William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“That’s it.”

“Rid, why have you told me all this?”

“I had to tell somebody.”

“Well, I can think of one place where it would have been more appropriate.”

“Where’s that?”

Koesler hesitated.

Ridley thought a moment. “Oh, you mean confession. Well, I went to confession the Saturday before we came back here.”

“Then . . . why me?”

“I told you: I had to tell somebody!”

“For the love of Pete, you told a priest!”

“I went to confession to Father Buhler.”

“Aha! Good old Father Buhler. And he, of course, didn’t hear what you said because he can’t hear anybody. So you mumbled, and he didn’t understand a word. But he did give you a penance and absolution . . . just for kicks, what kind of penance did you get?”

Ridley smiled self-consciously. “Five Our Fathers and Five Hail Marys.”

“For what you did!”

“How would he know? He didn’t hear me.”

“Okay; but whether he heard you or not, you told him. You told somebody. So, Rid, for the last time: Why me?” As it turned out, Koesler never in his life would be happy that Groendal had picked him to confide in.

“You don’t understand. I couldn’t go to confession to a priest who would understand me. For one thing, the priest might know or guess that I’m a seminarian and then all hell would break loose. But whether that happened or not, any priest who understood would yell at me.”

“And I won’t.”

Groendal nodded. “And besides, you were there at the beginning, when we sort of met. You knew I was going back to the Stratford. And you knew we weren’t invited to any seminarian’s New Year’s Eve party.”

Everything began to fall into place. Koesler could understand Ridley’s need to get it off his chest, but Koesler thought him cowardly not to have unburdened himself to a priest more honestly.

Finally, there was the New Year’s Eve party Groendal had told his parents about. If push came to shove, Ridley might want Koesler to corroborate his story about that nonexistent party. He hoped it didn’t come to that. He was unwilling to lie for Groendal. Listen to his pseudoconfession—all right; lie for him—no.

But no need telling Ridley about that decision. It would only prompt pleas, possibly even some threats. All unnecessary unless Ridley’s parents should ask, and there was little chance of that at this late date.

However, something still disturbed Koesler. “How is Jane taking all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“This must have been a bombshell for her, too.”

“I don’t know.”

Koesler stopped. The two had been walking around and around the grounds at the rear of the seminary.

“Come on, come on!” Groendal urged. “If we stop walking, they’ll wonder what we’re talking about.”

Koesler resumed walking. “What do you mean, you don’t know! You don’t know how Jane is taking all this?”

“What difference does it make? It probably wasn’t her first time.”

“Wasn’t her first time! What are you talking about?”

“It was her idea.”

“Huh?”

“Look, the New Year’s Eve ‘party’ was her idea from the start. She’s the one who invited me over to her house even though she knew her parents wouldn’t be home. And if anyone needed more proof, there’s the liquor. Again her idea.”

“I don’t know, Rid. From the way you told the story, it sounded as if she was as surprised at the way it turned out as you were. Maybe it was just a mistake for both of you. And when it comes to blame, Rid, you weren’t exactly following Monsignor Cronyn’s advice.”

“Come on! You can’t believe that stuff: ‘Just presume you’d like girls if you tried them, boys. Then, don’t try them.’ That’s hogwash, Bobby!”

“Maybe . . . but I believe you believed it until, for whatever reason—for God-knows-what reason—you ‘tried’ it.”

Quite by common, if unspoken, agreement, they turned to one of the walkways that led back into the building. Recreation period was nearly over; study was about to begin.

“So,” Koesler tried to sum up, “feel better?”

Groendal contemplated for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. I just wish you hadn’t brought up Jane.”

“What?”

“How she felt about all this. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t thought about that at all. If I had to consider it, I suppose she would feel about the way I do. Maybe a bit more guilty,” he hurried on so Koesler couldn’t interrupt, “since it was her idea. But no matter whose idea it was, it ended so badly that I guess we were both ashamed and embarrassed.

“I don’t really know how we’re going to face each other . . . I mean eventually. We’ll have to see each other again sometime, I guess.”

“Yeah, that may be rough. At least you’ll be tucked away in here until Easter vacation. So you’re safe till then. It’s poor Jane I’m thinking of.”

Groendal shook his head. “No need to be terribly concerned about her. She’ll be plenty busy. Working at the Stratford—or any other part-time job she can get. And going to school at U. D.”

“That’s right, I remember; you did mention school.”

They entered the building and stamped the snow from their boots.

“One thing,” Koesler added. “Now you can probably sympathize a bit more with Mitch.”

“Who?”

“Mitch . . . Carroll Mitchell. He didn’t pay any attention to Monsignor Cronyn either. He tried girls and found he liked them . . . boy, did he like them!”

Groendal thought for a moment. “No, not really. I haven’t made up my mind on that. For one thing, I seldom think of him. And as far as girls are concerned, why, hell, I’ve only known one and that encounter was a disaster. Maybe it’s just too soon.

“Right now, I think it will be a long time before I ‘try’ a girl again. If ever.”

Part Four

Presentation of Gifts

12

Father Koesler sat down after the homily, as was the custom, so that everyone would have a few moments to reflect on what had been said.

In the silence, he let his gaze drift through the congregation. Predominant in that group were, of course, the two-and-a-half pews of visiting priests. Briefly, Koesler wondered how his sermon had gone over with his confreres. He surmised that most of them held the attitude that they had heard it all. He’d bet a good number had been daydreaming throughout. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the approval of his peers. He enjoyed it and welcomed it but didn’t need it.

Seated, it was difficult for Koesler to find the person he was looking for. Then, a rather large man leaned forward to retrieve something from the floor, disclosing, seated behind him, Charlie Hogan.

That made four: Hogan, Valerie Walsh, Carroll Mitchell, and David Palmer. Five, if one included Peter Harison. Strange that all the original four would be here in person—or, in the case of Jane, at least represented.

On the other hand, it would have been unusual, given the interplay between them and the deceased, had they passed up this occasion.

Charlie Hogan was special, at least to Koesler, for Charlie had been a Catholic priest. And while he was no longer functioning as a priest for ten years he had been an integral part of this amazingly homogeneous fraternity. As such, there existed between him and all other priests, functioning or not, an enduring camaraderie. A silent acknowledgment that “we alone” know the life. Know its secrets, its rewards, its demands. Others may guess at what this life is like, but more often than not, they will be mistaken. Only we know because we have lived it. And lived it together.

Charlie had been ordained in 1958, four years after Koesler. Both had been ordained for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit But of greater importance to Hogan’s relationship with Groendal, Charlie had been a seminary high school senior when Groendal and Koesler were college seniors.