by John Saul
Peter looked at her wryly. “It’s not confidential,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Pd like to hear what you think of it. The whole day, not just the visit with Janet.” He cast around in his mind, trying to decide where to start.
“There was a note in my box, just before the psych class. It was from Monsignor, and it told me to go to the hospital right away, that Janet wanted to talk to me. He said he’d take over my class, and I should leave as soon as I found the note. I stopped by his office to see if there were any details but he wasn’t there. So I left … “
He walked into the hospital just after eleven, and asked for Janet Connally’s room number. The nurse looked slightly annoyed; then, when he identified himself, her annoyance grew.
“Well, you certainly took long enough.” She didn’t seem to expect an answer, so Peter followed her silently down the hall. He was relieved when they passed the room Judy Nelson had been in, and turned into the next one. Janet was propped up on a pillow, watching television. As soon as she saw him she reached over and snapped the TV off.
“You certainly took long enough,” she echoed the nurse. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming at all.”
Peter sat down in the chair at the foot of the bed and looked at Janet in puzzlement “The nurse said the same thing, that I ‘certainly took long enough.’ I came as soon as I got the message.”
“It must be the school, then,” Janet complained. “I called at seven-thirty this morning, and talked to Monsignor. He promised he’d give you the message as soon as you got there.” She smiled sheepishly. “I really did a number on him, Mr. Balsam. I tried to make it sound like I was dying, and that if you didn’t come instantly, terrible things were going to happen to me. But I guess he didn’t believe me.”
Or, more likely, chose to ignore it, Peter thought. He looked at Janet carefully, trying to determine if she was as well as she appeared to be.
Last night this girl had tried to hang herself.
Today she was the same as she had always seemed—happy, cheerful, with no apparent problems. Or were the problems just too well concealed for his eyes to see?
“I look too good, don’t I?” Janet said. Her perceptiveness startled Balsam and made him wary.
“I don’t know,” he said evasively. “How do you feel?”
“No different than ever,” Janet responded immediately. Thea, realizing the answer could have a double meaning, she clarified it. “That means fine. I feel fine now, and I felt fine yesterday.”
“Then why are you here?” Peter said, trying to approach the issue obliquely. Janet, in her straightforward way, hit it head on.
“Because I hung myself last night. Or tried to. I’ve been trying all morning to decide if an attempt counts. I mean, since I’m not dead or anything, do I say ‘I hung myself,’ or ‘I tried to hang myself?”
Peter bit his lip, suddenly nervous. She must be covering up something. She had to be. But what? He decided to be as forthright as she.
“Janet,” he said somberly, “it isn’t funny. You hung yourself—or if you want to be absolutely correct, “hanged yourself—last night. If your father hadn’t gotten to you as quickly as he did, you’d be dead right now. As it is, you’re lucky you didn’t suffer any brain damage.”
The grin vanished from Janet’s face, and she shifted in the bed. When she spoke, the lightness had gone from her voice.
“I know it isn’t funny,” she said. “But right now it’s the only way I can cope with it. If I don’t make fun of it, I think I’ll go crazy. I might be crazy anyway.”
Peter Balsam’s brows arched, and she took the expression as a question.
“That’s why I called you. I suppose I should talk to Dr. Shields, but I just can’t. He’s nice, but I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. You’ve seen me every day this semester—”
“Which has barely begun,” Peter broke in.
“All right, so it’s barely begun. But you’ve seen me every day, and you know what I’m like. Or, anyway, better than Dr. Shields does. Dr. Shields is sure to think I’m some kind of a nut I mean, what else can he think? Anybody’d have to be crazy to do what I did.”
Peter decided to take a gamble. “Then by your own terms, you’re crazy.”
She stared at him for a moment then nodded.
“I know. That’s why I called you. You decide if “I’m crazy.”
Tm not qualified,” Peter protested.
“I don’t care.” Janet said. “You’re the one I want to talk to. There isn’t anybody else I can talk to. Don’t you see? Dr. Shields has to think I’m crazy, and why shouldn’t he? And everybody élse—well, you know what it’s like around here. Particularly at school. All they’ll do is tell me I’m a sinner, and give me a penance. But I’m not a sinner.”
Peter moved his chair closer to the bed and took Janet’s hand.
“All right” he said gently. “What happened?”
“First, I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t. Oh, yes, I did, I know, but I didn’t really.” Her face twisted in frustration. “I’m sorry,” she went on, forcing herself to relax. “I know none of this makes sense, but just listen to me, then you try to figure out what happened. I’ve tried, and I can’t, and I’m scared. So please, help me?” For the first time since he’d gotten there, Peter Balsam saw the part of Janet Connally that was still a small child. He wanted to hold her and comfort her. ‘ “I’ll listen,” he said softly. “I’ll me what happened.”
“I keep telling you,” Janet said. “I don’t know what happened. Where shall I start?” Without waiting for an answer she went right on talking. “Everything was fine yesterday, or as fine as it could be, what with Karen and all. I don’t know how I got caught up in what happened at church. In fact, I can barely remember it. We must have sounded like a bunch of Holy Rollers. Anyway, after it was over with, I went home with my parente, and we watched television for awhile. Then I went up to do my homework.” She stopped talking. Peter waited patiently for her to resume the story. Finally he prompted her.
“And?”
She looked at him bleakly. “And that’s when it happened. I was studying, and all of a sudden I got this crazy urge to hang myself. At first I told myself it was ridiculous, that there wasn’t a reason in the world why I should want to kill myself. But I still wanted to. So I sat there for about an hour, and argued with myself. I mean, I literally argued with myself. But the feeling wouldn’t go away.”
“But why? There must have been some reason why you wanted to kill yourself.”
“That’s the part that makes me think I must be crazy. There wasn’t any reason. Just this incredible urge to hang myself. And I did.”
Balsam nodded gravely. “This may sound strange, but do you remember what it was like?”
“It wasn’t like anything. I mean, there I was, getting a chair, and putting it under the chandelier in my room, and taking an extension cord, and tying it around my neck. And all the time wondering why I was doing it, and trying to make myself stop. But I couldn’t.”
“It must have been frightening.”
“That’s what I kept thinking, too. But it wasn’t. All the time, there was just this strange sense of not being able to control myself. Like a puppet. It was just like someone was pulling strings, and I had to do whatever they wanted me to do.” Her voice suddenly became bitter. “So I stood up on the chair, and tied the cord around my neck, and kicked the chair away.” The blood drained from her face as she remembered it “What if they hadn’t been home? What if Mom and Dad had gone out last night?” Janet Connally shuddered, and fell silent.
Peter Balsam turned the story over in his mind. It all seemed preposterous, and if it had been anybody but Janet telling him, he would have been inclined to discount it But not Janet Her assessment of herself coincided exactly with his own, and the story had the ring of truth. Or of what Janet thought was the truth. Then her voice interru
pted his thoughts.
“Mr. Balsam,” she said, almost pleading, “am I crazy?”
“Do you feel crazy?” he countered.
“No.”
“And you don’t look crazy, and you don’t sound crazy. Granted, the story sounds crazy, but you don’t So,” he went on, more lightly, “I think we can assume that since you don’t feel like a duck, look like a duck, or sound like a duck, you probably aren’t a duck.”
“Probably,” she said, repeating the qualifying word.
Peter Balsam shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said ‘absolutely’?” He was pleased when she smiled again.
“No. And ‘probably’ is a lot better than I was doing by myself.” Silence. Then: “Mr. Balsam, what am I going to do?” Again, the plaintive, childlike quality in the voice.
Balsam had been expecting the question. But when it came, he had no ready answer. All he could offer was some reassurance.
“Try not to worry,” he said. “Just relax, try to stop worrying, and I’ll go talk to Dr. Shields and see if I can convince him that you aren’t quite ready for the looney bin yet.” And talk to him about a few other things, he silently added to himself. He squeezed Janet’s hand one last time, and stood up. “Do you need anything?”
Janet shook her head. She started to speak, stopped, then started again. “Mr. Balsam? Thanks for coming. I feel better just talking about it to someone.”
“There’s lots of people you can talk to about it,” he said.
Janet smiled wanly. “I suppose so. But not around here.” Then, as if to preclude any answer, she reached out and switched the television set back on. Peter Balsam stood in the doorway for a second or two longer, then turned and left the room.
He approached the nurses’ station and waited for the nurse to finish with the chart she was working on. Finally, she looked up and put on a practiced smile.
“Can you tell me where Dr. Shields’s office is?”
“I’d better show you.” She stood up and led him down the hall. “You’re the psychology teacher, aren’t you?” Her voice stayed carefully neutral, and Peter wondered whether the question was hostile.
“Yes.”
“And all these girls … they’re in your class, aren’t they?”
“I’m afraid they are.”
The nurse smiled tightly. “Must be some class,” she observed. Then, before Peter could respond, she was pointing to a door. “Dr. Shields’s office is right through there.” And she was gone. Peter watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from view, then went into the reception room she had indicated, and tapped on the inner door, half-hoping Margo would come out. Instead, Dr. Shields himself opened the door.
“Excuse me,” Peter said. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—”
“Peter Balsam,” Dr. Shields said, opening the door wide. “I’ve been expecting you.” He held the door until Peter was inside the inner office, then closed it firmly. Instead of taking the chair behind the desk, he seated himself in one of the armchairs that flanked a small table, and gestured for Peter to take the other.
“Expecting me?” Balsam asked.
“Janet Connally. Ever since she was admitted she’s been saying you were the only one she wanted to talk to. So this morning we gave in, and let her call you. I assumed that as a matter of—what shall we call it? professional courtesy?—you’d drop by to see me after you talked to her.”
“I have a few questions of my own.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dr. Shields said, observing Balsam behind a smile.
As Balsam related the conversation he’d had with Janet Connally, Dr. Shields found himself putting all his attention on what the giri had said. When Balsam finished the story, Shields’s first question was, “Will she tell me the same story?”
Balsam nodded. “I told her I was going to try to convince you that she’s not crazy.”
“You don’t think she is?”
“I don’t.”
“What about her story? Do you believe it?”
“I don’t know,” Balsam said carefully. “I guess I’d have to say that I do. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The control thing. It sounded as though she thinks she’s a victim of some kind of mind control.” Peter’s expression grew intense, and his voice took on a note of urgency. “Is it possible? I mean suppose, just suppose, that a group of people was trying to exercise its will on others. Without the others knowing what was happening. Could it be done?”
Why doesn’t he say it? Dr. Shields wondered. Why doesn’t he say he’s thinking of the Society of St Peter Martyr? Aloud he said:
“Who knows? I suppose anything’s possible. But I’d say it’s highly improbable. I don’t think anything of the sort is going on.”
“Something’s going on,” Peter stated.
“Of course it is,” Dr. Shields agreed. “Answer this: Are they all friends? Judy Nelson? Karen Morton? Janet Connally?”
“Close friends. And there’s one more in the group. A girl named Penny Anderson.”
“Then it’s pretty obvious what’s happening,” Dr. Shields said. “It’s called a suicide contagion.”
Peter Balsam had heard the term before, but wasn’t sure what it meant. “A what?”
“Suicide contagion. Put simply, the urge to self-destruction passing from one person to another. It’s not unusual, in fact. But it almost always happens in an institutional environment. Read ‘hospital’ for that And it’s almost always restricted to teen-aged girls. There’s even a term for them—’Slashers.’ In some places, it’s gotten so bad that entire wards of teen-age girls have had to be put under physical restriction to keep them from cutting themselves.”
Balsam’s eyes widened in surprise. “But what causes it?”
“It’s a hysterical condition,” Dr. Shields explained. “As far as I know, though, it only occurs in hospitals, and the victims are always pretty unstable types to begin with.” He paused, considering. “But what’s happening up at St. Francis Xavier’s sounds like a suicide contagion to me.”
“But couldn’t it be something else?” Peter Balsam felt himself grabbing at straws. “You said they were called slashers. That certainly fits Judy Nelson and Karen Morton. But what about Janet? She didn’t cut herself.”
Dr. Shields shrugged expressively. “I don’t know. Until today, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of a suicide contagion. Now, I have to. But mind control? I don’t think so.”
When he left the psychiatrist’s office a few minutes later, Peter Balsam felt more alone than ever. Alone, and frightened …
“The whole thing sounds too bizarre to be believed,” Margo said.
“It is too bizarre to be believed,” Peter said, “but it’s happening.”
Margo fell silent, thinking. Dr. Shields had already told her Peter’s story. But Dr. Shields had gone further, and Margo decided it was time to tell Peter about it.
“You should talk to Dr. Shields about the Society,” she said. “Since he already knows about it.”
“He knows about it? How?”
Suddenly Margo felt guilty, as if she had betrayed a trust But she hadn’t talked to the psychiatrist to betray Peter; only to gain some insight
“I told him,” she said. “I’ve been talking to him a lot lately, about you … about us.”
“And about the Society?” It was almost an accusation.
“Of course about the Society. Peter, the Society has been a pretty big thing between us.”
“How much did you tell him?” Peter felt embarrassed, as if a private part of him had been exposed for public scrutiny.
“Not much,” Margo hastened to assure him. “As little as possible, really.” She smiled at Peter wryly. “I guess I didn’t want him to think we were both crazy.”
“Is that what you think?”
“You know it isn’t.” Hurt edged Margo’s voice and Peter was immediately sorry. Before he could apologize, the telephone rang.
Margo took the receiver and carried on a one-sided conversation. Though she said very little, Peter knew something was wrong. Her complexion turned chalky. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she hung up and turned to him.
“It can’t be …”she began.
“What—?”
“Penny Anderson. They found her half an hour ago. Peter, she’s dead.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Peter sank back into his chair, and buried his face in his hands. Then, forcing himself, he looked up at Margo again.
“How?”
“She—she cut herself. At the school. In the restroom.” Margo was already gathering her things together. “I have to go to the hospital. Leona’s there—she’s in pretty bad shape—and Dr. Shields says there are other people there, too. All of them suffering from all kinds of strange symptoms. He says it’s hysteria, and it seems like it’s all over the place.”
Peter pulled himself together. “I’ll go with you.”
“No!” Margo said the word too sharply, and immediately regretted it. Dr. Shields had warned her. Some of the people were saying the whole mess was Peter Balsam’s fault; whatever she did, she mustn’t let him come to the hospital with her. “I—I’d rather go by myself,” Margo stammered.
T see,” Peter said, the situation suddenly becoming clear to him. “Yes, I suppose I should stay here.” He looked mutely at Margo, and she wanted to go to him, hold him, stay with him.
Instead, she turned, and hurried out of his apartment.
Peter washed the dishes, then tried to read. He tried the television next, then turned it off and went back to his book. Finally he went to bed. But before he turned off the lights he made sure to lock and bolt the front door. Then, as an afterthought, and feeling silly, he moved a chair in front of the door as well.
lust before he turned off the lights, he wondered whether he’d taken the precautions to keep others out, or himself in. But he put the thought out of his mind, and went to bed.
He woke up the next morning more tired than he had been the night before. He felt restless, and sweaty, as if he’d been running all night. He’d had bad dreams. Dreams about the Society of St. Peter Martyr.
