Deadline for a Critic

by William Kienzle

  They were silent for several moments.

  “What’s the matter?” Groendal asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just a surprise is all. I just took it for granted that you’d coach. I guess I’ll miss you.”

  “Charlie, it’s almost Easter. In a few months I’ll graduate. Then it’s on to St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. We’ll be in different schools. It’s not like we’re going to be in the same place the rest of our lives.”

  “Oh, I know. It was just the surprise. I guess I’ll be able to pitch without you on the sidelines.”

  “Who said I wouldn’t be on the sidelines? I’m just not going to coach, that’s all . . . okay?”

  “Sure. We’ll go out and win one for the old basketball coach.”

  “Besides,” Groendal’s voice took on added animation, “I’ve got a present for you.”

  “To celebrate your graduation?”

  “To repay a bit for teaching me just about all I know about basketball.”

  “Judging from what you learned about basketball, this doesn’t have to be much of a present.”

  “The Met’s coming to town.”

  “The what?”

  “The Metropolitan Opera Company—New York.”

  “That’s nice . . . so what?”

  “It’s time you saw your first opera, is what.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. A week from next Saturday they’re doing Carmen as a matinee. It’s maybe the most popular opera of all time. A great way to begin.”

  “Jeez, I don’t know, Rid. Using up the one and only all-afternoon permission I’ve got this month on an opera. I don’t know . . . .”

  “Trust me. You’re going to love it. We’ll get something to eat afterward. It’ll be a great afternoon. Just the right thing to do before we begin Holy Week and then Easter.”

  “How long’s an opera?”

  Groendal chuckled. “With intermission, maybe three, four hours.”

  “That’s a lot of sitting, Rid. I’ll make a deal with you: We end the day with a couple, three games of handball.”

  “Handball! You’ll kill me!”

  “I’ll go easy. Just exercise. That’s what you wanted in the first place, isn’t it?”

  Groendal laughed. “You’re on.”

  During the next ten days, as often as they could get together, Groendal explained and demonstrated on the piano the intricacies of Carmen.

  Secular newspapers, including Detroit’s three dailies, were not permitted in the seminary. So Groendal was unable to read the previews and reviews of the various operas the Met presented during its single week in Detroit. But he knew which works were being staged each evening, and he explained the plot of each to Hogan.

  Hogan considered the plots ridiculous. Groendal admitted that the plots, generally, were mere props on which the composers hung their unmatched music. Thus Hogan was cajoled into listening to many recordings of many operas.

  Finally, Saturday arrived. Hogan could not help being caught up in Groendal’s excitement. They arrived early for the matinee at Detroit’s mammoth Masonic Temple. As usual during the Met’s week in Detroit, there was a nearly full house. Many patrons wore their best finery.

  Hogan would have preferred waiting outside to watch the people arrive. But Groendal could hardly wait to get inside and absorb the atmosphere.

  Finally, the orchestra filed in, took their seats, and unlimbered their instruments. The house lights dimmed as a warning to latecomers. Then all was darkness except for the small lights of the orchestra’s music stands. The maestro arrived at the podium, bowed to applause, shook hands with the concertmaster, raised his arms expectantly, and lowered them to the crash of Spanish chords that usher in the tragic tale of Carmen.

  Indoctrinated as he had been by Groendal, Hogan understood and appreciated many nuances of this ageless masterpiece. It was a glorious afternoon.

  Afterward, they stopped at a department store on the way back to the seminary and had a snack at the lunch counter. It was not much of a meal, nor were the opera seats all that expensive, but the afternoon meant a considerable outlay for Ridley.

  There was a déjà vu quality to all of this for Groendal. He had been on only one other date. Both occasions were connected with the theater. Both times he had been strapped for money and had chosen extremely inexpensive places to eat. One had been with a young woman, the other with a young man. He shrugged off the comparison. It was apples and oranges.

  It was a violation of rules to return to the seminary later than dinnertime. But Groendal, as a prefect, and thus in charge of law enforcement to some degree, would find the loopholes.

  True to his word, Groendal joined Hogan in the handball court. There were eight indoor enclosed courts, only one of which was a singles court.

  The rest of the students were finishing dinner, after which they would go to the chapel for the communal rosary. So Groendal and Hogan were alone in the subterranean courts. It was odd not to hear other voices, other handballs ricocheting off other walls. The only sound was their labored breathing, the squeak of their sneakers and the lone ball bouncing from wall to floor to wall, then being slapped again by a gloved hand.

  In order to prolong the games, Hogan restrained himself from killing the series of easy setups that Groendal kept lobbing against the front wall. Nevertheless, three games were completed in less than forty-five minutes. Hogan had hardly worked up a sweat.

  Not so Groendal. Even with his basketball workouts he still was not anywhere near in shape. So it was impossible for Hogan to talk him into another game. The agreed-upon three games would be it— Hogan, of course, easily winning all three by lopsided scores.

  At that time of night, with no one around, that section of the building could be eerie. It was reasonable for Groendal and Hogan to use the same locker room. Ordinarily, Groendal would have used the college faculties and Hogan the high school. Tonight both used the high school faculties. Actually, it had been Hogan’s suggestion. Groendal thought it sensible.

  One could always depend on the seminary powerhouse for hot water. Even with hundreds of young men using gallons of hot water daily, the supply seemed infinite.

  The question of where all this hot water came from did not cross the minds of either Groendal or Hogan as they stood under the showers’ strong jets. It just felt so good and relaxing.

  “This has been a really great day.” Hogan had to speak very loudly to be heard above the cascading water.

  “What? Oh, yeah ... it has.”

  “Carmen could have been a little slimmer, though.”

  “Slimmer?” Groendal wondered what slimness had to do with singing the classic role. He was so used to opera’s tendency to cast solely on vocal ability that it never occurred to him that a nondevotee might prefer a heroine who more nearly resembled a seductress.

  “Yeah,” Hogan went on, “when she did that dance, I thought the table was going to give way under her.”

  Groendal smiled. “You’re supposed to be listening to the tones she produces.”

  “How can you overlook that both Carmen and Don José were so fat they never could have gotten together? So why did Don José run away from the army? He would have been better off there than trying to get close to Carmen.

  “And another thing: That bullfighter—Escamillo—he was really built. When he and Don José had that fight, Jeez, Escamillo could have broken Don José in half. Who’s going to believe they fought to a stand-off?”

  With all this talk of physiques, for the first time Groendal regarded Hogan’s body with more than casual interest. This was the first time they had showered together. The first time Groendal had seen Hogan nude. It was a revelation to Groendal that Hogan had an—yes—attractive body. It resembled Michelangelo’s David.

  Now that he noticed it, Groendal could not keep his eyes away from Hogan’s body. Groendal was beginning to be aroused and there seemed nothing he could do about it. Hogan, intent on showering, did not noti
ce.

  There can be too much even of good things, Hogan thought. He felt as if his skin would shrivel if he stayed under the hot water any longer.

  He turned off the shower. So did Groendal. Hogan grabbed a towel from the shelf and threw another to Groendal. Together they went into the large drying room that separated the showers from the locker room.

  Groendal preceded Hogan, who playfully snapped Ridley’s rear with the towel. Instantly, Groendal turned and grabbed at Hogan. Their still wet bodies locked in what began as a lighthearted tussle. Later, Groendal could not fix at what point the wrestling bout ceased being playful and became, for him, erotic. But there was no doubt that it did.

  When the evolution occurred, Charlie Hogan reacted first in utter disbelief, then in shocked surprise. For a while, he tried to act as if it weren’t happening. He tried to kid Groendal out of what was becoming for Ridley very serious business.

  At last, when Hogan could no longer pretend that what was happening was not happening, he began to fight in earnest. Although Groendal was considerably larger, he was not the coordinated athlete Hogan was. In no time, Hogan had beaten him off.

  But Hogan did not stop after he had effectively ended the affair. He kept pummeling Groendal until the counterattack itself became serious.

  Groendal stood, back to the wall, taking blow after blow as just punishment. He did or said nothing to defend himself.

  In a fury, Hogan kept hitting, and with every punch, he either sobbed or cried out, “Rid! Why’d you do it? Rid! Goddamit! Why’d you do it?”

  At last, Hogan backed away. He was shocked at the damage he had done. Ridley’s upper torso was covered with livid marks; his face would be much the worse for wear for a long time. Slowly, Groendal allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was slumped on the floor.

  Hogan stood over him, fists still formed. Actually, tears were flowing so freely Hogan could hardly see. Somehow inert on the floor, Groendal seemed almost an old man.

  Hogan retrieved his towel from the floor. Without looking back, he walked from the drying room to the lockers, still mumbling, “Rid, why’d you do it? You ruined everything, Rid; Goddamit, why’d you do it? Why’d you do it?”

  Slowly, gradually, Groendal managed to stand. He did so only because in a short while the rest of the students would have completed the rosary and would have a recreation period. Some, undoubtedly, would be coming down to this part of the building. He did not want them to see him like this.

  He had to call on every psychic and physical resource he had to get dressed and make it up the back stairs to the infirmary. He hurt so badly he didn’t know whether he would live or die. And he didn’t care.

  13

  The infirmary was the particular preserve of Sister Sabina, popularly referred to as the Sabine Woman. As was true of nearly all nuns of that era, completely covered as they were—except for hands and face—by a religious habit, she appeared of indeterminate age. A tree’s years are figured by its rings. If Sister Sabina were judged, similarly, by her visible wrinkles, she would have to be in excess of a hundred years old.

  Facetiously, it was said that it was almost impossible to be admitted into the infirmary—but that if one did get in, it was almost impossible to be released. That bit of levity held its measure of truth.

  Yet when Ridley C. Groendal staggered into the infirmary and rang the bell summoning Sister Sabina, he had no trouble getting admitted. Once she saw his face, she knew where he belonged. When she started tending to his torso, she wondered whether he might not be a candidate for hospitalization.

  The damage was sufficiently serious to call in the staff physician, who did ship him off to nearby Providence Hospital for X-rays, which revealed no more than a lot of contusions ranging from mild to fairly serious and a couple of hairline fractures that, in a young body, should heal in time.

  So he was sedated, given some medication to alleviate pain, and sent back to the seminary infirmary for the healing process to begin. In keeping with the diagnosis of serious injury and the prognosis of recovery after rest, Groendal was allowed no visitors except medical personnel during the following week.

  For Groendal the time passed from tedium to monotony with long periods of dreamless sleep. In the early few days, consciousness was too filled with pain to allow much serious or profound thought.

  Later, as it hurt less and less to move about, he began to give some consideration to his predicament.

  He had no way of telling what was going on outside the infirmary. He saw no one but Sister Sabina. She brought medication and food and checked his bindings. Few words passed between them.

  He did not want to talk about what had happened and, so far, outside of a few cursory questions from the doctor, no one had pressed him for facts or details. Groendal was afraid that anything he might say to the nun might open the door to an investigation. So he said nothing, except to respond to her inquiries about the location and intensity of his pain.

  Sometimes he could hear the faint sounds of a radio from somewhere in the far reaches of the infirmary floor, but he could not make out the tune or identify the announcer. He knew something must be going on. No student was ever in sick bay for several days without the rumor mills grinding out some scuttlebutt. But he had no way of telling what sort of information that might be.

  Unbeknownst to Groendal, for once the rumor mill was operating comparatively factually. Enough people had sufficient information to put together a reasonable scenario. Known (generally): Groendal and Hogan had associated with each other with some frequency (most suspended any judgment as to its being a “particular friendship”). Ridley and Charlie had gone to the opera last Saturday. Neither had been at dinner that evening. For all practical purposes, Ridley had disappeared from view that night and it was reliably reported he had been admitted to the infirmary and held there incommunicado ever since.

  Charlie, on his part, gave every evidence of having lost a dear friend in death. Though everyone was certain Groendal was in the infirmary, Hogan resolutely refused to address the subject or answer any questions. In short, it seemed a strong probability that Hogan had put Groendal in the infirmary. With that probability, the likelihood grew that the friendship between the two might, indeed, be “particular.”

  But if Hogan had indeed put Groendal in sick bay in a fit of anger, where was that anger now? Hogan acted more as if he were in mourning than in the aftermath of fury.

  Then, too, if they had had such a serious fight in anger, Hogan likely would have been publicly reprimanded, possibly expelled. If, on the other hand, it had been a “lovers quarrel,” the administration probably would still be debating how to handle it. This, in that seminary at that time, was not a common enough problem for some routine response to be in effect.

  No one knew—at least no one could be sure—that Hogan had been interrogated by Monsignor Cronyn and that decisions had been made.

  Least of all did Groendal, isolated in his infirmary bed, have any way of knowing. For him, it was as if Holy Week were going on somewhere far, far away—like the Holy Land—rather than merely in another part of the building.

  Of course, he wasn’t conscious much of Palm Sunday and Monday and Tuesday of Holy Week. Steady consciousness began for him on Spy Wednesday. On Holy Thursday he was aware that he should be playing the organ for services.

  Good Friday he spent in special prayer united to the suffering of Christ. Easter Saturday, he knew that after the early morning service and Mass, the students would be leaving for Easter vacation. He knew it even if he could not hear their joyous voices as they bid each other farewell and jumped into their parents’ cars for the ride home.

  Then it was Easter Sunday and no one was left. Those few others who had been patients in the infirmary seemed to have miraculously recovered. The panacea, naturally, was vacation, and even Sister Sabina couldn’t hold them prisoner.

  Groendal was another question. Though a bit unsteady, he was able to move about. He might have
gone home had it not been for the unspoken consensus that some vital confrontation was yet to take place. But take place it would.

  After he had been injured, his parents had been informed that he’d been admitted to the infirmary, that his condition was not serious, but, however, that there were to be no visitors. Then they were told that he would not be released from sick bay on Easter Saturday, but probably shortly thereafter. They would be called when he was ready to leave. Like all good Catholic parents, they took the priest’s word as Gospel; they would not dream of questioning it.

  Easter Sunday dawned bright with the promise of spring and rebirth.

  Robert Koesler was back in the familiar confines of Holy Redeemer, his home parish church. He was acting as master of ceremonies at the solemn-high Easter Sunday Mass. For those parishioners, including Koesler, who had carefully and penitentially observed Lent, Easter was its own reward. They had invested sacrifice and intense prayer and now were reaping joy and fulfillment.

  In the church, incense filled the air with its special churchy odor and alleluias were exchanged between priest and choir celebrating this special season.

  But Koesler’s attention wandered. By now, the ritual and his function as master of ceremonies were so familiar to him that he could function quite adequately even with his attention sharply divided. And it was understandable that he should be thinking about Ridley Groendal and wondering about his absence from this scene. In the rotation these two classmates had established, Groendal should have been master of ceremonies at this Easter Mass. It was his turn. But, as far as Koesler could learn, Ridley was still at the seminary and still in sickbay.

  Koesler had heard all the rumors and, in hindsight, could not deny them. From the shreds of evidence the students were able to gather, it was arguably possible that Groendal and Hogan had fought. And that, preceding this, they had formed a “particular friendship.” In fact, about the only indication that this might not be so was Ridley’s previous liaison with Jane Condon. And Koesler alone knew about that.