Deadline for a Critic

by William Kienzle

  “You know, Ridley,” she said wistfully, “I didn’t know a single boy in my high school graduating class.”

  “Neither did I. I mean, I didn’t know any of the girls in my graduation class.”

  “That’s different. You didn’t have any. You were off in the seminary.”

  “It’s not entirely different. I could tell you about some seminarians who knew lots of girls. Matter of fact, one in particular, about a year ago, got in quite a bit of trouble over a girl.”

  “Really? How?”

  “I shouldn’t talk about that. I don’t want to talk about that. It will make me angry all over again. And I don’t want to get angry tonight . . . this is great stuff, y’know?” Ridley took another sip. It wasn’t burning as much now as that first taste. Maybe it was like cigarettes. Maybe you did get used to it after a while.

  Jane poured a little more Scotch over his diminishing ice cubes. She added more to her own glass. She had to walk to and from the table to accomplish this. She was not unsteady. “So, you didn’t know any girls in your class?”

  “Not a one.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve known your share since then.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Ridley swirled the liquor in and around the ice. He’d seen them do that in movies too. “Would you believe this is the first date I’ve ever had in my life?”

  “No.”

  “It’s true. It’s my first date. And where did I take her? Nowhere. Her house!” Affected by the Scotch, he looked as if he were about to cry.

  “You took her just where she wanted to go.” A hint of a slur was entering Jane’s speech. “She didn’t want to go out with all the gang. She wanted to spend a quiet New Year’s Eve at home. And you gave her a marvelous concert. I’m the luckiest girl in the world this New Year’s Eve . . . wait; let me get some more ice so your drink doesn’t bother you.”

  She walked into the kitchen without once staggering. But she had to concentrate on each step, something she’d never had to do before.

  Before returning his glass and letting the liquid already in it dissolve some of the fresh ice, she poured in another splash of Scotch. She “freshened” her own drink likewise.

  “What about you?” Ridley looked across and found no one there. Jane had seated herself on the floor in front of the couch. He slid down to the floor. The least he could do was be on the same level as his hostess. “What about you?” he repeated. “I’ll bet you’ve had your share of boyfriends since you started college.” He sounded as if he resented the idea of her dating anyone else.

  Jane sipped her drink and shook her head. “Been too busy. Working, going to school, doing the required reading, all that. Almost no social life at all. No time.”

  “No dates?”

  “I couldn’t say that. I’ve been out on a few dates, mostly doubles. But not with a boy alone. I mean not with a man, a college senior. Never like this, in a house alone.”

  His thought processes were getting a bit muddled. There was something about being in a house alone, together. It sounded as if something should follow. If they were in the house alone, together, something should be happening. But what?

  A sharp crack sounded outside. It seemed to come from some distance. It was followed by a series of similar noises.

  “What was that?” Ridley was almost shocked into sobriety. It was only momentary. The Scotch resumed control.

  “Gunshot, I guess. Look, Ridley,” Jane showed him her watch. “It’s midnight. It’s a new year. Happy New Year, Ridley.”

  He extended his hand and was startled when she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Unsure of how to react, he leaned away.

  “Happy New Year, Ridley!” she repeated.

  “Happy New Year, Jane.” His response was more bewildered than heartfelt.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Ridley. People are supposed to kiss on New Year’s Eve. It’s the thing to do.”

  Ridley wasn’t thinking too clearly. He did seem to recall a number of movies wherein there was plenty of kissing on New Year’s Eve. That much checked out. But in the movies there always seemed to be crowds of people around with a lot of flying confetti and noisemakers.

  “Then,” he challenged her smartly, “where’s the confetti and the noisemakers?”

  Her smile was a little crooked. The liquor had taken its toll on her mental processes as well. “You don’t have confetti or noisemakers at home, silly. That’s just for big parties in restaurants and hotels. At home you just have a private party. It’s a special time for being close.”

  He appeared skeptical. “You’re sure about the confetti and noisemakers?”

  “Sure. But you could sit closer.”

  He edged toward her a tentative few inches. She moved likewise until they were touching. She let her head fall back on his shoulder. That, he thought felt nice. He leaned back against the couch and let his right arm rest over her shoulder. She looked up and kissed him.

  “It helps, you know, if you kiss back.”

  “Oh.”

  She kissed him again. This time he puckered to receive the kiss and felt something odd . . . as if her tongue was licking his lips. It did not feel unpleasant, but his mouth opened in surprise. Her tongue went further. What was she doing?

  He drew back. “Are you sure you haven’t had a lot of boyfriends?”

  “Just a few. And we never did anything but kiss.”

  He would have argued the point further but he was by no means in condition for effective argument. “What do you call that? When you use your tongue?”

  “French kissing.”

  “So that’s what French kissing is about . . . it seems sort of silly.”

  “Try it you may like it.” She tilted her head back.

  This time, when they met, her mouth was open. Again he was surprised. This must be what she had intended by encouraging participation.

  From that point on, liquor, passion, and nature provided an ineluctable drive. Kisses led to embraces. Buttons, zippers, belts, clasps gave way. Finally, nakedness itself became a stimulus.

  At one stage, she protested, but her pleadings only goaded him on. It was a frenzied struggle in which, in the end, both consented with what voluntary was left them. Then it was over.

  Ridley was exhausted, yet relaxed, and slightly more sober.

  He looked at himself. He seemed to be all bloodied. He gave no thought to whose blood; he assumed it was his. He had been hideously deformed by his copulation! He came close to vomiting.

  Numb, he gathered his clothing and began to dress.

  “This isn’t what I planned.” Jane seemed to speak without thought. She was as shocked as he by what had happened.

  “It was a sin. We have to confess it”

  “We can do that.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Stay just a while. Please. I don’t want to be alone now.”

  “I’ve got to go. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” He struggled into his overcoat and, after fumbling with the door, stepped out into the air. It all but completely cleared his head. With a few mumbled apologies, Ridley walked away.

  As he walked, he prayed. He confessed his sin to God. He promised God he would confess to the priest.

  When he arrived home, he found his parents had retired. He showered, scrubbing himself again and again. Above all else, he was confused. He had just committed a sin—in the Catholic lexicon, one of the most abominable sins. From what he’d heard and read, of all possible mortal sins, fornication was supposed to be the most nearly worth it. But he had found it abhorrent. He was confused.

  After Ridley left, Jane put on a robe and put her clothing in the washer. She was alone at the very moment of her life when she most needed someone to be with her. She had just lost her virginity. Throughout her training in parochial schools, she had been taught that this gift was to be guarded, protected, and sa
ved for the one with whom she would spend her entire life within the bonds of sacred matrimony. But in one drunken evening everything had been irrevocably taken from her.

  She was confused, ashamed, embarrassed, and abandoned. She needed to talk but had no one to talk to. She could not tell her parents. She had no friend in whom she could confide such a secret.

  She would tell a priest, of course, but that would be in confession. And he would not console her. He would excoriate her.

  That night, Jane didn’t sleep. She wept. And when, in the early hours of the morning, her parents returned from their more innocent New Year’s Eve party, Jane turned her head to the pillow to muffle her sobs.

  11

  Father Koesler stepped to the lectern and read the Gospel story of Jesus calling Lazarus back from the dead. When he finished, all the priests present sat down. Following their example, the rest of the congregation sat.

  At most weddings and funerals it was a safe bet to expect a goodly number of non-Catholics, lapsed Catholics, and infrequent Catholics, many of whom would be unfamiliar with the ritual of the Mass. Under these circumstances, it was common for a priest to tell the congregation to stand, be seated, or to kneel (or, if kneeling were perceived as a form of martyrdom, they might sit). But everyone, Catholic or not, would feel comfortable following the example of a bunch of priests. At least in the matter of protocol at Mass.

  There were funerals and there were funerals. In his more than thirty years as a priest, Koesler had officiated at just about every possible variety. Basically, they fell into one of two categories. There were funerals in which there was great and sincere grief. Or funerals in which there was little if any genuine mourning.

  On grief-filled occasions, it is difficult to find words of real consolation, so great is the sense of loss. When there is little mourning, it is difficult to find words that can stir feelings unaffected by the presence of death.

  Except for the desolate presence of Peter Harison, Ridley C. Groendal’s funeral held no sense of mourning, loss or grief. Indeed, some in the congregation seemed to evidence relief, perhaps even elation. It was to this generally uncaring attitude that Koesler addressed himself in his approach to a homily.

  Eulogizing Ridley Groendal would have been simple for Koesler. Seldom had the priest known a deceased more personally than he had known Ridley. In the end, it was the extent of Koesler’s knowledge of Groendal that argued against a eulogy. Koesler simply knew Ridley too well. If the priest had begun a biographical sketch, it would have been all but impossible to delete inappropriate facts and details. All things considered, it was wiser to go with one of the many standard homilies he had developed over the years.

  So he began with a quotation from Benjamin Franklin written just a few weeks before the great statesman’s death:

  “As to Jesus of Nazareth, my opinion of whom you particularly desire, I think the system of morals and religion, as he left them to us, the best the world ever saw or is likely to see; but I apprehend it has received various corrupting changes, and I have, with most of the present dissenters in England, some doubts as to his divinity, though it is a question I do not dogmatize upon, having never studied it, and think it needless to busy myself with it now, when I expect soon an opportunity of knowing the truth with less trouble. . . .”

  The point of the quotation, as Koesler explained, is that it is impossible to prove empirically what happens after death. All we know, with certainty, is that we must die. After that, what? We move into the realm of heaven, hell, or purgatory. Or we are nothing. Or we return to earth in some other form. Benjamin Franklin refused to speculate on the final outcome, anticipating that—as it turned out—in a few weeks he would die. At which time, he would know the truth.

  The Christian, Koesler continued, chooses to believe. In what? He returned to the first reading wherein King David expresses his willingness to die in the place of his son Absalom. Even though Absalom proved himself the most ingrate of sons, seeking his father’s overthrow and death, still his father loves him so much that even in the face of this hostility, David would die in Absalom’s place. It was easy to move from the figures of David and Absalom to God the Father and us His children.

  Koesler then went on to the second reading where Paul points out that it is only barely possible to imagine laying down one’s life for a very good person, very dear to us: a husband, a wife, a parent, a child. How then can we comprehend the love of God who sends His Son to die for us while we are no better than sinners?

  At that point, Koesler usually adapted a lesson once developed by John Henry Cardinal Newman on the tears of Christ at the graveside of Lazarus. The Gospel story records Jesus weeping as he stood outside the tomb. The bystanders were moved to comment, “See how much he loved Lazarus!”

  The strange feature of the story is that Jesus must have known that within minutes this scene of mourning would be transformed into one of incredible and incredulous happiness. Because Jesus would command that the large stone blocking the tomb’s entrance be rolled back. Then he called to the dead man, “Lazarus, come forth!” And the corpse, entombed three days before, lived again.

  The point that Newman made, and Koesler borrowed, was that Jesus must have been moved to tears simply because his friends themselves were inconsolably grief-stricken.

  In all, it was a homily emphasizing the love and forgiving power of God.

  As he delivered the homily, Koesler made eye-contact with various members of the congregation. Judging from their expressions, Ridley was in desperate need of a good measure of love and forgiveness from someone. And no one is in a better position to give it than God. Perhaps the only one.

  As he surveyed the congregation, Koesler intermittently fixed on the five people whose lives had so mingled with Ridley’s and, to some extent, with Koesler’s.

  Peter Harison, David Palmer, Carroll Mitchell, Valerie Walsh, Charles Hogan.

  Each had touched—some would say collided with—and changed the others’ lives. Their influence continued even unto death.

  Valerie Walsh was a beautiful woman. Her garb, considering that she was attending a funeral, was rather defiant: red overcoat and green fur hat. She appeared more to be celebrating the Christmas season than mourning a deceased person. Well, truth in advertising: More than likely, she was celebrating.

  It was remarkable how very much Valerie resembled her mother. Yet Jane Condon was pretty rather than beautiful. Whereas Valerie knew far better how to help her natural good looks with just the right makeup and hairstyling.

  In fact, if it had not been for what had happened between Groendal and Condon, Koesler would have been hard-pressed to remember what Jane Cordon looked like. Koesler had probably seen her many times in her role as an usherette at the Stratford. He undoubtedly had seen her often as a student at Holy Redeemer. But he’d never really noticed her. He had never paid any attention to her until those few sparks had flown between Jane and Ridley during that Christmas vacation so long ago.

  What a profound change that had brought to their lives! Strange how little the time they had had together and yet what an impact those few hours had had on them.

  Ridley had told Koesler about it, but not until they had returned to the seminary after Christmas vacation. He told all just as it had happened, sparing almost no detail. Koesler, uncomfortable throughout, had tried to interrupt and bail out several times. But Ridley had insisted that he be heard out. Finally, he got to the part where, after struggling into his overcoat, he had gone home to spend a sleepless remainder of the night.

  “And that’s it?” Koesler asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Rid, why have you told me all this?”

  “I had to tell somebody.”

  “Well, I can think of one place where it would have been more appropriate.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Koesler hesitated.

  Ridley thought a moment. “Oh, you mean confession. Well, I went to confession the Saturday b
efore we came back here.”

  “Then . . . why me?”

  “I told you: I had to tell somebody!”

  “For the love of Pete, you told a priest!”

  “I went to confession to Father Buhler.”

  “Aha! Good old Father Buhler. And he, of course, didn’t hear what you said because he can’t hear anybody. So you mumbled, and he didn’t understand a word. But he did give you a penance and absolution . . . just for kicks, what kind of penance did you get?”

  Ridley smiled self-consciously. “Five Our Fathers and Five Hail Marys.”

  “For what you did!”

  “How would he know? He didn’t hear me.”

  “Okay; but whether he heard you or not, you told him. You told somebody. So, Rid, for the last time: Why me?” As it turned out, Koesler never in his life would be happy that Groendal had picked him to confide in.

  “You don’t understand. I couldn’t go to confession to a priest who would understand me. For one thing, the priest might know or guess that I’m a seminarian and then all hell would break loose. But whether that happened or not, any priest who understood would yell at me.”

  “And I won’t.”

  Groendal nodded. “And besides, you were there at the beginning, when we sort of met. You knew I was going back to the Stratford. And you knew we weren’t invited to any seminarian’s New Year’s Eve party.”

  Everything began to fall into place. Koesler could understand Ridley’s need to get it off his chest, but Koesler thought him cowardly not to have unburdened himself to a priest more honestly.

  Finally, there was the New Year’s Eve party Groendal had told his parents about. If push came to shove, Ridley might want Koesler to corroborate his story about that nonexistent party. He hoped it didn’t come to that. He was unwilling to lie for Groendal. Listen to his pseudoconfession—all right; lie for him—no.