William Kienzle - Deathbed

“Dover sole and baked potato.” His voice was barely audible.

“I beg pardon?”

“The sole and a baked potato.”

“No salad or dessert for Monsieur?”

“That will be all, thanks.”

Ramon left.

“Suicide!” said Harison.

“Hmmmm?”

“You know you’re going to make yourself ill, Rid. But worse than that, you’re flirting with another coronary. And you know the doctor said you can’t take another one.”

“Life is a mystery, Peter. Death is a mystery. We never know what we will die from or when. We live each day to the fullest, no?” As he spoke, Groendal continued to heap portions of matzo alternately with pâté, cheese, and caviar.

“That’s not you, Rid. You were never that way before. This fatalism has taken over your personality. It’s not healthy.”

“Life is not healthy . . . at least mine isn’t.”

Ramon brought the entrees, and Groendal’s salad as well. It was his custom to take salad and entree in the same course.

Before tasting either beef or potatoes, Groendal sprinkled salt generously on both. Harison winced and shook his head.

After servicing several other tables, Ramon returned to his station, from which vantage he could oversee the progress of his diners. He was joined by Vera, a waitress garbed, as was he, in black tie.

“Slow night,” Vera commented.

“Should pick up. It’s early,” said Ramon.

She nodded toward Groendal and Harison. “I see you’ve got the bastard.”

Ramon shrugged. “Rub kitty wrong, kitty scratches. Rub kitty right, kitty purrs. He’s not so bad.”

“He’s not so bad as long as he’s eating exactly what he wants. And from what I can see, he’s eating exactly what he wants. You should have seen him a couple of weeks ago when he was observing some kind of diet. I thought he was going to have me served with an apple in my mouth.”

Ramon suppressed a smile. “Have no fear: Harison keeps him on the straight and narrow.”

“Hmmph.” She pondered for a moment. “When was the last time anyone saw Groendal without Harison?”

Ramon winked. “Don’t be so coy. There are no closets anymore.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care who’s screwing whom in this town. It’s just that there’s something to be said for discretion. As far as Groendal and Harison are concerned, flaunting their relationship doesn’t exactly show tact.”

“Don’t be so hard on them, Vera. As a matter of fact, it must be doing them some good: Look at all the weight Monsieur Groendal has lost in just the past few months . . . one of the fringe benefits of a mariage d’amour. One tends to try to improve one’s appearance for one’s beloved, n’est-ce pas?”

“There’s another name for it.”

Ramon waited.

“AIDS.”

“Oh, come now, Vera. That’s not nice.”

“Not nice, but probably true. Don’t tell me those surgical gloves you’ve been wearing are so transparent nobody’s noticed them.”

“No notice is taken when one is discreet.”

“So why do you wear them?”

“One cannot be too careful.”

“Well, if he does croak I can think of a lot of local artists who will not be at all sorry.”

Ramon smirked. “That’s not at all like you, Vera.” He noted that Groendal and Harison had finished. As he hastened to bring dessert and coffee while the table was being cleared, he pulled taut his thin rubber gloves.

Ramon’s habit of wearing gloves while serving at table had originated with the relatively recent proliferation of AIDS. He washed his hands so often that his skin was rough and raw, a condition which fostered the introduction of infection. Yet it was impossible to avoid handling used dinner utensils bearing diners’ saliva. And saliva, reportedly, might be one of the vehicles for the transmission of AIDS. One could not be too careful.

He had articulated that thought to Vera in seeming jest. But he was concerned. Especially when serving someone such as Ridley C. Groendal. Ramon would never forget the specter of Rock Hudson, a sometime visitor to the Chop House, in the later stages of what seemed then a newly discovered disease, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. That substantial, rugged, handsome man reduced to a skeletal shadow of himself. One look at the ravaged Hudson had convinced Ramon he must take every precaution against AIDS. This was not something amenable to the so-called miracle drugs. This was a fatal illness that weakened and ravaged the body unmercifully.

So, while he wore the surgical gloves as a matter of routine, it was specifically from one such as Groendal that Ramon felt he needed protection. None of the diners ever had complained about the gloves, or even seemed to notice them. Whether or not any of the diners had actually contracted this dread disease, all understood the nature of the illness and the need for self-protection for one in Ramon’s position.

“You’re not going to do that too!” Harison said as Groendal lit a cigar.

Groendal tilted his head back and blew a series of smoke rings. “Peter, either I am having an unaccustomed problem making myself clear or you simply refuse to believe me. The fact is, in what time I have left I intend to enjoy myself to the fullest . . . that can’t be so difficult to understand.”

“But Rid, enjoying yourself to the fullest is shortening the time you have left.” His voice held a hint of desperation.

Groendal swirled the cognac in his snifter and appeared to study its amber smoothness. “We must not forget, Peter, that God—or somebody—has decided to drop the final curtain on my life somewhat prematurely. So I am going for quality rather than quantity. Peter, the last thing in this world I want is to go out as a cripple. We’ve talked about this. Why is it so difficult for you to accept? After all, it’s my life, not yours.”

Harison had no response.

“Peter, let me live my life my way. And let me end my life my way.”

Harison winced inwardly, but tried not to show how deeply his friend’s words had distressed him.

Groendal finished the pie, the cigar, coffee, and cognac almost simultaneously. He signed the bill with a flourish, including a generous tip.

A valet brought the car. Harison, as was his role, climbed into the driver’s seat. They traveled up Woodward Avenue in silence. Harison was conscious of Groendal’s labored breathing. Several times, Harison stole a glance at his companion. Groendal’s complexion was sallow and his face seemed somewhat stretched. It was not actually elongated; the illusion was caused by his dramatic weight loss and the resulting sunken cheeks and recent lines in his face. Groendal should not be working tonight, Harison knew. He should be home resting. But then, neither should he have ingested the dinner he’d just eaten.

It came down to the fact that nobody told Ridley C. Groendal what to do. Not even the management at the New York Herald, from which publication Groendal had recently retired, had dictated to him. Certainly no one at the Suburban Reporter to whom Groendal contributed his regular column and periodic reviews, dared challenge an arts critic with his credentials. For Groendal, this was much more than a second career (which, financially, he did not need); it was more an outlet for criticism that he had to vent.

The expression of this criticism—which many claimed was harsh, persistently negative, self-serving, even cruel, vindictive, and unjust—earned Groendal many enemies. In his former vantage at the Herald, these enemies had been a cosmopolitan, international group of artists.

Since his retirement—a bit early and, as it turned out, forced—most of his more famous victims had been able to forget if not forgive him. It vexed Groendal that he was no longer in the power chair of the Herald. He tried to compensate by blasting away at hapless local talent as well as the headliners who passed through town.