Deadline for a Critic

by William Kienzle

  Harison got to know the four pivotal characters in Ridley’s life about as well as Groendal himself knew them. Not unlike couples anywhere, Ridley’s friends became Peter’s and vice versa—and the same could be said for enemies.

  Together, they decided that Peter could be a help in Ridley’s insatiable drive to square things with Charlie Hogan, just in case Charlie managed to produce a manuscript.

  Granted, neither of them could control the various editors at the various publishing companies directly. But it was not difficult to pass the word that Charlie Hogan was an ungrateful wretch, difficult to deal with, a problem to edit, and more trouble than his work was worth. There were even aspersions regarding his honesty, and someone—no one ever knew who—even started the rumor that he was (a) a Marxist, and (b) a pederast, and (c) a wife-beater.

  Unfortunately, Harison could be of little more than moral support in the case of Groendal’s vendetta against Mitchell, Palmer, and Condon. But Peter was assured by Ridley that he could handle the stage and musical fronts by himself.

  Revenge against Jane Condon was problematical, since Jane had not gone on to any professional platform. Yes, Jane was a problem. But then, she always had been.

  If Ridley Groendal had not left Detroit to establish himself in Minnesota during the summer of 1950, he might well have become part of the ugly scene in the Condon house when Jane could no longer hide her pregnancy.

  The altercation between Jane and her father was loud, acrimonious, and the subject of subsequent gossip. It was reported to Groendal by Greg Larson, the scribe Ridley had appointed to keep him apprised of Jane and her delicate condition.

  The explosion came in July. Jane, who had passed off her weight gain as being caused by compulsive eating because of the school load, confessed to her mother what she already fearfully suspected. Jane had counted on her mother’s discretion. It was a misplaced trust.

  When informed of the situation, Mr. Condon cursed and yelled and threw things, as Jane cowered.

  “I ask you, Martha,” Condon ranted at his wife, “what the hell good did it do to send this girl to a parochial school? Did it do any good? Well?”

  “Now, John, don’t be too hard on Jane.” Mrs. Condon immediately regretted having told her husband, though even in hindsight she could think of no alternative. “She’s had to carry this secret by herself all these months.”

  “She’s not only been carrying a secret all these months. She’s also been carrying somebody’s bastard kid! You were the one who insisted we send her to Holy Redeemer. I wanted to send her to McKinstry . . . pay for it already with my taxes; why not use the goddam school? But no; she’s gotta have a Catholic education! Paid for her goddam education twice and look what it got me: A goddam bastard kid!”

  “John, watch your language. The neighbors can hear.”

  “Watch my language? Watch my language! Your slut of a daughter is the whore of the block, and now everybody will know it, and you tell me to watch my language! Ha!”

  “John, we’ve got to be sensible about this. We’ve got to be rational. We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do. No, please be calm.”

  “Calm, is it! When did you do it, whore?” Condon addressed his daughter. “When did it happen?”

  Jane did not answer. She curled up more tightly on the sofa where she had retreated at the beginning of the tirade.

  “No answer! I’ll tell you when it happened: It happened New Year’s Eve. It’s the only time we left you alone in the house. And you said you were gonna have someone over. Boy, you sure had someone over! Remember, Martha, I pointed out some stains right there on the carpet New Year’s Day. But you passed them off as nothing. Nothing! That’s the spot right there where our bastard grandchild was conceived.”

  He waited, but neither his wife nor his daughter said a word.

  “You wanta know what we’re gonna do about it, Martha? I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do about it: We’re gonna find out just who the father of this bastard is. We’re gonna find him and we’re gonna make him pay! That’s what we’re gonna do!”

  At this point, Jane was grateful for any small favor. She had gone numb when her father pinpointed New Year’s Eve as the time of conception. He was correct, of course. She couldn’t believe her luck that he didn’t know who the father was.

  She had expected Ridley to do the honorable thing. But when he baldly refused and then, on top of everything else, had that nervous breakdown . . . well, she had determined that as messy as this situation was, she was not going to further roil it. She had no intention of dragging Ridley into a knockdown battle. That would be a confrontation doomed to failure.

  She had absolutely no intention whatsoever of telling her parents who had fathered her baby.

  However, as determined as Jane was not to tell, so resolute was her father to find out.

  “Who was it?” he shouted.

  “I won’t tell you! I can’t tell you!”

  “You can tell me as long as you can talk. Which is not gonna be much longer if you don’t tell me! Who was it?”

  “No!”

  “Goddamit, yes! Who was it?”

  Jane clutched herself tighter and said nothing. If she could have, she would have become a small ball of fluff and blown away.

  “Who?” Condon grabbed a table lamp, yanking the plug out of its socket. He threw the lamp. It glanced off Jane’s shoulder and pitched over, shattering on the floor behind the couch.

  “John!” Mrs. Condon shrieked.

  But John was quite beside himself. Mouth foaming, he hovered over his daughter. “Who was it? Answer me, whore! Who was it? Who? Who? Who?” He began striking Jane about the shoulders and back, the only areas she’d left exposed.

  Martha Condon leaped on her husband’s back in an attempt to wrestle him away. The two fell in a heap to the floor. She used all her strength to hold him down.

  “Then get out!” he shouted from his prone position. “Get out! Take your bastard baby and get out! I paid my good money so you could go to a Catholic school. And what did you learn there? How to make a bastard baby! If you think I’m gonna spend a nickel so you can give birth to that thing while the father gets off scot-free, you got another thing coming! Get out! Get out! Get out! You got an hour, and then I don’t ever want to see you again!”

  Condon struggled to his feet and stormed out of the house.

  Jane and Mrs. Condon spent some time sobbing in each other’s arms. At last there was no alternative. They packed as many necessaries as Jane could carry, and she left. But not before her mother made her promise to keep in touch. Mrs. Condon in her turn promised that she would try to help in every way she could. In tears, they parted.

  From that point, it would have been difficult for Greg Larson to follow Jane Condon’s story. However, as luck would have it, Jane’s mother, in dire need of a confidante, unburdened herself to a sympathetic neighbor, who, though close, was not close-mouthed. The news, having reached one ear, soon reached many—including that of Ridley Groendal’s faithful correspondent.

  Jane thought it would be a good idea to leave town. The priest she consulted agreed. He put her in touch with the Department of Catholic Charities for the Archdiocese of Chicago. They arranged for her to stay with a family there until birth. It was not a pleasant experience, but then, nothing in this entire affair had been.

  At about the time school started for Ridley Groendal in September, Jane delivered a baby boy. She would never forget the shock when first she saw and held him. He had slanting eyes, a short broad skull, and broad fingers. He was a Mongoloid . . . a Down’s Syndrome baby.

  That was enough for Ridley Groendal. It couldn’t have been his child. If there had been any doubt, and there certainly wasn’t in Ridley’s mind, all uncertainty was dispelled when Jane produced a defective child. Groendal, without the need for corroborating evidence, knew he never would have fathered a deformed child.

  That could well have been the end of his vendetta against Jane. The
re was no question that she had suffered and that she continued to hurt.

  She was cut off from her parents. Her father would have nothing to do with her. When he learned of the condition of her child, he drew a strange satisfaction from the tragedy. It was God’s punishment. John Condon was not a religious man. But he could tell divine retribution when he saw it, by God!

  Mrs. Condon was distraught. But she was helpless. Her husband forbade her to help her daughter or her grandchild. And so, in a show of obedience, she did nothing overtly. Secretly, she sent as much money as she could scrape up to Jane as the girl moved from place to place trying to survive.

  Even for one bent on vengeance, this suffering surely should have been enough.

  It wasn’t enough for Groendal. That the child was Mongoloid was God’s hand. He had punished her for having a child out of wedlock. That was clear enough. Groendal had no idea whether the child’s father was likewise punished. He of course had no idea who the father was. But if Jane had set her trap for the unlucky fellow as she had for Groendal, it probably wasn’t the real father’s fault.

  The point was that whether or not the father of the child had been punished, the mother—Jane—had been chastised by God, but not by Groendal. And since Jane had done her part to ruin Groendal’s life, he owed her. And he would repay.

  But how?

  He was at a loss to invent a retribution that would reach Jane. She seemed to be at the bottom of a barrel. In disgrace, in poverty, with no employment, nowhere to turn, and a Mongoloid infant to care for.

  It seemed that fate had foiled Groendal. Even if Jane were able somehow to reach a level of survival, she still would not fall under his sphere of influence. She was not a professional and showed no promise of ever becoming one. She was no actress. She was no playwright. She would never be on the stage or contribute to it. She was not literary. She would write nothing that he might be able to destroy. And if she did come up with some story, it would have to be an “as-told-to” book. And to whom would she tell her story? No one would be interested.

  Finally, she was no musician. So there would be no musical career for him to shoot down.

  Beyond these boundaries, what could he do? Supposing she got a job as a clerk in a department store. What could he do—complain to her supervisor that when they had been considerably younger, she had seduced him? So what?

  Frustrating.

  But among Ridley’s strong points were patience and perseverance.

  Actually, his most difficult task at this time was to keep Greg Larson on the case. There just wasn’t much to report. And what news there was was so depressing that Larson was tempted to write only happy news to Groendal.

  Ridley was in no position to argue against whatever Larson chose to write. The idea was to keep him going until something broke, as Groendal hoped, prayed, and knew it would.

  As it turned out, Jane did exactly what Groendal supposed she might. She returned to Detroit and got a job as a salesclerk in Hudson’s department store. With this and the little her mother was able to pass on surreptitiously, Jane made ends meet. There was almost nothing else in her life. She rarely splurged on entertainment of any sort. She couldn’t afford it.

  She was still attractive, but she never dated. Her life revolved around her son. Outstandingly lovable and sweet, as many Down’s Syndrome children are, he needed Jane constantly. And so, outside of the times she had to leave him with a sitter while she worked, Jane spent nearly every free moment with him.

  Down’s Syndrome children frequently have health problems that reduce the normal life span. Jane’s little boy, Billy, lived ten years. And then he broke her heart once more and died.

  Billy’s death did not move Groendal one way or the other. He was interested only in what might happen next.

  According to Greg Larson’s infrequent but faithful letters, nothing much happened next. Jane kept her sales position at Hudson’s. Her social life remained a cipher. She went out infrequently, as far as Larson could tell, usually with “the girls.”

  Groendal found maintaining the correspondence with Larson more and more taxing. Jane’s life—Ridley’s sole genuine interest in this communication—seemed to be going nowhere.

  It happened in March of 1964. Jane was thirty-three. She got married. In old St. Mary’s downtown, near the apartment complex where she lived. Somehow the courtship had escaped Larson’s notice.

  The event piqued Ridley’s curiosity. At first blush, the marriage did not appear to lend itself to any purpose Groendal had in mind. Jane’s husband, William Cahill, was a skilled worker at a Ford automotive plant. Groendal could not wreak revenge on Jane through her husband. Jane as a sales clerk, and William, as an automotive worker, were outside the sphere of Ridley’s influence.

  But once more Groendal’s patience and perseverance paid off. A little more than a year after their marriage, a daughter was born to Mr. and Mrs. William Cahill. She was to be their only child.

  Here was a distinct prospect. How better to get revenge against Jane than through her daughter, her only child. The potential increased when Larson was finally able to send a photo of Valerie Cahill, age seven, on the occasion of her First Holy Communion.

  She was, by anyone’s standards, an outstandingly beautiful girl. With her childish yet evident comeliness and charm, there was a possibility that she might choose to be an actress.

  Ridley’s prayers paid off. Through her high school years, Valerie was not only the most desirable girl on the Redford High campus, she was the staple star of virtually all the plays staged by the school. In three out of four major stage presentations—Arsenic and Old Lace, Meet Me in St Louis, and Annie, Get Your Gun!—Valerie played a female lead.

  Annie, Get Your Gun! was the annual school play during Valerie’s senior year. For that, Ridley Groendal actually returned to Detroit. He attended one performance of the musical, taking care not to be noticed or recognized.

  From far back in the crowd, Groendal was able to spot Jane. Her hair was now entirely gray. But she’d kept her figure. Groendal had not seen her since that Sunday afternoon in the park those many years ago. From the distance that separated them, he could see no great change in her. A more mature way of walking and moving, perhaps, but he would have recognized her anywhere. And, my God, he thought, it had been more than thirty years!

  If he had seen her at close range, which he would never again do, he would have seen the difference. It was in her eyes. They reflected the suffering, sorrow, and hard times she had undergone.

  The man with her had to be her husband. They took each other for granted after the fashion of long-married couples. He certainly was nondescript.

  Groendal had no fear of being recognized. Though his photo appeared frequently enough in New York and national publications, who would expect him to be attending a high school presentation in Michigan? And even if any present thought they might know him, they would dismiss the idea out of hand. What would a nationally famous critic be doing there?

  The only one who could undoubtedly recognize him—and perhaps even guess why he was there—was Jane. But she and her husband were occupied greeting friends and acquaintances.

  The lights dimmed; those still in the aisles scrambled for their seats.

  The “orchestra”—piano, drums, and bass—struck up an abbreviated version of the overture. Groendal sighed and slumped in his seat. He was going to have to endure the tortures of purgatory. But he had already determined that it was worth the discomfort to see and hear his next victim. And there was always the chance that it might be a better than average performance.

  Alas, it was what one would expect based on the age of the actors. Blown cues, misread lines, vibratoless voices, awkward interaction. Scenery and costumes obviously made by the loving and unprofessional hands of proud parents, relatives, and classmates.

  With one glowing exception: the lead—Annie Oakley—Valerie Cahill. She was good. Not just the promise of developing into an adequate actress. She wa
s good right now. If she had been Jane’s first child, Groendal might have considered himself the girl’s father. But that little mistake of nature? Forget it.

  At intermission, Groendal buried himself in the program. Carefully, he studied the brief biography of Valerie Cahill. Unlike classmates headed toward college, Valerie intended to get right into show business while working on a college degree in her spare time.

  Right into show business, eh? Delightful. We’ll see about that!

  Part Six

  Communion

  18

  Mass is, essentially, a reenactment of the Last Supper. As that event is narrated in the three synoptic Gospels, the setting is the ceremonial Passover meal. After that dinner had been completed, Jesus took bread and wine and told his Apostles to eat and drink, “Take this and eat it, this is my body.” And, “All of you must drink from [this cup], for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant, to be poured out in behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.”

  The reenactment is set not at a dinner but in a liturgical rite that has evolved very slowly over the centuries. At the Last Supper, the words of consecration were followed immediately by the eating and drinking of the bread and wine. In the Mass, the two rites are separated by many prayers.

  The Communion Rite begins with the Lord’s Prayer, which is followed by the greeting of peace. Members of the congregation are urged to turn toward each other, shake hands, and offer a prayerful greeting, ostensibly wishing each other the peace of Christ.

  At the appropriate time in this Mass of Resurrection, Father Koesler announced the greeting of peace. This was taken up with enthusiasm by the priests in attendance, and with restraint by the laity.

  Koesler shook hands with several of the priests concelebrating with him in the sanctuary. Then he walked down into the nave of the church to greet some of the laity, certainly Peter Harison.