“No. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you called.”
“I’m not really sure why I called.”
“Maybe because I wanted to talk to you.”
“You mean, you made me call you?”
“Maybe I did,” Margo said mysteriously.
Peter chuckled. “I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“Don’t you? Maybe you should.” Then: “Peter?”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about something. When you were a child—how did you get to the convent in the first place?”
There was a silence, and then Peter’s voice, sounding slightly hollow, came over the line. “I don’t know, really. The sisters never really tell you where you came from.”
Twenty minutes later, as Margo was trying to fall asleep, she was still thinking about what he had said, and wondering where, thirty-some years ago, Peter Balsam had come from.
4
If the first day of school at St Francis Xavier High School did not engender the same enthusiasm as the last, it was not only because the first day marked the beginning of another nine months of regimentation. It was, as far as the students were concerned, much worse than that; it meant another nine months of being reminded of their constant failure to live up to the standards set by Monsignor Vernon and the Sisters, another nine months of constant invasions of their privacy as tibe Sisters swooped down on them, demanding to know exactly what it was they were whispering about or inspected their lockers, or suddenly seized their notebooks to determine exactly what was being written in them, or subjected them to any of the other minor or major indignities that plagued their lives. And, of course, the first day was the worst, for they had only just gotten used to the freedom of summer when it was torn from their grasp.
And, of course, there was Monsignor Vernon, ever-present ever-watchful, constantly ready to criticize, seldom ready to praise. He had been there this morning, waiting on the steps of the school, watching them return for yet another year. There he would remain for the next nine months, if not on the steps, then in the corridors, his black-garbed figure looming over them, his piercing black eyes boring into them, discovering in them—each of them—minute flaws to be condemned.
As they walked together down the stairs to the first floor of the school and made their way slowly toward Room 16, neither Judy Nelson nor Karen Morton was in the best of moods. They stopped in front of Judy’s locker, and she began working the dial. As usual on tibie first day of school, it took her three tries before the metal door suddenly clicked open. Judy pulled the door wide open and tossed her history book inside. She stared at it bitterly.
“Do you suppose Sister Kathleen meant it when she said we’d go through that whole thing in the first semester?” she asked of no one in particular. The three inches of history sat depressingly thick on the floor of the locker.
“Who reads it?” Karen said, tossing back her long blond hair. “All you have to do is glance at the headings, and study the quizzes at the end of the chapters. Everybody knows Sister Kathleen hasn’t made up a test of her own in forty years.”
“She gives me a pain,” Judy groused. “Did you believe her this morning? She thinks we spent the whole summer ‘being carnal,’ as she puts it Is that the same as screwing?”
Karen giggled, but her face turned red, and Judy wondered if she’d touched a nerve. She decided to press the point, and see what happened.
“I mean, the way she was talking, she must think we don’t do anything except talk about sex, or dream about sex, or have sex, for that matter. Well, if you ask me, that says a lot about where her head’s at.” By now, Judy was pleased to note, Karen was showing definite signs of nervousness. Now, she thought, was the time to pounce. “Of course,” she mused, trying to sound as if she didn’t have anyone in particular in mind, “some of us do have a few sins to worry about, don’t we?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Karen said sarcastically. “But personally, if I have any talking to do on that subject, I’ll do it in the confessional. Not to Sister Kathleen, and certainly not to you.” Then, before Judy could reply, Karen caught sight of Marilyn Crane coming down the hall, and said, “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad being like Marilyn. At least the Sisters never seem to worry about her losing her soul in sin.’ “
Judy slammed the locker shut, and glanced down the hall to the spot where Marilyn stood trying to work the combination to her locker. “If I were her,” she said acidly, “I’d really be in trouble.” She smiled wickedly at Karen. “After all,” Judy purred, “isn’t suicide supposed to be the worst sin of all?”
“Judy—” Karen breathed, her eyes widening at her friend’s cruelty. “That’s an awful thing to say. I mean, I don’t like her any better than you do, but still—” Before she could finish what she was saying, a sharp scream interrupted her. She whirled to see Marilyn Crane staring into her locker, one hand clapped over her mouth to stifle the scream. If she hadn’t turned so quickly, perhaps Karen would have seen the tiny smile that was playing around the corner of Judy Nelson’s mouth. It was not a pleasant smile.
Twenty feet away, Marilyn Grane stared, horrified, into the depths of her locker. There, where earlier had been only a neat pile of books, lay a frog.
Or at least what had once been a frog. The creature was spread out on a dissecting board, its legs pinned as if it had been crucified, the contents of its belly laid the bottom of the dissecting board was a message. “Jesus Loves You—But No One Else Does.”
Marilyn felt a wave of nausea rise in her stomach, and pressed her hand harder over her mouth. Who could have done it? And why? It was crazy. It was sick. She was sick. Then she got hold of herself.
No, she told herself. Don’t get sick. That’s what they want. Don’t give them the satisfaction. She heard a noise behind her, and turned to see three of the Sisters hurrying toward her. Her first impulse was to wait for them, and show them what was in her locker. But there would be a fuss. They would question her. Eventually, they would find out who had put the frog in her locker—and she would only get blamed for being a tattle-tale. Thinking quickly, she scooped up the dissecting board and shoved it into the large carry-all that served her both as purse and book-bag, praying the frog wouldn’t make too much of a mess before she could get downstairs to the girls’ room and get rid of it. She slammed the locker shut and turned to face the three nuns who were now gathered behind her.
“What happened?” The voice was cold, accusing. Marilyn looked up at the cowled face of the nun who had spoken, and recognized Sister Elizabeth. Helplessly, she turned to the others. Sister Marie’s countenance seemed gentlest, so it was to her that Marilyn directed her answer.
“Nothing,” she said slowly. “I—” She cast around for a likely-sounding excuse for her short scream. “I pinched myself on the hinge of the locker,” she finished, holding up an undamaged finger as proof that the accident had been more frightening than harmful.
Sister Elizabeth looked at her skeptically, and opened her mouth to challenge the girl. But before she could speak, the third nun, the same Sister Kathleen who only moments ago had been the subject of conversation for Judy and Karen, reached out and patted Marilyn gently.
“Some day, Marilyn,” she said softly, “you’re going to have to learn to be less clumsy.”
Ordinarily such a statement would have hurt, but this time Marilyn was grateful. For once, her reputation for awkwardness had served her. She smiled sweetly at the nun, and in her mind begged forgiveness for the lie. Down the hall, she noticed that Karen Morton and Judy Nelson were losing interest in her plight.
“That’s Marilyn,” Karen commented. “Shell probably slam her locker ou her nose before the week’s over.” The two girls laughed, and started on down the hall toward Room 16.
At the end of the corridor a door shut softly as Monsignor Vernon turned back into his office.
Inside Room 16, Peter Balsam was nervously awaiting the arrival of the psychology class. So
far, the day had gone remarkably well After all, Latin was Latin, and most of his students had taken it before. They knew what to expect. But the psychology class was different. All morning he had felt a certain electricity coming from some of the Latin students; he assumed these were the ones who had registered for the new course as well, and they were trying to size him up, trying, from the way he handled the Latin classes, to figure out what the psychology course would be like.
And, of course, there had been Sister Elizabeth, the rather stern-looking nun who had stormed into Room 16 between first and second periods to inform him that in her opinion his course was a mistake, and that, even before it had begun, it was already disrupting the school. She was having discipline problems, she declared, and he was to blame. The students were so busy talking about him, and his new course, that they paid no attention to her. Balsam, realizing that humor would be useless with Sister Elizabeth, solemnly promised her that he would see to it that his course created no more disturbances. Sister Elizabeth, carrying an air of skepticism with her, bad marched wordlessly out of his room.
Then, between the second and third periods, Sister Marie had stopped in. In contrast to Sister Elizabeth, Sister Marie had been all smiles. When he had promptly called her Sister, she had held up a hand in protest, and asked him to please, at least when they were alone, just call her Marie. And, she had confided in an excited whisper, despite what the others might say, she herself thought it was about time they started teaching something useful at St Francis Xavier’s. Then her face had taken on a slightly wistful look and, as if suddenly realizing she might be on the verge of complaining, she had beaten a hasty retreat
Finally, just a few moments ago, it had been Sister Kathleen. She had marched into the room, checked to be sure it was empty, then closed the door firmly behind her.
“It’s my duty to speak to you about an unpleasant subject,” she had announced. Without waiting for any response from Peter Balsam, she had plunged ahead.
“I’m sure you are aware that it isn’t easy for us to maintain a suitable moral climate for the children here,” she said, looking him in the eyes. Then her gaze shifted, and Balsam had the distinct feeling that she was suddenly losing her nerve. He thought he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“The modern world is not all I might wish it to be,” Sister Kathleen continued. “I’m afraid the moral laxness that seems to have invaded the rest of the world has succeeded in penetrating St Francis Xavier School, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him darkly, and Balsam looked right back at her, trying not to reveal that he had, indeed, caught her meaning. She decided he was obtuse, and she would have to be more specific.
“What Pm trying to say,” she went on uncomfortably, “is that I hope you have no plans to discuss anything—well, carnal is the word, I suppose—in your psychology course.” She spat the word psychology out, as if it were extremely distasteful.
“It’s a psychology course, Sister,” Peter had reassured her softly. Then he couldn’t resist his impulse. “Not a course in sex education.” He almost chuckled out loud as the nun turned scarlet and fled from the room.
A moment later he had heard the sharp scream from the hallway, but by the time he had reached his door the three nuns who had paid him visits that morning had the situation well in hand. Also, he was sure, all but Marie would resent his intruding into the matter. So he had retreated back into Room 16, to await his students. And one by one, they were drifting in. He recognized some of them and noted that as they came into the room they headed directly for the seats they had occupied in earlier classes in Room 16. One of these, Janet Connally, had started for the third-row seat she had occupied earlier, then, as if remembering something, moved up to the front rank, and carefully set her books on one of the adjoining seats, her sweater on the other. When Peter Balsam caught her eye, she smiled at him, then self-consciously glanced around the room, nodding in recognition to her friends.
A moment later a pretty, dark-haired girl came into the room, glanced quickly around, then went directly to the seat on which Janet Connally’s sweater was resting, picked up the sweater, and sat down. She handed the sweater to Janet, and whispered something in her ear. The two girls giggled, and Balsam wondered what had been said. Sister Elizabeth, he realized, would have found out immediately, probably with an intimidating look. Balsam had neither the assurance nor the technique to make such a ploy work, so he simply pretended not to hear the giggles.
A few minutes later Karen Morton and Judy Nelson breezed into the room, waved at Janet Connally and the dark-haired girl (who Balsam decided must be Penny Anderson) and took two of the remaining seats in the front row. The fifth seat, next to Karen Morton, was stacked with Karen’s books. Balsam wondered whom it was being saved for. Just before the bell rang signifying the beginning of the class period, he found out
Jim Mulvey, his hair a bit too long, and his clothes looking slightly rumpled, slouched into the room, shoved Karen Morton’s books to the floor, and sank into the last seat of the front rank. While Mulvey fixed Balsam with a slightly sullen look, Karen glared at her boyfriend and retrieved her books from the floor. When Jim turned to her, she was all smiles.
Peter Balsam picked up the roster and noted that there was one more name on the list than there were students in the room. Though he was already familiar with almost half the class, he began calling the roll. Before he’d even begun, he knew who was missing. Marilyn Crane. He glanced at the list once more. Yes, her name was on it He looked out at the twenty-nine faces in front of him. Marilyn’s was not among them. He began calling the roll, half concentrating on matching names to faces, half wondering what had happened to Marilyn.
When he was halfway through the list, the door to Room 16 creaked open, and Marilyn Crane crept into the room and slid into the single vacant seat in the back row. At the sound of the door opening, every head in the room had turned. And then, starting from the point where Judy Nelson and Karen Morton sat together, the whispering and giggling began, rippling through the room, swirling toward Marilyn. Balsam stopped calling the roll, and stared out at the teen-agers, waiting for them to notice the sudden quiet
When the silence finally came, he fixed his gaze on Karen Morton and Judy Nelson. Judy regarded him steadily, with an almost challenging look in her eyes. But Balsam was pleased to see that Karen Morton had the good grace to blush and quickly find something fascinating in her notebook. He resumed calling the roll, taking care to give Marilyn Grane a reassuring wink when he got to her name. In another minute, he was done. He set the list down on his desk, and looked once more at the class.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose we might as well get to it This class isn’t going to be like any of the others, so those of you who think you have me all figured out from Latin classes can forget it.” That should throw them off, he thought, and was pleased to see the looks of consternation he’d produced. There was a rustling in the room, as thirty teen-agers suddenly realized they were going to have to reassess things. The four girls in the front row glanced nervously at each other.
“As some of you know,” Balsam continued, looking at them placidly, “I generally seat my classes alphabetically.” An almost inaudible groan went through the room, and several of the students began gathering their belongings in preparation for the seating shift “However,” Balsam continued, “this class is different. In this class you can sit where you want, and you needn’t fed you have to use the same seats every day. It may make it a little harder for me to learn your names, but don’t worry about it So, if any of you want to change seats now, feel free.”
About half the class began trading seats. Nobody in the front moved, nor did Marilyn Grane: the front row had already decided where to sit, and Marilyn Crane had no reason to move—no one had invited her to sit by them. Balsam noticed, however, that the boy who eventually did sit next to Marilyn—Jeff Bremmer, if his memory served him correctly—smiled and spoke to her. While they resettled themselve
s, Balsam wondered how many, if any, of his students had figured out that he had just gotten them to tell him something about themselves without saying a word. He knew they would continue to tell him about themselves as they rearranged themselves through the term. It would be particularly interesting to watch the front row, the four girls Monsignor Vernon had mentioned to him, and the boy, Jim Mulvey, who was apparently Karen Morton’s boyfriend.
When they were finally settled in their new seats, Balsam began telling them what he hoped to accomplish in the psychology course. He would not, he told them, be spending too much time on the field of abnormal psychology, though he would delve briefly into some of the more exotic forms of madness. That earned him an appreciative laugh.
But what he was most interested in, he told them, were the possibilities the course offered for them all to get to know themselves, and each other, better. In this class, he announced, he intended to stay as far away as possible from the formalized teaching methods that were the norm at St Francis Xavier’s. Instead, he hoped the students would learn from each other as much as from him. At the same time they were teaching each other, he told them, they would be teaching themselves. If they all worked together, it should prove an interesting and valuable year.
Balsam glanced at the dock, and saw that he had only fifteen minutes left Behind him, where it had been for forty-five minutes now, a map of the Holy Roman Empire covered much of the blackboard. Balsam now directed the attention of the class to the map.
“Behind the map,” he told them, “there is a picture. I’m going to raise the map for just a second, then pull it down again. Then we’ll talk about what you saw.”
Quickly, before the students could begin buzzing among themselves, Balsam raised and lowered the map, exposing for not more than a second a large black-and-white print, done with a pen in great detail
“Well?” he said, turning back to the class. “How about it? What did you see?”