Deadline for a Critic

19

“The body of Christ.”

“Amen.”

Father Koesler had been distributing Communion for slightly more than thirty years. Unlike many other priests, he never tired of it.

The distribution of Holy Communion had gone through many stages, as had almost every other ritual in the liturgy since the Second Vatican Council.

At the time Koesler was ordained, and for hundreds of years prior to that, Communion was given by the consecrated hands of a priest alone. Outside of the most dire emergency, no lay person ever touched a consecrated host. That was a time when there were, proportionately, more priests and fewer communicants than today. When the balance tipped in the other direction, the laity was urged to exercise the “priesthood of baptism” and become “extraordinary ministers” of the Sacrament. It was, Koesler believed, a variation of Parkinson’s Law. In this case, lay sacramental functioning tends to multiply in direct proportion as there are fewer priests around to perform sacramental tasks.

The pre-Vatican II formula for distributing Communion was a comparatively long Latin invocatory prayer. Now, the minister of the Sacrament merely held aloft the consecrated host and announced, “The body of Christ.” And the recipient responded with the affirmation, “Amen.”

Koesler remembered well when that formula was in transition and the current form was in vogue but still in Latin. He recalled a Sunday when he presented the host to a young lady, saying “Corpus Christi.” To which she responded, “Texas.”

Gaffes like that could be expected but not foreseen. But it added a measure of innocent humor to what could easily become stuffy repetition.

The line of communicants kept coming. Evidently, there were a surprising number of Catholics at this funeral. Even though several priests were helping with the distribution, the time for giving Communion was proving to be unexpectedly long. Of course, it took longer now since communicants had the option of receiving under the form of wine as well as bread, and the chalice had to be wiped after each person sipped.

Koesler selected another wafer, held it over the brim of the ciborium and looked at the next communicant. It was Charles Hogan.

“Charlie, the body of Christ.”

“Amen.”

While he continued the distribution of Communion, Koesler’s thoughts, as usual, wandered. Jogged by the memory of his conversation with Carroll and Lynn Mitchell, Koesler recalled a similar talk he had had recently with Charlie Hogan.

That Hogan and Koesler had remained active friends was a little out of the ordinary. Generally, after leaving the priesthood, a man quite naturally traveled in different circles, made new friends. No longer sharing common interests, the resigned priest usually drifted away from former comrades. It was an understandable phenomenon. But with Koesler and Hogan it had been different.

That Koesler had been selected and invited to witness Charlie’s marriage to Lil was evidence of the depth of this friendship. Seldom does a bride or groom know a priest well enough to request him to witness their wedding. But when such a request is made, it usually signifies some degree of friendship along with a good measure of respect.

This demonstration of friendship by no means ended with the Hogans’ wedding. Koesler and Charlie met periodically. Occasionally Koesler would dine with the Hogans. The priest was aware that Charlie and Lil were far from wealthy. The fact that they were meticulous in keeping up their house and that they ate simple though nourishing meals did not conceal their comparatively spartan existence.

As far as Koesler could tell, Charlie’s membership in a local health club was his sole “extravagance.”

Several months ago, Koesler had joined Hogan at the club. On the agenda were a few games of racquetball, a swim and sauna. Not slated was a conversation about Hogan’s material status, his work, his income, his prospects. The conversation did not take place until the sauna. The swim and particularly the racquetball had pretty well wiped out Father Koesler, who was breathing heavily while perspiring freely.

Hogan grinned. “Winded?”

Koesler barely nodded as, head bowed, he watched droplets fall from his face to his lap.

“You ought to do this more often, you know,” Hogan said.

“What are you trying to do, kill me?” Koesler panted.

“It’s good for you.”

“Like the relatives of Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha, you’re only thinking of me!”

“You’re not fat, Bob. But you could lose ten pounds or so. And the exercise is good for you.”

“I’m too old for this sort of nonsense.”

“You’re only four years older than I am; don’t go pleading old age on me.”

Koesler thought about that. He was determined not to add this much activity to his regimen. He just had to find some acceptable excuse. “We’re gearing up for the Fall Festival. I’ve got too many things going on in the parish now.” He glanced at Hogan to gauge the effect of his words.

Hogan shook his head. He would not accept the priest’s attempted evasion. “Come on; I know you better than that. Other pastors may worry themselves sick about how much money the festival will make. Not you. If anything, you’ll be concerned about whether the folks are having enough fun with the games and rides.”

Koesler shrugged. He couldn’t argue the point.

“It’s a nice attitude,” Hogan continued, “and I admire you, I guess. I also envy you.”

“Envy me?”

“It’s a healthy attitude. Other pastors are nursing ulcers and worrying themselves sick over finances. They’ve got to keep the damn school open or keep the church heated, or air conditioned. They’ve got to pay for a religious education coordinator. And on and on and on.”

“Those are realistic concerns,” Koesler said.

“But they’re not yours,” Hogan insisted. “Oh, I’m not saying you’re not concerned about all those things. But they don’t eat you up. If the people want a school, they’ll support it; otherwise, it’ll close. It’s their school; it’s their choice. No?”

“Well, isn’t that realistic? It is their school. The parishioners built it long before I got there. It may be there long after I’m gone . . . maybe. But my job is to make sure we offer a quality Christian education. It’s not my job to finance the thing. No?”

“Maybe,” Hogan said. “But you’d never know that by the way other pastors do it. When it comes to finances, you are about the most laid-back person I know.”

“Really!”

“And that’s what I envy. I think you’re correct in your basic approach to finances. Priests, generally, don’t have to be terribly concerned about personal income. Not unless they have to support an indigent relative, or unless they’re living way over their heads.

“Maybe the ones who worry themselves sick over collections and festivals are concerned about their parishioners’ finances. Who knows? The thing is, they don’t have to get all worked up about their own income.”

“Aren’t you generalizing, Charlie?”

“Bob, I’ve lived both lives. I know. Let me tell you, the overpowering feeling you get when you leave the priesthood is that you are letting go of maybe the greatest security in the world. And you’re trading it for maybe the greatest insecurity in the world.”

“Is your experience typical?” Koesler spoke hesitantly.

“Maybe, maybe not. I know a lot of guys who quit the priesthood who are doing a lot better than I am. I also know some who aren’t doing nearly as well. But if it weren’t for Lil and her job at the clinic . . .” Hogan added more water to the hot coals, decreasing visibility to near zero.

Koesler was too tired for more than token objection. “But you’re working, Charlie. I see your byline all the time. That’s pretty steady.”

“It just seems as if I get published a lot because you’re aware of my name on articles. And, fortunately, I do get a lot of assignments in local publications. But that’s partly because they like the luxury of using free-lance writers. Then they’re not stuck with a union wage and they also get out of paying the fringes.”

“But you do get paid.”

“They pay me.” Hogan sounded as if he were smiling. Koesler couldn’t tell; the steam was too intense.

“But not enough?”

“It’s not so much a case of enough or not enough. It’s not consistent, not dependable, not predictable. That’s it. There’s no foretelling what I’ll be able to scrounge up. Some years it’s pretty good, sometimes not. Sometimes I earn more than Lil. But one thing’s for sure: We wouldn’t survive without her health care package that covers both of us.”

“But you are surviving—and a bit better than that.” Koesler was still trying to find a silver lining. “You do get your assignments. And Lil’s insurance takes care of the both of you.”

“You don’t understand. Or maybe I’m just not making myself clear.

“When a guy leaves the priesthood, he isn’t prepared for much of anything else. Just remember our education. Plenty of the classics. An excellent liberal arts program. Very good so far. A nice broad base on which to build.

“But after that, we began to separate ourselves from the rest of humanity. Along about college, certainly postgrad, the others began zeroing in on a career: law, premed, accounting, journalism, mechanics—you name it.

“Well, so did we prepare for a career, but a unique career, administering sacraments, preaching, instructing in the Catholic faith. Nothing the world is interested in. But then, we weren’t preparing for life in the mainstream. See, when you leave the priesthood, necessarily you enter the mainstream—the very place that has no room for you. So you begin to scramble. You’ve got to make a living in a hostile environment.’”

Another spa member entered the sauna. He moved toward the far end, so as not to inhibit their conversation. But, as he passed the hot coals, he dumped a large supply of water on them. The steam rose immediately. It took Koesler’s breath away for a moment. He waited till he was sure his lungs were not seared before speaking again.

“Charlie, you make it sound like it’s Us against Them—that everybody outside the priesthood is lined up, waiting for one of us to leave so they can pounce on us.”

Hogan coughed. Apparently the steam had gotten even to him. “Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic. But look at it this way: I left in my mid-thirties. At that age, my peers, with a few exceptions, were already working away at whatever they were going to do for a living for the rest of their working lives. Guys in business were up to middle management—or higher.

“They’ve got their homes, maybe their second or third home. They’ve got their families, maybe all the kids they’re ever going to have. All of a sudden, here I come. I join them, only I’ve got nothing. I’m starting where they did when they were in their late teens, early twenties. Except that I’m in my mid-thirties. And starting on the bottom, I’m competing against guys in their teens and twenties.

“So I had to scramble, see? I figured I’d never catch up if I started in something based on strict seniority like the postal service or some other civil service job. On the other hand, I’m no good at selling. So that cancels something like insurance. I chose newspapering because it takes only four to five years to reach top scale in a union wage and also because I knew I could do it.”

“But that’s a crowded field, Charlie.”

“But I knew I could make it. I still know that. Hell, I’m making it right now. My pieces are getting published regularly. Seldom do I get any rejections.

“Oh, I can do it, all right. It’s just that I can’t do it where I want to do it—working steady at a major newspaper, where I could bank on a regular paycheck and good income. Where I could support Lil without her having to work. Where we could have a family. That’s what we wanted from the beginning, Bob; you know that. We wanted a family. We never had one. Probably we’ll never have one. Lil has to keep working. Together, we just get by. And without her insurance coverage, neither of us could afford to get sick.”

Koesler, well remembering how much Charlie and Lil had wanted children, was painfully aware that, on the one hand, they would have made excellent parents and on the other, in all likelihood, they never would be.

“If you don’t mind—” Koesler stood, “—let’s get out of here before I turn into a lobster.”

They showered and started dressing.

“I’ve never talked to you about this—” Koesler had feared he might be prying, “—but what about your books? It’s not everybody who’s a published author. I’ve got all three of them—autographed, of course.” Koesler smiled.

“Yeah, you and not enough others.”

“Not enough others?”

“None of them sold more than 5,000 copies.”

“That’s bad?”

“Think of Michener with well over 100,000 hardcover copies, book clubs, paperback, foreign sales, big screen movies or a TV mini-series. That’s success.”

“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

“Granted. But if I were going to make a living at this sort of thing, my books would have to sell at least 25,000 copies in hardcover, along with some of those auxiliary sales. And, as you can see, I’m a long way from that.”

“But they were good books.”

“I thought so. And so did a couple of thousand readers. But that’s just not enough.”

Koesler pondered for a few moments. “I don’t understand. They were good books. Why didn’t they sell?”

Hogan shrugged.

“If memory serves,” Koesler continued, “they got good reviews in the News and the Free Press . . . didn’t they?”

“As a matter of fact, the reviews were mixed. Actually, I guess I was lucky to have them reviewed at all.”

“You were?”

“Bob, there are about 400,000 book manuscripts submitted every year. About, roughly, 40,000 of them get published. And only a very small percentage of that number are even reviewed, let alone get a favorable review. Take a look at the Free Press and the News. Each paper uses a single page on Sundays for books, with, once in a while, another review or two during the week.”

“You’re right . . . I guess I never gave it much thought. When you consider the number published, I guess comparatively few do even get reviewed.”

“It doesn’t really matter that much. Most authors seem to feel that reviews neither sell books nor discourage people from buying them. A few readers, maybe, but not many . . . certainly not enough to make a difference.

“From my relatively narrow experience, I didn’t mind so much when a reviewer simply didn’t like my book. What bugs me—and I suppose most other writers—is when the reviewer is just flat-out wrong—incorrect. It happens. You knock yourself cold researching—and you’re accurate. You have experts in the field read and okay your manuscript. Then some reviewer, based on nothing but his or her own ignorance, right off the top of his or her head, says you’re wrong.” He grinned ironically. “If I had my way, reviewers would have to be licensed.”

“Licensed?”

“Use whatever criteria you want. But insist they have licenses. And, as in driving points, once they make X number of factual errors in reviews, they lose their license. “What do you think?”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“Okay, but you said reviews are not all that important in selling books. So what happened to you? How come your books haven’t done better?”

Hogan bit his lip, seeming to weigh explanation. Finally, he said, “There’s a word for it—actually, two words . . .” He paused. “Ridley Groendal.”

Koesler felt he should not be surprised. Still, he was. “Rid? But, how—?”

“He’s powerful, Bob . . . at least he was. Especially when he was at the New York Herald. He reviewed my first book—although by his criteria he shouldn’t have. My publisher wasn’t that significant. Anyway, he went way out of his way to rip hell out of it. He even went so far as to question the motives and intelligence of my publisher. I think it was easily the worst review of anything I’ve ever seen.”

“But I thought you said reviews were not all that important when it came to book sales?”

“His carried more clout than maybe any other. Besides, the review was not only grossly negative; it was symbolic. The review predated publication by several weeks. So he was sending a message to other reviewers.

“But much more importantly, he was going out of his way to influence the bookstores . . .” Hogan stood before the mirror combing his hair. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “I’ll have to give him that: He went to one helluva lot of trouble.”

“Trouble? What—?”

“This wasn’t just any ordinary vendetta. He went way out of his way to get me. He made sure his review was seen by influential editors.

“The thing that really gets me is the job he did in the stores. He managed to get his negative review reprinted in a publication influential on booksellers—that sort of thing. He really did a job!”

“This is all Greek to me. I thought all you had to do was write a good book.”

“Ha! Even without the determined opposition of a Ridley Groendal, that’s not even in the ballpark. If you’re a nobody like me, in addition to a damn good book you’ve gotta have promotion, publicity, packaging, marketing, distribution—and a helluva lot of luck.”

“Holy crow!”

“People like me don’t get big advances. So the publisher is not going to lose a lot of sleep trying to recover the millions he didn’t advance me. If he runs into a big enough brick wall—in this case one built by Rid—he’s just not going to bother. And word gets around.”

Koesler had difficulty getting his shoes on. Not unexpectedly for him, with all the exercise and steam, his feet had swollen. “How long have you known about this, Charlie?”

“How long have I suspected is a better question. A long time. It was a combination of strange happenings. Why couldn’t I get a job at one of the metropolitan papers? Why did I have so much trouble—at least in the beginning, selling my stuff as a free-lancer? And most of all, why all this determined opposition from critics and editors and book chains?

“Of course the initial supposition is: It’s my fault; I can’t cut it; I should be out digging ditches. But it just didn’t wash. I knew I was better than that. I knew it. And some friends I could rely on—including you—reinforced my confidence.

“No, it was something else, some third person or force or something. I must confess I didn’t suspect Rid until fairly recently. And then only because I had investigated and dismissed almost every other possibility.”

“But you did find out, Charlie. From what you said, you know it’s Rid now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Again the joyless smile.

“Then, how . . .?”

“It happened a few months ago. I was doing a piece for the Suburban Reporter. I’ve done lots of stuff for them.”

“That’s the same paper Rid writes for, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, only he’s never there. Or he’s there so infrequently he might just as well never be there. I don’t know how many times I’ve been in that editorial office, but lots. He’s hardly ever there. It’s like a throne the king never sits in. It’s just there. And he isn’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many do. He mails most of his stuff in. About the only time he ever comes in is when he’s covering something like a concert and he’s on deadline. Then there’s almost no way out; he has to come in and bat out the copy. But he doesn’t stick around . . . just goes through his mail and leaves.”

“You seem to know an uncommon amount about Ridley’s comings and goings.”

Hogan shook his head. “Bob, everybody does. Everybody but you. Almost everybody’s done at least one feature on Rid, especially since he came back from New York. You’re just not keeping up on local gossip columns. Besides, in effect, I work at least part-time at the Reporter free-lancing. I’m there lots more often than Rid. And I talk to the staffers.”

“Okay, but how did you find out about Rid . . . I mean about his negative influence on your career?”

“As I was saying, a few months ago I brought in one of the pieces I’d done for the Reporter. It just so happened that Rid was making one of his rare appearances there at the time. As I was handing my article to the editor, I glanced over—and there he was. I guess my chin hit the floor. I never expected to see him. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the seminary. And what was that . . . more than thirty years ago?

“Anyway, I decided I’d challenge him . . . why not?”

“And . . .?”

“It was incredible. It just spewed out of him. His friend—uh, Harison, is it?—was there. He tried to stop Rid, but he couldn’t Rid was citing chapter and verse. How he had reached the “right people” at the Free Press and the News. How he’d programmed and manipulated and poisoned so many of the reviewers, book editors, bookstores, chains, against me. How he had singlehandedly screwed my career:”

“He admitted all that?”

“Admitted? He bragged about it! It was as if he’d been storing it all up, just dying to let me have it.”

“Then why did he keep it a secret all these years?”

“That was the only way it would work. If I’d known what he was doing, I might have been able to head him off. No, it worked only too well.”

“So what did you do?” Koesler was well aware that Hogan had always operated on a notoriously short fuse.

“It’s what I almost did. And you can guess that. I almost beat the shit out of him. I think I would have if he hadn’t taunted me about that very thing. I was on the verge of hitting him when he seemed to read my mind. ‘What are you going to do about it,’ he said, ‘hit me? Like you did the last time? Go ahead . . . go ahead, then. Only I can tell you: No matter what you do to me now, what I’ve done to you was worth it. Go ahead! Go ahead!’ He was shouting. Everybody in the office stopped work to listen.

“Somehow, it took the spontaneity off the moment. I don’t know; I suppose I would have passed up most of the fights I’ve had if I’d ever stopped a minute to think about it. It certainly worked this time: All he had to do was invite me to do exactly what I was about to do, and I lost the urge.

“God, now that I think of it, maybe that’s what the bastard had in mind . . . do you suppose the son-of-a-bitch was programming me right to the last?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. I doubt it.

“But that was it? It ended like that? With Rid daring you to hit him?”

“Not exactly. I cooled off enough so I no longer felt like belting the hell out of him. But I was still damn mad. And . . . well . . . I warned him that if our paths ever crossed again, I’d . . .”

“You’d . . .?”

“I’d kill him.”

“You said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did the others hear you? The others in the office?”

“I guess—I hadn’t thought about that—but, yes, I suppose so. They all heard Rid challenge me. And I wasn’t exactly whispering my threat. Yeah, they heard me. They had to.”

Koesler shook his head. “Not good. What if something were to happen to Rid?”

“Something like death? Then we celebrate.”

“Seriously, Charlie: What if Rid were to get hurt—or actually die under suspicious circumstances. All those people heard you threaten him.”

“So?”

“So, if I were you, I’d hope I had a really good alibi for the time in question.”

“Come on, Bob, you don’t think anyone would actually think I would kill somebody!”

Briefly, Koesler envisioned a prosecuting attorney describing for a jury the brutal beating Hogan had given Groendal years before, reminding them of the damage Rid had caused to Hogan’s career, and bringing up examples of Charlie’s quick temper.

If their paths did, indeed, cross again, Koesler could not predict the consequences. But he could well imagine a Hogan beyond anyone’s control.

“Just the same,” Koesler wrapped the familiar clerical collar around his neck and snapped it shut in the back, “let’s hope that Rid lives a long life and passes away quietly in his sleep.”

“You can’t expect me to drink to that, Bob.” Hogan completed knotting his tie, and slipped on his jacket. “I know only the good are supposed to die young, and, while we are not all that young, God could make an exception for this bastard. He’s screwed up too many people’s lives. I’d be doing mankind a favor if I were to . . . well . . .” Again his laugh held no mirth.

They parted in the parking lot, promising to get together again soon, although, privately, Koesler resolved not to meet at the spa again. Entering his car, he quickly started the engine and turned the heat on full. He was intolerant of the time that it took for the forced air to heat up. He was tired and shivering. He hoped this would not mark the beginning of one of those lingering Michigan colds. He had escaped both the flu and a cold for several winters. And he’d accomplished this without benefit of a “health” spa. No use ruining a proven formula. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, he thought grimly.

As the air warmed and he started feeling more comfortable, he thought about the just-completed scene when he had donned his clerical collar and Hogan his tie. Koesler recalled the time of Hogan’s momentous decision that would take him out of the world of the Roman collar and put him in the world of the tie.

What would have happened to Hogan if he had not made that drastic change? If he had remained a priest, undoubtedly Rid would never have been able to reach him. Charlie would have been not only secure in the priesthood; he would have been safe. Safe from Ridley Groendal.

Among the elements Hogan had considered in his decision to leave the priesthood, he had not figured on Groendal. There was no reason to include the all-but-forgotten Groendal in his plans. But once Charlie left the comparative shelter of the priesthood, he had become unknowingly vulnerable. And, silently, behind the scenes, Groendal had struck—again and again.

And what had this cost Hogan? Only the work for which he was qualified and which he so desired. Plus a possible and even more desirable career as an author. And finally, the children he and Lil had planned for and wanted.

Quite a bit, all in all.

And Charlie knew it, of course. He knew it in far greater detail than Koesler could ever realize.

With all of this in mind, was it possible to totally disregard Hogan’s death threat against Groendal? Koesler wondered about that.

The time of Communion was over. The communicants had returned to their places as had the visiting priests who had helped in the distribution. Optional at this point was a period of silent prayer. The option was favored by Koesler, who regularly observed this period of quiet. All were seated; the silence was unusually profound.

A beautiful sound wafted over the congregation, as a rich mellow violin began a solo of the “Meditation” from Massenet’s opera, Thais. Appropriate, thought Koesler.

His next thought was of the presence in the church of another musician, Dave Palmer, a violinist of rank. Koesler wondered what Dave thought of the performance of the “Meditation.” As far as Koesler was concerned, it sounded great. But he suspected that a gifted musician was equipped with a special ear that could discern a level of perfection—or lack of it—denied to the ears of the general public.

Could it really be more than forty years! Koesler did not want to admit it had been that long since they had graduated from elementary school. But the arithmetic didn’t lie. Palmer off to Interlochen and a priceless musical education, training and performance opportunities. Groendal leaving his heart at Interlochen and going instead to a seminary.

Dave Palmer and his ulcer. Of course the cause could have been any number of things. Privately, Koesler had named the ulcer “The Groendal Connection.” God and the reading public knew that Ridley had been harsh—many would say vicious—to any number of performers. But no one would dispute that for frequency and intensity of attack, Dave Palmer was certainly one of his favorite targets.

Strange; as far as Koesler could tell, Palmer and Groendal had not exchanged a word face to face in these past forty years. Yet in peculiar ways, they had been virtually in constant communication. When Groendal was not writing snide and bitter comments about Palmer’s performances, Rid frequently could be found badmouthing Dave to other critics, impresarios, and symphony directors, as well as those of the general public who were interested in serious music.

As for Palmer, he spent a generous amount of his time complaining and griping about fate in general and Groendal in particular. For those close to Dave, it was moot which had come first: Groendal’s unrelenting persecution or Palmer’s grouchy and offensive disposition. In time they seemed to feed on each other.

Much of the problem, as far as Palmer himself was concerned, stemmed from the quality of his talent. How much talent did he possess? Still more basic, how could talent be measured?

In the seminary attended by Koesler and Groendal had been a young man of great athletic ability. Of all the sports in which he participated, clearly he was most outstanding at hockey. Consensus had it that he was of professional caliber, not merely big-league but superstar. In time, the young man dropped out of the seminary and later won a tryout with the Detroit Red Wings. By his own admission, the Wings, led at that time by Sid Abel, Ted Lindsay, and Gordie Howe, had skated circles around him. Thus was the young man’s talent measured: not against fair-to-middling amateurs, but in the league of gifted professionals.

In some such way were Dave Palmer’s musical abilities weighed.

In the setting of a parochial grade school, little David Palmer was looked on as a child prodigy. And perhaps he was. But he was being measured against mediocre-to-good musical students. For the final concert of his primary school presentation, Palmer was paired with Ridley Groendal. The billing alone created the impression there was some element of equality between the two. That simply was not true. Groendal was paired with Palmer solely because Ridley was a good pianist, not because he was a gifted musician destined, as was Dave, to become a professional.

So, when it came to oneupmanship, Palmer left Groendal in the dust—an inevitability that everyone but Groendal would have recognized. However, no one told Groendal. No one could have. And there was the rub.

Groendal believed—as it turned out, to his dying day—that he might have had a magnificent musical career had it not been for Palmer’s “cheap trick.” Thus, Palmer went on to get his specialized musical training and Groendal did not.

No one, with the exception of Ridley and his parents, in any way expected Groendal to attend a school such as Interlochen. People were not at all surprised when Ridley went off to the seminary. He was a religious young lad and lots of religious young lads of that vintage routinely at least gave seminary a try.

Few besides Ridley knew that the seminary was his second choice. Even Groendal did not know at that time that his hatred for Palmer would endure to the very end of Ridley’s life.

Dave Palmer went blithely off to Interlochen and immediately suffered a severe case of specialized culture shock. Though his talent was considerable, it no longer placed him head-and-shoulders above his campmates. He was now merely one of many gifted young people.

Nonetheless he was good, very good. And he worked hard. A combination that won him honors and predictions by at least a few of his teachers that he would achieve great things.

Then he left academe. Like all who do so, Palmer found a cold, challenging world that dared him to find his place in it.

The first place he wanted was a chair in the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.

That was understandable. If he had been an athlete it would have been quite natural for him to have wanted to play for the Detroit Tigers, or Lions, or Red Wings. Of course, if he’d been an athlete he would most likely have been subjected to a draft or a bidding war between teams. As a musician, he didn’t have to worry about anything like that. So long as there was a vacancy and he qualified for an audition, he could try for his boyhood dream: to become a member of the DSO.

As luck would have it, shortly after graduation, there was a vacancy; he qualified, auditioned, and was chosen.

That was about the last bit of unmixed good luck he was to have for many, many years.

A few months before graduation, Palmer had married Anna Krause, an art student he’d met at Interlochen. Anna was not nearly as talented an artist as Dave. But they did share at least two qualities: Both were extremely fertile and both were—for that day—exemplary Catholics, which led to a family of formidable proportions.

A few of their nine children were baptized by Father Koesler. The Palmers and Koesler kept in contact only sporadically. When not distracted by his family, Palmer was kept busy at the DSO. He had time for little else.

Even though they saw each other infrequently, Koesler was proud of his former classmate and bragged to anyone who seemed interested about his friend—his one and only acquaintance in the DSO.

Koesler was not particularly surprised at the number of children produced by Dave and Anna. Those were the days when faithful Catholics were grateful Pope Pius XII had discovered the rhythm system of family planning . . . even though it didn’t work for some— among that number, Dave and Anna.

Anna, like so many other wives of that era, hardly ever got out of her “eternity” clothes.

The peculiar fact that Dave was both a musician and father of a considerable number of children reminded Koesler of a true story then passing through clerical circles. It involved a suburban parish’s music director who was father to thirteen children. At a parish meeting, the music director complained about the quality of instrument he was forced to use, and he pleaded for a new and better organ. This prompted one of the ladies of the Altar Society to comment rather loudly that he seemed to be doing pretty well with the organ he had.

In any case, upon acceptance, Dave Palmer was assigned a seat in the second violin section. As far as Dave was concerned, this was a satisfactory beginning. But he had plans.

In that, he was not alone. While many members of symphony orchestras are content to remain at that professional level for the length of their professional lives—occasionally making lateral arabesques from one orchestra to another—some considered their orchestras mere springboards to further musical heights. Among the latter was Dave Palmer.

Palmer’s plan, not infeasible, considering his talent and education, was to move up: to the first violin section, to concertmaster, to featured soloist, to director of his own orchestra. Eventually, like Toscanini, Stokowski, Beecham, Koussevitsky, von Karajan, Munch, Bernstein, Solti, Reiner, Leinsdorf, Giulini, and Dorati, to become a household word. At least in the better houses.

However, he had not counted on Ridley C. Groendal. Palmer had no reason to do so. He should have.

Realistically, Groendal had no way of blocking Palmer’s entry to the DSO. That had happened much too early in Ridley’s career, long before his power had emerged to any degree. Besides, there really was little argument that Palmer was good enough to be a member of a major symphony orchestra. The only question was how far his talent might take him. It was to this question that Groendal effectively addressed himself.

In a sense, it was Ridley’s easiest victory. Groendal was powerfully motivated to make Palmer a victim. As far as Groendal was concerned, Dave ranked first, at least chronologically, as an instrument that had changed and ruined Ridley’s life.

Further, Palmer existed for the world of music, the strongest of Ridley’s critical fields and the one for which he would become best known.

Once Groendal was completely established at the New York Herald, it had been almost child’s play to torpedo Palmer’s musical career. Harshly negative reviews, ignoring important concerts, the almost unique instance of singling out Palmer as the cause of a failed orchestral performance; anticipating Palmer’s occasional auditions for other orchestras and reminding the pertinent music directors of Palmer’s many “failings.”

Added to all of this was Ridley’s enormous sway with not a few other critics. All in all, Groendal enjoyed being able to keep much of his clout in reserve and still make Palmer run in tight frustrating circles within the DSO’s structure.

A few weeks before Ridley’s death, Koesler had been invited to the Palmers’ for dinner. It was not the sort of invitation that Koesler welcomed. He’d been through it occasionally and invariably had endured an evening of the couple’s petty bickering, recriminations, arguments, and sullenness.

From time to time he wondered why the Palmers did not simply divorce. Their brood had grown up and moved away. The two were left grousing and generally dissecting each other. He wondered if they might be the embodiment of that fictional couple who filed for a divorce in their nineties. The judge, at a loss, asked how long they’d been married. Seventy-five years, they said. Then why had they waited so long for this action? They had been waiting, they replied, for their children to die.

If the Palmers were waiting to bury their nine children, they had many years of connubial misery ahead of them.

“Would Father like more spaghetti and meatballs?” Anna Palmer asked Koesler, preparatory to clearing the table for dessert.

“No, no, that’s fine, Anna.” Koesler was grateful he’d gotten through the single serving Anna had heaped on his plate. The overcooked spaghetti had been dry. He knew he would have trouble digesting it. And the meatballs reminded him of that old TV commercial: “’Atsa some spicy meataball.”

He wondered how Palmer, with his ulcer, could stomach all that spice. Having experienced Anna’s cooking many times in the past, Koesler had downed his glass of Chianti before taking a first bite of anything, hoping the dry red would make more palatable what would follow. He thought it had helped.

“You want more, honey?” Anna asked her husband.

“No. And why the hell do you put so much spice in those meatballs? You know I’ve got an ulcer!”

“You and your ‘hell’ with a priest in the house! Besides, if you didn’t baby that ulcer so much, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”

Dave tossed his napkin on the table in disgust. “I’m not in a contest with the damn ulcer. I’m not trying to conquer it. It won a long time ago. I’m just trying to live with it. And all that spice isn’t helping.”

It seemed that Anna did not hear all that he’d said. While he was speaking, she was rattling the dishes in the sink. They both finished at about the same time. She took from the refrigerator three servings of red Jello and put them on the table. For the first time Koesler wondered about the truth of the motto, “There’s always room for Jello.” Perhaps not, he thought, after one of Anna’s meals. But, out of politeness, he would try.

“Will you be coming to the concert, Bob?” Dave asked.

“Which one?”

“The Midwest Chamber Players.” Dave seemed miffed that there was any doubt as to which concert was under consideration.

“Oh, yes.” Koesler acknowledged he should have known Dave had to be referring to his baby rather than the DSO. “I remember now. It’s going to be right after Christmas. Gee, I don’t know, Dave. Even if I’m not busy that night, I’m sure I’ll be beat. That’s a very busy season for Santa and for me. But I’ll try.”

“I wish you would, Bob. Chamber music needs all the support it can get. After all, this isn’t Minneapolis. Chamber never caught on here in Detroit as it should have.”

“There you go,” Anna cut in, “nagging our guest. Can’t you let the man eat in peace?”

“I’m not nagging! I just asked Bob if he planned on going to our concert.”

“That’s nagging. And what’s with this ‘Bob’? The man’s a holy priest of God. Why don’t you call Father ‘Father’?”

“For God’s sake, Anna, we grew up together! He’s a classmate, for God’s sake!”

“There you go, taking God’s name in vain. Breaking the Second Commandment. And a priest right here in the same room!”

“Good! Then he’ll be able to give me absolution!”

“You have no fear of the Lord!”

“I’m more afraid of your spicy meatballs!”

“So, Dave,” Koesler, who was beginning to develop a nervous stomach, interrupted, “what are you going to play in your concert?” Experience had taught that his efforts at peacemaking could be little more than stopgap measures.

Dave smiled at the thought. “Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert.”

“See?” Anna said. “All the old-timers. Dear, you’re going to make everybody think you never heard of the twentieth century.”

“There she goes again!” Dave countered. “An art student—and not a very good one at that—and she wants to be my program director!”

“Leave my art alone!”

“Why not? Everyone else has. But tell me, my lovely, whom would you have on the program?”

“Somebody. Anybody. At least from this century. Stravinsky maybe.”

“Good! Excellent! Superb! Then we could be certain that if someone fired a cannon during the concert, no one would get hurt.”

“Okay. All right, Andre Previn. Stick to your ‘masters’ and see where it gets you.”

“A few more people. Maybe a full house, my pet!”

“And the usual negative reviews. Ridley Groendal is not going to like that program.”

“Ridley Groendal can go to hell!”

“Forgive him, Father!”

“Forgive me, Father.”

Koesler shook his head.

Anna rose in a huff and went to the sink to scrape dishes and stack them in the dishwasher. Though it was a little noisy, it enabled Palmer and Koesler to talk without interruption.

“She’s wrong, you know,” Palmer said. “God knows I understand the atonals as well as anybody. And I like a lot of them. But we’ve got to face it: The general public has resisted them. With the Symphony, we’ll tuck one or another of them in among the classics, hoping that the audience will come to hear, say, Mozart, and learn to like Cage. But, to date, it hasn’t really worked; they’ll give Beethoven a standing ovation and sit on their hands for Prokofiev.”

“And you don’t fear Rid?”

Palmer shrugged. “I never feared Rid. I alternate between not understanding him, pitying him, and despising him.”

“An odd mixture.”

Palmer rose and motioned Koesler to follow him into the living room where the kitchen sounds would be muted and they could talk more comfortably. “I suppose. But that’s the way it worked out.”

“Care to explain?”

Palmer registered doubt. “Rid’s in your parish now. The two of you talk from time to time?”

“Yes, but I’m not the type to betray a confidence. You know that.”

“God, yes. I know that. Well, I pity the man because he’s a shell. There’s no substance. Performers, the artists know that. The trouble with Rid is he thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t. Nobody does. But, there he is, maybe the premier critic in America, certainly the most influential—or at least he was when he was with the Herald.

“He passes himself off as the expert in theater, music, and literature. And what does he know? Jargon! Outside of artsy phrases, he doesn’t know any more than the average patron of the arts. And he’s insecure.”

Koesler lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, he’s insecure, all right. Like insecure people, he has to name-drop. Like, ‘When I was talking to Lennie last . . .’ or ‘Pinky prefers the pizzicato played this way . . .’

“No, Ridley never really knew what he was talking or writing about. What he knows is how to intimidate people. People in middle and upper management. That’s where his power lies. But when he acts the critic, he just plain doesn’t know his rear end from a hole in the ground.

“So, part of me pities him.” Palmer stopped to light his pipe.

Koesler took up the slack. “You pity Rid, but you also mentioned you don’t understand him?”

Palmer puffed several times to kindle the tobacco. “I don’t understand why he hates me. I haven’t done anything to him.”

“There was that time when we were all kids . . .”Koesler well knew how unforgetting and unforgiving Ridley could be.

“You mean the eighth-grade concert?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You really think it could be that! I’ve thought about it many, many times. It’s the only conflict we ever had. But it was so childish. And so many years ago. It seems impossible. If memory serves, all I did was pay him back for what he did to me. A couple of adolescent tricks. Do you think that could be it?”

“It’s possible.” Actually, Koesler was certain it was so.

“I suppose you’re right. Yeah, it’s the only thing. But, so many years ago . . . so long ago . . . and such an insignificant incident . . . it seems incredible.” Palmer puffed, contemplatively.

“One man’s insignificant is another man’s mountain.” Koesler regretted the words no sooner than they left his lips; he sounded like a pop-psych guru. Fortunately, Palmer seemed still deep in thought. Koesler picked up another thread. “And your hatred for him?”

“Huh! Oh, well, that’s the clearest of all. He’s ruined my career quite singlehandedly. I won’t go into chapter and verse, but he’s gone out of his way to screw me at every turn. And he’s been good at it. As I said, he has a knack for influencing the powers that be. And he’s certainly done it where I’m concerned.” Palmer puffed for a few moments. “I can’t help thinking every once in a while what my life would have been if not for Ridley Groendal. By this time—God!—I would have had my own organization . . . a guest soloist . . .” He was lost in reverie.

Not for the world would Koesler have suggested that Palmer might well have contributed to his own limitations. As his career sank ever more inextricably into the DSO, his temperament and behavior had deteriorated in tempo.

At Symphony parties to which Palmer had invited him, Koesler sometimes overheard other orchestra members complaining about Dave—picayune things, such as when it was Palmer’s responsibility to turn pages, he would flip a page just far enough so he could read the music, forcing his partner to complete the chore. Little things—but sometimes the rabbit punches were life’s most difficult afflictions.

Anna came in with coffee.

“So,” Koesler summed up, “pity, bewilderment, and hate. An odd combination.”

“Oh, good grief!” Anna exclaimed. “You’ve been talking about that Groendal person again.”

Koesler was not surprised that Anna was familiar with Dave’s feelings toward Ridley.

“Yes,” Palmer said, “Groendal once more.”

He set the pipe in an ashtray, where the dottle smoldered. “Funny thing, if I ever stopped feeling pity—for even one brief second . . .”

“You’d what?” Anna prompted.

“I’d . . . I’d kill him. Yes, I really would.”

“Dave!” Anna exclaimed. “That’s a sin! Now you really are going to have to ask for absolution!”

“Instead of that, I think I’ll play something.” Palmer tried to create the impression that his threat had not been serious. But Father Koesler wondered.

Palmer picked up his violin, tuned it, and began the gentle opening theme from Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.

For Koesler, the beauty of the music more than made up for Anna’s spaghetti and meatballs. As he listened, he could not help but reflect on Dave’s threat. That completed the circle of all three men who had been so crippled by Ridley’s revenge. Three men who, otherwise, were essentially nonviolent. Yet, in Koesler’s hearing, all three had threatened to kill Ridley Groendal.

That left Jane Condon, now Jane Cahill, and her daughter, Valerie Cahill, now Valerie Walsh, as the only victims who had not threatened to kill Groendal—at least not in Koesler’s hearing.

Koesler would have known very little of either woman in recent years had he not heard from third parties, and, finally, from Valerie herself.