“Good afternoon, Ridley. Feeling down again?” The doctor’s expression suggested he was hoping for a bit of depression to work on.
It was as if the doctor’s greeting awakened Groendal. “I don’t think so. I was wondering when the next treatment—you know, the shock treatment—was due?”
“Tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”
“What do I have to do . . . what has to happen for the treatments to be stopped? What would make you decide to cancel or postpone tomorrow’s treatment?”
“Well, Ridley, we’re in a series now. I would prefer not to interrupt the series.”
“Uh-huh. I have an idea that might save us a lot of time. But I’ve got to work it out and I don’t think I can do it while the treatment goes on. I’ll need every bit of my mind and memory.”
“Hmmm, I see.” He pondered a moment. “Ridley, since you entered this facility, you’ve been in a depressed state. And we’ve spoken of this often. How do you feel now?”
“Actually, kind of good. I just had a visit with my . . . uh . . . priest. And it left me feeling a bit hopeful.” Groendal was well aware of the stock put in religion by Bartlett and was willing to pander to the doctor’s fixation, even to the point of acknowledging a priesthood that Bob Koesler did not yet possess.
“Your priest?” Even though Bartlett had left orders for no visitors, it did not surprise him that a priest had broken through. The question in a Catholic institution such as St. Joseph’s was not whether a priest could see whomever he wished whenever he wished, but whether the parish priest would bother coming to visit. While Bartlett put more than ordinary stock in religious curative powers, he did not cotton to priests who dabbled in psychotherapy. There was a place for everything. Or, as St. Paul put it—We each, in the mystical body of Christ, have our gifts contributing to the good of the whole.
This deserved some investigation. “What did the two of you talk about?”
From here on, Groendal would have to deal in one long, extended lie. Since he had already lied in referring to Koesler as a priest, the remaining fabrication seemed to fall nicely into place.
“Oh, nothing much. Just about the parish . . . things going on there. But he did try to bring up the matter of what I’m going to do now that I won’t be going back to the seminary.
“Father was trying to be very helpful. He promised that he would do all he could to help me get into some other field. And, you see, Doctor, that got me thinking: I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. I’m still young. I can’t spend the rest of my life moping because I’m not going to be a priest. I’ve got to get myself organized and get started on what I’m going to do with my life.”
Groendal correctly gauged the hesitation and reservation unexpressed by Bartlett over some presumptuous priest’s invasion into his professional field. Ridley needed to assuage the doctor’s apprehension that his area of expertise might be compromised.
“So, Doctor, it wasn’t so much what Father said. It was more what he got me thinking about. He just happened to stimulate me into thinking about things that need planning. And I’ll need a clear head to do it.” He looked hopefully at Bartlett
The doctor looked uncertain. Groendal needed a clincher.
“I thought,” he added, “that I’d go to the chapel later today, tomorrow, every chance I get, and pray. I guess nothing can help solve a problem like this more than prayer . . . don’t you think, Doctor?”
Of course he did. Maybe one more nudge.
“I wouldn’t have thought about prayer being the answer to my problem if it hadn’t been for you, Doctor. You’ve really shown me the importance of prayer. Why, I look at you as even more than my doctor—you’ve become my spiritual advisor.”
That did it. Groendal was never more sure of anything.
Bartlett tried, not altogether successfully, to cover a self-satisfied smirk. “Well, all right, Ridley; we’ll skip tomorrow’s treatment. But mind you: This means we’ve broken the series! And if we begin again, we’ll have to start from the beginning of the series . . . you understand that, don’t you, Ridley?”
Ridley understood. Completely.
“Now then,” Bartlett continued, “let’s take up where we left off. We were talking about your reasons for going to the seminary in the first place . . .”
Only part of Groendal stayed attentive to the doctor. That part strove to be affirmative and bright not the type that required shock treatment. The rest of Groendal’s mind rejoiced in the visit of Bob Koesler. Good old Bob. Maybe not Ridley’s best friend. Perhaps not anyone’s best friend. But a good friend, nonetheless. Unwittingly, Bob might just have stumbled on the core of the problem.
The remainder of that day and in the days to come, Groendal spent much of his time in the chapel. That part of his promise to Dr. Bartlett had been sincere. Groendal had long found a church, almost any church, one of the best places for deep thought as well as prayer. Well, prayerful thought, if you will.
Bob Koesler had given him the central subject of his meditation. Things happened to Groendal. He was in control of nothing. Passive. Passivity. It was true. All too true.
As the days passed, Groendal was virtually lost in the memories of his life to date. The memories, of course, were colored by his own bias. In that, he was by no means unique. Can anyone be completely objective in his or her own case?
Groendal spent little time analyzing his relationship with his parents. Without doubt they had had an enormous impact on his life. But this was the area that appeared to most fascinate Dr. Bartlett. As they discussed it, Ridley found it interesting that in his recollections, his mother always seemed to dominate his father as well as himself. It did not occur to him that this might have set the pattern for passivity in his life. Nor did Bartlett draw such an inference.
Groendal was absorbed, rather, in what he considered the four pivotal relationships in his life. Naturally, though he affected to consider them objectively, the memories were tinged with a bountiful measure of self-interest.
First, there was David Palmer. Groendal had begun it all as a practical joke. Sophomoric, perhaps, as most practical jokes were, but harmless. Just a few bars of “Bumble Boogie” instead of “Flight of the Bumblebee.” All right, so it took Palmer by surprise and made him look stupid for a moment. It was only a rehearsal. No harm.
But what massive retaliation! In performance, no less, setting an impossible tempo. On top of it all, it was done in the presence of representatives of Interlochen. No doubt about it, it had changed his life. He might have won a scholarship. He might have been able to make music his life.
No!
Groendal stopped himself. These were passive, subjunctive suppositions. He had to eliminate this tendency. He would have won that scholarship. By now he would have had the training and experience necessary to carve out a life in the music world.
But it was not to be. And all because of David Palmer, who was now pursuing what promised to be a most successful life in the music world.
And what had Groendal to show for it all? Nothing. He had settled no scores. Pointlessly, he had taken out his frustration on a blameless piano. In retrospect, he had been extremely fortunate that his symbolic gesture had not turned into a major case of arson.
He had been a passive victim, and David Palmer, far from being punished for having wronged Groendal, had been rewarded with the career Ridley had coveted.
Next there was Carroll Mitchell.
It might have been different if the seminary had not turned it into a competition. Even then, it might have been different if Mitch had not entered the contest. After all, Mitch was the closest thing the seminary had to a professional playwright. What right had he to enter such a competition? Immediately, the contest was by its very nature rigged and unfair. In such an unbalanced contest, Ridley had had every right to borrow from another professional writer. It did no more than equalize the odds.
So why had Mitch acted so self-righteous when he discovered what Ridley had d
one? The reason of course was that now it had been turned into an honest competition for a change. Now Mitch would have to contend with an equal. That’s what had made him so angry. Not the plagiarism, which was a loose charge at best. No, that was a smoke screen. The real problem was that, for the first time, Mitch stood to lose what he had considered a lead-pipe cinch victory.
This reasoning put the whole incident into some sort of logical perspective.
God knows what would have happened if Mitch had taken his plagiarism charge to the faculty. Would the faculty have understood that Ridley was just trying to turn a rigged competition into a fair contest? Not likely. If Mitch had told and Groendal had presented his legitimate defense, it simply would have highlighted how unjust and foolish it had been for the faculty to have made this a contest in the first place. And the faculty never would have admitted that. They would have been forced to make a scapegoat of Groendal.
No, Ridley had turned to the only option available when he applied the rule of “fraternal correction” and reported Mitchell’s foolhardy violation of the rule.
Carroll Mitchell had created the impression that he was the wronged party—that Groendal had betrayed a friend who trusted him. Nothing could have been further from the truth, as Groendal viewed the facts he had twisted. Groendal was the offended party. He had been the victim of an unfair competition. Both the faculty and Mitchell had been playing with loaded dice and Groendal was the victim.
And once more, he had been passive. Things had happened to him. He had been in control of nothing.
Then there was the affair of Jane Condon.
Of all that had happened to him, Jane Condon had indisputably been the most manipulative force. He could see it all so clearly now in the quiet, meditative atmosphere of the chapel.
At one time, he had considered them both victims of a series of unfortunate accidents. But now that his rationalization was working so well, he saw clearly through to the cause of the whole mess. It was Jane Condon alone. The only thing left to chance would be on which night he might have decided to go to a movie at the Stratford. But attend a movie during vacation he would. Anybody who knew him knew that.
Jane herself confessed that she had placed him practically under personal surveillance for many years. She would know how devoted he was to the arts. She had to know that he would attend a movie during Christmas break just as he had during vacations of the past-Easter, Christmas, summer, whatever. From that knowledge, all she had to do was choose her time.
His final year in college—a good choice, coming before the greater commitment of the theologate. She got the job as usherette and just waited for him. Why did she not throw herself at Koesler? No; she had preset her sights on Ridley.
He had to admit that he had played right into her hands when he returned the next night. But, for someone who had studied him as thoroughly as Jane said she had, it was not a bad gamble. It was his first flirtation, which she undoubtedly knew. Once he had slipped into her trap and returned to the theater, the rest was child’s play.
An innocent invitation to a New Year’s Eve party. Arrange to have her parents out for the evening. Get him to play the piano until he was fatigued. And then the liquor. In this case the coup de grâce. Overheat the house. Set the whole thing up so it all comes together at exactly midnight. What more natural than to share a kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve? And then, intoxicated or nearly so, let one thing follow another. Get pregnant then—or later with somebody else; it doesn’t matter so long as you trap the man you’re after. And that’s it.
On reflection, never had he been more passive. The whole thing had just happened to him. He was in control of nothing.
Finally, Charlie Hogan.
With the shock of Ridley’s first act of intercourse and subsequent retreat from his first sex partner, Charlie Hogan had played the object of that syndrome called the rebound.
And don’t ever try to tell Ridley C. Groendal that Charlie Hogan was unaware of what was going on! Not after Ridley’s prayerful meditation in the chapel told him otherwise. Of course Charlie knew. He would have to have been stupid not to know that he and Ridley were more than just friends. There were young men in the seminary who were friends with one another—lots of them. But how many shared all the confidences, the mutual joy of learning from one another, the nearly exclusive companionship, as Ridley and Charlie?
Groendal could think of no one who had shared as much as he and Charlie.
Hogan would have had to be stupid not to see that. And Hogan was by no means stupid. Being the younger of the two, Charlie probably knew where their relationship was heading better than Ridley did. So why then the violent reaction when the climax was reached? Why the beating? Why the betrayal?
Once again, Groendal had been used. And most shamefully so. At least Jane Condon had wanted no less than Ridley himself. She wanted to force Ridley to marry her.
As obnoxious as that was, it wasn’t as contemptible as Charlie’s motive. He did not want Groendal. He just wanted to destroy Groendal. And he had. He had demolished Ridley’s vocation to the priesthood.
Ridley had been passive. All this had happened to him. He had been in control of nothing.
It took Groendal several days to reach all these conclusions. All of them arrived at by prayerful meditation.
As he reached each solution he felt an increasingly greater inner peace. It was as if he were able to lay to rest one ghost of his past after another. This tranquil attitude was communicated in his sessions with Dr. Bartlett, who grew ever more satisfied with Groendal’s progress. No longer was there any immediate threat of shock therapy. Regression, of course, was always possible, but unlikely as long as this promising progress continued.
Obviously, Dr. Bartlett and Ridley Groendal were operating on different wavelengths. Bartlett continued to explore Ridley’s motivations in the various choices he had made. Meanwhile, Groendal was putting his life into subjective order by examining those—four, it turned out—who had shabbily and shamefully manipulated him.
Once he had his house of cards in final order, the question was what he was going to do about it all. What was he to do about his passivity? What could he do about his apparent lack of control over his life? Particularly, what could he do about all this in a Christian context? This is what puzzled Groendal more than anything else. Because, above all, he was a Christian. His entire life bespoke that. My God, he’d almost become a priest! In fact, it was, his prayerful meditation had clearly indicated, certainly not his fault that he had not gone on to the priesthood.
At this point, enter Bob Koesler for the third time, again masquerading as a priest. This time he made a hurried vow never to try it again. Henceforth, he would dress as a priest only if he really were one or if the seminary rule called for that garb.
The first two times had been so easy. Today, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had gone wrong. Now, instead of deferential if not reverential greetings, he got skeptically raised eyebrows. One nurse actually challenged him, asking with which parish he was affiliated. Why had he not given any thought to the possibility of that logical question?
On the spur of the moment, he had blurted out that he was on special assignment. She accepted with obvious reservations. Unlike the FBI or CIA, the Archdiocese of Detroit gave out no unspecified “special assignments.” Fortunately, the nurse was not au courant.
So it was with a good bit more perspiration than was called for even by the warm weather that Koesler greeted Ridley Groendal.
“Bob Koesler—just the man I was looking for!” Groendal welcomed him effusively and offered him a tissue. “Here, wipe off. Is that getup that warm?”
Koesler dabbed at neck and face. “No, I was almost found out. This is the last time I try this masquerade.”
“That’s okay. It’s providential that you came just now.”
“You mean you remember my coming to see you before?”
“What? Oh, I see: You mean the shock treatments. When
I couldn’t remember things. Well, I haven’t had a treatment since then . . . thanks to you.”
Koesler would never guess what it might be that he had contributed to ending the treatments. “Well, I’m overwhelmed. I just came to visit and find out how you’re doing. I didn’t expect to be greeted like the Prodigal Son.”
“Speaking of the Prodigal Son, I’ve been trying to puzzle something out and you may be able to help. Put it this way: I need to plumb these ideas and you’re the best sounding board I can think of.”
“Not your doctor?”
“The last one! No, not the doctor. He and I are off exploring motives and distant relationships. Mostly I’m trying to keep him away from the electricity so he won’t give me any more treatments. No, this is something Biblical I’ve got to figure out.”
“Biblical, eh? Well, what the hell, shoot.”
“Okay. Do you think Jesus was aggressive?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think Jesus was assertive? Do you think he was in control of things?”
Koesler thought a while. “Sure.”
“Then you don’t think Christ was passive . . . that he let things happen to him?”
Koesler thought again. “Well, if you put it that way, I guess he was.”
Ridley sighed. “Make up your mind.”
“I don’t know, Rid. Is anybody one way all the time? Isn’t everybody passive sometimes and aggressive others?”
“I suppose so. But what am I looking for?” Groendal appeared to be genuinely searching. “I’m looking for the dominant feature in life. You know: Granted, in some situations, common sense tells you to be submissive, sort of flexible; other times you have to be aggressive. Still, a person is dominantly one or the other . . . know what I mean?”
“I think so. Okay then, let’s see: I guess you’d have to say that Jesus Christ basically was in control, wouldn’t you?”
“I think I would. But how do you figure it? At the end of His life, He certainly didn’t seem in control. He was captured and tortured and executed. That certainly doesn’t seem like He was in charge. It’s almost the ultimate in submissiveness. And that was the most important part of His life—the end.”
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