Deadline for a Critic

13

The infirmary was the particular preserve of Sister Sabina, popularly referred to as the Sabine Woman. As was true of nearly all nuns of that era, completely covered as they were—except for hands and face—by a religious habit, she appeared of indeterminate age. A tree’s years are figured by its rings. If Sister Sabina were judged, similarly, by her visible wrinkles, she would have to be in excess of a hundred years old.

Facetiously, it was said that it was almost impossible to be admitted into the infirmary—but that if one did get in, it was almost impossible to be released. That bit of levity held its measure of truth.

Yet when Ridley C. Groendal staggered into the infirmary and rang the bell summoning Sister Sabina, he had no trouble getting admitted. Once she saw his face, she knew where he belonged. When she started tending to his torso, she wondered whether he might not be a candidate for hospitalization.

The damage was sufficiently serious to call in the staff physician, who did ship him off to nearby Providence Hospital for X-rays, which revealed no more than a lot of contusions ranging from mild to fairly serious and a couple of hairline fractures that, in a young body, should heal in time.

So he was sedated, given some medication to alleviate pain, and sent back to the seminary infirmary for the healing process to begin. In keeping with the diagnosis of serious injury and the prognosis of recovery after rest, Groendal was allowed no visitors except medical personnel during the following week.

For Groendal the time passed from tedium to monotony with long periods of dreamless sleep. In the early few days, consciousness was too filled with pain to allow much serious or profound thought.

Later, as it hurt less and less to move about, he began to give some consideration to his predicament.

He had no way of telling what was going on outside the infirmary. He saw no one but Sister Sabina. She brought medication and food and checked his bindings. Few words passed between them.

He did not want to talk about what had happened and, so far, outside of a few cursory questions from the doctor, no one had pressed him for facts or details. Groendal was afraid that anything he might say to the nun might open the door to an investigation. So he said nothing, except to respond to her inquiries about the location and intensity of his pain.

Sometimes he could hear the faint sounds of a radio from somewhere in the far reaches of the infirmary floor, but he could not make out the tune or identify the announcer. He knew something must be going on. No student was ever in sick bay for several days without the rumor mills grinding out some scuttlebutt. But he had no way of telling what sort of information that might be.

Unbeknownst to Groendal, for once the rumor mill was operating comparatively factually. Enough people had sufficient information to put together a reasonable scenario. Known (generally): Groendal and Hogan had associated with each other with some frequency (most suspended any judgment as to its being a “particular friendship”). Ridley and Charlie had gone to the opera last Saturday. Neither had been at dinner that evening. For all practical purposes, Ridley had disappeared from view that night and it was reliably reported he had been admitted to the infirmary and held there incommunicado ever since.

Charlie, on his part, gave every evidence of having lost a dear friend in death. Though everyone was certain Groendal was in the infirmary, Hogan resolutely refused to address the subject or answer any questions. In short, it seemed a strong probability that Hogan had put Groendal in the infirmary. With that probability, the likelihood grew that the friendship between the two might, indeed, be “particular.”

But if Hogan had indeed put Groendal in sick bay in a fit of anger, where was that anger now? Hogan acted more as if he were in mourning than in the aftermath of fury.

Then, too, if they had had such a serious fight in anger, Hogan likely would have been publicly reprimanded, possibly expelled. If, on the other hand, it had been a “lovers quarrel,” the administration probably would still be debating how to handle it. This, in that seminary at that time, was not a common enough problem for some routine response to be in effect.

No one knew—at least no one could be sure—that Hogan had been interrogated by Monsignor Cronyn and that decisions had been made.

Least of all did Groendal, isolated in his infirmary bed, have any way of knowing. For him, it was as if Holy Week were going on somewhere far, far away—like the Holy Land—rather than merely in another part of the building.

Of course, he wasn’t conscious much of Palm Sunday and Monday and Tuesday of Holy Week. Steady consciousness began for him on Spy Wednesday. On Holy Thursday he was aware that he should be playing the organ for services.

Good Friday he spent in special prayer united to the suffering of Christ. Easter Saturday, he knew that after the early morning service and Mass, the students would be leaving for Easter vacation. He knew it even if he could not hear their joyous voices as they bid each other farewell and jumped into their parents’ cars for the ride home.

Then it was Easter Sunday and no one was left. Those few others who had been patients in the infirmary seemed to have miraculously recovered. The panacea, naturally, was vacation, and even Sister Sabina couldn’t hold them prisoner.

Groendal was another question. Though a bit unsteady, he was able to move about. He might have gone home had it not been for the unspoken consensus that some vital confrontation was yet to take place. But take place it would.

After he had been injured, his parents had been informed that he’d been admitted to the infirmary, that his condition was not serious, but, however, that there were to be no visitors. Then they were told that he would not be released from sick bay on Easter Saturday, but probably shortly thereafter. They would be called when he was ready to leave. Like all good Catholic parents, they took the priest’s word as Gospel; they would not dream of questioning it.

Easter Sunday dawned bright with the promise of spring and rebirth.

Robert Koesler was back in the familiar confines of Holy Redeemer, his home parish church. He was acting as master of ceremonies at the solemn-high Easter Sunday Mass. For those parishioners, including Koesler, who had carefully and penitentially observed Lent, Easter was its own reward. They had invested sacrifice and intense prayer and now were reaping joy and fulfillment.

In the church, incense filled the air with its special churchy odor and alleluias were exchanged between priest and choir celebrating this special season.

But Koesler’s attention wandered. By now, the ritual and his function as master of ceremonies were so familiar to him that he could function quite adequately even with his attention sharply divided. And it was understandable that he should be thinking about Ridley Groendal and wondering about his absence from this scene. In the rotation these two classmates had established, Groendal should have been master of ceremonies at this Easter Mass. It was his turn. But, as far as Koesler could learn, Ridley was still at the seminary and still in sickbay.

Koesler had heard all the rumors and, in hindsight, could not deny them. From the shreds of evidence the students were able to gather, it was arguably possible that Groendal and Hogan had fought. And that, preceding this, they had formed a “particular friendship.” In fact, about the only indication that this might not be so was Ridley’s previous liaison with Jane Condon. And Koesler alone knew about that.

That episode to the contrary notwithstanding, Koesler was forced to ponder the consequences if the rumors should be accurate. In which instance, he could not clarify his confusion.

His religion currently taught him that homosexuality was not merely a sin but an abomination. In years to come, that position would be modified to state that the sexual preference for the gay life could be considered as neutral and only the acting out of that preference an abomination. This clarification was of small comfort to the homosexual since it slotted the person in not only a celibate, but a chaste life.

And that was the precise problem presenting itself to Koesler’s logical young mind. The Catholic priesthood of the Latin rite demanded nothing less than a chaste celibate life. What difference could it make if one’s inclination were homo- or heterosexual? In neither case was one allowed any sexual expression.

Yet, if the seminary authorities were to discover that Groendal had committed sin with Jane Condon, he undoubtedly would be reprimanded and punished.

If they discovered he’d sinned with Charlie Hogan, Groendal likely would get the ax.

True, Carroll Mitchell had been expelled for his sexual escapade with Beth Yager. But that punishment hadn’t been inflicted so much for the act itself as for the flagrant flouting of the rule.

So Koesler was left wondering. He could not envision Groendal as an “abomination.” No matter what he’d done.

The priest-celebrant turned to the congregation and sang, in Latin, “Ite, missa est” (Go, the Mass is ended), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” The choir responded, in Latin, Deo Gratias” (“Thanks be to God”), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Koesler’s mind turned again to Ridley. Go? Go where?

Which, at that moment, was exactly what Ridley Groendal was wondering. Go? Go where?

There was no longer any compelling reason to remain in the infirmary. He—or rather, his body—was healed. At least enough to function without professional care. On the other hand, there was no possibility of his leaving. Not till the other shoe dropped.

This week’s silence had been deafening. Someplace out there, people were talking about him, determining his fate. But not a word had been spoken to him about it. That word would be spoken; of that he was certain. But when? He would go out of the infirmary in the very near future. Of that there was no doubt. But to where?

Monsignor Cronyn appeared at the open door. He wore his black cassock with the red trim, buttons, and sash. He wore his black biretta with its red pompon. Somehow the biretta seemed to formalize the occasion.

“How are you feeling now, Mr. Groendal?” Nothing special was intended by that address. Cronyn always used that title when referring to senior students.

“Hurting a bit.”

“Otherwise okay?”

“Yes, Monsignor.”

“Sit down, Mr. Groendal.” Cronyn gestured toward the bed while he sat on the room’s only chair. “Care to discuss how you were injured?”

Groendal thought a moment, then shook his head. A little more than a week had gone by. Impossible that the authorities didn’t know what had happened. Better not to volunteer any information. Better to play it by ear.

“Yours were serious injuries, Mr. Groendal.”

“Yes, Monsignor.”

“They could not have happened by accident, now, could they?”

“No, Monsignor.”

“You appeared to have been beaten rather severely. The doctor provided us with that information.”

Groendal nodded.

“Are you going to tell me about it?”

Groendal shook his head.

“Are you going to tell me your side of it?”

So, one side of it already had been told. Groendal simply waited. The other side would undoubtedly come out now.

“Very well,” said Cronyn. He handed Groendal a manila folder containing two typewritten sheets, the second of which bore a signature. “Read this, Mr. Groendal.”

Groendal read carefully. Several times he had to stop to rub his tearing eyes. It was “the other side of it”—Hogan’s side. As he read, Groendal had to admit it was a fairly factual, objective account of what had happened between himself and Hogan over the past several months, along with a detailed and again objective narration of what had taken place a-week-ago Saturday.

Missing from the account were the involuntary but compelling feelings Groendal had experienced about Charlie Hogan. Groendal understood there was no way Charlie could have been aware of those feelings. Obviously the feelings had not been reciprocated.

Besides, in a situation such as this, people were interested only in the facts and nothing more. No set of extenuating circumstances could mitigate what Groendal had done—certainly not as far as Monsignor Cronyn was concerned.

Groendal finished reading. The statement had been signed, Charles Hogan. Groendal closed the folder and handed it back to the monsignor.

“Well?” said Cronyn.

There was no response.

“Well, is what you read an accurate account of what has happened?”

“Yes, Monsignor.” Groendal knew there was no point in going into those intense, driving feelings. Feelings which undoubtedly Cronyn had never experienced toward anyone.

“In the interest of fairness,” Cronyn said, “I should point out that Charles Hogan did not offer that statement spontaneously.”

It helped that Charlie had not come forward voluntarily.

“However,” Cronyn continued, “it was not difficult for us to deduce, at least in general terms, what had happened. From my interrogation of young Hogan, it seemed likely that a ‘particular friendship’ had been formed not by both of you but by you alone. Therefore, I placed Hogan under the obligation of fraternal correction.”

That was it! Suddenly, it was so obvious that it might have been spelled out in neon. It came through in Cronyn’s tone and in the hint of a smirk that appeared briefly. It wasn’t so much that Cronyn had been patiently waiting and expecting turnabout to become fair play. It was more that he would be glad to see it happen.

It had been almost exactly one year since Groendal had invoked “fraternal correction” as the principle under which he had denounced and exposed—some would say betrayed—Carroll Mitchell. It was, Cronyn had thought at the time, a rather craven use of a device that had originally been intended more as an adjustment for the common good than as a means to satisfy spite.

Granted, Mitchell had flouted a very important rule. Still, it had been one of those boys-will-be-boys things, a sort of sowing-of-wild-oats affair. The seminary system was programmed to produce macho men of asexual behavior. It was also geared to forgive an occasional lapse as long as the fault occurred with someone of the opposite sex. This preserved the image of the macho man and merely revealed a chink in the armor of nonsexual expression.

If Mitchell had not been so brazen, he might have been forgiven. If Groendal had not betrayed Mitchell’s confidence under the guise of “fraternal correction,” the offense likely would never have been detected.

Mitchell had been one of Cronyn’s favorites. The rector had foreseen a great priestly career for that talented young man. All of which had been destroyed by Groendal under the pretext of a warranted denunciation. However, Ridley’s disclosure could not have been swept under the rug. It required an official response. As a result of which, Mitchell had been expelled.

Cronyn had resented being manipulated by Groendal; now turnabout had become fair play. And more. It was Cronyn’s chance to even the score. Groendal had, in Cronyn’s opinion, misused the device of “fraternal correction” once. Now, one year later, it was being used against him.

These thoughts had occupied Groendal’s mind all the while the rector was explaining the situation as it affected him and Hogan.

“And so, Mr. Groendal,” Cronyn concluded, “the faculty feels that young Hogan was more a victim than a perpetrator in this affair. Nevertheless he was old enough to know better. He should not have become so involved with any other student, ‘particular friend’ or not. We have decided that Hogan will lose virtually all privileges for the remainder of this scholastic year.”

Groendal felt sorry for Hogan. He was miserable at having been the cause of Charlie’s punishment. All in all, though, it wasn’t cataclysmic. Summer vacation was only two months away. Charlie wouldn’t have long to go.

“As for you,” Cronyn continued, “you have a choice. You may resign from the seminary or you will be expelled.

“Before you say anything”—Cronyn’s gesture silenced Groendal, who gave every sign of wanting to speak—”I should tell you that you are most fortunate to have an option. The majority of the faculty voted for expulsion. But some few made a cogent argument for leniency.

“So, you have a choice. Which will it be?”

Groendal wondered who his friends were. It seemed like a choice between being allowed or not being allowed a blindfold for one’s execution. One ended up just as dead either way.

Strange, he thought, that he had not anticipated being sacked. He knew that what he had done was wrong. And that they probably would find out about it. He just hadn’t thought it was that bad.

In the brief time he now had to consider his options, it was clear, if painfully so, what he must do.

“I will resign, Monsignor.”

“A wise choice. That is what will be noted on your record. This is a week of vacation; none of the students will be here. You may remain in the infirmary if you need to.”

“I can function all right, Monsignor. I’ll be out of here today.”

“Very well.”

If he had not already done enough penance, Groendal soon would. He groaned audibly as he dragged himself through the corridors gathering his books and belongings. And the worst was yet to come. He phoned his parents. They would pick him up.

Over the next several days, Groendal learned just how fortunate it was that he had been allowed to quit. He would have preferred death to having to explain the real reason for his leaving the seminary. As it was, he was forced to lie over and over, stating that he had left voluntarily. During his nearly eight years in the seminary, the vocation had sunk its roots into his soul so that by this time, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be a priest.

And now it was gone. Finished.

In the following weeks, he seemed to exist in a veritable vacuum. He had contact with almost no one. Bob Koesler had phoned a couple of times during Easter Week, but Groendal had not wanted to talk with anyone who knew the truth. And Groendal was quite sure Koesler knew.

By the time Groendal had gotten over some of the physical and psychological hurt, Koesler was back at school and beyond Ridley’s reach.

Not a word from Hogan. In the early days of Easter Week, Charlie Hogan’s would have been the only call Groendal would have answered or returned. The need to talk to Hogan was almost physical.

The longer the lack of communication continued, the more bitter Groendal became. No one could deny they had been in this together. But Charlie Hogan was back at the seminary. Charlie’s vocation was still alive. Had he no word for someone with whom he had shared so much? Could he pretend Ridley Groendal no longer existed?

In time, Groendal had to put all that behind him and go on with life. It wasn’t easy. The conflicts he’d experienced over the past years with David Palmer, then Carroll Mitchell, then Jane Condon, and now Charlie Hogan, had taken their toll. Sometimes he felt as if he were moving through life in slow motion. But he had to go on.

The priesthood was gone. He had to put that out of his mind. But he wasn’t dead. He had a long life ahead. One thing was certain: He had to find a new career.

Briefly, he considered Interlochen. But David Palmer was ensconced there; even if he were able to gain admittance to Interlochen, he would be limping artistically and, without doubt, Palmer would shoot him down. No, Interlochen was not feasible. He was sure only that he must finish college and do postgraduate work somewhere in something.

This initial decision met with a mixed reaction from his parents. No longer would the Archdiocese of Detroit pick up the tab for his education—a fact that drove his father nearly mad. Alphonse Groendal had never quite understood what his son saw in the priesthood. Father, mother, and son were all Catholic, but Alphonse tended to take priests for granted. Somehow, they were there when you needed them. He had just never given much thought to where they came from. Certainly not from his family.

As with most major domestic decisions, he had caved in to his wife’s pressure. Only when his son reached the third year of college, and board and tuition were absorbed by the Church, did Alphonse Groendal begin to see the value of this vocation. And now, just after the free ride had begun, the fool kid had suddenly decided against the priesthood. Worse, he wanted money to go away to college.

As far as Alphonse was concerned, Ridley could go out and get an honest job.

But Alphonse was soundly overruled by his wife, Mary, for whom Ridley’s departure from the seminary was a source of great sorrow and concern. She it was who had planted the seed in her son’s mind that the priesthood would be a most acceptable vocation. She knew her son well enough to be sure that it was not his sudden choice to quit the seminary . . . .

Handling Ridley more gently than she treated her husband, she prodded and pried, trying to uncover the truth. Whenever Ridley came close to losing patience, she backed off. In better times, he had had almost infinite patience where his mother was concerned. Now he had been worn close to the breaking point.

But no one other than Ridley himself knew just how close. And even he knew it only in a very confused way. Pressures seemed to be closing in from every side.

For the first time, he was aware of having lost an enormous security. In the seminary, one had no concern about whence meals, lodging, warmth, clothing, sustenance would come. One need have no concern over minor or even major decisions. Most of them were made for one beforehand and set forth in the rules.

It was as if, for a second time, he had left the total dependency on, and security of, the womb and had been cast out into the world to fend for himself. He was unsure of which path to pursue and he wasn’t getting any practical help in solving his problem.

He had even lost his seminarian’s selective service classification of 4-D. He would have to reregister and would probably become 1-A unless he could get into college and qualify for another sort of deferment.

Even the beauty of this May morning did nothing to lift his spirits.

It was the Groendal family habit to attend the 10:00 A.M. Sunday High Mass at Holy Redeemer. Since early April, Ridley had been on a more or less extended vacation and so the three of them religiously attended that Mass together. In this sort of routine, very little untoward ever happened. Until the final Sunday in May.

No sooner had the family exited the church’s side door than someone touched Ridley on the shoulder. As he turned, his mouth dropped in surprise. “Jane!” Not only had Ridley never expected to see her, he had all but forgotten her, occupied as he was with more current and pressing problems.

“Rid, can I talk with you?”

“Wait a second.”

Ridley told his parents to go on without him; he would be home shortly.

Alphonse and Mary Groendal instantly evaluated the girl, with sharply differing reactions.

Alphonse smiled. About time his son did something normal for a change. One of the many things he’d never understood about that seminary was the total abstinence from women. So they were going to be priests. They weren’t priests yet. Life would be long enough without sex, let alone having nothing to do with girls while it was still legitimate to fool around at least a little.

He could not tell much about this girl. Her coat hid her figure, but she had a pretty face. All in all, it was about time. He approved.

Mary Groendal, on the other hand, was certain she had sighted The Enemy.

Ever since Ridley had come home for good during Easter Week, she had been trying, overtly and covertly, to discover the underlying reason for her son’s drastic decision.

She had wondered too about his physical injuries. She could easily believe that boys’ sports were rough and that injuries were common enough. However, nothing Ridley had told her satisfactorily explained the root cause of his quitting the seminary. Deep down, she had felt it was some girl. But if so, who?

She knew where her son was almost to the minute. He was safe enough from feminine wiles as long as he was at school. And he habitually accounted for his whereabouts at all times while he was home. Thus, as far as she was concerned, the puzzle was twofold: Which girl had gotten to him, and given the impossible that some girl had reached him, how?

One glance at this girl and the way Ridley had reacted to her gave Mary Groendal half the answer. All that remained was to discover how the girl had broken through all the barriers. It was with great reluctance that she complied with Ridley’s request that they precede him home. She would have preferred meeting this girl. She would like to give her a thing or two. She wanted to tear her limb from limb. But . . . all in good time. For the moment she would act the indulgent mother and go on home. But later . . .!

“So, Jane, how are you?” He had not seen her since New Year’s Eve. He was at a loss at what to say to her after what had happened that night.

“Okay, I guess. Can we talk?”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?” They were engulfed by parishioners leaving church. No one seemed to be paying them any mind. Still, it hardly qualified as a secluded place for a chat

“Not here, Rid, It’s too congested and it’s too public.”

Groendal became wary. He was determined not to get trapped again. The very last place he would agree to meet would be her home. “Where’d you have in mind, Jane?”

“I don’t know. Someplace where we can talk in peace without being interrupted. How about Clark Park, say this afternoon?”

He couldn’t have picked a better place himself. Clark was a large municipal park only a short distance from each of their homes. And very public. “Okay . . . how about say two this afternoon?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the comer of Vernor and Clark.”

Groendal went home to breakfast and one of the most intensive interrogations he had ever undergone. To his credit he did not break. The girl: Jane Condon. Where had they met: She was an usherette at the Stratford and everyone knew how regularly Ridley went to the Stratford to keep abreast of the film industry. See her? Just casually; she’s a Redeemer grad. Don’t know what she wants to talk about; will just have to go and find out. No, of course she’s not the reason for leaving the seminary. Don’t be silly; one doesn’t make a decision that serious over a mere girl.

There was much to be said for Mrs. Groendal’s perseverance. She kept up the inquisition till it was time for him to leave and meet Jane. There was much to be said for Ridley’s patience. He repeatedly fended off his mother’s thrusts without ever contradicting or implicating himself.

He walked down Vernor Highway lost in thought, paying no attention to the stores and bars all serried one next to the other and all respectfully closed for Sunday. He was oblivious to the Baker streetcar clanging past.

He was conscious of his surroundings only once—when he passed the Stratford—where it all had started.

If only he had not been taken in by the attention given him by the only female in his life besides his mother. If he had not put even one foot into the trap, at least that low point of his life would have been avoided.

But he had done it, there was no denying that. Now he had to face the girl.

Well, he supposed, it was the least he could do. He would listen to whatever she had to say. If there were too many questions, he would fence with her as he had with his mother. One meeting and it would be over. And none too soon; he had enough problems facing him without resurrecting this mess.

There she was, at the southeast corner of Vernor and Clark, by one of the corners of rectangular Clark Park. She looked forlorn standing there all by herself. She was still wearing her spring coat. He caught himself trying to remember what she looked like nude. But he couldn’t. At that point in the evening his senses had been blurred by alcohol; now he could not dredge up even one detail. Besides, the attempt to remember embarrassed him.

As he crossed toward her, she looked up and smiled. When he reached her, she turned and began walking up one of the paved paths. He fell in step.

A wind had come up. It was beginning to get chill. He regretted having selected a light windbreaker. But there was no going back now. He jammed his hands deep into his pants pockets and tried unsuccessfully to conceal a shiver.

“Cold?” she asked.

“No, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect it to be this windy. I’ll get used to it.”

“You’d think it would be warmer by the end of May.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s Michigan: If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute and it’ll change.”

The weather! What a thing to talk about. Still, he could call to mind bits of stage business and snatches of movies where characters did just that. When people were faced with discussing some awkward subject they frequently started with some remote, harmless topic-like the weather.

In any case, he wasn’t about to bring up anything serious. After all, it was her nickel—the current price of a phone call.

“What did you think of the sermon this morning?”

Wow! That had to be further removed from whatever she wanted to talk about than the weather. “The sermon?”

“Yes. Father Buhler’s sermon.”

Ah, yes. Good old deaf Father Buhler. Refuge of all who wanted absolution without having the priest hear the sins. “It was okay, I guess.”

“I suppose you’re used to better sermons in the seminary.”

Groendal smiled at the memory. “Yeah. Funny thing, though; the faculty are all diocesan priests who fear the Redemptorists.”

“Fear them!”

“Well, maybe not fear them. Have an inordinate respect for them. The diocesans are probably more conscious than the Redemptorists that the order was founded by Alphonsus Liguori basically to preach and refute heresies. Sight unseen, secular priests probably would concede the preaching title to the Redemptorists without a struggle. But that would, for the most part, be wrong. Actually, they’re all alike. Some are good speakers and some aren’t. Some work at it and some don’t. Doesn’t make much difference whether they belong to a diocese or to the Redemptorist Order.”

“And I take it Father Buhler doesn’t fit into the good speaker category.”

“I’d guess old Father Buhler stopped really preparing his sermons years ago.” Groendal suddenly remembered that it was Buhler who had absolved him from his sin with Jane. And it had been Buhler specifically because he was nearly deaf but wouldn’t take himself out of the confessional box. Once again, Groendal felt embarrassed.

“Speaking of sermons and the seminary, you didn’t go back after Easter. Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? What could be wrong?” Groendal sensed she was nearing the heart of what she wanted to talk about Oh, in a roundabout way, but she was getting there.

“Are you ill?”

“Ill? No. I had a slight injury. Sports. But I’m okay now.” He wondered if she’d seen him moving about slowly and painfully at Easter time. Outside of lying to his parents, which, due to his mother’s incessant questioning, he’d had to do repeatedly, he had not discussed the seminary with anyone.

“But you haven’t gone back.”

“I decided not to. At least not for now.” He was strongly tempted to tell her it was none of her business. Some sense of chivalry prompted him not to.

“I thought maybe it had something to do with us.”

“No, of course not” He flushed. Absolutely the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about. Especially with his partner in sin. Why else had he taken his confession to a deaf priest?

“I just thought it might have been. And I felt bad about that”

“No. No. For one thing . . . that . . . happened at New Year’s. And I went back to the seminary after Christmas vacation. So . . . that—had nothing to do with my staying home now. Nothing!”

It was Jane’s turn to feel a stab of anger. “Nothing! It was hardly ‘nothing’!”

“I don’t mean that. I don’t mean that at all. I’m sorry. I just mean it had no bearing on my not returning to the seminary. But I don’t want to talk about that.”

“About what happened between us? Or about not going back to the seminary?”

“Neither one. I don’t want to talk about either one.”

They walked in silence for a while. It occurred to Groendal that this was not unlike the seemingly endless walks he used to take around the seminary grounds. Except of course he had never walked those sacred paths with a girl in tow.

“That was an accident you know.”

“What?”

“What happened between us.”

Hadn’t he just told her he didn’t want to talk about that? This had to be it. This is what she simply had to talk to him about. Well, maybe if he let her get it out of her system she’d be satisfied and she wouldn’t have to talk about it anymore.

That’s what some of the priests out in the field had told the seminarians in conferences. The students had been told by men who were on the firing line that just listening could be an apostolate in itself. If they would just listen while some troubled soul got the problem off his or her chest, he or she might get rid of an intolerable burden.

Maybe it would work now. He certainly prayed it would. One more time. Then he would never have to think of that night again.

He sighed. “You really want to talk about it”

“I think we have to talk about it.”

Why, he thought would they have to talk about it? “Well, if you really feel you have to . . .”

“Do you suppose we could sit down? Do we have to keep walking?”

The request took him by surprise. It had never occurred to him that not everyone walked endlessly while talking. He looked about. Unlike the seminary, here benches lined the walkways. And—something he had not adverted to before—there were very few other people in the park.

“Sure. We can sit down.”

They did, at the next bench, near the deserted pavilion. They were silent for a few moments.

“This whole thing started out innocently enough, Rid. I had a schoolgirl crush on you. I used to time it so I could see you when we went to school. You always left at the same time, so I did too. Of course I was younger than you, and the girls and boys almost never got together at Redeemer, so you wouldn’t have noticed me.”

That was true. He’d never really seen her before that night at the Stratford when something—something indefinable—had happened. But with the careful and continued surveillance she was describing, he wondered how he had managed not to notice her.

“I used to daydream about going out with you. And then you went away to the seminary, so that was that as far as a date went. But I never quite got over you. I used to watch you serve Mass when you were home on vacation. And I never missed any of your piano recitals.”

Groendal felt haunted. How could he have overlooked someone who described herself as in almost constant attendance on him? Either he had instinctively avoided looking at the girl—a testimony to the custody of the eyes he’d been so carefully taught in the seminary—or it was a monumental lack of awareness.

“When I got that job at the Stratford I never thought I’d see you there. It never crossed my mind that you’d be so close to me.”

She shivered. It was colder sitting on the bench than it was walking. And all she had was that thin coat. Tentatively, he put one arm across her shoulders. She settled gratefully against him. Immediately he regretted his action. But, having given the arm, he could not in good grace withdraw it.

“Something happened, didn’t it? You felt it too, didn’t you? When you handed me your ticket. Something happened. Didn’t you notice it?”

“Yes, something. I guess I noticed you for the first time.”

“It was more than that. There was no need for me to walk up and down the aisle as often as I did that night. But I could feel you looking at me. And I liked that . . . a lot”

All she was saying was true. He had felt something akin to a not unpleasant shock when their fingers touched as he’d handed her his ticket. And he had noticed her as she repeatedly walked by that night. He’d supposed—correctly, as it turned out—that she’d taken many unnecessary trips, all for his benefit. And it hadn’t been wasted. He had studied her each and every trip. Unobserved, he had thought. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten away with it.

“Then when you came back the next night I knew you had come back to see me. I can’t tell you how happy I was. I never expected it. I could hardly even believe it”

Well, part of the reason for his return was to see that excellent movie again. But why tell her that? She would never believe it. Besides, she was on the right track: A good part of his reason for going back had been to see her. What had the priests told the seminarians? Listen.

“Just knowing that you had come back to see me made me really happy. Then when you asked me out after the show, I was nearly delirious. But—and this is very definite, Rid—I didn’t have any reason for inviting you over on New Year’s Eve except just to see you again. I wanted to see you and I knew you’d have to be going back to school soon and I just figured you were in the right mood to see me again. And that if you went back to school you might forget me. I was sort of striking while the iron was hot . . . do you know what I mean, Rid?”

He shrugged. It was up for grabs. Who knew what she’d really had in mind? It was certainly possible she had just wanted an innocent date. After all, how could she have come up with such an elaborate plot when she had no way of knowing he would come back to the movie or ask her out after the show?

On the other hand, once he did return to the Stratford and asked her out, she had the entire length of the movie to make her plans for New Year’s Eve. He’d put a judgment on that matter on the back burner for the moment.

“Everybody goes out to parties on New Year’s Eve,” she continued. “I didn’t think you’d want to do that. Besides, as long as we had this date that it seemed like I’d been waiting for most of my life, I wanted you all to myself. There didn’t seem to be any better place than home.

“I swear, Rid, I would have invited you over even if my parents had been home. They would have let us alone. But since they were going to a party, it seemed just perfect.” She hesitated. “The very last thing in the world I wanted to happen was what happened . . . you do believe that, don’t you. Rid?”

Again he shrugged. What had happened he had tried to put out of his mind. As time passed and particularly with the relationship that had grown with Charlie Hogan, Groendal had been quite successful in suppressing the memory. Now she was dusting off an old recollection that he preferred keeping buried.

He felt himself begin to flush. He tried to check his embarrassment. But the more he tried, the more he was conscious of the reddening that betrayed his emotion.

“I’ve thought it over many, many times. It was the whole thing, don’t you think, Rid? The holiday. New Year’s Eve, and the heat of the house. But most of all the liquor. Getting out that Scotch was one of the dumbest stunts I ever pulled. That’s what really did it, Rid: the Scotch . . . Rid, you’re not saying anything.”

“I guess you’re right. It probably was the Scotch.”

She moved slightly. His hand touched her breast which was delicately outlined beneath her thin coat. He moved his hand away.

They were silent a while. She shivered and moved closer. He did not move away. After all, it was cold and she was just trying to stay warm.

“So, what are you going to do about school?” Jane asked. “I mean, in a week or so you would have graduated from college. Isn’t it kind of strange not to go back after Easter? When you’re about to graduate?”

He didn’t answer immediately. What was the use of fooling with it? “I’m not going back, Jane. I’m not going to be a priest. Things have changed. I can’t explain it to you. Things have just changed.” Most times, he had found, confession was good for the soul and the psyche. But, having confessed his radically changed status to Jane, he felt not one bit better.

“You’re not going back to the seminary! Not ever?” Jane pulled herself away and sat facing him from farther along the bench. She clearly had been taken by surprise.

“I’m not going back,” he affirmed.

Happy, she slid back across the bench and snuggled beneath his arm. “Then things can be different for us, Rid. One of our problems before—our main problem, really—was that we had no time. Now we can back away and do it right. We can go on dates. Go to a show. Go for a ride. Go on a picnic. We can get to know each other. We can forget what happened and start all over.”

“No, we can’t Jane.” He said it softly.

She felt a flash of panic. “What do you mean, we can’t? What happened was a mistake—something neither of us was responsible for. It just happened. It was a special, tender holiday. We had too much to drink. It was an act of love!”

“It was an act of passion.”

“Passion is love!” She moved away, facing him.

“Passion is an irrational, animal act”

“I was in love!”

“I wasn’t.”

“So,” she had now become quite angry, “that’s the type you are, after all! Just get your kicks with a girl and then leave her!”

“Jane, that’s not the way it was. That’s not the way it is. You know better than that.”

“What makes it any different?”

“You said it yourself. It was an accident. We didn’t know what we were getting into . . . at least I didn’t”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bringing out the Scotch and having good-sized belts of it on a nearly empty stomach wasn’t my idea.”

“You mean to suggest that I planned the whole thing!”

“No, that’s not what I mean!” Now he was becoming angry. “Just that it was not all my idea. Or all my fault. It wasn’t an act of love.” (God, how he hated talking about this!) “If we must face what happened squarely, we were just getting to know each other when you brought out the liquor.

“We got intoxicated, to put it bluntly. We were no longer rational. We were animals. And we did what irrational animals do: We got carried away by our emotions. It’s silly to say we were in love. We were just getting to know each other. It’s silly to say it was an act of love. It was an act of drunkenness. That’s all it was.”

“That’s all it was, was it? Then what’s this?” In a few rapid motions that seemed rehearsed, she flung open her coat and raised her blouse, exposing bare midriff.

Groendal was stunned. “Jane! What are you doing? Cover yourself! People can see!” He looked around quickly; not only was no one watching, he could see no one in sight. Nevertheless, what she was doing seemed shameful. “Pull your blouse down!”

“Not until you look! Long and hard!”

He forced himself to look. If anything, she seemed to have put on a little weight. “Well?”

“It’s just beginning to show!”

“Show? Show what?”

“That I’m in the family way!”

“You’re what?”

“Pregnant!”

The word hit him a stunning blow. He had no reply.

“Yes, pregnant!” she repeated.

“How—”

“How else? What you did to me!”

“How do you know?”

“I haven’t had a period in almost four months.”

That meant little to him. Oh, he certainly knew of pregnancies. He had some vague ideas of how that was accomplished. Such information, in the seminary curriculum, was postponed until the final courses in moral theology. Good Catholic parents scarcely ever discussed such things either with their children or each other. In effect, Groendal, in his ignorance of conception, was somewhere between delivery by the stork and the flood of sexual information that would inundate society in just a few more years.

“I mean,” Groendal amended, “how do you know it was me? How do you know I’m the father?”

Jane’s eyes widened. She struck at him. Instinctively, he blocked the blow. First, his body was still too sore to endure another onslaught. Second, he was not as willing to accept penance for this sin. This was an affair in which they both had participated.

“It’s a reasonable question,” he insisted.

“Didn’t you see the blood? On you? On me? On the floor? It took me hours to clean that carpet! You took my virginity!”

Another new concept. He knew that women who had never had intercourse were considered virgins. Among others, he had the Blessed Virgin Mary to thank for that information. But how one “took” virginity was another question. Whatever was involved finally seemed to explain the blood that he’d found on himself and about which he’d had all those nightmares.

Ridley said nothing. He could think of nothing to say. He felt overwhelmed, as if he were being backed into an inescapable corner.

“Well?” Jane challenged.

“Well, what?”

“What do you intend to do about this?”

Again he was silent. He could think of no practical answer. The idea that he might pray for her occurred to him. But it seemed less than sufficient, so he didn’t mention it.

“What do you intend to do about my pregnancy? What do you intend to do about our child?”

The term “our child” grabbed his attention as nothing before had. He began to lose sight of Jane. All he could think of was that he didn’t need this. Not now. He had not yet recovered from the tragic end to his relationship with Charlie Hogan and the loss of a vocation that meant the world to him. He was still reeling from those severe traumas and here was this young woman demanding that he take virtually lifelong responsibility for “our” child.

In his panic he was not conscious that the muscles in his throat were constricting. In a very short time, he would experience great difficulty in breathing.

“What about our child?” Jane sensed she had scored heavily and wanted to press home her advantage.

As if by miracle, the answer came. “Adoption! You can adopt it out!”

“Adoption! Give my baby—our child away to some stranger! Over my dead body!”

“Jane, be reasonable. There are lots of reputable agencies. Catholic Charities can do it. And you’d know it would have good Catholic parents who would give it a home. So much more than we could give it.”

“Not if we get married.”

“What?”

“If we got married, we could give our child everything anybody else could give. More, really, because we would have our baby. It’s the only honorable thing to do.”

“Jane!” Could it have suddenly gotten much warmer? He was perspiring profusely. “Jane! I just got kicked . . . I just lost . . . I have no . . . I can’t . . .” He felt as if he were about to faint although he had never before done that. He couldn’t faint here in the middle of a public park! He had a weird vision of caretakers digging a hole beside his inert body, rolling him into the hole, and covering it over. He had to get out of here, and fast!

Not caring any longer what Jane might think of all this, Groendal rose and ran. It was not a graceful exit. He moved the way a desperate man would escape if, say, because he’d been tortured he couldn’t run up to his full, normal capability. He more staggered than ran up Vernor. He was oblivious to stares. He assumed he’d left Jane standing in the park with her damned baby. But he could focus on only one thing: He must find sanctuary before he died. It didn’t matter who offered sanctuary, the church or his home.

It was only because home lay between him and the church that he turned in when he got to his house. By the time he reached the front hallway, his clothing was sweat-drenched. He’d torn open his shirt trying to make it easier to breathe.

Mary Groendal had been waiting impatiently for her son’s return. She had long since concluded that he was spending entirely too much time with that woman this afternoon. The conviction was growing, too, that her son’s loss of priestly vocation was the fault of that woman. Long before Ridley lurched through the front door, she had decided to have it out with him.

However, when she saw his pallor, his sweat-covered face and drenched clothing, she gasped. Shocked, she could think of nothing to say.

Ridley felt as an elephant might upon finding the burial ground. It was now safe to collapse. So he did.

When he came to, he had the impression he had awakened many times since losing consciousness in the front hallway. But he couldn’t remember things clearly. He couldn’t remember anything clearly. Oddly, he felt rather comfortable without memory. As if there was nothing in his past worth remembering.

He was too tired to move anything but his eyes. He was in some sort of institution. He knew he’d reached that conclusion before, but he couldn’t recall how or why.

It was a long, narrow room with an impossibly high ceiling. The walls were an indeterminate mixture of blue and green. Sickening. Except for the ceiling, which was too high, it could have been a room in the seminary’s St. Thomas Hall. But the color was not right. And of course there was no reason why it should be St. Thomas Hall.

The overhead light was lit. He wondered if they left the light on all the time. He wondered if it was day or night. He didn’t care. He was lost in a blessed void of neutrality. He couldn’t remember the past and he didn’t care about the future.

He became conscious of sounds somewhere in the corridor. Institutional sounds. People—more than a few—talking. Quietly, mostly. Somebody giving orders: Somebody must stay in his or her room till later. Crockery rattling.

Then the sound of a loudspeaker. He could hear that clearly. “Dr. Bartlett . . . Dr. Bartlett, please pick up line two.”

No doubt about it, he was in some sort of hospital. He tried for a moment, but couldn’t remember which one. Gloriously, it didn’t matter.