William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Well, Ridley, we’re in a series now. I would prefer not to interrupt the series.”

“Uh-huh. I have an idea that might save us a lot of time. But I’ve got to work it out and I don’t think I can do it while the treatment goes on. I’ll need every bit of my mind and memory.”

“Hmmm, I see.” He pondered a moment. “Ridley, since you entered this facility, you’ve been in a depressed state. And we’ve spoken of this often. How do you feel now?”

“Actually, kind of good. I just had a visit with my . . . uh . . . priest. And it left me feeling a bit hopeful.” Groendal was well aware of the stock put in religion by Bartlett and was willing to pander to the doctor’s fixation, even to the point of acknowledging a priesthood that Bob Koesler did not yet possess.

“Your priest?” Even though Bartlett had left orders for no visitors, it did not surprise him that a priest had broken through. The question in a Catholic institution such as St. Joseph’s was not whether a priest could see whomever he wished whenever he wished, but whether the parish priest would bother coming to visit. While Bartlett put more than ordinary stock in religious curative powers, he did not cotton to priests who dabbled in psychotherapy. There was a place for everything. Or, as St. Paul put it—We each, in the mystical body of Christ, have our gifts contributing to the good of the whole.

This deserved some investigation. “What did the two of you talk about?”

From here on, Groendal would have to deal in one long, extended lie. Since he had already lied in referring to Koesler as a priest, the remaining fabrication seemed to fall nicely into place.

“Oh, nothing much. Just about the parish . . . things going on there. But he did try to bring up the matter of what I’m going to do now that I won’t be going back to the seminary.

“Father was trying to be very helpful. He promised that he would do all he could to help me get into some other field. And, you see, Doctor, that got me thinking: I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. I’m still young. I can’t spend the rest of my life moping because I’m not going to be a priest. I’ve got to get myself organized and get started on what I’m going to do with my life.”

Groendal correctly gauged the hesitation and reservation unexpressed by Bartlett over some presumptuous priest’s invasion into his professional field. Ridley needed to assuage the doctor’s apprehension that his area of expertise might be compromised.

“So, Doctor, it wasn’t so much what Father said. It was more what he got me thinking about. He just happened to stimulate me into thinking about things that need planning. And I’ll need a clear head to do it.” He looked hopefully at Bartlett

The doctor looked uncertain. Groendal needed a clincher.

“I thought,” he added, “that I’d go to the chapel later today, tomorrow, every chance I get, and pray. I guess nothing can help solve a problem like this more than prayer . . . don’t you think, Doctor?”

Of course he did. Maybe one more nudge.

“I wouldn’t have thought about prayer being the answer to my problem if it hadn’t been for you, Doctor. You’ve really shown me the importance of prayer. Why, I look at you as even more than my doctor—you’ve become my spiritual advisor.”

That did it. Groendal was never more sure of anything.

Bartlett tried, not altogether successfully, to cover a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, all right, Ridley; we’ll skip tomorrow’s treatment. But mind you: This means we’ve broken the series! And if we begin again, we’ll have to start from the beginning of the series . . . you understand that, don’t you, Ridley?”

Ridley understood. Completely.

“Now then,” Bartlett continued, “let’s take up where we left off. We were talking about your reasons for going to the seminary in the first place . . .”

Only part of Groendal stayed attentive to the doctor. That part strove to be affirmative and bright not the type that required shock treatment. The rest of Groendal’s mind rejoiced in the visit of Bob Koesler. Good old Bob. Maybe not Ridley’s best friend. Perhaps not anyone’s best friend. But a good friend, nonetheless. Unwittingly, Bob might just have stumbled on the core of the problem.

The remainder of that day and in the days to come, Groendal spent much of his time in the chapel. That part of his promise to Dr. Bartlett had been sincere. Groendal had long found a church, almost any church, one of the best places for deep thought as well as prayer. Well, prayerful thought, if you will.

Bob Koesler had given him the central subject of his meditation. Things happened to Groendal. He was in control of nothing. Passive. Passivity. It was true. All too true.

As the days passed, Groendal was virtually lost in the memories of his life to date. The memories, of course, were colored by his own bias. In that, he was by no means unique. Can anyone be completely objective in his or her own case?

Groendal spent little time analyzing his relationship with his parents. Without doubt they had had an enormous impact on his life. But this was the area that appeared to most fascinate Dr. Bartlett. As they discussed it, Ridley found it interesting that in his recollections, his mother always seemed to dominate his father as well as himself. It did not occur to him that this might have set the pattern for passivity in his life. Nor did Bartlett draw such an inference.

Groendal was absorbed, rather, in what he considered the four pivotal relationships in his life. Naturally, though he affected to consider them objectively, the memories were tinged with a bountiful measure of self-interest.

First, there was David Palmer. Groendal had begun it all as a practical joke. Sophomoric, perhaps, as most practical jokes were, but harmless. Just a few bars of “Bumble Boogie” instead of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” All right, so it took Palmer by surprise and made him look stupid for a moment. It was only a rehearsal. No harm.

But what massive retaliation! In performance, no less, setting an impossible tempo. On top of it all, it was done in the presence of representatives of Interlochen. No doubt about it, it had changed his life. He might have won a scholarship. He might have been able to make music his life.

No!

Groendal stopped himself. These were passive, subjunctive suppositions. He had to eliminate this tendency. He would have won that scholarship. By now he would have had the training and experience necessary to carve out a life in the music world.

But it was not to be. And all because of David Palmer, who was now pursuing what promised to be a most successful life in the music world.

And what had Groendal to show for it all? Nothing. He had settled no scores. Pointlessly, he had taken out his frustration on a blameless piano. In retrospect, he had been extremely fortunate that his symbolic gesture had not turned into a major case of arson.

He had been a passive victim, and David Palmer, far from being punished for having wronged Groendal, had been rewarded with the career Ridley had coveted.

Next there was Carroll Mitchell.

It might have been different if the seminary had not turned it into a competition. Even then, it might have been different if Mitch had not entered the contest. After all, Mitch was the closest thing the seminary had to a professional playwright. What right had he to enter such a competition? Immediately, the contest was by its very nature rigged and unfair. In such an unbalanced contest, Ridley had had every right to borrow from another professional writer. It did no more than equalize the odds.

So why had Mitch acted so self-righteous when he discovered what Ridley had done? The reason of course was that now it had been turned into an honest competition for a change. Now Mitch would have to contend with an equal. That’s what had made him so angry. Not the plagiarism, which was a loose charge at best. No, that was a smoke screen. The real problem was that, for the first time, Mitch stood to lose what he had considered a lead-pipe cinch victory.