But no need telling Ridley about that decision. It would only prompt pleas, possibly even some threats. All unnecessary unless Ridley’s parents should ask, and there was little chance of that at this late date.
However, something still disturbed Koesler. “How is Jane taking all this?”
“What do you mean?”
“This must have been a bombshell for her, too.”
“I don’t know.”
Koesler stopped. The two had been walking around and around the grounds at the rear of the seminary.
“Come on, come on!” Groendal urged. “If we stop walking, they’ll wonder what we’re talking about.”
Koesler resumed walking. “What do you mean, you don’t know! You don’t know how Jane is taking all this?”
“What difference does it make? It probably wasn’t her first time.”
“Wasn’t her first time! What are you talking about?”
“It was her idea.”
“Huh?”
“Look, the New Year’s Eve ‘party’ was her idea from the start. She’s the one who invited me over to her house even though she knew her parents wouldn’t be home. And if anyone needed more proof, there’s the liquor. Again her idea.”
“I don’t know, Rid. From the way you told the story, it sounded as if she was as surprised at the way it turned out as you were. Maybe it was just a mistake for both of you. And when it comes to blame, Rid, you weren’t exactly following Monsignor Cronyn’s advice.”
“Come on! You can’t believe that stuff: ‘Just presume you’d like girls if you tried them, boys. Then, don’t try them.’ That’s hogwash, Bobby!”
“Maybe . . . but I believe you believed it until, for whatever reason—for God-knows-what reason—you ‘tried’ it.”
Quite by common, if unspoken, agreement, they turned to one of the walkways that led back into the building. Recreation period was nearly over; study was about to begin.
“So,” Koesler tried to sum up, “feel better?”
Groendal contemplated for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. I just wish you hadn’t brought up Jane.”
“What?”
“How she felt about all this. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t thought about that at all. If I had to consider it, I suppose she would feel about the way I do. Maybe a bit more guilty,” he hurried on so Koesler couldn’t interrupt, “since it was her idea. But no matter whose idea it was, it ended so badly that I guess we were both ashamed and embarrassed.
“I don’t really know how we’re going to face each other . . . I mean eventually. We’ll have to see each other again sometime, I guess.”
“Yeah, that may be rough. At least you’ll be tucked away in here until Easter vacation. So you’re safe till then. It’s poor Jane I’m thinking of.”
Groendal shook his head. “No need to be terribly concerned about her. She’ll be plenty busy. Working at the Stratford—or any other part-time job she can get. And going to school at U. D.”
“That’s right, I remember; you did mention school.”
They entered the building and stamped the snow from their boots.
“One thing,” Koesler added. “Now you can probably sympathize a bit more with Mitch.”
“Who?”
“Mitch . . . Carroll Mitchell. He didn’t pay any attention to Monsignor Cronyn either. He tried girls and found he liked them . . . boy, did he like them!”
Groendal thought for a moment. “No, not really. I haven’t made up my mind on that. For one thing, I seldom think of him. And as far as girls are concerned, why, hell, I’ve only known one and that encounter was a disaster. Maybe it’s just too soon.
“Right now, I think it will be a long time before I ‘try’ a girl again. If ever.”
Part Four
Presentation of Gifts
12
Father Koesler sat down after the homily, as was the custom, so that everyone would have a few moments to reflect on what had been said.
In the silence, he let his gaze drift through the congregation. Predominant in that group were, of course, the two-and-a-half pews of visiting priests. Briefly, Koesler wondered how his sermon had gone over with his confreres. He surmised that most of them held the attitude that they had heard it all. He’d bet a good number had been daydreaming throughout. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the approval of his peers. He enjoyed it and welcomed it but didn’t need it.
Seated, it was difficult for Koesler to find the person he was looking for. Then, a rather large man leaned forward to retrieve something from the floor, disclosing, seated behind him, Charlie Hogan.
That made four: Hogan, Valerie Walsh, Carroll Mitchell, and David Palmer. Five, if one included Peter Harison. Strange that all the original four would be here in person—or, in the case of Jane, at least represented.
On the other hand, it would have been unusual, given the interplay between them and the deceased, had they passed up this occasion.
Charlie Hogan was special, at least to Koesler, for Charlie had been a Catholic priest. And while he was no longer functioning as a priest for ten years he had been an integral part of this amazingly homogeneous fraternity. As such, there existed between him and all other priests, functioning or not, an enduring camaraderie. A silent acknowledgment that “we alone” know the life. Know its secrets, its rewards, its demands. Others may guess at what this life is like, but more often than not, they will be mistaken. Only we know because we have lived it. And lived it together.
Charlie had been ordained in 1958, four years after Koesler. Both had been ordained for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit But of greater importance to Hogan’s relationship with Groendal, Charlie had been a seminary high school senior when Groendal and Koesler were college seniors.
Under other circumstances, Koesler would consider such thoughts distractions from the Mass he was celebrating. But, strangely, when the gifts were brought to the altar, beginning that part of the Mass called the Offertory, he felt momentary impatience that his reminiscences had been interrupted.
The “gifts,” of course, were the bread and wine, which would be “consecrated.” In Catholic belief, the bread and wine would, at the priest’s hands, be changed into the presence of Jesus Christ. For centuries, until the coming of Vatican II, bread and wine were either placed on the altar before Mass or were adjacent to the altar and simply moved there by altar boys.
Now, regularly, they were placed on a table out in the congregation and brought to the priest in a more or less solemn procession. On Sundays, the gifts of bread and wine were accompanied by the more mundane gift of the monetary collection. Collections are not taken up at weddings or funerals. Even among Catholics, some things are not seemly.
Peter Harison, naturally, was one who presented part of the gifts. At almost any other funeral there would be little difficulty finding additional volunteers. But this was not a run-of-the-mill funeral. And it was not all that easy to find the remainder of a retinue to complete the procession.
Fortunately, there were a few actors, authors, and musicians who had been favored by Groendal in life, so they served him as pallbearers in death. They also presented the remaining gifts.
While waiting at the front of the sanctuary for the presentation, Koesler pondered the coffin before him. If not for the white cloth and closed lid, he would be looking at Groendal more or less face to face. Lay people were wheeled into their funerals feet first. Thus, if they could see, they would be looking at the altar just as they had in life.
Priests were carted in headfirst, so that they would be looking at the congregation, just as they had in life.
That bit of trivia reminded Koesler that Ridley might have been a priest. He might well have been a priest, if not for . . .
After their talk following the eventful Christmas Vacation of 1949, Groendal did not mention Jane Condon to Koesler again. But Ridley changed. Initially, he became more reclusive. Koesler found him in the recreation rooms far less frequently. When he was the
re, he was usually off in a corner by himself chain-smoking. He played the piano only if coaxed and then not the bright show and pop tunes the guys wanted to hear.
Soon, nearly everyone could not help but notice that some sort of change had come over him. Only Koesler had a clue as to the cause. Of course he said nothing to anyone, including Groendal.
It was not until the last year of Groendal’s life, when he and Koesler renewed their relationship, that Ridley hinted at what had happened to him during that period.
Partially due to Koesler’s expressed concern for Jane Condon, Groendal could not get her out of his mind. The possibility that he had inflected a massive emotional trauma upon her haunted him. He thought of confessing this possible additional sin. But, on the one hand, it was not a certainty, just a possibility. And, on the other, none of the present priest-faculty was deaf or even slightly hard of hearing.
Added to this was a recurring nightmare. In the dream, Groendal, in one way or another would get involved with some girl. Always it was a puzzling person. The heart of the dreams usually differed one dream from another. But all ended in the same terrifying nightmare.
He and the girl—both nude—would be wrestling. As they fought Groendal would enter her. Then she would pull away, taking his genitalia with her, leaving him covered with blood.
He would wake with a start, dripping with perspiration, heart pounding.
In time, he grew to fear sleep. After the mandatory lights-out at 10:00 P.M. , Groendal would cover the transom with a blanket, turn on a small reading lamp, and read well into the night.
When at last he would topple over from sheer exhaustion, he might be spared the nightmare only because he had somehow driven all dreams away. However, he would then pay the price of achieving no release from tension through dreams. It became a vicious cycle.
All of this he kept carefully locked inside. As a result he began to suffer from increasingly deep depression.
As the weeks passed, Koesler became more concerned. He had noticed Ridley’s decline earlier than anyone else because, knowing what was bothering Groendal, Koesler had been alert to the problem almost from the first manifestations.
Koesler tried to interest Groendal in something, anything, to get his mind off the problem. Very little besides music, literature, and theater interested Ridley. And he was, consciously or not steeping himself in the gloomiest and most melancholy expressions in each of those arts.
Sports could have been a healthy outlet, especially since it was basketball season. There is little time for introspection or deep thought during a basketball game. Unlike football, wherein there is a good bit of standing around waiting for the action, and baseball, where there is even more of that inactivity basketball is a game of almost constant motion favoring reflex action more than deliberate activity.
But despite his considerable—for that era—height Groendal had never been very serious about basketball—or any other sport for that matter.
Koesler, on the other hand, while not one of the seminary’s foremost athletes, was actively involved in sports. As a member of the college basketball varsity, he was helping coach the high school varsity. Eventually, he determined that might be his best chance to help Groendal. If Koesler could get Ridley involved in the high school basketball program, maybe that could be the vehicle out of this lethargy into which Ridley seemed to be sinking.
Interesting Groendal in assisting him to coach basketball proved easier than Koesler had anticipated. Inwardly, Groendal remained indifferent to the game. But he thought the exercise forced on him by the commitment might help him get some decent restful sleep.
The next problem was selling the team on a coach who did not know enough about the game to qualify as a coach. After a few, ineffective starts, Koesler sold them simply on doing him a favor. Ridley Groendal, Koesler explained, was a friend who happened to be in need. He was having a bad time and needed exercise and companionship. And if they weren’t interested in helping people in need, whatinhell were they doing in a seminary? That did it. With pronounced reluctance and grudging charity, the consensus was: Bring him on; we may make a jock of him yet—but don’t bet on it.
Chief among those who bought the charity angle was Charlie Hogan.
It was Hogan who taught Groendal—whose previous expertise was limited to basic dribbling, passing, and layups—niceties such as the difference between a zone and man defense, pick-plays, give-and-go, the butterfly drill, and so forth.
At first Ridley’s participation was predicated entirely on getting the exercise he needed in order to get some troublefree sleep. But as time passed, Hogan’s patience and good humor began to have its effect. Groendal began to join in with more spontaneity, even to the point of enjoying the sport and looking forward to practices.
As a fringe benefit, just as he had hoped, he began to get the restful sleep he so wanted and needed.
Not that Groendal would ever be varsity caliber. He had no natural physical coordination. But he did reach the level of being able to assist the other coaches.
Koesler was so pleased he was ready to award himself an honorary doctorate in amateur psychology. Ridley’s entire attitude had returned to near normal. Once again, seated at the piano in the rec room, Groendal became the life of the party. Koesler thought nothing of the friendship that was building between Groendal and Hogan. Neither did Groendal and neither did Hogan.
Charlie Hogan was a lithe lad, built perfectly for either dancing or baseball. And there were many similarities between the art and the sport. Despite not being very large, he was an outstanding football player. He excelled at baseball as well. Though the seminary fielded neither a football nor a basketball varsity, the sports were wildly popular on an intramural basis.
At almost any other high school, Charlie Hogan might well have been “Big Man on Campus.” But since high school and college at Sacred Heart Seminary were at that time, for all practical purposes, housed in the same building, the two were more or less inseparable.
At other institutions, high school graduation was a major event. At the seminary, one simply passed from “fourth high” to “first college.” This peculiarity tended to keep high school seniors “in their place,” which was not near the top of any totem pole.
Hogan was interested in much more than athletics. He was an avid reader and enjoyed music. He had written a couple of articles for the Gothic, the seminary publication. By no means was he on the same level as Groendal in the arts field. Hogan was, after all, four years younger and nowhere near as broadly talented. But particularly after Groendal was dragged into the sports world, they did have some common interests.
So the friendship grew—cautiously. Almost without exception, everyone in the seminary was extremely sensitized to the pitfalls of a “particular friendship.” The rules of conduct made explicit the terminal punishment reserved for that specific infraction. And once each year the rector explained the purpose and meaning of the rule in nonspecific terms.
Charlie Hogan did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” He knew he was not “that way.” He was an athlete. He didn’t even know how people who were “that way” thought. He and Ridley were friends, good friends. He had to admit he knew no one else in the seminary who had such a good friend who was as much as four years his senior. They just shared common interests, that was all.
Ridley Groendal did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” What could be more innocent than two people teaching each other what each knew best? He realized the seriousness of such a liaison and the penalty attached to it. Besides, to recall for an instant something he was trying very hard to forget, he was heterosexual. He’d certainly proved that with Jane Condon.
Koesler did not consider the relationship between Hogan and Groendal a “particular friendship.” In the first place, Koesler himself had virtually introduced them. He had done so only to help Ridley out of the doldrums. And it had worked. In the second place, Koesler did not entirely understand all the
implications of a “particular friendship” even though he’d heard it explained eight times now.
So it wasn’t a “particular friendship.” And it prospered.
Month followed month. Ridley learned more about basketball, though he became no more adept at it. Hogan learned more about music. They enriched each other in their love of literature. They spent many brief recreation periods walking around the back grounds. Frequently they were joined by others of the high school basketball varsity. The fact that they seemed to feel no need to be alone together further reinforced the conviction that this was not a “particular friendship.”
Easter was approaching, and with it, spring. And with that, the conclusion of the basketball season and the beginning of baseball.
Hogan brought the matter up. “So, Rid, are you as bad at baseball as you were at basketball?”
“Probably not quite. It is the national pastime, so I know more about it. But I don’t suppose I play it any better.”
“Wait a minute.” Hogan laughed. “We’d better get right on your case. Baseball’s right around the corner. If you’re going to coach us, we’d better get some practice in.”
Groendal was instantly serious. “Charlie, I’m not going to coach baseball. There was a special reason why I got involved in basketball.”
“Yeah, because Bob Koesler made you.”
Groendal smiled. “More than that. I didn’t want to get into it; I just had a special reason for needing a lot of exercise. And that problem’s been solved . . . at least it seems to be.
“It’s time to be honest with myself. Outside of my friendship with you and the other guys on the varsity, I’ve got no business hanging around with high schoolers, even if they’re seniors. I had a reason. And now I don’t.”
It was Hogan’s turn to be serious. “You mean we won’t be friends anymore?”
“I didn’t say that. Sure we’ll be friends. It’s just that I no longer need to coach something I know nothing about.”
Deadline for a Critic Page 14
