Deadline for a Critic

resisted relinquishing hard-won and established space. But as soon as his clerical collar was recognized, he was graciously ushered on. Old friends from Holy Redeemer days or present parishioners would exchange a few words with him as he resolutely made his way toward the bier. He recognized his parishioners, of course, but did not fare so well with the Redeemerites. Most he could not identify until they introduced themselves. Then, usually, he remembered them.

At long last, he reached the remains of Ridley C. Groendal. Here at least, as at all such gatherings, there was room to breathe. No matter how many mourners attended a wake, the deceased was always accorded some breathing room. The deceased, of course, needed it least. However, the prime beneficiaries of this ample space were the chief mourners who invested the most time in this vigil.

In the case of Ridley Groendal there was only one chief mourner. Among those aware of the situation, it was no surprise that Peter Harison evidently was the one and only bereaved.

Harison, at Father Koesler’s approach, rose immediately. “Good of you to come, Father.”

“Sorry for your loss, Peter.” The priest knew that neither greeting had any genuine meaning. In reality, he had to attend the wake, so there was no need to thank him for coming. In another sense, he was there quite willingly for a great number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Ridley Groendal and Robert Koesler went back a long way together. On the other hand, Koesler’s salutation had been empty—a response not unlike the traditional “Fine” when someone automatically asks, “How are you?”

Now came that familiar void that so often occurs at funerals when no one, neither the visitor nor the bereaved, knows quite what to say.

After some moments, Harison broke the awkward silence. “Appropriate, don’t you think?” He was pointing upward.

Koesler reflexively looked up. What was “appropriate”? The ceiling? Heaven? “Appropriate?”

“Why, the music.” Harison seemed surprised that Koesler was unaware of the music.

“Ah, the music.” Koesler had been vaguely conscious that there was something “extra” going on. Until his attention had been directed to it, he had paid no mind. Something like many of the movies of the forties whose inane musical score never quit. Once one became conscious of it, one became painfully conscious of it. So it was now. The piped-in music had blended in with the conversational murmur throughout the room. Now that he heard the music, he didn’t like it. “What is it, Peter?”

“Portals, by Carl Ruggles.”

“Sort of strange, isn’t it?”

Harison looked offended. “Ruggles was a champion—an early one, I might say—of contrapuntal sound and dissonance. He employed the ten-tone serial technique.”

It was Greek to Koesler. He knew only that he did not like it. “Interesting.” A comment befitting a strange hairstyle, bizarre clothing, an ugly baby—or aberrant music.

The ambiguous remark seemed to mollify Harison. “Rid would have liked it. He enjoyed fearless creativity. I gave the tape to Mr. Morand and asked him to play it.” Harison seemed pleased with his choice. “But, I suppose we shouldn’t be talking about that now.”

“We can talk about whatever you’d like.”

Harison tilted his head slightly as if understanding something that should have been obvious. “This is what you ordinarily do at wakes, isn’t it Father? You get the mourners to talk about the deceased so you will have relevant material for your eulogy.”

Koesler smiled briefly. “I’m afraid you’re right”

Harison smiled more broadly. “Well, you certainly don’t have to quiz me. You knew Rid as well as anyone.”

“Not really.” This was getting into dangerous territory. It was true that for quite a few years, as youthful contemporaries, Groendal and Koesler had been classmates and, if not the best of friends, friends nonetheless. Groendal had indeed confided some very personal secrets to Koesler. But their paths had parted shortly after college.

Koesler had chosen the local Catholic seminaries for his education. He’d gone through the seminary high school, college, and theologate and been ordained a priest for service in the Archdiocese of Detroit. He’d been assigned to several parishes before being named editor of the local diocesan newspaper. Later, he was named pastor of St. Anselm’s parish. And that, in his rather prosaic curriculum vitae, brought him up-to-date.

Groendal too had entered the seminary in the ninth grade. But he had left, just before graduation from college. Thereafter, with only three early exceptions, he had had no connection with Koesler until moving into St. Anselm’s parish a little more than a year before his death.

Koesler knew, mostly from mutual acquaintances, that Ridley had earned a doctoral degree from the University of Minnesota. Later, he’d worked at a series of newspapers until he’d landed that prestigious job with the New York Herald. Thereafter, since he’d become a celebrity, it had been rather easy to follow his career.

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?” Harison pressed. “You knew him during his most vulnerable years, when he was growing up. And now you’ve known him during the last years of his life.”

Koesler was unsure how to reply. It was more a challenge than a question. Fortunately, at that very moment, another visitor demanded Harison’s attention. Excusing himself, Harison rose to greet the newcomer, leaving Father Koesler to ponder a response, as much to satisfy his own curiosity as Harison’s.

Could Harison be jealous? Of what? Of no more than a passing adolescent friendship. True, during the past year, Groendal had made it a point to visit Koesler with some regularity. But that was on more of a casual than a friendship basis. The problem was not Koesler’s relationship with Groendal. The problem was the connection between Groendal and Harison. The tie between them had complicated Koesler’s life during the past year and continued to do so even now.

During the past year, Rid Groendal had come by appointment to see Koesler about two or three times a month. They had been unconventional visits in that they involved neither confession, instruction, counseling, repartee, or even reminiscences of the good old days. Mostly, the evenings were spent with Koesler listening to the “Gospel According to Groendal.”

Koesler put up with it because, on the one hand, on Sundays Groendal joined himself to the captive audience in St. Anselm’s church and turnabout was fair play; and, on the other hand, while the Gospel According to Groendal had little to do with that of Jesus Christ, it was at least provocative.

Perhaps the most startling thing disclosed in these visits was that Groendal’s Catholicism was of the rock- ribbed traditional variety. Curious for one whose avowed artistic tastes ran to avant-garde music, bizarre stage productions, and unconventional literature. But when it came to religion, Groendal favored the Latin liturgy—with the Tridentine, rather than the modern Mass. His theology had not advanced much beyond the basic Baltimore Catechism. And the Church was not the People-of-God, but the Pope, who would let everyone know of the slight possibility that there might be a doctrinal change.

Groendal assured Koesler that this entire theological viewpoint was shared by Peter Harison, boon companion.

However, Groendal and Harison were a homosexual couple. It was the only chink Koesler could find in their otherwise conservative theology. Both men were well aware of the official Church teaching that, while preaching tolerance of the people involved, condemned homosexual acts as sins against nature. A classic interpretation of the principle—hate the sin, love the sinner. They were aware of the teaching. They chose to ignore it.

While their rationale on this subject was extremely unorthodox, it was by no means unique. As happened so frequently, it all depended on whose ox was being gored. Koesler knew many liberals who themselves demanded freedom from authority while demanding that all others conform to their views. And conservatives who insisted on absolute unanimity with the Pope in all things—except for those issues on which they disagreed with the Pope.

So, in the course of the past year, Koesler had become quite familiar with the Gospel According to Groendal and Harison. There had been times when the priest had tried to insert a divergent word; but, finding that fruitless, eventually he just sat back, relaxed, and listened.

One thing he had wondered about all those months was whether Groendal ever shared with Harison what had been told to Koesler. From Harison’s comment a few minutes ago, Koesler now guessed that Groendal had kept Harison in the dark as to what had been discussed in the rectory. In one unguarded moment, Harison had given the unmistakable impression that he envied Koesler’s relationship with Groendal—whatever it might have been.