William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

He brought her back to the point.

“Okay.” She inhaled deeply, then let the smoke drift from her nostrils. As she continued speaking, she exhaled smoke from her mouth, punctuating her words. “We were walking down Fifth Avenue near St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Red and I. We had just picked out our wedding rings at Cartier’s.

“You know how when you’re in New York and you see somebody who looks like some celebrity, it usually turns out to be not a lookalike but the real celebrity?”

Koesler nodded. He’d had the experience.

“Well, we were walking, very happy together, when who should be coming toward us but Ridley Groendal. That other guy—his home companion—Harison—was with him. But I didn’t even notice him till later. All I could see was that face—that cocky, self-satisfied face.

“I’d never done anything like this before, but something inside me snapped. I just rushed over, blocked his path, and started yelling at him.

“At first, he looked startled. But then, when he recognized me, he got this smirk. It just made me more furious. I was shouting, shrieking, demanding to know how he could rate my performance when he wasn’t even at the theater.

“I called him every name I could think of, most of them words I’d never used before. The street was crowded and people started to gather ’round.

“But it was obvious that I wasn’t getting anywhere. His smirk never wavered. He was really reaching me. So, I started hitting him.”

“You what?” Koesler could not imagine a diminutive person like Valerie causing much damage to one as big as Rid. On the other hand, intense emotion can confer incredible strength.

“Yes, I started hitting him. At first, Harison tried to stop me. So I hit him. He would have come back at me but Groendal pushed him aside.

“That was what was so odd, looking back at it: Groendal just stood there taking it, with a little smile on his face, like he was enjoying it. And I was getting in some pretty good licks.”

Koesler was momentarily distracted. He recalled the beating Charlie Hogan had given Rid in the shower room at the seminary. Then too, Rid had just stood and taken it. Did he never in any way try to defend himself? Was there a masochistic streak in him?

“Anyway, it didn’t last long. It takes longer to tell it than it did to do it. Once I got physical, Red moved in, grabbed me around the waist from behind, lifted me clear off my feet and carried me away. I think he acted just before a cop arrived on the scene to put me away.”

“And then?”

“And then I started swinging at Red. At that point I would have hit anybody or anything. But, of course, he didn’t take it like Groendal did. Thank God he didn’t hit me back. He just pinned my arms and talked to me quietly till I calmed down.” She ground out the cigarette and resumed her chair.

“That was it?”

“Pretty much, Father. But one thing still bothers me.”

Ah, thought Koesler, here it comes. Valerie waited a moment. But when Koesler did not ask, she went on. “About the time Red pulled me away from Groendal, I was shouting that I would kill him. I shouted it over and over.”

“Hmmm.”

“Well, isn’t that a sin? Murder certainly is a sin. And we were taught that a thought about committing something like murder could be a sin too . . . Father?”

“Maybe. It depends. Thoughts are kind of tricky.”

“Tricky?”

“We’re capable of thinking anything. A thought all by itself probably doesn’t have any morality to it at all. Nor do words, if they have no real intent. Remember the story Jesus told about a father who sent his two sons into the fields to work? Son number one says, ‘Sure I’ll go, Pop’—or words to that effect. Son number two says, ‘Not on your life.’

“But son one ends up going fishing while son two rethinks the whole thing and gets down to work.

“The point Jesus was making is that some of our thoughts and words are effective and some are empty and meaningless. Part of the proof, at least sometimes, is what a person will actually do about what she thinks or says.

“Make any sense?”

“Well, I haven’t killed him—yet. But I don’t know if that’s only because of what’s happened since.

“Very shortly after my encounter with Groendal, Red and I got married. Of course we moved back to Detroit. Red’s been with the Pistons ever since he broke into the league and, as a result, his best business connections, endorsements, commercials are here. And there wasn’t any point to my remaining in New York. Groendal had effectively shot down my stage career—and he was still on guard in case I continued to try. Red makes good money . . . real good money.”

Koesler nodded. “I know.”

“So, I’ve been able to do a little community and semipro theater here in Michigan. We enjoy our kids. And thank God there are no more cattle calls or hanging myself out on a line like a piece of meat.

“So, what I mean is, I haven’t killed him. But to be honest, I don’t know why I haven’t. I guess maybe because I’ve got ‘the good life.’ I certainly wouldn’t want to go to jail . . . not with a good and loving husband and a fulfilled life.

“But . . . what if I could get away with it? Just between you and me. Father, I honestly don’t know whether I’d do it. After what he’s done to me and my poor mother . . . I just don’t know. I’ve got a lot of getting even to do before we’re quits.”

“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’” Koesler threw the Biblical quote out reflexively. It fit. But he had never known it to be effective in the face of a genuine, deep desire for revenge.

“Well, if it’s His, He’d better get cracking. No. I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, God. That’s flip.”

“Would you feel better about it if you went to confession? If you confessed it—sin or not—as it is in the sight of God?”

“I don’t think I can do that, Father.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I’m not sorry. I don’t know whether it’s a sin or not. But I know I’m not sorry. And you gotta be sorry to go to confession . . . don’t you?”

“That’s true.”

“It helped. It really helped. Father. Just saying it out loud. I feel better just having told you about it. Honest, it helped. But I’ve still got to wrestle with this. Do I really want to kill him? Do I have to get revenge?” She sighed, then smiled tiredly. “I guess I’ll see you again. But thanks for taking all this time with me, Father.”

Koesler showed her out of the rectory. He poured a light Scotch and water, turned on the classical music station, and thought.

The “talking cure”—it never failed to amaze him. There comes a time in most people’s lives that some secret and/or shameful thought or deed demands verbalization. And if it doesn’t get aired, it may drive the person mad. But saying it, speaking it, telling it to someone, acts as a release valve. That’s where Catholics have traditionally had an advantage—in confession. Not only do they have the opportunity of telling the secret either in the anonymity that the confessional provides—or, lately, face to face—but they can walk away feeling that they have been forgiven.

And this pretty well wrapped up the strange case of Ridley C. Groendal. During his relatively brief life he had managed to make many enemies and very few friends. Of the enemies, four were literally mortal enemies in that each had stated in Koesler’s presence the intention of killing Rid.

And now he was dead. Nature and Rid’s abuse of nature had contributed. Diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart problems were exacerbated by high living, thoughtless consumption of food and alcohol, and—finally—AIDS. Rid’s was a condition programmed to explode. It had been detonated by four letters—one from each antagonist. After an evening of particularly heedless gastric abandon, Ridley had read the letters. All was in readiness for the explosion, and the letters had done it. Groendal read them and became apoplectic. His blood pressure shot up to the ceiling. He went into a convulsion and died.