William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

They laughed.

“You’re right, of course, Rid. But most critics wouldn’t have the nerve to write it. You did!”

“And I paid for it. Peter, you have no idea how many idiots there are out there who are willing to accept something as senseless as Brigadoon. But I heard from them . . . all of them, I think.”

They laughed together and enjoyed their time together. By Groendal’s gourmet standards, several dishes were unforgivable. But in honor of this occasion, he forgave.

Before parting, Harison eagerly accepted Groendal’s invitation to accompany him to the Met’s new staging of La Bohème that week. Groendal would not like it. But then, Groendal did not like La Bohème itself. In honor of Harison’s being with him and sharing his dislike of the opera, Groendal wrote a particularly scathing review. So biting, indeed, was the critique, that it was all the company could do to prevent “Rodolfo” from going down to the Herald and punching Groendal in the nose.

The following Sunday, Groendal and Harison sat next to each other at the Cathedral. It took no time for their mutual discovery that each was gay. And not much more time to be convinced they were in love. Blessedly for both, it was evident from the outset that this was no ephemeral fling. It was the real thing, permanent and indissoluble.

If any law would have recognized their marriage, they would have entered into that solemn contract. Since no law would legitimize their union, they exchanged vows quietly and privately in a side chapel of the Cathedral with no one but God in attendance.

They became conversant with each other’s history. There were no secrets between them.

Unlike Groendal, Peter Harison had learned early on that he was gay, and had suffered accordingly, especially since he was a Catholic. After being humiliated, ostracized, and beaten, Peter opted for the closet approach.

In fear for his very life, he stayed in that closet, venturing out only most infrequently and guardedly. Occasionally, he would try a gay bar. But his experience in that milieu was no different from Ridley’s. One-night stands, brief encounters, guilt, disappointment, and danger.

As a result, he, like Groendal, had virtually retreated from social contact. Peter was quite positive that no one at work was aware of his sexual preference. He had never before had the happiness he now shared with Ridley Groendal.

Groendal, on his part, held nothing back of his life’s experience. As a lad, Peter had thought long and hard about the priesthood. But just about the time he would have entered the seminary high school he discovered his homosexuality. With that knowledge he decided—and correctly so at that time—that a religious vocation was doomed.

Harison got to know the four pivotal characters in Ridley’s life about as well as Groendal himself knew them. Not unlike couples anywhere, Ridley’s friends became Peter’s and vice versa—and the same could be said for enemies.

Together, they decided that Peter could be a help in Ridley’s insatiable drive to square things with Charlie Hogan, just in case Charlie managed to produce a manuscript.

Granted, neither of them could control the various editors at the various publishing companies directly. But it was not difficult to pass the word that Charlie Hogan was an ungrateful wretch, difficult to deal with, a problem to edit, and more trouble than his work was worth. There were even aspersions regarding his honesty, and someone—no one ever knew who—even started the rumor that he was (a) a Marxist, and (b) a pederast, and (c) a wife-beater.

Unfortunately, Harison could be of little more than moral support in the case of Groendal’s vendetta against Mitchell, Palmer, and Condon. But Peter was assured by Ridley that he could handle the stage and musical fronts by himself.

Revenge against Jane Condon was problematical, since Jane had not gone on to any professional platform. Yes, Jane was a problem. But then, she always had been.

If Ridley Groendal had not left Detroit to establish himself in Minnesota during the summer of 1950, he might well have become part of the ugly scene in the Condon house when Jane could no longer hide her pregnancy.

The altercation between Jane and her father was loud, acrimonious, and the subject of subsequent gossip. It was reported to Groendal by Greg Larson, the scribe Ridley had appointed to keep him apprised of Jane and her delicate condition.

The explosion came in July. Jane, who had passed off her weight gain as being caused by compulsive eating because of the school load, confessed to her mother what she already fearfully suspected. Jane had counted on her mother’s discretion. It was a misplaced trust.

When informed of the situation, Mr. Condon cursed and yelled and threw things, as Jane cowered.

“I ask you, Martha,” Condon ranted at his wife, “what the hell good did it do to send this girl to a parochial school? Did it do any good? Well?”

“Now, John, don’t be too hard on Jane.” Mrs. Condon immediately regretted having told her husband, though even in hindsight she could think of no alternative. “She’s had to carry this secret by herself all these months.”

“She’s not only been carrying a secret all these months. She’s also been carrying somebody’s bastard kid! You were the one who insisted we send her to Holy Redeemer. I wanted to send her to McKinstry . . . pay for it already with my taxes; why not use the goddam school? But no; she’s gotta have a Catholic education! Paid for her goddam education twice and look what it got me: A goddam bastard kid!”

“John, watch your language. The neighbors can hear.”

“Watch my language? Watch my language! Your slut of a daughter is the whore of the block, and now everybody will know it, and you tell me to watch my language! Ha!”

“John, we’ve got to be sensible about this. We’ve got to be rational. We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do. No, please be calm.”

“Calm, is it! When did you do it, whore?” Condon addressed his daughter. “When did it happen?”

Jane did not answer. She curled up more tightly on the sofa where she had retreated at the beginning of the tirade.

“No answer! I’ll tell you when it happened: It happened New Year’s Eve. It’s the only time we left you alone in the house. And you said you were gonna have someone over. Boy, you sure had someone over! Remember, Martha, I pointed out some stains right there on the carpet New Year’s Day. But you passed them off as nothing. Nothing! That’s the spot right there where our bastard grandchild was conceived.”

He waited, but neither his wife nor his daughter said a word.

“You wanta know what we’re gonna do about it, Martha? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do about it: We’re gonna find out just who the father of this bastard is. We’re gonna find him and we’re gonna make him pay! That’s what we’re gonna do!”

At this point, Jane was grateful for any small favor. She had gone numb when her father pinpointed New Year’s Eve as the time of conception. He was correct, of course. She couldn’t believe her luck that he didn’t know who the father was.

She had expected Ridley to do the honorable thing. But when he baldly refused and then, on top of everything else, had that nervous breakdown . . . well, she had determined that as messy as this situation was, she was not going to further roil it. She had no intention of dragging Ridley into a knockdown battle. That would be a confrontation doomed to failure.

She had absolutely no intention whatsoever of telling her parents who had fathered her baby.

However, as determined as Jane was not to tell, so resolute was her father to find out.

“Who was it?” he shouted.