Even though they saw each other infrequently, Koesler was proud of his former classmate and bragged to anyone who seemed interested about his friend—his one and only acquaintance in the DSO.
Koesler was not particularly surprised at the number of children produced by Dave and Anna. Those were the days when faithful Catholics were grateful Pope Pius XII had discovered the rhythm system of family planning . . . even though it didn’t work for some— among that number, Dave and Anna.
Anna, like so many other wives of that era, hardly ever got out of her “eternity” clothes.
The peculiar fact that Dave was both a musician and father of a considerable number of children reminded Koesler of a true story then passing through clerical circles. It involved a suburban parish’s music director who was father to thirteen children. At a parish meeting, the music director complained about the quality of instrument he was forced to use, and he pleaded for a new and better organ. This prompted one of the ladies of the Altar Society to comment rather loudly that he seemed to be doing pretty well with the organ he had.
In any case, upon acceptance, Dave Palmer was assigned a seat in the second violin section. As far as Dave was concerned, this was a satisfactory beginning. But he had plans.
In that, he was not alone. While many members of symphony orchestras are content to remain at that professional level for the length of their professional lives—occasionally making lateral arabesques from one orchestra to another—some considered their orchestras mere springboards to further musical heights. Among the latter was Dave Palmer.
Palmer’s plan, not infeasible, considering his talent and education, was to move up: to the first violin section, to concertmaster, to featured soloist, to director of his own orchestra. Eventually, like Toscanini, Stokowski, Beecham, Koussevitsky, von Karajan, Munch, Bernstein, Solti, Reiner, Leinsdorf, Giulini, and Dorati, to become a household word. At least in the better houses.
However, he had not counted on Ridley C. Groendal. Palmer had no reason to do so. He should have.
Realistically, Groendal had no way of blocking Palmer’s entry to the DSO. That had happened much too early in Ridley’s career, long before his power had emerged to any degree. Besides, there really was little argument that Palmer was good enough to be a member of a major symphony orchestra. The only question was how far his talent might take him. It was to this question that Groendal effectively addressed himself.
In a sense, it was Ridley’s easiest victory. Groendal was powerfully motivated to make Palmer a victim. As far as Groendal was concerned, Dave ranked first, at least chronologically, as an instrument that had changed and ruined Ridley’s life.
Further, Palmer existed for the world of music, the strongest of Ridley’s critical fields and the one for which he would become best known.
Once Groendal was completely established at the New York Herald, it had been almost child’s play to torpedo Palmer’s musical career. Harshly negative reviews, ignoring important concerts, the almost unique instance of singling out Palmer as the cause of a failed orchestral performance; anticipating Palmer’s occasional auditions for other orchestras and reminding the pertinent music directors of Palmer’s many “failings.”
Added to all of this was Ridley’s enormous sway with not a few other critics. All in all, Groendal enjoyed being able to keep much of his clout in reserve and still make Palmer run in tight frustrating circles within the DSO’s structure.
A few weeks before Ridley’s death, Koesler had been invited to the Palmers’ for dinner. It was not the sort of invitation that Koesler welcomed. He’d been through it occasionally and invariably had endured an evening of the couple’s petty bickering, recriminations, arguments, and sullenness.
From time to time he wondered why the Palmers did not simply divorce. Their brood had grown up and moved away. The two were left grousing and generally dissecting each other. He wondered if they might be the embodiment of that fictional couple who filed for a divorce in their nineties. The judge, at a loss, asked how long they’d been married. Seventy-five years, they said. Then why had they waited so long for this action? They had been waiting, they replied, for their children to die.
If the Palmers were waiting to bury their nine children, they had many years of connubial misery ahead of them.
“Would Father like more spaghetti and meatballs?” Anna Palmer asked Koesler, preparatory to clearing the table for dessert.
“No, no, that’s fine, Anna.” Koesler was grateful he’d gotten through the single serving Anna had heaped on his plate. The overcooked spaghetti had been dry. He knew he would have trouble digesting it. And the meatballs reminded him of that old TV commercial: “’Atsa some spicy meataball.”
He wondered how Palmer, with his ulcer, could stomach all that spice. Having experienced Anna’s cooking many times in the past, Koesler had downed his glass of Chianti before taking a first bite of anything, hoping the dry red would make more palatable what would follow. He thought it had helped.
“You want more, honey?” Anna asked her husband.
“No. And why the hell do you put so much spice in those meatballs? You know I’ve got an ulcer!”
“You and your ‘hell’ with a priest in the house! Besides, if you didn’t baby that ulcer so much, it wouldn’t bother you so much.”
Dave tossed his napkin on the table in disgust. “I’m not in a contest with the damn ulcer. I’m not trying to conquer it. It won a long time ago. I’m just trying to live with it. And all that spice isn’t helping.”
It seemed that Anna did not hear all that he’d said. While he was speaking, she was rattling the dishes in the sink. They both finished at about the same time. She took from the refrigerator three servings of red Jello and put them on the table. For the first time Koesler wondered about the truth of the motto, “There’s always room for Jello.” Perhaps not, he thought, after one of Anna’s meals. But, out of politeness, he would try.
“Will you be coming to the concert, Bob?” Dave asked.
“Which one?”
“The Midwest Chamber Players.” Dave seemed miffed that there was any doubt as to which concert was under consideration.
“Oh, yes.” Koesler acknowledged he should have known Dave had to be referring to his baby rather than the DSO. “I remember now. It’s going to be right after Christmas. Gee, I don’t know, Dave. Even if I’m not busy that night, I’m sure I’ll be beat. That’s a very busy season for Santa and for me. But I’ll try.”
“I wish you would, Bob. Chamber music needs all the support it can get. After all, this isn’t Minneapolis. Chamber never caught on here in Detroit as it should have.”
“There you go,” Anna cut in, “nagging our guest. Can’t you let the man eat in peace?”
“I’m not nagging! I just asked Bob if he planned on going to our concert.”
“That’s nagging. And what’s with this ‘Bob’? The man’s a holy priest of God. Why don’t you call Father ‘Father’?”
“For God’s sake, Anna, we grew up together! He’s a classmate, for God’s sake!”
“There you go, taking God’s name in vain. Breaking the Second Commandment. And a priest right here in the same room!”
“Good! Then he’ll be able to give me absolution!”
“You have no fear of the Lord!”
“I’m more afraid of your spicy meatballs!”
“So, Dave,” Koesler, who was beginning to develop a nervous stomach, interrupted, “what are you going to play in your concert?” Experience had taught that his efforts at peacemaking could be little more than stopgap measures.
Dave smiled at the thought. “Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert.”
“See?” Anna said. “All the old-timers. Dear, you’re going to make everybody think you never heard of the twentieth century.”
“There she goes again!” Dave countered. “An art student—and not a very good one at that—and she wants to be my program director!”
“Leave my art alon
e!”
“Why not? Everyone else has. But tell me, my lovely, whom would you have on the program?”
“Somebody. Anybody. At least from this century. Stravinsky maybe.”
“Good! Excellent! Superb! Then we could be certain that if someone fired a cannon during the concert, no one would get hurt.”
“Okay. All right, Andre Previn. Stick to your ‘masters’ and see where it gets you.”
“A few more people. Maybe a full house, my pet!”
“And the usual negative reviews. Ridley Groendal is not going to like that program.”
“Ridley Groendal can go to hell!”
“Forgive him, Father!”
“Forgive me, Father.”
Koesler shook his head.
Anna rose in a huff and went to the sink to scrape dishes and stack them in the dishwasher. Though it was a little noisy, it enabled Palmer and Koesler to talk without interruption.
“She’s wrong, you know,” Palmer said. “God knows I understand the atonals as well as anybody. And I like a lot of them. But we’ve got to face it: The general public has resisted them. With the Symphony, we’ll tuck one or another of them in among the classics, hoping that the audience will come to hear, say, Mozart, and learn to like Cage. But, to date, it hasn’t really worked; they’ll give Beethoven a standing ovation and sit on their hands for Prokofiev.”
“And you don’t fear Rid?”
Palmer shrugged. “I never feared Rid. I alternate between not understanding him, pitying him, and despising him.”
“An odd mixture.”
Palmer rose and motioned Koesler to follow him into the living room where the kitchen sounds would be muted and they could talk more comfortably. “I suppose. But that’s the way it worked out.”
“Care to explain?”
Palmer registered doubt. “Rid’s in your parish now. The two of you talk from time to time?”
“Yes, but I’m not the type to betray a confidence. You know that.”
“God, yes. I know that. Well, I pity the man because he’s a shell. There’s no substance. Performers, the artists know that. The trouble with Rid is he thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t. Nobody does. But, there he is, maybe the premier critic in America, certainly the most influential—or at least he was when he was with the Herald.
“He passes himself off as the expert in theater, music, and literature. And what does he know? Jargon! Outside of artsy phrases, he doesn’t know any more than the average patron of the arts. And he’s insecure.”
Koesler lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“Oh, he’s insecure, all right. Like insecure people, he has to name-drop. Like, ‘When I was talking to Lennie last . . .’ or ‘Pinky prefers the pizzicato played this way . . .’
“No, Ridley never really knew what he was talking or writing about. What he knows is how to intimidate people. People in middle and upper management. That’s where his power lies. But when he acts the critic, he just plain doesn’t know his rear end from a hole in the ground.
“So, part of me pities him.” Palmer stopped to light his pipe.
Koesler took up the slack. “You pity Rid, but you also mentioned you don’t understand him?”
Palmer puffed several times to kindle the tobacco. “I don’t understand why he hates me. I haven’t done anything to him.”
“There was that time when we were all kids . . .”Koesler well knew how unforgetting and unforgiving Ridley could be.
“You mean the eighth-grade concert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You really think it could be that! I’ve thought about it many, many times. It’s the only conflict we ever had. But it was so childish. And so many years ago. It seems impossible. If memory serves, all I did was pay him back for what he did to me. A couple of adolescent tricks. Do you think that could be it?”
“It’s possible.” Actually, Koesler was certain it was so.
“I suppose you’re right. Yeah, it’s the only thing. But, so many years ago . . . so long ago . . . and such an insignificant incident . . . it seems incredible.” Palmer puffed, contemplatively.
“One man’s insignificant is another man’s mountain.” Koesler regretted the words no sooner than they left his lips; he sounded like a pop-psych guru. Fortunately, Palmer seemed still deep in thought. Koesler picked up another thread. “And your hatred for him?”
“Huh! Oh, well, that’s the clearest of all. He’s ruined my career quite singlehandedly. I won’t go into chapter and verse, but he’s gone out of his way to screw me at every turn. And he’s been good at it. As I said, he has a knack for influencing the powers that be. And he’s certainly done it where I’m concerned.” Palmer puffed for a few moments. “I can’t help thinking every once in a while what my life would have been if not for Ridley Groendal. By this time—God!—I would have had my own organization . . . a guest soloist . . .” He was lost in reverie.
Not for the world would Koesler have suggested that Palmer might well have contributed to his own limitations. As his career sank ever more inextricably into the DSO, his temperament and behavior had deteriorated in tempo.
At Symphony parties to which Palmer had invited him, Koesler sometimes overheard other orchestra members complaining about Dave—picayune things, such as when it was Palmer’s responsibility to turn pages, he would flip a page just far enough so he could read the music, forcing his partner to complete the chore. Little things—but sometimes the rabbit punches were life’s most difficult afflictions.
Anna came in with coffee.
“So,” Koesler summed up, “pity, bewilderment, and hate. An odd combination.”
“Oh, good grief!” Anna exclaimed. “You’ve been talking about that Groendal person again.”
Koesler was not surprised that Anna was familiar with Dave’s feelings toward Ridley.
“Yes,” Palmer said, “Groendal once more.”
He set the pipe in an ashtray, where the dottle smoldered. “Funny thing, if I ever stopped feeling pity—for even one brief second . . .”
“You’d what?” Anna prompted.
“I’d . . . I’d kill him. Yes, I really would.”
“Dave!” Anna exclaimed. “That’s a sin! Now you really are going to have to ask for absolution!”
“Instead of that, I think I’ll play something.” Palmer tried to create the impression that his threat had not been serious. But Father Koesler wondered.
Palmer picked up his violin, tuned it, and began the gentle opening theme from Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.
For Koesler, the beauty of the music more than made up for Anna’s spaghetti and meatballs. As he listened, he could not help but reflect on Dave’s threat. That completed the circle of all three men who had been so crippled by Ridley’s revenge. Three men who, otherwise, were essentially nonviolent. Yet, in Koesler’s hearing, all three had threatened to kill Ridley Groendal.
That left Jane Condon, now Jane Cahill, and her daughter, Valerie Cahill, now Valerie Walsh, as the only victims who had not threatened to kill Groendal—at least not in Koesler’s hearing.
Koesler would have known very little of either woman in recent years had he not heard from third parties, and, finally, from Valerie herself.
20
“Let us pray.” Koesler intoned the prayer after Communion. “O Almighty God, may this sacrifice purify the soul of your servant, Ridley, which has departed from the world. Grant that once delivered from his sins, he may receive forgiveness and eternal rest. Through Christ our Lord.”
Koesler doubted that Valerie joined in the sentiments of that prayer. Of all those marked for vengeance by Ridley, Valerie had perhaps the strongest motive for striking back.
Palmer, Mitchell and Hogan each had been personally hurt by Groendal. As for Valerie, not only she but, much more, her mother had been deeply wronged. It is oftimes easier to forgive or at least live with an injury done to oneself than to overlook some evil done to a loved one. Groendal had hurt Val. She might have
risen above that. She could never ever forget or forgive what he had done to the one person she loved most next to her husband.
If Valerie had not gotten an aisle seat, Koesler might not have located her in the crowd. Quite obviously, Red Walsh was not in attendance, otherwise Koesler would have easily spotted the human skyscraper. Koesler did not closely follow the comings and goings of the Detroit Pistons, but, he thought, probably Walsh was at practice.
In fact, Valerie was accompanied by her mother. Koesler did not remember ever having seen the two together.
The first time he could recall seeing Jane was at the Stratford movie theater nearly forty years before. He might not have paid much attention to her then if that had not been the start of something big, however brief, between Jane and Ridley. After Groendal had related what had taken place between himself and Jane, Koesler hadn’t known quite what to do. So he had spent that summer praying fervently for Jane.
After he was ordained four years later, he occasionally visited Jane. Again, there was not much he could do. While it was a heartrending situation, for whatever her reasons Jane wanted to handle it alone. So she worked at Hudson’s, hired a babysitter, and brought home what bacon she could. After her boy, Billy, died, Koesler had lost touch with Jane.
He had not met Valerie until she returned from New York with her husband. She felt she needed to talk to a priest. But nearly all the young priests she’d known in high school were now former priests. As far as Valerie—and most other Catholics—was concerned, the magic was over. One might have great confidence in a priest. But once he left the priesthood, though he was the same person, the old confidence in him seemed to evaporate.
Jane recommended Father Koesler to her daughter as a kind and helpful priest and, even more to the point, one who knew Ridley Groendal very well.
Koesler listened to Valerie’s life story, which was not much different from any other Catholic girl’s. Peculiar to Valerie was her enormous theatrical talent along with her extraordinary beauty. Unlike some similarly endowed girls, Valerie had let none of her gifts go to her head. Through the difficult high school years, she had remained in control of herself and her destiny. But, aside from her talent beauty, and self-containment, her life through high school was not markedly different from others with a parochial education.
Deadline for a Critic Page 27
