Punish the Sinners (11 page)

“Dr. Shields,” Mrs. Williams said nervously.

“Shields?” George Nelson repeated. “He’s a psychiatrist, isn’t he?”

“Yes—” She started to explain. Inez cut her off.

“A psychiatrist? Just to bandage Judy’s wrists? I don’t understand.” Mrs. Williams was sure she did understand; she just didn’t want to face it.

“I’m sure you do,” she said. Suddenly, since the issue was met, she felt on firmer ground. “With wounds like Judy’s, calling in a psychiatrist is standard procedure.”

“Wounds like Judy’s?” Inez said vaguely.

“I think she means self-inflicted wounds,” George said quietly. Inez’s face remained blank. Shock, George realized; she must have gone into shock and blocked out the details of what happened. He signaled Mrs. Williams aside.

“Is Dr. Shields around?” he whispered. “I’d like to talk to him, and I think he should probably have a look at my wife, too.”

Suddenly understanding his meaning, Mrs. Williams stole a glance in Inez’s direction. She was gone. Quickly she looked up and down the hall. Inez was striding purposefully toward Judy’s room.

“Mrs. Nelson,” she called, but it was too late.

Inez Nelson pushed open the door to the hospital room, and stepped in. She didn’t see Judy at first but she heard her.

“Get her out of here,” Judy screamed. ‘I told you I didn’t want her in here!”

Inez whirled, and saw her daughter propped up in bed. She could barely recognize her. Judy’s face was contorted with anger, and she was tearing at the bandages at her wrists. Inez started to move toward the bed. Before she could get there Judy had pulled the bandages off, and ripped at the stitches. Blood spurted from her wrists. She began screaming at her mother again.

“I hate you,” she shouted. “Get out of here!
Leave me alone!”

Inez tried to put her arms around her daughter, but Judy wriggled away, leaving Inez’s blouse bloodied. She stared down at herself, and the horror of it washed over her. Inez, too, began screaming, and a moment later, after she’d pressed the emergency bell, the nurse began trying to separate mother and daughter. It took her only a second to realize that of the two, the mother was far worse off than the daughter. Inez was hysterical; Judy, screaming and struggling against her mother, seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Just as the nurse herself was beginning to panic, help arrived in the form of Mrs. Williams and George Nelson, followed by a press of orderlies and nurses, who crowded into the room, creating further confusion. Three burly orderlies were attempting to pull a shrieking Inez Nelson away from the bed when Dr. Shields arrived, sized up the situation in an instant, and began issuing orders. Within minutes, sedatives were administered to both Judy and Inez Nelson.

Tm sorry, Doctor,” Mrs. Williams said when the room had been cleared, “I tried to keep her away but I couldn’t”

“It’s all right,” Dr. Shields said calmly. “I don’t see that there’s much damage done.”

“Keep her out of the room?” George Nelson repeated, “Keep her out? Why did you want to keep
lnez—my wife—out of the room?” He looked from Mrs. Williams to the doctor, then back again.

“It was my fault, really,” Dr. Shields said. “Judy said she didn’t want to see her mother right now, and I should have been here when you arrived to explain it to you. I’m sorry. The whole thing was really my fault”

But George Nelson hadn’t heard the last “Didn’t want to see her mother? Why? I don’t understand.”

Dr. Shields looked at him sympathetically, seeing the man’s confusion and helplessness. “Could you wait a couple of minutes?” he asked George. When George nodded mutely, Dr. Shields patted him on the back. “Fine,” he said. “Mrs. Williams will get you a cup of coffee, and by the time it’s cool enough to drink, I’ll be back. Then I’ll try to tell you what’s happening, and what’s going to happen next” When a look of fear came over George’s face, the doctor felt compelled to add: “It isn’t as bad as it looks.” Then he smiled reassuringly, and disappeared down the hall. George Nelson sank into a chair, prepared to wait He wondered why he suddenly felt that this was just the beginning. He was sure that it
was
as bad as it looked—and probably much worse.

   Peter Balsam heard about Judy Nelson from a very agitated Sister Marie, who called him as soon as she heard about it from Sister Elizabeth—who had gotten all the details from the janitor. Sister Marie seemed to think the whole thing was her fault—she had been unable to find Judy during the afternoon. And now this had happened. Sister Marie felt terribly guilty. Balsam assured her that no matter what had happened, there was no reason for the nun to blame herself. He did not add, since he could see no reason to increase her worries, that he, too, felt responsible for Judy. Perhaps if he had
tried a little harder to talk to her, if he had spent a little more time with her … On an impulse, Balsam decided to go to the hospital.

   Mrs. Williams looked up at the man who hovered uncertainly over her desk, and put on her best professional smile.

“Yes?” she said. The young man in front of her looked very uncomfortable. “Do you need to see a doctor?” she added solicitously.

“Me?” Balsam said in surprise. “Oh, no … no,
Tm
fine. I was just wondering if I’m in the right place.”

“That depends on the problem,” Mrs. Williams smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to find out about Judy Nelson,” Balsam said. He was vaguely aware that the two men who sat huddled together a few feet away had stopped talking and were staring at him. “Is she still here?”

Mrs. Williams nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid she isn’t allowed any visitors yet.” She paused, then continued, “Are you a friend of the family?” Dumb question, she admonished herself. If he knew the family, he’d be talking to Mr. Nelson, not to me. In front of her, the young man was shaking his head.

“Not exactly,” he was saying. “I’m one of her teachers. My name is Peter Balsam. Why don’t you just tell Judy I was here—”

He started to turn away, then stopped. The two men who had been seated were now standing.

“Mr. Balsam?” one of them was saying now. “The psychology teacher?”

Balsam nodded.

Tm George Nelson,” the man said, offering his hand. “Judy’s father. This is Dr. Shields.”

Balsam took the proffered hand, and smiled an acknowledgment to the doctor.

“Hello,” he said. “How is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s going to be fine.” The doctor answered for George Nelson. “We were just talking about the whole situation. Why don’t you join us?” He indicated the chairs, but Balsam waited until the other two were seated before he sank into the third chair.

“What happened?” Balsam asked. The two men looked uncomfortably at each other.

“That’s just what we were trying to figure out,” Dr. Shields said. “I’m afraid we don’t really know.”

“I heard the janitor found her in the gym,” Balsam said softly. “With her wrists—cut.” He had almost said “slashed,” but the word seemed too graphic.

“It was in the locker room,” Dr. Shields corrected him, “and fortunately it isn’t serious. Now we’re trying to figure out why.”

“Why?” Balsam repeated the word bluntly.

“Why she cut herself,” George Nelson said miserably. “She just never seemed like the kind of girl who would do something like that.”

The word “dramatic” popped into Peter Balsam’s mind. Sister Marie had used it, at lunch time. She had said Judy tended to be dramatic. He wondered if he should mention it to the two men. They seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

“Has she talked about it?” Balsam asked.

The doctor shook his head. “No. All she’s said is that she doesn’t want to see her mother. Frankly, I don’t think the situation is all that serious. In my experience, which I admit is very limited, someone who really wants to commit suicide doesn’t call the police immediately after the attempt.”

“She called the police?” Balsam asked.

George Nelson nodded. “That’s right. And the cuts aren’t deep. But we still think there must be a reason for it. I mean, a sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t just
do
something like that, does she?” He looked from the doctor to Balsam, then back to the doctor.

“Did you see her today?” the doctor asked Balsam, ignoring Nelson’s question.

“Yes, of course,” Peter said. “She’s in my psychology course.”

“Did anything seem to be bothering her?” the doctor pressed.

“I’m not sure,” Balsam began uncertainly. He didn’t want to raise any false alarms. “I mean, I think something was on her mind, but I haven’t the slightest idea what it was. She stayed for a minute or two after class, but when I tried to draw her out, she wouldn’t talk about it. So I suggested she talk to Monsignor.”

“Monsignor?” the doctor asked.

“Monsignor Vernon,” George Nelson filled in. “The priest who runs the school. Did she talk to him?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, I’d pretty much forgotten about it until Sister Marie called me.”

Dr. Shields looked at Balsam questioningly, and Peter felt compelled to continue.

“After I suggested Judy talk to Monsignor, I got to thinking maybe she’d be better off talking to a woman. I tried to catch up to her, and suggest that she talk to Sister Marie, instead. But she was gone, so I found Sister Marie, and asked her to try to talk to Judy.”

“And did she?” the doctor prompted him.

“I wish she had,” Balsam said unhappily. “But she didn’t. She said she looked for Judy after school, but couldn’t find her.”

“She must not have looked very hard,” George Nelson said bitterly. “Judy was there all afternoon.”

“What happens now?” Peter asked, deciding not to pursue the question of whether or not Sister Marie had made a proper search for the girl.

The doctor shrugged helplessly. “Pm keeping her here for observation,” he said. “Standard procedure. But whether she’ll start talking about what happened is anyone’s guess. With kids, sometimes it’s hard to get through.”

Suddenly there seemed very little left to say, and Peter Balsam began to feel uncomfortable—there must be things the doctor would want to talk about with the patient’s father. He stood up uncertainly, grateful when the two men also rose from their chairs. The doctor extended his hand.

“Pm glad to have met you,” he said with a smile. “I hope we see each other again.”

“But in happier circumstances,” Peter replied, accepting the doctor’s hand. He turned to George Nelson.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this,” he said softly.

Nelson tried to smile at him, but found it difficult “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’ll tell Judy you were here. Or someone will.”

A few minutes later Peter Balsam was walking slowly back through, the streets of Neilsville. As he approached his apartment, he had a feeling of something left undone, as if there were someone he should talk to. He glanced up toward Cathedral Hill, and saw the short spire of St Francis Xavier Church, Monsignor. He should talk to Monsignor. Peter Balsam didn’t stop at his apartment. Instead, he increased his pace, and hurried up the hill.

   He let himself into the rectory, and rang the silver bell. He waited. When there was no response, he rang
the bell again. Still no response. He was about to leave when he noticed a thin band of light gleaming from beneath the door to the den. Balsam made his way down the hall. He stood quietly for a moment, listening.

At first there was silence, but a second later he heard the sounds of praying. An odd sort of praying: not the steady rhythms of the rosary, but short, staccato bursts of religious ejaculations. He listened for a moment, and had started to move away from the door when he heard another sound, a sound he hadn’t heard since his childhood days in the convent He stared at the door, wondering if he was really hearing what he seemed to be hearing. It was then that he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he had pushed the door partway open.

In the cento of the room, kneeling on the floor, Monsignor Vernon was praying. He was staring heavenward, but from where Balsam stood, it almost seemed as though the priest was praying to the chandelier that glowed dimly above.

He was stripped to the waist, and sweating profusely, whether from the heat of the fire that flickered on the hearth, or from religious fervor, Balsam was unsure. In one hand the priest held a rosary; in the other was clutched the flagellum. With each ejaculation, Monsignor Vernon was beating his naked back with the whip. It was not the soft, symbolic flagellation the nuns Balsam had grown up with indulged in. Monsignor Vernon was punishing himself, and the welts on his shoulders showed vividly against the pale white of his skin. Embarrassed, Peter Balsam quickly pulled the door closed and backed away, wishing he hadn’t seen the strange ceremony within.

Then the praying stopped, and a strange silence fell over the rectory. Balsam picked up the small silver bell
and rang it once more. He thought he heard a movement in the den, but he wasn’t sure. He turned away, about to leave the rectory, when he heard Monsignor Vernon’s voice.

“Hello?” The voice sounded muffled, and uncertain.

“It’s me,” Balsam called. “Peter. I can come back …”

“No,” the voice came again. “I’ll be right with you. Just give me a moment.”

Balsam wondered how the priest would look, if his fervor and exertions would show in his face. But when Vernon appeared a moment later, he seemed relaxed, as if he had been doing nothing more strenuous than reading a book. Looking at him, Peter wondered if he could possibly have imagined the strange scene of a few minutes earlier.

“Peter,” Monsignor Vernon greeted him with a joviality that Balsam had not heard since their college days. “Come in, come in. I was just praying, and didn’t hear the bell.”

In the den, the lights had been turned up, and the fire, with another log thrown on it, was dancing brightly.

“A little warm for that, isn’t it?” Balsam asked. The priest grinned self-consciously.

“I guess so,” he said. “But every now and then I want a fire, and it doesn’t seem to matter how hot it is outside.” Then the brief flash of joviality faded, and Monsignor Vernon’s face took on a serious expression. “I suppose you want to talk about Judy Nelson?” he asked in a tone that told Balsam that despite what he might wish, the priest did not want to discuss the matter.