William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone!”

“What?” Clearly, Mitchell had not expected that response.

“What about your little adventure tomorrow afternoon?”

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“You’re not exactly sinless, you know. You’re going to fracture a prohibition that is so taken for granted that nobody even took the trouble to make a rule about it.”

“Apples and oranges, Rid. I’m going to fool around a bit . . . pay off on a promise I made. What we’re talking about here is serious. Rid, we—you and I—respect—reverence—the theater. We’ve spent a lot of time on stage. We’ve both written plays. You can’t throw all that in the gutter by stealing somebody else’s work! For us, especially, it would be like a sacrilege!”

His eloquent plea met with silence.

“Well?” Mitch finally prodded.

“I’m not going to do anything.”

“But you’ll be discovered. How’s it going to be to have plagiarism on your record?”

“They won’t discover it. I’m banking on it.”

“But I did.”

“You’re more perceptive than they are. I thought it might get by you. It didn’t. But it will get by them.”

“What if it does? What if it wins? What happens if you win with a stolen play?”

“I can live with it. Besides, I improved it; even you had to admit that!” Groendal hesitated. “What about you? Are you going to do anything about it?”

Mitchell’s eyes widened. Obviously he had not considered this eventuality. He had thought he’d be able to convince Groendal to clean up his own mess. “I don’t know, Rid. I’ll have to think about it.”

Mitchell rose and left. He took with him both the book and the manuscript. At that moment, Ridley Groendal knew what Mitchell would do. After their conversation, it was transparent. Mitch could not see that borrowing an idea was just a normal response to writer’s block.

Nothing was more dangerous than a self-righteous person bent on inflicting some sort of justice on a poor soul. If nothing was done about this, Mitchell would surely blow the whistle on him. So, something would have to be done. But what?

8

Robert Koesler stood in the seminary foyer. A very busy place this Sunday as a steady stream of visitors kept entering and gathering here, each bunch meeting their student and then dispersing to various designated visiting parlors.

He had heard that dying people have their lives pass before them. He didn’t know about that. But he did feel that his career as a seminarian and potential priest might be grinding to a halt as a result of what he was about to do. And most of his past transgression of seminary rules was marching through his memory.

His infractions ran from the prosaic, such as talking during periods of silence, tardiness, and unexcused absences, to the more exotic, such as playing table tennis during study period and helping to place another student’s bed beyond anyone’s reach atop a dormitory stall. But nothing approached today’s folly: in effect, smuggling human contraband within these sacred walls. And all out of a sense of loyalty to a friend.

When, he wondered, would he learn?

There, coming through the front door: a young lady in green. She seemed to be alone. As she climbed the steps, Koesler, with an expectant look, stepped in front of her. She gazed at him quizzically. Instantly he knew this was not Beth. Awkwardly, he tried to act as if he were moving forward to greet someone else as the young lady dodged by and joined her party.

What an outrageous adventure! Here he was, waiting for someone he didn’t know who, in turn, would be looking for someone she didn’t know.

For just an instant he wondered whether it might be feasible to simply call the whole thing off. The thought lasted no more than a split second. As foolish as he now considered his participation in this plot, he was indeed committed to it.

“Bob?”

He looked down. How did she get there? He hadn’t noticed her. But there she was, very pretty in a bright green dress.

“Y . . . yes,” he managed to stammer.

“I’m Beth.”

“Uh-huh.” How had she found him? Waiting for their visitors to arrive were many underclassmen in civilian clothes. And there were quite a few from the Philosophy Department, dressed as he was, in cassock and Roman collar. “How could you tell it was I?”

“I asked around. Somebody pointed you out.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yes, I did. How else was I going to find you?”

“I guess you had no choice.”

Would her inquiries prove embarrassing for him if this whole plot came unraveled?

“Well, come on; let’s go.”

After they had walked a considerable distance, Beth remarked, “My, this is a large building!”

It was. But familiarity had artificially shrunken the distance for Koesler. “It helps if you remember that basically it’s built in a square. The chapel’s in the middle of the square. Then the four corners sprout their own extensions. There’s the auditorium in one corner, the convent and infirmary on another, the gymnasium on the third, and St. Thomas Residence Hall on the fourth.”

“Ah, St. Thomas Hall. That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” As far as Koesler was concerned, they couldn’t get there too soon.

They walked in silence for a while. Koesler had to admit she certainly was pretty. But, worth the risk? Not as far as he was concerned. Anyway, in a few minutes, if all went as planned, his role would be completed until it was time for her to leave. And that, compared with getting her in, would be duck soup.

“Hmmm . . . I was wondering,” Beth said, “why are you wearing that?”

“What?”

“That uniform.”

“The cassock?”

“Yes. It’s a priest’s uniform. But you’re not a priest—she looked up at him incredulously—are you?”

Koesler grinned. “No. We’re supposed to start wearing the cassock in third-year college. It’s sort of the uniform of the day. We wear it just about everywhere, I guess, except for sports and in our rooms.”

Her nose crinkled. “Does Mitch wear one of these cassocks?”

“Uh, ordinarily, yes.” That was it. That was the reason Mitch did not want to meet her himself: He would have had to be wearing his cassock. He didn’t want her to see him in a “priest’s suit.” It might well cramp both their styles.

They arrived at the double doors leading to St. Thomas Hall. This was it. Koesler took a deep breath. It was considerably reassuring to find Groendal on duty.

“How’s the coast, Rid?”

“We’re in luck; not a soul in sight,” Groendal replied.

“I’m Beth.” She extended her hand.

“Ridley Groendal.” His hand was in and out of hers in a second.

Koesler felt foolish for not having introduced her. But he would not be able to relax until she was out of his jurisdiction—which, with any luck, would only be a few seconds more.

Wordlessly, Groendal entered the hall and walked deliberately down its length, looking from side to side as he went. At the other end of the hall, he peered up and down the staircase until he was certain no one was around. Then he signaled to Koesler, who looked back down the main corridor. There was still a crowd at the front entrance but no one seemed to be looking down the corridor or paying any attention to them.

“Okay,” Koesler said, “go ahead.”

“Isn’t this a little too complicated?” Beth complained.

“Go!” Koesler almost shouted.

She gave a startled little jump and hurried into the hall.

“Room 12, don’t forget!” Koesler stage-whispered after her. He waited until he saw her knock rather timidly at the door of room 12, and enter. Then, as if the weight of the world had slipped from his shoulders, he almost skipped down the corridor toward the rear of the building. Two hours to go and the business would be done.