Punish the Sinners (17 page)

Karen Morton was walking up Cathedral Hill, alone. Usually, on Sunday mornings, she waited at the foot of the hill, at the corner of First and Main, for Penny Anderson, Janet Connally, and Judy Nelson. But this morning Judy would not be coming. This morning Karen had no desire to see Penny or Janet Or anyone at all. She wished she were home, closed comfortably into the security of her bedroom.

It had not been an easy morning for Karen, and it was not showing any promise of getting better.

She had thought of staying in bed, pleading illness, but quickly decided that wouldn’t work. She had sensed, even before she saw her mother, that no excuse would be accepted today. She was going to have to get up, have to face her mother’s anger, have to go to church. She was going to have to confess her sins. That was what was frightening her, for Karen knew she had a lot to confess. And so, even earlier than usual, Karen had gotten up, dressed, and gone downstairs. There just hadn’t seemed any point in prolonging it.

Her mother had been in the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken to her when Karen came down for breakfast She simply stared at her, then turned back to the stove where she was frying eggs. Finally, her back still to
Karen, she had asked the question Karen hadn’t wanted to hear.

“What time did you come in last night?” she said quietly.

“I’m not sure,” Karen hedged.

“Well, I am,” Harriet snapped. “It was after two o’clock. Where were you all that time?”

“Jim and I went to—to the A & W,” Karen said. She knew immediately she had made a mistake.

“Did you?” It was an accusation, not a question. “Did you, indeed? It must have been interesting, sitting there in the dark. The A & W closes at midnight”

Karen sank into a chair next to the kitchen table, and waited in silence for the onslaught of her mother’s wrath. But it didn’t come. Instead, Harriet Morton silently continued fixing their breakfast, silently set the plates on the table, and silently sat down. For Karen, the silence was much worse than any lecture.

“I’m sorry,” she had whispered finally. Again, her mother stared at her. Then, at last, Harriet Morton began to speak.

“I don’t know what to say,” she began, and Karen had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Those were the words her mother always used when she was about to invoke Karen’s father. She waited.

“If your father were alive,” Harriet had gone on, “I could leave this whole matter up to him. But he isn’t alive, and I have to deal with it. I suppose, when it comes down to it, that I shouldn’t blame you. I know it can’t be easier for you, not having your father around, than it is for me. But I’d hoped you were old enough to be trusted by now. Apparently I was wrong. Apparently all the things your father and I tried to teach you went in one ear and out the other. Well, there isn’t anything I can do about it now. But there are a few things I can do
about the future. First, there won’t be any more parties. Since I won’t be able to supervise them, you won’t have them.”

“For how long?” Karen asked softly. She had been expecting this.

“How long?” Harriet had said, looking at her blankly. “Why, until you’re eighteen, of course. As long as you’re my responsibility.”

Karen had gasped. “But Mother—”

“And of course you won’t be seeing Jim Mulvey any more,” Harriet went on. She looked deeply into Karen’s eyes, and added, “Unless, of course, you have to get married. I’ve been praying all night that that won’t happen. But if it does, it’s a cross we’ll both have to bear.”

Karen stared at her mother in dismay, and then burst into tears and fled the table. Her mother found her lying on her bed, crying.

“It’s time for church, Karen,” she said softly.

“I’m not going,” Karen sobbed into her pillow.

“Of course you are,” Harriet said. “Isn’t it more important for you to go this morning than ever before? You need the church this morning, Karen. Now get off that bed, change your clothes, and go.”

   She was nearing the top of Cathedral Hill. Other worshipers were streaming toward the church of St. Francis Xavier. Karen did not join in their Sunday-morning chatter, and there was an air about her that kept people from calling a greeting to her. Karen Morton had something on her mind.

She made her way up the steps, and through the foyer. Then she dipped her fingers in the font, genuflected, and started down the aisle to the pew she and her mother usually occupied. Behind her, someone whispered a quick greeting. Karen didn’t reply. She
sank to her knees, and began the prayers she repeated every Sunday morning. Then she sat on the pew, and tried to pay attention to the Mass.

An hour later, when the Mass was over, Karen stood up reluctantly. Now was going to be the worst time. Now she was going to have to go to the confessional. She knew it was supposed to make her feel better; she knew that her sins would be forgiven. Until thus morning, going to confession
had
always made her feel better. But this morning was a spedai morning. This morning she had a difficult confession to make. Karen steeled herself, almost lost her resolve, then slipped quickly into one of the confessionals that stood to the left of the doors. She clutched her beads, made the sign of the cross—”In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”—and knelt.x

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Karen began. “It has been a week since my last confession.” Then she paused, wondering where to start. “I am guilty of the sin of lust,” she said softly. She heard the slightest intake of breath from beyond the grille, and was immediately fearful.

“What are your sins, my child?”

Karen knew the voice. She had heard it in the halls of the school for too many years not to recognize it even when it was pitched to the low level of the confessional. It was Monsignor Vernon.

“I—I—” Karen wanted to run from the tiny confessional, run out of the church and down the hill. She tried to get hold of herself. From the other side of the grille the Monsignor’s voice inveighed her to begin.

“But it isn’t easy …” Karen faltered.

“Nothing in this world is easy, my child,” the priest said softly. “But we must confess our sins. What have you done?”

She told him. She began telling him all that had transpired during the week, and during the week preceding. She confessed to being deceitful, and told him first about helping Judy Nelson with the dress. Then she began telling him about the party the night before, and about being deceitful toward her mother. She told him about the trick she had pulled on Marilyn Crane, and the hurt she had caused Marilyn. And then she told him about the last hours of the night, when she and Jim Mulvey had sat in his car, hidden in the darkness.

“I—I let him touch me, Father,” she whispered. She felt the heat between her legs once again, just as she had felt it last night, and a wave of guilt swept over her.

“You let him touch you?” Monsignor asked. “Let him touch you where?”

“I—I’m not—” Karen stammered. Then she blurted it out. “I let him touch me all over.”

There was a long silence from the other side of the grille. Then the Monsignor spoke again.

“Exactly what do you mean when you say you let him touch you all over?”

In the darkness of the confessional, Karen Morton flushed a deep scarlet, and wished for a moment that she could die.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she mumbled again.

“I cannot forgive sins that have not been confessed,” the inexorable voice came out of the darkness. Karen squirmed in embarrassment.

“He—I let him touch me on my chest. And between my legs,” she said miserably.

“And did you touch him?” the priest continued relentlessly.

“Yes.” The word was almost inaudible, and Karen wondered if she had been heard. But she couldn’t bring
herself to repeat it Then the voice began talking to her.

“Lust is a most grievous sin, my child. Your soul is in grave danger, and you must be on your guard against the evil that is within you.”

“I am trying, Father,” Karen said miserably.

“The Devil walks among us,” she heard the priest saying. “He is constantly with us, leading us out of the paths of righteousness. Guard yourself against him, my child, and be wary. He will appear as a friend, but he will lead you astray.” Then the voice fell silent, and Karen wondered about the words. What was the priest trying to tell her? Was he saying that Jim Mulvey was the Devil? It didn’t make sense. Then he spoke again.

“Is there anything else?” he said.

Karen searched her mind. It was almost over. Soon, she would be absolved of her sins, and free to go. She tried to remember if she had left anything out of the confession, but the strain of it had left her confused.

“No, Father,” she said finally.

“Your sins are many, child, and your penance must be heavy.”

Karen felt her heart sink. Many times she had seen people come out of the confessional and walk down the aisle toward the altar. There they would kneel, and spend the rest of the day. Often, she had wondered what prayers they were saying. Now she was sure she was about to find out

“You will leave the confessional on your knees, and approach the Holy Virgin. For your sins, say one hundred Rosaries, and between each Rosary, recite the Apostles’ Creed. Do you understand your penance?”

“Yes, Father.” Karen wanted to cry. Leave the confessional on her knees? She didn’t remember anyone ever having done that before. People would stare at her. They would know that she must have done something
terribly wicked. She wished she could die. Then she realized the priest was saying the words of absolution. Quickly, she repeated the Act of Contrition. “Oh my God,” she began, the words coming automatically through her confusion, “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid near occasions of sin.” As she finished, she heard the words of absolution.

“I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Go in peace, my child.” The shutter closed over the grille, and Karen Morton was alone in the confessional. She sat for a long time, wishing she had the courage, or the cowardice, to ignore the penance, to leave the confessional and walk out of the church into the sunlight But Karen Morton was in fear of her Lord, so she grasped her beads firmly, pushed the door of the confessional open, and, still on her knees, crept out into the church. She stared at the image of the Holy Virgin and kept her eyes firmly fixed on that peaceful face as she made her pitiful way down the aisle. By the time she reached the statue, and began telling her beads, the pain in her knees was almost as great as the agony in her mind. Her lips moving silently, she began the Apostles’ Creed.

   Peter Balsam stared out into the morning sunlight and wondered what he should do next His first impulse was to call Margo Henderson, and he had already reached for the phone when he realized what he must do instead. He must go to church. He must pray. He
must make his decision for himself. He knew that, in the light of what he had read last night, it was not going to be easy to pray this morning, not going to be easy to sit below the glowering countenances of the Saints of the Inquisition—the Saints of Neilsville—and come to a decision that made sense. But this morning, not much made sense to Peter Balsam. His long night’s reading had shaken him to the core. Now, he had to find out if his faith had withstood the shaking or if it had crumbled.

He left his apartment, carefully locked the door behind him, and began the climb up Cathedral Hill.

He entered the church just as Karen Morton came, out of the confessional and looked on in horror as she slowly made her way down the aisle to the alcove dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. For a split second he had wanted to go to her. When he saw the rest of the parishioners ignoring her, he changed his mind. He was still staring at her when he heard the voice behind him.

“I’d hoped you’d be here earlier,” Monsignor Vernon’s voice said softly into his ear. Peter Balsam jumped back, startled, then turned to stare at the priest

“What on earth is going on here?” he demanded.

Monsignor Vernon looked at him impassively, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“Why did Karen Morton just go down the aisle on her knees?”

The priest smiled calmly, a look of peace in his eyes. “That’s between her and her Lord, isn’t it?”

“Is it supposed to be some kind of penance?” Balsam demanded.

“It doesn’t concern you,” the priest countered. He turned, as if to move away, then turned back. “Will I see you at the next Mass?” he asked Balsam.

Balsam glanced again at Karen Morton, who was
now engrossed in prayer, before he answered, Then he turned to the priest, and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I need to talk to you.”

“To me?” Monsignor Vernon asked. “Very well Shall we go to the rectory?”

“K you don’t mind, I’d rather we went somewhere else. How about my classroom?”

The Monsignor shrugged indifferently and led Peter Balsam out of the church. A few minutes later he put his key in the door to Room 16, and stood aside to let Balsam enter first. Then he followed the teacher in, and pulled the door closed behind him.

“Is something wrong?” The question was not so much an inquiry as a prod. Balsam decided not to allow himself to be prodded. Instead, he approached the statue of St. Peter Martyr, and stood silently staring at it for several minutes. Then he turned quickly and spoke.

“He was a prize bastard, wasn’t he?” Balsam had intended the words to be shocking. He succeeded. The priest immediately made the sign of the cross. Then his eyes flashed angrily at Balsam.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve been reading up on him,” Balsam said calmly. “On him, and on all the other saints you’ve got scattered around here. Almost all of them come straight out of the Inquisition, which I’ve also been reading up on.”

The priest sat down on the edge of Peter Balsam’s desk, arms folded in an attitude of exaggerated patience.