by John Saul
Karen Morton had grown restive. She was tired of listening to Judy. Besides, didn’t anyone want to hear what had happened to her at the dance? It wasn’t fair. Ordinarily, the encounter with the Monsignor would be the major topic for the day, but Judy had eclipsed her. She stared glumly down at her hands. Then inspiration struck.
“Trying to kill yourself isn’t such a big deal,” she said, breaking into Judy’s monologue. She was pleased when Judy fell silent and stared at her.
“Have you tried it?” Judy said knowingly. Karen smiled and held up her hands.
“How do you think I got these?” she said, displaying her palms. The scabs were nearly healed, but still clearly visible.
“Those?” Penny Anderson laughed. “I thought you said you didn’t know how you got those!”
“I just didn’t want to admit it,” Karen said. She felt herself losing control of the conversation.
Judy Nelson confirmed the feeling. “If they weren’t even bad enough to put you in the hospital, I don’t think they count,” she said acidly. “Besides, why should you want to kill yourself?”
“I’m not sure,” Karen began, but Penny cut her off.
“I’ll give you a reason,” she said. “I’ve decided Pm going to take Jim Mulvey away from you.”
Karen’s mouth dropped open. All of a sudden it had all gone wrong. All she’d wanted was a little attention. Now they were all laughing at her, and Penny was saying she was going to take Jim away. That wasn’t what she’d intended at all. She glared at Penny.
“You have about as much chance of doing that as Marilyn Crane!” she snapped. Then she stood up and walked quickly out of the cafeteria.
The remark hit Marilyn like a slap in the face, and her hand suddenly let go of the sandwich she was eating. She stared down into her lap, and her eyes filled with tears as she surveyed the purple stain that was spreading from the lump of jelly lying on her pale yellow skirt. Now she would have to spend the rest of the day pretending everyone wasn’t staring at her dirty skirt She stuffed the rest of her lunch back into its bag and hurried out of the room.
She started for her locker but suddenly changed her mind. Instead, she made her way to the church, and slipped into the pew in front of the Blessed Virgin. She reached into her purse to pull out her rosary beads. Before she found them her hand closed on something else.
It was the package of razor blades.
Her fingers closed on them and they felt good to her. Then, suddenly frightened, she dropped the blades and found the rosary. She began praying.
When she left the church thirty minutes later, Marilyn had almost succeeded in forgetting about the stain on her skirt. She hurried toward her locker and spun the dial quickly, intent on tossing the remains of her lunch into the metal box. and picking up her books for the afternoon. She pulled open the locker door.
Marilyn Crane screamed, but the scream was cut off as she gagged. A wave of nausea broke over her. Her Bible lay open on the bottom of her locker; on top of it was a white rat, its fur stained by the blood and gore that was oozing from it Its throat had been slit, and it was disemboweled. The nausea passed, and the tears began. Marilyn Crane sank to the concrete floor, sobbing hysterically. Moments later Sister Marie appeared and gathered Marilyn into her arms. Then she led her slowly away toward the nurse’s office.
Peter Balsam sat in his classroom after school, three books spread out in front of him. He was reading snatches from one page, then changing to another book, reading a paragraph here and a paragraph there, then picking up the third book. Slowly he was piecing it all together. And in its own weird way it was starting to make a strange kind of sense. He heard a noise at the door and glanced up. Karen Morton was standing uneasily in the doorframe.
“Can I come in?” she asked tentatively.
“I’m kind of busy,” Balsam said, hoping she’d go away. She stood her ground.
“It’ll only take a minute.” Karen advanced into the room. Peter Balsam pushed the books to one side, and glanced at his watch. Maybe he could hold her to the minute.
‘What is it?”
“I’m not sure,” Karen said uncertainly. Then, seeing the impatience on Balsam’s face, she hurried on. ‘It’s Judy, I guess. She seems—” She hunted for the right word, “—different I guess.”
Is that all? Balsam thought to himself. “Well, of course she does,” he said easily. “But I don’t think she is, really. Oh, she may think she is, but don’t forget: right now she’s the center of attention around here. It’ll all calm down in a couple of days, and things will be back to normal.”
Karen started to say something, but Peter cut her off. “Look, I’m kind of busy right now. Can this wait till tomorrow?” He picked up one of the books, and had already started to read another paragraph. He had finally found the saint he was looking for, and he promptly put Karen Morton out of his mind.
The girl looked at him for a moment She needed to talk, but he didn’t want to listen. She felt her anger growing, and started out of the room. And then, just as she was at the door, she spun around.
“Maybe I should try to kill myself, like Judy!” she cried. “Then maybe you’d pay some attention to me.”
The words jarred Peter loose from the book in front of him, but Karen was already gone. He could hear her feet pounding the floor as she ran down the hall. He started to get up to follow her, but another figure appeared in the door of Room 16.
Monsignor Vernon.
The two men faced each other coldly.
“You handled that rather badly,” the priest commented.
“You aren’t in any position to criticize,” Balsam said icily, remembering the incident Saturday night.
The Monsignor ignored the remark. “What happened?” he said, and Peter knew the question was being put as the principal of the school. He explained briefly.
“I should have given her more time, I suppose,” he finished. “But I’m afraid I was too involved in my reading.”
“Oh?” the priest said, advancing toward the desk. “What is it that’s so fascinating?”
Peter quickly gathered the books together and shoved them into the bottom drawer of his desk.
“It’s not that interesting, really,” he said as he closed the drawer firmly. “Just some old psychology texts.”
The priest seemed to accept his explanation.
“There’s going to be a meeting of the Society tonight,” he said. “At the rectory, the usual time.”
“I won’t be there,” Peter said.
The priest stared at him.
“Yes,” he said. “You will be there. We need you.”
And then he was gone. Peter stared after him. There had been something in the priest’s voice, not a note of command, but something else. It was a note of knowledge, as if he didn’t feel that he needed to order Peter to attend that night; it was as if the priest had some sort of secret knowledge, a knowledge that told him that something would compel Peter’s attendance at the Society of St. Peter Martyr.
Balsam pulled the books out of his desk drawer, and left the school.
Two hours later, when he had finished his reading, it all made sense to him. Crazy sense, a sense he had difficulty accepting, but sense nevertheless. The Monsignor was right: he would attend the meeting of the Society or St. Peter Martyr that evening. But only long enough to confront them with what they were doing, and why.
And then he would leave. If they wanted to go on without him, let them. Peter didn’t think they would.
If the conclusions he had come to were correct, they needed him. But they would never have him.
20
Karen Morton hurried down the front steps of the school, her eyes straight ahead, as if by looking to either side she might tip a delicate balance and give way to the tears that were welling inside her. She wouldn’t cry. She would go straight home and spend the rest of the afternoon by herself. If nobody wanted to talk to her, that was fine with her; she certainly wouldn’t mak
e them.
It was Judy’s fault, she told herself. Judy was supposed to be her friend. Some friend! When Karen had tried to talk about what she had done to herself, about gouging her hands, Judy had laughed at her. Well, maybe not out loud, but inside she had been laughing. And everybody was paying Judy all kinds of attention, even Mr. Balsam. Mr. Balsam should have listened to her. Judy’s problems were all over with. Couldn’t he see that? But what about Karen? Who would talk to her?
Ahead of her, Karen saw Marilyn Crane hurrying down the hill. For the first time, Karen knew how Marilyn must feel. She wanted to call out to her, wanted Marilyn to wait for her. But why should Marilyn wait? Wasn’t Karen part of the group that had been making Marilyn’s life miserable for years? Maybe she should apologize to Marilyn. No, that wouldn’t work dither. There was too much to apologize for. Besides, she didn’t want to talk to Marilyn. She wanted to talk to a man. She wanted to talk to her father. He would have understood. He would have put his arms around her, and held her, and told her that it was all going to be all right. But he was dead, and there wasn’t anybody else …
She heard a car pull up beside her, and recognized the sound of the motor immediately. Jim Mulvey. She kept walking; kept staring straight ahead.
She heard the sound of his horn, then his voice. “Karen? Hey, Karen?”
She stopped, and turned slowly. He was grinning and waving to her.
“Hop in,” he called. She shook her head and started to turn away.
“Hey,” Jim said, getting out of the car. “What’s wrong? It’s me, Jim.” He caught up with her and took her arm. She wanted to shake his hand off, but didn’t
When she turned to face him, Jim realized that something really was wrong with Karen. It looked as though she was about to start crying. The bantering quality left his voice, and it softened.
“Get in the car, Karen,” he said. “I’ll take you home.” Karen let herself be led to the car, and for the first time since she’d known him, Jim Mülvey opened the door for her. She sat staring ahead as he circled the car and slid behind the wheel. They drove in silence.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jim finally said. Karen shook her head. A minute later he slowed the car and pulled over to the curb. He turned to face her.
“I heard about what Penny Anderson said at lunch today,” he said. “If that’s what’s got you upset, forget it”
“That’s not it,” Karen said dully. “Why don’t you just take me home?”
But there was something in her voice that told Jim that she didn’t really want to be taken home. He put the car in gear, but instead of driving Karen home, he headed out of town.
“Where are we going?” Karen asked, not really caring.
“Out by the lake.”
“I want to go home.”
“No, you don’t,” Jim said definitely. “You want to talk, so we’re going to go sit by the lake and talk.”
“I hate it out there,” Karen complained. “It smells bad, and there’s nothing there but scrub juniper.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Jim said.
They finished the ten-minute ride in silence. Jim drove through the picnic area, and parked at the end of the dirt road that led to a primitive boat ramp. The lake was deserted. The silence lengthened, and Jim wondered what he should say. Then he decided not to say anything. Instead, he put his arm around Karen, and pulled her toward him.
She tried to resist when he kissed her, but his arms tightened around her, and his mouth found hers. And then, as the kiss deepened, Karen felt her body responding almost in spite of herself. She needed to be held, she needed to be caressed, she needed to be loved. Her arms went around him.
“Love me, Jim,” she whispered. “Please love me.” She heard him groan as her hand went to his lap and her fingers touched his erection. She pressed closer to him and helped him as he began undressing her.
“Jesus,” Jim breathed half an hour later. “I never had it like that before. Let me know the next time you need to talk to someone.” He leered at her, and winked, and Karen felt something break inside her.
He used me, she thought. He doesn’t love me. He just wanted to fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.
She repeated the words to herself, over and over again, trying to make them take on that meaninglessness that comes when a word is used too often. It didn’t work.
She had needed to be loved, and she had only gotten laid. She tried to convince herself that there wasn’t any difference, but she knew there was. And now all the things they had been saying about her were true.
“Take me home,” she said quietly.
Jim Mulvey started the car, turned it around, and began driving back to Neilsville.
Twenty minutes later he stopped in front of the Morton house. He let the engine idle, but didn’t get out of the car.
“Aren’t you going to open the door for me?” Karen asked.
“You can do it yourself,” Jim said. He wasn’t sure why, but he was suddenly angry with Karen. All they’d done was get it on, for Christ’s sake. It should have made her feel better. And she’d sure acted like she liked it when it was happening. But now, nothing. Well, if she couldn’t talk to him, she could damned well open the door herself. He glared at her.
Karen opened the car door, scrambled out, and slammed it behind her. Then, without looking back, she hurried toward the house. Not that it would have made any difference if she had looked back; as soon as the door had slammed, she’d heard the tires scream as Jim raced away.
Karen went inside, fixed herself a TV dinner, and tried to concentrate on the television. It didn’t help. She needed to talk to someone, but there wasn’t anybody to talk to. She glanced at the clock—her mother wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet But Karen had to talk to her, had to talk to her now. She picked up the phone and called her mother at work.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, trying to keep her voice light
“What is it?” Harriet Morton asked. All her tables were full; she really didn’t have time to talk. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. I was just wondering if you could come home early tonight.”
“If we’re going to eat, I have to work,” Harriet snapped. She dropped the phone back on the hook, picked up the coffee pot, and got back to work.
Karen stared at the dead phone, and felt like dying again. Even her mother wouldn’t talk to her. She held back the tears and decided not to think about it. She wouldn’t think about anything. She’d just watch television till her mother came home, then she’d let it all out. Only a couple more hours. She glanced at the clock.
Almost ten.
Only one more hour.
And then the phone rang. Karen picked it up eagerly; maybe her mother had changed her mind and was coming home.
“Hello?” she said. “Mother?”
But it wasn’t Harriet Morton’s voice at all. It was someone else, another voice, a voice Karen thought she recognized.
“You have sinned,” the voice said. “You are evil. You must repent. Repenti”
And then it was over. The phone went dead in Karen’s hand. She dropped it to the floor this time, not even bothering to put it back in its cradle.
So it was already out
The talking was already starting.
And her mother still wasn’t home.
She stared at the clock. Only five after ten.
The desolation swept over Karen Morton, but she still wouldn’t let herself cry.
Maybe she should have let herself cry.
Maybe if she bad let herself cry, she wouldn’t have done what she did next.
Maybe she wouldn’t have gone upstairs to the bathroom, locked the door, filled the tub with warm water, and begun cutting herself.
Maybe Karen Morton should have cried instead. But she didn’t.
They sat like six birds of prey, the black of their clerical garb accentuating the paleness of their faces. They stared balefully at Peter Balsam, but he maintaine
d his calm, returning them stare for stare, matching the coldness in their eyes with his own icy demeanor.
Inside, Peter Balsam was quavering.
He could tell they didn’t believe him; he was sure they thought he had gone crazy.
The silence went on; Peter Balsam was determined not to be the one to break it. He wondered what was going through their minds. Had they simply decided to put what he had told them out of their minds entirely? Or were they thinking about his words, mulling them over, examining them?
“Just what is it you think you’re going to tell the Bishop?” Monsignor Vernon finally said.
For the first time, Peter Balsam squirmed. Why had he told them he was going to go to the Bishop? Why hadn’t he simply told them he was through with the Society of St. Peter Martyr, and let it go at that?
But they had insisted on knowing why he was leaving, and he had told them.
They had listened in silence as he told them about the chanting; they knew about that. It came to him then that the same things happened to all of them that had happened to him during those weird services: they knew something was happening, but they didn’t know what. He tried to tell them. He wanted to tell them that they were all perverts, to detail for them exactly what they were doing during their rituals. But he found he couldn’t. They were, after all, still priests. Priests, to be respected. The traditions he had grown up with took over, and he found himself unable to describe for them what went on between them. He merely told them that he had found the whole thing unspeakable.
“But you’ll be able to tell it to the Bishop?” Monsignor had said mildly at the end of Balsam’s recital.
“I won’t have to,” Peter said quietly. “I have a recording of everything that went on at the last meeting.”
“A recording?” Father Prine said blankly. “What do you mean, a recording?”
