glad to see you smiling at me again.” He decided to change the subject. “Where’s your ruler?” He gestured toward the nuns who were still steadily circulating through the room, measuring the gaps between the students.
“Oh, I have one,” Sister Marie said, her sense of mischief getting the best of her. “But I use it differently.” Deftly, she slipped the ruler from the sleeve of her habit, and stirred the punch with it. Then she looked at Balsam, and her manner changed slightly. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
He followed her to a quiet corner.
“What is it?” he said gently. He thought the flicker of fear he had seen earlier was back, and growing.
“It’s probably nothing,” Sister Marie said nervously. “But I have to tell you about it. I’m sorry about the way I acted yesterday, when you asked me about the handwriting in that note. I told you I’d forgotten all about it I lied. I didn’t forget; I remembered. But for some reason, when I remembered, the strangest fear flowed over me. I almost felt like—well, never mind,” she broke off.
She saw no point in telling Peter Balsam that she had felt like killing herself. Besides, it had only been an impulse, and it had passed almost immediately. But it had frightened her. Frightened her badly.
“You remembered the handwriting?” Balsam said, his heart suddenly pounding.
“Yes,” Sister Marie said, nodding. “But I don’t know what it means. It’s very strange.”
“What is it?” Balsam said impatiently. He had to know.
“It was years ago” Sister Marie said. “I was in Monsignor Vernon’s office, and he suddenly offered to show me something. A relic. A relic of his favorite saint, Peter Martyr.”
“A relic?” Balsam said curiously. “What sort of relic?”
“It was a letter. Just a page. But he told me it was written by St. Peter Martyr. And it was in the same handwriting as the handwriting on the note you showed me Wednesday morning.”
“What did it say?”
“The letter? I haven’t the slightest idea. It was in a language I couldn’t understand. Almost like Latin, but sort of like Italian, too. I suppose if I’d had time, I could have figured it out.”
“You speak Italian?” Peter couldn’t believe his luck.
“And French, and Spanish. I majored in languages in college. So of course I joined the order, and where did they send me? Neilsville, Washington!”
Balsam hardly heard her. “You really think you could have understood that language?” he asked eagerly.
The nun looked at him, wondering why he was so curious about the relic. “I don’t see why not,” she said thoughtfully. “My Latin and Italian are both excellent, and since Italian grows directly out of Latin, I shouldn’t have any problems with it.”
“What if you heard the language?” Peter said.
“Heard it?” Sister Marie laughed. “Well, that’s hardly likely, is it? I mean, who would speak it anymore?”
“But could you understand it?” Peter said urgently. The laughter faded from Sister Marie’s voice.
“I suppose so,” she said carefully. “I can’t say. But I can try. I mean, if you aren’t just being hypothetical.”
“I’m not,” Peter said. “Believe me, I’m not.”
For the first time in several days, Peter thought he had a chance of getting to the bottom of the Society of St. Peter Martyr.
Jim Mulvey pulled Karen Morton to him, and squeezed her. A shiver of pleasure ran through her body, but she tried to pull away from him. “They’ll see us, Jim,” she whispered in his ear, gesturing toward the nuns. Sister Elizabeth, the one Karen feared most, had her back to the couple for the moment, but Karen was sure that it wouldn’t be more than a few seconds until the sour-faced sister saw them pressed together and moved swiftly to break up the embrace.
“Let them see us,” Jim whispered back, his voice heavy. “They just wish it was them instead of you.” He pulled her to him again, pressing the swelling of his erection against her. “Put your hand down there,” he whispered.
She wanted to, but she knew she shouldn’t. She resisted the urge to touch him. Instead, she pulled away again.
“Not here,” she hissed. “Everyone can see.” She glanced around, and sure enough, there was Sister Elizabeth bearing down on them.
“Twelve inches,” Sister Elizabeth said bitterly. “You know the rule.” She brandished the ruler.
“I know it, but I can’t quite manage it,” Jim said innocently. “Will you settle for eight?”
Sister Elizabeth saw Karen blush a deep red, and wondered if she’d missed something. She glared at Jim, sure that he had gotten the best of her, but uncertain how he’d managed it. She scurried away, leaving Jim grinning triumphantly at Karen.
“That was a terrible thing to say to her,” Karen said.
“Was it?” Jim leered. Then he winked at her. “Hey, I have an idea. You know that little room where they keep all the gym stuff?”
Karen nodded, remembering the equipment room, no more than a closet, really. “What about it?”
“Let’s go in there,” Jim said. “It’s dark, and private. And no sisters with rulers.”
Karen considered the idea. It’ll only be for a couple of minutes, she told herself. What can happen in a couple of minutes?
Jim began dancing her toward the equipment room.
Marilyn Crane felt she was being wat
ched. She told herself that she was only imagining it, that no one was paying any attention to her at all. That thought was even worse. Suddenly her corner became unbearable, and she looked around for refuge. Jeff Bremmer. Of all of them, Jeff was usually the kindest to her. She began working her way across the floor toward the refreshment table, dodging the dancing couples. She stepped aside to let Jim and Karen pass; they ignored her.
She rushed on toward the refreshment table, not speaking to anyone until she reached Jeff. He smiled half-heartedly at her.
“Hot in here,” she said tentatively, dipping herself a cup of punch.
“Too many people,” Penny Anderson said pointedly, staring into her eyes. Marilyn decided to ignore the crack, and turned back to Jeff.
“Can I help you with anything?”
Jeff glanced away from her guiltily, remembering that he’d been at the party when they’d all made her look like a fool. He looked to Penny Anderson for help.
“We can manage fine,” Penny said. Then she relented. “If you want to get some more ice, it’s out in the foyer.” Marilyn’s face broke into a smile, and she started toward the main doors. Behind her, she heard Penny’s voice.
“She’s really pathetic, isn’t she?”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Marilyn hurried toward the door. Only now she knew she wouldn’t be back, with or without the ice. She had to get out of the gym, get away from everybody, get to the church.
She had to get to the church. She had to.
The Sorrowful Mother. She had to talk to the Sorrowful Mother. The Virgin had come to her once; maybe she would again.
But then, just as she was about to pass through the doors, her way was blocked. She looked up into the piercing eyes of Monsignor Vernon. He returned her gaze, and seemed about to say something when Sister Elizabeth rushed up. Ignoring Marilyn, the nun spoke to the priest over her head.
“Monsignor,” she said, her voice carrying a heavy burden of outrage. “It’s happened. I knew it would if we let this kind of thing go on, and now it has.”
“What’s happened?” the Monsignor replied, his brow suddenly furrowed.
“Jim Mulvey and Karen Morton. I just saw them go into the equipment room together.”
Suddenly, as Marilyn looked on, the Monsignor’s face changed from its normally severe mask into a glowering visage of indignation. Thrusting Marilyn to one side, he began striding toward the closed door of the equipment room, scattering the dancers as he went.
Monsignor Vernon grasped the handle of the door of the equipment room, and yanked the door open. The small room was close and dark. The priest groped for the light cord, yanked it, illuminating two startled figures. There, under the naked bulb were Jim Mulvey and Karen Morton, their arms around each other, their bodies pressed close in a passionate kiss. The priest seized them, one with each hand, and thrust them out of the tiny room into the crowded gymnasium. He reached up and found the light cord again. The door began to swing slowly closed, and as he pulled the light switch he was suddenly plunged into darkness. He moved quickly toward the door but his foot caught on something. He tripped.
Monsignor Vernon fell to his knees, and as he caught himself he glimpsed the narrow band of light that came through the slightly open door. Deep inside him, a memory came to life.
Monsignor Vernon froze, staring through the crack in the door. High up in the rafters, the gym’s lights glared balefully down on him. He felt himself growing dizzy. And then he saw the girl. She moved into his line of sight, and she seemed to be turning, turning slowly toward him. She had something in her hand, the girl. Something that glinted silver in the light A knife. It looked like a knife.
Monsignor Vernon lunged to his feet and burst through the door.
Janet Connally, her silver net scarf held high as she danced, paused in mid-step as the priest his eyes wild, threw the door open.
“Stop it!” he bellowed. Janet froze. The Monsignor stared around him. They were everywhere, the girls, all around him, they all looked alike. They all looked like her, like his sister. “Sinners!” he cried. “All of you are sinners!”
The students stared now, and began edging toward the door. Monsignor was angrier than they had ever seen him before.
“No more!” shouted the priest “Do you think I don’t know you? Do you think I don’t recognize you? Do you think I will show you mercy? You do not deserve mercy! Beware for your souls, for you have sinned. Punishment will fall upon you.”
And then, across the room, Monsignor Vernon saw Peter Balsam staring at him. The priest raised his hand, and pointed to the teacher.
“Heretic! Punishment will fall upon you,” he bellowed. “Punishment at tìbie hands of the Lord!”
And then, as quickly as it had come, the rage was over, the memory gone. Nervously, the Monsignor glanced around. A silence had fallen over the room, and when he spoke again, this time in a whisper, everybody in the room heard him.
“The dance is over,” he said.
Five minutes later the room was empty, except for two people. Standing at opposite ends of the gym, as if waiting for the battle to begin, Monsignor Vernon and Peter Balsam stared at each other. And now, thought Peter, it’s all going to happen.
He was frightened.
BOOK THREE
AUTO-DA-FÉ
19
The cafeteria buzzed with the noise of high-school students at lunch, but Marilyn Crane didn’t hear it. She sat alone, surrounded by empty seats, and concentrated on her sandwich. A few feet away from her, at the other end of the same table, Jeff Bremmer also sat alone. Every few seconds he glanced at Marilyn, and tried to figure out what he should say to her.
He knew she’d overheard Penny Anderson’s remark on Saturday night. He had intended to follow her out to apologize for Penny. But then Monsignor had found Karen and Jim in the equipment closet, and blown his cool. Jeff shook his head, remembering the priest’s outburst.
He glanced at Marilyn again, and decided to use the dance as an opening. “Boy, that was really something, wasn’t it?” he said.
Marilyn looked at him, and wondered if he was talking to her. Then she realized there wasn’t anybody else at the table; he must be talking to her.
“What was?” she asked warily, searching for a trap.
“The dance,” Jeff said. “I knew Monsignor was a puritan, but I never expected anything like that.”
“Well, they shouldn’t have gone into the equipment closet,” Marilyn said stiffly, allying herself with the priest.
Jeff tried another tack. “But calling Mr. Balsam a heretic? What was that all about?”
Marilyn shrugged. She didn’t see how she could defend the priest against Mr. Balsam; he’d been too nice to her. But she wasn’t going to agree with Jeff, either. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. Then she relented. “It was pretty weird, wasn’t it?”
“Weird isn’t the word,” Jeff said. “It was really gross. I mean, just because Mr. Balsam isn’t a priest doesn’t make him a heretic. Jesus, who uses words like ‘heretic’ anymore, anyway? If you ask me, Mr. Balsam’s the best thing to hit this dump in years!”
“He probably won’t stay,” Marilyn commented.
“Why would he? Would you?” Without waiting for an answer, Jeff went right on talking. “But I’m glad he’s here now. I like his class; he really makes me think about things.”
“I know,” Marilyn said. “But sometimes I’m more confused after his class than I was before. I mean, I used to think I understood things pretty well. But since I’ve been in his class, I just don’t know anymore. Those rats are weird. It seems like he can make them do anything.”
“It’s just conditioning,” Jeff said smugly. Then he frowned. “I wonder if you can condition people the same way you condition rats?”
Marilyn shrugged. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Balsam?” There was something else on her mind. “That isn’t really why his class makes me nervous,” she said. “It just seems like the more I find o
ut about psychology, the worse I feel about myself.” Then, realizing what she’d admitted, Marilyn flushed. But suddenly Jeff was smiling at her.
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he grinned. “I mean, you obviously aren’t as bad off as some people around here.” He nodded toward the door. Marilyn followed his glance. Judy Nelson was coming into the cafeteria.
The room fell silent. They had all been waiting for this moment; they had all known that Judy was back at school today, that she had spent the morning in Monsignore office. No one knew what had gone on in there; but no one imagined it had been pleasant. Now here she was, sailing into the cafeteria as if nothing had happened. From the table next to Marilyn and Jeff, Janet Connally called out.
“Over here, Judy.”
While Marilyn and Jeff looked on, Judy slid into a chair and was surrounded by her friends. The questions began.
Judy was enjoying it. They were hanging on her every word, and every couple of minutes someone she hardly knew stopped to welcome her back to St. Francis Xavier’s. They all wanted to know what had happened to her; first in the hospital, then when she got home, and, most important, what had gone on this morning in Monsignor’s office.
Judy answered the questions calmly, her voice soft and ethereal. As they listened to her, her friends began to feel that they were talking to a new Judy Nelson, a Judy who had passed through the valley of death and been transformed. It was exactly the impression Judy intended to give.
As Marilyn watched the scene being played at the next table, she began to wonder what had happened to Judy, if the attempt on her own life had really changed her, or if she was putting on an act. Chiding herself for the unkind thought, she turned back to Jeff. He wasn’t there.
She glanced quickly back to the table where Judy was still regaling her friends, and saw that Jeff had joined Judy’s group, and was hanging on her words along with everyone else. And then, as she watched, Mr. Balsam came into the cafeteria. She looked up hopefully; he always stopped to greet her. But today he walked right past her, intent on something else. Marilyn watched miserably as even Mr. Balsam joined the group around Judy Nelson. A couple of minutes later the teacher rose, and Marilyn’s hopes surged again. Now he would pause at her table. But he didn’t. Before Marilyn could summon the courage to call out to him, he was gone. Sadly, she turned her attention back to Judy Nelson’s table.
