William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Under other circumstances, Koesler would consider such thoughts distractions from the Mass he was celebrating. But, strangely, when the gifts were brought to the altar, beginning that part of the Mass called the Offertory, he felt momentary impatience that his reminiscences had been interrupted.

The “gifts,” of course, were the bread and wine, which would be “consecrated.” In Catholic belief, the bread and wine would, at the priest’s hands, be changed into the presence of Jesus Christ. For centuries, until the coming of Vatican II, bread and wine were either placed on the altar before Mass or were adjacent to the altar and simply moved there by altar boys.

Now, regularly, they were placed on a table out in the congregation and brought to the priest in a more or less solemn procession. On Sundays, the gifts of bread and wine were accompanied by the more mundane gift of the monetary collection. Collections are not taken up at weddings or funerals. Even among Catholics, some things are not seemly.

Peter Harison, naturally, was one who presented part of the gifts. At almost any other funeral there would be little difficulty finding additional volunteers. But this was not a run-of-the-mill funeral. And it was not all that easy to find the remainder of a retinue to complete the procession.

Fortunately, there were a few actors, authors, and musicians who had been favored by Groendal in life, so they served him as pallbearers in death. They also presented the remaining gifts.

While waiting at the front of the sanctuary for the presentation, Koesler pondered the coffin before him. If not for the white cloth and closed lid, he would be looking at Groendal more or less face to face. Lay people were wheeled into their funerals feet first. Thus, if they could see, they would be looking at the altar just as they had in life.

Priests were carted in headfirst, so that they would be looking at the congregation, just as they had in life.

That bit of trivia reminded Koesler that Ridley might have been a priest. He might well have been a priest, if not for . . .

After their talk following the eventful Christmas Vacation of 1949, Groendal did not mention Jane Condon to Koesler again. But Ridley changed. Initially, he became more reclusive. Koesler found him in the recreation rooms far less frequently. When he was there, he was usually off in a corner by himself chain-smoking. He played the piano only if coaxed and then not the bright show and pop tunes the guys wanted to hear.

Soon, nearly everyone could not help but notice that some sort of change had come over him. Only Koesler had a clue as to the cause. Of course he said nothing to anyone, including Groendal.

It was not until the last year of Groendal’s life, when he and Koesler renewed their relationship, that Ridley hinted at what had happened to him during that period.

Partially due to Koesler’s expressed concern for Jane Condon, Groendal could not get her out of his mind. The possibility that he had inflected a massive emotional trauma upon her haunted him. He thought of confessing this possible additional sin. But, on the one hand, it was not a certainty, just a possibility. And, on the other, none of the present priest-faculty was deaf or even slightly hard of hearing.

Added to this was a recurring nightmare. In the dream, Groendal, in one way or another would get involved with some girl. Always it was a puzzling person. The heart of the dreams usually differed one dream from another. But all ended in the same terrifying nightmare.

He and the girl—both nude—would be wrestling. As they fought Groendal would enter her. Then she would pull away, taking his genitalia with her, leaving him covered with blood.

He would wake with a start, dripping with perspiration, heart pounding.

In time, he grew to fear sleep. After the mandatory lights-out at 10:00 P.M. , Groendal would cover the transom with a blanket, turn on a small reading lamp, and read well into the night.

When at last he would topple over from sheer exhaustion, he might be spared the nightmare only because he had somehow driven all dreams away. However, he would then pay the price of achieving no release from tension through dreams. It became a vicious cycle.

All of this he kept carefully locked inside. As a result he began to suffer from increasingly deep depression.

As the weeks passed, Koesler became more concerned. He had noticed Ridley’s decline earlier than anyone else because, knowing what was bothering Groendal, Koesler had been alert to the problem almost from the first manifestations.

Koesler tried to interest Groendal in something, anything, to get his mind off the problem. Very little besides music, literature, and theater interested Ridley. And he was, consciously or not steeping himself in the gloomiest and most melancholy expressions in each of those arts.

Sports could have been a healthy outlet, especially since it was basketball season. There is little time for introspection or deep thought during a basketball game. Unlike football, wherein there is a good bit of standing around waiting for the action, and baseball, where there is even more of that inactivity basketball is a game of almost constant motion favoring reflex action more than deliberate activity.

But despite his considerable—for that era—height Groendal had never been very serious about basketball—or any other sport for that matter.

Koesler, on the other hand, while not one of the seminary’s foremost athletes, was actively involved in sports. As a member of the college basketball varsity, he was helping coach the high school varsity. Eventually, he determined that might be his best chance to help Groendal. If Koesler could get Ridley involved in the high school basketball program, maybe that could be the vehicle out of this lethargy into which Ridley seemed to be sinking.

Interesting Groendal in assisting him to coach basketball proved easier than Koesler had anticipated. Inwardly, Groendal remained indifferent to the game. But he thought the exercise forced on him by the commitment might help him get some decent restful sleep.

The next problem was selling the team on a coach who did not know enough about the game to qualify as a coach. After a few, ineffective starts, Koesler sold them simply on doing him a favor. Ridley Groendal, Koesler explained, was a friend who happened to be in need. He was having a bad time and needed exercise and companionship. And if they weren’t interested in helping people in need, whatinhell were they doing in a seminary? That did it. With pronounced reluctance and grudging charity, the consensus was: Bring him on; we may make a jock of him yet—but don’t bet on it.

Chief among those who bought the charity angle was Charlie Hogan.

It was Hogan who taught Groendal—whose previous expertise was limited to basic dribbling, passing, and layups—niceties such as the difference between a zone and man defense, pick-plays, give-and-go, the butterfly drill, and so forth.

At first Ridley’s participation was predicated entirely on getting the exercise he needed in order to get some troublefree sleep. But as time passed, Hogan’s patience and good humor began to have its effect. Groendal began to join in with more spontaneity, even to the point of enjoying the sport and looking forward to practices.

As a fringe benefit, just as he had hoped, he began to get the restful sleep he so wanted and needed.

Not that Groendal would ever be varsity caliber. He had no natural physical coordination. But he did reach the level of being able to assist the other coaches.

Koesler was so pleased he was ready to award himself an honorary doctorate in amateur psychology. Ridley’s entire attitude had returned to near normal. Once again, seated at the piano in the rec room, Groendal became the life of the party. Koesler thought nothing of the friendship that was building between Groendal and Hogan. Neither did Groendal and neither did Hogan.