What the seminary seemed to be teaching was that while it was all right to save girls’ souls, it was very definitely not all right to save their bodies.
Or, as St. Alphonsus Liguori once noted (replying to his own rhetorical, “Is it then a sin to look at a female?”): “Yes; it is at least a venial sin to look at young females. And when looks are repeated, there is also danger of mortal sin.”
He wrote that in the eighteenth century, but the theory was still very much alive in the seminaries of the 1940s and fifties.
Briefly, that was the setting for the formation of the priests of yesteryear. The priest was to be a man’s man with no overt or covert sexual expression whatever. To help achieve this goal, the seminary system was replete with some of the strictest discipline imaginable. By and large, it worked.
In the seminary of Groendal and Koesler’s day, there was one major exception to this rigorous code: Carroll Mitchell.
Mitchell’s attitude toward the seminary’s attitude toward women was one of benign neglect. His reaction was somewhat akin to that of Eddie Daugherty, who had entered a seminary several decades earlier. Daugherty, who later became a journalist, wrote in his autobiography that a seminary spiritual director had explained women apparently so attractively that Daugherty decided he wanted one. So he quit the seminary and, as it turned out, found quite a few.
Mitch could see nothing basically wrong with women. He understood that there was a solemn promise to lead the unmarried life expected of a priest. But he wasn’t a priest Not yet. And he hadn’t made anyone any promises. He was not unaware of the seminary rules nor of the rigid attitudes behind the rules. He thought they were silly.
His was a most rare reaction. That was a day when rules were not a matter for discussion or dissent.
The love life of Carroll Mitchell, considering his station, was both rich and varied. It was anyone’s guess how many and who knew about it. It was not general knowledge, although certainly his closer friends and associates knew.
Koesler, associating through sports and an occasional stage appearance, was close enough to know. Groendal, as a fellow playwright, was close enough to know. As were several others. They did not so much envy him as just not understand.
It was questionable that anyone on the faculty might know. If they did, they should have expelled him . . . unless they were marking time in hopes this talented lad would straighten out before the administration’s hand was forced.
It was also reasonable to assume that Mitch felt some of the pressure caused by all these people keeping his secrets.
But pressure was coming from other fronts too.
Easter vacation was almost over. Only a couple of days remained before Mitch would have to return to the seminary and complete the final few months of his junior college year. By his lights, he had been making good use of his time. He had dated Beth Yager practically every night. As far as he was concerned, it was time for vacation to end. The excuses he was giving his parents for his nightly absences from home were growing very thin.
In 1949, drive-in theaters were a relatively new phenomenon. But already, in strict moral circles, they were known as “passion pits.” They were just made for the young Carroll Mitchell.
“What’s supposed to be showing here tonight, anyway?” Beth Yager asked.
“Who cares?” Carroll Mitchell answered. “We wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.”
He was correct. The car windows were so fogged over, it was impossible to see out even if either occupant had been interested. The sound track might have provided some clue. But they had not bothered to bring the speaker into the car. There was still a measure of cold in the spring night air, so they had pulled the portable heater in.
Mitchell had the family car. This was taking a bit of a risk; there was always the chance that someone—a neighbor or a fellow parishioner—might recognize the car or the license. But Carroll Mitchell was not above taking chances.
Carroll and Beth were engaged in what was called necking and petting—making out—in that slightly more innocent day. They had been at it for quite a while. So each had probably committed a mortal sin, since, in the traditional version of Catholic theology, sins of the flesh were always serious matter. And mortal sin consisted of serious matter—full knowledge and full consent.
They certainly knew what they were doing and surely had consented. Each would include it in the next confession. As would just about every other Catholic young adult. The priest might be kindly or abrupt. He would assign a penance—an average of about ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Mitch would be sure to omit from his confession that he was a seminarian. To mention that would be to court a long lecture on jeopardizing one’s vocation.
Like a swimmer struggling to the surface, Beth fought her way to a sitting position. “Whew! Let up for a minute, okay?”
With some reluctance, Mitch backed off to his end of the seat. He lit a cigarette, further fogging the windows.
Beth tried to adjust her clothing. Though none of it had been removed, it had been considerably loosened and twisted. “How am I ever going to explain all these wrinkles?”
Mitch exhaled two streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Don’t try.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! I look like I’ve been in a wrestling match. Which is not far from the truth. My folks are going to notice.”
“The idea is not to stand around waiting for them to notice. I’ll get you home as quietly as possible. Go in the side door, head directly for your bedroom, and change before they get a chance to see you.”
Beth shook her head. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? How do you do it?”
“An inventive mind.” He didn’t think it wise to mention that this was by no means the first time he had confronted this problem. It was, after a brief but intense relationship, the first time with Beth.
She looked at him directly, one eyebrow cocked. “Are you sure you want to be a priest?”
He seemed surprised. “Sure. Why not?”
“Won’t the presence of women all over the rectory kind of clutter your image of celibacy?” Beth and most of her friends were well aware of Carroll Mitchell’s reputation as a restrained Casanova. Someone, versed in Latin, had dubbed him Romanticus Interruptus. He would paw and fondle and hug and French, but he would not “go all the way,” as the euphemism had it. The legend grew that if he ever threw caution to the winds, he might just marry that girl.
Mitch chuckled. “Whatever gave you the idea there’d be women in my rectory? Rectories are homes for unmarried fathers, not mothers. And no tunnel to the convent, either.”
“Really! And when is this magic transition going to take place? When they ordain you? And what makes you think you can turn yourself off like a light bulb?”
“I can do it . . . or haven’t you noticed I go just so far and no farther?”
“I know. It’s not natural.”
Mitch smiled. “It’s supernatural.”
“Supernatural! Come on! You mean what we’ve been doing in the back seat of this car tonight is supernatural?”
“Well, preternatural.” In truth, Mitchell had a difficult enough time satisfying his own conscience without trying to explain the rationalization to someone else. “Look, it’s this easy: I don’t know whether I’m going to be a priest or not. I think I want to be. That’s what I’m in the seminary to find out. I’m a little better than halfway down that road. I’ve been in almost seven years. I’ve got five to go.
“If, when I get close, it looks like all the lights are green for the priesthood, I’ll make the supreme sacrifice. Until then, I don’t need to wonder whether I like girls. I love ’em!” He cracked the window open and flicked his cigarette out, then grinned and reached for her. “But enough talk. I’m getting lonesome.”
“Hold it!” It was Beth’s turn to light a cigarette. “There’s more to it than this, you know.”
“What?”
“One-night stands.”
“Wait a minute! I’m not like that. I don’t do that kind of thing.”
