William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Hogan grinned. “Winded?”

Koesler barely nodded as, head bowed, he watched droplets fall from his face to his lap.

“You ought to do this more often, you know,” Hogan said.

“What are you trying to do, kill me?” Koesler panted.

“It’s good for you.”

“Like the relatives of Don Quixote in Man of La Mancha, you’re only thinking of me!”

“You’re not fat, Bob. But you could lose ten pounds or so. And the exercise is good for you.”

“I’m too old for this sort of nonsense.”

“You’re only four years older than I am; don’t go pleading old age on me.”

Koesler thought about that. He was determined not to add this much activity to his regimen. He just had to find some acceptable excuse. “We’re gearing up for the Fall Festival. I’ve got too many things going on in the parish now.” He glanced at Hogan to gauge the effect of his words.

Hogan shook his head. He would not accept the priest’s attempted evasion. “Come on; I know you better than that. Other pastors may worry themselves sick about how much money the festival will make. Not you. If anything, you’ll be concerned about whether the folks are having enough fun with the games and rides.”

Koesler shrugged. He couldn’t argue the point.

“It’s a nice attitude,” Hogan continued, “and I admire you, I guess. I also envy you.”

“Envy me?”

“It’s a healthy attitude. Other pastors are nursing ulcers and worrying themselves sick over finances. They’ve got to keep the damn school open or keep the church heated, or air conditioned. They’ve got to pay for a religious education coordinator. And on and on and on.”

“Those are realistic concerns,” Koesler said.

“But they’re not yours,” Hogan insisted. “Oh, I’m not saying you’re not concerned about all those things. But they don’t eat you up. If the people want a school, they’ll support it; otherwise, it’ll close. It’s their school; it’s their choice. No?”

“Well, isn’t that realistic? It is their school. The parishioners built it long before I got there. It may be there long after I’m gone . . . maybe. But my job is to make sure we offer a quality Christian education. It’s not my job to finance the thing. No?”

“Maybe,” Hogan said. “But you’d never know that by the way other pastors do it. When it comes to finances, you are about the most laid-back person I know.”

“Really!”

“And that’s what I envy. I think you’re correct in your basic approach to finances. Priests, generally, don’t have to be terribly concerned about personal income. Not unless they have to support an indigent relative, or unless they’re living way over their heads.

“Maybe the ones who worry themselves sick over collections and festivals are concerned about their parishioners’ finances. Who knows? The thing is, they don’t have to get all worked up about their own income.”

“Aren’t you generalizing, Charlie?”

“Bob, I’ve lived both lives. I know. Let me tell you, the overpowering feeling you get when you leave the priesthood is that you are letting go of maybe the greatest security in the world. And you’re trading it for maybe the greatest insecurity in the world.”

“Is your experience typical?” Koesler spoke hesitantly.

“Maybe, maybe not. I know a lot of guys who quit the priesthood who are doing a lot better than I am. I also know some who aren’t doing nearly as well. But if it weren’t for Lil and her job at the clinic . . .” Hogan added more water to the hot coals, decreasing visibility to near zero.

Koesler was too tired for more than token objection. “But you’re working, Charlie. I see your byline all the time. That’s pretty steady.”

“It just seems as if I get published a lot because you’re aware of my name on articles. And, fortunately, I do get a lot of assignments in local publications. But that’s partly because they like the luxury of using free-lance writers. Then they’re not stuck with a union wage and they also get out of paying the fringes.”

“But you do get paid.”

“They pay me.” Hogan sounded as if he were smiling. Koesler couldn’t tell; the steam was too intense.

“But not enough?”

“It’s not so much a case of enough or not enough. It’s not consistent, not dependable, not predictable. That’s it. There’s no foretelling what I’ll be able to scrounge up. Some years it’s pretty good, sometimes not. Sometimes I earn more than Lil. But one thing’s for sure: We wouldn’t survive without her health care package that covers both of us.”

“But you are surviving—and a bit better than that.” Koesler was still trying to find a silver lining. “You do get your assignments. And Lil’s insurance takes care of the both of you.”

“You don’t understand. Or maybe I’m just not making myself clear.

“When a guy leaves the priesthood, he isn’t prepared for much of anything else. Just remember our education. Plenty of the classics. An excellent liberal arts program. Very good so far. A nice broad base on which to build.

“But after that, we began to separate ourselves from the rest of humanity. Along about college, certainly postgrad, the others began zeroing in on a career: law, premed, accounting, journalism, mechanics—you name it.

“Well, so did we prepare for a career, but a unique career, administering sacraments, preaching, instructing in the Catholic faith. Nothing the world is interested in. But then, we weren’t preparing for life in the mainstream. See, when you leave the priesthood, necessarily you enter the mainstream—the very place that has no room for you. So you begin to scramble. You’ve got to make a living in a hostile environment.’”

Another spa member entered the sauna. He moved toward the far end, so as not to inhibit their conversation. But, as he passed the hot coals, he dumped a large supply of water on them. The steam rose immediately. It took Koesler’s breath away for a moment. He waited till he was sure his lungs were not seared before speaking again.

“Charlie, you make it sound like it’s Us against Them—that everybody outside the priesthood is lined up, waiting for one of us to leave so they can pounce on us.”

Hogan coughed. Apparently the steam had gotten even to him. “Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic. But look at it this way: I left in my mid-thirties. At that age, my peers, with a few exceptions, were already working away at whatever they were going to do for a living for the rest of their working lives. Guys in business were up to middle management—or higher.

“They’ve got their homes, maybe their second or third home. They’ve got their families, maybe all the kids they’re ever going to have. All of a sudden, here I come. I join them, only I’ve got nothing. I’m starting where they did when they were in their late teens, early twenties. Except that I’m in my mid-thirties. And starting on the bottom, I’m competing against guys in their teens and twenties.

“So I had to scramble, see? I figured I’d never catch up if I started in something based on strict seniority like the postal service or some other civil service job. On the other hand, I’m no good at selling. So that cancels something like insurance. I chose newspapering because it takes only four to five years to reach top scale in a union wage and also because I knew I could do it.”

“But that’s a crowded field, Charlie.”

“But I knew I could make it. I still know that. Hell, I’m making it right now. My pieces are getting published regularly. Seldom do I get any rejections.

“Oh, I can do it, all right. It’s just that I can’t do it where I want to do it—working steady at a major newspaper, where I could bank on a regular paycheck and good income. Where I could support Lil without her having to work. Where we could have a family. That’s what we wanted from the beginning, Bob; you know that. We wanted a family. We never had one. Probably we’ll never have one. Lil has to keep working. Together, we just get by. And without her insurance coverage, neither of us could afford to get sick.”