by John Saul
“And there’s something else,” the priest said somberly. “Were you aware that Karen Morton left a note?”
“A note?” No, Peter certainly wasn’t aware of it
“Yes,” the priest lied. “A very disturbing note. She said something about us—you and me—to the effect that she thought and I think I can quote it, ‘something is going on between them.’ Nonsense, of course, but if you left right now—well, I’m sure you can see my point. There would be talk, wouldn’t there?”
Peter Balsam felt defeat wash over him. Yes, he agreed to himself, it certainly would cause talk. Particularly since it was true. But that “something” had gone on only in the meeting of the Society of St Peter Martyr. How could Karen have known about that? Or did she? Maybe she had simply hit a nerve by accident Not that it mattered. Either way, he was caught Karen Morton was dead, and Peter Balsam was trapped. He looked up at his superior, and knew he was expected to say something.
“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll stay. But I’m still going to talk to the Bishop about the Society.”
“I assumed you were,” the Monsignor said coldly. “You’ll be wasting your time.” He stood up. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” Peter said, his voice as cold as the priest’s. And then something occurred to him. “Yes, there is,” he added, eyeing Vernon carefully. “I was wondering where I might find Sister Marie. There’s something I need to talk to her about.”
An odd look passed over the priest’s face, and Peter felt a surge of triumph. He had shaken the man. But then the Monsignor’s face cleared.
“I’m afraid she’s not here,” he said smoothly. “Shell be away for a while.”
“Away?” Peter asked warily. “What do you mean, ‘away’?”
“Periodically, Sister Marie goes into retreat.” He smiled thinly. “Pm afraid her vocation isn’t always as strong as it might be, and we’ve found, both of us, that it helps her to get away from here now and then. Shell be back.”
“But she didn’t tell me she was going away,” Peter protested, his hopes suddenly fading.
“Of course she didn’t,” the priest said easily. “Why would she?”
The interview was over.
“You should celebrate the Mass yourself,” Father Martinelli said. He was sitting in the study of the rectory with Monsignor Vernon, though only he was sitting. The Monsignor was pacing.
“It’s a sacrilege,” he muttered.
“I don’t see how,” Father Martinelli said emphatically. “Whatever people may think privately, we know tonight’s Mass is not for Karen Morton.”
“That isn’t the point,” Monsignor Vernon replied. “Of course we know the Mass isn’t for Karen Morton. How could it be?—she wasn’t in a state of grace when she died. The point is that the people intend to make it a Mass for Karen. And the only way we can prevent that is to cancel the Mass entirely.”
“And what will that accomplish?” the old man asked, tiredly. “We’ll only face the same thing at the next Mass. There is no way we can stop our parishioners from praying for Karen Morton, and I’m not even sure we should try.”
“But it’s wrong,” Monsignor Vernon insisted. “There’s no other way of looking at it. When that girl killed herself she committed a sin beyond redemption. She has no rights within the Church whatsoever.”
Father Martinelli sighed, and his ancient mind tried to sort out the problem. Technically, the Monsignor was right, and yet there was more to the problem. In the church, the parishioners were gathering, expecting to hear Mass, needing to hear Mass. Shouldn’t their needs be met? He peered out the window of the rectory, and saw the people still streaming up the hill.
It had begun an hour ago. Ordinarily the turnout for a mid-week Mass was next to zero, even in a parish as devout as St. Francis Xavier. But today was different, and there could be only one reason. The people were coming because of Karen Morton. It had been this way all day. As the word of the girl’s suicide spread through Neilsville, the people had begun drifting in and out of the church, praying briefly, and leaving only after silently lighting a candle.
And then, half an hour ago, they had begun arriving for the evening Mass. They kept arriving, until the church was as full as it ever was on Easter Sunday. Two things can fill the church, Father Martinelli reflected—the hope of eternal life, and the fear of unexpected, and inexplicable, death. He had watched them stream into the church, and been pleased; Father Martinelli didn’t really care about why people came to church. He only cared that they came. But with Monsignor Vernon it was different.
For the Monsignor, it wasn’t enough that they were there; they had to be there for the right reasons. And to pray for Karen Morton wasn’t, in Monsignor Vernon’s strict religion, a suitable reason. And so they were discussing the possibility of canceling the Mass entirely.
“I’ll have no part of it,” the Monsignor said in a tone that told Father Martinelli the discussion was over. But then he relented. “If you want to conduct it yourself, I won’t stop you. However, the consequences are your responsibility.” Abruptly, the Monsignor left the room.
As he made his way to the church and began the vesting processes, Father Martinelli wondered what consequences the Monsignor could be talking about.
Peter Balsam dipped his fingers in the font, made the sign of the cross, and slipped into one of the back pews. In front of him, he saw Leona Anderson turn and glare. He pretended not to notice, and picked up his prayer book.
He glanced around the church, recognizing some of the people, just as the organ music surged out of the loft, and the service began.
The first disturbance came when the congregation saw that Monsignor Vernon was not conducting the Mass. They buzzed and whispered among themselves as the stooped figure of Father Martinelli moved unsurely up the aisle. Peter quickly searched for the face of the Monsignor, and was not surprised when he didn’t find it.
The Mass began, but it was soon apparent that something was happening. Tonight, the responses, which normally brought only a few garbled murmurs from the congregation, came full-throated from the entire body of the church. Father Martinelli appeared to be unaware of anything unusual, and his quavering voice droned steadily on with the Mass. But Peter tried to locate a focal point for the phenomenon. He found it almost immediately.
Tonight, all of Karen Morton’s friends, instead of sitting with their families, were knotted together near the center of the church. All of them—Judy Nelson, Janet Connally, Penny Anderson, and several others. Apart from them, sitting by herself, was Marilyn Crane.
Marilyn had come alone to the evening service, as she always did, and had taken her usual place near the statue of the Blessed Virgin. She had been engrossed in her prayers, begging the Sorrowful Mother to forgive her for the cruel thoughts she had had about Karen Morton in the past, and asking the Queen of Angels to intercede on behalf of Karen, when she had become aware that the church was filling up around her. Yet no one sat next to her. Suddenly she felt conspicuous, and found it difficult to concentrate on her devotions.
Then it began.
It was soft at first, a barely discernible murmur against the full tones of the organ, but then it began to grow, and, as the last chords of the organ died away, the church was filled with a different kind of music, the music of the human voice.
It was the girls.
They were clustered together, and clasping each other’s hands, though otherwise it didn’t seem that they were aware of each other’s presence. Except for Judy Nelson, all of them were wailing, tears streaming down their faces, their heads tilted upward toward the church ceiling, as if they were searching for something in the heights.
Father Martinelli tried to ignore them and raised his voice to continue the mass over the growing wail.
But the sound continued to grow, and suddenly the girls were on their feet, swaying together, and crying out in a voice that seemed filled as much with exaltation as grief.
Father Martine
lli faltered in the service, then stopped altogether. He glanced around for help, but there was none. Instead, he saw only troubled faces looking to him for leadership. Immediately he went into the brae-diction, and the organist picked up his cue.
As the girls’ keening rose, filling the church, the organ blared out, mixing with the high-pitched lamentations and creating a chaos of sound that made the final words of the benediction inaudible.
It didn’t matter. Already the congregation was beginning to move nervously toward the doors, embarrassed to be in the presence of such clearly expressed grief, unnerved by the adolescents’ display of emotion.
To Peter Balsam, it was obvious that the girls were caught up in a hysterical response to their friend’s death. He rose and moved toward them.
But, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. It was as if the girls had come out of a trance, and the moment they became aware of each other again, they looked at each other, giggled nervously, and hurried out of the church. Behind them, more slowly, Judy Nelson walked up the center aisle. As she passed the spot where Peter Balsam stood, she suddenly turned to him, and smiled. He supposed it was intended as a friendly smile, but it made him cold. He felt a shiver in his back, and quickly looked away. By the time he got hold of himself, and turned back to face her, she was gone.
Only one figure remained in the church. Marilyn Crane sat huddled in her pew, and seemed unaware of what had been going on.
As, indeed, she was. She had been concentrating on the Sorrowful Mother, and when the strange wailing had begun she was sure it was inside her own head. There was no other explanation for it; such sounds as these were never heard in any church Marilyn Crane had ever attended. And then, when they ended, she realized she was alone in the church. She decided that the Blessed Vrigin wanted something from her, and was sending her a sign. She approached the statue, and lit a candle.
She waited for the message.
For a long time nothing happened. Then the urge swept through her. She wanted to put her hand in the flame. She fought the urge, but it grew inside her: this was the message from the Sorrowful Mother; this was the sign.
Marilyn Crane reached out and put the palm of her hand over the flame of the votive light. She lowered her hand until she could see the flame touching her skin. There was no pain. The Virgin was protecting her from pain. It was just as Judy Nelson had told her. It was beautiful.
Marilyn held her hand steady, and didn’t remove it from the fire until she smelled the sickly-sweet odor of charring flesh. When she did pull her hand from the flame, she stood still for a few moments, staring awestruck at the wound. Yes, she told herself, Judy was right There is no such thing as pain.
As she pondered the new truth, Marilyn Crane crossed herself, thanked the Blessed Virgin for the message, and slowly walked from the church.
Peter Balsam had almost reached the sanctuary doors when something caught his eye, and he paused. Then he realized he was staring at one of the saints.
St. Acerinus.
St. Acerinus, the canonized Piero da Balsama.
The saint seemed to be staling down at him accusingly, as if Peter had started something, but not finished it Peter Balsam told himself that he was being ridiculous, that he was imagining things. He tore himself away from the saint’s sightless gaze, and started from the church. But he had a feeling of being watched.
When he turned around, Monsignor Vernon was standing in the chancel, observing him, a look of strange serenity on his face.
22
Earlier they had all gone to church; now they were gathered on Main Street, the parents at the drugstore, their children across the street. There was something new in Neilsville—a discotheque—and the St Francis Xavier crowd had flocked there tonight.
Leona Anderson stabbed fretfully at her banana split, part of her attention focused on the meager size of the dessert (which she was sure had shrunk by at least fifty percent since she had been a teen-ager), the rest of it silently protesting the noise from across the street
The Praying Mantis—she wondered how they came up with such a silly name—had opened only a month ago, and Leona’s worst fears had been immediately justified. A few of the Neilsville High students had drifted in, but it quickly became obvious that the disco was going to be the headquarters for the youngsters from St Francis Xavier’s. Leona had visions of drug traffic—or worse. She was sure the opening of the Praying Mantis spelled the end of decent living in Neilsville.
“Isn’t there a law against making that much noise?” Inez Nelson complained from the opposite side of the booth. Leona shook her head grimly.
“I checked, of course,” she said. “It’s zoned for commercial use. They can do whatever they want” Her tone implied that she was sure they were doing exactly that, and that “whatever they want” went far beyond blasting a jukebox at top volume. “I’m not sure we should allow the girls to go there,” Leona continued. She glared out the window at the offending building, as if by simply staring at it she could make it disappear.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Inez Nelson said tentatively. “Things just aren’t the same as they were when we were teen-agers. I suppose you have to bend with the wind. Times change.”
“Do they?” Leona asked crossly. “Then why are we sitting here in the same drugstore we sat in twenty years ago? It’s more than that, Inez. Sometimes I fed as if we’ve lost control of things.”
Inez stirred her coffee silently, wishing she could deny the truth of what Leona had said. If she had ever been in control, that time was certainly over by now. Ever since Judy had come home from the hospital, Inez had felt like she was walking on eggs. Being manipulated. She knew it was wrong, knew she should be more forceful with her daughter, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t She was too frightened of what might happen. Particularly after last night. Inez knew she’d never forget the look on Harriet Morton’s face as they led her out of the house to take her to the hospital.
Leona’s right, she thought. We have lost control. She followed Leona’s gaze and she, too, began conjuring up images of the bizarre things that must be going on inside the Praying Mantis. A few minutes later the noise became too much for them, and the women fled.
The truth was that not much at all was going on in the discotheque. The jukebox was blaring, but from inside the large room, the music seemed somewhat hollow and desperate.
A few of the teen-agers were dancing, but it was a desultory kind of dancing. For the most part, they were clustered around tables, sitting, the music vibrating against them, trying to forget that Karen Morton was no longer with them.
Except for Janet Connally, whose mother had insisted that she go home right after the services ended, the group of girls who had created the disturbance at the church were there. But they were no longer all together. Judy Nelson was sitting alone, taking in her surroundings unhappily.
It was sleazy, hastily thrown together, without the money to do it right. Rock posters covered the walls; a sensuously sweating Mick Jagger, apparently in a state of sustained orgasm, presided over a gallery of his second- and third-rate imitators.
A makeshift light panel had been tied into the jukebox, but instead of creating the psychedelic visual symphony that had been intended, the crude box could produce no more than an occasional flash of red or green. Because of the poor quality of the light show, another lighting system had been installed, consisting of several strings of outdoor Christmas lights that glowed eerily in the dimness. In the center of the room, slowly revolving, hung the immense papier-mâché insect for which the place was named. Had Leona Anderson seen the inside of the Praying Mantis, much of her worry would have been displaced by disgust, and she would have wondered why the kids wanted to be there in the first place. But it was, for the students of St. Francis Xavier’s, the only game in town.
And so they were gathered, trying in their own way to pretend that everything was all right. It might have worked if Jim Mulvey had not been sitting alone at a table, a const
ant reminder of Karen Morton’s absence.
Penny Anderson broke away from the group she had been standing with, and glanced around. She saw Judy Nelson sitting alone, and started across the room to join her. Before she had taken three steps, she realized that Jim Mulvey was also sitting by himself. On an impulse, Penny changed her course and approached Jim’s table.
“Hi,” she said. He looked up disinterestedly. “Okay if I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the chair next to Jim. He glanced at her once more, not smiling, then turned his attention back to his Coke.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Penny said softly. “About Karen.” She waited for a reaction, and when there was none, she continued talking. “We’re all going to miss her, you know. I mean, Judy and Janet and me. We’ve always been sort of a foursome, ever since we were little. Of course, in the last year or so—” Penny suddenly broke off. It had been in the last year or so that Karen had started dating Jim Mulvey.
Now Jim looked at her curiously. “What were you going to say?” he said bitterly. “Were you going to say that in the last year or so—ever since she started going with me—Karen changed?” Jim stared accusingly at Penny.
“N-no—” Penny stammered. “I wasn’t going to say that at all.”
“Yes, you were,” Jim said flatly, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t you think I know what’s been going on? Don’t you think I’ve heard the talk? Hell, I started some of it.” He stared sourly into his Coke, and when he spoke again, Penny wasn’t sure he was talking to her. “It’s my fault,” he said so quietly Penny could hardly hear him. “I never treated her the way she wanted to be treated. I never talked to her. I should have talked to her. If I had, none of this would ever have happened.”
Penny reached out and touched his hand. He seemed so unhappy, so unsure of himself. Not at all like the Jim Mulvey she had grown up with. The cockiness, the self-confidence, had vanished.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said. Then, as if trying to convince herself, she added, “It isn’t anyone’s fault.”
