William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

“Care to explain?”

Palmer registered doubt. “Rid’s in your parish now. The two of you talk from time to time?”

“Yes, but I’m not the type to betray a confidence. You know that.”

“God, yes. I know that. Well, I pity the man because he’s a shell. There’s no substance. Performers, the artists know that. The trouble with Rid is he thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t. Nobody does. But, there he is, maybe the premier critic in America, certainly the most influential—or at least he was when he was with the Herald.

“He passes himself off as the expert in theater, music, and literature. And what does he know? Jargon! Outside of artsy phrases, he doesn’t know any more than the average patron of the arts. And he’s insecure.”

Koesler lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, he’s insecure, all right. Like insecure people, he has to name-drop. Like, ‘When I was talking to Lennie last . . .’ or ‘Pinky prefers the pizzicato played this way . . .’

“No, Ridley never really knew what he was talking or writing about. What he knows is how to intimidate people. People in middle and upper management. That’s where his power lies. But when he acts the critic, he just plain doesn’t know his rear end from a hole in the ground.

“So, part of me pities him.” Palmer stopped to light his pipe.

Koesler took up the slack. “You pity Rid, but you also mentioned you don’t understand him?”

Palmer puffed several times to kindle the tobacco. “I don’t understand why he hates me. I haven’t done anything to him.”

“There was that time when we were all kids . . .”Koesler well knew how unforgetting and unforgiving Ridley could be.

“You mean the eighth-grade concert?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You really think it could be that! I’ve thought about it many, many times. It’s the only conflict we ever had. But it was so childish. And so many years ago. It seems impossible. If memory serves, all I did was pay him back for what he did to me. A couple of adolescent tricks. Do you think that could be it?”

“It’s possible.” Actually, Koesler was certain it was so.

“I suppose you’re right. Yeah, it’s the only thing. But, so many years ago . . . so long ago . . . and such an insignificant incident . . . it seems incredible.” Palmer puffed, contemplatively.

“One man’s insignificant is another man’s mountain.” Koesler regretted the words no sooner than they left his lips; he sounded like a pop-psych guru. Fortunately, Palmer seemed still deep in thought. Koesler picked up another thread. “And your hatred for him?”

“Huh! Oh, well, that’s the clearest of all. He’s ruined my career quite singlehandedly. I won’t go into chapter and verse, but he’s gone out of his way to screw me at every turn. And he’s been good at it. As I said, he has a knack for influencing the powers that be. And he’s certainly done it where I’m concerned.” Palmer puffed for a few moments. “I can’t help thinking every once in a while what my life would have been if not for Ridley Groendal. By this time—God!—I would have had my own organization . . . a guest soloist . . .” He was lost in reverie.

Not for the world would Koesler have suggested that Palmer might well have contributed to his own limitations. As his career sank ever more inextricably into the DSO, his temperament and behavior had deteriorated in tempo.

At Symphony parties to which Palmer had invited him, Koesler sometimes overheard other orchestra members complaining about Dave—picayune things, such as when it was Palmer’s responsibility to turn pages, he would flip a page just far enough so he could read the music, forcing his partner to complete the chore. Little things—but sometimes the rabbit punches were life’s most difficult afflictions.

Anna came in with coffee.

“So,” Koesler summed up, “pity, bewilderment, and hate. An odd combination.”

“Oh, good grief!” Anna exclaimed. “You’ve been talking about that Groendal person again.”

Koesler was not surprised that Anna was familiar with Dave’s feelings toward Ridley.

“Yes,” Palmer said, “Groendal once more.”

He set the pipe in an ashtray, where the dottle smoldered. “Funny thing, if I ever stopped feeling pity—for even one brief second . . .”

“You’d what?” Anna prompted.

“I’d . . . I’d kill him. Yes, I really would.”

“Dave!” Anna exclaimed. “That’s a sin! Now you really are going to have to ask for absolution!”

“Instead of that, I think I’ll play something.” Palmer tried to create the impression that his threat had not been serious. But Father Koesler wondered.

Palmer picked up his violin, tuned it, and began the gentle opening theme from Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.

For Koesler, the beauty of the music more than made up for Anna’s spaghetti and meatballs. As he listened, he could not help but reflect on Dave’s threat. That completed the circle of all three men who had been so crippled by Ridley’s revenge. Three men who, otherwise, were essentially nonviolent. Yet, in Koesler’s hearing, all three had threatened to kill Ridley Groendal.

That left Jane Condon, now Jane Cahill, and her daughter, Valerie Cahill, now Valerie Walsh, as the only victims who had not threatened to kill Groendal—at least not in Koesler’s hearing.

Koesler would have known very little of either woman in recent years had he not heard from third parties, and, finally, from Valerie herself.

20

“Let us pray.” Koesler intoned the prayer after Communion. “O Almighty God, may this sacrifice purify the soul of your servant, Ridley, which has departed from the world. Grant that once delivered from his sins, he may receive forgiveness and eternal rest. Through Christ our Lord.”

Koesler doubted that Valerie joined in the sentiments of that prayer. Of all those marked for vengeance by Ridley, Valerie had perhaps the strongest motive for striking back.

Palmer, Mitchell and Hogan each had been personally hurt by Groendal. As for Valerie, not only she but, much more, her mother had been deeply wronged. It is oftimes easier to forgive or at least live with an injury done to oneself than to overlook some evil done to a loved one. Groendal had hurt Val. She might have risen above that. She could never ever forget or forgive what he had done to the one person she loved most next to her husband.

If Valerie had not gotten an aisle seat, Koesler might not have located her in the crowd. Quite obviously, Red Walsh was not in attendance, otherwise Koesler would have easily spotted the human skyscraper. Koesler did not closely follow the comings and goings of the Detroit Pistons, but, he thought, probably Walsh was at practice.

In fact, Valerie was accompanied by her mother. Koesler did not remember ever having seen the two together.

The first time he could recall seeing Jane was at the Stratford movie theater nearly forty years before. He might not have paid much attention to her then if that had not been the start of something big, however brief, between Jane and Ridley. After Groendal had related what had taken place between himself and Jane, Koesler hadn’t known quite what to do. So he had spent that summer praying fervently for Jane.

After he was ordained four years later, he occasionally visited Jane. Again, there was not much he could do. While it was a heartrending situation, for whatever her reasons Jane wanted to handle it alone. So she worked at Hudson’s, hired a babysitter, and brought home what bacon she could. After her boy, Billy, died, Koesler had lost touch with Jane.

He had not met Valerie until she returned from New York with her husband. She felt she needed to talk to a priest. But nearly all the young priests she’d known in high school were now former priests. As far as Valerie—and most other Catholics—was concerned, the magic was over. One might have great confidence in a priest. But once he left the priesthood, though he was the same person, the old confidence in him seemed to evaporate.