William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“As for you,” Cronyn continued, “you have a choice. You may resign from the seminary or you will be expelled.

“Before you say anything”—Cronyn’s gesture silenced Groendal, who gave every sign of wanting to speak—”I should tell you that you are most fortunate to have an option. The majority of the faculty voted for expulsion. But some few made a cogent argument for leniency.

“So, you have a choice. Which will it be?”

Groendal wondered who his friends were. It seemed like a choice between being allowed or not being allowed a blindfold for one’s execution. One ended up just as dead either way.

Strange, he thought, that he had not anticipated being sacked. He knew that what he had done was wrong. And that they probably would find out about it. He just hadn’t thought it was that bad.

In the brief time he now had to consider his options, it was clear, if painfully so, what he must do.

“I will resign, Monsignor.”

“A wise choice. That is what will be noted on your record. This is a week of vacation; none of the students will be here. You may remain in the infirmary if you need to.”

“I can function all right, Monsignor. I’ll be out of here today.”

“Very well.”

If he had not already done enough penance, Groendal soon would. He groaned audibly as he dragged himself through the corridors gathering his books and belongings. And the worst was yet to come. He phoned his parents. They would pick him up.

Over the next several days, Groendal learned just how fortunate it was that he had been allowed to quit. He would have preferred death to having to explain the real reason for his leaving the seminary. As it was, he was forced to lie over and over, stating that he had left voluntarily. During his nearly eight years in the seminary, the vocation had sunk its roots into his soul so that by this time, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be a priest.

And now it was gone. Finished.

In the following weeks, he seemed to exist in a veritable vacuum. He had contact with almost no one. Bob Koesler had phoned a couple of times during Easter Week, but Groendal had not wanted to talk with anyone who knew the truth. And Groendal was quite sure Koesler knew.

By the time Groendal had gotten over some of the physical and psychological hurt, Koesler was back at school and beyond Ridley’s reach.

Not a word from Hogan. In the early days of Easter Week, Charlie Hogan’s would have been the only call Groendal would have answered or returned. The need to talk to Hogan was almost physical.

The longer the lack of communication continued, the more bitter Groendal became. No one could deny they had been in this together. But Charlie Hogan was back at the seminary. Charlie’s vocation was still alive. Had he no word for someone with whom he had shared so much? Could he pretend Ridley Groendal no longer existed?

In time, Groendal had to put all that behind him and go on with life. It wasn’t easy. The conflicts he’d experienced over the past years with David Palmer, then Carroll Mitchell, then Jane Condon, and now Charlie Hogan, had taken their toll. Sometimes he felt as if he were moving through life in slow motion. But he had to go on.

The priesthood was gone. He had to put that out of his mind. But he wasn’t dead. He had a long life ahead. One thing was certain: He had to find a new career.

Briefly, he considered Interlochen. But David Palmer was ensconced there; even if he were able to gain admittance to Interlochen, he would be limping artistically and, without doubt, Palmer would shoot him down. No, Interlochen was not feasible. He was sure only that he must finish college and do postgraduate work somewhere in something.

This initial decision met with a mixed reaction from his parents. No longer would the Archdiocese of Detroit pick up the tab for his education—a fact that drove his father nearly mad. Alphonse Groendal had never quite understood what his son saw in the priesthood. Father, mother, and son were all Catholic, but Alphonse tended to take priests for granted. Somehow, they were there when you needed them. He had just never given much thought to where they came from. Certainly not from his family.

As with most major domestic decisions, he had caved in to his wife’s pressure. Only when his son reached the third year of college, and board and tuition were absorbed by the Church, did Alphonse Groendal begin to see the value of this vocation. And now, just after the free ride had begun, the fool kid had suddenly decided against the priesthood. Worse, he wanted money to go away to college.

As far as Alphonse was concerned, Ridley could go out and get an honest job.

But Alphonse was soundly overruled by his wife, Mary, for whom Ridley’s departure from the seminary was a source of great sorrow and concern. She it was who had planted the seed in her son’s mind that the priesthood would be a most acceptable vocation. She knew her son well enough to be sure that it was not his sudden choice to quit the seminary . . . .

Handling Ridley more gently than she treated her husband, she prodded and pried, trying to uncover the truth. Whenever Ridley came close to losing patience, she backed off. In better times, he had had almost infinite patience where his mother was concerned. Now he had been worn close to the breaking point.

But no one other than Ridley himself knew just how close. And even he knew it only in a very confused way. Pressures seemed to be closing in from every side.

For the first time, he was aware of having lost an enormous security. In the seminary, one had no concern about whence meals, lodging, warmth, clothing, sustenance would come. One need have no concern over minor or even major decisions. Most of them were made for one beforehand and set forth in the rules.

It was as if, for a second time, he had left the total dependency on, and security of, the womb and had been cast out into the world to fend for himself. He was unsure of which path to pursue and he wasn’t getting any practical help in solving his problem.

He had even lost his seminarian’s selective service classification of 4-D. He would have to reregister and would probably become 1-A unless he could get into college and qualify for another sort of deferment.

Even the beauty of this May morning did nothing to lift his spirits.

It was the Groendal family habit to attend the 10:00 A.M. Sunday High Mass at Holy Redeemer. Since early April, Ridley had been on a more or less extended vacation and so the three of them religiously attended that Mass together. In this sort of routine, very little untoward ever happened. Until the final Sunday in May.

No sooner had the family exited the church’s side door than someone touched Ridley on the shoulder. As he turned, his mouth dropped in surprise. “Jane!” Not only had Ridley never expected to see her, he had all but forgotten her, occupied as he was with more current and pressing problems.

“Rid, can I talk with you?”

“Wait a second.”

Ridley told his parents to go on without him; he would be home shortly.

Alphonse and Mary Groendal instantly evaluated the girl, with sharply differing reactions.

Alphonse smiled. About time his son did something normal for a change. One of the many things he’d never understood about that seminary was the total abstinence from women. So they were going to be priests. They weren’t priests yet. Life would be long enough without sex, let alone having nothing to do with girls while it was still legitimate to fool around at least a little.

He could not tell much about this girl. Her coat hid her figure, but she had a pretty face. All in all, it was about time. He approved.

Mary Groendal, on the other hand, was certain she had sighted The Enemy.