William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Ever since Ridley had come home for good during Easter Week, she had been trying, overtly and covertly, to discover the underlying reason for her son’s drastic decision.

She had wondered too about his physical injuries. She could easily believe that boys’ sports were rough and that injuries were common enough. However, nothing Ridley had told her satisfactorily explained the root cause of his quitting the seminary. Deep down, she had felt it was some girl. But if so, who?

She knew where her son was almost to the minute. He was safe enough from feminine wiles as long as he was at school. And he habitually accounted for his whereabouts at all times while he was home. Thus, as far as she was concerned, the puzzle was twofold: Which girl had gotten to him, and given the impossible that some girl had reached him, how?

One glance at this girl and the way Ridley had reacted to her gave Mary Groendal half the answer. All that remained was to discover how the girl had broken through all the barriers. It was with great reluctance that she complied with Ridley’s request that they precede him home. She would have preferred meeting this girl. She would like to give her a thing or two. She wanted to tear her limb from limb. But . . . all in good time. For the moment she would act the indulgent mother and go on home. But later . . .!

“So, Jane, how are you?” He had not seen her since New Year’s Eve. He was at a loss at what to say to her after what had happened that night.

“Okay, I guess. Can we talk?”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?” They were engulfed by parishioners leaving church. No one seemed to be paying them any mind. Still, it hardly qualified as a secluded place for a chat

“Not here, Rid, It’s too congested and it’s too public.”

Groendal became wary. He was determined not to get trapped again. The very last place he would agree to meet would be her home. “Where’d you have in mind, Jane?”

“I don’t know. Someplace where we can talk in peace without being interrupted. How about Clark Park, say this afternoon?”

He couldn’t have picked a better place himself. Clark was a large municipal park only a short distance from each of their homes. And very public. “Okay . . . how about say two this afternoon?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you at the comer of Vernor and Clark.”

Groendal went home to breakfast and one of the most intensive interrogations he had ever undergone. To his credit he did not break. The girl: Jane Condon. Where had they met: She was an usherette at the Stratford and everyone knew how regularly Ridley went to the Stratford to keep abreast of the film industry. See her? Just casually; she’s a Redeemer grad. Don’t know what she wants to talk about; will just have to go and find out. No, of course she’s not the reason for leaving the seminary. Don’t be silly; one doesn’t make a decision that serious over a mere girl.

There was much to be said for Mrs. Groendal’s perseverance. She kept up the inquisition till it was time for him to leave and meet Jane. There was much to be said for Ridley’s patience. He repeatedly fended off his mother’s thrusts without ever contradicting or implicating himself.

He walked down Vernor Highway lost in thought, paying no attention to the stores and bars all serried one next to the other and all respectfully closed for Sunday. He was oblivious to the Baker streetcar clanging past.

He was conscious of his surroundings only once—when he passed the Stratford—where it all had started.

If only he had not been taken in by the attention given him by the only female in his life besides his mother. If he had not put even one foot into the trap, at least that low point of his life would have been avoided.

But he had done it, there was no denying that. Now he had to face the girl.

Well, he supposed, it was the least he could do. He would listen to whatever she had to say. If there were too many questions, he would fence with her as he had with his mother. One meeting and it would be over. And none too soon; he had enough problems facing him without resurrecting this mess.

There she was, at the southeast corner of Vernor and Clark, by one of the corners of rectangular Clark Park. She looked forlorn standing there all by herself. She was still wearing her spring coat. He caught himself trying to remember what she looked like nude. But he couldn’t. At that point in the evening his senses had been blurred by alcohol; now he could not dredge up even one detail. Besides, the attempt to remember embarrassed him.

As he crossed toward her, she looked up and smiled. When he reached her, she turned and began walking up one of the paved paths. He fell in step.

A wind had come up. It was beginning to get chill. He regretted having selected a light windbreaker. But there was no going back now. He jammed his hands deep into his pants pockets and tried unsuccessfully to conceal a shiver.

“Cold?” she asked.

“No, it’s okay. I just didn’t expect it to be this windy. I’ll get used to it.”

“You’d think it would be warmer by the end of May.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s Michigan: If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute and it’ll change.”

The weather! What a thing to talk about. Still, he could call to mind bits of stage business and snatches of movies where characters did just that. When people were faced with discussing some awkward subject they frequently started with some remote, harmless topic-like the weather.

In any case, he wasn’t about to bring up anything serious. After all, it was her nickel—the current price of a phone call.

“What did you think of the sermon this morning?”

Wow! That had to be further removed from whatever she wanted to talk about than the weather. “The sermon?”

“Yes. Father Buhler’s sermon.”

Ah, yes. Good old deaf Father Buhler. Refuge of all who wanted absolution without having the priest hear the sins. “It was okay, I guess.”

“I suppose you’re used to better sermons in the seminary.”

Groendal smiled at the memory. “Yeah. Funny thing, though; the faculty are all diocesan priests who fear the Redemptorists.”

“Fear them!”

“Well, maybe not fear them. Have an inordinate respect for them. The diocesans are probably more conscious than the Redemptorists that the order was founded by Alphonsus Liguori basically to preach and refute heresies. Sight unseen, secular priests probably would concede the preaching title to the Redemptorists without a struggle. But that would, for the most part, be wrong. Actually, they’re all alike. Some are good speakers and some aren’t. Some work at it and some don’t. Doesn’t make much difference whether they belong to a diocese or to the Redemptorist Order.”

“And I take it Father Buhler doesn’t fit into the good speaker category.”

“I’d guess old Father Buhler stopped really preparing his sermons years ago.” Groendal suddenly remembered that it was Buhler who had absolved him from his sin with Jane. And it had been Buhler specifically because he was nearly deaf but wouldn’t take himself out of the confessional box. Once again, Groendal felt embarrassed.

“Speaking of sermons and the seminary, you didn’t go back after Easter. Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? What could be wrong?” Groendal sensed she was nearing the heart of what she wanted to talk about Oh, in a roundabout way, but she was getting there.

“Are you ill?”

“Ill? No. I had a slight injury. Sports. But I’m okay now.” He wondered if she’d seen him moving about slowly and painfully at Easter time. Outside of lying to his parents, which, due to his mother’s incessant questioning, he’d had to do repeatedly, he had not discussed the seminary with anyone.