Deadline for a Critic

5

“Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. Same to you.” Koesler returned the greeting even though there was still a full day before New Year’s Eve. “How’s the new job?”

Raising his eyes as if in supplication, Father Jerry Marvin breathed a sigh of anxiety. “Jeez, I don’t know, Bob. It was a straight player trade but I think there should have been some cash involved.”

Marvin, one of Koesler’s priest-classmates, had just assumed his new assignment as rector of Sacred Heart Seminary. The former rector had become pastor of Marvin’s former parish, SL René Goupil. The switch was the choicest bit of clerical gossip making the rounds. In obedience to his bishop’s will, Marvin had left a thriving suburban parish to take a post that was a mere shadow of its former self. In the early to mid-sixties, Sacred Heart had bulged with seminarians. Now there were so few students that every movable archdiocesan department had been pushed into the seminary building just to keep as much of the edifice as possible open and operating.

“Look at it this way,” Koesler kidded, “you are no longer merely Father Marvin. You’re a rector. You are the Very Reverend F. Gerald Marvin.”

“A consoling thought,” Marvin replied. “I’ll have that stitched on my underwear. That way I’ll be sure to get it back from the laundry.”

“You moved in yet?”

“Uh-huh. Just in time for the second semester. It’s like Sklarski said when he got old St. Vincent’s: ‘Yeah, boys, a plum . . . a little wrinkled, but a plum.’ I had Mass a few times with the kids. I can’t quite decide whether to tell them about the Good Old Days or not”

“Tell them. By all means, tell them. There was nothing like it. But try not to sound too much like Inspector Frank Luger, NYPD.”

Marvin, a fellow devotee of the old “Barney Miller” TV series, laughed. “I’d better get out of here and let you get ready for the funeral. Talk to you after.” Marvin, already vested in cassock and surplice, left the sacristy to take his place in one of the pews reserved for the visiting clergy.

Koesler had guessed correctly that Ridley C. Groendal would be recognized as a Very Important Catholic and would thus draw quite a few priests to his funeral. It had been wise to reserve several of the front pews on the “Gospel side” of the church. It was 9:45 A.M., fifteen minutes before the cortege was expected, and already the reserved pews were almost filled.

Looking out the door of the sacristy into the body of the church, Koesler was engrossed by the difference in demeanor between the laity and the priests.

Lay people, arriving singly, in couples, and groups in advance of the cortege, entered the church, generally awkwardly. Non-Catholics usually gave themselves away immediately. They were out of their element and showed it. Ill at ease, they glanced about awkwardly, trying to pick up some acceptable liturgical action from those who might be Catholic. Even then, few attempted a genuflection before entering a pew. And though most Catholics knelt for at least a few moments before seating themselves, Protestants regarded kneelers as, perhaps, the instrument that caused the Reformation.

Catholics, on the other hand, entered with assurance and familiarity. But also with a reverence that was more habit than conviction. Genuflections were abortive. Signs of the Cross were truncated. And the hands: What to do with the hands? For some reason, Catholics in church could not let hands dangle at the side as was natural in any other sphere of life. So, usually, hands were carried folded over the pubic area for no other reason than that Catholics were accustomed to joining their hands in prayer with elbows propped on the pew ahead. Since this was a place of prayer, and while walking there was no place to prop one’s elbows, hands joined in front fulfilled the happy medium of hands both dangling and folded.

In contrast, it was a joy to watch priests gather. Like fish returning to water, church was home for priests. They entered casually, genuflected fully, knelt naturally, and had no problem whatsoever with their hands. Not infrequently, priests carried something. With some of the older priests, that might well be a breviary, the almost extinct special monastic prayer book. If they carried nothing, their hands hung quite naturally. They were, after all, home.

Most gratifying was the way priests greeted each other. Almost every priest knew almost all the others. As they gathered, there were smiles of recognition, nods, nudges, a few words, but mostly the nonverbal communication that marks a uniquely shared life and experience.

Koesler glanced at the wall clock. One minute past ten. Not unusual. Funerals had a habit of tardiness. So did weddings. Weddings were much worse.

Activity in the vestibule. The outside doors propped open, letting out a healthy chunk of heat. It was all so familiar. Ridley C. Groendal was arriving for his last visit to church, a little late and literally breathless.

Koesler nodded to the Mass servers, altar boys and girls, and in silence the small altar procession moved through the sanctuary, down the middle aisle, to the rear of the church.

The burnished metal casket containing the mortal remains of Ridley Groendal was placed on its carrier. The morticians in attendance stood impassively at the head and foot of the casket. Six pallbearers stamped snow from their shoes. Breath was exhaled in visible vapors as cold air invaded the church. Only the first few mourners stood in the church. The others would have to wait until the procession moved forward. Peter Harison, of course, was first among the mourners.

Koesler opened the ritual and read, “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

“And also with you.” Everyone was supposed to respond. Only the servers and Peter Harison did.

Koesler sprinkled the casket with holy water as he read, “I bless the body of Ridley with holy water that recalls his baptism of which St Paul writes: All of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death. By baptism into His death we were buried together with Him, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live a new life. For if we have been united with Him by likeness to His death, so shall we be united with Him by likeness to His resurrection.”

As a white ornamented cloth was spread over the coffin, Koesler read aloud, “On the day of his baptism, Ridley put on Christ In the day of Christ’s coming, may he be clothed with glory.”

He continued, “Let us pray. Lord, hear our prayers and be merciful to your son, Ridley, whom you have called from this life. Welcome him into the company of your saints, in the kingdom of light and peace. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Koesler nodded to the server carrying the processional cross and the group began retracing its path through the church. As they slowly walked up the aisle, the organist and choir—the choir because a Very Important Catholic was being buried—began the hymn, “I Will Raise Him Up.” Most of the priests joined in the refrain. In all, this was a much grander greeting of the body than in a common garden variety Mass of Resurrection.

While processing down the middle aisle and managing to maintain custody of the eyes, Koesler did glance from side to side occasionally.

He was very surprised to see one of them. He was astonished to see the second. At that point, he decided to put the remainder of his amazement on hold until he checked out the rest of the congregation. Sure enough, he spied the third and then the fourth. All four of the original suspects in the investigation of the death of Ridley C. Groendal were present. Five, if one counted Peter Harison among the original suspects. That all were able to attend this funeral was due entirely to a decision of the Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division of the Wayne County Prosecutor’s Office.

For the past couple of days there had been considerable speculation in the media over Groendal’s death. All that was certain was that there was an ongoing investigation. The police had been extremely secretive. Left with little detail, the press had been constrained to come up with some fairly wild conjecture.

The case had been solved last night, although the media were just now being briefed, so it would be surprising if anyone here but the principals would know that. It was almost miraculous what could be accomplished between the 7:30 P.M. recitation of a rosary for the deceased and bedtime.

Father Koesler would be the last to claim that he had solved the mystery. And, in strict truth, he probably had not. But he certainly had brought the puzzle to such a point that the solution needed only a finishing touch by the authorities.

This was by no means the first time Koesler had been involved in a Detroit homicide investigation. It had happened several times. But generally he had been dragged into these situations quite beyond his will. Sometimes he had simply happened to be on the scene when the murder was perpetrated or when the investigation had begun. Almost always there was something “religious,” or specifically “Catholic” involved.

In any case, the police had been able to utilize his expertise in the solution.

However, in the matter of Ridley C. Groendal, Koesler for the first time had come aboard neither reluctantly nor out of the blue. He had, indeed, volunteered his assistance. He did so because he was in the singular position of having known not only the deceased but also each and every one of those suspected of involvement in his death. Koesler not only knew them all; he was privy to the personal conflicts that marked and scarred their lives.

It would not cross Koesler’s mind that he had come on like a white knight or a fictional detective and singlehandedly solved this case. Far from it. He was no more than a simple parish priest. And happy and fulfilled in being that. The homicide department had done its usual thorough and painstaking job of building the case. In all probability, they would have closed the matter unaided by any outside agency. But Koesler had been able to contribute some information that proved helpful. Well, perhaps something more than that. Koesler’s information, when presented, proved to be the crowning touch of the brief investigation. Koesler had been able to provide the elusive ingredient needed to tie up all the loose ends.

But the presence of all the suspects at the victim’s funeral struck Koesler as peculiar, to say the least. He wondered if it might be unique. So few things were.

Well, time enough after the funeral for the law to exact punishment. For now, there was a liturgy to celebrate.

What an odd word to describe this function, thought Koesler. Nevertheless, he resolved to do his best with the celebration of a Mass of Resurrection. The main block—Koesler knew himself well—would be that ever-present stream of consciousness that was sure to provide him with one distraction after another.

All had entered and been shown to their places. The church was almost filled. The undertaker placed the lighted Paschal candle at the head of the casket. The congregation was attentive. All was ready.

Koesler intoned: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.” Most of the congregation responded.

“The grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you,” was the response.

Koesler continued. “My friends, to prepare ourselves to celebrate these sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins.”

In the silence that followed, Koesler’s gaze fell on David Palmer. David Palmer, the musician. Unbidden, memories flooded back.

The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors of Holy Redeemer grade school.

Boards creaking as children walked, rapidly perhaps but never running lest one of the nuns was sure to whack you. Silence, as simultaneously throughout the building, classes began. Then the only sound, Sister raising her voice at a slow, lazy, or disobedient student. Or, as nuns glided down a hallway, the rattle of the fifteen-decade rosary wound through their belts.

These were the 1930s and all was as it had been for a century or more. Catholic children attended Catholic schools or the breadwinner heard about it after he confessed his sin of omission to the priest of a Saturday evening.

Nuns, without whom a parochial school system never could have been attempted, were swathed from head to toe in distinctive religious habit. The garb of the Sisters Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, the teachers at Holy Redeemer, was a color that became identified as IHM Blue. They also wore a black scapular that slipped over their shoulders and draped to the floor fore and aft. This was capped by a stiff bonnet that pinched the cheeks and eventually wore an almost permanent ridge in the forehead.

They began each day with Mass in the convent at an ungodly early hour. Breakfast was followed by another Mass with the children in attendance. They taught school all day. Prayed, dined, prepared lesson plans, and retired. Only to do the selfsame thing the next day. And the next and the next. During summers they usually returned to college to pile up more hours toward another academic degree.

In an office just large enough for a small desk and chair and a spinet piano, Sister Mary George, IHM, is conducting a music lesson.

Seated at the piano is Robert Koesler, undergoing his weekly humiliation.

“No, no, Robert . . .” Sister vigorously taps a baton against the piano. “. . . you have a left hand. It’s not just for waving at the keys. It’s supposed to play the correct notes.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“It’s not that you don’t have talent, Robert. It’s that you don’t practice, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“How many hours did you practice this week?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know, Sister.”

“Not many, I’ll wager. Robert, you don’t like Czerny, do you?”

“Uh . . . no. Sister.” Actually, Koesler had nothing against the composer personally. He just did not enjoy scales and arpeggios that had no tunes worth mentioning. But whether or not Koesler liked Czerny, his answer would have been the same. To small obedient Catholic children of that day, nuns’ questions, like that just posed by Sister Mary George, were rhetorical.

“That’s another one of your problems, Robert: You don’t build foundations. All you want to do is put in windows.”

“Sister?”

“I know you want to play beautiful music, lyric music, Robert. But you can’t do that unless you practice these fundamentals. First you build the foundations, then you can put in the beautiful ornaments. Do you see, Robert?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Uh . . .” There was one question Koesler had been wrestling with for a very long time: Why did all nuns smell exactly the same? Something like Fels Naphtha or Ivory soap. But he would never have the boldness to ask it. Or rather, by the time he would have the courage to ask, it no longer mattered. “No, Sister.”

“Very well, then, Robert. Next week do the same Czerny exercises. And this time pay attention to your left hand. Then, only after you master that, you can go on to that little Mozart prelude. Now, don’t forget orchestra practice this afternoon.”

“No, Sister.” Koesler would have much preferred a quick game of baseball after school. But he would be there for orchestra practice. For starters, he would be killed if he didn’t show up. First blood would go to Sister. The coup de grace would be delivered by his parents.

Music lessons cost one dollar an hour, a laughably low price even then. But Koesler’s hard-pressed parents found it difficult to produce that extra dollar. And they had emphatically impressed upon their son that they expected some results for their investment. He might not practice what he considered “the dull stuff” assiduously, but neither would he skip a lesson nor miss orchestra practice.

Another family in Koesler’s neighborhood could afford money for lessons even less than the Koeslers. But the other family had even more reason to invest whatever they could in their son’s musical career. They were the Palmers and their son, David, was a prodigy.

Both Fred and Agnes Palmer were musicians. Both played in chamber ensembles regularly. Agnes gave lessons. But her instrument was not the violin, and David’s was. Besides, there was that peculiar impediment that makes it problematical for a parent to undertake the formal education of one’s own child.

The first inkling the Palmers had of their son’s gift was when he was three years old. Agnes Palmer had just completed playing Debussy’s “Clair de lune.” As she walked away from the piano, she heard a small high sound. It was her son, humming perfectly what she had just performed. Soon thereafter, David began repeating on the piano the melodic lines of works his parents played. At the age of five, he found a violin and the violin found him. In no time, he convinced his parents that it would be through the violin that he would most perfectly express his God-given talent.

With one thing and another, the Palmers concluded it would be a crime not to do everything in their power to advance the boy’s musical education. So, for a hard-earned dollar a week, they sent him to Sister Mary George.

Sister, for her part, was painfully aware that David’s talent far surpassed her ability to challenge it. But she knew the Palmers could not afford anything beyond her. So she began to make plans with regard to David and a relatively new musical camp in northern Michigan called Interlochen Arts Academy.

There was one other boy in that neighborhood, and in the same class with Koesler and Palmer, who showed some considerable musical talent. Ridley Groendal.

Koesler could be mentioned in this threesome only because he was a classmate and took lessons from the same teacher as the other two. Outside of that superficial connection, he was simply not in their class and he and everyone else knew it.

Actually, Groendal was not in Palmer’s class either. Groendal was an adequate pianist for a young student. But he was not especially gifted. Palmer was the one and only wonder child of the group.

Unfortunately, while almost everyone was in awe of David Palmer’s musical gift, no one was paying enough attention to the rest of Palmer’s personality. As a result, few people realized that all this special attention had gone straight to Palmer’s head. He was becoming a first-class brat. Those adults who were aware of David’s bumptiousness tended to overlook it as the natural eccentricity of a budding genius.

The memory fades as Father Koesler becomes aware of an altar girl standing before him, holding an open ritual.

Koesler read aloud: “Lord, hear our prayers. By raising your son from the dead, you have given us faith. Strengthen our hope that Ridley, our brother, will share in His resurrection. Who lives and reigns together with the Holy Spirit, one God forever and ever. Amen.”

As he looked up from the book, Koesler once again noticed Palmer, as isolated as if in a telescope. This time their eyes locked. David Palmer, musician extraordinaire. At least an extraordinary musician for a parochial setting such as Holy Redeemer.

The memory gains strength.

It is orchestra practice.

Robert Koesler has had a difficult day. He had been poorly prepared not only for the piano lesson but for most of the rest of his classes as well. And, worse luck, he had been called on for recitation frequently and fruitlessly.

But now this practice is important. It is a rehearsal for the annual recital wherein Sister Mary George is able to showcase the progress her music students have made. The recital is mostly for the benefit of proud and hopeful parents.

Over the past several years, there has been no doubt which of her pupils Sister has wanted to star. In a parochial setting, a David Palmer comes along once in a lifetime, if then.

As far as the orchestra is concerned, Robert Koesler plays the drums. That thinking is as follows: Koesler could have been the orchestra’s pianist, except that Ridley Groendal is a better pianist—much better. But Koesler did play the piano on special occasions, such as the annual recital. Thus, to keep him around, he was given the drums—bass and snare—to play. (This under the amateur assumption that anyone—at least anyone with a sense of rhythm—can play the drums, an assumption that would definitely not be shared by a professional.)

Rehearsal began with the orchestra performing Kettelby’s “In a Persian Market.” Even Koesler could tell that this performance would, if Kettelby were not already dead, kill him. Only two exceptions mitigated this: the piano and what in a professional orchestra would be the concertmaster—Ridley Groendal and David Palmer. Groendal was correct and accurate. Palmer’s tone soared.

Sister finally dismissed the orchestra with the hope that “we can get away with that.” It was not to be. But in the inner recesses of her heart, she was allowed to hope.

Instruments, chairs, and music stands were removed noisily to prepare for the special numbers in the recital.

Robert Koesler waited in the wings while a series of extremely nervous younger children blundered through solos, duets, and trios. Most of them left—some in tears—immediately after their respective performances.

Koesler was scheduled to play a duet with David Palmer near the end of the program. When their turn came, the two took to the stage, bowed to an imaginary audience, and began. Their number was Bach’s simple but tender “Air for the G-String.” Palmer’s interpretation was so virtuosic that Koesler found himself playing beyond his ordinary ability.

As the last note died away, the hush was almost reverential. Then a burst of applause from the few remaining students as well as from Sister Mary George herself.

Koesler had to admit that this was pretty heady stuff. He might like doing this more often . . . as long as he could accompany David Palmer.

So inspired was Koesler that he resolved to stay for the final few compositions, rather than to seek out that inevitable baseball game.

After the remainder of the more talented students performed—Sister always kept the best wine till last—the final duo was ready. The finale was to feature Palmer and his violin, accompanied by Groendal on the piano. They were to perform Rimski-Korsakov’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee,” a demanding piece that could spell frustration or be a tour de force for violin, trumpet, piano—whichever chose to carry the theme.

The two young musicians appeared on stage. They, as had each previous performer, bowed to a nearly empty house. It would be filled on the following day for the actual performance.

Something was going on. Koesler could feel the vibes. They were not good. Groendal struck an “A”; Palmer checked his instrument for tuning. There was a pause as the two collected themselves. Palmer’s right foot tapped out the third and fourth beat of a measure, setting the tempo.

They began. Or, rather, Groendal began. He was playing “Bumble Boogie,” a popular parody of the famed “Flight.” Palmer, taken completely by surprise, had clearly been tricked. He stood as if he were a still photo mounted on stage.

Sister Mary George leaped from her seat as if catapulted. “No! No! Now, stop!” she shrieked.

With a smirk, Groendal lifted his hands from the keyboard.

“Ridley! Whatever possessed you, boy?” Sister was both bewildered and quite angry. “Is this all you think of our concert? That you should fool around like this? Honestly! You could have Job chewing carpets! What is the matter with you, young man?”

“I’m sorry, Sister.” It was not even a good pretense.

“Now you settle down! This is the finale of the whole concert. Perhaps you don’t think you could be replaced. Well, think again, young man! It’s true that this is short notice. But nobody is irreplaceable! Nobody! I could have Robert Koesler, here, take your place. It would require all-night practice, practically. But you could do it, Robert.” She was now looking at Koesler, who slouched even further down in his seat. Please God, not me!

“Now, you start again from the beginning. David? Are you all right?”

Palmer, still frozen in the same position, nodded.

“Then,” Sister ordered, “set the tempo and begin.”

“The Flight of the Bumblebee” began in the tempo in which Rimski-Korsakov had written it. But the tension was deep. Groendal punched out the staccato chords too loudly. Palmer’s rendition of the melody was not unlike that of an angry bee.

They finished at last to cautious applause. Not that the performance was not good. Indeed, it could have been described as inspired. But there was concern for Sister Mary George and her temperament. However, she seemed somewhat mollified by the reading Groendal and Palmer had finally given the work. So, with a few additional warnings, she dismissed the remaining students.

Koesler sensed that this was not the end of the matter. He lingered until everything had been packed away, then followed Groendal and Palmer as they left the auditorium. Palmer left first, but waited just outside the side door. Once Ridley was down the steps, Palmer was on him.

Shortly they were three as Koesler joined the scuffle. There was a lot of rolling around, threats, mild curses, even a tear or two. Since all three were roughly of the same slight build, not much damage was being done. No one was getting mauled by the others. Nevertheless, Koesler’s participation—intended to bring peace—was not altogether successful.

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Koesler shouted. “Come on! Break it up!”

They rolled around a bit more. Eventually, all three were standing, with Koesler somehow between the other two.

“That’s better,” Koesler pronounced. Though it wasn’t much better.

“What was the idea, anyway, you jerk?” Palmer said.

“There wasn’t any idea, smart guy,” Groendal replied. “It was a joke, just a joke. Can’t you take a joke? Or is the great genius too high and mighty for a joke!”

“Some joke!” Palmer shoved Groendal, nearly restarting the fracas.

“Wait a minute!” Koesler stepped more firmly between them.

“What’s this to you, anyway, Koesler? This isn’t your fight,” Palmer protested.

Koesler had more altruistic reasons than either Palmer or Groendal would comprehend. So Robert alleged a more mundane, if no less true, motive. “’Cause I’ve got a stake in this thing, too. If you,” to Groendal, “injure him, I’m out one-half of my duet and I won’t get to perform. And if you,” speaking to Palmer, “injure him, I’m gonna have to learn ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ overnight. You heard Sister!”

Both Palmer and Groendal found Koesler’s reasons too laughable to pursue a fight neither of them really wanted. But they were in no way over their ill feelings toward each other.

“Okay . . . but this isn’t the end of this, Ridley,” Palmer said. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that! We’re not done!”

“Suit yourself, hotshot. Any time!”

And thus they parted.

After an uneasy evening and a night filled with portentous dreams, Koesler began the next day in an exhausted state. His parochial morning Mass was marked by the sort of prayer one expected from the trenches. Still, there was nothing he could pinpoint. Just a general feeling that this day might well see an event that would have lasting and horrible consequences. He went through morning classes in a kind of trance.

The students who were to perform in the orchestra and/or one of the recital numbers were excused from afternoon classes.

Koesler’s apprehension was not alleviated when Sister Mary George announced that representatives from Interlochen Arts Academy would attend the recital. She said it with a glint in her eye that was meant for David Palmer.

Unfortunately, her ambiguous statement was intercepted by Ridley Groendal. He considered himself easily qualified and deserving of a scholarship to Interlochen. This was his chance, his golden opportunity. He had anticipated this moment. He would not let it slip by. As far as he was concerned, his entire future hung on his performance today. He was ready. His overwhelming craving for this scholarship completely emptied his mind even of all thoughts of David Palmer.

Koesler, seated near Groendal, somehow sensed Ridley’s reaction to Sister’s announcement. Koesler’s forebodings intensified. He knew for whom the scouts came. In a sense, he was happy for Palmer. David deserved the best possible musical training and his parents certainly needed the aid of a scholarship. In that, their financial situation was no different from nearly all the families of that lower middle-class section of the city.

The Groendals could have used a scholarship too. Ridley came so close to qualifying. But close was as near as he would come. Tragically, Groendal’s proximity to an Interlochen free ride put him, at least in his own mind, in competition with Palmer. It was a competition Ridley was doomed to lose.

In all, Koesler was grateful that his small talents did not qualify him for Interlochen, not even as a paying student. Not the type who was driven to win at any cost, he was better off out of the competition.

Gradually, the audience—mostly mothers, occasionally a father, of the performers—gathered in the auditorium. There were quite a few guests no one could place. More than likely, they were just interested parishioners responding to the notice of the recital in the previous Sunday’s parish bulletin. But somewhere among those strangers were the Interlochen scouts.

Their presence had different effects on different people. Nervous amateurs became more apprehensive. The more talented performers became a bit more keyed-up. But none more-so than Groendal and Palmer. If there is a single moment that dictates the remainder of one’s life, this was that moment for each of them.

The orchestra opened the program. It was as Koesler had suspected: They did not “get away” with “In a Persian Market.” Never had the beggars of that piece been more in need of help.

The recital began at the bottom with the youngest students. Some few forgot their memorized sections midway through and fled the stage in tears. Others, particularly considering their tender ages, did quite well.

“Which ones do you think they are, Bob?”

Koesler was startled. Peeking at the audience from the backstage wing, he had not heard Ridley come up behind him. “Which ones do I think who are?”

“The scouts! The scouts from Interlochen,” Groendal whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably some of the people who keep going out and coming back.”

Groendal thought that made sense. As the afternoon wore on, the performers played to a radically changing audience. Some of the adults exited as soon as their children had finished performing. Others arrived in approximate time to hear their children, scheduled for later in the program. Still others, if one cared to note, returned periodically as if to hear selected individuals.

“Nervous?” Koesler asked.

“Butterflies in my stomach,” Groendal confessed. “But I don’t think nervous. I know what I’ve got to do.”

“Too early for you to get nervous anyway. I’m the one who’s on soon; you got a while to wait yet.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

It was evident that Groendal had nothing on his mind but his own performance.

The time came for Koesler and Palmer to take the stage. As far as Koesler could tell, those in the audience who had been going in and out all were settled in their seats. In all truth, Koesler knew it was not to hear him.

They played “Air for the G-String” beautifully. Or, more specifically, Palmer performed it expressively, caressingly. Koesler accompanied him adequately. They concluded to enthusiastic applause. Koesler basked in the acclaim, while realizing it was his only in very small measure.

After a few more performers, it came Groendal’s time.

He exuded great presence as he came onstage, bowed confidently and spent a few moments collecting himself before beginning Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in C-Sharp Minor.” He managed to capture the initial sound—three notes with their corresponding chords—of church bells. In the second section, he accelerated with near abandon. He brought the piece to a close in power and dignity, and received a justified ovation at the conclusion.

Groendal returned to bow for a curtain call, all but unheard-of in a parochial school recital. He came off the stage beaming with Moseslike incandescence. Whatever it was—adrenalin, the power of prayer—he had played well beyond his natural ability. He could not have picked a better time to do so. As of this moment, his future as a professional musician seemed assured.

“Congratulations, Rid!” Koesler greeted him enthusiastically. “You did it! That was great!”

“Yeah, I did! That was terrific. I don’t think I ever played it better. Wow!”

Others backstage gathered around, congratulating him. Sister Mary George was forced to shush them so the recital could continue undisturbed. But it was evident she was pleased with his performance.

It was obvious to Koesler that Groendal had completely forgotten that his time on stage was not yet over. As far as Ridley was concerned, the climax had been reached; there was nothing to follow.

But Koesler was acutely aware that the end had not come. Indeed, it was precisely the coming moment that had been the cause of all his foreboding. Strange that it seemed to so trouble Koesler while Groendal, whose moment of truth this might well be, was so unconcerned that he appeared to have forgotten entirely his engagement on stage with Palmer.

It came. After the rest of Sister’s other prize pupils had finished, the showplace of the recital was at hand.

Koesler began to wonder if he was alone in his premonition of disaster. Maybe he was. Sure, that’s the way he was. He tended to be pessimistic about things. Nothing would go wrong. Rid Groendal certainly would not pull another dumb stunt like his “Bumble Boogie” rehearsal. For one thing, he’d had his little joke. And for another, presumably he had garnered quite a few credits with the Rachmaninoff “Prelude.” There was no doubt he’d done extremely well. The assumption was that the Interlochen scouts had heard him. From all appearances, a pretty safe assumption.

Finally, Palmer would do nothing to foul up the performance. This was his big chance. Outside of playing it beautifully, Palmer had proved little in his “Air for the G-String.” But “Flight of the Bumblebee”! Great artists could demonstrate virtuosity with that.

Groendal and Palmer entered from opposite sides of the stage. Groendal seated himself at the piano, arranged the music, and sounded an “A” as Palmer gave his violin one final tuning. Palmer fixed his instrument between chin and shoulder and glanced at Groendal. Both nodded: they were ready.

Here they go.

Palmer tapped his right foot against the floor. Koesler’s eyes popped wide. It was too fast—way too fast, impossibly fast! But Palmer cut into the melody at just that impossible pace.

The tempo was much more demanding on Palmer than it was on Groendal, who was merely playing accompaniment. Still, Palmer was the one who had established this speed. And it was he who was maintaining it.

After the first several measures, he left Groendal floundering. At first, Ridley tried to keep up. Finding that impossible, he tried playing on the first beat of each measure. But that was foreign to his practice of the piece.

Finally, shoulders sagging, he surrendered and played no more.

It became a solo.

And what a solo! The audience—those who could block out Groendal’s humiliation—sat mesmerized by Palmer’s merciless attack. If anyone had any doubt that this was a certified prodigy, all hesitation was erased by this singular presentation.

Especially at the speed he had set, it was no wonder that Palmer completed “Flight” in near-record time. The conclusion, executed with a flair, drew a standing ovation.

Few were even aware of Groendal slinking from the stage. Koesler was. “It’s not the end of the world!” Koesler put both hands on Groendal’s shoulders, halting his progress toward the exit.

“Yes it is!” Groendal tried, but was unable to get by Koesler.

“Don’t leave! You can’t leave! You’ve got to stick it out! If you just leave now, you’ll never live it down.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t understand!” Tears were streaming down Groendal’s cheeks. “It’s the end of everything! I had it. It was mine. If it hadn’t been for that damn Palmer!”

“Don’t let him see what he did to you. Come on over here and get yourself together.” Koesler led, or rather forced, Groendal into a recess of the wings.

No one else paid much attention; they clustered around the stage as David Palmer made his triumphant exit. Inspired mainly by Sister Mary George’s ebullience, everyone was congratulating Palmer.

“Excellent David!” Sister enthused. “Even I had no idea you could play that well. I’m sure our special visitors were impressed. Oh, my, yes.” And then, as if giving a fleeting thought to the accompanist Palmer had left behind, “It’s really my fault. I should have scheduled The Flight as a solo.” She looked about. “Where is Ridley? Has anyone seen Ridley?”

It was a command performance. Koesler was glad he had kept Ridley from running off in humiliation. He pushed Groendal into the group that encircled Sister and Palmer. At least, thought Koesler, Ridley’s tears were dried. Maybe nobody would notice the red eyes.

“Oh, there you are,” Sister said. “Now don’t feel bad, Ridley. You did your best. Nobody could have known that David would have been so inspired. It was my fault. I should have scheduled that as a solo. It’s not your fault. None of my other students could have kept up with David. Not today!” She could not disguise her pride in David Palmer. “Besides, Ridley, you did very well with the ‘Prelude.’ Very well, indeed, Ridley.”

“Yes, Sister.”

After several more minutes of nearly unrestrained adulation, the group dissolved, leaving Palmer, Groendal, and Koesler wordless but high in emotion.

In a moment’s fury, Groendal swung out at Palmer, who easily stepped back and away from the wild blow. Before anything could develop, Koesler grabbed Ridley, pinning his arms from behind.

“Just let me put this down,” Palmer gestured with his violin, “then let him go. I can handle him.”

“Don’t be idiots!” Koesler said in a low tone. A few stragglers were glancing back. He did not want them to return. It would only spur the combatants on.

“Palmer,” Groendal said through clenched teeth, “you’ve ruined me! You’ve destroyed my life before I could live!”

“Don’t be an asshole, Rid,” Palmer replied. “This will teach you not to fool around like you did at rehearsal. You shouldn’t try something like that with your betters. Next time you’re supposed to play accompaniment, play it. Don’t try to embarrass me.”

“That’s why you did this to me? You ruined me, you ruined my musical career because of one joke? You did this! For that?”

Palmer grunted. “Your musical career! What musical career? You’re a hack piano player! You won’t ever be more than that! Hell, Ridley, I did you a favor. I let everybody see that you’re no musician. It saved the guys from Interlochen a lot of time. And hell, Rid, it saved you a lot of silly hope. You couldn’t have cut it at Interlochen—if that’s where you thought you were heading—and it’s better for you that you know it now. Hell, that’s right, I did you a favor, Rid!”

Palmer, by his own monologue, seemed to have convinced himself of what he claimed.

“Who are you to say I couldn’t have made it?” Groendal seemed again close to tears. “I was terrific with the Rachmaninoff. Sister even said so. And if you hadn’t tried to be Paganini—”

“You’re complaining about the tempo. It was too fast.”

“Of course. And you did it on purpose!”

“But don’t you see? If you were as good as you think, you could have kept up. Yeah, I stepped up the tempo. And I did it on purpose. I did it to teach you a lesson about fooling around with me. But it also taught you your place. And your place isn’t with me or where I’m going. I’m going to Interlochen and I’m going to the top. And you don’t belong in either place. Got it, stupid?”

“We’ll see about that.” Groendal was doing his best to choke back tears. He knew he could not succeed much longer. “But just remember, Palmer: I’ll get you for this! Somehow I’ll get you. If it takes the rest of my life. And it doesn’t matter what happens to you, the score will never be even as far as I’m concerned.”

He turned and ran, stumbling, to the stairs.

Palmer yelled after him. “When you try to get even, just remember what happened here today. I’m always going to have the last laugh. Do you hear that, Groendal? I’m always going to have the last laugh!”

Nearly two months later, it was announced that David Palmer had been awarded a scholarship to the National Music Camp at Interlochen. A school assembly was held in his honor and congratulations poured in from nearly everyone but Ridley Groendal.

From the recital until the end of the school year, not a word would pass between Groendal and Palmer. After that, as they entered high school, their paths would diverge until many years later, when Groendal would have become a professional critic and Palmer a professional musician.

Palmer attended Holy Redeemer for the first two years of high school. Then, as part of an augmented scholarship, he was able to become a full-time student at the Interlochen Arts Academy, whence he then graduated.

Groendal, mostly as a result of frustration over his scuttled musical ambition, decided to become a priest. So he, along with Robert Koesler, attended Sacred Heart, Detroit’s high school and college seminary.

One incident before the end of that fateful final year in primary school would have serious repercussions many years later.

It was a fire that threatened to burn down Redeemer auditorium. The fire department termed it arson. The culprit was never identified. It was started on the stage of the auditorium but destroyed only the grand piano and a relatively small portion of the hardwood flooring.

Shortly after the fire, David Palmer approached Robert Koesler. “I’ve got something to show you.” Palmer handed Koesler a photograph.

Koesler studied the indistinct picture, “Okay, I give up; what is it?”

Palmer ran his finger over the photo. “This is the stage of our auditorium . . . see, there’s the Redeemer shield on the back curtain. And there are the two chairs that we usually use when we need them for props.”

“Uh-huh,” Koesler agreed. The landmarks were clear only after identification.

“Okay. Then here is the grand piano. It’s on fire . . . that’s why it’s hard to see what’s on the picture: because of all the smoke.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And this,” in a tone of triumph, “is your pal, Ridley C. Groendal, starting a fire at the other end of the piano.”

“What? Wait a minute! You can’t tell that; there’s too much smoke. It’s somebody, but you can’t tell who.”

“Oh, no? Who else do you know who looks exactly like this?” He assisted Koesler’s inspection with a magnifying glass. “The baggy pants with a hole in the knee. But now, look! See on the tennis shoes: ‘R.C. Groendal.’ Oh, it’s Ridley, all right. He set the fire!” Again the triumphant tone.

“He didn’t see you take the picture?”

“I didn’t care whether he did or not. But he didn’t. He was behind the worst of the smoke. See: You can barely make out his head. It’s all covered with smoke.”

“He doesn’t know you’ve got this?”

“Nope. You’re the only one who knows.”

“So . . . why are you showing it to me?”

“’Cause you’re the only one I can trust to keep the secret. And I wanted somebody besides me to know.”

“Well . . . what of it? They put out the fire before it did any really serious damage. And Ridley probably was doing nothing but taking out revenge on the piano he thinks failed him. What are you going to do with this?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing . . . for now.”

“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

“I’m going to save it.”

“Save the picture? What in heaven’s name for?”

“For someday.”

“Someday? What do you mean someday?”

“I don’t even know when that’ll be. I sure as hell don’t need it now. I’ve got the poor bastard where I want him right now. I don’t need to drop this on him. I’m just going to hold onto it. Maybe someday I’ll need it. Maybe someday I’ll have to settle the score with him once and for all. Then I’ll use it. Maybe someday it’ll drive him nuts for everybody to know he’s nothing but a sneaky firebug.”

Koesler said no more. His mind was swimming in these revelations. He had never before known an arsonist. He was devastated that one of his friends was a firebug. But he could not deny Palmer’s proof.

Koesler was even more disconcerted that another of his friends could be so mean-spirited. He would not have thought David Palmer capable of blackmail.

Koesler’s premonition that a horrendous evil would evolve from an otherwise innocent music recital had proven accurate.