Punish the Sinners (27 page)

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost eleven,” Peter said. “I woke up half an hour ago and decided to let you sleep. I guess I shouldn’t have.”

The dream came back to her, and she looked at him, tried to separate him from the Peter Balsam in her dream. But she couldn’t quite do it, and she had to tell him why.

“Peter,” she said softly, “there’s something I didn’t tell you last night. Part of my dream just now wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. Last night I—well, I got so nervous waiting for you here that I decided to go for a walk. And I found myself walking up the hill. To the rectory.”

“Is that why you looked so strange when I came in last night?”

She nodded miserably. “I already knew what had been going on at the rectory, long before I heard the tape. I must have been outside the window of Monsignore study for hours, listening.” She looked at him beseechingly. “You have no idea what it was like. I didn’t want to listen, but I couldn’t make myself go away. I stayed until it was almost over. I only got back here about forty-five minutes before you did.”

“Why did you stay?” Peter asked gravely. “I don’t think I would have.”

“I had to. I had to see you, to see if you knew what was going on up there. And you didn’t. I could tell from your face.” Her voice rose. “Oh, Peter, they’re doing such horrible things to you.”

She flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. Only this time, Peter picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

   “What are you going to do?”

It was an hour later, and they lay in bed, her head resting on his stomach.

“I’m not sure,” Peter said. “I have to stop it. I can’t let them keep doing what they’re doing.”

“But what can you do?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could take the tape to the Bishop, but frankly, I don’t think he’d do anything. The only thing he could do is talk to Monsignor and the rest of them, and of course they’d deny they were doing anything wrong.”

“But those sounds …”

“Religious ecstasy,” Peter said, trying to make light of the whole mess. “The sounds we were making thirty minutes ago weren’t much different.”

Margo blushed, remembering, then spoke again.

“But you have to do something.”

“I know,” Peter said. “And I’m going to have to do it alone. No one’s going to believe what’s on that tape.”

“I can back you up,” Margo said softly.

Peter shook his head violently. “Pm going to have to do it on my own. I’ll talk to the Bishop again, but I don’t think anything will come of it. And believe me, I won’t be going to any more meetings of the Society of St. Peter Martyr.”

“What about the dance tonight?”

“I’ll go, of course. That’s going to come under the
heading of acting as if nothing had happened. And all of a sudden I think it’s important that I be there. Important for me, and important for the kids.”

Then he remembered Sister Marie, and her strange evasiveness yesterday morning.

“And there’s someone I have to talk to,” he said softly, thinking: Someone who knows more about all this than she’s told me.

He decided not to tell Margo about Sister Marie.

   The gymnasium of St. Francis Xavier High School had that look of slightly seedy festivity produced by high-school students valiantly trying to convert a gymnasium into a ballroom. The crepe-paper streamers, already beginning to go limp as the dance was beginning, hung unevenly from the light fixtures and the basketball hoops, serving more to accentuate the unsuitability of the room than to lend their intended air of gaiety.

Marilyn Crane sat unhappily in one corner of the gym, the corner farthest from the door, and wondered for the tenth time why she had come. For the tenth time she answered herself; she was here to make her mother happy, and because her sister Greta had always come to the dances in the gym. The fact that Greta always had a date had not struck her mother as particularly relevant. So Marilyn sat in her corner, half hoping to be left alone and unnoticed, half hoping someone—anyone—would come over to talk to her. No one did.

The room began to fill up, and Marilyn watched the sisters in their black habits cruising among the students like so many dignified black swans in a flock of brightly colored, raucously quacking ducks. Marilyn wondered how they did it; wondered if that mystic self-confidence was issued to the sisters along with their habits. Marilyn particularly liked to watch Sister Marie, her wimple
framing her pretty face in a way that seemed to accentuate her beauty rather than lend her an air of remoteness.

Sister Marie, unaware of Marilyn’s scrutiny, was standing by the main entrance, greeting each of aie students as he came in, and doing her best to keep her right toe from tapping to the music too obviously. Years of practice in front of a mirror had taught her the precise amount of movement she could make under the heavy folds of her habit without causing the telltale swaying of the material that had constantly given her away during her novitiate. But she still tended to get carried away, particularly since the advent of the rock era. Rock music always set her foot to tapping far in excess of the tolerance of her habit. She saw Janet Connally coming in, and smiled easily.

“All by yourself tonight?” she grinned.

“I get to meet more boys if I come alone,” Janet said. “Besides, Judy couldn’t come, Karen’s here with Jim, and Penny is working the refreshment table with Jeff Bremmer.”

“How is Judy?” Sister Marie asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“All right, I guess,” Janet said slowly. “She came home yesterday, and she’s supposed to be back in school on Monday.”

“That’ll be nice,” Sister Marie said emphatically. “I’ve missed her.”

“Sister Marie,” Janet began. She wanted to ask the nun if she knew what was going to happen to Judy, but suddenly, without really knowing why, changed her mind.

“Yes?” the nun prompted her.

“Nothing,” Janet said. Suddenly she felt nervous, and wanted to be elsewhere. “I think I’d better say hello to
Penny.” She moved off quickly, and her place was taken by Monsignor Vernon, who had been standing a few feet behind her.

“Monsignor,” Sister Marie greeted him gravely, her cheerful smile disappearing.

“Sister Marie,” the priest acknowledged her greeting, looking dolefully around the room. “Well.” The word was uttered in a tone that conveyed deep disapproval

“I think it looks nice,” Sister Marie said tentatively.

“I wonder if it’s the sort of thing we should be encouraging.”

Sister Marie knew what was coming, knew how the Monsignor felt about frivolous activities—sinful activities. She knew about St. Peter Martyr, and about the Monsignor’s fascination with the saint Often, in the lonely privacy of her cell, she had wondered where that fascination had come from, and where it would lead the priest And sometimes it frightened her. As it had frightened her when she finally remembered where she had seen that odd handwriting on the note Peter Balsam had shown her a few days ago.

Now, sensing that the Monsignor was about to launch into one of his tirades, she glanced quickly around for a diversion.

“I think I see Penny Anderson waving to me,” she said, moving away from the priest. “I’d better see if she needs any help.” Before Monsignor Vernon could make a reply, the nun was gone, gliding through the crowd, smiling and nodding to the students as they danced around her. The priest watched her go, his eyes noting the contrast between her dark habit and the brightly colored dresses of his charges. He felt his anger surging up, silently wished he could turn the clock back, turn time back to an easier day, when girls dressed modestly and a priest was respected.

Monsignor Vernon’s expression grew even more severe as he watched the teen-agers merrily greeting Sister Marie as she made her way through the room. Not one of them had spoken to him. He turned, and walked back into the foyer of the gym, glad to be away from the glittering lights and festooning crepe.

   Peter Balsam glanced at his watch as he hurried up the steps of the gymnasium: he was already ten minutes late, and he had intended to be at least that much early. He burst through the door into the foyer, and almost collided with the Monsignor. He felt his heart pound at the sight of the priest, and hoped his voice wouldn’t give his feelings away. He wanted to back away, then turn and flee, but he forced himself to stand his ground and smile a greeting.

‘Monsignor,” he said. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

The priest seemed pleased to see him, and Peter began to relax. Maybe he was going to be able to pull it off after all.

“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.