Deadline for a Critic

by William Kienzle

  That episode to the contrary notwithstanding, Koesler was forced to ponder the consequences if the rumors should be accurate. In which instance, he could not clarify his confusion.

  His religion currently taught him that homosexuality was not merely a sin but an abomination. In years to come, that position would be modified to state that the sexual preference for the gay life could be considered as neutral and only the acting out of that preference an abomination. This clarification was of small comfort to the homosexual since it slotted the person in not only a celibate, but a chaste life.

  And that was the precise problem presenting itself to Koesler’s logical young mind. The Catholic priesthood of the Latin rite demanded nothing less than a chaste celibate life. What difference could it make if one’s inclination were homo- or heterosexual? In neither case was one allowed any sexual expression.

  Yet, if the seminary authorities were to discover that Groendal had committed sin with Jane Condon, he undoubtedly would be reprimanded and punished.

  If they discovered he’d sinned with Charlie Hogan, Groendal likely would get the ax.

  True, Carroll Mitchell had been expelled for his sexual escapade with Beth Yager. But that punishment hadn’t been inflicted so much for the act itself as for the flagrant flouting of the rule.

  So Koesler was left wondering. He could not envision Groendal as an “abomination.” No matter what he’d done.

  The priest-celebrant turned to the congregation and sang, in Latin, “Ite, missa est” (Go, the Mass is ended), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” The choir responded, in Latin, Deo Gratias” (“Thanks be to God”), “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Koesler’s mind turned again to Ridley. Go? Go where?

  Which, at that moment, was exactly what Ridley Groendal was wondering. Go? Go where?

  There was no longer any compelling reason to remain in the infirmary. He—or rather, his body—was healed. At least enough to function without professional care. On the other hand, there was no possibility of his leaving. Not till the other shoe dropped.

  This week’s silence had been deafening. Someplace out there, people were talking about him, determining his fate. But not a word had been spoken to him about it. That word would be spoken; of that he was certain. But when? He would go out of the infirmary in the very near future. Of that there was no doubt. But to where?

  Monsignor Cronyn appeared at the open door. He wore his black cassock with the red trim, buttons, and sash. He wore his black biretta with its red pompon. Somehow the biretta seemed to formalize the occasion.

  “How are you feeling now, Mr. Groendal?” Nothing special was intended by that address. Cronyn always used that title when referring to senior students.

  “Hurting a bit.”

  “Otherwise okay?”

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Groendal.” Cronyn gestured toward the bed while he sat on the room’s only chair. “Care to discuss how you were injured?”

  Groendal thought a moment, then shook his head. A little more than a week had gone by. Impossible that the authorities didn’t know what had happened. Better not to volunteer any information. Better to play it by ear.

  “Yours were serious injuries, Mr. Groendal.”

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  “They could not have happened by accident, now, could they?”

  “No, Monsignor.”

  “You appeared to have been beaten rather severely. The doctor provided us with that information.”

  Groendal nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  Groendal shook his head.

  “Are you going to tell me your side of it?”

  So, one side of it already had been told. Groendal simply waited. The other side would undoubtedly come out now.

  “Very well,” said Cronyn. He handed Groendal a manila folder containing two typewritten sheets, the second of which bore a signature. “Read this, Mr. Groendal.”

  Groendal read carefully. Several times he had to stop to rub his tearing eyes. It was “the other side of it”—Hogan’s side. As he read, Groendal had to admit it was a fairly factual, objective account of what had happened between himself and Hogan over the past several months, along with a detailed and again objective narration of what had taken place a-week-ago Saturday.

  Missing from the account were the involuntary but compelling feelings Groendal had experienced about Charlie Hogan. Groendal understood there was no way Charlie could have been aware of those feelings. Obviously the feelings had not been reciprocated.

  Besides, in a situation such as this, people were interested only in the facts and nothing more. No set of extenuating circumstances could mitigate what Groendal had done—certainly not as far as Monsignor Cronyn was concerned.

  Groendal finished reading. The statement had been signed, Charles Hogan. Groendal closed the folder and handed it back to the monsignor.

  “Well?” said Cronyn.

  There was no response.

  “Well, is what you read an accurate account of what has happened?”

  “Yes, Monsignor.” Groendal knew there was no point in going into those intense, driving feelings. Feelings which undoubtedly Cronyn had never experienced toward anyone.

  “In the interest of fairness,” Cronyn said, “I should point out that Charles Hogan did not offer that statement spontaneously.”

  It helped that Charlie had not come forward voluntarily.

  “However,” Cronyn continued, “it was not difficult for us to deduce, at least in general terms, what had happened. From my interrogation of young Hogan, it seemed likely that a ‘particular friendship’ had been formed not by both of you but by you alone. Therefore, I placed Hogan under the obligation of fraternal correction.”

  That was it! Suddenly, it was so obvious that it might have been spelled out in neon. It came through in Cronyn’s tone and in the hint of a smirk that appeared briefly. It wasn’t so much that Cronyn had been patiently waiting and expecting turnabout to become fair play. It was more that he would be glad to see it happen.

  It had been almost exactly one year since Groendal had invoked “fraternal correction” as the principle under which he had denounced and exposed—some would say betrayed—Carroll Mitchell. It was, Cronyn had thought at the time, a rather craven use of a device that had originally been intended more as an adjustment for the common good than as a means to satisfy spite.

  Granted, Mitchell had flouted a very important rule. Still, it had been one of those boys-will-be-boys things, a sort of sowing-of-wild-oats affair. The seminary system was programmed to produce macho men of asexual behavior. It was also geared to forgive an occasional lapse as long as the fault occurred with someone of the opposite sex. This preserved the image of the macho man and merely revealed a chink in the armor of nonsexual expression.

  If Mitchell had not been so brazen, he might have been forgiven. If Groendal had not betrayed Mitchell’s confidence under the guise of “fraternal correction,” the offense likely would never have been detected.

  Mitchell had been one of Cronyn’s favorites. The rector had foreseen a great priestly career for that talented young man. All of which had been destroyed by Groendal under the pretext of a warranted denunciation. However, Ridley’s disclosure could not have been swept under the rug. It required an official response. As a result of which, Mitchell had been expelled.

  Cronyn had resented being manipulated by Groendal; now turnabout had become fair play. And more. It was Cronyn’s chance to even the score. Groendal had, in Cronyn’s opinion, misused the device of “fraternal correction” once. Now, one year later, it was being used against him.

  These thoughts had occupied Groendal’s mind all the while the rector was explaining the situation as it affected him and Hogan.

  “And so, Mr. Groendal,” Cronyn concluded, “the faculty feels that young Hogan was more a victim than a perpetrator in this affair. Nevertheless he was old enough to know better. He should not have become so involved wi
th any other student, ‘particular friend’ or not. We have decided that Hogan will lose virtually all privileges for the remainder of this scholastic year.”

  Groendal felt sorry for Hogan. He was miserable at having been the cause of Charlie’s punishment. All in all, though, it wasn’t cataclysmic. Summer vacation was only two months away. Charlie wouldn’t have long to go.

  “As for you,” Cronyn continued, “you have a choice. You may resign from the seminary or you will be expelled.

  “Before you say anything”—Cronyn’s gesture silenced Groendal, who gave every sign of wanting to speak—”I should tell you that you are most fortunate to have an option. The majority of the faculty voted for expulsion. But some few made a cogent argument for leniency.

  “So, you have a choice. Which will it be?”

  Groendal wondered who his friends were. It seemed like a choice between being allowed or not being allowed a blindfold for one’s execution. One ended up just as dead either way.

  Strange, he thought, that he had not anticipated being sacked. He knew that what he had done was wrong. And that they probably would find out about it. He just hadn’t thought it was that bad.

  In the brief time he now had to consider his options, it was clear, if painfully so, what he must do.

  “I will resign, Monsignor.”

  “A wise choice. That is what will be noted on your record. This is a week of vacation; none of the students will be here. You may remain in the infirmary if you need to.”

  “I can function all right, Monsignor. I’ll be out of here today.”

  “Very well.”

  If he had not already done enough penance, Groendal soon would. He groaned audibly as he dragged himself through the corridors gathering his books and belongings. And the worst was yet to come. He phoned his parents. They would pick him up.

  Over the next several days, Groendal learned just how fortunate it was that he had been allowed to quit. He would have preferred death to having to explain the real reason for his leaving the seminary. As it was, he was forced to lie over and over, stating that he had left voluntarily. During his nearly eight years in the seminary, the vocation had sunk its roots into his soul so that by this time, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be a priest.

  And now it was gone. Finished.

  In the following weeks, he seemed to exist in a veritable vacuum. He had contact with almost no one. Bob Koesler had phoned a couple of times during Easter Week, but Groendal had not wanted to talk with anyone who knew the truth. And Groendal was quite sure Koesler knew.

  By the time Groendal had gotten over some of the physical and psychological hurt, Koesler was back at school and beyond Ridley’s reach.

  Not a word from Hogan. In the early days of Easter Week, Charlie Hogan’s would have been the only call Groendal would have answered or returned. The need to talk to Hogan was almost physical.

  The longer the lack of communication continued, the more bitter Groendal became. No one could deny they had been in this together. But Charlie Hogan was back at the seminary. Charlie’s vocation was still alive. Had he no word for someone with whom he had shared so much? Could he pretend Ridley Groendal no longer existed?

  In time, Groendal had to put all that behind him and go on with life. It wasn’t easy. The conflicts he’d experienced over the past years with David Palmer, then Carroll Mitchell, then Jane Condon, and now Charlie Hogan, had taken their toll. Sometimes he felt as if he were moving through life in slow motion. But he had to go on.

  The priesthood was gone. He had to put that out of his mind. But he wasn’t dead. He had a long life ahead. One thing was certain: He had to find a new career.

  Briefly, he considered Interlochen. But David Palmer was ensconced there; even if he were able to gain admittance to Interlochen, he would be limping artistically and, without doubt, Palmer would shoot him down. No, Interlochen was not feasible. He was sure only that he must finish college and do postgraduate work somewhere in something.

  This initial decision met with a mixed reaction from his parents. No longer would the Archdiocese of Detroit pick up the tab for his education—a fact that drove his father nearly mad. Alphonse Groendal had never quite understood what his son saw in the priesthood. Father, mother, and son were all Catholic, but Alphonse tended to take priests for granted. Somehow, they were there when you needed them. He had just never given much thought to where they came from. Certainly not from his family.

  As with most major domestic decisions, he had caved in to his wife’s pressure. Only when his son reached the third year of college, and board and tuition were absorbed by the Church, did Alphonse Groendal begin to see the value of this vocation. And now, just after the free ride had begun, the fool kid had suddenly decided against the priesthood. Worse, he wanted money to go away to college.

  As far as Alphonse was concerned, Ridley could go out and get an honest job.

  But Alphonse was soundly overruled by his wife, Mary, for whom Ridley’s departure from the seminary was a source of great sorrow and concern. She it was who had planted the seed in her son’s mind that the priesthood would be a most acceptable vocation. She knew her son well enough to be sure that it was not his sudden choice to quit the seminary . . . .

  Handling Ridley more gently than she treated her husband, she prodded and pried, trying to uncover the truth. Whenever Ridley came close to losing patience, she backed off. In better times, he had had almost infinite patience where his mother was concerned. Now he had been worn close to the breaking point.

  But no one other than Ridley himself knew just how close. And even he knew it only in a very confused way. Pressures seemed to be closing in from every side.

  For the first time, he was aware of having lost an enormous security. In the seminary, one had no concern about whence meals, lodging, warmth, clothing, sustenance would come. One need have no concern over minor or even major decisions. Most of them were made for one beforehand and set forth in the rules.

  It was as if, for a second time, he had left the total dependency on, and security of, the womb and had been cast out into the world to fend for himself. He was unsure of which path to pursue and he wasn’t getting any practical help in solving his problem.

  He had even lost his seminarian’s selective service classification of 4-D. He would have to reregister and would probably become 1-A unless he could get into college and qualify for another sort of deferment.

  Even the beauty of this May morning did nothing to lift his spirits.

  It was the Groendal family habit to attend the 10:00 A.M. Sunday High Mass at Holy Redeemer. Since early April, Ridley had been on a more or less extended vacation and so the three of them religiously attended that Mass together. In this sort of routine, very little untoward ever happened. Until the final Sunday in May.

  No sooner had the family exited the church’s side door than someone touched Ridley on the shoulder. As he turned, his mouth dropped in surprise. “Jane!” Not only had Ridley never expected to see her, he had all but forgotten her, occupied as he was with more current and pressing problems.

  “Rid, can I talk with you?”

  “Wait a second.”

  Ridley told his parents to go on without him; he would be home shortly.

  Alphonse and Mary Groendal instantly evaluated the girl, with sharply differing reactions.

  Alphonse smiled. About time his son did something normal for a change. One of the many things he’d never understood about that seminary was the total abstinence from women. So they were going to be priests. They weren’t priests yet. Life would be long enough without sex, let alone having nothing to do with girls while it was still legitimate to fool around at least a little.

  He could not tell much about this girl. Her coat hid her figure, but she had a pretty face. All in all, it was about time. He approved.

  Mary Groendal, on the other hand, was certain she had sighted The Enemy.

  Ever since Ridley had come home for good durin
g Easter Week, she had been trying, overtly and covertly, to discover the underlying reason for her son’s drastic decision.

  She had wondered too about his physical injuries. She could easily believe that boys’ sports were rough and that injuries were common enough. However, nothing Ridley had told her satisfactorily explained the root cause of his quitting the seminary. Deep down, she had felt it was some girl. But if so, who?

  She knew where her son was almost to the minute. He was safe enough from feminine wiles as long as he was at school. And he habitually accounted for his whereabouts at all times while he was home. Thus, as far as she was concerned, the puzzle was twofold: Which girl had gotten to him, and given the impossible that some girl had reached him, how?

  One glance at this girl and the way Ridley had reacted to her gave Mary Groendal half the answer. All that remained was to discover how the girl had broken through all the barriers. It was with great reluctance that she complied with Ridley’s request that they precede him home. She would have preferred meeting this girl. She would like to give her a thing or two. She wanted to tear her limb from limb. But . . . all in good time. For the moment she would act the indulgent mother and go on home. But later . . .!

  “So, Jane, how are you?” He had not seen her since New Year’s Eve. He was at a loss at what to say to her after what had happened that night.

  “Okay, I guess. Can we talk?”

  “Sure. What do you want to talk about?” They were engulfed by parishioners leaving church. No one seemed to be paying them any mind. Still, it hardly qualified as a secluded place for a chat

  “Not here, Rid, It’s too congested and it’s too public.”

  Groendal became wary. He was determined not to get trapped again. The very last place he would agree to meet would be her home. “Where’d you have in mind, Jane?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace where we can talk in peace without being interrupted. How about Clark Park, say this afternoon?”

  He couldn’t have picked a better place himself. Clark was a large municipal park only a short distance from each of their homes. And very public. “Okay . . . how about say two this afternoon?”