“I know, I know . . .” Mitchell waved away the objection Koesler was about to make. “. . . it’s not the Christian thing to do. But sometimes you have to go back to the eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. This is one of those times.
“Now, Bobby, by official decree, I’ve got just a few minutes before I’ve got to get out of here. Cronyn said by vespers. I’ll have to come back sometime and pick up my books and the rest of my stuff. But this may be the last time I’ll see you for a while.”
Mitchell offered his hand and Koesler grasped it. If they had not been schooled in the macho lifestyle they might have wept on each other’s shoulder.
It was not the first time, nor would it be the last in Koesler’s experience, that a talented young man would leave the seminary. In each case, it would cast grave doubt on his own vocation. But somehow, in some way, he would remain even as others left.
Koesler blinked several times and returned to the present. He looked around the church and again fixed on Carroll Mitchell. Beth had banked on landing him by becoming his first sexual experience. She had been mistaken.
Instead, she had become the personification of his disgrace. For, as far as Mitchell’s family was concerned, his expulsion was an unmitigated disgrace.
Ridley Groendal won first place in the contest. He had calculated correctly that no one on the faculty would tumble onto the fact that he had stolen the play. But, until the scholastic year was completed, he figuratively held his breath waiting for Carroll Mitchell to denounce him. It did not happen. But in a certain sense, Groendal never again completely exhaled. Always, somewhere in the wings, Carroll Mitchell held the proof that in the queen of arts, Ridley C. Groendal was a thief.
9
Peter Harison had just begun the second Scripture reading.
In this rather large congregation, he was just about alone in feeling a sense of loss at the death of Ridley Groendal. Thus it was not unexpected that Harison had a difficult time controlling his emotions as he read. It was one thing to sit passively while a loved one was being buried and quite another to, in a sense, have to perform. But, all in all, he was doing rather well in reading an excerpt from the Letter to the Romans.
“At the appointed time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for us godless men. It is rare that anyone should lay down his life for a just man, though it is barely possible that for a good man someone may have the courage to die. It is precisely in this that God proves His love for us: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Now that we have been justifled by His blood, it is all the more certain that we shall be saved by Him from God’s wrath.”
Father Koesler had spent considerable time selecting the three Scripture readings for this service. Brought together, as he would attempt to do in his homily, they should convey exactly the message he wished to leave with this congregation.
He could not bring himself to consider this present group as mourners. Ridley Groendal appeared to have one genuine mourner. Perhaps, counting himself, two. The others? Most of them merely the curious, though some were faithful parishioners with nothing better to do, and a few were victims of Rid’s acerbic pen who wanted to make sure their antagonist was truly dead and buried.
Finally, there were the special four, singularly selected by Groendal as targets of his distinctive venom. Koesler wondered about their present state of mind. Koesler wondered about them a lot.
Though she was extremely diminutive, Koesler was able to spot Valerie Walsh seated near the rear of the church. Locating her was really more difficult, since she was not accompanied by her pro basketball-size husband, “Red.”
In Ridley Groendal’s adolescent and adult life, there had been six pivotal characters. Five of them—Peter Harison, David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Charlie Hogan, and Valerie Walsh—were here. Of these, the one who seemed entirely out of place was Valerie.
Harison was what was euphemistically referred to as Groendal’s “significant other.” Beyond that, the two were fast friends. Between Groendal and the others was a free-flowing stream of enmity. Palmer, Mitchell, and Hogan had clashed with Groendal in their younger lives and ever since had figuratively been at war. But the much younger Valerie had not been a participant in any similar relationship.
The letters the four had sent to Groendal prior to his fatal heart attack explained, at least in part, their ill-fated connections. But only one who was privy to the entire affair could understand everything, including Valerie’s involvement. And Robert Koesler was eminently qualified to be that one person.
This facet of Groendal’s life had not begun with Valerie, but with her mother. It had happened at the end of the year of the fated altercation between Groendal and Carroll Mitchell. The incident that would radically change several lives occurred during the two-week Christmas vacation.
It was the final year of college for both Groendal and Koesler, their final year at Sacred Heart Seminary. Next school year they were to graduate to the newly opened St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth, Michigan.
But this was Christmas and all was well. Two days before the feast itself, vacation began, and the seminarians returned to their homes and, only slightly less importantly, to their home parishes. Monsignor George Cronyn forcefully urged all his wards to report to their respective pastors, who, presumably, had an abiding interest in their potentially future priests. More often than not, starry-eyed seminarians were rudely dashed back to earth when their pastors couldn’t for the life of them remember the students.
That surely was the case with Groendal and Koesler. Both were from Holy Redeemer parish, which was staffed by priests of the Redemptorist Order. Through a set of particular circumstances, Groendal and Koesler had not followed the vast majority of their peers to the Redemptorist seminary in Kirkwood, Missouri, but had gone instead to the local diocesan seminary.
Had they become Redemptorists, they could have been assigned to any Redemptorist mission in the world, or, equally likely, they would have developed a series of sermons that they would have delivered from one parish mission to the next. As diocesan priests, they would serve in whichever Detroit parish or position the bishop chose for them.
This Christmas of 1949, both Groendal and Koesler had gone through the formalities with their forgetful Redemptorist pastor. Then, as a kind of sop to their status as seminarians—even if in the wrong seminary—they were invited to serve the glorious Mass of Christmas Eve.
Several days after Christmas, Koesler proposed to Groendal that they take in a movie. The Stratford, their neighborhood theater, was showing Adam’s Rib, a film about which Koesler had heard good things. Groendal agreed enthusiastically. He was becoming a dedicated devotee of the arts and had read a number of lavishly favorable reviews of Adam’s Rib. It was set: That night they would meet at the Stratford at 6:45, in plenty of time for the seven o’clock showing.
They met at the appointed time, bought their tickets and hurried in out of the snow. They eschewed the popcorn concession. Groendal considered munching refreshments beneath the serious student of the art. Koesler concurred most reluctantly; paraphrasing the dictum on wine with a meal, he thought no movie complete without popcorn.
As they handed their tickets to the usherette, something happened. Koesler was not sure what, but something happened. In a later era, it would be referred to as “chemistry.” In any case, for no explicable reason, Groendal lingered just a little longer than necessary at the door. He said nothing to the usherette, whose tag identified her as Jane Condon, and she said nothing to him. But something happened.
The theater was only partially filled. They selected seats on the right, on the aisle, about midway down.
Koesler was still trying to comprehend what chimerical sort of magic had happened at the entry a few moments ago. With his brain idling, he barely restrained himself from genuflecting before entering the row.
It wouldn’t have been the first time he had slipped into that Catholic ritual in a theater. He had also once made the sign of
the cross at the end of a movie, before realizing he was not in church and this was not the end of a religious ceremony. By these mindless modes of ritual could Catholics be picked out of a crowd.
Slowly the lights dimmed and everyone settled back to be entertained. There were coming attractions, followed by a newsreel, followed by a cartoon. At last Adam’s Rib began.
Koesler was one who chuckled aloud when amused, Groendal was not. The silent amusement of his companion, contrasted with his own laughter, made Koesler more conscious of Groendal’s presence. And his awareness of Groendal led to Koesler’s heightened awareness of Jane Condon.
Ordinarily, Koesler would have been oblivious to an usher or usherette who made frequent trips up and down the aisle, especially while being absorbed in a good film. But because of the contrast between his and Groendal’s outward reaction to a very humorous movie, Koesler became acutely aware of his companion. And Groendal was very much aware of the peripatetic Jane Condon. Each time she passed, going up or down the aisle, Groendal’s head turned. For Koesler, it was like watching two performances, one on the big screen, the other in the next seat. It was distracting, yet interesting.
When the movie ended and lights came up, Koesler felt satisfied in having witnessed a deathless comedy. He also felt somewhat disturbed by Groendal’s reaction to the usherette. Disturbed because Koesler was unsure what this reaction might bode. He looked about, but could not see the usherette, only patrons smiling at the movie they had seen and struggling into their outer winter clothing.
It was not yet 10:00 P.M. , so Koesler and Groendal decided to stop at a nearby drugstore for a snack and a rehash of the movie.
“Who was that blonde, the defendant in the trial?” Koesler asked.
“Judy Holliday.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”
Groendal shook his head while swallowing some ice cream. “Neither have I. This is her first film. She was terrific, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, very funny. Which reminds me: Outside of Tracy and Hepburn, I didn’t recognize any of the other principals.”
“You’re right. Most of the others were stage actors until now, like David Wayne, Tom Ewell, and Jean Hagen.” Groendal seemed to be feeding on his own enthusiasm. “It just shows you how great these legitimate actors are. You know, in the beginning, particularly in the beginning of the talkies, they were pulling people off the stages in New York and shipping them out to Hollywood for the movies. A film like this really makes me proud of the stage.”
Koesler sipped his piping hot coffee. He had enjoyed the movie and he had read about it since vacation had begun. But he was amazed at Groendal’s familiarity with it. “How did you ever find out so much about this film? I thought I’d read a lot about it. But I didn’t find half of what you’re talking about. How did you do it? We’ve been on vacation only a few days. You been spending all your time in the library or something?”
“Tell you a secret,” Groendal said.
Not another secret!
“I get reviews smuggled into the seminary.”
“You do?”
“My mother, God bless her. She cuts out clippings of reviews of books, stage plays, and concerts. Once in a while she includes reviews of special movies.”
“How does she get the clippings to you?”
“In letters. She folds them inside her letters.”
“And they never censor your mail?”
“From my mother!”
It was beyond Koesler. While he enjoyed reading reviews, it would never occur to him to go to such an extreme measure to get them. But he wanted to get back to this postmortem. “How about the writing!” he enthused. “Wasn’t it good?”
“Especially good. The credit was to Mrs. Garson Kanin. But that really is the actress Ruth Gordon. How’s that for talent!”
“Who’s Ruth Gordon? No, wait . . . wait! I remember: She’s been in a million movies.”
“Right. And she came from the stage, too!”
All this talk about the stage brought to Koesler’s mind another person who idolized the stage, more, even than Groendal—Carroll Mitchell.
Funny, now that he thought of it, Koesler had never heard Groendal refer to either Mitchell or Dave Palmer after they had passed out of his life. It was as if they had never existed. Or more as if they had been merely stepping stones in Groendal’s development. They had been used and then discarded.
Actually, Koesler himself had had considerable difficulty in continuing his friendship with Groendal, particularly after Mitchell’s expulsion. Of course, Koesler did not approve of what Groendal had done, especially in informing on Mitch. But Robert Koesler from an early age had always been extremely nonjudgmental, a trait he had inherited from his Bavarian father.
Admittedly, in not sitting in judgment on Groendal, Koesler was stretching the spirit of understanding and forbearance to its breaking point. But it had not snapped—not yet. After all, Ridley was still a fellow seminarian, and, theoretically at least, a future priest.
Fleetingly Koesler wondered whether Palmer and Mitchell, in turn, had forgotten Groendal. After what they had been through, Koesler doubted it. Somewhere out there was proof that Groendal was an arsonist and a plagiarist. Whether or not Groendal ever reflected upon this, still it was so. Somewhere out there were weapons that were loaded and cocked, but not fired. Not yet.
Groendal, pumped up by his own meticulous research, seemingly could not dam his surge of information. “Can you believe,” he continued, “that George Cukor, the director, completed this movie in just thirty-seven days? That’s a record for a major movie! And that song at the end . . . the one that’s dedicated to Katharine Hepburn . . . what was it?” Groendal was piqued that he couldn’t think of the title.
“‘Farewell, Amanda.’” Koesler was self-congratulatory that he could contribute an essential bit of background.
“That’s it: ‘Farewell, Amanda.’ Know who wrote it?” Certain that Koesler didn’t, he swept on. “Cole Porter!” Groendal seemed as pleased as if he himself had written it.
“You’re pretty worked up about this, aren’t you?” Seldom had Koesler seen Ridley this high.
“It’s a great movie, Bob. I’m going to go back and see it again tomorrow.”
“See it again!”
“God knows if we’ll ever get to see it again if we don’t take this opportunity . . . want to come?”
“I don’t think so, Rid. It’s a great movie. They’ll probably release it again some year.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
It could not have occurred to either that the movie would be shown any number of times on television. At that time, television was barely beginning its collision course with movie houses. And the movie houses were waiting for the TV fad to fade. Movie cassettes and VCRs were no more than a technologist’s dream.
They parted, going their separate ways through a light snow shower. On his way home, Koesler suddenly began to wonder how much Groendal’s projected return to the Stratford was predicated on a desire to see the movie again and how much depended on seeing that usherette again. Peculiar. Were they getting into another “Cherchez la Femme” adventure? If so, how odd! Rid was the one who had blown the whistle on Mitch.
On his way home, Groendal’s mind was in turmoil. He tried to focus on the movie. He wanted to remember everything, literally everything. But, as if it were a rubber band, his memory kept snapping back to that usherette. Jane Condon. As far as he could recall, he’d never seen her before. Yet, when he gave her his ticket, there was something about the way she looked at him . . . something in the eye contact. He was not sure what.
And all those times she had walked up and down that aisle! She didn’t have to do that. Each time she passed, she had looked at him. And stranger still, he had looked at her.
Maybe it was all just a fluke. Tomorrow evening when he returned to see the movie again, that would tell the tale.
He felt a moment of panic. What if she
wasn’t there? What if tomorrow was her night off? Oh, what difference did it make? He wanted to see the movie. That’s why he was going back: to see the movie.
But, as he climbed the steps of his house, he had to admit that it made a difference.
10
His mother understood. His mother always understood. His father groused about the admission price. It was not like he stood in the way of Ridley’s seeing a movie, but my God, Mr. Groendal groused, he’s already seen it
Mrs. Groendal explained the importance, for one whose life is art, of being immersed in that art. She explained it once. She would not do so again. Having been cowed once more by his redoubtable wife, Mr. Groendal coughed up the money.
Ridley, almost at the last minute, decided to attend the 9:30 P.M. showing. A different sort of audience than the early crowd, he commented. His mother understood completely.
She was there. Taking tickets. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He did not understand it. He gave his ticket to Jane Condon. She tore it in half. But when she returned his half, she held on to her end of the ticket. Expecting simply to be presented with a ticket stub, Groendal was startled to be momentarily joined to this young woman by a scrap of cardboard.
“I guess you must have liked the movie.” She smiled, a very engaging smile.
“You remember me?” He had let himself doubt that she would.
“Sure! Who wouldn’t?” Didn’t he realize, she wondered, what a most attractive young man he was?
She released the ticket stub. But he did not leave . . . not immediately. He was aware that a line was forming behind him, a line of people waiting to get in. Although she did not tell him to, he would have to move along.
“I was wondering . . . if . . . I mean, do you get off after the movie . . . I mean after this showing?”
“Uh-huh.”
Some in the line were starting to complain and wonder aloud what was causing the holdup. Groendal knew he had to hurry. He was flustered.
Deadline for a Critic Page 11
