Deadline for a Critic

by William Kienzle

  “I might, Bob. Especially from you as editor of the Detroit Catholic. ’Course I already applied at the Free Press.”

  “You did? That’s great! What’d they tell you?”

  “That I’m not ready for the major leagues. It didn’t surprise me. There’s no reason to expect to walk out of a parish and right into a publication like the Free Press.”

  “How about the Detroit News?”

  “I’m not real fond of rejection. If I’m not ready for the Free Press, I’m in no better shape for the News. Anyway, the Free Press wasn’t that discouraging. The guy in charge of their hiring told me I needed seasoning. He said I should try to get a job on one of the smaller papers. Get some experience. Build up a portfolio. It makes sense.”

  “Then maybe I can help you land a job at one of the suburban dailies,” Koesler offered. “I do have some contacts with some of them.”

  “That I’d appreciate, Bob. What’s discouraging is starting at the bottom of the job ladder at age thirty-one. I’m a solid ten or more years behind everyone else.”

  “Maybe, honey,” Lil said. “But you’ve got experience the younger guys don’t have. That’s got to count for something.” She turned to Koesler. “Charlie’s going to write a book! He’s told me the plot and I think it’s terrific. It’s got a Catholic background. How’s that for using his experience!”

  “That’s great!” Koesler tried to catch her enthusiasm, but with some experience in the literary field, he had an inkling of the enormous obstacles that would confront Charlie.

  “I’m not kidding myself,” Hogan said. “It’ll be rough. But I know what I’m up against and I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.”

  “We’re going to make it!” Lil echoed his confidence. “And when we put it all together, Bob, we’d like you to marry us—if you don’t mind.”

  “If I don’t mind! Don’t be silly. It would be an honor. You’ve got me so excited with your enthusiasm that I can hardly wait till you make it really big, Charlie. I can hardly wait to tell everybody that I knew you when.”

  They all laughed. But Koesler was the one who picked up the tab. As he did so, it occurred to him it might be a long while before these two loving people would be able to afford a night on the town.

  16

  Charlie Hogan left the priesthood and embarked on a new life. Meanwhile, Father Koesler had no way of knowing that a dark eminence would cast a relentless shadow over the lives of those perceived as archenemies.

  Not long after Bob Koesler made his bogus visits to St. Joseph’s Retreat, Ridley Groendal was discharged from the sanitorium. Groendal emerged from that institution changed almost antithetically. He had entered beaten, submissive, passive, defeated, and profoundly depressed. He emerged confident, assertive, controlled, crafty, and planning his resurgence.

  Never again would he blunder, never again enter into any situation without careful preparation. Not if he could help it. And so he took a series of carefully calculated steps.

  He cemented several previously casual friendships. While he would be leaving the Detroit area to establish an entirely new life, he did not want to lose touch. Specifically, he wanted to know precisely what was happening in the lives of the four people who, according to his lights, had brought him down. Soon, as offhandedly as possible, he commissioned his newly established friends as informants.

  He was careful not to create the impression that his informants were spies. They were simply friends who would keep Groendal informed about the doings of other friends he would necessarily leave behind.

  Greg Larson was a good case in point.

  Larson: So, you’re off to Minnesota. That’s a big jump.

  Groendal: I know, Greg, but it’s a chance I can’t turn down. A partial scholarship at the University of Minnesota and a job that’ll take care of the rest of my expenses. It’s just too good to pass up.

  Larson: I guess. But we’ll miss you. I was just getting to know you.

  Groendal: If I could do it any other way . . . But . . . Anyway, I know I’m going to miss Detroit.

  Larson: Geez, yeah. You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?

  Groendal: Uh-huh. Mostly around our parish, good old Holy Redeemer. That and Sacred Heart Seminary, of course. Golly! When I think of how much of me is wrapped up in those places!

  Larson: It’s a shame, just a rotten shame that you’ve got to go. But you’ll be back, of course.

  Groendal: I don’t know, Greg. It just depends. It depends on where destiny leads. I’ll just have to rely on God. But who better?

  Larson: Jeez! Is there anything I can do to help?

  Groendal: I don’t think so, Greg. At least I can’t think of anything. Except, maybe . . .

  Larson: What, Rid? Anything . . . you name it.

  Groendal: Well, if it’s not asking too much, do you think you could send me copies of the parish bulletin? Just so I can keep up with what’s going on. Golly, it’d be fun even reading the altar boy assignments. Always nice to read those familiar names. Then, as the years go by, I’ll be able to keep up with the marriages . . . who’s having babies. There’s no end to what a parish bulletin can tell you.

  Larson: Sure, Rid; won’t be any trouble at all. And if I see anything in the papers about the seminary, I’ll include that too.

  Groendal: Are you sure, Greg? Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble . . . I mean, the postage and all . . .

  Larson: Good grief, Rid, if I can’t spend a few pennies a week for a friend, what kind of world is it?

  Groendal: Well, old pal, I’m grateful. I just can’t tell you how grateful. I can really depend on you. That’s really something.

  Larson: Jeez, Rid; think nothing of it.

  Groendal: But I do think about it, Greg. I can’t help it. I’m really depending on you, boy. Oh, and Greg, by the way, speaking of who’s having babies, there’s one in particular I’d be interested in. Remember Jane Condon? Redeemer, class of ’50? You know her?

  Larson: Well, not till recently, Rid (grinning mischievously). She would have just gotten lost in the shuffle if it hadn’t been for . . . well, the rumors. You heard them too, eh? Well, I guess it must be so then. Jeez! Having a baby out of wedlock! Not many Catholic girls do that, eh? What about her, Rid?

  Groendal: Well, she used to be a friend of the family. We kind of lost touch with her lately. But I learned about her condition. And . . . well, I tried to get in touch with her, but there was no response. I can understand it, of course. She’s pretty embarrassed. I don’t blame her. But I’m still concerned about her. Even though we haven’t had much contact lately, I still care what happens to her. I mean, she was a family friend and all. I’d just like to know how she’s doing . . . how this pregnancy comes out and all. Would it be too much trouble to keep me informed as to what happens with her? I’d really appreciate it. Of course, if it’s too much trouble . . .

  Larson: Don’t be silly, Rid. (Soberly, since the girl turns out to be a friend of the Groendal family), I’ll let you know exactly what happens.

  Groendal: Thanks a lot, Greg. I’d ask my parents to do that but they don’t want to have anything to do with her. Now that she’s in disgrace and all. You know how these traditional Catholics can be. It’s not their fault . . . the way they were brought up. So, I’d just as soon my parents weren’t involved in this. Just between you and me, buddy.

  Larson: Of course, Rid, just between you and me.

  And so it went. Jane Condon, Carroll Mitchell, David Palmer, and Charlie Hogan. Pour enemies, four informants. It was not easy to firm four hitherto random relationships into four fast friendships. Nor was it easy introducing the underlying reason why Groendal wished to stay in touch with his newfound friends. But Ridley pulled it off.

  Over the years, it was an unrelieved drag keeping up correspondence with the informants. They were, as far as Groendal was concerned, not especially interesting or witty people. But they were faithful. They wrote regularly with news of the c
ity, or the parish, or the seminary, or other classmates. All of which they thought was where Groendal’s primary interest lay. Almost as an aside, they would include news of their assigned person: Jane, Mitch, Dave, or Charlie.

  One reason the informants were faithful was due to Ridley’s careful selection of people whose prime virtue was fidelity. Another reason was Ridley’s pained but faithful response to their letters. Still another reason was that as the years passed, Groendal progressed from student to successful journalist to celebrity. It was gratifying to the egos of four lackluster citizens of Detroit to correspond with a famous personality.

  But fame did not come to Groendal quickly or easily. It came as the result of a combination of talent, hard work, and meticulous planning.

  Groendal began at the University of Minnesota trusting no one and using everyone. He was not by any means always justified in suspecting the motives of others. But it didn’t matter, not to him. For Groendal, it was cause and effect: a steady progression from one goal to another.

  It did not take Groendal long to secure his bachelor’s degree. Many of the credits he’d accumulated at the seminary college were recognized by the university. He went on from there to graduate school, majoring in English and journalism. Finally, he won his doctorate in English.

  Along the way, he free-lanced for all four St. Paul and Minneapolis papers. After graduation, he was offered a teaching position at the university. It was an opportunity most would have seized immediately. But teaching had no place in his scheme of things.

  Instead, he applied at the Minneapolis Tribune, one of the papers for which he had been a stringer. Because of the very satisfactory work he’d done in the past as well as the prestigious degree from Minnesota, he was given his own column outright, without having to go through apprenticeship as a reporter or staff writer. In no time, he turned his column into a commentary on the arts, concentrating on stage, music, and books. This, also, was part of his grand plan.

  Fortune smiled on him in a special way when the Guthrie Theater opened in May of 1963, with George Grizzard in Hamlet. Much of America had been hoping that the illustrious Tyrone Guthrie would open his proposed theater in their community. He surprised nearly everyone by opening in the unlikely minimetropolis of Minneapolis.

  It was not considered an unlikely site by Minneapolitans, who knew they had an extremely livable city but, lest they be inundated, were keeping it a secret. Drawn by the Guthrie, theater buffs throughout the country converged on Minneapolis. In the middle of all the hullaballoo was Ridley C. Groendal as the renowned local critic.

  It didn’t hurt. It helped him begin climbing the ladder to bigger newspapers and bigger cities. Not necessarily better, but always larger.

  It was during the summer of 1965 that he learned from one of his Detroit informants that Charlie Hogan had quit the priesthood and applied for a job at the Free Press. It so happened that at that very time he was working at one of the Knight newspapers. The Free Press belonged to the Knight chain.

  Most people would term that a chance occurrence; at most, fate. Groendal knew it was divine providence.

  Inquiries revealed that the Free Press had recommended that Hogan gather experience before they would consider hiring him. This hiatus afforded Groendal the opportunity to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the Free Press management.

  It was done in subtle but judiciously repeated ways. It was so laughably simple: All he had to do was grab every reasonable opportunity to mention some fictitious flaw in the character or performance of one Charles Hogan. After all, who would know Hogan better than a one-time schoolmate? And who better able to judge his journalistic talent than a fine arts critic with a now-respected track record?

  As a result, Groendal effectively scotched Hogan’s chances not only at the Free Press, but throughout the entire Knight chain as well.

  Hogan, of course, knew nothing of Ridley’s machinations. Hogan thought he was serving his time at the Oakland Weekender. He considered the months spent at that suburban weekly a purgatorial preparation. He completed assigned stories and initiated others with professionalism. He did not badger the Free Press to rescue him from veritable oblivion. He was patient. And confident that in God’s good time he would move onward and upward.

  In a little more than six months, Hogan’s petition for laicization was granted. One obstacle overcome. He was not earning anywhere near the amount he considered necessary to support a wife, let alone children. Nevertheless, it was time. So, preparations were made for a modest wedding at St. Mel’s parish where Father Koesler had helped on weekends while he was editor of the Detroit Catholic.

  Koesler felt some misgivings about this wedding. He had had similar presentiments about scores of other weddings at which he had officiated.

  It seemed that seldom was any wedding free of all anxiety. Sometimes a bride and/or a groom had a problem, such as immaturity or marrying on the rebound. At other times there was in-law trouble. Over the years, Koesler learned there could be as many problems affecting a marriage as there were people entering the institution. Rarely could a wedding be described as trouble-free.

  At the same time, one could be, and frequently was, fooled. Some unions that promised doom survived quite well. While some that seemed made in heaven quickly became hell on earth.

  Charlie and Lil admittedly had a lot going for them. They very definitely were in love and maturely so. They were a good age, not too young or too old. Granted, Lil’s parents weren’t crazy about having an ex-priest for a son-in-law, but at least they weren’t making a fuss about it. However, neither set of parents was able to help financially. And that was the sore spot.

  Lil was very close to getting her master’s degree, after which she anticipated no serious problem getting a job. But that wasn’t the plan. The scenario called for a family supported not by a social worker wife but by a journalist husband. Except that Charlie’s salary needed a second opinion. If he lived frugally, he might have survived alone. In the school of hard knocks, he learned that two could not live as cheaply as one. Their combined incomes provided enough for themselves with little as a buffer.

  To afford children, both Charlie and Lil would both have to keep working. But if they both worked, they did not think it fair to have children they could not personally care for. A dilemma.

  There was no escaping it: Unless Charlie accumulated so many merit increases that he approximated the income of the publisher of the Oakland Weekender, or until he landed that job with the Free Press, there could be no children.

  That was reality, and reality was Koesler’s long suit. The money was not there to provide for a child, let alone children. And since Charlie and Lil plainly wanted a family, that was a problem.

  However, neither bride nor groom, at the time of their marriage, viewed their future as problematical. Charlie was as certain as one could be that there would be a place at the Free Press for him.

  Little did he know.

  Little did he know that the tentacles of Ridley Groendal’s vengeance had already touched him and would continue to close about him. Short of death, Groendal was determined never to let up. Already his clout was considerable. It was growing and would continue to grow. Feeding Ridley’s ambition was the insatiable drive to destroy the hopes of those who had brought him to the nadir of his life at St. Joseph’s Retreat.

  Not long after the wedding Charlie decided it was time to bring the matter of the Free Press to a boil. By mutual agreement, the ball had been in his court. But he was certain the Free Press had had enough time to evaluate his work.

  So, carrying his now swollen portfolio, he applied once more.

  His application was accepted and he was told it would be carefully considered. And it was. It was, indeed, one of the more hotly contested applications in the memory of many in management.

  In the end, it was not so much that Hogan lost as it was that Groendal had won. After all, how could the Free Press be expected to know that Groendal was lying?

/>   The assistant personnel manager tried to let Hogan down as gently as possible. The man was motivated by the best of intentions. There was no opening “at this time.” Maybe “sometime in the future.” Excellent credentials. Perhaps a bit “overqualified” in some respects. Have you tried any other publications? Maybe that would be a good avenue to pursue . . .

  In the end it would have been kinder to have dealt in the naked truth: Short of a miracle, Charlie Hogan would never land a job with a major journalistic publication if Ridley Groendal had anything to say about it. And insidiously, of course, he did.

  As it was, tranquilized by the groundless hope engendered by the personnel department, Hogan continued to nurse the prospect of an eventual job with the Free Press. By the time Hogan was disabused of the possibility and began widening his job search, Groendal had become sufficiently powerful in the profession to, in effect, blackball Hogan’s every attempt.

  It happened shortly after what was to be Charlie’s final encounter with the Free Press. While Lil was preparing an after-the-movie snack, Charlie picked up a paperback crime novel she had been reading.

  A few evenings later, he finished it, then announced: “I could do better than that.”

  “Than what?”

  “Than that book. I could develop a better plot and better characters than that guy did.”

  Lil smiled encouragingly. “Sure you could, Charlie.”

  “I’d have to change the setting. Give it a religious twist. Put some priests and nuns in it. Something like that.”

  “That’s what they say: Go with what you know. Why don’t you do it?”

  Charlie shrugged and grinned. “Oh, I was just talking off the top of my head. I’ve never seriously thought of writing a book. Besides, I haven’t got the time.”

  “This might be the best time for you to do it, dear. You’re always saying that you’re not working up to full capacity at the Weekender. So a book shouldn’t be a major distraction. You could work on it little by little, in your free time. And the idea of giving it a religious background is neat. Not many could do it . . . not and carry it off. But you could.”