Deadline for a Critic

4

Looks like a full house, thought Father Robert Koesler as he searched for a parking space. Thanks to some thoughtless and inconsiderate parking, there was no room in the mortuary lot. At least it was appropriate, the priest mused. We have just finished with the feast commemorating a night when the Holy Family found no room at the inn. Almost blasphemous, since Koesler was cruising in his small but well-heated car.

There was nothing for it but to park on one of the neighboring streets. The bad news was that it hadn’t snowed quite enough yet to have had the secondary streets plowed. The good news was very much like the bad; it hadn’t snowed enough to render driving and parking next to impossible.

He had to park a couple of blocks from the Morand Funeral Home. As he automatically locked his car, he had to admit he shouldn’t have been surprised by the number of people who had come to pay their respects. Ridley C. Groendal had been a Very Important Person: a onetime columnist for a prestigious New York paper, a critic whose opinion had been known to contribute to the premature closing of plays and an occasional concert. And a writer whose reviews were feared by authors.

Now that Koesler had phrased the career of Ridley Groendal in just those thoughts, the conclusion seemed inevitable that Groendal might not be remembered for anything very positive. Just for creating depression and dread in the hearts of writers and performers.

Because Groendal had been very much a Catholic as well as a Very Important Person, he was, by corollary, a Very Important Catholic. That meant that Koesler could expect a bumper crop of priests at tomorrow’s funeral. Which was no problem; it merely entailed the reservation of a few pews for the visiting clergy. None of whom, undoubtedly, would be attending tonight’s farewell rosary.

Koesler, stamping snow from his rubbers, was greeted by the mortuary owner.

“Hi, Lou. Looks like an SRO crowd.”

“Right, Father.” Morand took Koesler’s coat and hat. “And almost all for the Groendal wake.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s in there.” Morand indicated a room out of which spilled an overflow crowd. By opening several sliding panels, Morand had made this the largest slumber room in the home. Still it was not large enough.

“I sort of figured that.”

“Want me to escort you to the bier?”

“No, no, Lou. I can make it okay.”

Morand headed for his office with Koesler’s hat and coat, leaving the priest, by his own choice, to fend for himself.

Koesler, at some inches over six feet, was able to get a better than average perspective of the crowd. It was like old home week. He recognized quite a few parishioners. That was to be expected. Koesler was pastor of St. Anselm’s parish in the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights. And Ridley Groendal had been a parishioner for the past year or so.

But there were quite a few others whom Koesler recognized from the old days at Holy Redeemer parish on Detroit’s near west side. Koesler was pleased they had remembered. It had been many long years since he and Groendal, among many others, had grown up in that venerable neighborhood. It was good to see the familiar faces, although many of them remained no more than familiar—at present no names came readily to mind.

He began to make his way through the crowd, something he had done many times before. Two ceremonies that regularly bid for the services of a priest are weddings and funerals. For Koesler, after some thirty years as a priest, all the weddings and funerals at which he had presided seemed to blend into one massive hodgepodge.

Only a few such occasions stood out individually and clearly in his memory. Koesler, like many of his confreres, was forever being greeted, often effusively, by seeming strangers who took it for granted that he remembered their wedding or the funeral of a loved one. There were just too many to keep them all distinct in his mind.

Of course the funeral of Ridley C. Groendal, for many reasons, was one of the few he would remember.

Getting through this crowd was not unlike swimming upstream. Koesler had to struggle against a current that kept everyone cheek by jowl. As he tapped shoulders and excused himself, he was greeted first by hostility that resisted relinquishing hard-won and established space. But as soon as his clerical collar was recognized, he was graciously ushered on. Old friends from Holy Redeemer days or present parishioners would exchange a few words with him as he resolutely made his way toward the bier. He recognized his parishioners, of course, but did not fare so well with the Redeemerites. Most he could not identify until they introduced themselves. Then, usually, he remembered them.

At long last, he reached the remains of Ridley C. Groendal. Here at least, as at all such gatherings, there was room to breathe. No matter how many mourners attended a wake, the deceased was always accorded some breathing room. The deceased, of course, needed it least. However, the prime beneficiaries of this ample space were the chief mourners who invested the most time in this vigil.

In the case of Ridley Groendal there was only one chief mourner. Among those aware of the situation, it was no surprise that Peter Harison evidently was the one and only bereaved.

Harison, at Father Koesler’s approach, rose immediately. “Good of you to come, Father.”

“Sorry for your loss, Peter.” The priest knew that neither greeting had any genuine meaning. In reality, he had to attend the wake, so there was no need to thank him for coming. In another sense, he was there quite willingly for a great number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Ridley Groendal and Robert Koesler went back a long way together. On the other hand, Koesler’s salutation had been empty—a response not unlike the traditional “Fine” when someone automatically asks, “How are you?”

Now came that familiar void that so often occurs at funerals when no one, neither the visitor nor the bereaved, knows quite what to say.

After some moments, Harison broke the awkward silence. “Appropriate, don’t you think?” He was pointing upward.

Koesler reflexively looked up. What was “appropriate”? The ceiling? Heaven? “Appropriate?”

“Why, the music.” Harison seemed surprised that Koesler was unaware of the music.

“Ah, the music.” Koesler had been vaguely conscious that there was something “extra” going on. Until his attention had been directed to it, he had paid no mind. Something like many of the movies of the forties whose inane musical score never quit. Once one became conscious of it, one became painfully conscious of it. So it was now. The piped-in music had blended in with the conversational murmur throughout the room. Now that he heard the music, he didn’t like it. “What is it, Peter?”

“Portals, by Carl Ruggles.”

“Sort of strange, isn’t it?”

Harison looked offended. “Ruggles was a champion—an early one, I might say—of contrapuntal sound and dissonance. He employed the ten-tone serial technique.”

It was Greek to Koesler. He knew only that he did not like it. “Interesting.” A comment befitting a strange hairstyle, bizarre clothing, an ugly baby—or aberrant music.

The ambiguous remark seemed to mollify Harison. “Rid would have liked it. He enjoyed fearless creativity. I gave the tape to Mr. Morand and asked him to play it.” Harison seemed pleased with his choice. “But, I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about that now.”

“We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

Harison tilted his head slightly as if understanding something that should have been obvious. “This is what you ordinarily do at wakes, isn’t it Father? You get the mourners to talk about the deceased so you will have relevant material for your eulogy.”

Koesler smiled briefly. “I’m afraid you’re right”

Harison smiled more broadly. “Well, you certainly don’t have to quiz me. You knew Rid as well as anyone.”

“Not really.” This was getting into dangerous territory. It was true that for quite a few years, as youthful contemporaries, Groendal and Koesler had been classmates and, if not the best of friends, friends nonetheless. Groendal had indeed confided some very personal secrets to Koesler. But their paths had parted shortly after college.

Koesler had chosen the local Catholic seminaries for his education. He’d gone through the seminary high school, college, and theologate and been ordained a priest for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit. He’d been assigned to several parishes before being named editor of the local diocesan newspaper. Later, he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s parish. And that, in his rather prosaic curriculum vitae, brought him up-to-date.

Groendal too had entered the seminary in the ninth grade. But he had left, just before graduation from college. Thereafter, with only three early exceptions, he had had no connection with Koesler until moving into St. Anselm’s parish a little more than a year before his death.

Koesler knew, mostly from mutual acquaintances, that Ridley had earned a doctoral degree from the University of Minnesota. Later, he’d worked at a series of newspapers until he’d landed that prestigious job with the New York Herald. Thereafter, since he’d become a celebrity, it had been rather easy to follow his career.

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Harison pressed. “You knew him during his most vulnerable years, when he was growing up. And now you’ve known him during the last years of his life.”

Koesler was unsure how to reply. It was more a challenge than a question. Fortunately, at that very moment, another visitor demanded Harison’s attention. Excusing himself, Harison rose to greet the newcomer, leaving Father Koesler to ponder a response, as much to satisfy his own curiosity as Harison’s.

Could Harison be jealous? Of what? Of no more than a passing adolescent friendship. True, during the past year, Groendal had made it a point to visit Koesler with some regularity. But that was on more of a casual than a friendship basis. The problem was not Koesler’s relationship with Groendal. The problem was the connection between Groendal and Harison. The tie between them had complicated Koesler’s life during the past year and continued to do so even now.

During the past year, Rid Groendal had come by appointment to see Koesler about two or three times a month. They had been unconventional visits in that they involved neither confession, instruction, counseling, repartee, or even reminiscences of the good old days. Mostly, the evenings were spent with Koesler listening to the “Gospel According to Groendal.”

Koesler put up with it because, on the one hand, on Sundays Groendal joined himself to the captive audience in St. Anselm’s church and turnabout was fair play; and, on the other hand, while the Gospel According to Groendal had little to do with that of Jesus Christ, it was at least provocative.

Perhaps the most startling thing disclosed in these visits was that Groendal’s Catholicism was of the rock-ribbed traditional variety. Curious for one whose avowed artistic tastes ran to avant-garde music, bizarre stage productions, and unconventional literature. But when it came to religion, Groendal favored the Latin liturgy—with the Tridentine, rather than the modern Mass. His theology had not advanced much beyond the basic Baltimore Catechism. And the Church was not the People-of-God, but the Pope, who would let everyone know of the slight possibility that there might be a doctrinal change.

Groendal assured Koesler that this entire theological viewpoint was shared by Peter Harison, boon companion.

However, Groendal and Harison were a homosexual couple. It was the only chink Koesler could find in their otherwise conservative theology. Both men were well aware of the official Church teaching that, while preaching tolerance of the people involved, condemned homosexual acts as sins against nature. A classic interpretation of the principle—hate the sin, love the sinner. They were aware of the teaching. They chose to ignore it.

While their rationale on this subject was extremely unorthodox, it was by no means unique. As happened so frequently, it all depended on whose ox was being gored. Koesler knew many liberals who themselves demanded freedom from authority while demanding that all others conform to their views. And conservatives who insisted on absolute unanimity with the Pope in all things—except for those issues on which they disagreed with the Pope.

So, in the course of the past year, Koesler had become quite familiar with the Gospel According to Groendal and Harison. There had been times when the priest had tried to insert a divergent word; but, finding that fruitless, eventually he just sat back, relaxed, and listened.

One thing he had wondered about all those months was whether Groendal ever shared with Harison what had been told to Koesler. From Harison’s comment a few minutes ago, Koesler now guessed that Groendal had kept Harison in the dark as to what had been discussed in the rectory. In one unguarded moment, Harison had given the unmistakable impression that he envied Koesler’s relationship with Groendal—whatever it might have been.

But since Koesler was not one to needlessly chance betraying a confidence, Harison’s curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied.

The priest’s musings were terminated when Harison returned and resumed his adjacent chair. “So, Father, what will you talk about in your eulogy tomorrow?”

Koesler rubbed his chin, “To be frank, I don’t know yet. There are so many things . . .”

“But to be specific . . . ?”

“I truly don’t know, Peter. I even thought of asking someone else to give the homily. I’m afraid I’m a little too close to be as objective as I’d want to be.”

“Oh, no, Father! Believe me, Rid would want you to speak over him. You’ve got to do it!”

Koesler smiled. “Peter, I only said I’d thought about asking someone else. I wouldn’t, really. It’s my place to do it. It’s just that I’m not sure what tack I’ll take. But don’t worry: I’ve had enough experience so that something will come to mind.”

Harison seemed apprehensive. He placed his hand on Koesler’s arm. “Father, there’s something you may not know. It may have a bearing on the whole funeral. It’ll probably be in the paper tomorrow anyway. But you should know beforehand. It’s only fair.”

“Peter, what are you getting at?”

“Father, Rid had AIDS.”

“He did!” Koesler shook his head. “I guess that explains that weight loss. I’ll be darned.”

“But he didn’t get it from me.”

“He didn’t?” Koesler did not succeed in keeping the surprise out of his voice.

“No. It was the only time he was ever unfaithful. He had to go back to New York—something about settling details of his pension. There was a lot of pressure . . . stress. It was a weak moment. Can you imagine that, Father? One unfaithful moment and then . . . that!”

Koesler thought for a minute. “Peter, why are you telling me this?”

“Because once they publish the results of the autopsy, everyone will know. You might get in trouble with the Church . . . having his funeral.”

“Peter, do you think the Church would deny Christian burial just because someone contracted AIDS?”

“One never knows what the Church might do these days.”

“Well, at least that one is not on the books. There won’t be any difficulty in having Rid’s funeral.”

“Thank God!” Harison’s great relief was evident. “I’ve been wrestling with my conscience for days wondering whether to tell you. Rid told me he confessed his unfaithfulness—oh, not here . . . not to you. In another parish.”

That must have been some confession; Koesler wondered which priest got that one.

“Rid just wasn’t himself lately, since it happened—the thing in New York, I mean.” Now that he had broken the ice, Harison seemed intent on unburdening himself. “Have you dined with him lately?”

Koesler shook his head.

“He’s been killing himself. Deliberately. Eating all the wrong things. Drinking all the wrong things. It was remorse. I’m sure of it. I think he was just never able to forgive himself for what happened. And then with AIDS . . . well, it was just a matter of time. Watching him punish himself was killing me too. It was such a tragedy, Father. One time . . . one time! It’s so unfair!”

Harison began to sob. Bystanders shuffled and moved away. Most found it awkward to stand helpless in the face of such grief, let alone seeing a grown man cry.

Koesler placed an arm across Harison’s quivering shoulders.

How very odd, thought the priest. Two men whose very lifestyle has been roundly and consistently condemned by the Church—the Church that they fervently believe in. Yet they simply deny the condemnation and go on acting as—so far as they are concerned—devout and practicing Catholics. Then, when one of them contracts a disease associated with the lifestyle, they’re sure all hell is about to break loose. None of it made any sense.

Harison’s sobbing had caused a hush to fall over the large room.

Koesler wished someone would turn off that damn music.