Masquerade

21

Thursday before First Friday. How often had she done this? Marie Monahan had plenty of time before it was her turn to go to confession. Let’s see, approximately eight times each scholastic year for, since she’d begun going to confession in the second grade, eleven years. So, eighty-eight times.

As far as she could recollect, it was Saint Margaret Mary who had the vision during which Jesus promised grand spiritual rewards to those who “made” the first Fridays.

The idea was to go to Communion on nine consecutive first Fridays and all the promises Jesus made to Saint Margaret Mary were yours. Somehow, someone must have dismissed the magical number nine, for she, Marie Monahan, and her classmates had completed nine consecutives long ago. Like so many Catholic devotions, the first Fridays had become a quasi superstition. If nine first Fridays were good, a limitless number of first Fridays was infinitely better.

The confessions, of course, were necessitated by the Communions. No one in the world could have foretold then, in 1960, what would be accomplished by the Second Vatican Council, to begin the following year. One of Vatican II’s achievements would be the divorcing of confession from Communion. Catholics would be advised that they could go to Communion without first going to confession practically forever as long as they did not commit a mortal sin. Just when they got used to going to confession only infrequently, if ever, a later Pope would emphasize the necessity of individual frequent confession, and put confession and Communion back together again. After Vatican II, the casual Catholic was frequently confused.

The eighty-eight confessions Marie had just carefully computed by no means approached the total number of times she’d been to confession to date. Sometimes she would confess every week or every other week. And always, always, the same thing: disobedience, angry thoughts, inattentiveness in school, gossip. Venial sins, imperfections.

There were times when she suspected she might find some other sins if she examined her conscience differently. But she had been taught by the nuns how to examine her conscience when she was in the second grade. Never having been given an update, she retained a child’s approach to confession. In this she was not unlike many, if not most, adult Catholics.

The inside joke to all this was that by her peers she was considered to be “wild.”

“Wildness” meant something considerably different in a parochial school of 1960 and prior than it would some thirty years later. Marie was a starter on the girls’ basketball and softball teams. She was a cheerleader. She was a tomboy. Her tight-knit circle of girlfriends tended to be boisterous. Worse, they were forever testing the dress code limits of “Marylike” modesty. As often as they could get away with it, they’d be mischievous and roll their waistbands until their school uniform skirts hung well above the knee. Or they’d “forget” to fasten the top buttons on their blouses, leaving a fraction of a bra exposed. Around them at all times the vigilance of the nuns was ever required.

Marie Monahan was never in the running as the sodalist selected to crown the Blessed Mother’s statue on May Day.

And yet, with all of that, to her knowledge, she had never in her life committed a mortal sin.

Probably the simplest mortal sin possible to a Catholic would be the deliberate missing of Sunday Mass. The next most commonplace would be a grand dinner of meat on a Friday. After that, things got complicated. Stealing an article of significant value or lots of money would do it. Or killing someone, of course.

Possibly the classic mortal sin-and this was far more the venue of males-was almost any sexual sin anyone could imagine.

The gravity of sin, in those days, was measured by three criteria: the matter, the intention, and the circumstances. Matter: the difference, say, between ten cents and ten dollars. Intention: inadvertence, force, or fear could limit responsibility. Circumstances: participation in a “just war” justified killing. Sexual sins did not admit parvity of matter. Thus whatever the intention or circumstance, one embarked on a sin of sexual nature with serious, grave, mortal matter.

But Marie Monahan had never committed a sexual sin.

That fact was not a commentary on her natural attractiveness. She had neither a good nor an accurate self-image. She considered herself quite plain. Actually, she had a natural beauty that came close to perfection. The boys in her school were well aware that Marie Monahan was amply endowed and that, under that bulky school uniform, there were sensuous adult curves just begging to be fondled. All such male thoughts and vulgar references were confessed with religious regularity.

It was her turn. She’d been waiting to go to confession for more than half an hour, inching forward as each student ahead of her was shriven. All this time wasted, when she should have been examining her conscience. All she’d done was to entertain distractions.

She knelt on the unpadded bench, rested her folded hands on the little shelf. Directly in front of her was a dark and seldom-if-ever-cleaned cloth behind which was a wooden door that made a terrible racket when the priest slid it open or shut. It was dark in there. Neither priest nor penitent could see each other even when the little door was open. The cloth and darkness saw to that.

Slide. . Bang!

“Oh,” she whispered, “bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was about two weeks ago.”

Snort, cough, growl. The priest cleared his respiratory passages.

“Since then,” she whispered, “I disobeyed my mother four times and my father twice. I gossiped a bit, nothing very serious. And,” rememberinga few minutes ago, “I had distractions in church. And that’s about it.

“I’m sorry for these and all the sins of my past life, especially for disobedience.”

She thought that a representative confession. It had been serving her, with slight variations, for the past eleven years.

“For your penance,” the priest’s voice sounded tired and bored, “say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. And now, make a good Act of Contrition.” She could not have guessed how bored-almost terminally-he was. He’d been hearing practically the same humdrum story for the past six hours, beginning with the third graders and marching upward through the classes. The sole salvation of his sanity was that the present-final-penitents were high schools seniors. Purgatory was about to end.

Marie mumbled the Act of Contrition while the priest mumbled an absolution in Latin. That they were speaking in different languages simultaneously, neither paying any attention whatsoever to the other, did not bother them.

It did not take Marie long to forget that confession and, indeed, school in general. Christmas vacation was about to begin and that was on everybody’s front burner.

Marie had been invited to the seasonal teen club dance by none other than the captain of the football team. It was such a natural: a three-year letter man in football, basketball, and baseball-and team captain in football-dating the school’s outstanding female athlete and captain of the cheerleaders. The wonder was that it had taken them so long to get together.

It took so long because, on the one hand, with her poor self-image it never occurred to Marie that the school’s prime catch knew she was alive. While, on the other hand, she was regarded as the unapproachable-the virgin queen, above and beyond accepting casual dates, and probably frigid to boot.

She shared her excitement, as she shared everything, with Alice, her best friend in all the world. Together, they began planning and preparing for the magic evening. Alice, too, had a date. And not a loser by any means, but not the captain of the football team and an all-state pick in three sports.

At long last, December 21 arrived, and it was perfect. The evening was brisk and clear. A dusting of snow made it seem as if clusters of tiny diamonds had fallen on earth.

When Marie walked into the decorated gym on the arm of Bucko Cassidy there was almost a collective gasp from the assembled crowd. They were perfect together. Young, brimming with good health, tight skin perfectly formed, a blooming couple who easily could have stepped out of the advertisement pages of any popular magazine.

Bucko and Marie felt everyone’s gaze on them. It was exhilarating.

The evening went as well as could be expected. Marie and Alice were able to steal a little time together to compare notes. By and large, Alice was having the better time of the two. Her date had interests that transcended sports. Bucko Cassidy, on the other hand, was limited conversationally not only to the sports world but more parochially to his own considerable athletic accomplishments and his bright professional future.

Bucko’s only departure from his totally egocentric monologue was when he turned to Marie and said, “But what about you, Marie: Which sport do you think I should pick for a pro career?”

It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. “I don’t know, Bucko,” she said in restrained self-control. “You’re so good in all of them. But don’t you think you’d last longer in baseball?”

“Last longer?”

“Yes. What’s the average football career? Less than ten years-twelve if you’re lucky. Basketball? All that constant running takes it out of your legs. But baseball, now there’s a career that could bring you a big paycheck for lots of years. . don’t you think?”

“Geez, Marie, I think you’re right.”

“But all that has to wait until the scouts make their offers and you see the whites of their contracts.”

“Neat, Marie, neat!”

Marie could scarcely wait to closet with Alice and bring her up to date on Bucko’s greatest problem in all the world.

It was toward the end of a pleasant evening with no surprises that Bucko popped his surprise: the postparty party.

Marie begged off. She had a curfew. Bucko protested she could phone her parents and tell them she’d be a little late. Besides, they wouldn’t stay long.

They argued. They discussed. Marie weakened. She talked it over with Alice, who advised against it. Marie talked it over with herself. She thought of all those deadly dull confessions. She’d never even had necking or petting to confess. If her confidantes were truthful, she must be the only senior who never did anything even vaguely naughty.

She agreed to go.

Bucko was happier about her decision than he had any right to be. She remembered that later.

At first, all went well. Her parents agreed, reluctantly, but they agreed. Her mother would wait up for her. There was an abundant crowd of seniors at the party-another reassuring sign.

But there were no adults. The owners of the house had gone on a skiing holiday in Northern Michigan and their son had opened their bountiful liquor supply.

About half an hour after they arrived, Bucko suggested they go upstairs. The downstairs was already too crowded and getting more so by the minute. Marie knew what he had in mind. Finally she was going to find out what it was like to engage in some serious necking.

They found an empty bedroom. There were several layers of coats on the bed. A sweep of Bucko’s athletic arm solved that problem. The coats were on the floor and he and she were on the bed.

Things began happening too fast. Bucko was all over her. She pushed him away and sat up. “Bucko! I’m not a baseball. You don’t have to rub the cover off me!”

Bucko considered the situation. “You’re right,” he admitted. “We’re too keyed up from the dance and all. Let’s go back with the gang.”

It was Bucko’s finest thespian moment. He had no intention of calling off this carnal intimacy.

Back to the dull confessions. After a moment’s thought, “We don’t need to do that, Bucko. Just go slower, can’t you?”

“Sure. Wait a minute.” He located his coat on the floor and drew a flask from a pocket. “Let’s have a shot of this. It’ll relax us.”

“I don’t know. . what’s in it?”

“It’s just a little booze. It’ll help. Come on. . here.”

She looked doubtful. But, she had to admit, she could use something to relax. She was tighter than a drum. Well, one doesn’t commit one’s first deliberate mortal sin lightly. “You first,” she said.

“Okay.” He took a sip and handed the flask to her.

She sampled one mouthful, then another. Then, straightway, she collapsed on the bed. Bucko stepped into the bathroom and emptied his mouth. Even so, he was somewhat affected by the knockout drops he’d put in the liquor.

When Marie regained consciousness, she was in Bucko’s car. She did not feel at all well. She looked at Bucko behind the wheel, but saw him in a confused haze. “What time is it?”

He checked his watch as they passed a street light. “One-thirty.”

Half an hour past her extended curfew. Not good, but not tragic. What was definitely not good was how she felt. “Stop the car, Bucko!”

“We’re almost at your house,” he protested.

“You’re gonna have an awful mess to clean up.”

He stopped as abruptly as he could on the slippery street. She leaned out of the car. Bucko was glad he’d stopped.

She said no more. She was using every ounce of her young and normally healthy constitution to regain self-possession.

With a determined effort Marie survived her mother’s concerned scrutiny. She made it upstairs to her room by putting one foot in front of the other and telling herself over and over, “It isn’t that far.” She was glad her stomach had emptied outside. There was no way she could have done that quietly in the bathroom. Without removing her clothing she fell into bed and was in a dreamless sleep immediately.

She woke abruptly about 10:00 a.m. She felt terrible. Her mouth felt as if it were coated for the winter. She tried to remember, but all she could recall was the dance, going to Freddy’s house with Bucko, the bedroom, and then, vaguely, coming home.

Something was missing. The bedroom. She tried harder to remember. Bucko brushing the coats off the bed. The beginning of a wrestling match. The drink. The drink. Why had she reacted so violently to a drink? She’d had alcohol before, in small measures of course. But she’d had only a couple of mouthfuls last night. Could the drink have been drugged? Buy why? Why would he do such a rotten thing? Unless. .

Her mind was clearing. There was something peculiar about her clothing. It didn’t seem to fit her correctly-tight where it should have been loose and vice versa. She began removing it. Her gown was slightly off center. Ditto her bra. Someone had dressed her hurriedly. And where were her panties? She could not know that Bucko had won a ten-dollar bet by displaying those earlier this morning.

There were flecks of blood on the inside of her thighs. She checked herself more carefully with a small hand mirror. She found the sticky white matter. It had to be semen. She’d read about that.

She’d been raped. Drugged, then raped.

Marie was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions, all of them negative: anguish, shame, horror, humiliation, outrage, great fear-and guilt, guilt, guilt. For the first time she understood how one person could seriously contemplate murdering another person. She would know the feeling once again when, many years later, a televangelist/publisher would threaten to reveal something more than this secret.

Marie managed to get to confession before Christmas. She confessed that she’d had intercourse, which was probably not technically correct. Bucko had raped her. But she confessed it just to be on the safe side. She did not want to die and have God tell her, “You should have confessed the whole thing. You know what you were taught about being the near occasion of sin and all.” This time she didn’t get just a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys. For a penance she got five rosaries and the Stations of the Cross and a hellfire-and-brimstone lecture.

After much deliberation, she concluded there was no way to retaliate against Bucko Cassidy. There was nothing she could do except to act as if he didn’t exist. Which didn’t seem to bother him. Nothing bothered him as long as his athletic body stayed in one fit piece.

The real and deadly serious problem arose a month later when the normally regular Marie was two weeks overdue for her period. And she had begun to feel, not unwell, but peculiar. As if something deep inside her was changing.

She was pregnant. She’d never been before, of course, and she hadn’t passed or failed any pregnancy test, but she knew it. She knew she was pregnant. Her emotional response escalated to terror and panic. There was only one person in whom she could confide. Not her mother, father, a priest or nun. Alice. Outside of the priest in the confessional, which was protected by its anonymity, Alice was the only one who knew what had happened to Marie at Freddy’s. Now Alice alone knew about the pregnancy.

Alice’s eyes were wider than they had ever been. “What are you going to do, Marie?”

“Oh, Alice, I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything: keeping the baby, giving it out for adoption. But either way I’d have to tell my parents. I can’t, I just can’t do that. Which leads to thinking about the Ambassador Bridge and a short winter swim in the Detroit River.” Marie could speak calmly, almost dispassionately, because by now she was drained, physically, emotionally, and tearfully.

“Suicide! Marie, that’s impossible! I won’t let you do it. I’ll stay with you twenty-four hours a day!”

“Alice. .” Marie would have laughed, had not laughter also been gone from her life. “Alice, don’t be silly.”

Neither of them spoke for quite a long while.

“There’s one other possibility.” Alice spoke softly, guardedly.

Marie studied her friend. “Alice! Abortion?”

“I know, I know; it’s out of the question,” Alice said. “I’ve heard everything in religion class you have. But, think about it. Just think about it.” Pause. “You can’t commit suicide. That’s worse than abortion. Not only would you kill the fetus, if there’s one there, but you’d kill yourself. You can’t tell your folks. I can understand. I couldn’t do that either. What’s left?

“It would be a blessing-don’t get me wrong now-but it would be a blessing if you miscarried. It could happen. I read that happens sometimes just because it’s a first pregnancy. Maybe we could look at an abortion like that-as a planned miscarriage.” Alice looked intently at Marie.

Marie twisted her handkerchief between restless hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Besides, how could I get one? Where would I go? Not only is it a sin, it’s against the law. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Alice, hesitantly, “I have a friend. .”

“Alice!”

“. . who has a friend who does this. Right out of her home.”

“Her home?”

“Uh-huh. How much money can you get hold of?”

“Babysitting, odd jobs, I’ve got about $50 in savings.”

“And I’ve got about $40.”

“Alice! I couldn’t let you-”

“My friend says this woman charges between $100 and $150. Maybe she’d do it for $90.”

“Alice!”

But the decision had been made. Both Marie and Alice-especially Marie-felt strongly conflicting emotions. Neither of them believed in or wanted abortion. But there seemed no alternative, no alternative whatever.

The abortionist, after considerable haggling, finally agreed to the $90 fee. Alice accompanied Marie to the modest neighborhood home. Marie accompanied the woman into the bedroom. It occurred to her that nothing seemed to be sterile or even very clean. But she was too frightened and defensive to complain or question.

The procedure was simplicity itself. A long plastic stirrer was inserted roughly through the vagina and planted firmly in the cervix. Marie screamed. Alice ran to the bedroom door, but it was locked. The woman instructed Marie to leave the stirrer in place. Over the next two or three days the stirrer-and the fetus-would be expelled. So-words that held no meaning-there was nothing to worry about.

Alice saw Marie home. She would have stayed with her, but Marie was too sick to tolerate company. Her mother bought the explanation that it was the flu. That gave Marie the opportunity to go to bed and stay there.

Inside Marie foreign things were happening. The mucous plug had been pierced and a serious infection had begun. The irritation had opened the cervix. It was only a matter of time, two days in fact, before the stirrer was expelled, followed by the ravaged fetus.

Marie was in misery such as she had never before known. She had a high temperature, fever, spasms, chills, and hemorrhaging. She was rushed to the hospital, where the doctor in emergency convinced her he’d be able to help much more efficiently if she told him all she could. He performed a D and C and administered massive doses of antibiotics.

She was lucky. The infection had been checked. Two things became certain: She would live, and she would feel more guilty than she ever had or ever would again.

The doctor, as he was required by law, reported the illegal abortion. Marie’s parents, hesitant at first, now, miraculously, supported her. They contacted an attorney, who advised her, and answered her questions. Apprised of her right to remain silent, she refused to tell the police the name of anyone involved in the abortion, including the abortionist, and especially Alice. With no testamentary evidence, the police had no recourse but to file the case away with the hundreds of other unsolved abortion crimes.

All loose ends were now tied, except for the sorry state of her immortal soul. For the first time, she was deathly afraid of going to confession. But, as a Catholic, there was no alternative. Not if she wished to regain the state of Sanctifying Grace.

She confessed having an abortion. She was dumbfounded when the voice of the unseen priest asked if she knew there was a special penalty attached to this grave sin. She knew of no extra penalty; wasn’t one of the worst of all possible mortal sins enough? Since she had not known that the penalty of automatic excommunication was attached to those who have, procure, perform, or assist at abortions, she did not now incur the sanction. It was one of those rare cases when ignorance was a shield.

She had expected this confession to be torturous; the confessor did not disappoint her. After excoriating her, he imposed as penance that she recite the rosary every day for a month. Before absolving her, however, he had one more admonition. He said, and she would never forget his words: “Young lady, I cannot make this part of your penance, but if I could I would. You should go off to a convent and become a nun. You should give up forever every pleasure of the flesh, legitimate or not. You should expiate this terrible sin for the rest of your life.”

Only then did he absolve her. She was so shocked by his admonition, she didn’t even remember reciting the Act of Contrition.

She talked that one over with Alice. It was Alice’s opinion that, with all due reverence, her confessor was an ass.

But his words had touched something deep inside her, something she had never before consciously considered. It was difficult for her to understand, let alone explain. It was as if she were destined to be a concert artist but had never taken a piano lesson.

The priest had advised her to become a nun to do penance for her sin-a completely negative motivation. But seriously considering the vocation for the first time, she found herself more and more naturally called to it.

There was one special nun who had taught Marie in that particularly difficult senior year, to whom she felt very close. They talked frequently now and at great length. Alone among all the Sisters who had taught her, Sister Marian Joseph, IHM, had seen beneath and beyond the “wildness” that was so natural to Marie, the especial qualities, the potential for an intense spiritual life. Sister Marian Joseph deeply believed that Marie would make an excellent religious. In fact, Sister was convinced that if Marie did not become a nun, she would have completely missed her genuine life’s vehicle.

In one of their final conversations before Marie graduated, Sister Marian Joseph said, “Marie, this is the perfect time for you to enter. There’s a new breed postulant now who thinks, evaluates, and exercises more common sense than we dared to. And you’d fit right in.”

“New breed? I’m not sure. .”

“Let me put it this way, Marie. When we entered, we wanted-most of us desperately wanted-to become nuns so badly, we’d do anything we were told or expected to do to reach the goal. So some odd things-odd now in retrospect-happened.”

“Odd?”

“I can remember, though it was a long time ago, lots of things that happened in the mother house in Monroe that were weird-by today’s lights.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, in the refectory-the dining hall-we had ‘virtue boxes.’”

“Huh? Boxes with virtues in them?”

“I told you this was odd. No, boxes that held small pieces of paper on which were written virtuous deeds or actions. When you entered the refectory, you took one of the slips from the box and carried out whatever virtuous action was written on it.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Oh, for instance, you might pull out a slip that said, ‘Abstain from meat during this meal.’”

“And you wouldn’t eat meat? But what if that were the only main course?”

“Then you went hungry-or ate a lot of potatoes. But we were young and some of us were mischievous-not unlike yourself, Marie. I remember one time some of us ‘loaded’ the virtue boxes so that all the slips read, ‘Take your supper on the floor.’”

Marie began to giggle. “And the refectory was filled with nuns sitting on the floor, eating?”

Sister Marian laughed at the memory. “Then we had responsibilities-we called them ‘charges.’ One time my charge was to clean the lower cloister with its tile floor and brick walls. And I was cleaning it, sweeping the floor, when an older nun was passing through. She took the broom from me and said, ‘Why are you sweeping it that way? You must sweep it this way.’ And so, without another word, I did it her way.

“I wanted to be a nun so badly that I didn’t want to make waves. It was easier, a more direct route to becoming a professed sister, to bury your intelligence, your common sense and go along than to challenge the system. And if you stepped out of line, exercised your own personality, you were likely to hear from a superior, ‘Did you come to join the convent or to change it?’

“Marie, we’re right on the verge of the Second Vatican Council. I feel certain there will be radical changes. I can’t foretell what they’ll be, but they’re coming. The Sisters of today and tomorrow are in the best position to react to these changes. I’ve watched you carefully, Marie. You are perfect for the changing religious life. That’s why I was so delighted when you came to me to talk about it.”

This was what she wanted to hear. Not the negative denunciation in the confessional, but the positive recognition and motivation from a nun she respected.

So Marie made application to the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. She mentioned to neither Sister Marian Joseph nor the screening board in Monroe the tragedy of her abortion. The hearty and undiluted recommendation of Sister Marian Joseph, a Sister well respected in the community, won Marie admission as a postulant.

She found convent life much as Sister Marian had described it, except for community life. No one could have adequately described that. It had to be experienced. As dear and complete as had been her friendship with Alice, that was now only a most pleasant memory. Her religious Sisters became her real sisters.

She went through her postulancy, her novitiate, took her interim vows, then final vows. Then came the various “missions,” one of which was to Marygrove, where she and Sister Janet, whom she had known at the mother house, were again classmates.

Sister Marian Joseph also proved to be a prophet. Yet even she could not have foreseen all the accomplishments of Vatican II. But she was correct in assuming the Council would shake things up in a virtually unprecedented way. And, of all groups in the Catholic Church, nuns were foremost in studying and making practical the documents of the Council. No sooner did the bishops assembled in Rome publish a document than it was devoured by the Sisters. And among the forefront of these was Sister Mary Ambrose, the former Marie Monahan. Mary Ambrose was the religious name Marie had chosen. However, a few years later and as one result of the Council, many of the nuns reverted to their original names. By the time she had entered the religious education field and written her book, she long had been known as Sister Marie Monahan, IHM.

After the considerable success of Behind the Veil, Marie received the first of a series of invitations to sign with P.G. Press. She was tempted neither by the promises of significantly more money nor wider exposure to readers. The mystery novel was an avocation to her. She was immensely pleased and proud of being a published author, but she had no inclination to capitalize on every potential gain. Besides, from the outset, the Reverend Krieg’s importunate overtures struck her as phony. And a little research into P.G.’s backlist put the proof to that impression. She had no intention whatever of writing the sort of book P.G. published.

From time to time, though less and less frequently as the years passed, she would relive the abortion. Whenever it came to mind, always unbidden, she would wince and reexperience her grief that it had ever happened, but also the guilt that would never completely leave her at peace despite having been absolved.

At least no one else-with the exception of Alice, Marie’s family, and those close to the investigation-knew about it.

Or so she thought until the Reverend Krieg made her the offer he was sure she could not refuse. After her initial shock, she wondered how Krieg had ever unearthed her secret. She never learned that one of Krieg’s private investigators, while talking with her former classmates, tripped upon the rumors that had circulated about what happened that night. Rumors begun by Cassidy’s bragging. Armed with that information, the operator checked a number of possibilities, including the possibility of pregnancy, and a subsequent adoption or abortion. Police records, for which the operator paid a nominal sum, revealed the abortion. Krieg had his weapon.

When Marie recovered from the shock of this discovery, she was as furious as she had been when Bucko Cassidy had raped her. But it was an impotent fury that she directed at Krieg. There was nothing she could do but sign with him or risk the chance that he would actually expose her secret. If he were to do that, she knew her shame and disgrace would be so great she would not feel comfortable again until she had shriveled into a cloistered place of hiding.

Once she received the invitation to participate in this writers’ workshop and realized that Klaus Krieg would be here too, she knew this was the time of decision. She had returned to Marygrove as guardedly despondent as she had ever been. Realistically, she felt that when push came to shove she would sign. Even after considerable prayer and thought, she had arrived at no viable alternative to giving in to Krieg.

Then, her first evening at the college, she had received an enigmatic note from the Reverend David Benbow. From the tone of the note rather than its literal content, she recognized that, for some reason he did not disclose, he was in the same predicament as she. She accepted his invitation to meet, which they did the following night-at about the time of Rabbi Winer’s death.

As Benbow had no intention of revealing what it was Krieg held over him as blackmail, he made no attempt to discover Marie’s secret. They operated only with the tacit understanding that both were in a career-threatening bind and that Krieg held the whip hand that promised to devastate their lives.

Cautiously at first, then boldly, Benbow suggested a plan at once subtle yet promising. It was a scheme born of the desperate corner into which they’d been forced by Krieg. It was clear as they plotted together that neither felt comfortable with what Benbow proposed. Yet neither could conceive of an alternative solution.

It was agreed that Benbow’s plan would require at least two people to carry it out. Actually, it would have been more practical if more had been involved. At that point, Benbow admitted that he had sent invitations identical to Marie’s to Rabbi Winer and the monk. They had obviously chosen not to accept Benbow’s invitation, either because they were not threatened by Krieg as were David and Marie, or-and this seemed more likely to Benbow-they were in the same boat but, for their own reasons, simply preferred not to meet.

Finally, David and Marie agreed they must and would act. They would use Benbow’s carefully constructed plan. They would act when Benbow gave the agreed-upon signal.

The only remaining question was when to put their plan into motion. And that question was crucial.

After considerable discussion, they agreed that the wisest course would be to defer action as long as possible, rather than seizing the present moment. For one thing, they had no way of knowing Krieg’s timetable. At some point during the workshop’s five days Krieg would undoubtedly drop the other shoe, as it were, and impose his ultimatum. Timing, then, was of the essence. They had to act before Krieg, and forestall his exposing them.

Yet it was perfectly possible that either or both Winer and Augustine had a plan to thwart Krieg. Since neither Benbow nor Marie wanted to resort to violence-radical fear alone allowed them to even contemplate it-there was the possibility that Winer and/or Augustine might make it unnecessary for them to put their plan into action by striking first.

The point then, as Benbow explained to Marie, was to allow just enough time for one or both of the others to take care of Krieg. Failing that, David and Marie must act.

It was their final agreement, then, that the crucial factor of timing would be left in Benbow’s hands. He would give the signal if it were needed. And then they would put a stop to Klaus Krieg.

Talk about God’s will! Praise God!