Deadline for a Critic

12

Father Koesler sat down after the homily, as was the custom, so that everyone would have a few moments to reflect on what had been said.

In the silence, he let his gaze drift through the congregation. Predominant in that group were, of course, the two-and-a-half pews of visiting priests. Briefly, Koesler wondered how his sermon had gone over with his confreres. He surmised that most of them held the attitude that they had heard it all. He’d bet a good number had been daydreaming throughout. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the approval of his peers. He enjoyed it and welcomed it but didn’t need it.

Seated, it was difficult for Koesler to find the person he was looking for. Then, a rather large man leaned forward to retrieve something from the floor, disclosing, seated behind him, Charlie Hogan.

That made four: Hogan, Valerie Walsh, Carroll Mitchell, and David Palmer. Five, if one included Peter Harison. Strange that all the original four would be here in person—or, in the case of Jane, at least represented.

On the other hand, it would have been unusual, given the interplay between them and the deceased, had they passed up this occasion.

Charlie Hogan was special, at least to Koesler, for Charlie had been a Catholic priest. And while he was no longer functioning as a priest for ten years he had been an integral part of this amazingly homogeneous fraternity. As such, there existed between him and all other priests, functioning or not, an enduring camaraderie. A silent acknowledgment that “we alone” know the life. Know its secrets, its rewards, its demands. Others may guess at what this life is like, but more often than not, they will be mistaken. Only we know because we have lived it. And lived it together.

Charlie had been ordained in 1958, four years after Koesler. Both had been ordained for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit But of greater importance to Hogan’s relationship with Groendal, Charlie had been a seminary high school senior when Groendal and Koesler were college seniors.

Under other circumstances, Koesler would consider such thoughts distractions from the Mass he was celebrating. But, strangely, when the gifts were brought to the altar, beginning that part of the Mass called the Offertory, he felt momentary impatience that his reminiscences had been interrupted.

The “gifts,” of course, were the bread and wine, which would be “consecrated.” In Catholic belief, the bread and wine would, at the priest’s hands, be changed into the presence of Jesus Christ. For centuries, until the coming of Vatican II, bread and wine were either placed on the altar before Mass or were adjacent to the altar and simply moved there by altar boys.

Now, regularly, they were placed on a table out in the congregation and brought to the priest in a more or less solemn procession. On Sundays, the gifts of bread and wine were accompanied by the more mundane gift of the monetary collection. Collections are not taken up at weddings or funerals. Even among Catholics, some things are not seemly.

Peter Harison, naturally, was one who presented part of the gifts. At almost any other funeral there would be little difficulty finding additional volunteers. But this was not a run-of-the-mill funeral. And it was not all that easy to find the remainder of a retinue to complete the procession.

Fortunately, there were a few actors, authors, and musicians who had been favored by Groendal in life, so they served him as pallbearers in death. They also presented the remaining gifts.

While waiting at the front of the sanctuary for the presentation, Koesler pondered the coffin before him. If not for the white cloth and closed lid, he would be looking at Groendal more or less face to face. Lay people were wheeled into their funerals feet first. Thus, if they could see, they would be looking at the altar just as they had in life.

Priests were carted in headfirst, so that they would be looking at the congregation, just as they had in life.

That bit of trivia reminded Koesler that Ridley might have been a priest. He might well have been a priest, if not for . . .

After their talk following the eventful Christmas Vacation of 1949, Groendal did not mention Jane Condon to Koesler again. But Ridley changed. Initially, he became more reclusive. Koesler found him in the recreation rooms far less frequently. When he was there, he was usually off in a corner by himself chain-smoking. He played the piano only if coaxed and then not the bright show and pop tunes the guys wanted to hear.

Soon, nearly everyone could not help but notice that some sort of change had come over him. Only Koesler had a clue as to the cause. Of course he said nothing to anyone, including Groendal.

It was not until the last year of Groendal’s life, when he and Koesler renewed their relationship, that Ridley hinted at what had happened to him during that period.

Partially due to Koesler’s expressed concern for Jane Condon, Groendal could not get her out of his mind. The possibility that he had inflected a massive emotional trauma upon her haunted him. He thought of confessing this possible additional sin. But, on the one hand, it was not a certainty, just a possibility. And, on the other, none of the present priest-faculty was deaf or even slightly hard of hearing.

Added to this was a recurring nightmare. In the dream, Groendal, in one way or another would get involved with some girl. Always it was a puzzling person. The heart of the dreams usually differed one dream from another. But all ended in the same terrifying nightmare.

He and the girl—both nude—would be wrestling. As they fought Groendal would enter her. Then she would pull away, taking his genitalia with her, leaving him covered with blood.

He would wake with a start, dripping with perspiration, heart pounding.

In time, he grew to fear sleep. After the mandatory lights-out at 10:00 P.M. , Groendal would cover the transom with a blanket, turn on a small reading lamp, and read well into the night.

When at last he would topple over from sheer exhaustion, he might be spared the nightmare only because he had somehow driven all dreams away. However, he would then pay the price of achieving no release from tension through dreams. It became a vicious cycle.

All of this he kept carefully locked inside. As a result he began to suffer from increasingly deep depression.

As the weeks passed, Koesler became more concerned. He had noticed Ridley’s decline earlier than anyone else because, knowing what was bothering Groendal, Koesler had been alert to the problem almost from the first manifestations.

Koesler tried to interest Groendal in something, anything, to get his mind off the problem. Very little besides music, literature, and theater interested Ridley. And he was, consciously or not steeping himself in the gloomiest and most melancholy expressions in each of those arts.

Sports could have been a healthy outlet, especially since it was basketball season. There is little time for introspection or deep thought during a basketball game. Unlike football, wherein there is a good bit of standing around waiting for the action, and baseball, where there is even more of that inactivity basketball is a game of almost constant motion favoring reflex action more than deliberate activity.

But despite his considerable—for that era—height Groendal had never been very serious about basketball—or any other sport for that matter.

Koesler, on the other hand, while not one of the seminary’s foremost athletes, was actively involved in sports. As a member of the college basketball varsity, he was helping coach the high school varsity. Eventually, he determined that might be his best chance to help Groendal. If Koesler could get Ridley involved in the high school basketball program, maybe that could be the vehicle out of this lethargy into which Ridley seemed to be sinking.

Interesting Groendal in assisting him to coach basketball proved easier than Koesler had anticipated. Inwardly, Groendal remained indifferent to the game. But he thought the exercise forced on him by the commitment might help him get some decent restful sleep.

The next problem was selling the team on a coach who did not know enough about the game to qualify as a coach. After a few, ineffective starts, Koesler sold them simply on doing him a favor. Ridley Groendal, Koesler explained, was a friend who happened to be in need. He was having a bad time and needed exercise and companionship. And if they weren’t interested in helping people in need, whatinhell were they doing in a seminary? That did it. With pronounced reluctance and grudging charity, the consensus was: Bring him on; we may make a jock of him yet—but don’t bet on it.

Chief among those who bought the charity angle was Charlie Hogan.

It was Hogan who taught Groendal—whose previous expertise was limited to basic dribbling, passing, and layups—niceties such as the difference between a zone and man defense, pick-plays, give-and-go, the butterfly drill, and so forth.

At first Ridley’s participation was predicated entirely on getting the exercise he needed in order to get some troublefree sleep. But as time passed, Hogan’s patience and good humor began to have its effect. Groendal began to join in with more spontaneity, even to the point of enjoying the sport and looking forward to practices.

As a fringe benefit, just as he had hoped, he began to get the restful sleep he so wanted and needed.

Not that Groendal would ever be varsity caliber. He had no natural physical coordination. But he did reach the level of being able to assist the other coaches.

Koesler was so pleased he was ready to award himself an honorary doctorate in amateur psychology. Ridley’s entire attitude had returned to near normal. Once again, seated at the piano in the rec room, Groendal became the life of the party. Koesler thought nothing of the friendship that was building between Groendal and Hogan. Neither did Groendal and neither did Hogan.

Charlie Hogan was a lithe lad, built perfectly for either dancing or baseball. And there were many similarities between the art and the sport. Despite not being very large, he was an outstanding football player. He excelled at baseball as well. Though the seminary fielded neither a football nor a basketball varsity, the sports were wildly popular on an intramural basis.

At almost any other high school, Charlie Hogan might well have been “Big Man on Campus.” But since high school and college at Sacred Heart Seminary were at that time, for all practical purposes, housed in the same building, the two were more or less inseparable.

At other institutions, high school graduation was a major event. At the seminary, one simply passed from “fourth high” to “first college.” This peculiarity tended to keep high school seniors “in their place,” which was not near the top of any totem pole.

Hogan was interested in much more than athletics. He was an avid reader and enjoyed music. He had written a couple of articles for the Gothic, the seminary publication. By no means was he on the same level as Groendal in the arts field. Hogan was, after all, four years younger and nowhere near as broadly talented. But particularly after Groendal was dragged into the sports world, they did have some common interests.

So the friendship grew—cautiously. Almost without exception, everyone in the seminary was extremely sensitized to the pitfalls of a “particular friendship.” The rules of conduct made explicit the terminal punishment reserved for that specific infraction. And once each year the rector explained the purpose and meaning of the rule in nonspecific terms.

Charlie Hogan did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” He knew he was not “that way.” He was an athlete. He didn’t even know how people who were “that way” thought. He and Ridley were friends, good friends. He had to admit he knew no one else in the seminary who had such a good friend who was as much as four years his senior. They just shared common interests, that was all.

Ridley Groendal did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” What could be more innocent than two people teaching each other what each knew best? He realized the seriousness of such a liaison and the penalty attached to it. Besides, to recall for an instant something he was trying very hard to forget, he was heterosexual. He’d certainly proved that with Jane Condon.

Koesler did not consider the relationship between Hogan and Groendal a “particular friendship.” In the first place, Koesler himself had virtually introduced them. He had done so only to help Ridley out of the doldrums. And it had worked. In the second place, Koesler did not entirely understand all the implications of a “particular friendship” even though he’d heard it explained eight times now.

So it wasn’t a “particular friendship.” And it prospered.

Month followed month. Ridley learned more about basketball, though he became no more adept at it. Hogan learned more about music. They enriched each other in their love of literature. They spent many brief recreation periods walking around the back grounds. Frequently they were joined by others of the high school basketball varsity. The fact that they seemed to feel no need to be alone together further reinforced the conviction that this was not a “particular friendship.”

Easter was approaching, and with it, spring. And with that, the conclusion of the basketball season and the beginning of baseball.

Hogan brought the matter up. “So, Rid, are you as bad at baseball as you were at basketball?”

“Probably not quite. It is the national pastime, so I know more about it. But I don’t suppose I play it any better.”

“Wait a minute.” Hogan laughed. “We’d better get right on your case. Baseball’s right around the corner. If you’re going to coach us, we’d better get some practice in.”

Groendal was instantly serious. “Charlie, I’m not going to coach baseball. There was a special reason why I got involved in basketball.”

“Yeah, because Bob Koesler made you.”

Groendal smiled. “More than that. I didn’t want to get into it; I just had a special reason for needing a lot of exercise. And that problem’s been solved . . . at least it seems to be.

“It’s time to be honest with myself. Outside of my friendship with you and the other guys on the varsity, I’ve got no business hanging around with high schoolers, even if they’re seniors. I had a reason. And now I don’t.”

It was Hogan’s turn to be serious. “You mean we won’t be friends anymore?”

“I didn’t say that. Sure we’ll be friends. It’s just that I no longer need to coach something I know nothing about.”

They were silent for several moments.

“What’s the matter?” Groendal asked.

“Nothing. It’s just a surprise is all. I just took it for granted that you’d coach. I guess I’ll miss you.”

“Charlie, it’s almost Easter. In a few months I’ll graduate. Then it’s on to St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. We’ll be in different schools. It’s not like we’re going to be in the same place the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, I know. It was just the surprise. I guess I’ll be able to pitch without you on the sidelines.”

“Who said I wouldn’t be on the sidelines? I’m just not going to coach, that’s all . . . okay?”

“Sure. We’ll go out and win one for the old basketball coach.”

“Besides,” Groendal’s voice took on added animation, “I’ve got a present for you.”

“To celebrate your graduation?”

“To repay a bit for teaching me just about all I know about basketball.”

“Judging from what you learned about basketball, this doesn’t have to be much of a present.”

“The Met’s coming to town.”

“The what?”

“The Metropolitan Opera Company—New York.”

“That’s nice . . . so what?”

“It’s time you saw your first opera, is what.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. A week from next Saturday they’re doing Carmen as a matinee. It’s maybe the most popular opera of all time. A great way to begin.”

“Jeez, I don’t know, Rid. Using up the one and only all-afternoon permission I’ve got this month on an opera. I don’t know . . . .”

“Trust me. You’re going to love it. We’ll get something to eat afterward. It’ll be a great afternoon. Just the right thing to do before we begin Holy Week and then Easter.”

“How long’s an opera?”

Groendal chuckled. “With intermission, maybe three, four hours.”

“That’s a lot of sitting, Rid. I’ll make a deal with you: We end the day with a couple, three games of handball.”

“Handball! You’ll kill me!”

“I’ll go easy. Just exercise. That’s what you wanted in the first place, isn’t it?”

Groendal laughed. “You’re on.”

During the next ten days, as often as they could get together, Groendal explained and demonstrated on the piano the intricacies of Carmen.

Secular newspapers, including Detroit’s three dailies, were not permitted in the seminary. So Groendal was unable to read the previews and reviews of the various operas the Met presented during its single week in Detroit. But he knew which works were being staged each evening, and he explained the plot of each to Hogan.

Hogan considered the plots ridiculous. Groendal admitted that the plots, generally, were mere props on which the composers hung their unmatched music. Thus Hogan was cajoled into listening to many recordings of many operas.

Finally, Saturday arrived. Hogan could not help being caught up in Groendal’s excitement. They arrived early for the matinee at Detroit’s mammoth Masonic Temple. As usual during the Met’s week in Detroit, there was a nearly full house. Many patrons wore their best finery.

Hogan would have preferred waiting outside to watch the people arrive. But Groendal could hardly wait to get inside and absorb the atmosphere.

Finally, the orchestra filed in, took their seats, and unlimbered their instruments. The house lights dimmed as a warning to latecomers. Then all was darkness except for the small lights of the orchestra’s music stands. The maestro arrived at the podium, bowed to applause, shook hands with the concertmaster, raised his arms expectantly, and lowered them to the crash of Spanish chords that usher in the tragic tale of Carmen.

Indoctrinated as he had been by Groendal, Hogan understood and appreciated many nuances of this ageless masterpiece. It was a glorious afternoon.

Afterward, they stopped at a department store on the way back to the seminary and had a snack at the lunch counter. It was not much of a meal, nor were the opera seats all that expensive, but the afternoon meant a considerable outlay for Ridley.

There was a déjà vu quality to all of this for Groendal. He had been on only one other date. Both occasions were connected with the theater. Both times he had been strapped for money and had chosen extremely inexpensive places to eat. One had been with a young woman, the other with a young man. He shrugged off the comparison. It was apples and oranges.

It was a violation of rules to return to the seminary later than dinnertime. But Groendal, as a prefect, and thus in charge of law enforcement to some degree, would find the loopholes.

True to his word, Groendal joined Hogan in the handball court. There were eight indoor enclosed courts, only one of which was a singles court.

The rest of the students were finishing dinner, after which they would go to the chapel for the communal rosary. So Groendal and Hogan were alone in the subterranean courts. It was odd not to hear other voices, other handballs ricocheting off other walls. The only sound was their labored breathing, the squeak of their sneakers and the lone ball bouncing from wall to floor to wall, then being slapped again by a gloved hand.

In order to prolong the games, Hogan restrained himself from killing the series of easy setups that Groendal kept lobbing against the front wall. Nevertheless, three games were completed in less than forty-five minutes. Hogan had hardly worked up a sweat.

Not so Groendal. Even with his basketball workouts he still was not anywhere near in shape. So it was impossible for Hogan to talk him into another game. The agreed-upon three games would be it— Hogan, of course, easily winning all three by lopsided scores.

At that time of night, with no one around, that section of the building could be eerie. It was reasonable for Groendal and Hogan to use the same locker room. Ordinarily, Groendal would have used the college faculties and Hogan the high school. Tonight both used the high school faculties. Actually, it had been Hogan’s suggestion. Groendal thought it sensible.

One could always depend on the seminary powerhouse for hot water. Even with hundreds of young men using gallons of hot water daily, the supply seemed infinite.

The question of where all this hot water came from did not cross the minds of either Groendal or Hogan as they stood under the showers’ strong jets. It just felt so good and relaxing.

“This has been a really great day.” Hogan had to speak very loudly to be heard above the cascading water.

“What? Oh, yeah ... it has.”

“Carmen could have been a little slimmer, though.”

“Slimmer?” Groendal wondered what slimness had to do with singing the classic role. He was so used to opera’s tendency to cast solely on vocal ability that it never occurred to him that a nondevotee might prefer a heroine who more nearly resembled a seductress.

“Yeah,” Hogan went on, “when she did that dance, I thought the table was going to give way under her.”

Groendal smiled. “You’re supposed to be listening to the tones she produces.”

“How can you overlook that both Carmen and Don José were so fat they never could have gotten together? So why did Don José run away from the army? He would have been better off there than trying to get close to Carmen.

“And another thing: That bullfighter—Escamillo—he was really built. When he and Don José had that fight, Jeez, Escamillo could have broken Don José in half. Who’s going to believe they fought to a stand-off?”

With all this talk of physiques, for the first time Groendal regarded Hogan’s body with more than casual interest. This was the first time they had showered together. The first time Groendal had seen Hogan nude. It was a revelation to Groendal that Hogan had an—yes—attractive body. It resembled Michelangelo’s David.

Now that he noticed it, Groendal could not keep his eyes away from Hogan’s body. Groendal was beginning to be aroused and there seemed nothing he could do about it. Hogan, intent on showering, did not notice.

There can be too much even of good things, Hogan thought. He felt as if his skin would shrivel if he stayed under the hot water any longer.

He turned off the shower. So did Groendal. Hogan grabbed a towel from the shelf and threw another to Groendal. Together they went into the large drying room that separated the showers from the locker room.

Groendal preceded Hogan, who playfully snapped Ridley’s rear with the towel. Instantly, Groendal turned and grabbed at Hogan. Their still wet bodies locked in what began as a lighthearted tussle. Later, Groendal could not fix at what point the wrestling bout ceased being playful and became, for him, erotic. But there was no doubt that it did.

When the evolution occurred, Charlie Hogan reacted first in utter disbelief, then in shocked surprise. For a while, he tried to act as if it weren’t happening. He tried to kid Groendal out of what was becoming for Ridley very serious business.

At last, when Hogan could no longer pretend that what was happening was not happening, he began to fight in earnest. Although Groendal was considerably larger, he was not the coordinated athlete Hogan was. In no time, Hogan had beaten him off.

But Hogan did not stop after he had effectively ended the affair. He kept pummeling Groendal until the counterattack itself became serious.

Groendal stood, back to the wall, taking blow after blow as just punishment. He did or said nothing to defend himself.

In a fury, Hogan kept hitting, and with every punch, he either sobbed or cried out, “Rid! Why’d you do it? Rid! Goddamit! Why’d you do it?”

At last, Hogan backed away. He was shocked at the damage he had done. Ridley’s upper torso was covered with livid marks; his face would be much the worse for wear for a long time. Slowly, Groendal allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was slumped on the floor.

Hogan stood over him, fists still formed. Actually, tears were flowing so freely Hogan could hardly see. Somehow inert on the floor, Groendal seemed almost an old man.

Hogan retrieved his towel from the floor. Without looking back, he walked from the drying room to the lockers, still mumbling, “Rid, why’d you do it? You ruined everything, Rid; Goddamit, why’d you do it? Why’d you do it?”

Slowly, gradually, Groendal managed to stand. He did so only because in a short while the rest of the students would have completed the rosary and would have a recreation period. Some, undoubtedly, would be coming down to this part of the building. He did not want them to see him like this.

He had to call on every psychic and physical resource he had to get dressed and make it up the back stairs to the infirmary. He hurt so badly he didn’t know whether he would live or die. And he didn’t care.